By Alice Sun-Cua

A winding stone staircase at the back of the Sanssoucci Castle.

It was already the end of May, but the weather in Berlin was still cold as we were standing at the platform of the Friedrichstrasse train station, waiting for our train to Potsdam. My husband Alex and I were staying in one of the still-being finished hostels (The Bax Pax) in Berlin in the Mitte area, along Ziegelstrasse, a stone’s throw from the big rail station along Friedrich St.

The area of our hostel was in the throes of building upheaval — across our room was a four story-building that was just finished, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls to fully utiliize natural lighting, and where, for the next five days we witnessed a transformation: first the carpets were laid out, then furniture was moved in; slowly, books, lamps, a stereo system, tables, swivel chairs, and finally a bed, were carefully arranged in the different parts of the third floor unit. It was like watching a silent movie, with the workers busy doing a different task each day, and the spacious box-like rooms were transformed slowly before our very eyes.

One day, light blue curtains were hoisted up, and the place became a private place especially at night, where lights could be seen at the edges of the window covers. With our own third-story room (we were given a big family room, good for a couple with three children) having the same floor-to-ceiling glass walls, I’m sure we also presented a full view of ourselves to the neighbors, until we drew our own cheery red curtains at night.

All over the Bax Pax hotel finishing touches were still being done, and we could smell the freshly-poured concrete, and even met some of the workers in stained overalls, with their paint cans and brushes, and the smell of turpentine along the corridors. It was a fresh smell of renewal, so distinct around the area around where we stayed, as we contemplated the huge, heavy and severe buildings just around the corner, brown-orange and still, their small windows probably the only source of sunlight in airless rooms, an acute reminder that we were living in what used to be East Berlin before the country’s reunification in Nov. 7, 1989.

We planned to visit a popular local destination that day, the park and Schloβ (castle) Sanssouci, about half an hour away by train from Berlin. “Sans soucci” literally meant “without worry” or “carefree” in French. It was built by the German king, Friedrich II (also known as Friedrich the Great), who was obviously a Francophile.

As if to highlight the vagaries of the weather (and how puny we all humans were) we reached Potsdam as the skies broke into a steady downpour. As we stepped out of the warm rail station we were greeted by blasts of icy wind and heavy rain. Our lightweight umbrellas were not too helpful as we hopelessly looked around us, most of the alighting passengers already rushing out into the rain, with their thick rainwear and umbrellas.

We looked around for some signs to the palace grounds and found none. Because of the thick rain it was also impossible to orient ourselves to the new place. Feeling cheerful and confident however, we briskly strode out of the rail station and followed what looked to be the main road, and started walking.

The rain became stronger, and horizontal, and I felt the moisture seep through four layers of an outer jacket, a knitted sweater, a long-sleeved shirt, and a thermal wear. The scarf and the golf hat I wore helped to keep me warm, but I had to walk faster to avoid shivering.

After trotting purposefully for almost 30 minutes we reached a small awning of an open garage and car repair shop that looked dry and we instinctively stopped for cover. The rain didn’t seem to have let up, and we were getting soaked. Each time the wind blew I could almost feel that Alex and I shivered at the same time.

We exchanged looks, asking the same question in our minds: do we continue (how? where to?), or simply go back to the train station (to ask for direction? go back to Berlin? Not a good option, the last one!)

As we were contemplating our predicament, like a dues ex machina in our Greek texts, a middle-aged man suddenly appeared from the inside of the garage, smiling.

Alex and I promptly chorused, “Guten morgen!” and smiled back.

He had an open face, a kindly smile, and we liked him immediately. Sad to say that quick phrase was the one of the only handful working knowledge we had of Deutsch, as we could only stammer out, “Schloβ Sanssoucci?”

He immediately got the idea and pointed out the other direction from where we were, and then pointed out our damp clothing. He then asked us, using the universal language of signing, to come, join him into his car, parked just outside the garage.

With the smallest of hesitations I got into the back seat of his light blue hatchback while Alex joined him in front. We expected him to simply deposit us in front of the main road, or even the train station, but we were so surprised that he drove us across the big expanse of the city, constantly saying (probably to reassure us) “Sanssoucci! Sanssoucci!”

We winded our way through the main streets and smart shops, some schools, and even the local church. Still we went on, and after about 20 minutes he stopped in front of a gated park, and said something in German, pointing to the gates.
“Sanssoucci?” we asked. “Ja! ja!” he laughed.

We could hardly contain our gratitude for such kindness, and this from a stranger in a foreign land. But because we could not even ask for his name and address (we didn’t bring our German phrase book that day, nor our trusty but thick and heavy Let’s Go guide book where a three-paged ‘Useful German Phrasebook’ was), we could only say, over and over, shaking his hand, “Danke schön!” And he kept answering, “Bitte! Bitte!,” waving us off with a wide, wide smile, and simply drove off.

A month later I was able to get the e-mail address of the Tourism Board of Potsdam and sent them a note, together with the photo of our journey’s angel, thanking him again, for this grace from a stranger. To this day, that kindness evokes a bittersweet gratitude in us, and has become a highlight when we think about our German travels.

Sanssoucci Gardens was a huge 600-acre park, half of which was in Baroque style — gardens with straight paths intersecting at centers with fountains and topiaries, statues of naked, frolicking nymphs; and half in English-style landscaping which was rambling and rolling grassy terrain. As if on cue, the rain suddenly stopped as we stepped into the entrance, and the sun even peeped out for a few minutes. We could only shake our heads in bewilderment, and laughed at nature’s whims.

We didn’t want any formal directions on how to walk about the park, so we simply followed our noses, and walked right in. A few locals were walking their pet dogs of all sizes — and as we went deeper into the woods following trails, the grass remained as manicured as any well-cared for estate.

Because of the rain the smell of damp earth was so fresh and pervasive I couldn’t help but take deep lungfuls of it, and apparently the forest denizens were enjoying the weather too, as squirrels scampered about, and melodious birdcalls were heard all over, as we paused to look at the large red, violet and orange blooms that studded the meticulously-tended garden.

We got into the straight paths by chance, and true enough, they ended in round areas where there were stone benches for tired feet, and about 500 meters away were another round area with the same stone benches but entirely differently-designed topiary or classical statue melding very well with the surrounding plants and trees. Definitely it reminded us of the Versailles gardens, until we reached the castle itself, which reiterated that impression.

It sat on top of the hill, and even from afar it looked very ornate, indeed. An architect friend would probably describe it as in rococo style, with its carvings and lampposts with curlicues, its wide winding outdoor stairs leading to the main door.

That day, though, the castle was closed, and we simply contented ourselves with looking through the glass doors, and saw that inside was a repeat of the very ornate and baroque style, with gold trims on the cornices.

Rambling further in the park we discovered the beautiful Chinesisches Teehaus (a small building with a porcelain exhibit inside) with its oriental motif, the most prominent of which was the rooftop Buddha holding a parasol. The pillars surrounding the house had delicate, gold-plated figurines, depicting characters from Victorian periods.

At this point we were surprised to learn that it was past 1 p.m., no wonder we were looking for food.

Managing to return to the entrance of the park we slowly walked through a well-paved path and espied a signage with a red dragon in one corner of the street, which said, “Dragon Restaurant.” Without hesitation we entered the place (feeling like homing pigeons) and found ourselves face to face with a smiling Asian young man who showed us to our seats.

Because of the late hour, we had the whole place to ourselves. Lacquered and intricately-carved wooden panels served as dividing walls between the banquettes, while soft Chinese instrumental music played in the background; and as we looked through the proffered menu we realized that it was a Vietnamese restaurant.

Outside, the sun shone brightly, as if telling us, all is well indeed, in the world.

Tired and feet-weary we trudged back to Bax Pax passing by our favorite Doner Kebab place just off our hostel. Because of the influence of a large Turkish immigrant population in Germany, the Doner Kebab (shawarma) has become one of the “national food” in the country.

We got two to take back to Bax Pax in case we decided to call it an early night. True enough, it was.