Fifteenth Letter, February 10

Dear Berlin,

I have to say that the daily pedestrian rush hour on the Warshauerstraße Brücke is one of my most beloved, most “Berlin” experiences of living here.

After riding with a car full of hippies, punks, anarchists, and non-German speaking professionals dressed in black, I exit the U1 to a loose crowd of people gathered to hear a makeshift concert. The band consists of one man with a microphone seated on the ground next to his human-sized speaker. He’s an excellent singer.

Every time I come to this spot in the evenings I always feel a sense of excitement about the number of people rushing back and forth between the U-Bahn, Straßenbahn, the S-bahn, and presumably their trendy Friedrichshain flat that was cheaper than a smaller Wohnung on the other side of the Spree in Kreuzberg. Everyone has to take the bridge, and the wide sidewalk is packed on a nightly basis.

I walk fast just to walk fast, and everyone else is walking fast too. If you walk slow, you’ll get stopped by a club promoter handing out flyers or a knock-off Greenpeace fundraiser collecting contact information. But if you stop completely, you’d be well positioned to enjoy the many buskers and artists who populate the bridge.

I’m on my way to HyeWon’s for a night of wholesome F’hain clubbing, with two stops. First, for a small selection of Belgian, Berliner, and Irish beer, plus as much Jägermeister as one Euro can buy, and second, for Hähnchen Döner, ohne Knoblauch Soße.

We enjoy hours of eating, drinking, and merriment; dancing and Kicker, the classic Berlin Photoautomat, pushing each other around in an IKEA shopping cart, bad karaoke.

The energy of the evening rush is palpable and goes on until well past midnight, when it begins to snow so magically and the sins of the city are washed white under the streetlights.

Affectionately,