I used to spend endless hours on my Chorinerstrasse balcony, glancing out at the colourful garlands that grace the Prenzlauer Berg street, sipping that light German gold they call Riesling. Across the street there was a very special bench carved out for late night talks with my friends living just down the road. I was inventory at a bar named Fleischmöbel, and I ate so much Vietnamese food I’m still sick of it. I still can’t listen to Rhye, or certain Jens Lekman songs, without mentally being transported back. Back to Berlin.
But on a recent visit, one thing became certain: Berlin no longer feels home. I’m not sure it ever was. An escape, certainly. But a home? I don’t know. Coming back doesn’t spark the nostalgia that my double A of Australia and Amsterdam does – nor that inkling feeling at the back of my stomach asking what would have happened – how my life might have looked like if I’d stayed – not just pure curiosity, but a sad grievance for a life I’ll never know – rather, coming back here makes me feel relief. Relief for not being here, that this isn’t my life anymore.
Still, I loved my daily coffee at The Barn and Bonanza. They had a cheeky little sign that said “don’t die without trying”, and I certainly agreed. And although the sign seems to have gone, the sentiment still applies. I loved the vast sea of restaurants, and how I couldn’t try them all in ten years – even if I tried. I loved the flower plots and old trees bringing life to the streets, from the first sprigs blooming in spring, until the last colourful leaves fell to a muddy ground come late fall. I loved discovering new magazines at Do You Read Me?!, alternative books at Pro QM, and the Sunday bagels, lounging in a vintage chair, at the back of the original Shakespeare and Sons. I loved heading down to A.P.C. and Sessun in my lunch breaks, spending half my pay slip in one go. I loved going to ALL the concerts. I loved how colleagues became friends, how old friends came to visit. I loved so many things.
Still, I am glad this is not home anymore.
Still, I wouldn’t be without it. Berlin, my escape, my saviour, but not my love. The place I found my bearings after a rough couple of years and a soul-crushing relationship turned even uglier break-up. The place I found myself after existential alienation. It was a place of transition. My place of transition. My rehab. But who voluntarily head back to rehab unless they have fallen back on the wagon? I’ll leave that unanswered.
But perhaps it serves as a good reminder, it certainly allowed me to see how much things have changed. How much I have changed. Or rather, perhaps at the same time … however corny it sounds … come back to myself.
Because this time, visiting, I could only see all the things I hated. The fact that people pee in the train carriages, that the trains suddenly change direction without announcing it in English, that nothing is announced in English, you can never see a movie nor a play, that everyone on the street have that grey, worn out look on their face, because public drunkenness is something that only suits another season; the season of summer; that rudeness is the new black, that the wine and food – though plentiful – is never actually that good, and how vast stretches of grey nothingness are no fun walking in the rain. So the list goes on.
Still, I’ll probably go back soon. Don’t analyse me.
