The Madison sat across from the gigantic Sony building. William had sent me digital pictures of the neighborhood and I could confirm I was in the right place. I flew up to his floor, stepped out of the elevator, found his door, and tapped.
There are few sounds as gleeful as the footsteps of true love running to greet its very own. His tip-tapping feet made me smile. Whoosh, the door opened and, from the look on his face, I guessed William was equally amazed I'd come so far.
The studio apartment, with its Japanese aesthetic of hardwood floors and tawny stained doors, looked fresh and welcoming. Off the bedroom area, double doors led into a green-glass and marble bathroom. An efficiency kitchen shimmered in stainless steel and dark granite.
William opened a bottle of red wine and we toasted our reunion. He fried up a couple of bratwurst links, placed them on wheat bread, and spread spicy mustard on top. For William, Germany was sausage heaven. At almost every street corner one could find a seller grilling away. The cool air of those October days was permeated with the scent of seasoned meats that could tempt even the most determined vegetarian.
After a hot bath in a luxurious tub, we crawled under silky white sheets and a fluffy white duvet. I slept the deepest of sleeps after, good God, seeing Paris and getting to Berlin all the way from Los Angeles — in one day.
William had the next day off and we slept until noon. I awoke rested and ready for a new world. After coffee, I pushed open a heavy apartment window, a sturdy example of Germanic construction. We were situated in a bustling, well-trafficked area of the city, but couldn't hear a thing with those windows closed. I looked far below to the street, where people called to each other and the sounds of honking wafted up on a breeze of barbecued sausage.
Since the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and the reunification of East and West Berlin in 1990, the city had become enormous. From our apartment window I studied a skyline marked with construction cranes perched high on the glass and steel marvels growing across the landscape. For architecture buffs, Berlin had quite a show going on.
And what a day to wake up in this city, the third of October in the year 2000. It was the tenth anniversary of the reunification and the city was poised to party. We started with a stroll through the Tiergarten, a lush, tree-filled park covering one square mile with fourteen linear miles of swirling paths running through it. An urban glen comparable to London's Hyde Park or New York City's Central Park.
In 1772, Frederick II (the Great), King of Prussia, decreed that any couple wishing to marry or any person wishing to become a citizen must plant a tree. There's a thought. He was an early green guy and the city flourished in flora until it didn't...during WWII.
The trees canopied over us were a mere fifty years old. During the Allied bombings, the park was destroyed and most trees were lost. In the years following the war, any remaining growth was used for fuel as Berliners faced harsh winters. The Allies placed guards around the Berlin Zoo after some citizens climbed the walls and slaughtered animals for food.
As we left the park, I looked down and noticed the embedded print of the former wall. This was it. We were walking on top of a curved and harmless pattern of The Wall. The source of broken families, restriction, espionage and death, reduced to a worn stencil.
We followed the wall's path to the formidable Brandenburg Gate, an edifice commissioned by Frederick II to act as a symbol of peace. Minus the twenty-eight long years of anguished separation between East and West, the gate can now do its job. On October 3, 2000, this was the focal point for Berliners celebrating their anniversary.
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