We walk through a communal garden in a formerly small village that Berlin swallowed on its path to become the enormous city it now is. There are flowers and herbs still growing. Old houses along cobble stone streets. Spray painted sunflowers smile at us from a makeshift shed in the wholesome city garden. The graffiti reads: KarmaKultur. The name of the garden, as well as the philosophy it fosters. The whole Kiez (small neighborhood) is involved in keeping this small patch of green flourishing throughout the year. The residents offer their time and hands, and the garden offers them fruits and flowers. Everything circles around.
One street over, the quiet village suddenly dissipates and we roam past the bustling Turkish markets and restaurants that serve delicious meals and strong Turkish tea to everyone who ventures through. Renowned döner and sweet baklava feed the intercultural masses. I drink ayran for the first time in my life. I am a convert; enlivened by this salty yoghurt drink. A shift in perspective made possible by welcoming a new experience. That’s why we need to get out of our routines sometimes, to let someone else’s daily experience revive our senses. Berlin swallows and is swallowed: KarmaKultur.
I hadn’t seen my dear friend in 1,5 years. A one year old baby now wobbling through the kitchen. Cheerful and warmly loved. We cook and clean. We discuss life. We don’t go dancing like we used to. We do go to the old city sauna and the public parks. The aufguss in the sauna is so hot I have to hide my face from the aufgussmeister waving even hotter air towards me. The sturdy German man looking calm and pleased at the struggling subjects in his 90°c dungeon. So painful and so satisfying. We scream and laugh under the cold shower afterwards. We have a lot of fun, as always. Next time, we say, we won’t wait 1,5 years to see each other again! And we proceed to make a list of things to do for the next visit. Time gets away from us. I want to find ways to keep a somewhat tighter rein on its passing. To pin the fabric of existence in place by securing it to people and places that make me remember myself more often. Who inspire me into real presence, even in a giant city.
I also proceed to make a list of color combinations I notice in people’s outfits and on the big block buildings. That faded mauve wall, the guy in the black attire with a purple sweater and purple socks in exactly the same shade and a lavender cap, the woman in all black with a kobalt scarf and navy blue headphones… I will probably never muster the effortless sense of style of the average anti-fascist fashionista on this city’s streets. I have never been able to commit to the real effort that goes into that. Maybe I don’t believe hard enough in being someone, and really going for it… You know? I once asked my brother why he thought our dad always looked like he had so much swag in old photos – why he looked so confident and cool in his outward presentation – and why I feel like I haven’t inherited even the smallest smidgen of that attitude. He said: It’s a type of performance, and it’s hard to embody that when you don’t really believe it truly means anything. Well shit. I don’t take my-performative-self seriously enough! Or, from another angle: I don’t invest in the joy of the play. It’s all costumes and play, after all. Not taking it seriously doesn’t have to mean not having fun with it; quite the contrary. Perhaps there’s a middle ground there I may still unlock in good time… Meanwhile, I know what looks good, and love seeing it.
This whole city tantalizes my aesthetic joy with its purposefully subdued color palette; faded, gritty, understated, unpretty, glorious. Anarchist symbols on playgrounds. Graffiti on the school walls that – for some inexplicable reason – looks less like dilapidation and more like character here than in any other place on earth… Terrasses full of folks who appear as though they just rolled out of their squatted communal houses to pay €4.95 for a cappuccino by the river. I feel simultaneously amused, and, well… right at home.
Hauling my 25 year old backpack on the 9 hour train journey back to my communal house with my ugly thrifted coat and my hiker boots. I imagine the accessories that I would like to find in a thrift store, the paint color for that one wall in a new communal project I’m working on, the community garden we could build, the store with shared stuff to rent out for free to anyone who needs something, the repair cafe’s, the peace of mind I found on this tiny getaway and would like to keep close during the coming busy months. There’s work to do to make our cities places where we can live together. It’s continuous circular labor, or: KarmaKultur. Ever trusting that when we care for something, it will care for all of us in return. Like the Three of Cups my buddy pulled from a deck of cards on the eve of this full moon in Taurus, on our last evening together, after sharing the best Thai food I’ve had in a very long time: Celebrate friendship, make time for each other, share meals, share abundance, build community; collaboration looks cool on all of us.
As the Berliner kids say, co-opted from the Italians, for now: [Bella] Ciaociao!
