Belonging Is a Scam
★ The April Issue
WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A BERLINER WHO SPENDS EASTER AT BERGHAIN AND A DÖNER? ONE’S GREASY AND FULL OF MYSTERY MEAT; THE OTHER’S A DÖNER.
On the first Sunday of April, I got rosé-drunk and gave myself a haircut.
The mirror in my bathroom is tiny and mounted way too low—a design choice dictated by my landlady J., who’s left Berlin for Lisbon. Every time I crouch to find my reflection, I have to think of her.
So I crouched, thinking of J., scissors in hand, MacArthur Park playing through my iPhone speaker. The seven-minute version, courtesy of Richard Harris: “Spring was never waiting for us, girl. It ran one step ahead as we followed in the dance.”
The haircut turned out fine. Not great. But fine in a way that makes you think that maybe everything else will be fine, too.
Triumphant, I went downstairs for a cigarette. I might be spiraling, but not enough to smoke inside.
On the stairwell, I ran into my neighbor, Frau R. She smiled at me, bright and unbothered. I smiled back—lips pressed together, one corner lifted, head tilted just enough to register goodwill.
As I passed, her apartment door cracked open. I caught the scent. R.’s place smelled like home. Like a decent, emotionally ventilated childhood. Like potato soup. Like something settled.
My apartment doesn’t smell like that. It smells like burnt moka pot coffee. Like second-hand leather mixed with “Leather” by Acqua di Parma. On a good day, like sandalwood incense from that one shop in MaHalla. Like a life you have to narrate to yourself in order to believe it.
Overheard at Soho House Berlin’s quinceañera:
—Do you come here often?
—How dare you…
On the third Sunday of April, Easter came to town; J. (the big J., not to be confused with the landlady J.) has officially risen. Everyone and their mother vanished—home to Brandenburg, or Bavaria, or off to some faintly fascist Airbnb on the Amalfi Coast. A seasonal exodus that leaves the Hauptstadt suspiciously hollow.
Those who stayed behind? Broke. Bitter. Too far removed—emotionally, geographically, bureaucratically. Or, god forbid, actually settled?
Or just gay. The gays don’t leave, of course. They dust off their harnesses and head to SNAX. Or get brunch and talk about going to SNAX. I sat next to a table of men at Sant Buena discussing wristband pickup like it was communion. Maybe it is. Poppers instead of candles. High-BPM mixtapes instead of church hymns.
If so many go “home” for Easter, what is home for those who remain?
The word itself, “home,” is tricky to begin with. In German, you have Heimat, which isn’t exactly where you live. According to Wikipedia, it’s “the opposite of feeling alien.” It’s where your soul supposedly belongs.
Does your soul belong in 10115? 10119, perhaps? Does your Heimat come with a basement storage unit and a broken intercom?
Overheard on Torstrasse:
—I’m genuinely so inspired by you.
—I’m… so… inspired by your outfit.
Berliners rarely speak of Heimat. Too sentimental, too earnest. What you get instead could be more accurately described as residency.
Roughly half the city’s residents weren’t born here. Make no mistake, though: this isn’t New York, by any means. Berlin doesn’t wrap you in ambition and say, “Let’s build a life.” It just looks at you, mildly unimpressed, and shrugs: you coming or what?
And people do come—by way of accident rather than aspiration. And they stay—for a job that sort of exists, or a love interest who still has a toothbrush at their ex’s.
A soft landing. A one-year lease that becomes five. Suddenly, you’re the person giving advice on Anmeldung appointments, and where to get your boots resoled.
That’s what no one tells you: home is not always about “belonging.” Sometimes, it’s about the ambient suspension. About the lack of leaving.
The late sociologist Zygmunt Bauman called it “liquid modernity”—a state of constant transition, where stability isn’t just elusive but irrelevant, and mobility is both a privilege and a trap.
Berlin doesn’t fight this. It metabolizes it. Turns it into a badge of honor. Like a squat with functioning plumbing.
Home, then, converts something else entirely. A provisional agreement. A non-choice that stretches long enough to calcify into commitment.
Home is no longer the prize. It’s the residue. Potato soup, sometimes. Spilled poppers, maybe. Someone else’s childhood clinging to the stairwell air.
Spring is here again. And so are you. Not home for good, likely—but here long enough to watch the seasons change again. Long enough to grow back what you cut.
Long enough to light another cheeky cig. To inhale someone else’s childhood—and maybe even claim it as your own.
★ TBD Excitement
According to Mitte Daily’s founder, Dima:
May Day block parties (duh). Fatboy Slim at About Blank. The long-awaited return of Mitte Daily’s Pétanque Picnic (yes, this is the official announcement—details below). Gallery Weekend. Paper Positions. Berlin Piano Festival. Long Book Night on Oranienstrasse, in case you speak German. My birthday. The “Brutalist Italy” exhibit. The new spring menu at Cookies Cream. 1PLUS1’s speed-dating event at Tiny’s. The breakfast market at Holzmarkt.
According to Mitte Daily’s intern, Katoo:
Gelato Week. 40 years of the Berlin Women’s Run. FKA Twigs in concert. The “here surrounded by water” performance by Juana. Open-air cinemas.
★ RSVP!!!
Mitte Daily’s Pétanque Picnic
Saturday, May 31, from 4 p.m.
Mitte Daily’s Pétanque Picnic returns! Those familiar with the lore will remember this dangerously charming series from last summer. Well, dears, we’re back.
Save the date and meet the emerging communauté of Mitte Daily for the ultimate afternoon of balls and giggles. Bring your blanket and a drink of choice; we’ll provide the boules and the company.
★ IRL of the Month
Family-run locksmith shop with a Bosch complex
Brunnenstrasse 8, 10119 Berlin
Fuck Berlin doors. Being locked out of your apartment isn’t a question of if but when. I learned that the hard way. Thank god for the locksmith at Brunnenstrasse 8. An old-school family business run by Russian men who look gloomier than the massive Hieronymus Bosch print that covers the entrance wall of their shop. They won’t smile. They won’t small-talk. But they will do the job without ripping you off. And when handing over a perfect new copy of your Schlüssel, they’ll slip a tiny sweet into your hand. No explanation. Just a quiet act of mercy in a city that generally assumes you should know better.
Did you enjoy the read? If so, then share it with someone whose house smells like home (or someone whose house smells like burnt moka pot coffee—they deserve it too). Hated it? No worries. Berlin was never waiting for us anyway.
I’m a Londoner, but I love these intriguing glimpses into Berlin. A vicarious pleasure!
Another great read. Your content is always about something that’s also on my mind 🤘