Dominant, prime, tonic...Advent

I've never liked the number five. It's an odd number that looks as if it ought to be even. It is somehow complacent and bumbling, wholesome and healthy. It's the easiest, least interesting interval to sing (it's even called the dominant, for goodness' sake, as if it weren't self-important enough already); the place where you are, briefly, before you get to the end, the tonic chord. It's half of ten and like all halves has a symmetrical quality while also lacking something essential. Five is, I suddenly realise, a prime number, so it ought to be interesting, but I still don't like it. It doesn't have the erratic, intriguing aspect of seven, or the mystical connotations of nine, which is just the opposite of five: it's not a prime number but looks as if it ought to be.

Poor number five. It can't help itself, and all this is really just a roundabout way of saying that I did not enjoy turning 45 a couple of weeks ago. I didn't enjoy turning 40, either, but I grew reconciled to it, even started to enjoy it once I got to 41. But 45 is just....meh. As ages go, it has little to say for itself. There are plenty of role models, but there's no really desirable description. I'll have to invent one, perhaps. But I have to admit that despite my principles and my feminism, I'm a little intimidated. Looking at myself in the mirror, I don't look young any more, but I don't look old either. I scrutinise my laughter lines and my worry lines with the same doubts that most women, married or single, mothers or not, gay or straight, have at this age. Am I attractive? Am I interesting? Do I have anything to offer the world? What does it have to offer me? Where will I be in five years? Will I ever live anywhere for more than a year at a time? Should I have another cup of tea? None of the answers  are looking so great this year, I think (except for the cup of tea). Maybe in a couple of years, when I finally get to a properly odd number, things will feel different. 

Those were my general thoughts, a few weeks ago. But something in me rebelled against worry. Whether I was going to be 45 or 47, it was still my birthday and I wasn't going to ignore it. I like my birthday, usually, and I decided that this year I wanted to do something special, something pretty, something slightly boring yet also - for me - exciting. Something I wouldn't be able to do in England. An Advent Boat Trip – Kaffee und Kuchen included – seemed the perfect cosy solution for a late November birthday. Also, it had an element of 45-ness that I felt to be appropriate. "Enjoy the Havel in all its wintry glory!" the brochure promised. I pictured myself drifting through a beautiful snowy landscape in flickering candle-light while munching on chocolate, and sent out excited invitations, with an alternative offer to meet at a bar, just in case people didn't want to spend money on boat trips. It turned out no-one except Mel and I wanted to go on a boat, and I wondered why. Was it the money? Family commitments? Fear of getting seasick? Fear of - gasp! - leaving Berlin? "Oh, well," I shrugged. "Their loss."

Like every year, my birthday this year fell exactly four weeks before Christmas. But this year, it also fell on a Sunday. While in England this would just mean I didn't have to go to work, this year we are in Germany. This year, Sunday 27th November had a meaning all of its own; it was der erste Advent, as they call it here –– the first (Sunday in) Advent. And while this would be true wherever you were in the world, I had forgotten just what it means in Germany. Unlike in the UK, Christmas here doesn't start in September. Everything has a time and a place, and in the German calendar, der erste Advent has an important subtext: Christmas is nearly here, you numpties – get your act together and go shopping now before it's too late! And suddenly, it was all happening. Christmas markets opened. Carol services took off in a big way. Children ran around crafting lanterns frenetically – oh no, sorry, that was 12th November, St Martin's Day. But it's not just lanterns - knitting, crocheting, pottery, badge-making, weaving, they all start to make unexpected appearances in the least handknitted of places. (Imagine Superdrug with basket-weaving.) And most importantly, crowds flock to florist-and-candle shops, which I think may only exist here, to buy those German winter essentials: Advent wreaths and as many candles as you can fit in your bike basket. 

The day before my birthday, on Saturday morning, we joined everyone else at the market in Zehlendorf, where little tents were full of jolly people selling local vegetables (huge baskets of glossy, exotic looking cabbages, kale, brussels sprouts, parsnips and kohlrabis, and even Teltow turnips!), local meat, bread, cheese and wine. The air was icy and tall Germans in their woollen coats breathed clouds of steam, laughing and chattering at the onset of proper winter and more importantly, Christmas. We took the plunge and launched ourselves into the shop at the end of the street which sold Advent wreaths, jostled and pushed by crowds buying pungent-smelling greenery and silver Santas on a stick. Everywhere we went, people wished us "Froher Erster Advent!" I hadn't realised it was quite such a festive occasion, and it was lovely. But then my heart sank. This was why no-one else had signed up to come on my birthday boat trip the next day. They were too busy lighting candles, eating Stollen and decorating their house with holly, or alternatively, taking advantage of the shops being open on a Sunday for a change.

Or so I thought....

Before...

We arrived in Potsdam the following day to glorious, frosty sunshine. We had breakfast in a cafe, wandered round the park at Sanssouci and eventually meandered down to the Lange Bruecke, where all the boats go from. I collected the tickets. Full of excitement, I jumped up and down: "That must be our boat there!" And so it was. But then..."What's that coach doing there?" And more anxiously, "What's that big lift thing on the coach for?"

"I think it's for our fellow passengers," said Mel, neutrally. We looked at each other. Then we looked at our fellow passengers. An enormous group of them was gathered by the boat. They were mostly wearing beige. They were complaining to each other about various things. The tiniest, oldest ones – at least the women – were wearing their bright Sunday-best going-out scarves and hats. Several of them were in wheelchairs. Suddenly, 45 seemed extremely young. "There's a young family over there," Mel pointed out encouragingly. "They're here with their aged parents," I pointed out in return. 

"I don't think there's anyone else our age here on their own," Mel speculated. "Maybe this is why no-one else wanted to come."

That was it. I'd finally done it. I had carried being boring too far! I was too old to be cool! No-one would ever want to come to my birthday again! My life was over! I nearly turned back.

But it was too late. The doors were opening. The crew was ushering us on to the boat. A huge, sparkly Christmas tree stood in the centre of the foyer, and tinsel lined the long, mirrored cabin that was decked out with baubles and plastic holly, each white-clothed table with its festive napkins, plates of Stollen and coffee cups ready to be filled. Last Christmas was playing on the tannoy system. Elderly people rushed to get to the best spots as if they were on the bus. We moved slowly up the cabin. Elderly men pushed their chairs aggressively outwards, so that we could not get past. Eventually, we found our table and sat down. We were at the front, but right beside us, an argument was ensuing. Parents were ordering their middle-aged children to move so that they could get a better view. "And leave a place for Hilde, she's in the toilet but she's going to sit with me." The middle-aged children rose as one and decamped to a separate table. We looked at the elderly people beside us, all of them absolutely intent on having an excellent time. They smiled at us in a conspiratorial manner. 

And after

 And we began to laugh.

"I don't want to go home," I told Mel. "I'm enjoying myself far too much."

So we sat and listened to Wham!, Slade and German Schlager Christmas hits, while the harassed waiter did the rounds with his flasks of coffee and the boat moved slowly off down the Havel River out towards the lakes that surround Potsdam. The sun shone, and the low windows allowed us to sail right alongside the ducks and swans that accompanied the boat. People waved from the riverbank. Soon the coffee was exhausted, as was the waiter, and our fellow passengers abandoned their cake and began to order wine. We gazed out at the landscape, which really was wintry and beautiful. We ate all our cake. As the sun sank lower in the sky, we came into the Wannsee, out towards Sacrow, and I ran upstairs to go out on the deck. To my surprise, I found myself completely alone. The freezing air chilled my skin, but the sun warmed it. I stood absolutely alone on the deck of a ship, in the middle of the vast expanse of water that is Wannsee, and looked up to the blue sky where flocks of birds were passing over. The woods to either side were bright in the setting sun. Suddenly I didn't mind being 45. Suddenly I didn't care about my age at all. I didn't want to be anywhere but exactly where I was.

And really, I still don't.

Sacrow Church