one cannot always be observing firsthand; one must also stay inside and reimagine, sift, refine, and sharpen sentences. Such was Saturday. And with such a massive demonstration, I would get lost in the scripted sentiments, the replicated postures. But you couldn’t escape the gist: “STOP TTIP/CETA für einen gerechten Welthandel”(“STOP TTIP/CETA for a world of fair trade”). Today, red and green flags still wander the Tiergarten, the demo anti-corporate/pro-environment/pro-labor/pro-consumer/pro-democracy vibe sustaining a feeling of positive lift.
I pedal through the aimless political drift, zigzagging my way to the Chinese poet Yang Lian (or, as one would say in English, Lian Yang) in Schöneberg, my old Kiez from two years ago. The hookers of Kurfürstenstrasse are already out on a Sunday afternoon, a block or so from Lian’s conspicuously renovated stretch—such is Berlin, where prostitution is legal. They all look like immigrants from the East, some having perfected their slow sexual strutting, others merely standing in the street as if they are saving a parking space for a friend. Bright high-cut shorts hug flesh-tone tights—it’s getting colder—and make theatrically explicit the parody of flashy mating dance. Maybe women hooking from Poland, Hungary, Czech Republic, Serbia, Macedonia have the relative privilege of working in the brothels ... am I seeing a societal labor sub-class? Note to self: ask a German guy in a Kneipe near Oranienstrasse (another street, in Mitte, where I’m living now, also known as a district for sex workers—they hover around the historic Neue Synogogue).
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