One Night in Kiev

I welcome @doohopper for a guest piece on his trip to Kiev to watch England face Italy. A lengthy and vivid account of one man's journey; 5 planes, 3 policeman and 2 missed penalties. Find out if he'd do it all over again...

I should possibly have lied to my bank when they called me Thursday morning asking if I had used my credit card 24 hours earlier to buy flights to Kiev for £xxxx and also making a purchase from the UEFA website.

‘No Sanjay, what is this? Please cancel my cards immediately, my account has been hacked, call the Police’

Despite the mild panic at the realisation I was parting with funds that would wipe out the Greek national debt and buy Kenny Miller for Rangers Newco, I confessed to my new Indian friend at HSBC, that this was my doing and I was chasing a dream.

In an Inception style plot, @UnionManBerlin had sewn the seed in my simple mind. Checking my twitter feed on the tram to work on the morning after our inglorious win over hosts Ukraine, this pops up ‘@DooHopper @footyramblings @tastycfc €40 tickets still available for Eng v Italy. Shame the flights are so expensive. Train fully booked.’

€40 for a ticket to a Quarter Final of one of the biggest football tournaments on the planet? I’ve paid more watching the mighty Grecians scrap out a 3-0 loss at Brisbane Road, East London. This seemed an unequalled bargain. Why not?

The important thing was that I had the bug back, I was enjoying watching England, the football wasn’t great, but there was something that was galvanising the team. We had heart, and a little bit of luck. I was getting nostalgic to memories of 1990, Platt’s volley, Mark Wright’s header and Gazza.

We were poor during Italia 90, despite the false recollections that we were world beaters – just watch One Night in Turin. However, football does not deal in truth. Perception is king and time is a friend of nostalgia. I was starting to have visions of Carroll’s header and Welbeck’s flick being played in years to come remembering that golden summer of 2012, maybe even getting their own Lego video.

Match ticket and hostel blindly booked up, it was just the flights that would prove an issue. All direct flights from the UK were starting at £1200 minimum. I felt like a stock broker, a grubby little man monitoring the market for any value. Each time I set myself a budget I wouldn’t go above, that flight and price no longer existed. I knew in my mind I was going whatever it took, so once I stopped kidding myself, I found a flight that got me there and back in 36 hours for the price of a two week holiday. Here we have the logic of a simple football fan, gambling on the potential memories to come.

‘Brave’, was a word I was hearing a lot when telling people of my impromptu solo trip to the former Soviet bloc in Eastern Europe. Foolish? Yes, brave? Probably if I had given it any thought, but I didn’t so it was foolish. I’ve never had an issue with going to football matches on my own, despite being shy most of the time, I am at my most comfortable within the arena of the football stadia and football conversation, and I have no worries talking to like-minded strangers about the game I love. Mild autism I suspect.

I encountered the first wave of England fans at Frankfurt airport for the second leg of my trip on the Kiev bound flight. Two shaven headed 6ft lads boarded the shuttle bus to the plane, one with ‘Brighton Till I Die’ tattooed in bold letters up his right arm. They sat down next to me, looked up at another guy getting on clasping a British passport, aah one of us we all thought.

‘That’s three of us then I count so far’ muttered the Brighton fan.

I turn around waving my passport in its John Lewis leather holder ‘Make that 4’ I squeaked. We all smiled and were immediately united. We all shared similar tales of breaking the bank and being drawn to coming for this must see game. The next question that follows in any conversation with England fans you don’t know is ‘Who’s your team?’
‘I’m an Exeter fan’ I piped up with a wry ‘someone has to be’ smile.

I received a patronising pat on the back, ‘Good on you lad, we got Harley off you last season, he’s shit’ and so the banter began. I noticed the other bloke, who was a Liverpool fan wasn’t getting the same respect, not in the same bracket as us fans of the bread and butter in our lower league bitter clique. He regaled us with tales of following Liverpool round Europe as a way to prove his worth as fan and not just a Sky Sports armchair supporter.

Our flight got into Kiev at 1.30am local time, the Brighton lads were staying in a Ramada hotel in the centre of town, slightly jealous, but taking the tone of an early 90s Rough Guide presenter I told them I was roughing it in an out of town hostel for 20 euros a night. ‘Have you seen the film Hostel mate’ was the predictable retort. ‘Yes mate, shitting myself’ I guffawed back, making a mental note to avoid any hot Ukrainian girls that could lure me to a sexy yet painful death.

Leaving the airport I realised I really didn’t have a clue how I was getting to my hostel. Outside the terminal I found the Liverpool fan again, I remember him saying he had been to Kiev before so stalked him. Getting into town proved fun. To say we hijacked the terminal shuttle bus would be a slight exaggeration but not far off. The buses usual journey was from terminal A to terminal F within the grounds of the airport. Using the universal sign language of the point at a map, the driver pulls out his wallet and produces a 50 Ukrainian hryvnia note, indicates we pay him this and points to the metro stop on the map in the vicinity of where our respective hostels were. So here we have two England fans taking over a 50 seater bus on a 40km journey for the miserly sum of £4.

The driver waved us off the bus at a closed metro stop; it was now 3am and with no map nor real clue where I was, I headed for the biggest street I could find. Fortunately, a police car pulled up next to me. I took the initiative and pointed at my hotmail print out of the Hostel name and map. In my best Ruski accent, I repeat ‘Hostel Fan Zone?’ believing it to be as recognisable a name as the Kiev Hilton. They looked blankly. They don’t recognise anywhere on the map either, I can tell this as the map passes between each of them and the shrugging of shoulders. One of them spots what looks like a phone number on my piece of paper. He calls it, thankfully they answer at this early hour, some mumbled Russian words later he finishes the call and looks at me and points to the car.

‘In in, present!’ He smiles reassuringly.

Without really thinking about I get into the back of the police car, in the company of three burly Slavic officers armed to the hilt. As I shut my door, the officer next to mean leans over and locks the door. We drive off not sure how this is going to end. The officer in the back with me stares, I look at him and give him a nervous smile and laugh saying ‘thank you’ and ‘you are very kind’ when I really mean please don’t beat me up. The driver asks me ‘Ruski Ruski?’ I take that to mean do I speak Russian?

I thought for one second to recreate one of my favourite Peter Cook jokes.

‘I know one Russian word, Nyet, do you know what it means?
‘No’
‘No, neither do I’

I wasn’t sure they would appreciate this. We continued driving until he turned into a dark road and what looked like the entrance to a military camp. All sorts of things are going through my mind at this point, local news headlines of captive tourist in Ukraine concentration camp. We get to a barrier with a guard; the driver gets out and talks to him whilst my friend at the back continues to stare at me.

‘Hostel Fan Zone’ The officer says and points as we drive on through a pitch black campus. We pull up outside what looks like a hospital block. The driver gets out and walks into the building. The officer next to me taps me on the shoulder and looks at the front of the car then back at me and says ‘Oil, Oil... present’
I nod and say thank you again. He looks at the wheel and looks a bit more stern ‘Oil, present’ It clicks that he may be wanting some petrol money in the form of a backhander, not really sure what to do or how much to give, if I give them money will they arrest me for bribery, if I don’t give them enough will they arrest me for being tight. I get out a note, and hand it him, he takes it and puts it in his pocket then nods and unlocks my door. I’m free to go. Got away with that one, and I was grateful to what turned out to be some very helpful policeman.

There was one other guy in my dorm room, another Englishman. I apologised for waking him in the early hours. He was still awake, then got out of his bed and walked round the room naked. With my back to him I got into the usual small talk, how long have you been out here? Where am I? etc etc. Who’s your team? He said he used to be a Grimsby fan. Aha, another follower of shite footballer, we have something in common. He then ruins it by telling me he no longer follows them as they are so bad he can’t be bothered. Copy book, severely blotted. This is not the way of the lower league fan, we thrive of shittness, it makes us who we are, success is for losers. Pride is following your team on a cold Tuesday night to Leigh RMI on a 300 mile round trip to see them lose in a FA trophy qualifier. We like to lose, we say we don’t but we like our stories from ‘were you one of the 68 when we lost 3-1 at Lincoln’. I was there; this makes me better than you. I was better than this once loyal cod-head. Even though he was a fellow solo traveller, I dismissed tagging along with him on account of faux fandom and he talked in his sleep.

Five hours of broken sleep later, I set off to explore Kiev. I get directions from some beautiful girls at the reception and plan to explore a bit of culture then get on it. I was only in town for a few hours, the main thing that kept coming to the top of my to do list was eating a Chicken Kiev in Kiev, so whilst I worked out where to do that I stopped off for a local snack at McDonalds. The sun was out and I was enjoying my first proper day of summer. My trip to the Dynamo Kiev stadium was a wild goose chase; there was no need for me to go there. I wasn’t worried, on trips like these there are no wasted journeys, just places you haven’t been before. Chalked off another European ground for my collection, and then headed back to central Kiev for the main part of my trip to get involved in the famous Fan zones and soak up Euro 2012 fever Ukraine style.

The fan zone was huge, not what I expected at all, I had imagined an area like Trafalgar Square sectioned off with a big screen filled with drunken fans without much room to breathe. I was pleasantly surprised. Kiev had sectioned off the main shopping streets, imagine the whole of Oxford Street closed and lined with Carlsberg beer tents and giant screens. You felt immediately part of a big party, even on my own I never felt awkward. Beer was cheap; even if it was probably marked up for this event paying £1.80 for a beer was refreshing change.

I wandered down to where the England fans were congregated, they were in good voice, the national anthem and vindaloo was on repeat; our limited repertoire exposed. A new song was added to the routine, in a post Panorama homage to a former England centre back ‘Fuck Off Sol Campbell.. We Go Where We Want!’ Inflatable spitfires, topless barrel chest loons not surrendering to a now peaceful IRA - this was the England on tour I liked. In fact everyone liked it, England fans on tour are a tourist attraction in themselves, crowds of Ukraine, Swedish, Italian fans look on in awe, taking pictures and recording this circus act.

I moved on from this to explore the area some more. There were bands playing at one end, a 3-a-side football court in the middle, various chill-out zones and a constant flow of cheap beer at every turn. I keep refreshed as I enjoy strolling around talking to Italians, wishing each other good luck, more out of politeness from the Italian as I could tell they knew Italy were dead certs.

As it gets nearer time for kick off, I found some friends of friends to tag along with. They had a spare ticket, turns out you couldn’t give them away before this massive game. So, as any right thinking single bloke would do in a city full of some of the most attractive women you are likely to meet, you offer one a ticket. A grateful local gladly joins us as a token hot England fan for the night.

We were all quietly optimistic about the game, we were conscious of saying too much, but none of us would have made this trip without the blind belief that England could possibly do something a little special.

Walking toward the Olympic Stadium, it stood majestically in the centre of the city, like an alien spacecraft neatly landed and settled, as if it had always been there. I was more than happy with my ticket as I was surrounded by England fans and most importantly, behind the goal England would be attacking in the second half. I was feeling a little smug, as I found out the lads I had joined in the fan zone, paid twice as much for their tickets from the England supporters club, but the joke was still on me as I had forked out 3 times the necessary price for a flight. Who cares, I was loving every minute and was overcome with the blind optimism I get before all games I attend, be it Exeter City v Macclesfield or Exeter City v Manchester United, we’re going to win 4-0. I had no doubt.

The ground was dominated by neutral fans, and I struggled to see any hard core pockets of Italians cheering on the Azzurri. England fans probably made up 3-4000 of the supporters in the stadium, but we made the noise of 10 times that. To the neutral the first 45 may have been hard work to watch, Mexican waves were in full swing around the ground, but ignored and booed when it came to the England camp; we were too involved and too nervous to raise our arms in boredom. We took pride in being level at the break - this was ideal and in my eyes, part of the master plan.

I sent out texts to my friends watching on TV to check if they were watching the same game as me. I often get too wrapped up in the emotion of the event to take a real clinical look at what was really happening. The Pirlo master class washed right over me, I was more excited by Lescott and Terry throwing themselves in front of anything and everything. This was England at their back to the walls best. I have little recollection of the rest of the game.

Extra-time dragged, I was incredibly nervous and the stadium clock appeared to go backwards. Just take them to penalties I thought and we’ve got them. I believed we had the luck to get through this time. I had backed myself at 10/1 to - England to win on penalties, surely this time. I was too confident; I made the school boy mistake of telling everyone my bet was looking a sure thing now. Idiot.

We know what happened. I was genuinely devastated; I really thought this was our year to do something. I applauded the team, I appreciated their efforts to get this far, I turned and left the stadium, didn’t want to talk to anyone now. I had a flight to get in 4 hours. Tired, emotional, maybe a little hung-over now, I was not looking forward to the next 12 hours involving no sleep and 3 flights to get back home.

Neogiating a taxi back to the airport was comical. I engaged in some bizarre bartering with a deaf driver which involved an almost noughts and crosses style game of higher and lower. He writes down one figure, I cross it out, and write another. I was too tired too play along with this and took to the hostel on foot. Eventually I found a decent priced cab and headed to the airport. I shared a departure lounge with dozens of haggard and dumbstruck England fans, all looking dazed and wholly miserable. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I put the ‘Sound of Silence’ by Simon and Garfunkel on my iPod to cheer myself up.

Watching the sunrise at the terminal, the last 36 hours seemed a blur, a lifetime ago. I didn’t know how was I was going to get through staying awake to get myself on three different flights now. I could barely muster the energy to keep taking off my belt at each check-in point, I was just going to tell them to keep and it let my trousers fall down, I didn’t care.

Nine hours and three planes later I make it back to home soil and on the train back into Manchester, what had just happened? I had been to Kiev and back to follow a dream, it didn’t quite work out, England lost and I didn’t find a chicken breast stuffed with garlic butter, but most importantly, I would do it all over again.

Planes, trains and divine intervention

Jim Minton guests this week with a piece about Euro 2012. Read about a lack of German efficiency, godlike intervention and a tournament that has delivered in the eyes of the fans.

“I think Ukraine tries hard, but it is not really good enough. Most people here like the Swedes. They have been very friendly and know how to have a good time.”
This was the verdict of Andriy, one of the doormen at the Lybid hotel on the morning we arrived in Kiev. The balcony of the hotel was busy with breakfasting Swedes, the beautiful weather not doing some of the fuller figured Scandinavians any favours, and yellow and blue Ukraine flags flew from every taxi and shop window. Clearly not everyone shared Andriy’s pessimism.



We had travelled overnight from Berlin, via Warsaw. This was my fifth consecutive European championship, and to be honest a few weeks ago we’d almost decided not to bother. Hotel prices in Kiev were refusing to drop, and the mood around the UK was at best disinterested, with fewer cars sporting England flags than I can ever remember. Perhaps it was the Olympic and Jubilee effect, or maybe it was just the shitty weather, but I don’t even think the Guardian could raise the enthusiasm – or advertising revenue – to churn out a 64 page supplement for the tournament. Actually, that was a plus. The opportunity NOT to read the thoughts of Stephen Fry or similar was something to be welcomed.

Anyway, as is often the case, the collective doom and gloom – and my own doubts – were found to be misplaced. The quality of the football to date has been excellent – and the well-expressed fears of racism that dominated the build up have thankfully not amounted to anything significant.

Even before we set out from the UK, we’d seen enough to realise this was going to be something of a classic tournament. The way the Russians tore apart the Czechs on the opening day, after the Poles and Greeks had somehow contrived a 10 a side draw, indicated this was going to be an entertaining and not entirely predictable few weeks.

And as it turned out, despite an innate faith in German efficiency, our journey turned out to be entertaining, and not entirely predictable either. Me and Jenny eased ourselves in gently, starting with a weekend in Berlin at the pleasure of Herr (Union Berlin Man) Wilson and Luisa. An evening of art installations and street drinking in Neukölln got us in the mood, followed up by a Sunday double bill of Karaoke in Mauerpark with Germany v Denmark rounding the weekend off nicely. Even better, the venue for watching the Elf was Tante Käthe bar – named after the legendary Rudi Voller, and staffed by polite young women with the great man’s permed cranium embroidered on their breast.

The morning after the Germans had seen off the Danes with perhaps more fuss than the crowd at 'Rudi’s' had expected, we set off East. The train left Berlin bang on time at 6.40. Since it was going via Poznan and Warsaw, it was full of Irish, along with a few Italians and some Croats headed for Gdansk. The first inconvenience that befell us was that the train ground to a halt only a few kilometres out of town. The second was that we were joined by a party of Canadian-Polish artists, who spent the hours we waited in the sidings telling each other how funny they were, and bemoaning the fact that the train was full of “soccerball people” (honestly!).

The delay was due to overhead wire problems and was compounded when we were diverted at the border to a small station where it appeared the Polish railway staff weren’t expecting us. After a total delay of 4 hours, the driver eventually found second gear and we began to accelerate through Poland. Fortunately the delay was such that the artists missed their appointment, so got out at Poznan to return back to Berlin. The Irish didn’t seem to care – as the bar on the train was well stocked. And there was the slightly unnerving sight of the Croats being led across the track by gun toting guards just after the border. It turned out that they were being helped to find taxis to get them to their game on time, although the Irish man next to me did remark that perhaps he’d watched too many war films.

The other consequence of the delay was that it ate up the time we had to change in Warsaw. We’d envisaged a leisurely stroll through the town, maybe a beer or two and a pirogi, stocking up on a few beers, some fresh fruit and bread and cheese for the next leg of the journey. In the event we only made the connection at all thanks to divine intervention. A travelling Polish missionary had replaced the artists at Poznan, on his way to a conference about Papal correspondence with the seventeenth century court in Warsaw. He explained he’d been living with the Inuit for a couple of years, so negotiating with the train company was easy for him. At his insistence, we were bundled out at a special stop on the edge of the city – a kind of Finsbury Park, or Ealing Broadway. From there we jumped in a taxi, showing the driver our ticket to give him the destination and the time of our next departure (which was due to leave in 20 minutes). The driver said (in Polish) “no chance”, but took us anyway.

He kept pointing at the clock and shaking his head, but amazingly, got us to Warsaw Gdanska station only a minute or two late. We legged it into the station – to be greeted by a woman who looked like Angela Merkel, and who urged us to run across the tracks to the waiting train. As we clambered onto the platform, the guard asked were we the mob from Berlin, having been tipped off by the Priest (or perhaps by the priest’s heavenly boss) that we were on our way. Delighted to have made it, I headed straight to the bar. Only to find it was a dry train, and all there was to eat was chocolate biscuits. For 18 hours.



Nevertheless, the journey was fun and passed quickly. Even the two hours when they picked the train up and put on new wheels for the narrower Ukraine gauge railway at the border was entertaining more than disrupting.

And so we were greeted by Andriy, and the Swedes at the Lybid. Our game was in the evening, the dead rubber – effectively – of Sweden v France. We had a couple of spare tickets, but so, it seemed did pretty much everyone in Kiev. Not only was the game due to be a bit meaningless, it also clashed with the more exciting and vital fixture in Donetsk (about 600 miles south west), between England and Kiev.



Still, we went off to the match – having come all this way, we wanted to see the stadium. The streets of Kiev were buzzing – Swedes wanting to enjoy their last night away; and Ukrainians hoping for the right combination of results to take them through. A few French, not really believing that there was a possibility that they could go out. And us, feeling a bit like gatecrashers at a party no-one really wanted to be at.



That made it more fun in a way. The ground was fantastic, even though it was only about two thirds full. And even less so in the second half, when many Ukrainians went off to catch the end of their game. After sitting through as much of the half paced game as we could manage – and buying the obligatory Euro 2012 fridge magnet – we also made our way out, finding a welcoming retro bar where the booze was a third of the price of the stadium, and we were just in time to see Rooney nod in, then the Hungarian 5th official deny the hosts an equaliser which would have made things interesting. The locals were philosophical in defeat. And in fact as it was around midnight that the games finished, we struggled to find bars open late. Perhaps it would have been different had Ukraine won. Or maybe we just went the wrong direction!

The next day was a Euro 2012 rest day. A few English began to arrive in Kiev in preparation for Sunday’s quarter final. We toyed with staying – tickets would have been no problem, and the hotel was comfortable. But the cost of three more nights, changing our flights and the thought of getting back to watch the rest of it on TV were at the end too much for us to resist.

After a day of sightseeing, which included the Chernobyl museum, a pilgrimage to the Lobanovski statue at the Dynamo ground, and a few beers in Maydan Square, we flew back on Thursday. The BA flight was full of England fans. They’d all seemed to have had a great time, and like us had enjoyed the hospitality of the Ukrainians, and it was obvious that many of them had been up late the night before debating whether to change their flight and stay behind for a few more days.

But, all good things come to an end. As I write this, the Greeks are about to go out to the Germans, and the Czechs are already back in Prague. Will England last any longer? We will see – but whatever, they’ve surprised a few people – like the Ukrainians did, with their well run, entertaining and hospitable tournament.

Berlin 1 London 0

Sitting in a Berlin bar, whose name takes its inspiration from German legend, Rudi Völler, I’m in awe of the Germans once again. At Tante Käthe (Aunt Kate) we’re surrounded by a healthy mix of fans - men, women, children and an English dog. Völler picked up the absurd nickname due to his dodgy haircut - in England he'd probably have been called Mavis.



The scene is set for Germany to progress to the Quarter Finals of Euro 2012 and part of me is sad. I want everyone in England to experience this. Not the winning of a group with maximum points - I’m a realist - but the way in which Germany and Berlin in particular, has embraced public viewing since hosting the World Cup in 2006.

Even the walk to the bar is surreal as we help an American man and his Hungarian girlfriend with their bikes, as we clamber over two fences to access Rudi Völler Strasse - a road you won't find on Google maps. It has been invented by the bar to guide locals to the venue via a back route.



If we were not enjoying this cool urban football mecca that is Tante Käthe - which is situated in a barren wasteland north of the now trendy Mauerpark flea market – we could be in a boat watching a big screen on a small island in the Treptow district of Berlin or with thousands of supporters in the ‘fan mile’ in the city centre.



Tante Käthe is in a different league when it comes to watching football. Not only do they have in excess of 20 screens of various dimensions dotted about the maze like yard, they also boast a sandpit and a huge table football. The place has been lovingly thrown together to attract an ideal mix of supporters. You also never queue for more than a couple of minutes for a beer.



The fan mile is situated where the Berlin wall once divided the city at Brandenburg Gate; it creates a carnival atmosphere where fans come decked out in team colours and blowing vuvuzelas. There are multiple giant screens and few queues for the facilities. Once again the Germans are streets ahead of the English. This is not just about football; this is about community. It’s an international melting pot of cultural diversity – and here multi-culturism is working.



Whilst there are a plethora of places to view matches on big screens, the charm of Berlin during a major tournament, is the weird and wonderful lengths people go to screen games. Whether it be my local newsagent who has positioned a plasma screen street-side and found three old benches for fans to sit on or the entrepreneurs who have turned their backyard into a place where they can charge a few euros for a beer - strictly friends of friends only. In Friedrichshain, my FC Union partner in crime spotted a screen inside a trailer! It was parked on the side of the road with fans gazing in. Only in Berlin.

England started their second group with a big number 9 up front. Whatever the merits of Carroll up front, he certainly provides us with a neat signifier of the English game - both on and off the pitch. We were the future once. Carroll’s inclusion in the first eleven and Hodgson’s conservative tactics in the opening fixture of group D are symbolic of the English mind-set - inherently conservative.

London can erect gargantuan screens so that the masses can see an elderly woman wave at her subjects, yet London is incapable of leveraging the interest in Euro 2012 and bringing new fans on board. At times of social uncertainty, the coming together of people, whatever it may be for, has to be a good thing. It should be encouraged. Will the capital city grasp the nettle during The Olympics or will the over-bearing brand protection of the games destroy any hope of public viewings?

In Berlin there are a significant amount of public viewing spaces. Admittedly many are outdoors and due to the 'beautiful' June weather people have taken advantage of coming together to watch the Euros. However, there are several make-shift tents dotted around the city should the weather be inclement. The beauty is that these spaces attract a new type of fan. The casual fan who will join a group of friends just to be part of something. I personally find it quite quaint when people ask if the ball has to hit the net for it to count as a goal or if Rooney still plays for 'Manchester'.

An interesting point made by my Berlin visitors at the weekend, was the scant regard Berliners place on the dreaded "health and safety" laws, that in my view shackle the entrepreneurial spirit of the English. For years now, the statute book has been a noose around the neck for public gatherings in the UK.



Football clubs are constantly looking for new revenue streams. How about this? Erect a big screen, charge a few quid to get in and celebrate a feast of football and attract football fans and new supporters by creating a month long mini festival around the Euros or the World Cup.



If you can host Coldplay you could at least try and engage with the community by doing something more in line with your core business. There are almost 80 players represented at the Euros from the English Premier League. If you are involved in new business at any of these clubs you’ve not scored an own goal – you were not even in the squad. You’re the Peter Crouch of your profession; you are in the dark ages, you long for a big number 9 and you listen to bland music…probably. Or, perhaps you've just never been to Berlin!

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