Berlin the First: Ik Ben Verlieft

SANY1978
Originally uploaded by sarahkatina

(n.b. - I wrote these on the road, and that is why the tense is weird.)

Berlin is electric. It took me right away, as many "A" and "B" cities seem to (Amsterdam, Austin, Buffalo, Barcelona...). Could my love for it endure? I don't know, but two days isn't enough. I need to come back.

Christy and Hallie and I pulled into town on the train and enjoyed Pizza Hut (for shame, but we were so hungry and we WANTED it) in the shadow of T-Punkt (T-Mobile), took the S-bahn to the U-bahn, disembarked by a large white brand new building that houses our hostel, called Wombat's - the windows are floor to ceiling and every room has a shiny bathroom - the bar, on the 7th floor, has a sizeable terrace that looks out into whatever you want to see of the East Berlin night.

It was warm and clear and the TV tower and the sky were massive and stunning. Off we took into the beautiful evening, down the beautiful Torstrasse, and it hit us - as we passed gallery after gallery, as we noticed the enthused, fedora-adorned "walk" symbol, as cyclists zipped by us. Convenience stores have bar stools, food that costs 12 euro in Amsterdam costs half as much here, we passed a lively bar with a full living room set up on the street in front of it - worn oriental carpet, threadbare plush chairs and couches, a floor lamp. The graffiti is beautiful or shocking, or both, more often than not, even when it is tiny enough to fit in the palm of your hand.

Today we took the best tour I have ever taken of anything, James Monroe's house in Virginia (which we only went to because Monticello was crowded and impossible), coming in a close second. Our guide's name was Nick and he is some sort of badass Nazi-bunker-specialist archaeologist with a penchant for rolling his own cigarettes. He was hilarious and British and full of more information and witticisms than I can even begin to recall. At the site of Hitler's bunker (he wrote the text for the English part of the modest commemorative sign, so he must be pretty important around these parts), he whipped this out (I scribbled it on the back of my map so I wouldn't forget, something I should have done more often) - "You don't think Hitler's really dead? Well he'd be gettin' on a bit, wouldn't he? You think he's off having mojitos somewhere with Biggie and 2Pac and John Lennon and all those other people who die and aren't allowed to be dead? No, let me tell you, he's really dead."

Berlin has so much history and so much memory packed into the center, it boggles the mind. The Reichstag has a transparent roof and is always open to the public, so people can look down on their politicians and the politicians can look up at them, and everyone can remember what they're sposed to be doing. The Holocaust Memorial is a sea of cement blocks. The Book-Burning Memorial (see photo) is underground and shows many, many empty shelves. There are only tiny, war-scarred (but still grand) bits of the glorious Prussian empire left over. At the end of the tour (which lasted almost four hours), Nick stopped us and told us the story of the Wall coming down. It almost brought tears to my eyes, really and truly, and I hope I can remember it so that I can retell it one day. A pale imitation of how he told it, I'm sure, but I bet I could capture some of the energy. The history of Communist East Berlin is, like many Communist histories, pretty horrifying. The history of its end is, like many histories of ends of Communist regimes, pretty spectacular.

Berlin, as an undivided city, is only 18 years old. And it's a great example of what can happen when enough people fiercely love a place and fight and improvise and pour their hearts into it to build up a vibrant culture out of destruction (Buffalo, take note).

After the tour, sat in a cafe and ate a big meal for not very many euro, sauntered through some tourist stores (so far, my junk collection habit in Europe has been limited to postcards, which are both aesthetically pleasing and useful - but here, on account of the low low prices and my panic at leaving Europe sooner than later, my hoarding out-of-context glittery crap instinct kicked in and I bought - drumrolllllll - a black ashtray with a gold filigree/pastel drawing of the Brandenburg Gate in the bottom! I don't even know).

Evening brought us, on a whim, to the Konzerthaus, where we joined many many aging German people to sit in prime cheap seats directly behind the orchestra. I can't even begin to describe how amazing it was. There was some Beethoven and some Bartok, the concert hall itself is decked out in red plush and white marble and gold leaf and Prussian charm. We could see the conductor's face, which was wicked. He was incredible. He conducted without a score (I didn't think about that being a big deal, but Christy, who is a violist, made it clear that it's pretty rare, and risky), and he moved his whole body as he directed, and it was beautiful to watch and to listen to the synchronicity he was causing. The orchestra themselves were wonderful as well. We were sitting sort of behind the basses and cellos. Good place to be.

I don't know, here I am collecting places to love again. It's so exciting to be somewhere that is not only rebuilding, but excited about all the possibilities in its rebuilding. Tomorrow we will see more and I'm sure I will love more.

Time for bed.