High life
The price of greatness
Taki
Berlin rivingriving down Unter den Linden one can feel something of its former cosmopoli- tan elegance, but it is mostly an exercise in imagining ghosts. Humboldt University and the former crown prince's palace help one envisage the pre-Nazi grandeur of the city, but the rude awakening comes at Alexan- derplatz. The square that forms the hub of the city is as bleak a place as communism is an ideology, a constant reminder of how `Your wife is seeing another man. It's her solicitor.' grim life was for the average Fritz under those recently departed socialist fiihrers.
Yet there is something about the Prus- sian metropolis that is deeply nostalgic. From the time of Prussia's greatest tri- umphs to the depths of its greatest disaster Berlin has been the focal point of Ger- many's destiny. Now, finally, it is once again a united city and it is interesting to see whether Berlin will once again assume the political and cultural importance it has always held. I for one hope so. Berlin has certainly paid the price of greatness.
My first stop was the Kempinski Bristol hotel, as I was told it was the place to stay. It does not have the grandeur of, say, Vicky Baum's fictional Grand Hotel, but then nowadays what does? It is nevertheless a very good, functional hotel with excellent service and a perfect location just off the Ku'damm, the bustling two-mile-long street lined with more than 100 restaurants and bars. On my first night out I got tickets to the Deutsche Staatsoper Berlin, the beauti- ful neo-classical opera house in the eastern part of the city, mercifully restored in its original by those nice guys in black after the war. The opera was, of course, Die Hochzeit des Figaro, sung in German. Although da Ponte wrote it in Italian, the marriage works just as well in Mozart's lan- guage, especially on that particular night. Der Graf Almaviva and Cherubino were, for lack of a better word, unbelievable, and the crowd gave them the applause they
deserved.
Needless to say, the public was well- dressed and extremely polite, albeit on the older side. Berliners, despite what Goethe said about them, are perfectly well- behaved. There was no rudeness, just smiles and nonstop thank-yous. But then when was the last time one was rude at the opera while listening to Mozart?
After that I went up to Kreuzberg, the hill that is haven to radical elements, where the Baader-Meinhof gang is still revered. I met some friends in an Italian restaurant which turned out in retrospect to be the gay centre of the city, the mother of my children being the only lady born a female in the whole place.
Next day it was Potsdam, and the great Sanssouci palace of Frederick the Great. It is probably the most beautiful rococo one- storey building anywhere, used by the great man for reading and music. Freddy was a hell of a ruler, in fact made people like Napoleon and Wellington seem like bar- barians. And Potsdam is a hell of a town, once a major Baroque city, now a garrison for soon-to-leave Russkies.
I finished my culture tour by going to the Rembrandt exhibition in the Altes Muse- um, where my favourite Rembrandt — Ganymede being snatched — was being shown. Berlin seems to have a remarkably soothing effect on me.
Jeffrey Bernard is unwell.
Previous page
