The first in a pair of essays today on being an expat in Berlin.
When I first moved to Berlin this summer, there was a big piece of graffiti in the courtyard next to my front door. "Tourists fuck off," it said, in cheerful blue spray paint. It didn't really bother me at first—I wasn't a tourist, I was moving here; I speak German and have a German passport. And who loves tourists anyways? In New York, where I'd lived for the past six years, hating on tourists was part of what defined you as a New Yorker. Being rude to slow-walking Scandinavians wasn't just a way of [...]