Berlin
Josh Ahrens

When I sold nearly all of my possesions, quit my job and bought a plane ticket in the Summer of 2004, my only real plan for travelling throughout Europe was that there was no plan. Aside from a music festival and a few locations that seemed interesting scrawled in the back page of my journal, my trip was as yet a clean sheet of paper; no reservations (paper or behavioral), no bus tickets, and most importantly, no return date. I was looking for reflection time, some new friends if even for a quick chat, and most of all for the things that were so surprising, so unattached to any expectations or images from travel pamphlets that there was no way one could even anticipate the beauty of them; in short, the pure experience of being alive in the present and soaking in every precious second of it.

I boarded a bus from London to Berlin, still hungry for that feeling, only having had my appetite grow stronger from small doses here and there. A saxophonist on the streets of Dublin, and a sunset ferry ride gave me moments of bliss, and heightened awareness. I didn't even really know why I chose Berlin. There was just something about the sound of it...Berlin. It brought to mind images of communism and capitalism, BMW's next to Trabants, a city of history and juxtaposition, representing all that is good and evil in 20th century men. As my bus rolled to a stop skillfully commandeered by an older lady driver with a flair for dramatic announcements in a raspy, Teutonic voice over the radio, she breathed our final destination into the mic, "Berlin!". There it was again! There was just an intensity to it that made me electric with anticipation! I still had really no idea what there was to anticipate. I can only describe it as the city or at least my idea of it pulling me in, like an astronaut to the moon.

The bus idled into a weathered, angular, and utilitarian looking station on the outskirts of town. Despite being tired from the trip (10 hours next to a snoring Frenchman can do that to you) I was energized and ready for anything. So when I made a not so noteable stop at the restroom, I couldn't help but note the slight curiosity of about 20 older German men stark naked and soaping themselves in a public shower. Something like, "Good God!" in my imagination's best Leonard Nimoy went through my head as I made a mental note of learning a little pedestrian German to avoid other potential assaults on my puritan American eyes. I can hold it, I decided, but this was just the beginning of what the city had waiting to teach me about the world, its unpredictability, and everything in it, including myself.

Entering any place for the first time by subway is dramatic. Startling. Walk down a flight of stairs, jump on a train, in this case an old rattling contraption that smelled of diesel, and the next time one sees daylight, he or she is in the middle of a completely new and foreign environment. We are even isolated from the climate until we are above ground. No time to get accustomed to new surroundings. Ascending the stairs only a crisp, blue sky was visible, a few silver clouds, then the tips of the buildlings dramatically rise from the pavement, finally the rush of fresh city air fills my mouth and nose: A little bit of car exhaust, bread, and a nearby laundromat. The temperature was brisk, but the sun provided just a touch of warmth and gave the city a fresh but inviting feeling. I checked into the nearest youth hostel, dropped the burden of my baggage next to the bed and nearly walked on air in excitement of the undiscovered world that lay before me.

One needs not know or plan anything in particular in advance to witness all the character, whimsy, and originality that spills out into the streets. Odd objects are in every window sill, not for sale, just there for anyone who cares to look. Disfigured Barbie dolls, old telophones and cameras, and many other things one could find for 50 cents at a second hand store were put into a new context and beatified by their surroundings. I began to appreciate the simplest forms, natural and man-made. The images were sometimes grotesque, but also had an ironic elegance to them. No one seemed to whince at posters of bloody, dead children intended to promote the use of safety belts, and graffiti covered nearly every inch of concrete humans could reach, always beautifully done, never on historical buildings or monuments, and never merely 'tagging' to claim territory. It was art, and it was breathtaking. The unique appreciation for wierdness purely for the sake of wierdness was something I could never have anticipated, and greatly challenged my idea of what art really was or could be. Often I would run across what seemed to be a real street version of the still life. A bike perched under a wooden sign with the name "LINDA" painted on it in bold, white letters hijaked my attention while nonchallant Berliners walked by smoking cigarettes...how lucky they are, I thought. Around the corner, a roll-out lawn with a couch and end tables sitting in the middle of the sidewalk!! Who did it, and why? Why not, I asked myself. Does everything have to have a reason other than just because it simply is?

Berlin is a city of stark contrasts, that demands the attention of even the most jaded, sunburned, neck-craning tourist. The trajedy of a half-standing building is still a common enough sight, intimidated by its ultra-modern glass and steel neighbors. The whole place buzzes with a youthfulness and authenticity I felt harder to find in older cities like Rome, not leveled and forced to reinvent by the horror of WWII. It was still celebrating its new freedom, barely a decade since the Wall was ripped down, and the place burned with an energy of change and optimism-- but always refusing to turn its back on history. The sections of the wall still standing seemed to me, to contain the concentrated energy of all those it kept in or out for so long. The sight of cars and people freely moving through the Brandenburg Gate was so powerful, that even a foreigner like me, who had seen many, many historical sites in recent weeks was moved to tears. A downpour began to soak the streets. The sun was still shining. It was old, new, sad, jubilant, bizarre and beautiful all at once. And that's what Berlin was to me, soaked with the storms of the past, but glistening and almost magical in its renewal and reinvention in the present, the rain making way for the sun.