I arrived in Berlin by train after a busy week of exploring Prague. I’ve long heard about the city’s reputation as a cultural hub, an alternative mecca of artsy dreams. “Is this Kreuzberg?” I exclaimed at my taxi driver as we passed through a graffitied, gritty area. Indeed, it was. Phew!
Kreuzberg is the European version of Brooklyn. Actually, the neighborhood reminded me of the East Village in its hay-day: punks with piercings, vegetarian restaurants, street art, little booths with junky merchandise, and bohemians rebelling against their parents at each turn. Truth be told, it made my heart swell up like a punched lip: I ached for the subculture anarchy of yesteryear. New York City has become so commercialized, its primitive spirit seems drowned out by an overarching instagram filter. Berlin is alive with genuine weirdos that make me feel at home.
Little photo booths all around. Reminded me of Amélie.
Obsessed with this building.
I’ll admit I got this gelato simply for the color blue.
Stumbled upon an art show at Galeria Heba. Love this guy’s hair!
