Two times I visited Berlin in the past six years and both times I fell in love with the Oberbaum Bridge. From Calatrava’s central bay, the view to the west reveals a complex skyline consisting of buildings from almost every era, and to the east the tranquil river scenery of metropolitan Berlin fading to its eastern suburbs, with Jonathan Borofsky’s 100 feet tall sculpture Molecule Man on the river. I remember what it was like to walk through the lights and shadows of the colonnade under the railway viaduct in the afternoon, along with the many bikers and dog-walkers, beside the busy traffic of trams and cars, and feeling the frequent vibrations of the u-bahn trains above my head. Nothing, not even memories or tales, can replace the simple pleasure of walking on the Oberbaum. The reconstructed bridge may not live up to the expectations of some architects to unfold the future glories of the German capital, yet in its own right it has successfully drawn a closure to the past epoch and is paving the way to a future with fewer political burdens and plenty of life.
In the City of Black-and-White, every speck of grime on the timber sidings of an old house calls on memories of transient splendors of a great city. In the labyrinth of houses whose wooden façades had never known of paint for centuries, contemporary urban landscape is merely a series of frozen images, monotonous and serene, like real-size postcards for inhabitants to look back with nostalgia at their own childhood. It is here where humble architecture stands unchanged beyond generations. Only memories and tales are subject to renewal from time to time.
