Recent times have seen a number of iconic Berlin clubs close down, sparking fears among partygoers about the future of a city that built its modern identity around the allures and ideals of underground club culture.


 

The 2018 European heatwave was a shock to the system for Berlin. The city is simply not built for hot weather. While there are plenty of nearby lakes where you can cool off, virtually no-one has air conditioning at home.

It’s an age-old predicament: everyone wants a bite of the juiciest fruit. Of course, the more the word gets around about where to find the fruit, the more people flock there to get a taste for themselves.

Once a year I’m invited to attend a meeting of all the flat owners in my building. Many of the attendees are owner-occupiers like me. Unlike me, a large number of them are (former) East Germans over the age of 60. This annual ritual provides an interesting snapshot of the people living behind the concrete facades of our Plattenbau and a chance to witness micro-scale German bureaucracy in action.

Every summer Berlin takes advantage of the ‘Pfingsten’ long weekend to throw a massive multicultural street party called ‘Karneval der Kulturen’.

One of the constitutional shifts I’ve noticed in myself over the years of living in Germany has to do with my attitude towards resources. A holistic German attitude towards material supplies—one that involves striving to use only what you need and making the most of what you’ve got. The prudent life.

The first of May is a significant date in the German calendar. It’s a celebration of the long-awaited spring, it’s a national public holiday, a day of protest, and an opportunity to dance around a large wooden pole and drink strong beer.

Feeling like a stranger in your hometown is a hoary old expat trope—duly noted, cease fire. But why exactly is the cliché so resonant among long-term expats in reality?

What can the misfits, rebels and bohemians of early 20th century Germany tell us about contemporary life?

Over the years I’ve shown dozens of visiting Australian and European friends around my adopted hometown of Berlin. But recently I found myself playing tour guide in Melbourne, a place where my local knowledge is woefully out of date. Instead of bluffing my way through the sights of the city, I decided to go bush with my international guest.

A couple of months back I chalked up the eight year anniversary of my Berlin affair. Aside from triggering the annual shock over how swiftly the years hurtle by in Germany’s ever-bewitching capital, the occasion got me feeling sentimental about the past and ruminating on the future.

Exercising outdoors becomes quite unappetising in winter, so my Danish friend and I meet regularly to play badminton at a local sports centre. It’s a welcome relief to be able to peel off those heavy layers of clothing, regain full mobility of our limbs and run around for an hour chasing a small feathered ball. After we have “done sport”, as the Germans say, we sometimes head to the sauna...

Throughout the Berlin phase of my life, I’ve always thought of myself as a Mitte/Prenzlauer Berg boy. But what does subscribing to this pretension mean exactly?

I’m often asked why I started learning German. My go-to answer is “because it’s easier than French and Chinese”, both of which I tried and failed to learn at high school. German was still a hard slog, but I was able to gradually piece things together.

Moving to Berlin hasn’t really been a case of leaving behind a displeasing life in Australia for Bella Peacock. Her Berlin eureka moment has had more to do with her project, ‘Better Times’, an online platform for women’s stories of empowering dating and sexual experiences.

The year is 2008. You’re young, new in Berlin and your German vocabulary consists of ‘Guten Tag’ and phrases gleaned from ‘Inspector Rex’. Your employment options are fairly limited, but you’re so determined to stay that you’ll happily serve beers to noisy backpackers or scrub toilets to make it happen.

Tatjana Philipp is in some ways the quintessential Berlin creative. Living in a stylised Neukölln flat and sporting a tastefully restrained collection of tattoos, the young designer draws her inspiration from elements like austere architecture and industrial music to craft sleek and timeless haute couture.

Every year in September, a group of hard-working volunteers showcase Australian and New Zealand films that would most likely never make it across the seas to Germany.

When I first got to Berlin I developed something of an infatuation with 'Zee Germans'. Compared to Australians, everything about German people seemed so endearingly serious and neat.

I don’t really get soccer. Instead of growing up watching ‘The World Game’ on SBS, I spent my youth listening to the dulcet tones of Richie Benaud’s cricket commentary.

In the fictional world of ‘Peter Pan’, Neverland is an imaginary place where children never have to become adults. In the real world, that place is called Berlin. Or so it would seem.

Germans don’t exactly have a reputation for stand-up comedy. But that’s not to say they don’t know how to make each other laugh. Germany enthusiastically embraced the anything-goes chaos of cabarets in the early twentieth century and since then has produced countless clowns, comic musicians and other satirical entertainers.

Up until recently, the Funkhaus remained one of Berlin’s best-kept secrets. A grandiose complex of purpose-built recording studios and a veritable goldmine for Instagram clout, I was always amazed the place wasn't permanently crawling with well-clad millennials—smartphones poised and ready for lush image-crafting.

Fiona Laughton is a storyteller whose story doesn’t quite fit the mould. Unlike the many young tourists and creatives who fall in love with Berlin and vow to stay at all costs, her decision to emigrate was driven by a desire to escape.

It’s happened again, thank god. The Berlin sun has returned from its annual sabbatical some place far, far away. From here on in, things escalate pretty quickly. The moment temperatures creep above 15 degrees, the number of people on the streets quadruples and shirt buttons start bursting open with unbridled gusto. The birds are singing, the drinks are flowing, and that peculiar German fondness for nakedness is finding its yearly stride—it’s time for Berlin summer loving.

Internationally speaking, Germans and Australians both enjoy a drink. Booze pervades their social lives and lubricates virtually every social event, from birthdays and christenings to weddings and work parties. Yet there are differences, cultural and regulatory ones, in the way Germans and Australians handle their grog.

A degree for free?! Yes please. I probably would have considered enrolling to become a Master of Currywurst, had that been the only thing on offer.

Coffee shop owner and Australian expat Garth Gregory has been keeping Berliners caffeinated since 2004. I had a chat to him about starting a business in Germany, gentrification and the perils of third wave specialty coffee.

Berlin is undoubtedly a city that thrives on its adventurous use of space. One of my favourite examples of a Berlin building being re-appropriated in a manner deviant to its original purpose is the current location of König Galerie.

In the darkest days of the German winter, a lack of vitamin D triggers my homing instinct and I embark on a long seasonal migration south – not unlike a duck.

Queues for good times, queues for serious business—queues for queues, and queues to find out which queue you should be queuing in and which you should not. Berlin may be the modern land of milk and honey, but you’d better be prepared to wait in an orderly line for your share of the good stuff.

Helen Barlow is an Australian film journalist who lived in Berlin for three years in the 1990s. For Bicultural Urbanite she recounts some of her anecdotes from that time.

On the remote island of Australia, it seems possible to hold much of the world’s chaos and turmoil at arm’s length. So when millions of asylum seekers began arriving in Europe in 2015, it was as if the fourth wall had cracked.

Traditionally, the beginning of a new year comes with resolutions. But I’d like to start mine here with a confession. The divulging of a dirty little secret I’ve been harbouring and trying my best to forget. It could compromise my prized status as a bicultural urbanite, and it has to do with my bilingual abilities. Though ‘abilities’ would be a generous term here.

One of the major drawbacks of being an Australian expat in Berlin is the egregious distance between yourself and your loved ones. This likely explains the twinge of envy I feel whenever my European friends tell me they’re casually popping home for quick a visit. And as December rolls around each year, and the popping home to Italy or England or France or Sweden starts unfolding as casually as ever, the twinge becomes a protracted spasm.

It’s 6pm on a Thursday and I’m hopping mad. I’ve just been ‘controlled’. I’ve been fined for taking the U-Bahn without a ticket (allegedly). I’m indignant because I had a ticket but couldn’t access it. My lengthy protest, delivered in level A2-B1 Deutsch, falls on unsympathetic ears.

In Australia, December marks the beginning of the ‘silly season’: a busy time of Christmas shopping, boozy socialising, TV re-runs and frivolous news stories. But while Aussies are slopping on sunscreen, Germans are slipping into thermal underwear and lighting Advent candles as they countdown to Christmas.

Being an Australian living in Germany who doesn’t really identify with anything quintessentially Aussie can lead to some rather trying conversations with strangers, writes our not-so Aussie Aussie Luke in his latest Bicultural Urbanite post in which he examines his identity in conjunction with Berlin’s winter weather.

Berlin’s low cost of living is one of its major drawcards. Creative young people flock here from all over the world to enjoy reasonable rent and 50 cent kiosk beers. But the property boom has made life tougher for tenants, so our blogger Brianna decided to get out of the rental game and into massive debt – by buying a flat.

Treasured for so many of its intangible qualities, Berlin often gets something of a bad rap when it comes to the reality of its visual character. And at first touristic glance, perhaps the reputation isn’t entirely without reason. ‘My’ Berlin is a heady, affecting mixture of all these visual elements — an unlikely muse for magic and mischief alike.
 

After facing a few years of adversity, a family of six embark on a rock’n’roll international move, braving the Berlin bureaucracy, language barrier and only eight weeks of summer a year, to live a whole new life filled with wonder and curiosity. 
 

Sometimes it is not as simple as it seems to pick up a parcel from a post office. Especially if you aren't a German citizen. A trek through the bureaucratic intransigence of ‘Servicewüste Deutschland’.

If there’s a flip side of Berlin’s captivating essence, it’s the difficulty of finding the right home base in a city positively crawling with freshly captivated arrivals. With the sheer volume of applicants the renter of each room receives in Berlin, the ‘casual’ get-to-know-you chats that take place at the viewings often feel like you’re a contestant on some cringeworthy reality TV show.

‘Lifeswap’ is an online animated series that explores the cultural idiosyncrasies and differences between Germany and New Zealand. And in the upcoming episode, Australia is added to the mix. Our 'Bicultural Urbanite' blogger Brianna has talked to one of the two creators of the series in Berlin.

When I arrived in Berlin in the summer of 2006, the city was still glowing with post-World Cup euphoria. Sunshine bounced off the pastel facades along Schönhauser Allee and impromptu bars served half-litre beers on overgrown, abandoned lots.

Like so many travel-bugged Australians before me, I moved to Berlin on a crazy whim. After becoming smitten with the city during what was fast becoming the obligatory Berlin party holiday, I decided to split from my incestuous flock of beloved Melbournians and jettison our plans of living together in London.