I’m writing my farewell post to readers of Die Bärliner not from Berlin, but from a country road in upstate New York. Already situated in a new environment, I’ve spent the last few weeks wondering how to wish the blog farewell. I’d almost psyched myself out of the whole thing until I curiously drove past
Living on campus on the first floor of Treskowstrasse 25 (or in affectionate shorthand, T25) is an exercise in constant human interaction, in which the concept of privacy does not really exist. The bathroom is usually the only unoccupied space in the apartment, and my flatmates have found me more than once sitting on the
It was like a dream, so many of my favorite authors covered the tops of the front tables. I no longer had to search longingly for their names, instead, they were displayed front and center. Ursula Le Guin, Ocean Vuong, Octavia E. Butler, and so many other authors who use their voice to explore societal
Every Sunday, and every day between 22:00 and 6:00, Berlin is peacefully quiet, or is at least supposed to be, yet sounds remain. Some recklessly, and some with permission. Construction halts, but the birds step in to fill the empty sonic space. Trams hum. Outside my window voices carry on. I wake up many a
Berlin is fondly known for its thriving international culture amid traditional German establishments. Moving here two years ago, I knew I would be able to find books in English, but it took me a while to feel out Berlin’s literary scene well enough to know where to wander for a book that would interest me.
I walked into the Pierre Boulez Saal on a chilly Saturday night, I found my music class among the crowd and exclaimed to them, “Everything around here looks so new!” I’d just walked over from the U2 stop at Hausvogteiplatz and was surprised by the tall, modern buildings, smooth concrete, and shops that seemed to
1 The day I lost my iPhone, credit cards, a photo, a student ID, a residence permit and the purse that contained them all, I was with a friend who was visiting Berlin for fall break from Vienna. We used to sit on the bench every night, drinking enough “përlinër bilsnër” to fill up Spok’s
I have often wondered if places hold traces of the past beyond the past’s material inscription. If the pain or joy of a family who has moved out of a house still resides there in some ineffable way. If tragedy stays somewhere in those walls. If memories float through the hallways. Or maybe, the presence