I rewatched the movie. I still love the movie. It’d been a while since I last saw it, but still completely love it.
Berlin was home for nearly eight years. I need to go back. But I can’t. Because that statement is inaccurate. West Berlin was home for nearly eight years. West Berlin doesn’t exist any more. This is a good thing.
But I would like to go back and visit again, to see the old haunts, even those that are no more: Checkpoint Bravo, the “swamp” we pretended had monsters hiding in it, the shooting range with it’s enormous fence and barbed wire on top, the walls and rooftops we climbed, the bakery around the corner, the pizzeria with its fishing nets decorating the ceiling …
The apartment building is still there, but not the playgrounds where I hid away inside my head and let my imagination run wild, not the wall beside it blocking us from the Potsdammer Chaussee traffic. The building’s not even the same color anymore.
And then Egidystraße, Tegeler Fleiß, my grandmother’s house … my grandmother passed away at the beginning of January this year. 101 years old. It still hits me sometimes. Like now.