I am sitting in Berlin's central station, the new and so very improved "Hauptbahnhof" - which in itself is a sign of Germany reunited, since Berlin did not have such a thing for the last 50 years, due to the split into East & West. I like travelling by train, and no presumed terrorist leaving potentially explosive baggage somewhere on some train would stop me travelling this way. I think.

But I don't necessarily like the Bahn, the German state rail company. Actually, few Germans do; it's a modern tradition - present since the 2nd World War, which we started, in case you didn't know - to dislike state institutions. Even if one does follow even the tiniest edict with alacrity, all the while considering taking legal action against it; calls to our version of the Supreme Court are coming into fashion.

Anyway, the Bahn built this steel and concrete monster, glass-umbrella'd, which feels like a temple to gigantism with its 2- or 3-storey high levels of which there are at least 4, trains using the lowest and highest levels, with 2 shopping and service levels inbetween. There are several fast-food places, although they did think of a fruit-and-water stall, at least - somewhat expensive, though. There are several paperback sellers and news agents. There is little soul; somehow huge places always seem to stretch out soul between their distant outer walls too much - perhaps soul is a natural constant that is dealt out one per building, whatever its size?

I miss the old "central" station, the notorious, but much smaller Bahnhof Zoo, in the erstwhile isolated West side of the city, near the ruin of Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church (except that the man has been left out of its name since the War, so that nowadays it's sort of memorialising the War instead). For one thing you could wander in there and buy fruit and water provisions for about 3 Euro; at the stall in this new central station, mentioned above, you're bound to be paying about double, for less fruit. Also, Zoo station was in the centre of the West side, surrounding life honking and hooting away - literally, since it's right next to the city zoo; this new Station is in the area that used to be no-man's land between East & West Berlin - the only places it's really close to are further evidence of the renewed German mania with size, the chancellory with its huge concrete roundings and the new office block for members of parliament.

At least the Reichstag, where German parliament has been sitting again the last decade or so, in spite of its stateliness looking a little frail between its bloated grandchildren, is visible, too.

In the spirit of this journal, I will of course enter this new gleaming temple, sunk into the centre of old Berlin, with an open mind in future. I will try to revisit Bahnhof Zoo just to look at once a year or so. And as a good German, I will keep riding the state monopoly's trains; and shut up in its stations.

Just when this journal was going to sleep, I pull out the quill again, inspired by a moment in one of the oldest cities in the world, sitting in a touristy/holiday-spirited square of Westernised not-quite-but-almost-fast-food places in a half-round, looking out on the city's Lake near sunset. That is, about eight p.m. CET (it's in the same time zone as Berlin).

See, there's this walking lesson in politeness, as well as a difference between Old European and really old African cultures, here. An older man, perhaps fifteen years ahead of me, black hair, white sideburns, kind eyes, walking around with a sign saying "hand-drawn portrait so-and-so-many dt" in four languages. He wears black trousers, and a matt-yellow shirt, checked with thin black lines. He is carrying a black wide bag on a shoulder strap, which holds his drawing utensils - some pieces of coal, some pencils and an A3 block of drawing paper.

The thing is, he never speaks to prospective customers. He just walks between the café and dinner tables, smiling, or, if not, having his eyes invite conversation. He tends to sit down with couples or an adult with child; he seems to navigate a wide berth around noisier, larger groups.

And here's the difference I meant: People, mostly men, do actually speak to him. Perhaps they say "that's too expensive" or "why don't you stop bothering us?" or just "won't you sit down?". They don't as a rule just glower and look away. I can't tell exactly what's said, because I don't speak Arabic; I can only interpret the tone of the talk. Once he does sit down, had you not noticed him before, you couldn't tell he hadn't been sitting at that table from the beginning, he's so radiantly happy and involved.

Once he draws, and he takes about twenty minutes a picture, it's all concentration - and shy pride on the part of the drawn person. He discusses the picture as it takes form with the non-modeling (paying) person, then hands it to the proud portraitee at the end.

As the slightly rippling surface of the near lake darkens, I'm reminded of Saint Exupéry's story tellers in Citadelle, and his admonishment to turn your life into some visible work that you have produced. This man, this wise drawer, is doing that, and not even thinking about it. And, unless the locals learn European bad manners, portrait drawers will be offering their skills well into this century, like they probably did even in fabled Carthage. While it fell to ruin, they still thrive, quietly, young or old (it doesn't matter), skillful, eternally giving pride and pleasure, for a small fee.

Sitting writing this in an airport named after a famous composer, piano piano I become aware that I needn't be unhappy I didn't get to see much of the capital city. Not to mention the people, who shy personae like me never get to meet much any way.

Because it seems one needs to have 2 things before one can even attempt a draft judgement on a foreign place one is visiting:

• Time. I was here for four nights, with little spare time outside of the job I was sent here for, and an impending flu to boot (rather, to boot out motivation to undertake exploratory walks).
• Lingo. This is only the third time or so I've visited a place where I knew nothing of the language when I arrived, and where the locals as a broad rule speak none of mine.

The thing about judgement is, apart from its constant practice's being impolite in any case, I find it tends to grow on one beyond one's control.

On and after the one half-hour walk in the vicinity of the stuck-up (at the least, visually) hotel I was inhabiting, I had several times to wrest down generalisms that rose up like those ethereal joys you can't quite explain: That the people of this country (!) are just so - in this case, cool, very practical, determined to surmount international irrelevance (at which, most commentators would agree, I think, they've succeeded); that the city centre architecture proves relatively poor but hardy, lovable; that the reek of nationalism may in fact be a perfume worth coveting in small amounts in my home, too - to resist the ever-growing influence of EU-bureaucrat norming of everyday life.

However, the voice of (assumed!) reason kept interjecting quietly how inadequate this sample of first impressions was, that I wasn't seeing what needed to be seen, comprehending what - and how! - things were being said.

Hoping I won't be asked "what was it like?" too often after such a short trip, here's to my inner True Instant Judge of the World at Large coming to rest again in the next few days. That high of experiencing a new big city newly seen. And I will be revisiting this impressive place some time, hopefully, perhaps better prepared, with a little more time on my hands. And only then judge - demurely - if needs be; and more accurately.