The Divided City

The East Side Gallery displays graffiti art that questions division and promotes peace on a stretch of the old Wall, a chunk of the Wall exists alongside an exhibit about the GDR and its western counterpart at the Dokumentationszentrum der Berliner Mauer, and the Haus am Checkpoint Charlie dazzles with tales of heroic escapes from eastern totalitarianism. Yet, if you speak to the older, and sometimes even younger, generation that lived under communist principles, you’ll hear a very different perception of their time in the GDR. As the high unemployment rate in Germany, plaguing the Former East, holds steady, people recall their eastern lives through rose-tinted memories.

Moving further back into the city’s history, the National Socialists, and the Germans who defied them, occupy the landscape. The Topographie des Terrors reveals the Nazi years in the open-air remnants of Gestapo bunkers, while the small and sadly overlooked Käthe-Kollwitz-Museum displays works of the famed war-opposed German artist. Another practically unknown, but powerful museum is the Gedenkstätte Deustcher Widerstand. It stands on a quiet back street in the west, at the execution spot of the military officers who tried to assassinate Hitler, and documents the broader opposition movements against the Nazis. In Kreuzberg, the applauded Jüdisches Museum Berlin not only shows you the Jewish suffering during the war, but encourages you, through innovative architecture, to live it.

Berliners do not wallow in the past, but they will not forget it either. Even as they build glittering showcases of modernity, like Potsdamer Platz, and promote thriving art, restaurant, and nightlife scenes, Berlin’s history is not only depicted through its many monuments and museums, but the dedicated anti-war stance of its inhabitants and the mournful empty lots and Communist buildings of the Former East. The modern city is building with its cranes, but it’s on top of a layered past.

Quick Tips:

Best Way To Get Around:

For around 22 euros, you can buy a week pass to ride the subway within inner city limits. Remember to validate your ticket before getting on (if you get a week pass, just validate it the first time). There aren’t any turnstiles to pass through a la New York, but if you’re caught traveling without a ticket during random checks, expect a 40 euro fine.

It rarely takes more than one or two line transfers to get where you’re going, and if you stay in Mitte, Berlin’s center, some days could be spent just hitting the pavement. Oh, and those two painted lines at the edge of the sidewalk? That's a bike path, so kindly remove yourself from it to avoid being plowed down.

We paid our dues upon arrival, cash only, and crossed the alley to the adjoining building. Jetlagged on 4 hours of red-eye sleep, it took some wondering on the first floor before finding our room. Two single beds, a couple of plastic hangers and hooks, and (very German) floor-to-ceiling windows comprised the sparse set-up. Of course, the showers, toilets, and sinks were outside, on either side of the hallway. But the firm beds boasted fluffy white duvets, and the aforementioned windows lured the dim winter light into the room—that is, when it wasn’t cloudy or raining. This was November in northern Europe.

After a day of adjustment, I settled into the routine of schlepping up the hall for my morning shower. For those not familiar with the energy-saving German mindset, the need to push the shower button every 30 seconds for running water could qualify as an annoyance. I had lived in Berlin twice before on study abroads, so I remembered (and relished) the European counterpart to American wastefulness. Besides, when the water starts to drizzle, you just knocked the button with your elbow for a full-force stream. Water sprayed around the shower stall and onto my awaiting clothes, so after I saw one young-in ambling around in boxers, my lack of modesty kicked in and I scurried through the halls in the substantial hostel-provided towel.

The shower curiousities and the need to slam the room door shut constituted the only minor defects of an otherwise young, hip, and, most importantly, spotless hostel in the convenient Berlin center of Mitte. Nearby in one direction was the U-Bahn and S-Bahn (Berlin’s subway system) of Alexanderplatz, and in another was the S-Bahn of Hackescher Market. If you followed the main street of Karl Liebknecht Str. as it became Unter den Linden, within 20 minutes you were admiring the city’s most famous landmark, the Brandenburg Gate.

The funky lobby even had a café with not just decent, but superb food, including a reviving bowl of pea soup I ordered one afternoon—not to mention the accompanying Beck’s, wine, and liquor offerings. Even though we only made it up early enough twice for their breakfast, the traditional German offerings of musli, sliced meats, bread, yogurt, and coffee outdid the spread of regular ol’ American hotels. Three euros bought 1 hour of Internet access and a public phone hung downstairs, but even more glorious for my 20-something bar-hopper self was the lack of curfew—and seeing more than a few budgeters twice my age checking in for hostel nights.

I used to be a fan of the döner place in the Friedrichstrasse S-Bahn station, but this time around, their version was disappointingly skimpy on the meat and those serving it were of the scowling sort. Days later I discovered my latest obsession nearing 5am, on the corner of Hackescher Market and Rosenthaler Strasse, called Shark Döner. The two guys behind the counter were eerily cheerful for that time of night. Per my usual request, I asked for both a bit of scharfe and weisse to create a spicy yet creamy topping to the mounds of lamb they piled inside. We returned the next afternoon for breakfast, or lunch actually.

A different, younger Turk asked for our order, but he had the same wide, grinning smile and bright eyes of those the night before. Acknowledging my odd German accent, he, like many others, assumed I was from England. I corrected him, and again like many others, the thought of New York City widened his eyes. As with all Berliners, the conversation turned to politics, although he was subtler than most, innocently asking how it was in America. He nodded with sympathy and shook his head at my answer, then handed over the döners and practically skipped off to serve the Asian tourists behind me. To survive in the tourist haven of Hackescher Market, I guess you have to be accepting of everyone who comes your way, even us "stupid Americans".

Döner is just one culinary effect of Turkish taking up residence in Berlin, most notably in Kreuzberg, where on Fridays, a Turkish market lines Maybachufer. You’ll find vendors hawking traditional foods and cheap clothing, along with some Turkish candy (just avoid the ginger kind). For a larger assortment of sweet nibblings and glazed pastries, head up to the store Melek Pastanesi, at Oranienstrasse 28, and for some falafel with your dessert, visit Babel in the northern district of Prenzlauer Berg, at Kastanienallee 33. Babel dishes out large platters of falafel, hummus, and salad, with a basket of soft flatbread. In warmer weather, after placing your order at the counter, opt for the benches outside to watch 20-something Berliners mosey by—all the while thinking how your feast beats German cuisine.

As a loyal carnivore, I don’t often opt for dishes sans meat. Yet, this cozy, dim neighborhood restaurant in Kreuzberg remains fixated in memory for its fresh ingredients and rich flavors. It’s always the same for me: polenta topped with sliced almonds alongside a mix of steaming spinach and raisons.

Instead of automatically switching to English, the waitress allowed me some German practice as we ordered our dishes and drinks. Refreshingly, most Berlin restaurants don’t display the jacked-up wine prices of, say, New York. A bottle of Prosecco, sparkling Italian wine, was marked around 12 euros, while our mains hit 10 euros. For a meal of equal caliber in an American city, we would have shelled out at least $10 more, exchange rate and all.

Before our courses, the polenta and a fish dish, a basket of crispy bread spread with tomato paste arrived warm at the table. Finishing it off would have been a mistake, though, as the entrées put New York meal portions to shame. Three thick slabs of polenta lay in a thick sauce beside the mound of spinach, and across the table there were fried strips of fish beside rows of sliced potatoes, and a formidable side salad. All was how I remembered. The polenta was enriched with cumin-like spice; the tasty spinach must have been harvested from the organic farm days before. Our accompanying glasses of Prosecco provided a soft refresher between bites.

And within days we were back again, entertaining the thought of making it all the way to Abendmahl. In the end, we couldn’t pass Café V without longing glances into the windows filled with dancing candlelight. We couldn’t depart from the familiar once inside either, the polenta, the fish, and the bread all coming together—the same fulfilling taste, the same pleasant staff (who may or may not speak any English). Though on this Sunday night, we added dessert in the form of a chocolate shake topped with vanilla ice cream and a swirl of whipped cream. Getting lost never had such a sweet ending.

The Allies bombed the palace of Germany’s former royal family during World War II, but with restorative efforts, the wide building and its expansive gardens reflect an elegant glory. As we approached, the golden gate shimmered on a rare clear winter day, and on either side of the entrance, warriors raised their shields against invisible enemies. Two young Berliners dressed in costume walked the front, occasionally assisting a tourist or two.

The Altes Schloss, the palace’s premiere attraction, was only accessed by a tour conducted in German, but pamphlets explaining each room were available in multiple languages. On our 3pm tour, an older German couple joined us. Still, the unfortunately disinterested guide sped between rooms, and halfway through, I learned to observe my surroundings first and read second. In addition to ornately painted ceilings and classic furniture, the highest class of German society entertained an obsession with the Far East. Asian porcelain lined the walls of one of the grandest rooms, and though the originals were destroyed in the war, reproductions portrayed the family’s affinity for riches as well as culture.

When the tour ends, you’re allowed to explore rooms of fine plates, cups, and silverware, coming to a long dining table adorned with a full shiny setting, and after a quick perusal, it was on to the Neuer Flügel, the other half of the elongated palace. Audio guides could be rented, but we declined the history overload. While we weren’t exposed to the stories behind the rooms, we could peer at ornate objects and classical paintings, most of old German life, without constraint. In a library, decaying books lined shelves behind glass, and in the next room, boxes adorned with crystals sparkled within lit cases. Outside the sky had darkened, and we had yet to walk the gardens.

Directly behind the palace, its greenery was manicured into neat rows and clipped hedges. A narrow river filled with quacking ducks marked the end of this organized English style. A few lone walkers and runners crunched along wilder paths marked by looming trees, night weighing down. In the evening sky, small statues leered at passersby from behind blank eyes and grinning lips. Earlier we could have stepped into the garden’s buildings, including a mausoleum, but 5pm marked closing time, even as the gardens remained open into the winter night. A few more steps down a path and we turned back, strolling towards the palace in the steps of royalty.