(Marie-Luise, Anton, come on, we're going to be late for toddler's musical education!')
Boxing practice is in Kreuzberg, a part of Berlin that is quite à la mode now but had a rather shabby reputation a couple of years back. It's full of places I love and a surprising mixture of everything. People, architecture, shops...
The other day I was quietly bumbling along after practice, taking a detour and enjoying the last rays of sunshine when I was overtaken by quite a pack of wolves. Three or four huge creatures, seemingly made of a lot of grey fur and even more teeth. Then came three punks, huge men with wonderfully colored and spiky hair (having no patience with my own hair I am always ready to acknowledge and admire other people's commitment to style), chains and metal everywhere, rings in noses, ears, eyebrows and wherever else they would fit and each had at least one bottle of beer in his hands.
All of a sudden one of them stopped and looked behind them - in my direction and I immediately started to explain that I'm very open and respectful but unfortunately had no euro nor even fifty cents to donate to Anarchy - but he looked right past me. At the little girl who was apparently the last of their group. She was a tiny thing, dressed in a pink dress, on a pink bike with a pink helmet and a backpack that was pink with white skulls on it. And she said 'coming, dad!'
