So, in keeping with the theme of my possible early demise, I
thought I’d break into another abandoned building in Berlin. This one was
slightly safer however; I only scaled one wall, and I had two friends with me.
Pretty sure they had my back!
The three most frightening aspects of this break-and-enter were the amounts of debris I felt myself inhaling (all of a sudden I felt like a pack-a-day smoker!), the pretty hardcore Nazi graffiti throughout, and the freakin’ cycle there! This place was in Grünau, a goodly cycle North of Berlin city centre, and though the majority of the ride was warm and glorious along Treptower Park, in one unforseen change of events the road turned into what I’m pretty sure is the main highway to Dresden! So the bike lane vanished, the footpath vanished, and the cars were damned fast! I had no choice but to soldier on however (there was no possible turning back at this point), and the cars did not take too kindly to my being there! One particular arsehole motorist even overtook me just to get directly in front of me, slow right down and commence showering with me their windscreen wiper fluid! That was a first for me, and initially I was so thrown off by their bloody mindedness that I actually waved apologetically at them, embarrassed by being in the wrong! As they continued to spray me, I realised what was happening and seconds later I reverted back to my general cycling demeanour with the ol’ middle finger straight out yelling my panicked ‘resort to English in times of crisis’ abuse. I long for the day when my abuse turns instinctively to German! “DU BIST EIN ARSCHLOCH!!!” Hehe. That’ll mean I’ve truly integrated into German society. Surely then I’d be eligible for citizenship!?
Things only got worse as I reached the village of Grünau. In my frenzied state, I managed to overlook the major roadwork happening and cycled straight into the wet bitumen being laid. More German abuse directed at me, more flustered Cristal placating with niceties.
The three most frightening aspects of this break-and-enter were the amounts of debris I felt myself inhaling (all of a sudden I felt like a pack-a-day smoker!), the pretty hardcore Nazi graffiti throughout, and the freakin’ cycle there! This place was in Grünau, a goodly cycle North of Berlin city centre, and though the majority of the ride was warm and glorious along Treptower Park, in one unforseen change of events the road turned into what I’m pretty sure is the main highway to Dresden! So the bike lane vanished, the footpath vanished, and the cars were damned fast! I had no choice but to soldier on however (there was no possible turning back at this point), and the cars did not take too kindly to my being there! One particular arsehole motorist even overtook me just to get directly in front of me, slow right down and commence showering with me their windscreen wiper fluid! That was a first for me, and initially I was so thrown off by their bloody mindedness that I actually waved apologetically at them, embarrassed by being in the wrong! As they continued to spray me, I realised what was happening and seconds later I reverted back to my general cycling demeanour with the ol’ middle finger straight out yelling my panicked ‘resort to English in times of crisis’ abuse. I long for the day when my abuse turns instinctively to German! “DU BIST EIN ARSCHLOCH!!!” Hehe. That’ll mean I’ve truly integrated into German society. Surely then I’d be eligible for citizenship!?
Things only got worse as I reached the village of Grünau. In my frenzied state, I managed to overlook the major roadwork happening and cycled straight into the wet bitumen being laid. More German abuse directed at me, more flustered Cristal placating with niceties.
But anyway, the Ballhaus Riviera, as it was exotically
dubbed back in its heyday (1895-1897) was an incredible space and well worth
the drama of getting there. I’d probably
recommend catching the train to anyone interested in checking it out though...
So I wanted to write a small blog about the former Ballroom,
mostly to exhibit my numerous snaps rather than my usual verbose diatribe. Bear
with me...
The position of this place was amazing. Right next to the river...
I locked my (bitumen covered) bike up and within seconds found a gaping hole in the fence. Once through I realised that actually there were two buildings next to one another. The Ballhaus Riviera, built in 1895, and the Gesellschaftshaus Grünau, built in 1897. Without any ado, I sought an entrance. Easy peasy for the first building- the doors were open!
In I strolled only to be greeted by a beautiful, albeit reasonably small, ballroom. The disrepair was nothing short of heartbreaking. Another tragic tale of post-reunification abandonment, the hints of its former glory overwhelmingly evident.
I strolled through the building, first through the small
ballroom, and then allowing myself to become engulfed in the sequence of smaller boxy rooms.
Getting into the next ballroom, much larger and more
impressive than the first, proved to be much more of a test in agility. Channelling
my fence-jumping roots, we climbed onto the structurally questionable balcony roof
top, from which we were able to hoist ourselves through the smashed window on
the first floor.
We entered into, very strangely you might say, what appeared to be a 'disco' styled room. And in fact, that’s precisely what this room had become! In the 1980’s, as a means of maintaining popularity when confronted with the fall of the wall and formidable resultant pressure to compete with the popularity of West Berlin clubs and culture, a disco was created in the Gesellschaftshaus.
As if portioning off an incredibly grandiose and stunning ballroom to
make way for a tacky disco to keep their heads above water wasn’t heartbreaking
enough, as I continued further into the establishment I became increasingly
emotional about the state of the former ballroom- it looked as though it
once featured in a fairytale, and all I could picture was Cinderella pirouetting in
her gown.
But now...now it was in ruins.
But now...now it was in ruins.
I was confronted by the overwhelmingly evident juxtaposition.
Where high society becomes low-brow. Where beauty becomes dilapidated.
One saving grace, though that seems trite to say, was evidence of artisan occupancy, or at least guerrilla art.
If the place is 'dead' by all accounts, why the hell not open it up for something
constructive (though the eerie neo-Nazi presence would be enough to
deter most candidates).
Many many rooms...some massive, some tiny!
Evidence of an existence, perhaps of a class that I’ll never know.
But
that which I’ll never know, I can always dream about.
The hustle and the
bustle in the ladies bathroom as the women flock to reapply their lipstick, to
straighten their knickers beneath their pretty frocks, to dance the night
away...
The couples sitting at the bar, sipping on their martinis. The men dressed up debonair, black tuxes, polka dot bow-ties. The ladies, stunning and elegant. Thin waists, scarlet lips and voluptuous cleavage.
My imagination almost surpasses the reality. So I decide to
leave, before reality comes back. In a dreamy and delusional frame-of-mind, I
jump on a train and flee back to Berlin, where there is no shortage of
reminders of beauty long lost to mankind’s own stupidity.
(I wrote this blog back in March, however have only now had the opportunity to finish it off and hunt for some of the images I took)
