The whole idea of pleasure in Western art, wrote Michael Hofmann, a German-born poet and translator, seems to have been mortgaged by the French, while the Germans “should have stuck to philosophy”. The Germans collectively may tend to hide their pensive and introspective sensitivity behind a sombre and solemn façade of reticent self-restraint, but they never shy away from importing the cheerful cosiness from the Danes, the Japanese and the French. In fact, it is difficult to a find a more accomodating and experimenting city than Berlin in the whole of Western Europe.

Once labelled as poor and sexy, the heart of Berlin has long transformed into a hub of gemütlich chicness, dotted with specialty cafés, artisan bakeries and gourmet restaurants. Yet Berlin is still the city of remorse, with its landscape punctuated by memorial statues, momuments and museums. Looking squarely at the scars and bruises left by the city’s dark and turbulent history without rejection, while embracing the burgeoning gentrification and consumerism without over-indulgence–sometimes I wonder how the Berliners manage not to lose their minds. This nuanced balance and constant restocking of memories is perhaps the most essential and lethal part of the German charm.