suburban safari

Like waddling clothing stores we trudged, hands driven deep into our pockets and shoulders hunched against the brittle February wind that sliced the streets. Heads down, hypnotised by sub-zero temperatures and the crunch, crunch, crunch of our heavy boots on the coarse salt and grit scattered to prevent the icy patches that would send the unwary walker heavily to the ground. It usually worked. At intervals our attention was brought sharply to the surface by great sheets of ice crashing to the ground -- often just inches from our path -- off sooty, bullet-riddled buildings which looked as though they could follow it at any moment. Passing yet another souvenir store I noticed a postcard showing a Soviet soldier aiming a rifle at a man's head. This was Berlin, and I was loving it.

If the city itself has some stories to tell, then the grandest tales and juiciest name-dropping would surely come from the Brandenburg Gate. Everyone's favorite Corsican upstart, Napoleon, pinched the statues off the top; the Nazis draped it in swastikas and strutted around it; when JFK made his famous speech there the Soviets -- like a cranky sibling on a long car trip -- hung flags off it so he couldn't look over their side. The Berlin wall closed it for decades. Then, when the wall came down, the Brandenburg Gate became a potent symbol for the reunification of Germany, if not the whole of Europe. For an immovable object, this gate's sure been around. I had to see it.

It's an odd thing to stand in a spot seething with so much monumental history. Profoundly moving, yet... so... nothing. Whilst the structure had seen so much, my experience of all that had taken place there, I then realised, could only occur within the limits of my imagination. I'm at a loss to describe what I felt there: knee-trembling humility mixed with knuckle-dragging boredom. Sparkly-eyed wonder and eye-watering dissappointment. Celebratory mourning. A ragged, radiant, hollow feeling. I'm sure the Germans have a name for it.

We wandered back and forth for a while, photographing the -- it has to be said -- stunning copper green war horses rearing up on the top... or dull grey war horses, as my colourblind travelling companion would have it. Under a crisp, clear winter sky the entire structure was a photographer's dream. You simply couldn't take a bad shot of it.

Once done, I started up my hourly nag for the something-hot-to-drink-and-something-to-eat that my stuggling, cold-battered body demanded. Thomas, taking his cue, started up his hourly resistance to spending any more extortionate Euros.

Five minutes later we settled into the Starbucks two doors down.

Bitter cold + troubling existential questions + empty belly = no smile for camera