The Best Apartment in the Worst Building

The door buzzed, shuddered, and I stepped into the courtyard and thought: this is where a crime happened. Walls covered in the usual pseudo-autonomous scrawl, bikes and strollers jammed against the building in a formation that looked less like parking and more like abandonment, mailboxes painted over in competing hands. Prenzlauer Berg—unmistakable.

By the time I reached the rear building I was already composing my excuse for leaving quickly. Then the door opened. A young mother, child in tow—maybe four years old, nose running, regarding me with maximum suspicion—and she said, "Hi, come in." I smiled and followed, as one does.

Why do the worst buildings always hide the best apartments? I have never found an exception to this. The flat was enormous by any reasonable standard—old prewar layout, high ceilings, rooms unfolding into further rooms—and already half-full of prospective tenants moving through it in that particular slow, acquisitive way, everyone pretending to be more casual than they are.

The girl had her own set of rules. Her bedroom was hers, terms non-negotiable. "Don’t take my things," she told every person who approached the doorway—sometimes as a command, sometimes almost sung, like a property rights anthem she’d been workshopping all morning. I respected it. More than most adults manage, honestly.

I thanked the mother for the tour, said I’d call Tuesday, and walked back through the courtyard. It looked different now. Less hostile. Something almost like charming.

Prenzlauer Berg, then. Fine.