This City Is Filthy. I Love It.
Atelier ManganelThere’s a thin film of something on every surface in Berlin. You notice it most in summer—when the bins burst open like confetti and the U8 smells like last night’s beer and someone’s week-old socks. Some cities clean themselves up before company arrives. Berlin hands you a lukewarm Club-Mate and shrugs.
I once saw a rat dragging a pizza slice across Görlitzer Park. A full slice. It looked proud.
No one flinched. There’s a kind of honesty to the mess here. The city doesn’t pretend to be polished. It’s got cigarette butts tucked in the cracks of every sidewalk and empty bottles lining the canal like a lazy art installation. Trash day is everyday, and somehow, never.
But the dirt does something. It strips away the performance. You can’t be too precious when you’re stepping over broken glass or sitting on a sticky bench outside a späti at 2am. People talk more freely here. Laugh louder. Cry on the U-Bahn and get ignored—blessedly.
In a city this unbothered by appearances, you’re allowed to just be.
Of course, there are days when it gets to you. When your shoes stick to the floor of the tram and someone’s tossed a mattress into your bike lane. When the rain turns everything into a brownish-grey soup. But then the clouds break, and you’re drinking coffee on a graffiti-covered stoop with someone you just met. And it all feels weirdly perfect.
Clean cities are easy to admire. Dirty ones? You grow to love them.
