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It was like hitting a wall: Berlin May 2007 |
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Last week I saw the Berlin Wall. I ran my hands along its rigid decomposition, course texture, and rolled corners of fading spray paint. For me, feeling The Wall was like touching a handful of yesterdays. The ink soaked cement had turned into a political canvas, mutating further into a page of history to be carelessly flipped through, neglected, but not discarded.
Earlier in the day, Nick and I had visited the Brandenburg Gate, Check Point Charlie and the rumbled remains of the Nazi headquarters. Then, like kids on a treasure hunt, we followed the thin cobblestone path indicating the perimeter of the ominous border that cut a country into two. I snapped shots of Nick crossing the once impenetrable line, trying to capture the greatness of the coup and the evanescence of the edifice. It was nice to have someone with peaked interest and a strong historical background to discuss the things we saw. Taking turns, we each threw in our two cents. Never did it add up to four.
Our final stop of the day was the East Side Gallery where the largest surviving section of the Berlin Wall runs along the banks of the Spree River and away from the heart of the city. Nick and I got off the train and were greeted by a light drizzle that would hold its breath just long enough for us to spend the next couple hours taking in the scene. The East Side Gallery walls are a frazzled masterpiece. The long stretch has become a point of pilgrimage for historians, artists and curious tourists, but if you stand in one place long enough, the mystique fades and it becomes merely a simple backdrop for the German people as they ride their bikes to work, jog with friends and take their babies out for their daily stroll. It’s fascinating how something so extraordinary can equally go unnoticed.
I took a moment to locate some of the more famous illustrations. Like finally seeing Van Gogh’s SunFlowers, laying my eyes on the Brezhnev-Honecker kiss, the Free Mumia Abu-Jamal, and the other familiar images decorating the cement curtain was remarkable. The East Side Gallery is the best kind of museum...open-air, alive and interactive. Nowhere to be found are bored attendants in ill fitting coats, telling you to back away from the artwork, turn off your cell phone and put your camera back in the bag. In fact, The Wall is not monitored at all, inviting absolute artistic chaos and creative articulation. The neglect has resulted in a new forum of expression and while it’s sure to whittle itself down like a dissolving block of sugar, for the time being it’s a magnificent site. It didn’t take long before we gave into the temptation and wrote our names in spindly black ink, liberally attaching MUP stickers and feeling as though we’d made our contribution to the eclectic quilt. I have no doubt that our meager letters will soon be covered up with the brilliant color of someone else’s signature, but on that day our existence became a humble brushstroke upon one of history’s most prominent works of art.
Stepping back to the edge of the sidewalk, I began to exhume what memories I had of this place as a child. My eyes softened and vision blurred as I took some time to simply stare at the panels. I let myself be transported back to 1989, sitting in front of the television with my parents listening to the frantic Newscasters scream that "The Wall is coming down!" The cameras left the well-groomed talent, shooting past to reduce them to narrators, as they unveiled the monumental and slightly reckless plot of the epic tale. In the background, casting formidable shadows over the crowds, were men and women standing on top of the massive structure, arms waving in victory and rebellion, tears running down their faces. It was a moment of discovered duality…existing in two places, no, in two worlds at once. As I watched, it seemed as though the people grew bigger as The Wall became smaller. I remember thinking, "This is what it looks like when someone’s dream comes true."
Snapping out of my revelry, we made our way past the last cement installment and headed into what appeared to be a small bar called Yaam. Once we moved through the thin corridor the place opened up into a massive area, ostensibly more like a community center then a dingy bar. Off in the distance was a large beach, filled with deep sand and surrounded by a border of tikki torches overlooking the Spree. It was complete sensory overload. The smells floating around were as intoxicating as the drinks from the bar. There were brightly painted food stations selling traditional meals from Senegal, Ghana, and plates of hoppin’ Jamaican Jerk Chicken . Bob Marley's voice greeted us as pockets of people in small circles danced...feet rhythmically marching, arms swinging, with heads thrown back, singing the lyrics to their favorite reggae anthem. To the right sat a half pipe and a basketball court. Down the path and to the left, was a ping-pong table hosting a good natured but rowdy tournament. Hovering just above, on the raised platform sat a stage, covered in soft battered couches, cradling a languorous group smoking joints. For the first time in Europe I was certain the rolling papers were not mixed with equal parts weed and tobacco. Next to the stage was a building that turned into a dance hall with live bands and slick tongued scatting DJ's. The place was wacky and perfect for a Sunday Funday.
Nick and I left after a couple hours feeling as though we had just discovered one of Berlin’s coolest secrets (even though I'm pretty certain that could not be further from the truth). There had been conversations about East Village underground graffiti artist, disco-balls inside bike tires and African music festivals. We had imbibed in their food, drank their alcohol and floated about the complex to the beat of their music. The roles were cast with them playing the perfect host and us as the grateful guest. There is just something so cool about stumbling across a place like that and the day ended with us boarding the train, puffed up and feeling like our footprints had sunk deeply into the Berlin cityscape.
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Travel Journal 
