At the Brandenburg Gate, this nude was proclaiming, in German, “I am the King of East Germany!” I leave you to complete the cliche.

I navigated my birthday. The actual date – 5th February for those  requiring an extra nudge of guilt to add to their day – passed as most birthdays do, in glum silence. An opportunity for me to remember the dead. Tuesday. Curtains closed. Phone, texts, Facebook humoured appropriately. It was, after all, one of those fucking landmarks. This one, the one where one passes from simply Old to utterly Aged. When the mirror is never reassuring. And as dear Rob, who has been in Berlin for centuries, has his same landmark birthday one day before me, I resolved to join him in Berlin for his celebration. And as punishment for my nearest and dearest – M and daughter Z – I invited them along.

When I telephoned Rob to confirm we would be coming he was delighted. “I don’t understand why you don’t celebrate! Why aren’t you joyful!” I explained. My birthday is the same day – a year apart – as that of my ex-wife. Big story. I won’t depress you with it here. She died. “Whatever,” he said. “We will be celebrating. And so will you!”

“Ok,” I said. “I promise.”

Berlin is the flavour of the mouth at the moment. And of the month, too. (Thanks autocorrect for reminding me that we ate darn well during our weekend. Mostly Italian…)

Just because I was going to Berlin, everybody seemed to be going to Berlin. The City probably paid their PR people to insert the place into every news item, blog, radio feature. Was it always like this? Or am I getting paranoid?

M was last in Berlin before the fall of the Wall. “I remember,” he said, “a claustrophobic city, everything small and on edge. Sad, broken buildings. Graffiti. Dirt.” and then, there was the Corridor.

The Corridor was the long swoosh of road from West Germany to Berlin, through massed kilometres of East Germany, bleak and bland fields stretching for miles, East German police patrolling in paranoid  panda cars, longing to catch westerners travelling over the speed limit so they could get some Deutschmarks, or better still,  dollars off them. There were motorway services scattered liberally along the distance too. Where Stasi operatives disguised as waiters would serve amazingly cheap, if unimaginative organic food to travellers while no doubt planting microphones in the pumpkins.

Then milk was unforgettable. Unpasteurised, rich, full-cream. I have never tasted better nor ever will. Those Commies sure could do milk.

The grandeur of a Capital City – some of it real

Berlin has been scraped clean, sanitised of its past, and the scrapings – all the blood, tears and delusions – put into boxes labelled “museum”. There are museums of everything from motorbikes to nail clippings. Oh yes, of the Wall, of the Holocaust, of the War as well.  There is no aspect of the past the Germans won’t sell. And they are frantically rebuilding it, too. The few grand old edifices that survived the RAF have been patched, recarved, refurbished, re-enlivened. And the whole area around Unter den Linden, toward the Brandenburg Gate feels like a Prussian Imperial march, full of the pomp and power of a great capital. Intensely serious colonnaded edifices,  capped by domes turning into perfect simulations of how they would have looked before they were slapped down.

Behind boards, a Baroque palace is being rebuilt from photographs and dusty memories. Astonishing.

Party on!

And on Saturday night we partied. Extremely. In the company of around thirty wide-eyed thirty-something and up beings full of love and flowers, most of them in a suspiciously ecstatic state-of mind.  The theme was hippie. Germans do not take themes lightly! There were beads and braids, beards and baldies. The music veered from hippie to Techno – with Rob on guitar in between.

Rob and an adoring acolyte

Though I had no drinks or drugs I had a great time. I’m keeping the drink and drugs for after getting a terminal diagnosis. Boy, I’ll have it all! Almost looking forward to it. Rob, on the other hand.. tee hee!

So now I’m officially aged I intend to fall apart in an undignified but probably stoical manner. I will carry on pushing my body beyond its limits, why not. And regarding A&E as a second home. I will continue wishing people would would fucking listen when I explain the things I’ve learned. And I will continue shutting up, because I know they won’t listen. There’s nothing worse than a garrulous aged know-it all. And next birthday, if there is one – well, I’d be happy to do Berlin again…