BERLIN ELEGY 2008

The hotel room was pure 1970s with the kind

of plumbing that won the Cold War. It overlooked

Adenauerplatz in the west of the city. O Adenauer,

first Chancellor of West Germany.

There were some trees, a fountain,

a few dark and quirky old shops.

Even the pigeons seemed to have an accent.

“Tell me, you stones, o speak, you lofty palaces!”

On the bed with its tortilla duvet

and overstuffed ravioli pillow, I would lie

as the morning bustle increased outside

and pondered whether

I would turn left past the sex shops and head

for the Charlottenburg U-bahn station,

Wilmersdorf, the palace, the museums

or turn right and make the epic walk

to the East. I would meditate

on what churches and art galleries I would visit,

in which café I would take lunch,

upon which bridge I would pause and gaze

across the Spree, watching it pulled

like silk from a bolt, like history under my eye.

Unlike the Berliner hoards, I had the luxury

of pausing, of observing them in wonder.

The baroque buildings seemed

more real to me than they

incurious at the exotic Antipodean

interloper in their midst,

not seeing further than my blond hair, serious

demeanour and polite “Guten Tag”.

So every morning, I would lie there,

Berlin dawn streaming through the theatrical

curtains, considering the possibilities: which Casper

David Friedrich painting I would stand before,

hands clasped behind my back; which new detail

would catch my eye – the statue

of a little girl and her cat on an apartment building,

or the bust of Minerva on the pediment

over the entrance to the Prussian Academy;

the sun catching the backs of the horses

on the Brandenburg Gate,

or just think about the one somewhere in the city

who was not beside me for these moments,

but by then I was dapper dressed

to applaud Berlin, and the Berliners their Berlin-ness.