My last day in Berlin, I didn't sleep a wink. Dusk blended with night, night with dawn, and on that early summer morning, with a bus for the airport to catch in an hour, I resolved to go for a walk. To tell the truth, I don't know why I did. I just couldn't bring myself to sleep, I suppose — I had the 16 hours of flight time from Berlin to San Francisco for that. Or perhaps, it was just the optimism of an early bird American banking on the off-chance that a European would be awake and serving coffee at five in the morning. Of course, there was no such thing. The streets of Kreuzberg, bathed in the gentle blue and golden light of the early morning, were silent. Rays of sunlight, like the soft kisses of an innocent love, caressed my unshaven face as they peeked through the branches of languid, elegant lindens.
On those tranquil, cobbled streets, I could still feel the traces of warmth and liveliness and the lingering energy of the recently passed summer's Friday night, but my walk was as solitary as it could be. To leave this usually lively world that I had called home for the past three weeks behind, without a soul in sight to bid me farewell, was surreal. That morning was full of the melancholy acceptance and appreciation of a beautiful, yet temporal world that I knew, like all others, would soon be slipping away. And yet, that transience made it all the more wonderful and magical. I meandered through deserted block after block, nothing to keep me company but my own reflections tracing me in the windows of closed shops and the distant sound of a fountain, raging to make itself known in the unyielding quiet of that first hour of morning. The air was sweet and humid — though not oppressively so — like the embrace of a passionate lover saying goodbye, not knowing when she'll see you again, if ever. I was young, naive, and in love with the vast expanse of the endless world around me just waiting to be explored.
I wandered into a park, and the fountain, seeing its time had come to finally be noticed, grew louder and more vigorous, spewing what must have been gallons of water into a birdbath that could hardly contain its gushing. I drew closer, entranced by the dancing foamy, frothy brew before me. Yet it was not, as I had thought, vigorous, strong, and graceful. No, the water streamed out pathetically, and flailed and floundered in the heavy air, barely able to touch the sky before it was inevitably forced back down. It was like a sinner condemned to hell, desperately grasping at heaven in vain as it fell into the fiery depths. I couldn't stand to watch it — it discomforted me, it agitated me, and then it infuriated me. Oh, how it enraged me! Unable to bear being around the blasphemous thing any longer, I turned around and ran. I ran, and ran, and ran. I ran through those streets, avenues, and alleyways, my frantic footsteps desecrating their sacred sleep with uncouth, ignorant echoes. I ran with unchecked fury, tearing myself free from the seductive embrace of that air, tearing myself free from that bewitching serenity, and tearing myself free of my own foolish innocence. I ran until I couldn't any longer, until I was back in the courtyard of the converted factory, and until that dazzling morning had long since given up trying to pacify me. Soaked in my own fervor, fear, and sweat, I finally looked up. Around me was the world I had always known — natural, normal, welcoming, and buzzing with the sounds of home. The concrete walls whispered to me in their infinite wisdom, for they always knew I would return once I realized what folly lay outside their benevolent stewardship of my heart.