THIS IS BERLIN. DAS IST BERLIN.

"Good morning Berlin,
You can be so ugly, so dirty and grey,
You can be so beautifully appalling." 

- "Schwarz zu Blau" (Peter Fox) 

An ugly city. A gritty, grimy, disfigured, maimed, triumphant, and bewitching city. It will catch you, grip you, strangle you - sacrifice yourself to it, let go. Eyes on the walls that scrutinised the Stasi, they scrutinise you now. Now-blind eyes that peered into the lives of communist automatons - they peer into yours now. Eyes sprayed in rainbow paint, layer upon layer of colour and texture, of hideousness upon beauty and beauty upon hideousness; eyes of owls, of druggies, of goggled Martians upon walls of defunct factories of the departed East - they watch. 

A glistening river of blue is traversed by a gleaming yellow train - the blue and the yellow, they grate under the stare of an icy sun. Yet it is winter and a frigid wind howls through the alley. Scraps of subsistence show themselves in a busy rustling, the wings of feculent pigeons; green alcohol-stained shards tinkle menacingly against cobblestone as the roar of diesel from a passing truck momentarily drowns out all other noise. 

Along the street, a primitive Mercedes has received a new paint job - it now gleams the colours of the rainbow, star rusting, as it rests upon the kerb; a scruffy stray snoozes lazily beneath its broken fender to drown out the unrelenting tumult of freedom that reverberates through the winter air. "Fuck alley", in all-too-legible scrawl on the fifth storey of an unfinished block, adds the finishing touches to the scene. All is illuminated by a glaring blue sky. 

I stand beneath psychedelic construction hoarding, considering some makeshift posters - "You - Me - One Being; Allah, Maria, God, Buddha", it reads. James Blunt's new album is being advertised right beneath - a creative passerby has given him a new hairdo - paint dyes his hair a neon orange. An elderly man with studs through his chin materialises behind me, says, "you Thai?" I say I'm from Singapore. He tells me about his stopover in Singapore in animated German, complete with beaming eyes and gesticulations (never mind the brown booze bottle in his hand). He then wishes me a "schöner Tag" and leaves on his merry way. 

I get shouted at by a drunkard down the street - "good day to be alive, huh?" Black, white; old, young; tall, short; gay, straight; pierced, unadorned; tattooed, undecorated. Another German with a tremendous nose ring asks me something about what we stop to observe - a queer lady reclining in a wooden chair in the gaping hole of a construction site. "Ein Tourist" he explains he is, thinking I was a local (who perhaps somehow turned Asian one fine day). 

People stare, glance, look - I walk. It's all amicable curiosity, really. Unless they're drunk. (Or high). The needle stands far off, the centrepiece of the spectacle. Der Fernsehturm, it's called. Crowning glory of expired socialism, now the icon of this swarming metropolis. Before me stands a row of bricks across the street. An almost indiscernible reminder that the Wall once stood. Right here. To the left, an abandoned Trabi stands proudly on display, rusting. Behind it, boys stumble out of a club, drunk, smoking (weed?). Cigarettes don't smell ordinary. It is noon. Layers of history criss-cross beneath my feet; life surges past me in an unhurried rush. 

I am appallingly in love with this city. I am alive. This city. A one-legged veteran of unending wars, it hobbles nobly, medals gleaming; no spoils, no takings, just living, breathing, unvanquished. 

This is Berlin. Das ist Berlin. 

Cuvrystraße, Kreuzberg, Berlin.