In 2003, Berlin had just woken up from a decade-long fever dream: the Wall had fallen, the city had reunited and the two German states had a common capital once again. Financially, Berlin’s awakening was a total hangover: billions in debt had piled up and unemployment had reached an all-time high. Culturally, however, the city was blooming. The arts and nightlife were bustling like a never-ending after-hours party on the leftovers of the cold war. This parallelism of decay and pleasure was described by the then mayor, Klaus Wowereit, in an interview that year as “poor but sexy”.
The phrase was so cheesy and so powerful, it became a slogan for Berlin’s image in subsequent years, drawing young creatives from all over the world to the city’s promising subculture scenes and its relatively affordable housing. One of these young people was me. In 2012, when I had just graduated from university, I planned to stay in Berlin for the summer. Twelve years on, I am still here.
