Second Letter, January 14
Dear Berlin,
This morning I see a short, stiff woman in a furry white coat. She talks to a furry white dog being held by a short, stiff man. The woman and the dog match, though the dog seems terrified, and the woman seems terrifying.
After closing down the coffee bar at church, all my friends have left, effectively cancelling our weekly lunch date.
I walk outside with garbage bags. A blond man helps me bring them downstairs into the courtyard, where we leave them. I speak English, and he speaks in German, and we don’t ask one another’s names. That’s alright, because I have you.
I walk towards the U-Bahn. I walk past it. I walk past the next stop, and the next as well. I’m vaguely looking for a coffee shop at an acquaintance’s recommendation, though I have already had too much espresso for the day.
I pass many people in my apparent demographic and compare my life to theirs. Perhaps its more meaningful to live where I live, to see almost no one in my demographic, unless I seek them out. Berlin, you are as full of surprises as you are of melancholy.
Mitte leaks away into sky as I get closer to Wedding. I’m on Chauseestraße, and it feels like each kiez is an island. You sure do know how to make a girl feel nostalgic. I cross a canal. I pass art, tags, on the walls, in the street, snapping pictures. There is a sign for a Sex-Kino, all the windows are painted black. A moment later, a Turkish woman and her two young daughters must pass the same establishment after they pass me. I think about what they think about when they go by, whether they live here, how it would feel to live here.
I go home to dye my hair, tagging my way up and down the Bierpinsel in lilac, trying to feel intimidating so I’m not the intimidated one.
Love,
