Wandering Berlin: A Conversation with the City’s Streets
Living in Berlin means paying too much for coffee just to sit in a centuries-old square and pretend you’re writing a novel.
Everyday at six pm, a man on a bicycle rides along my street. His bicycle is fitted with signage and bells and whistles. He makes a noise as he enters the street.
The noise he makes reminds me of an old ice cream van with a churning bell. The bell would signal for children to rush out into the street, money grasped in their small fists, to be first in line at the Rossi’s ice cream van to order ice cream with a chocolate flake pushed into the Italian ice.
I always wonder what the man on the bike with bells and wheezer-whistle is offering. He rides down this Berlin street everyday. He makes a fanfare of his entrance. I look out of my window to find him, but seldom see him. He has whizzed past already. His ‘toot-toot’ and whizbang sounds becoming muffled by the traffic. I imagine that he’s heralding the-end-of-the-world, or something.
Every city has its prophets. And every city has a history. I love to walk within the old walls of Berlin. To know that so much has happened here in Berlin, that so many lives have been lived with happy moments and with sadness, tragedies, lost love and love found. The songs of the past could be heard if the living didn’t make so much noise.
Sunrise. To get up at dawn and greet the day as it gently begins, to be in harmony with the forest. The forest slowly comes alive. Lit windows against a pale morning sky, shafts of sunshine slice across the roofs, then slope and illuminate beige facades.
The cars hum along the main road, electric buses stop, their doors hiss, sleepy travellers step inside. Shoulder-shoving their way to a seat. Mobile phones. Fake smiles, as people push the indecisive. They sit, heads rock forward, eyes lock onto the screen and the bus pulls away again. Like a ritual.
I walk, the sounds of the city are increasing. There is no respect for sleepy heads after the sun rises. Berlin’s pursuit to grind and graft all day, to get whatever it can from its residents, is relentless.
Somewhere in the neighbourhood I hear a hammer beating against a panel. Maybe it’s a carpenter in a workshop, or a small building site on the side of a house. I don’t know, but its been going on for months. Day in, day out. The hammering will soon blend in with the sounds of traffic, slamming cafe doors, voices that carry along the streets. Echoes that rise from unknown sources.
My ears work hard. A beeping emits from a parked car. One of the many rental scooters blocks my path. It’s determined to make life unpleasant for walkers; the brisk, the slow, and the blind all have their problems with navigation. Berlin allows profit before aesthetic in neighbourhoods.
You learn to walk like a dancer, three steps, side step, two long strides, then pass the green scooter. I get the urge to do a turn followed by a flourish and sweep to finish my dance around the scooter. It’s like a tango every few minutes.
I worry about the blind, hard of hearing, small children and elderly. Imagine making your way to the shop when your body is failing. The fear that arises when a cyclist sweeps past, you feel the wind.
She sweeps by so closely that you can smell her sweat, and for a short moment, you hear the music from her earbuds. Her mouth is slightly open, lips red, her face is flat and without emotion. Only her legs are awake. Pedal, pedal, pedal. As fast as she can; she really wants to get to her workstation, so she can sit there all day in a haze.
I watch her from behind. A fit young woman on a bike, on the pathway, dodging pedestrians like an out of control bowling ball. Flexing her individuality, she flips the bird at static figures. Undignified, a solid rear-end in cheap jogging pants. The day is underway.
A rattle and trundle sound warns me of an approaching shopping trolley. Its front end comes into sight. The driver is attempting to overtake me as I stroll along Zossenerstrasse. I can smell the owner, and know it must be a homeless person from Marheinekeplatz. He’s been busy this night. Collecting returnable bottles and cans.
It’s a business. The neighbourhood is full of orange bins hanging from lampposts, they are normally good hunting for returnable goods. A tough and grubby job for a meagre return. Maybe enough for a small meal. The price of take-away food has risen, so a Doner kebab is out of the question.
Some homeless drink, some of them abstain. The abstainers tend to collect a few more coins than the drinkers — they smile more often too. Kreuzberg is a good place to pick up a little coin. The people who live here are aware of the homeless people, and do what they can to help. It’s not unusual to see a local person stop and talk to a beggar. A few words followed by coins or notes.
There’s no karmic wishes involved. It’s simple humanity.
Gentrification is basically when a neighbourhood becomes so cool, so relaxed, so full of the right type of people; real artists, writers, people who aren’t on the make all day long, that the real estate people start thinking about how to sell all that to the wealthy.
Wealthy people want to live amongst the artists and writers. They want to be perceived as living the creative life. Makers, builders, creators — those who make really cool stuff that lasts.
So, unfortunately, we discover that over the years Berlin’s loved and hated Kreuzberg has become infiltrated by wanna-be creative types who don’t actually create anything. They wear distressed jeans, expensive tees, and spend absurd amounts on hair-dos that remind me of a cartoon character.
Their world of artist means hanging out in cafes, paying high prices for coffee and cake. Sit on the terrace in your newly found neighbourhood, be seen, be noted, say the right words and know the right names.
Then they worry about the price they paid for their stuffy little apartment. They think the property company must’ve ripped them off; the neighbourhood is filled with scruffy, oily haired people. Cafes and restaurants let anybody through the door. People blow their car horns after 7 pm.
Kids throw tantrums in the street. It’s like a street fight between a mum and her kid. A mother stands and stares as the child windmills its arms, aggressively shakes its head from left to right, throws a toy bunny at the mother. Stops, looks to see what damage the bunny has done. Kreuzberg is full of drama and that’s not what wealthy people want to pay for.
The cafe on the corner puts its prices up, the one next door follows suit. The wealthy start to drink and eat there, they don’t complain about high prices. The bike shop gets kicked out for not paying higher rent — okay, there’s enough bike shops in town. A small family business bites the dust — rent too high. A non-alcoholic beverage shop fizzles out after just one year in business. Rent too high. The book shop comes under fire; the locals start a “Save the bookshop” campaign, phew!, it worked. It’s still there, just hanging on by the spine of an old detective novel.
Cafes have no choice, prices creep up. Investors move in on the trending paint jobs. New doorways, a few new window frames, and experimental street furniture and the neighbourhood has gone to Gentrification Hell — who knows what it stands for anymore?
The man on the bike passes by. It must be 6 pm, already. Time flies.
I spin around, a slight tango move, feet shuffle, I can see him ride behind a dusty truck. His curved back pumping, the tails and tassels of his wool hat flap in the breeze. The tingle-tangle of his noise box, followed by a whee-whiz, then an indecipherable voice sending out a message. I don’t know what he’s trying to tell us. I’ll stick with the-end-of-the-world story for now.
