Orianburger Strasse

As I turn on to Orianburger Strasse somewhere in the distance a bell strikes nine times. There is just a trace of the sun left, a soft reassuring smile of light beaming ever fainter over the rooftops. The transition from day to night sees cars become less frequent. Away from their isolated luxury and speed the street regains an old-fashioned human-ness, pedestrians spill into the quiet road moving at a pleasantly lethargic pace which I happily adopt after hours spent amongst the relentless hustle of West Berlin. In front of me a group of people with paint splattered clothes jostle each other affectionately, white shell beads jangle at their wrists as they high five the acquaintances they pass as they saunter along. One girl stops for a moment to stroke a cat that has weaved through her legs, she kneels down chatting to it, while rubbing under its chin, she waves a sad goodbye before running to catch up with her friends. On reaching them she throws her arms around their shoulders playfully like she has been gone for months.
I side step the cat as it rolls over onto its back in front of me sprawling across the warm pavement, eager for more attention. It closes its eyes tightly for a moment, then slowly opens them and lazily claws out for a moth that gets to close.
Further along the road I see the golden dome of the Neue Synagogue, I look to a scrap of paper and walk even slower knowing I am close. I carefully study each building to see if it matches the address I am searching for.
         The street is long and straight, full of comfortably faded buildings of crumbling elegance. Bright clashing shop fronts alive with colourful awnings sit next to shut up bars disappearing behind a thick coating of vivid fly posters that in turn recede behind the anti-passivity of culture jammers. The beautiful slow disintegration of rust and rot has been embraced; the past is free to peer through the peeling layers into the present. Things are worn, but not yet worn-out, the road radiates a carefree vibe, an emancipation from preciousness that nurtures the streets artistic occupants, there is a bravery, a willingness to make mistakes, the very essence of the creative sprit is palpable.  This directly affects the people who live, or even just pass through; they extrude exuberance and their own brand of unabashed integrity.
Further up in front of me, I spot a forest of bright orange parasols dotted between tables, drinks and large heavy looking plates are carted one way across the pavement, empty ones are taken the other. It is hard to distinguish the causally dressed waiters from customers, who seem to help out. An old man goes from table to table lighting candles that burn in glasses at the bottom of paper bags printed with dragonflies, they glow invitingly next to small flowering plants in terracotta pots. Bilingual menus are handwritten on blackboards, headed with the name Assel. Charmingly mismatched tables and chairs are filled with creative and bohemian types, who hold knifes and forks but eating is secondary to laughter and debates. Conversations are aggressively passionate, every phase emphasised with an exzaduraed gesture that somehow helps to conveys it meaning better. Fists are beat down on tables and raised voices are as frequent as the roars of laughter that boom out.