Hasenheide
A man tries to handstand; looking around sheepishly before each attempt,
Italian girls sunbathe with their sausage dog who chews on a sausage-sized stick.
In the distance, there is the loudspeaker from the Summerbad asking people to leave,
and a large group of old men playing boules shout and gesticulate at one another after every throw.
To the uninitiated, it feels like a fight is about to break out — but it never does.
All around, men huddle in groups on a fantastical array of chairs: garden, folding, dining room, sofa and even the odd office chair.
The day is too hot for many, and only under the trees where there is shade can you find those that braved the park.
Bikes are strewn and books held aloft inquisitive heads until arms eventually give way.
Behind the trees, there is the clanging of bottles — either from the soviet-looking cafe or Pfand-urchins on the prowl.
On a cooler day, the exposed belly of the park would be full of groups social un-distancing and a perimeter of slacklines erected but seemingly never walked on.
A pair of large dogs come bounding out of the bushes and the sausage dog, being considerably smaller, lets it be known who is boss; while the ladies try and fail to “shhhh” him.
The dogs retreat and the park goes quiet once more, occasionally unruffled only by the distant shouts of the men and the odd clatter of a skateboard unlanded.
I return to reading my book, which describes Berlin in the 1920s. In the last 100 years, things have changed but people are still the same.
