Berlin is where the hipsters crawl. It's where grunge, rebellion, and artistic expression breed, where all the kids who want to screw over their parents go to run away. Berlin’s raw yet whimsical attitude lures me in, the colors diffused in its concrete veins, its history hiding in its world war scars.
For a girl who is usually most comfortable in a pink sundress and strappy sandals, a leather jacket and studded boots are a new discovery for me. Wearing all black, I feel rough and inconspicuous as I strut the city streets. Scrolling through my 8tracks playlists, I skip over usual favorites like John Mayer and Bon Iver, feeling more in tune with some trippy techno beats. I am building a new identity, creating the independent, self-confident person I’ve always strived to be.
Right before I head down the stairs to my U-Bahn platform, I pop into Starbucks, a place I go occasionally to remind myself of my American roots. I pay way too much for a tea I could have made myself, but I am happy to sip on a little taste of home. Though it may be a monotonous, life-long routine for Berliners, I still find a thrill in riding the subway, proud of the independence I’ve gained in Germany. I sit on the U-Bahn, earbuds in, noticing the street fashion become more and more eccentric as the train nears Berlin’s center. Now I’m glad I wore the leather jacket and studded boots.
I find the group pretty easily, considering the loud chatter and laughter amplifying from our meeting place at the station’s Burger King. I am greeted by my twenty international friends with the usual AFS welcome; hugs, kisses on the cheeks and endless “Wasssss geht Jenna?” My friends from Mexico, Bosnia, and Hong Kong and I shift from Spanish to English to German, speaking in a tangled mess of languages. We decide to venture out into city’s veins, its pulse infusing us with adrenaline.
Deeper and deeper we explore until we reach the city’s heart. Alexanderplatz bustles with throngs of people, yet one young street performer captures our attention. I am mesmerized by his fingers sliding, pulling off, and hammering onto the steel strings of the guitar, envious of the intricate guitar skills I would never have despite years of playing. His pedal loops various guitar parts, composing a harmony of overlapping sounds, which transforms into a familiar tune.
“Well you only need the light when it’s burning low” he sings, my friends and I soon chiming in, “only miss the sun when it starts to snow, only know you love her when you let her go.” We flare with blissful feelings, singing until our voices crack, smiling until our cheeks hurt. Venezuela on my left, Spain on my right, I have the people I care about the most, though we’d met only two weeks earlier. I feel the pulse of Berlin surging through my veins, a warm euphoria taking over my body. Berlin’s expression harmonizes with mine, uncovering an intimacy with myself that I’d never felt before.
The song lyrics strike me with an unusual amount of force, reminding me that appreciation is often found in something’s absence. I don’t let that moment go. I clutch it in my fist and sear it to my heart, because I don’t want to let go of the girl in the leather jacket and the studded boots. I don’t want to let go of the city that introduced me to the world.
