Berlin Was Better When I First Moved Here (And So Was I)

I’m going to say the thing everyone thinks and then pretends not to: Berlin was better when I first moved here.

Not because the city was objectively better. It probably wasn’t. It was still damp, chaotic, and held together with cigarette ash and unresolved childhood trauma. But back then, I was new enough to confuse my own confusion for culture.

Berlin didn’t glow. I did. Like a phone screen on 3% battery: bright, desperate, and lying.

The City Didn’t Get Worse. My Standards Got Older.

When I arrived, everything felt like a secret. Every staircase smelled like a conspiracy. Every bar felt like I’d been personally invited by an underground committee of attractive people who definitely read books and definitely did not have group chats.

Now I know the truth: the “secret” bar is just a bar. The “underground” is just a basement. The “invite-only” vibe is just someone being rude because that’s the local love language.

Back then, I called it authenticity. Now I call it: “I can’t hear anything and my back hurts.”

I Miss the Version of Me Who Thought Struggle Was a Personality

I used to romanticize inconvenience like it was a lifestyle brand.

• No hot water? “Minimalism.”
• No heating? “European.”
• No money? “Freedom.”
• No plan? “Spontaneity.”

What I actually had was untreated anxiety and a talent for confusing discomfort with character development.

I look at my younger self with the tenderness of someone watching a raccoon try to wash cotton candy in a puddle: sweet, hopeful, and about to learn a sticky lesson.

The Berlin I Fell in Love With Was Mostly Just Projection

I didn’t fall in love with Berlin. I fell in love with the idea that I could come here and be reborn as a cooler person without doing any of the boring work, like therapy or accountability.

Berlin was my chosen witness protection program.

Nobody knew me, which meant I could invent myself from scratch. I wasn’t “unemployed,” I was “between projects.” I wasn’t “lonely,” I was “independent.” I wasn’t “lost,” I was “exploring.”

And Berlin, bless its grimy little heart, let me do it. It didn’t ask for a résumé. It didn’t ask for references. It just shrugged and said, “Fine, be whoever you want. Just don’t stand in the bike lane.”

Everyone Complains About New People. That’s How You Know They’re New.

Here’s the fun part: the second I’d been here long enough to stop getting lost, I started doing what all Berlin residents do when they hit their expiration date—complaining about newcomers.

Suddenly I was the guy muttering, “It used to be different.”

Different how?

In the past, the annoying people were my friends.

That’s it. That’s the whole mystery.

We all want a city that stays frozen at the exact moment we arrived, like a museum exhibit titled “The Year I Was Still Hot.”

But cities don’t do that. They keep moving. People show up. People leave. The rents rise. The vibes mutate. Your favorite place closes and becomes something you’d rather die than be seen entering.

And you age into the kind of person who says, “I don’t go out anymore,” like it’s a moral achievement instead of a bedtime.

Berlin Is Still Berlin. I’m Just Not a Tourist in My Own Life Anymore.

The cruelest truth is this: Berlin still has the same filthy charm it always had. It’s still messy, stubborn, dramatic, and allergic to improvement.

The difference is I can’t pretend it’s all part of my personal coming-of-age montage.

I don’t walk around thinking, “Anything could happen tonight.”

Now I walk around thinking, “I hope nothing happens tonight.”

That’s not Berlin getting worse. That’s me graduating from “romanticizing chaos” to “wanting a functional nervous system.”

So yes, Berlin was better when I first moved here.

Because I was younger. Dumber. Hornier. More delusional. I could survive on cheap beer, bad decisions, and the belief that my life was about to start any minute.

It did start.

This is it.

And if you’re new here and you’re having the time of your life—good. Enjoy it. Be insufferable. Fall in love with the city like it’s a person who will text you back.

Just do me one favor: when you inevitably start saying, “Berlin used to be better,” don’t blame the city.

Blame your knees.