My First 24 Hours: Berlin

Article by: Rowan Roebig, October 2006

It's less than 20 years since the wall came down, yet nostalgia for pre-unification times seems to be everywhere.

Standing near the banks of the River Spree, I can hear the pounding thump of hard-core techno persisting inside the Watergate's walls. My German friends are still inside, but most of the intoxicated crowd are headed for a currywurst, bratwurst, or one last Berliner Pilsner at the seedy 24-hour fast-food joints nearby. In the hazy early morning light, it feels like a scene from one of those spoof zombie movies - everyone's staggering around looking slightly possessed and communicating in a language I can barely understand. I follow the stream to the East Side Gallery, the longest existing stretch of the Berlin Wall, where graffitied images of peace, love, war and reunification glow like burning coal across its surface (and coincidentally the nearest place to get a cab).

I notice one wired raver, probably a tourist, wearing a sweat-drenched t-shirt with a DDR government logo - the symbol of the former East German communist government. A woman drives past in a Trabant de Luxe - one of the ridiculously functional all-plastic automobiles - once a symbol of communist times, now a much sought-after retro car. It's less than 20 years since the wall came down, yet nostalgia for pre-unification times seems to be everywhere. Even old Soviet military coats and caps are fashion accessories for some.

I make my way across the Oberbaum Bridge to the graffiti-covered East Side Gallery. The wait for a cab will take a while so I lean against the chipped concrete, tilt my head back and close my eyes. Resting against the Berlin Wall at daybreak I reflect on my arrival 24 hours earlier...

The flight captain warned it would be unbearable - 36°C and rising fast toward a European heat wave. Shortly afterwards, I was carrying my backpack up the bar and retail strip of Kastanienallee from the eastern district of Mitte towards Prenzlauer Berg. I had already caught the U-Bahn, S-Bahn and a bus from Berlin's Tegel Airport to make it to my rendezvous with good friend Tanja - a Berlin local and generous owner of a spare couch.

The street, often jokingly called Casting Alley due to its occasionally pretentious inhabitants, was alive with bohemian charm and some very cool characters. Locals sat at trestle tables sipping pilsner in the Prater Garten; young fashion designers lured passers-by into their boutiques with offerings of free champagne; freelance writers and architects tapped away on laptops outside cafes bathed in brilliant sun; tourists drank green and red coloured Berliner Weisser beer outside gritty bars; and streams of cyclists peddled past, many with their shirts tied around their heads.

To say I wasn't appropriately dressed for the toasty weather would have been an understatement. Fresh off the plane from a southern hemisphere winter, I was still decked out in black boots, skinny-leg black jeans and a long-sleeve collared shirt - my leather jacket tucked into the strap of my backpack. Every other bloke in sight was sensibly wearing baggy shorts, light t-shirts and sandals - aviator-style sunglasses appeared mandatory for locals. I was disoriented, dizzy and had sweat stinging my eyes. My pack felt like an elephant on my back.

Through the heat haze, I noticed Tanja appear from across the street. Relief at last - an oasis of sorts was surely near. After exchanging a hug, she suggested we cool down at an outdoor bar called Trailer Park, another nostalgia trip where run-down communist-era caravans are used as private chill-out lounges.

"We're going clubbing at Watergate tonight. It'll be stinking hot," she said.

"No shit," I thought.