A sudden summer descends on Berlin.
Berlin’s history is made up of post-war, pre-war, at-war, inter-war and anti-war years. But only in the winter. The sudden sunlight dissolves history and future, and the city glows with the carelessness of Now. Yes, war and hate and rain are forgotten in moments, half-clothed kids sit with beggars, tourists and refugees, leaning back on meaningless memorials and sharing rolled cigarettes. A few forgotten coins are suddenly discovered in the pockets of last year’s shorts, and that’s enough for beer and falafel, traditional offerings of thanks to the summer gods. The sunlight whispers sweet love to the dirty bridges, the scarred towers, the hopeless birds, the bored policemen and prostitutes, the forgotten rusty bicycles. Muddled teenagers in their early thirties walk towards the Spree river, and forget half-way why they’re walking, and where to, and sit on an inviting patch of grass under silent trees, trying to remember who they are. If it weren’t for the plaques and signs and memorial monuments scattered around the city, whole neighborhoods would forget their names, and bathe in the warm sun in blissful amnesia.
Fertilised by sun and lust, old tattoos swell up and spread out over the arms and necks and backs and legs of aging punks, flourishing, blooming, spreading even from one person to the next, spreading onto the walls, wild graffiti crawling up the crumbled brick buildings; the city positively hums with vitality and potential, a squat within its abandoned self, revelling in the simple joys of sunshine, of freedom, of Now.
A sudden summer, and with barely-concealed yelps of joy sharply-dressed businessmen let their raincoats and overcoats and woolen hats drop to the floor, and skin, finally bare skin is revealed; the men wear vests, torn t-shirts or nothing at all, their white skin blushing pink with excitement and half-memories of Spanish holidays, the otherwise unwelcome dark-skinned Turks and Arabs are suddenly objects of envy for the flabby pink purebloods, who nonetheless storm out in their thousands, their millions, like pudgy locusts they invade every garden, park, riverbank, roundabout, street-corner; orgiastic crowds of white flesh and bored girlfriends sweltering in their newfound divinity. They soak up the sunbeams thirstily, for all the world as if they were driven by pure photosynthesis, able to produce sweet energy from nothing more than beer and sunlight.
The sudden ecstasy douses all common sense: old scarves and knitted jumpers are thrown in rubbish heaps; already, the memories of cold night and cold feet have evaporated. No, no, it’s summer now, the shiny post-war buildings reflect the good news from one to the other, almost singing as the sunbeams bounce between them and dazzle the birds and tourists below. It’s summer, finally, we made it. Pride mixes with joy mixes with pure bliss, and the whole city, pink and white, looks up at the bright sky and screams with delight.
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