In search of weirdness in Berlin

The last time I could remember seeing Carolin was as she stood atop a bar in Las Vegas, swaying in a rictus of dancing. Part way through an extended bender and at a seedy Coyote Ugly bar, my last pennies and moments of recollection were exchanged for a tin bottle of Bud Light before the new morning met me sprawled pantless on a foreign floor.

For some reason, out of this tale and a previous night’s similar bacchanalian revelry, Carolin thought it a good idea to offer me a couch to sleep on should I ever end up in her neck of the woods, Berlin. While some might question her good judgment, I was merely overwhelmingly thankful at the thought of somewhere clean and quiet to recuperate after the excesses of Oktoberfest.

A couch bigger than most beds was my home for the next few days as Carolin escorted me and Delphine, a long-time friend of hers from travels and life, around the city. With a rather amazing apartment in Kreuzberg, we were nestled in one of the more interesting areas of Berlin filled with cheap eateries, smoke filled bars and curious shops.

Carolin riding at the abandoned airport

After the wall came down, Berlin was in a unique position to literally build its own future. Conscious of the business-driven cities around it, Berlin focused on trying to cultivate culture over industry. Subsequently Berlin has one of the poorest populations in Germany, and this is even more the case in the neighbourhoods filled with bedraggled artistic types or large immigrant populations.

Eating out is thus very cheap, and so that first night we were able to enjoy a delicious and economical Turkish meal before it was time for drinks in Neukölln, the new edgy ‘hood of Berlin given that the inexorable creep of gentrification is stripping Kreuzberg of its cool.

It was here that I was first introduced the to the Berlin institution that is the airless smokey bar. While technically I believe smoking is not allowed in bars, it is really up to the discretion of the owner and in the cool crusty spots of Berlin the non-smokers are a minority.

A peculiar face in a group of thirty-something ladies about Berlin, I was nonetheless made to feel most welcome as we sat around drinking Moscow Mules, a local favourite cocktail of vodka, ginger beer and cucumber.

The next day, October 3, was German Reunification Day, and we celebrated by heading out to Teufelsberg, a park to the west of Berlin. Specifically we were heading to Devil’s Hill in the middle of it atop of which sits an old American listening station. Long abandoned, the tattered remnants have been repurposed over the years as a graffiti ground and party venue, something evident by the detritus around. Recently, however, the insidious forces of global capitalism have bequeathed upon this once charge free destination a beefy  bouncer and a thoroughly patched fence so all comers must fork out 7 euros to a man holding a haphazard sign in order to poke around inside.

Graffiti at Teufelsberg

Despite my miserly grumblings, the view from the top is spectacular and the graffiti throughout is in true Berlin style. Indeed, throughout the whole of the city graffiti is very prominent. Unlike other cities, in most areas it is welcomed and an essential part of Berlin’s culture.

Listening tower in Teufelsberg

On reflection on the significance of the date, we felt obliged to briefly visit the epicentre of Berlin’s Reunification Day and so headed into the city to gaze upon the Brandenburg gate and the attendant shenanigans. From a big stage a faded euro starlet was singing as street vendors hawked beer and currywurst.

Celebrating Reunification Day with Delphine and Carolin over currywurst and  beer

What struck me though was that for some peculiar and no doubt thoroughly German reason, currywurst vendors all have a machine that one slides the cooked bratwurst through to have it chopped in a flurry of noisy mechanics. While this could no doubt be accomplished easily by hand, the Germans have found a more efficient way. Speaking of which, while waiting for the ‘tour’ around the tower in Teufelsberg, even the shabby guide made sure we knew we could go up in precisely six minutes.

We finished the night in a small, typically Kreuzberg bar after a sobering trip through the memorial to the Jews killed in Europe. Opening at around 10pm and closing when the sun is well and truly up, Minibar is one of the many tiny bars scattered through the streets where smoke hangs thick and low and the drinks are poured very stiff.  

Speaking of smokey bars, with one of Carolin’s good friends about to head to Cameroon for six months to work for the WWF, it was to another smoke-filled bar for her farewell. Now this bar had some of the Berlin weirdness that I was keen to experience. Staffed by a lone lesbian, the ‘DJ’ was a middle-aged Turkish looking man who sat in the corner flipping through CDs and chain smoking as he blasted a collection of 60s-90s hits. Aside from the group there for Mine’s farewell, the clientele consisted of a few hardy hipsters and a core of old Turkish men, with the combined smoke cloud such that it was quite difficult to breathe and tears could be seen running from the eyes of those unconditioned to Kreuzberg bar culture, i.e. me.

One old Turkish man of the type who hits dodderingly drunk yet continues on indefinitely, took a shine to a few of us and we were invited into the corner where he rolled a rather hefty hash joint and proceeded to suck the life out of it. Surprisingly cogent despite his intake of substances, he chatted whilst peering red-eyed over his glasses, before once he had finished scoping out the females, decided to bond with me by miming some obscene gestures and offering nudging winks.

This was one of those particularly satisfying travel experiences that would never have happened had it not been for having a local connection through Carolin. Not only did I get to see a wonderfully weird hole in the wall bar, I got to meet all of her friends, one of whom, Anetta, had hugged a Swami earlier that day, as well as a couple of ex-pats who both moved to Berlin for the same girl, hated each other over her, then became great friends.

After such an incredibly dense atmosphere, the post-bar decamp to another smokey bar was exactly what I needed, before the fresh air of the newly dawning day made all the evil unleased upon my delicate lungs seem completely worthwhile.

Oh so cool.

On a less booze-soaked note and as I already mentioned, the youth and malleability of reunified Berlin has let it choose the path of the struggling artist, and the locals are keen to keep this edgy status. According to my cultural historian Carolin, the arrival of offices of MTV and Universal were fiercely protested as they were seen as embodiments of cultural imperialism, and there are riots every May 1 between Anarchists and police as the true Berliners rage against the man.

The net result of this attitude is a city where it took me 8 days to see someone wearing a suit, something which struck me at the time like a slap in the face.

I am not sure if it should be put down to this liberated, anti-authoritarian attitude, but in Berlin one is able to wander the streets freely with a drink in hand. To add to this delight, the beer is cheerfully cheap and can be bought at every corner shop. Through some rather extensive testing I can offer some advice to the Berlin bound: 1 euro is the threshold of a quality beverage. Keep in the safe 1.20-1.60 zone and you will have a refreshing European lager. Conversely, venture into the 0.80c territory and you will have a sour tasting malty brew. For those more interested in sweet vino, the 2 euro Aldi wine is surprisingly smooth, with the helpful scale of dry-sweet guiding the connoisseur to a choice pick.

The other great Berlin institution is the kebab. Kreuzberg and Neukolln particularly have large Turkish communities, and while they have not culturally integrated very well into Berlin society, their kebabs have. Whilst still ostensibly comprised of the same ingredients as in any other kebab joint, they lack the horrible greasy mouth feel for which your typical 3am option is known. In addition to the joy brought on the by the kebab, both Durum and doner, the sight alone of the kebab shop workers wielding a long and bendy sabre as they slice wafer thin bits of mystery meat, grease splattering the plastic window in front of the customers, is a spectacle in itself

The artistry of the kebab

Despite the local resentment of men of business and corporate greed, Berlin is still in Germany, and subsequently has fantastically efficient infrastructure, particularly public transport. Trains are reliable, and the Haupbanhof in Berlin is enormous and combines a hub of transport with a shop for anything you could want.

That said, at 4am on a weekday night transport is less frequent. Andreas of Oktoberfest fame happened to come to Berlin while I was around, and having lived in the city for 8 months he decided his contribution to my knowledge should come in the form of a boozy prostitute crawl. Striding up and around Alexanderplatz we drank street beers, ate anything that was on sale, and ogled the prostitutes as they stalked both road and footpath. Using Andreas’ knowledge bred of befriending a prostitute back in his rebellious Berlin youth, we found the apartment block they rented and watched the varied gentlemen straggle out of taxis and off the street with their women in tow.

The prostitutes of Berlin, given that it is legal to streetwalk, can be quite forward in propositioning potential clients. This happens quite a bit as men inevitably leer at the tightly-bodiced and white-latex clad ladies of the night, which is all the invitation they need to engage.

After this entertaining and rather alternative form of sightseeing, the public transport was running every 40 minutes, and given I had to make three changes to get back home it looked to be a long night of waiting. Foolhardily, given my sense of direction, I decided to walk home, which after I got my bearings, somehow only took about 45 minutes of intoxicated stumbling fuelled by late night bakery treats and a kebab. Quite a success, really.

Street art

A very Berlin thing is flea markets. At Mauerpark on Sundays is a famous one which has been in existence for about 9 years and steadily grown. As far as flea markets go, it was quite interesting with a lot of weird stuff, but what sets the Mauerpark Floh Markt apart it the open air karaoke that takes place at the same time as the market in an adjacent outdoor amphitheatre.

Called the Kareoke Bear Pit, this place is quintessential Berlin weird. With anyone able to sing, the range of talents during my Sunday visit was notable with one very talented girl followed by one quite tone deaf. Nonetheless, the crowd cheered on all comers, with enterprising men with cartons of beer floating around flogging cheap booze. At one stage while we were watching, an old man with a wild beard, impish grin and a whole lot of bubbles came on to the stage during the karaoke and danced around waving bubbles into the air and the crowd. This only lasted so long before a whole gaggle of toddlers jumped up as well. So to the soundtrack of an Argentinian girl singing The Champs’ Tequila this merry scamper of mischief and bubbles danced back and forth across the stage with everyone perfectly content to let it play out.

I also visited another flea market with Carolin at Kater Holzig, a graffiti riddled warehouse on the canal front that doubles as a club at night. This one was slightly less weird and considerably more hipster-filled. Kater, meaning a male cat, is the german slang for a hangover, and in celebration of this fact I returned to this destination with some people from the hostel later that night.

Like many Berlin clubs and sights, Kater Holzig is a repurposed abandoned space, many of which exist in varying states of disrepair around the city. The old Berlin airport is another such space, with the vast flat and open area now a popular skating, biking and barbequing area with the old communist-styled buildings looking on forlornly.

With tiny alcoves, low-ceilinged mezzanines and smoke-filled rooms of pulsing lights and rolling Berliners, Kater Holzig is a riff on a fairly consistent theme of electronic beats and intoxication. The love Berlin has for electronic music is such that on any given night of the week there are many venues around the city pulsing not only with music, but with a lot of people. With a population not renowned for working nine-to-five, the nightlife thrives.

The sun rising after a long night

Hardened clubbers last until around midday, with the more practical amongst them waking at 3-4am before heading out to start the evening. When leaving one club at 7am one morning there was still a queue to get in. In a rather pleasant change from clubbing elsewhere in the world, when out in Berlin the priority is not trying to sleaze up on members of the opposite sex. People are there for the music, and the atmosphere is a lot less predatory and really much more pleasant.

My hostel was also an intriguing place. With a core of fiendish party people, the hours kept by some folks, particularly over the weekend, involved waking around 9pm and being in bed in the early afternoon. After one small drug confusion that saw an ambulance visit things quietened down a bit. But at least there was still some boozy 4am pool to be played.  

I also learned valuable lessons about the Germans, notably that German rudeness is not that but rather a demonstration of an indifference towards small talk, something to which silence is preferable. Indeed, I didn’t even notice this alleged rudeness as I only had very positive experiences. From the travel doctor who vaccinated me at minimal cost, to every one of Carolin’s friends who would start talking in English around me, even to other Germans, just so I could understand, Berlin was such a delight that I (assume I) subconsciously booked my flight out 3 days later than intended so I could loiter for a bit longer.