Why Berlin

Three cities, really. Munich if you want to pretend to be rich. Hamburg if you’re fine with pretending. Berlin if you’re done with the pretense and want to see what happens. Everything else is compromise.

You have to be a certain kind of person for Berlin. Not cautious. Not soft. Not someone who needs things to make sense. Young helps. A little wrecked helps. A real tolerance for chaos and failure and people who mean nothing when they talk. If you’re that person, Berlin’s right. If you’re someone who gravitates toward cheap drugs and bad music and friends who’d turn on you in a second, Berlin’s not a city, it’s the place where that thrives and eats you alive.

The actual Berlin doesn’t hide anything. Your failures are visible. Your wins are too. The beautiful parts—the light in the morning, the galleries in basements, the places that should fail but keep going—they’re only beautiful because the decay’s right there beside them. Nothing’s been polished into a lie.

So you go. Or you don’t. Most people don’t, and they’re right. But if you’re the type who looks at Berlin and thinks yes, you’re already half gone.