poorbutsexy

MayDay

Recently it was May Day in Berlin – a day that marks an ancient pagan ritual for warding off evil spirits but today is used for workers protests and demonstrations and… partying. So off we went. My group set upon the Kreuzberg neighbourhood nervous for the potential riot but amped by the scene. It was heat and sweat and mayhem, thousands of people, open air parties in every park and great giant speakers just out there on the street pumping techno and reggae and jazz and all kinds of music. There were live bands set up on milk crates, and people dancing on rooftops and eating bbqs lying on the road. The polizei stood around smoking and taking it all in. Lots of jumping and swaying and laughing, arms flailing around in the afternoon sun.

You could literally smell spring, and feel everybody throwing off the shackles of a long winter. Fried food and beer in the air, the energy buzzing, it was the street of life. And the epitome of the great Berlin spirit with it’s mix of progression and madness and that famous burn for freedom, oh and youth, it was the very essence of youth. Chaotic, messy, loose, don’t give a shit, we’re here to HAVE FUN.

STORIES FROM THE UNDERGROUND

Second instalment in my series of stories from the u-bahn

7pm on the U1 and it had been a warm day. Stepping in to the train car I was met with joyous screams and looked up to see a crazed man pacing the carriage, squealing ‘WOOOO!’ and ‘HEE HEHEHE! HEEEE!’ as he ran back and forth, wild eyed and frantic. Everybody in the carriage sat engrossed in their business as if nothing was happening. It was extremely loud and distracting – I searched for a seat. I found one opposite a beautiful black boy, who had killer eyelashes and that enviable clear, toned skin only dark people seem to have. I thought he might have been famous, but he never looked at me once. Nearby stood a young Spanish girl who did look at me with hot eyes and an ass the size of a watermelon. No, two watermelons. It was the biggest ass in the world but she wore it with punk and grace and that famous Spanish sass. Next to her was a Japanese German rich brat who wore Gucci loafers and carried a Louis Vuitton tote. He ran fingers through spiky black hair and talked loudly in to a fully sequined iphone decorated with a ruby studded kitten face. At the next station the crazed man leaped off the train, I could hear him hooting outside the carriage. Then he screamed one final gut curling scream and I turned to see he had pressed the emergency button on the platform and now some sort of siren was going off and I was sure the cops or security were going to come soon.

The train rattled on and Senorita with her hot eyes kept staring and the black boy ignored me and the Japanese German kept talking loudly in to his sequined phone and the older man next to me was taking photos of the floor with his blackberry and it was just the usual chaos & weirdness of an evening trip on the Berlin underground.

 It’s strange how Berlin just creeps up on you sometimes. You could be walking along perfectly normal and then suddenly you turn a corner and there are neat little buildings lining the street, the sun is shining brilliantly through bright green leaves, pink blossoms glow at your feet, the road is cobblestoned, glossy and dark and the whole scene is flashy and gorgeous like a diamond in the new spring air.

It is late afternoon at Kottbusser Tor and the streets sizzle with brilliant Turkish energy. There are fast moving women dressed in hijabs scolding wayward children and carrying bags of groceries, groups of men who sit in circles on little black stools drinking coffee, huddled together, waving their arms and sharing stories and the sun is red and ominous as it casts lengthy shadows across the land. Down the road, fruit stall salesmen greet you as you walk by juggling apples and making small talk, winking with a cigarette dangling from their lips. Great slabs of hot, sweaty meat roast on kebab stand skewers while families gather at the mosque ready to pray. There are bizarre wedding dress shops with mannequins dressed in layers of puffy satin and shisha bars that blow fruity smoke in to the afternoon air. Parts of Kreuzberg & Neukölln can sometimes feel like downtown Istanbul. Often I am deafened by the sound of loud, consistent car horns. HONNNNK! HONNNK! HONNNK! No matter what, I always jump and turn to see what the raucous is. But its always the same – a convoy of cars, honking repeatedly, shouting and jeering to celebrate a couple’s wedding day. It always and never surprises me.

But my favourite are the mens cafes. There are so many of these in my neighbourhood. Its always a blank, undecorated room, white walls, bland office-like carpet, plastic tables and chairs. They are strictly for men only. Well I don’t know this for a fact I cant read the signs but there are never any women in there. Its like a genetlemans club or something, minus the sleazy connotation that probably brings to your mind. The men just sort of sit about and chat. Often you see them playing card games and they are always smoking something, shisha, cigars, rolling tabak. In the background some ancient TV drones on with a soccer match or cheesy Turkish pop videos but nobody ever really pays any any attention to it. They are really there to gather and socialize. These little cafes are everywhere, nearly one on every street corner in Neukölln. They smell of coffee and smoke and energy and life. I think they are just the best. I think I would really like to have one for myself and my friends… but of course you know… womens only!

I got invited to a party titled ‘Deep’. The flyer says: “Join us in deepest darkest Neukölln where nobody cares.”

Oooohh!

stories from the underground

Im going to start including a few little snapshot stories from the ubahn. I find it such a fascinating place – teeming with life, full of weird and wonderful characters.

Its 3pm on the U8. The usual street magazine seller hops in to the carriage and starts his monologue about the magazine for sale, hole in his trousers, flat voice, dead eyes fixed on nothing, hoping for a dollar. A bored looking mongrel of a dog rests at the feet of a dude wearing a sergeants army jacket and a wild mop of curly hair. The carriage isn’t that full. A big girl is sitting in the four seater opposite me, by herself. She is holding a tiny red purse which she fidgets with constantly, zipping and unzipping it. I notice her tight black tshirt displaying a bulge of backfat, and black stripey adidas track pants and wait for it white kitten heels. All scuffed and scrubby looking. Her hair is stringy and she looks tired. She is staring at me. Then she is staring at the man next to me. A strange, sullen, but slightly mischevious look on her face. She adjusts her tshirt. Her tshirt slide back up over the bulge. She coughs loudly, still staring at the man next to me. The man next to me is texting and doesn’t even notice. Two stations fly by. She continues to stare. In a sudden movement, she gets up, leavers her empty fourseater and comes to sit opposite the man and me. Still staring at the man. Her eyes have a manic glint to them. She starts twirling her stringy hair with one little finger. Staring staring at the man. The man keeps texting texting. Her lips curl in to a smile. Another station passes by, She kicks her foot out so it brushes his leg. And comes dangerously close to mine. He doesn’t flinch. Eyes on the iphone. She keeps staring. Alexanderplatz. In another sudden movement, without so much as a glance back at the object of her fascination, the girl gets off the train. 

the sound of sunday

Last week the season turned, you could feel it. It was Sunday. The sky was blue, bright cornflower blue, for the first time in weeks. The air was fresh and alive, and the sun appeared soaking the earth with its warm rays. I had a beautiful peaceful moment to myself on the balcony. I sat face to the sun for a long time, eyes closed, listening, just breathing it in. The birds were back from their winter journey, so for the first time in a long time I heard their singing. There was the twitter of German children on the street below, excited and laughing in the brand new air. I cannot describe how much the sun lifted my spirits in that moment. Made me realize quite how grey and long and dark the winter is, and how your eyes just adjust to the bleakness after a while. When Spring arrives and the grey begins to glisten, it practically lifts your heart to the heavens making you feel more alive than ever.

One afternoon it bombed down with snow, and the lake was frozen and everybody came out to play in the cold German afternoon. There was ice hockey, skating, sledding, sliding, snow fights – and a little ‘boot haus’ on the riverbank that played classical music; the melancholybeautiful sound wafting out across the lake. Here, you could sit amongst the snow and eat apfel strudel and drink gluhwein and even though you were cold you were warm in your heart.

 

snow life

beautiful maniacs

You see them sitting on the u-bahn, fidgeting fingers, slitted eyes, jaws clenched. They are the real deal. They are the punks. And I mean it, these are not the faded Australian stereotype that you might occasionally catch sight of around central station. No these guys live and breathe punk, it’s their life, you can tell. They have shaved heads, mohawks, always black hair. They wear gnarly leather jackets with silver studs, tight inky denim jeans and big romper stomper Doc Martens that stick out from their skinny legs like clown feet. They have piercings, tons of piercings, mostly a bunch of silver rings lining the ear. Their t-shirts are ripped and faded, their hands wrapped around beer in brown paper bags. They always hang in groups, mostly 2 or 3 but they never say a word. They just stare straight ahead, bombed out, a little bit crazy but still totally sure of themselves.  Sometimes they have these huge arctic wolf type dogs on leashes that rest at their feet on the train, quiet and watchful. 

The punks aren’t scary though, they mind their own business, nobody is there to stir shit. I like to watch them from the corner of my eye. They fascinate me, they live their subculture fully – they are the realest punks I’ve ever seen. I bet they live in art squats and listen to some newer, more hardcore version of the Sex Pistols. I mean I respect it, it’s kind of extreme but they really know who they are.