Running From Roots

by Karina Zourikian (Canada)

Making a local connection Germany

Even with tears obscuring my vision, I could tell Berlin would be beautiful. I was having trouble adjusting my eyes to the dark and coming to terms with being stranded in the middle of Alexanderplatz. Deflated, I watched the last train pass me by. Realistically, sobbing for three hours on a bench until the first train arrived at 4am was an awful idea. However, I was not emotionally prepared to accept my alternative: walking to my hostel in Mitte without directions in the middle of the dark. I sat alone in an empty square, safe for a few homeless who respectfully did not comment on my loud weeping. With my head in my hands, I barely noticed the man who approached me with a bicycle by his side. I looked up and he hesitantly spoke in perfect English, (I guess Germans don’t wail the way Canadians do). “Um, do you have a lighter?” It was not what I was expecting him to say, and I nodded disconnectedly. He asked why I was crying. I told Stephen I was lost as I got to know him. He was a 32-year-old half-German, originally a hippy from California, and maybe this is why I trusted him when he offered to bike me home. “But first,” he said, “Would you want to grab a beer with me?” This was the part where I could hear my mother reminding me to trust no man while away. In her eyes, all of them were potential sex-traffickers. He noticed my pause, and chuckled as he promised to keep his hands strictly on his bike and his beer. Without a better idea, I apologized to the mom in my mind and followed him out of the platz. The streets were emptier than I assumed they would be on an August night, but when we reached the Lustgarten, I could see patches of people spread across the lawn. Stephen informed me some of them were constant accessories to the park, but I could not tell the difference between the ones rooted alongside the trees and the ones whose legs were free. Stephen laid on the grass like he belonged. I don’t know how he managed to do so comfortably; I distinctly remember the prickly blades piercing my jeans. The oasis in the middle of the city might have been pretty during the day, but that night the trees shook like a pack of wet mutts. He told me being out wasn’t so bad. “You know you are a true adventurer if you can find a place to stay wherever you go, whenever.” He cocked his head and took a lazy sip of his beer. “Mhm is that so...” I murmured, imagining the stiff bed waiting for me at my hostel. He sat up, rocking forward, and searched for my stare. “I haven’t paid rent in two years.” At nineteen, I learned what house-squatting was for the first time. Stephen spoke passionately about the house he lived in with six others. He described the living room strewn with mats as an infinite slumber party. He talked of freedom and living as a nomad, bustling from couch to floor. His dark skin blended in with the ground and in those shadows, I only saw him when he opened his eyes. “It’s genius, really.” he sighed. When I did not reply, he looked at me and must have seen something in my blank stare and my biting lip, because he tried to kiss me. His arm snaked around my neck and the smell of dirt forced my duck and squirm. I politely turned him down. He shrugged, downed his beer and grabbed his bike. I took a seat behind him and put my hands around his waist awkwardly. We rode in silence for a while; he was going very slow. His large backpack in the basket steered us anxiously. “So,” I finally coughed, “Where are you going to stay tonight?” “I don’t know,” he laughed, “Wherever the wind takes me!” But at that moment, all the trees went still (or at least, I felt they did). I keep thinking they were eavesdropping and suddenly remembered they had roots.