The City on a Monday

Yesterday evening my friend M. arrived, so today we went on two excursions: the first, an unglamorous one to Plus, where we bought dinner; the second, a long promenade through Winterfeldtplatz and Nollendorfplatz, to the Siegessäule ("Victory Column"), then along the Straße des 17. Juni to Brandenburger Tor. There were loungers in the seas of sidewalk tables and chairs in front of the cafés at Nollendorfplatz, but a modest quantity of people in general. The vicinity of the CDU headquarters, Malaysian embassy, etc., behind Potsdamer Platz was, as much as ever, a deserted playground of modern architecture and asphalt. Innovative buildings are, I find, like shiny new toys; they are exciting for a moment, and then they sit around unused and unnoticed for eternity, to be interesting again only if our instinct of cupidity is aroused.

A group of cyclists had gathered at the Großer Stern, and a friendly flock of tourists were loosely distributed around the base of the Siegessäule, but otherwise it was very quiet there. By the time we arrived at Brandenburger Tor, M.'s shoes were bothersome, and it was warmer than we found quite pleasant, so we wandered over to the Reichstag and kept our eye out for a bus station. The lineup for the Reichstag dome was incomprehensibly long as always, so we stayed outside.

As we left, a woman approached us, asked if we speak English, and, when I answered in the positive, handed me a card. I thought that there would be an address written on it, and that she wanted me to tell her the way. Instead it was a begging appeal, informing whichever tourist it may concern that she was Bosnian and had two children. Without taking the time to think it over, I gave her some change, upon which she put her hands together, bowed, and blessed me (which was a bit embarrassing, even as a routine form of thanks, especially as the grand sum I had given her was 2.20 Euros). A moment later, of course, the realization came that it was stupid of me because I needed change for the bus fare (but M. paid for me). Still, whether she has two children or genuinely needs the money or not, I didn't have the impression that the money is going to drugs. Besides, she interested me. She was likely a gypsy. Twice I've seen a gypsy (once at the Kleistpark colonnades, and once waiting for the bus at, I believe, the Staatsbibliothek), who greatly impressed me because his face was so marked with deep experience and character, and a dignified melancholy; he looked, too, as if he might travel through time as well lands, for he would have fit into the scene as easily in the 19th or even 17th century. It was the same with her. So I don't regret having given the money.

Before the tour, however, we passed through the Kleistpark and I saw that a door in the entrance of the Kammergericht was open. So we went in, to a little room at the left with an inactive baggage screener, where a security guard who generously tried to thaw out of his gruff boredom looked into our bags, handed us and an elderly man (who had happened to enter at the same time) roughly folded brochures and print-outs from Berlin.de about the Kammergericht. Then he waved us through the door into the great round hall where the staircase rises to the upper levels of the building.

The Kammergericht is in the Neobaroque style, built 1909, but the flattened romanesque arches, heavy piers, and the white vaults that ran around the hall on the ground level strongly suggest an ancient church or abbey. A wooden announcement board that was once used by the Allied Control Centre stands to the left. The balusters of the staircase, which runs grandly down, facing the door, are quite evidently "neo," however, being oddly square and slanted. Underneath the staircase there is a delightful pair of little arches that mysteriously leads into the hall behind. We went to the window, protected by a wrought-iron(?) railing, and looked out into the courtyard, which is a square of black asphalt, preternaturally void of any greenery but fitted out with a lone trash can (largely intended to receive cigarette butts), around which rise white stucco walls full of windows and pebbly designs (e.g. a triangle with an eye in it!). On the upper floors we found flourishes in plaster, ornate wooden doors, and brass or gilded chandeliers with white bulbs, and halls lined with black tiles. It was all pretty quiet and empty, though a handful of employees did pass through when we were there.

So one unifying element in our trip was probably the silence and emptiness, which is only to be expected on a Monday when everyone is inside at work, but which is saddening. I read somewhere that the population of Berlin was once 4.9 million (but I think that 4.5 million is the right figure) and now it is 3.4 million. In any case, I wish that the empty spaces in the city core of Berlin had not all been claimed by office buildings and government buildings — which are great nutshells for tiny kernels to rattle in, and inaccessible to the vast majority of mortals — or grandiose architectural experiments. I think they should be filled with tasteful and liveable upscale apartment buildings. But, on the other hand, I like the generous proportions in Berlin; and the sad loneliness, which not everyone may agree exists anyway, does have its dignified charm.