I’m back in Berlin now, after Christmasing in Bavaria. I knew that I had arrived, because I saw a bloke pissing near the tracks as my train pulled into Berlin Central Station. This was not a site often enjoyed in the South.
Many tourist books point out Berlin’s famous “pissing man”. This ubiquitous feature has filled Berlin’s landscape with pleasant surprises in even the most unexpected place.
A crisp winter’s walk through the Teirgarten is usually a tedious landscape of trees, cluttered amongst the over-natural greenery. However, with the addition of a kindly reveller from last night’s excesses to volunteer his pleasing silhouette to augment your appreciation of the prospect, and your view is improved markedly.
Indeed, my first memory, and perhaps most lingering, if unwanted, reminiscence will be of a distinguished looking gentleman, relieving himself of the cares of the modern world, but, unfortunately for me, he decided to do so whilst pointing in the wrong direction.
Nazi memorials, imperial monoliths and the fine architecture of a dozen inspired generations will fade into a distant pang compared to the intense horror that this image has singed onto my mind.
Berlin’s urban environment is rich with detail: every corner, ever nook and especially every cranny is splashed with intricate gold-gilted fountains. It’s almost as if as these civic-minded men act as the finishing touches to the city austere clothing, they’re the delicate filigree, the accessories of the Berlin’s dry ensemble.
But I do wish they wouldn’t accessorise in front of me.
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