When I think of Berlin, I think of snot. This isn't Berlin's fault, per se; my arrival simply happened to coincide with the commencement of a week-long cold. Of course, Berlin, with its chilly air, persistent rain and grossly affordable beer, could hardly be said to have conditioned a swift recovery, and the hostel I had booked was more suited to coming down with things than recuperating from them. None of my symptoms were especially severe, but having defective taps for nostrils did stifle my irresistibility a touch. I feel like I blew my nose in at least half the city's restrooms, trumpeting out great viscous webs into hastily assembled toilet paper catchments while the occupants of neighbouring stalls surely imagined the worst.
Disentangling the mozzarella of mucus from my memories of Berlin, I can, with some effort, think of other things—beer and falafels, for example, both of which were so freely available I hardly bothered consuming anything else. A couple of the falafels even qualified as passable, which is nothing to sneeze at, though I did several times, adding much-needed seasoning in the process. Running down the list (What I Think of When I Think of Berlin), I think next of dog shit and cigarette butts. I never had occasion to sample either, but I'm reliably informed they are among the best in Central Europe. Which is to say, Berlin was grungier than I had expected—if 'grungy' is the right word for that certain something an overabundance of dog shit and cigarette butts lends a place. I should add that I was not exactly in the grungiest spot; my hostel was located in gentrified Friedrichshain, parts of which had a generic European air. But certainly one was never too far from a juicy piece of half-trodden excrement or several dozen stray butts, should the mood strike.
The nearest recommended coffee shop, if I may progress from talk of dog shit and cigarette butts, was an Australian venture called Silo. Though the coffee was decent, the atmosphere tended towards the twattish, and their configuration of avocado and toast was very nearly inedible, which is rather impressive considering it's avocado and toast. It arrived as a staircase of sliced avocado, two thirds of which had browned, atop an obscured piece of sourdough which, at some point during in its journey from the kitchen to my table, had expired in a tomato relish puddle. The sickly sweet relish overpowered every element except the bitterness of the avocado. I ate the whole thing, if you were wondering; I could live a thousand years and never be the type of person who would send back food in a restaurant. Instead, I channel my rage into little-visited pockets of the internet.