‍
This is a share from my book Ace Egos – the chapter ‘Run to Paradise.’

On course in the van again. Reaching max speed. Sheets of fresh breeze through the windows. The grim reaper on the rear-view mirror tilting maniacally at its ragged ends. The van cut through the road in a percussive kind of way, in sync with other sound vibrations. Of life outside. Life inside. I took deep breaths of air. Looking around at the brilliant space the Silver Sovereign (the name of our van) rode into. Holding in that breath of air, filling my body. Feeling the fullness of life. Then exhaling slowly.

Beauty lay in the wide vista before me. Sparse green meadows dashed with yellow; clusters of bushy trees; changing into miniature forests, the smell of nettles layering the beds and the cool of shade. This was an invigorating run. Toward an invigorating place. I anticipated no haywire events pouncing out at us. No running with the devil today.

Our final destination was ‘Tiergarten,’ or ‘Animal Garden.’ Our home in Berlin for a few months. From Hamburg, just a three-hour downward curve east over Germany, then coasting into the centre of Berlin, into the city's oldest and largest park. Filled with forests and lakes. A splendid paradise that humbly resided in Berlin’s eclectic metropolis.

Snuggled inside a part of Tiergarten was Tentstation – the Silver Sovereign’s favourite place in the whole world. Tentstation was a ‘campingplatz’ where people could stay in tents, cars or campervans. Surrounded by nature pleasing the senses; just set back enough from the main cobble-stone road. Out there were low-rise apartments, funky boxy buildings, and a mother of a grocery store – a German one. In Germany. Huzzah!

Tenstation was Berlin’s Shangri-La. An unused swimming pool was now a beach volleyball court, lounges scattered throughout a loft cafe above; with a DJ and a view of the famous Television Tower in ‘Mitte’ - the city’s hip central neighbourhood. From any corner of the camping place, you could meander afar along a wide path, weaving through thick canopies and patches of green lawns, each anchored with a huge tree or two.

We pulled into the Tentstation. The lady at reception offered us our regular site, far in amongst the woods. With shade, and walking distance to a swimming pool. Close to showers, change rooms, laundry, and kitchen. A complete paradise. In the Green Heart of Berlin. We also reserved a tent space, for extra space. She told us about a festival next week that was in the field behind Tentstation. Cream Demon would be headlining the festival, followed by a ‘secret special guest.’ The timing could not be better.

The van was set up holiday-home style, with the top popped. We also set up a tent in the woods, with a fire pit. I was going to live in the tent-spot for a month, then Tori and I would swap. Tent-life; Van-life. I was happy about having nights at this tent-spot, with a community of others distanced well apart. Being close to creatures of the night. And the gentle hush of the leaves rustling through pure Berlin air.  Nights under the stars, seeing them as the city did. A light morning mist. Waking up to giant trees stretching, birds chirping and this whole fortune fortune-ing.

Afterwards, Tori went for a swim. I went for a walk deeper into the woods. How revitalising it was, the weight of my energy releasing into the surroundings. I decided I’d do that every day of the week. Around 7 in the morning. The leaves all around waving; branches wriggling. Fragrance of moistened earth. I melted into the peaceful vibes. Sometimes a walking path would meet the road, and go over a bridge that you’d swear was in the German country-side. One day I even walked to the Victory Column – the famous golden angelic statue in the middle of a monumental roundabout. And down Strasse des 17. Juni where I was awed by the Brandenburg Gate.

The grandeur was unreal. But Berlin had other parts, saucy and sleazy. Both parts sat side by side. It was a huge reason why legendary artists were drawn to this city: Patti Smith, David Bowie, Iggy Pop.

A week of easeful serenity had passed by. I’d almost forgotten about the festival. Bands were performing in our own backyard! Cream Demon would headline later that night. Time for some sunset mingling. Along a semi-dusty road, lots of punks, ferals, hippies, and rainbow people weaved in and around each other. In a completely tranquil vibe. There were food stalls, with options for trashed (currywurst) and conscious (falafel) consumers. Buskers performed. Beer caps popped – Sternberg Export – the performer-punk-artist’s beer. In most of Berlin, bottles of it were drunk in the streets. Piled high on tables at bars. Band rehearsal rooms were littered with them.

This was a moment I could enjoy, that I hadn't for a long time. No place I had to be. Noone to try and please. Ah, how unburdened it felt. I was happily sipping on the ‘Poor Man’s Brew of Berlin,’ when something made my ears prick up. A voice. That I couldn’t mistake.

Photos:
Sunset: Pixabay
Forest: Michele Petruzzelli
Brandenburg Gate: Abdel Rahman Abu Baker