Berlin. January 18th, 2017. It is a grim day, grey and bone cold. The air cuts like a knife. Slabs of concrete rise from the pavement, dragging long shadows behind them.
We shuffle along East Side Gallery, piping hot gluwein in hands, both pretending not to shiver. January, I remind myself perhaps a bit too forcefully, is a good time to travel to Berlin (low hostel prices, few tourists, shorter lines at the best döner kebab and currywurst stands, etcetera.) But it is a difficult one (the world outside is dark, dreary, monochromatic.)
Founded by the Federal Association of Artists BBK, East Side Gallery is a section of preserved wall that stretches 1.3 kilometers. In 1990, artists began to paint images, and today, there are over 105 paintings, many of which are politically, socially, and economically resonant with feelings of freedom of movement and change after the wall came down.
When my friend and I arrived yesterday, this was the first site on our list. We had already seen most of the other typical tourist sites, like Checkpoint Charlie, the Brandenburg Gate, the Jewish Museum, and Topography of Terror. We even found out about a “secret” cinema run by volunteers in an apartment and climbed through an unmarked window to find ourselves in a smoke-filled room with a small projector and a motley group of young Germans with asymmetrical haircuts. After that experience, we felt that a stroll in the fresh air would do us some good.
I briskly rub my raw, ungloved hands together, trying to focus on the landscape instead of the cold. It is a bit eerie, I think, how histories and emotions and lived experiences can be so well captured in physical environments. The vestiges of times past in such spaces haunt in a subtle way, whistling in the piercing wind.
Last night, after we snacked on our favorite chocolate-dipped marzipan pastries, mandelhornen, my friend and I sat at our hostel in Friedrichshain brainstorming what to do that night. The neighborhood felt fairly safe; the U-Bahn was nearby and restaurants and food carts, many of them Turkish, lined the streets.
We descended the winding stairs to the lobby, sank into the nearest couch, and produced our laptops to search for local speakeasies. A group of high schoolers from the Netherlands and their two adult chaperones spread across the couches clutching cans of beer, and rumors of a karaoke night further compelled us to go somewhere else that night.
As I entered the black hole of Google, I was again reminded by Vice and Lonely Planet and Travel and Leisure that Berlin is unarguably hip.
It oozes coolness, and much this is related to the air of exclusivity that emanates from old, crumbling buildings and hidden spaces that only insiders know about. Sure, tourists (like us) can search for the lesser-known sites and pretend to partake in local rituals. But even those spaces have clearly put effort into producing an “authentic” experience for visitors.
What is more, it becomes easy to romanticize these hidden places. Speakeasies and underground dance halls used to exist as counter-culture pockets of marginalized groups. From 20th-century cabarets to the era of the Berlin Wall, these spaces allowed for dissent through art and entertainment. Expressions of the human spirit during trying times are now monetized and re-packaged for tourists.
An article discussing Berghain caught my eye. Berghain is one of the most exclusive Berlin clubs; I had heard about it from friends back in college attempting to cavalierly flaunt their hipness. The article had a link to a website called “Berghain Trainer.” Curious, I clicked it.
“Can you get into Berlin’s most exclusive club?” A byline questioned. I ushered my friend over.
“Turn up the volume and say OKAY to start the training,” we were prompted.
“Okay,” we responsed.
Sven, the burly bouncer, appeared on the screen. Even as a computer-generated image, he was disarmingly intimidating. The real Sven, according to Vice, is tattooed, bald, and unsmiling with a thick ring drooping from one ear. The Sven simulacrum, while slightly different, was just as unsettling.
My friend and I both failed the virtual test after answering a few questions while facing the laptop camera.
“Better luck next time,” the computer told us derisively.
Who, I wondered, matched the profile of an ideal Berghain clubber? And why did so many people line up to wait outside for hours, even when they know they would be rejected?
Berghain was never in the cards for us. That night, we bought kebabs from a small shop down the street, where two Turkish employees stared curiously at us, cocking their heads at our broken German and silently offering us hard candies wrapped in pink paper, a gift of friendship.
Now, without knowing exactly where we are going (because what is a day of travel without getting a little bit lost), we wind our way back towards the West, scanning the streets for warm, inviting hideaways. Fortunately for us, we find one within a few blocks and duck inside.
The café is quiet. A small television in the corner broadcasts the news with English subtitles. The barista, her dreadlocked hair laden with wooden beads, sits apathetically behind the counter, thumbing through an art magazine. After indicating our orders to her on the menu, she simply nods, and we turn to sit down at a small table by the window. The view is excellent.
The Mercedes-Benz arena looms in the distance. Like all great structures, it asserts a dominant ideology. Castles and cathedrals have been built to push a dogma, and this edifice is no different. It boasts the promises of capitalism and obscures its pitfalls.
I am reminded again how only some people, of some nationalities and some socio-economic backgrounds, can come see the city that was divided into two and the wall that restricted physical, economic, and social movement.
“According to an interior ministry spokesperson, Germany will start returning asylum seekers to Greece beginning in March. Under the EU’s ‘Dublin rules,’ would-be refugees are required to file for asylum in the first member-state of the region they enter. If asylum seekers have continued on to other nations, they will be returned to their first port of call,” the subtitles on the television inform. Individuals fleeing danger and seeking safety and opportunity flood Germany’s borders. Since 2015, the nation has accepted over a million individuals, many desperate for a home and worn from the long journey.
It is indeed a long road. And yet, this is not a story of despair and victimization. Here, there is also hope, albeit a hope that must be strongly held onto so not as to be ripped away by the economic, bureaucratic, and social obstacles that litter the path ahead.
As we leave the café, we nearly collide with a line of about 15 tourists atop Segways. We wait in the doorway for them to pass, listening to their trailing voices providing commentary on how the streets are too narrow, how there are too many potholes.
We learn later from TripAdvisor that interested visitors can do a Berlin wall Segway tour for $72.69 or, for the only the most adventurous, claims the website, a 3.5-hour walking tour of “Alternative Berlin” is $162.74.
