Live and let Berlin

Berlin isn’t pretty. It doesn’t try to be. That’s the point. Berlin is change, a perpetual motion wrapped in concrete and graffiti.

Some cities seduce you with polished facades and Michelin stars. Berlin hands you a beer, lights a cigarette, and dares you to flinch. And I keep coming back for another round. This unique city has a kind of deliberate urban decay which I find quite compelling.

Just like other major cities such as London or Paris, Berlin is the kind of city where I find new gems even after repeated visits. But unlike many other cities, Berlin has an unusually dark underbelly.

Himmel über Berlin – as seen from Oberbaumbrücke.

Walked across the beautifully arched Oberbaumbrücke at sunset, the kind of sky that makes you nostalgic for things that never happened. No sight of Lola running, but the ghosts were there. This bridge, once a broken link between East and West, now a welded artery between Kreuzberg and Friedrichshain. Hipsters, punks, students and suits – all flowing together like they were always meant to be.

Night falls over Kreuzberg.

“I first came when it was still an island in the Soviet sea. I remember the tensions of early visits, Bowie’s Low in my head, the West thumbing its neon nose at the East, and the East glowering back with those old red eyes, disdainful and defiant.”
— Marc Almond, In Search of the Pleasure Palace (2004)

Berlin doesn’t roll out a welcome mat. It doesn’t do small talk. Many parts of the city look like they’ve survived a riot, and maybe they have. “Come as you are, as you were, as I wanted you to be” as Kurt Cobain once sang. No filters, no apologies.

Roaming through Hackesher Markt.

Roamed through the familiar alleys of Hackesher Markt, where I went to see my old friend Der Bloch at Monsterkabinett, but unfortunately he was hidden away for reparations. See you next time, you transformer-wannabe.

I passed Rosenthaler Straße, half-expecting the Techno Viking to emerge from a memory, shirtless and divine, leading the faithful to whatever beat they believed in.

For some strange reason, I ended up behind the wheel of a Trabant. East Germany’s gift to the concept of vehicular trauma. Driving it is like operating a lawnmower in a war zone. Charming in the way pneumonia is charming.

The hour was getting late. Ducked into a side street, hoping for schnitzel salvation or at least a half-decent beer. Found neither. Just the cold blue light of an empty döner joint and a kebab spinning in slow, greasy purgatory. The guy behind the counter didn’t care. He’d already checked out, eyes glazed over like yesterday’s currywurst.

In short, Berlin doesn’t care if we love it. That’s why it matters.