BERLIN

Notes from my moleskin:
-No one drinks water
-Everyone drinks beer
-People of actual color live here
-Over 35: No English
-Under 35: English 
-Germans follow every rule unquestioningly, everyone else jaywalks
-So much bad modernism
-Wide boulevards
-Not as many Nikes
-Hipster girls have this signature early-80's bowl cut, very cute


Cities have existed throughout history not just as places or destinations, but as characters, contributing to the public dialogue in and of themselves. They speak their own language to the people who inhabit  them, sometimes shouting, sometimes whispering; sometimes a laugh can be heard, and often their painful history can be felt. Berlin, more so than most other cities in the past century, has endured an immense amount of pain in its short lifetime. The scar which runs through the city is demarcated by a red brick path, winding in and out of roads, through buildings, forever dividing the east and west side of the city, despite that the neighborhoods that once stood on either side continue to meld together in typical gentrified fashion. Surely the legacy of the Wall will never be forgotten in the divided city, but each year that passes puts it deeper into the cultural consciousness, healing the scar little by little. 

The city’s memorials douse the pain of the War in an eternally apologetic tone, leaving the many new young urbanites with a tone of placid remembrance. The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe is one such place adorned with a profound reverence that I haven’t seen in any other site. Walking through each of the rectilinear cement formations placed evenly apart, one is met with a quieted solitude which silences the hurried thoughts of city life. The wordless space was designed to allow the visitor to experience her own emotions amongst the crevasses between blocks. The memorial acts as a blank, lifeless city for the dead, an empty canvas for which each visitor paints his feelings and thoughts upon them, perhaps to be at ease for just a moment. To me, the space served an even larger purpose, carrying with it the burden of representing a memorial for memorials. Children played hide and seek in the narrow alleyways, couples kissed in the shadows; these demonstrate not that the memorial isn’t being respected for what it is, but that it is so elegantly designed that it has woven itself into the natural urban fabric of the city. I found my silence there. 

In a high school Creative Writing course, I once wrote a short story called “The Difference Between East and West Raccoons.” It was an extended metaphor about the Donner Party, shown as a gaze of raccoons who leave their burning forest in the east to travel to a promise land in the west. Most of the pack didn't make it to their destination because the pain they endured en route drove them to madness as they ate each other in rapacious desperation. My ultimate message was to show the fatal demise of believing in a non-existent promise land, how this changes people into entirely different characters with an evolving motive, how there is a remarkable difference between these raccoons from their humble beginnings in the east to their vicious selves in the west. They are no longer the same raccoons once the few remaining survivors reach the forests of the golden state. 

Today this piece means something else to me. The history of “east and west” has graced world history time and time again: the New Frontier of the American West, the dominance of the globalized western culture, "conflicts in the Middle East". Historians (namely from the West) have twisted the meaning of these dichotomous cardinal directions into whatever the Present deems formidable. The West can be the beacon of culture and innovation, while the East can be exotic and mystical, despite that neither holds true. 

When riding my bike through Berlin, my adventure partners kept telling me with repetition: “Now we’re in the East”, “Now we’re in the West.” These two sides, once divided by an ocean of turbulent politics, are now joined together, but insist on differentiating themselves. I ask: what is the difference between East and West Berliners?

Berlin is surely a city that is between identities. The fantastic cultural influence of the city and the increasing affluence of the country at large are increasingly positioning Berlin as the leading city for the creative class of Europe. 20-somethings from Spain and Turkey flock to Berlin in search of jobs, stimulus, and affordability; this is the hyperbolic “west” they seek. Those outside of the city consider it a wellfare state, sucking the resources out of the affluent surroundings. Some Germans I spoke to were wholly resentful of Berlin’s media-celebrated cultural richness, despite that the city can’t seem to pay its own bills. Regardless, I leave the city feeling perplexed by what it wants to be, but amazed at what it is: a young, rebellious, vibrant metropolis that deserves to be spelled here as boldly as it lives: BERLIN, I  give you a resounding smile, a pat on the back, a slap on the ass, for all you’ve been through you’re still amazing the world. You may not be so poor anymore, but sexy you are still.