When I found out about the East Side Gallery in Berlin, I knew that if or when I traveled to the city, it would be one of the first places I’d visit. I thought it was a unique idea to take part of such a well known former tool of oppression and let it stand as a reminder of the past while changing its meaning by turning it into a huge public art exhibit.
I later learned that the East Side Gallery became the center of a controversy during a mishandled restoration in 2009 and like many popular tourist destinations around the world, some people question its authenticity. But I feel that it’s still a worthwhile site to visit in Berlin and a good starting point for exploring Berlin’s history, street art scene, and culture.
The gallery features 105 murals by artists from around the world. It is thought to be the largest and longest running open air gallery in the world. As expected, many of the murals have themes of peace, freedom, and politics:
The first thing that stands out to me in Berlin is how geometric it looks. There’s so much symmetry, right angles, repetition. As I look up at buildings both old and modern, it seems that even in moments of creativity, there’s an underlying orderliness to the city. The scrawl of graffiti that I often spot at ground level wants to betray that.
I’m getting my first glimpses of Berlin from the backseat of a taxi. Collecting my luggage and clearing immigration had been so easy and efficient that I was almost confused and waiting for more of the airport intensity I’ve grown accustomed to. I’d stepped out of the airport into a overcast and wet evening and immediately caught a taxi. All of the cabs in the queue happened to be Mercedes. For a moment, it felt strange to toss my backpack into the trunk of what would be considered a luxury car at home and to travel to a hostel in such style. It’s funny to think that something we place such a high value on in the U.S. could be commonplace in another reality.
As I approach my hostel, what little bit the sun was doing has nearly ended. And the city suddenly seems more alive than it had appeared along the way. It’s a Thursday night and I’m staying in a part of the city called Friedrichshain — two factors that I eventually learn will guarantee a party atmosphere.
The name of my hostel translates to “Industrial Palace” in English, and it’s just as upright and rectangular as the buildings I passed by on my way. And it’s huge. Before I enter, I stop for a moment to crane my neck and try to take it all in. I’m jetlagged, of course, but I’m even more thrown off by how I haven’t quite felt that sense of adventure and slight fear that occurs when I arrive in new place.
Europe, it’s been awhile. It’s been several years of traveling the global south, of visiting all those places Europeans reached centuries before me and left indelible marks on. It’s been rickety transportation and bargaining and adding new spicy flavors to my taste buds’ repertoire. It’s been ancient ruins, jungles, deserts. It’s been quirky and sometimes rundown hostels and local people who need no reason to talk to you other than the fact that you’re there. This has become my travel norm.
I never imagined that revisting Germany would feel so different, but it does. And at the same time, it almost feels too normal. But Berlin is a huge city with so many layers of history and so many layers of personality. And what I’ve seen so far only has me more curious to discover what’s beyond those stark facades, behind those never ending rows of windows, in the alleys between the boxy buildings, and around the corners.
That night, the air was thick with celebration and imminent rain. It was clear that the festive atmosphere would stand its ground despite the upcoming storm.
Earlier that evening, Mexico had won the Under 17 World Cup Games that the country had been hosting that summer. In the final moments of the last match, the classy Coyoacan restaurant bar we were watching it at momentarily transformed into a rowdy sports bar. Some of the men climbed onto the bar counter, tore off their shirts, and swung them around in joy. It certainly could not compare to an official World Cup win, but it was kind of like a celebration of the future’s potential.
And our little group, most of us Mexico-philes, were keen to participate. When the game crowd died down, we moved toward the Coyoacan neighborhood center, where streets that were lined with vendors and full of residents led to the central plazas. There, you could find practically any unhealthy night time snack you were looking for, and we went for the churros.
When the rain came, we followed the sounds of cumbia to a tent where a live band was performing. Under the tent was a gathering of all ages and genres, unified by the love of a country’s timeless songs.
When the band played this song, everyone got up to dance. The teenage hippie couple with poorly made dreadlocks danced. A drunk guy with bare feet, a shirt with the sleeves cut off, and dirty cut off jeans danced. Other people danced in a circle around him, clapping to the rhythm. The group of twenty-something hipsters dance. A family of three danced in a trio, the father taking turns spinning his wife and then his daughter.
And then the band moved on to a ballad. The pace slowed down, but the liveliness remained. A small old man near the stage wearing a shiny gold shirt and a white cowboy hat pulled off his flashy outfit as he moved gracefully to the song with his partner. As another older couple danced, the husband reinforced the romantic lyrics by singing them emphatically to his wife. The two adults in the family of three decided to dance to this song as a duet. The little girl didn’t seem to mind being on her own for a bit. She twirled around the dance floor like a ballerina.
That rainy night, that tent housed a supreme kind of beauty. You could see it in the passion for the music and the dances that go with them. You could find it in the tolerance of the quirkiness and self-expression of members of the community and beyond. And most of all, there was beauty in the love, the palpable and all-encompassing love.
