It happened in Berlin, September of 1999. The city was celebrating the 10th anniversary of reunification. There were still many parts of the wall standing—it’s rare to see them nowadays. It was around midday when I landed at the crowded Berlin-Tegel airport, the first time I stepped on European soil.

 

The German government used to invite young reporters from international newspapers to spend a month in Deutschland, just so they could see how returning to capitalism had benefited the people and the land. The cab stopped, and I noticed that the neighborhood was quite nice—Schöneberg.

 

I was assigned to live with a local family for two weeks in Berlin. When I arrived, a petite lady in her 50s opened the door. She wore a hat and white sneakers. The apartment was a total mess—doors were off their hinges, propped against the walls, gallons of paint lined the hallway, and pieces of wood were scattered everywhere. The hosts had decided to renovate the entire house during my stay (maybe using the government payment for hosting me). Everything seemed out of place.

 

She led me to my room and then pointed to a phone in the family room, decorated with a beautiful black piano. With a strong German accent, she told me in English that the phone wasn’t to be used for international calls. If I needed to make local calls, I had to buy a prepaid phone card, available at stores around Berlin.

 

(If you, my reader, are Gen Z, you’ll never understand how basic internet services were last century. Cell phones were rare, and public payphones were still common. International calls could be as expensive as a Hermès purse…)

 

That was about it. Three minutes after my arrival, she was leaving with her daughter to meet friends on a sailing boat in town.

 

“Oh, and under no circumstances do we allow guests. Don’t open the door to anyone,” she said, closing the door behind her daughter.

 

I started walking around to get to know the place. In the kitchen, while opening the fridge, I saw a bilingual note listing the house rules:

• 10-minute daily showers

• Personal food only in the fridge

• Clean up after yourself

• Silence after 9 PM

• No guests

• Local phone cards only

 

While I was unpacking in the small bedroom (the only neat one in the house), the doorbell rang. That was the moment when I should have thought: mind your own business—no guests allowed.

 

Of course, I didn’t. Deep down, I am an investigative reporter, after all. I went to the front door just to see who was there. I looked through the peephole and saw a young woman moving her hands frantically. I could see her lips moving fast, but I couldn’t hear a thing.

 

I stepped away, but she kept pressing the doorbell. I guess she noticed someone was inside.

 

I decided to open it just a bit so I could understand what she was saying. (Another pause to explain that back then, English in Berlin was as common as Farsi in Mexico—practically unknown. Those people had just emerged from the Soviet era. Two days later, I got kicked out of a café because I couldn’t order a donut in German or Russian.)

 

Okay, back to the weirdo.

 

I was so naïve. When I unlocked the door, I didn’t even have a chance. The frantic young woman burst in, wearing pajamas, pushing past me and running inside. She was desperate, and I admit I felt uncomfortable. What would happen if the lady of the house had forgotten something and came back?

 

She said: “Ich habe mich aus dem Haus ausgesperrt und brauche Hilfe bei einem Schlosser.” (Of course, I understand that now thanks to Google Translate, but at that moment, I was clueless.)

 

I spoke in loud, slow, and clear English: “I’m not supposed to let strangers in. And I don’t speak German.”

 

The problem was: my German was as bad as her English.

 

That was when I realized I was in deep shit.

 

She started gesturing. She grabbed the doorknob, pretended to turn it, hit the door with both hands, screamed some words I assume were pretty bad, pretended to kick it, then started yelling at the door, and even mimicked banging her head against it. Then, she turned around, ran to the large living room window, and pointed to the street.

 

Then, she rushed through the apartment, checking each room—the kitchen, then mine, then the owner’s. That was the first time I had ventured that far back in the place. She was scanning the walls as if searching for something.

 

Finally, she stopped in the family room. She spotted the landline phone on the white bookshelf, grabbed it, and I immediately took it from her hand.

 

“No. You can’t use it.” I put it back.

 

Trying to remain calm, I spoke slowly: “You-are-not-supposed-to-use-that. It-only-works-with-cards-and-I-don’t-have-a-German-card. My-card-is-from-Brazil.”

 

And she suddenly asked: “Por que você falou ‘Brazil’?” (Why did you say Brazil?)

 

And I answered: “Porque eu sou brasileira.” (Because I am Brazilian.)

 

“E eu sou de Portugal.” (And I am from Portugal.)

 

At that moment, we burst into laughter. We hadn’t realized we both spoke native Portuguese.

 

She explained that she had been taking out the trash when a sudden breeze shut her apartment door, locking her outside. She was simply asking for a phone to call a locksmith—she had tickets for the opera and a gala dinner afterward with her fiancé, and there was no way she could go in her pajamas.

 

I went downstairs and bought her a phone card.

 

The locksmith came quickly. A little later, I was sitting on the wide window sill of my bedroom, admiring the beauty of Berlin, when I saw her walking down the street—her hair in a sleek ponytail, fine makeup, and high heels, heading toward her cab.

 

And I said to myself: “Vai lá, garota.” (You go, girl.)