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Matt Cornish he Berlin Wall, die Mauer, is something of a disembodied soul, its material gone to dust, its absence ever more absent. Walking, spazierien, through T Prenzlauer Berg, with its conspicuous consumption in the form of baby carriages and shops selling Scandinavian children’s clothing, 100 percent bamboo, you might think: this was the West. You would be wrong. It’s just crowded with migrants from Bavaria and America, the apartments chicly saniert and offered to folks like me on AirBnB. (In 1990, you could have bought an apartment for as much as you’ll pay to crash there for two weeks in 2019.) To a newly arrived visitor, the Western districts of Neukölln, still ragged, and Wedding, miles of gray, might feel more like their imaginary of the East than Prenzlberg. In the thirty years since November 9, 1989, a generation has grown up without the Wall, while the generation that caused it to be built is dying off. Today, the Berlin Wall is a tourist trap. In the New York Times this past year, I read earnest debates about whether a Hard Rock Café (it would be Berlin’s first) should be built next to Checkpoint Charlie. Checkpoint Charlie has
PAJ: A Journal of Performance and Art – MIT Press
Published: Sep 1, 2019
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