August 1, 2009

Berlin: That One Girl You Knew in College with Bad Tattoos and a Musk, but Still Kinda Cute… (01.08.2009)

The first day in Berlin was rough. I was extremely tired and sore from sitting next to Libyans for ten hours on the plane. After a short nap, I sauntered down to the internet café with Muhammed for a beer and a phone call to the parents. I immediately noticed how peculiar this city looks and smells. Berlin has an undeniable distinctiveness, which effortlessly caught the attention of a sleep-deprived Me. I like to joke that if Paris is the dignified lady of Europe, Berlin is its college-dropout, motorcycle driving boyfriend. It has the grunge of bitter, artistic youth in every iota of its being. And, shit, I like it!

But there are some limits to the appeal. Namely, aesthetics and scents. First of all: why all the tagging? The street art is unbelievable—don’t get me wrong. All over the city, aerosol-toting Michaelangelos are visualizing Berlin’s twisted history and psyche. But as I sat along the edge of the café’s pond on a cloudless August afternoon, keeping track of a turtle that kept giving me the stink eye, I didn’t want to see inane “Ich bin da shizznit”-type tags. The more I look, the more I see. They’re all over the place.

I understand that Berlin has an infatuation with spray paint and therein the art will have its fair share of peripheral graffiti. But why so much, Berliners? It is my understanding that tags originate from the compulsion to put one’s name out there. It’s a way to toe the line from anonymity to heylookatme!-ism; non-conformity gets its 15 seconds in the sun. The hitch is that too many non-conformists bask in this hotbed of graffiti. The basis of tagging (sticking it to the man by putting your name on something that isn’t yours) is lost here in Berlin. Obscurity throws a heavy cloak over artists’ intentions because, frankly, there are too many of them. I hope tagging sees a decline for the sake of Berlin. Make sure the artists are happy and working, but throw the rest in the cellar—where rubbish belongs.

Speaking of rubbish: why is it that every block in Berlin has about three 5’x10’ patches of horrible, something-died-here stench? I’ve been through Beijing and New York and London, and they all are guilty of foul odors in some places. It comes with the territory of being a major city. But every one of these patches (I call them Stink Zones) smells the same. Why?! It’s as if Berlin was built over a gigantic steaming vat of broccoli, chicken crap, rutabagas, and what I think is waffle batter, and the vapor slowly makes its way up to strategically placed vents all over the city.

I have no follow-up remark to this portion of my blog post. I suppose it is better suited for open-ended inquiry, as I expect you to pause and think Hey, yeah! I can’t walk 18 feet without passing through a Stink Zone! after reading this. One day, I will solve this conundrum. Until then, as I did my first day in Berlin, I’ll just plug my nose and run home.