kreuzberg flohmarkt

Children for sale? The stands are rickety raggedy just like Mad Max and there is a telling picture of what life would really be like after a nuclear explosion. Lots of strange bits of industrial waste and spare metal parts and junked up mechanics held together with masking tape. Each stand economizes on space, or rather, crams as much stuff possible through ingenious methods; strings tied to rafters in the ceiling, dangling with paintings and guitars and even little girls on the end (girl for sale? who knows!) There is the cacophany of so many old radios playing at once, although quite a majority are tuned into the Turkish language radio station. And there is a famous gay Turkish pop star right now naked kuyum asid. Or ayum kasid. He's whipping out a song that I can tell is about losing everything and gaining it back and then losing it again, although to a tinny techno beat with lots of smiles. all these conservative Muslim Turkish men stranded in Germany listening to him might make him grin in amusement. But it's not the men that are the toughest; their women bark sharply and are surprisingly active despite the heat. They are head to toe in polyester gowns and veils, rectangle shaped with stronge beefy capable hands. The women haggle ruthlessly with scrawny punk boys, talking them down and not budging 20 pfennigs. Everywhere is the sharp bark, "Billig! Billig! Billig!" Cheap! Cheap! Cheap! and the clatter of people bumping into things, knocking things down.
der Kreuzbergflohmarkt
	There is an emperor here! A man in old tattered clothes walked around with a peacock fan and an umbrella. He dashes inbetween all the stands talking to people he knows or is it just people being indulgent? They smile at him and want to pat him on the head. They do pat him on the head. Another random crazy person runs up to him and puts holographic three dimensional sunglasses on his face so that the umbrella man turns around and everybody screams! His bewildered girlfriend follows him around carrying a large handbag full of books and clothes. When he stops she stands respectfully a few feeet behind, absorbing the conversation before her but not participating, saving every bit of information for future use. She is dressed like him in road warrior fashion, a tank top and old blue jeans and a head of billowy sandy hair. They rejoin their circle of friends outside by the bridge, four crazy men living in a van and selling odds and ends on blankets on the street. A portable flea market. They talk about something very important and make huge gestures with their arms. Where has that van been? Where have they lived? I bet all over Europe. They are leathery people, skin sundamaged and hair wild and free. They have a strength I envy, these old travelling people. When you're young this kind of life is easy and romantic, and you always look good rolling up in the morning, but at this age, how do you get through the days? How do you keep from settling down and nesting? Maybe the van is the nest and since everything here looks post nuclear, that is how we will all be in the future. Living in vans, sunburned, careless and almost carefree.
On the canal is a rickety old house converted to a biergarten. The water is mucky and has a light smattering of flies but it's the water and there's always something festive about the water. It can be forgiven for its fault because it is the water. On plastic seventies chairs we sit and sip capirinhas, watching the other houseboats on the river. Tattooed families and old gentlemen pass and gather and dissolve. Women holding babies with their backs turned to us, exhausted women with arms in bags of babie junk. The people around us are incredibly hip. They are lanky butterflies in tight designer clothing and unconventional but properly fashionable haircuts. They sit smoking and nursing cocktails and making witty jabs at each other, eyes blank. Or their eyes are hidden by trendy sunglasses, revealing even less. We sit and stare with our capirinhas at the lone woman on the other side of the pier. Her hair is bushy, out of control, and she wears black even on this rare warm Berlin day. She knots her eyebrows together, dissatisfied with something, and reads a blue book, every once in a while looking up at people to judge them. I wilt under her eyes and draw her undercover, hoping she never discovers how closely I watch her. She looks like a heavier Frieda Kahlo--wasn't Frieda half German?
The end of the day and there are Turkish families snacking on the grass on blankets. People wander away from the Flohmarkt with treasures in hand. Stained paintings, old blankets, used bicycles. Children wave goodbye to each other and I wonder where the little Turkish girl is who sat in the swing for sale. One day I find out the truth and I'll discover that she has some connection with the Frieda Kahlo woman and even the man in the umbrella. Through acquaintances and coworkers and relatives and family, they all somehow know each other and have dinner at times, and fight and kiss and bond together in a place other than the Flohmarkt.