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Berlin is not Germany, people will tell you. What they mean, of course, is that Berlin is not like the rest of Germany. But Berlin is deeply German. If each of this country’s towns are members of the same family, then Berlin is merely the mischievous sibling that ran away from home. While Munich and Frankfurt each got themselves a mortgage, Berlin hooked up with an older partner and took a couple of bar jobs.
The schnitzel is Austrian but the Germans have adopted it with the vigour that the English have taken to curry.
Look at the way you think about yourself now. African. Dark-skinned. Migrant. Fifteen years ago you were simply British, part of an apparently thriving whole. But now, with each passing year, your identity is being divided up, with each element progressively more dangerous.
From your mid-twenties onwards, you have found that big cities specialise in one occasion: the deniable date. The deniable date is when you meet someone for a drink but neither of you ever actually admit that you are on a date: the benefit of this is that, if nothing romantic occurs as a result, then neither of you have to admit that this was ever the intention.
Oh, says your friend. You are both British, so he wasn’t expecting you to be so honest.
In many ways, despite its flaws, Berlin works—and maybe that is why its relatives are so ashamed of it. A place this unruly wasn’t meant to be a success. Berlin is the queer kid who ends up as a happy adult. Your best friend will write to you on social media: I think that you have a love affair with this city. You smile, and you don’t deny it.
Take care of your private self, he says, treat yourself to your own company. Reduce your exposure to social media, staying on there too long seems to make you more anxious; the attacks from strangers, the anticipation of hatred. And stop trying to please everyone—there will be times when people will dislike you for doing what is right for you, and that is fine.
You are glad you do not have a child. You couldn’t imagine looking at them across the breakfast table, and risking eye contact—the eye contact which, within a split-second, would reveal to them the most horrifying of all truths: Daddy doesn’t have a clue what he is doing.
I would only say that, whatever you do next—please remember that there will always be a next thing, another goal to reach. Another excuse not to like yourself until you have achieved some new ambition. But it’s okay to like yourself right now, though. It’s okay.
Maybe that’s the irony of many a second-generation immigrant; it’s your parents who ran, but it’s you who continues running long after they have come to rest.
