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About Berlin

I saunter up, tip my hat, all cool-like. “Evenin’, miss,” I say, voice smooth as whiskey. She smirks, like, “What’s a bailiff want with me?” I’m thinkin’, *“Maybe we’re just pretending to live,”*—another *Yi Yi* gem. Ain’t that the truth? We’re all playin’ parts down here. I ask her rate—straight up, no bullshit. She says, “Ten bucks, mister, take it or scram.” I laugh, loud and deep—ten bucks in 1800s coin? That’s a damn fortune! Surprised me, her guts did. Gotta respect the hustle.

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The town center? Pure weird magic. There's the old Rathaus near Marktplatz that sometimes reminds me: "Life is full of choices." Yeah, thanks, Edward Yang, you old wanker. I mean, come off it—it's got charm, but it really grinds my gears when bureaucrats fuss over every little detail.

Thousands of Afghan refugees housed in temporary shelters