Her name is Berlin
She’s taken hold of me and won’t let go.
Wind rushes through the cavernous belly of Westkreuz, whose platforms are elevated above ground to welcome many a Hertha fan bound for Olympiastadion. Flags rustle and flap on the gnome-homes next to the tracks. Black-water drips. Flammkucken bakes. Swirling scents of doner, wurst and coffee cake waft through the halls of the station, making this place smell like a circus.
Strangers and friends jostle towards the train. We stand together in waiting, then board the Bahn that cuts through the heart of the city. I peruse the cabin, take a seat and begin my studies. Brown eyes. Blue hair. Hertha. Bayern. Burkah. People from all walks of life, sitting together in a state of silent harmony. I bend down and grab my bottle, cranking off the cap to sip water from the Spree. I rub my hands to ward off Autumn’s chill. Cracked, dry and rough. Not so similar, but not so different from the scenes that pass by outside my window.
The train screeches to a halt at Savignyplatz. I notice a girl on the platform, standing among the masses — alone. She looks familiar, but maybe she’s just another one of the millions of other faces that I’ve encountered before, or maybe not. I know her, I know it. I struggle to remember how we first met. My thoughts start to wander, and then I remember. She’s the lone dancer — the wild one. She longs for community and stays out way too late to find it. She tries her hand at too many things, just to see what sticks. She’s big for her britches, but smaller than we think.
At times she’s like a screaming child, but her angst and independence are just a product of her upbringing. She puts her friends within arms reach, but only for those that are willing to talk to strangers. Freunde and Fremde, she mixes them together in a beautiful mess. Her name is Berlin, and she’s taken hold of me and won’t let go.
