Taking the alternative route

It was a tour of Berlin, but it did not take in many things I had heard of.

You know, things like the Reichstag, the Brandenburg Gate, the Holocaust Memorial. I visited those things the next day. No, this tour was devoted to "alternative Berlin", and it took customers, by public transport and by slinking through or under locked gates, to a bomb site beside a skate park; a punk squat; a giant warren for artists; an op shop that sold clothes by weight; the German capital's sole camping-goods-and-absinthe store; and to the tour guide's preferred kebab vendor.

At the op shop, I got a purple blouse with yellow and blue spots, which apparently weighed little. Nice.

The guide on my tour was David, formerly of England. Some of the places to which he took us had added historical interest: the artists' warren, Tacheles, served during World War 2 both as a prison for French captives and as the head office of the SS; and the preserved bomb site by the skate park served during World War 2 as a bomb site.

Also, one set of gates under which the group passed, joyfully scuffing jackets and elbows, led to the "non-touristy" side of the remaining stretch of the Berlin Wall. (Non-touristy meant its icing-thick coat of graffiti had not been ornamented by tourists bearing vivid pens and earnest messages.)

David's anecdotes about contemporary Berlin were as interesting as the history notes. He told us, for example, how the only time he had seen a fight nearly break out was when a short Englishman threatened to kill a giant New Zealander. A prostitute strode over and went "No!" after which both warring parties immediately shrank away. With their uniform of black corset, white puffer jacket and fake tan, the peacekeeping, polyglot and way-pointing prostitutes of Berlin acted as a secondary police force, David said.

He told us about the city's hugely popular mayor, Klaus Wowereit, or "Wowie", who flies the rainbow flag over city hall during Gay Pride, and who coined the oft-repeated phrase "We are poor but sexy" to describe his fellow citizens.

Berlin is a graffitilicious city, and I asked about the attitude of Wowie's council towards the artists. "We love you really," replied the guide.

We regretful creatures were informed we had just missed the annual F**kparade, a techno-music-fuelled political demonstration/street party. The Loveparade, which used to attract more than a million people, has been banished from Berlin because it was becoming too commercial and conservative.

Wikipedia gives two of the new parade's main aims as: to prevent the commercialisation of culture, music and public space; and to further the consideration of subcultures in urban development and cultural policy.

I wondered if the Hands off Harrop group might consider a Dunedin F**kparade as a suitable way to highlight its cause.

At the tour's end, we were invited to pay only what we could or what we thought the tour was worth. This was because the body that ran the tours was influenced by the city's strong socialist tradition.

"That's all very well," you may or may not be thinking, "but were they reading any New Zealand literature in Berlin?"

Why yes. Lloyd Jones' Mister Pip was spotted in the window of a bookshop at Alexanderplatz station. And later, in the nowhere space between carriages on a full train, while I ate a ham and egg sandwich and the guy beside me ate a ham one, the woman across from us feasted on Katherine Mansfield's Funkenregen. Ahh, good old Funkenregen. The sight of it beckoned me home.