worldgestalt

Before the wall came down, in the eastern part of Germany, property didn’t play a significant role. Under communism, large properties were usually in the hands of the government, and private individuals didn’t own much. And even if someone did own, for example, a house, it could be more of a burden than a privilege, since building materials were often hard to come by—an issue caused by the planned economy, which frequently resulted in chronic shortages. As a result, people who owned real estate often couldn’t maintain it and sometimes even sold it to the government for a symbolic amount. Who would risk trouble because of falling bricks when maintenance was impossible?

So, did the government care about the houses it was responsible for? It didn’t. I remember growing up in an urban landscape that looked as if the war had just ended: bare brick walls without plaster, rainwater dripping from burst pipes, broken and rotten windows and doors. No, the government didn’t take care of the old buildings—resources were missing. Instead, it turned out to be cheaper to build new high-rises out of prefabricated concrete slabs than to maintain the old structures. Often, even tearing them down was too much. Whole neighborhoods in East Berlin, Leipzig, and Dresden were abandoned and turned into ghost towns.

This is why, in 1990, after the wall had come down, many of the tenement houses in East Berlin were abandoned government property. And once the Iron Curtain had been breached, after East and West Berlin could finally meet, something unexpected happened with these buildings. During those months between revolution and reunification, 1989 to 1990, many of the old and empty houses in East Berlin became free spaces—free of anyone checking who moved in, free of rent, free to live the life one wanted, independent of financial constraints. Young people from the East had already discovered these government-free spaces, and now squatters from West Berlin seized the opportunity as well. At last, there was a place free of both political and financial restrictions: East Berlin became the Eldorado of squatting.

That is more than 25 years ago. Since then, things have changed. The real estate market has become big business, and properties have been assigned to new owners. The “housing initiatives” were pushed out, often after years-long legal battles, and not seldom with massive police operations. Today, only one place remains: “Köpi” (see picture above), named after its address on Köpenicker Straße. Just last year, the latest attempt by the real estate company currently owning the land to evict them failed in court.

These initiatives have often been fertile ground for creativity: exceptional art projects, theaters, music, and unforgettable parties. At the same time, it is clear that Berlin benefits from international investment, as seen in the example of “Mediaspree” (see picture below), a property development project along the riverbanks of the Spree, the river flowing through Berlin. These projects create numerous jobs and generate tax revenue. In other words, it is naive to “fight capitalism” when it is difficult to name a workable alternative. And yet—the creativity that has flourished in free spaces like Köpi has been one of the major reasons for Berlin’s reputation as a center of freedom and artistic experimentation in Europe.

So the question remains: How can a city protect the freedom that fuels its creativity while still relying on an economic system that threatens to erode exactly that freedom?

In Austria, people speak German — but it comes with its own unmistakable flavor, especially in Vienna. The city of nearly two million residents is absolutely worth a trip. It’s not only the world-class art museums, the hearty cuisine, and the flawlessly functioning infrastructure — so unlike Germany — that make Vienna such a rewarding destination. It’s also the warm, easy-going locals whose relaxed, slightly guttural Viennese dialect somehow slows down the pace of life the moment you hear it.

On a bigger scale: What makes an Austrian an Austrian? When you ask them about their identity, they often say-only half joking-it rests on three pillars: language, food, and skiing down the Alps. That last one may sound surprising, but it’s rooted in the obligatory school trips to the mountains that turn an entire nation into confident downhill racers.

On this visit, I paid a trip to the Wien Museum, which has been completely reimagined over the past few years. It now offers a comprehensive and accessible journey through the history of Vienna — and, along the way, the rather intricate story of Austria itself, with all its Josephs, Habsburgs, and Austro-Hungarian entanglements. What struck me most, however, was how the museum takes its time to highlight the everyday lives, emotions, habits, and values of Viennese people — for example, those living in the 19th century. It embodies the idea that history should be the story of ordinary people, not merely a chronicle of wealthy elderly men.

Vienna itself is wonderfully walkable and offers more culture than one could possibly absorb in a single visit. The world-renowned Opera and Philharmonic Orchestra are obvious highlights. And if you speak German, make sure to visit the Burgtheater, perhaps the most important German-language stage outside Berlin.

But even if your German isn’t quite there yet, don’t worry. Simply make sure to enjoy a generous portion of Kaiserschmarrn, a fluffy shredded pancake served with applesauce and raisins. It’s an unforgettable treat — and isn’t taste one of the few languages truly spoken everywhere in the world?

It’s no big deal to get from Berlin to Vienna—and no, you don’t need to take a plane. Several train connections run from the river Spree to the Danube. The night train even saves you one night of accommodation in Vienna, which can mean quite a bit of money, since the city is notoriously expensive when it comes to places to stay. Still, I strongly recommend reserving a seat; otherwise, you might end up wandering from seat to seat, always hoping the next one will stay free until Vienna…

Vienna feels enchanted, like traveling through time. The grandeur of the imperial era still lingers everywhere. Of course, Vienna has its issues, but there’s a reason it repeatedly wins the title of the most livable city in Europe.

One place I truly love is the Cemetery of the Nameless. Here, a vortex of the Danube used to wash ashore the bodies of people who had drowned—often unidentified. Starting around 1840, an improvised cemetery was created, and it grew over time. Because the river flooded the site regularly, a new cemetery was established at a safer distance in 1900. More than 100 people were buried here. Only half were victims of the river; the others were people who had died by suicide. Since the Catholic Church at the time condemned suicide as a sin, those individuals were buried here as well.

It was the locals who kept the cemetery alive. A carpenter always provided coffins, people brought flowers, and the community cared for the site. Eventually they even financed a small chapel. Today, all the graves have fresh flowers, donated by Vienna’s flower shops. They’re planted by florist apprentices who, throughout the year, also bring wreaths they’ve made as part of their training. Locals bring toys to the graves of the two children buried here.

When I visited today, I had the privilege of meeting a member of the family that has cared for the cemetery for decades. His grandfather, a professional undertaker, looked after the site even after it stopped being used in 1940—when the nearby harbor was expanded and the dangerous vortex disappeared. He did so without pay. The family has remained responsible for the cemetery ever since. One of them, whom I met today, was explaining the history to a group of locals. He showed a folder containing notes from the original files about those who were found. He shared many stories: how all the crosses come from abandoned graves across Vienna, how the necklaces and small objects adorning the graves are donations from locals who still care.

I couldn’t help but wonder why they care so much. Those buried here have been gone for a long time; it’s not grieving families tending to their own. Perhaps it’s a feeling all humans share: however successful, beautiful, wealthy, or celebrated we may be in life, in the end we are all the same. Caring for the nameless may, in a way, be caring for all of us.

The city of Rustavi lies about a forty-minute drive south of Tbilisi and is home to roughly 130,000 residents. It is the fourth-largest city in Georgia and offers an intriguing mix of architectural styles. There are, in fact, almost no tourists here—simply because there seems to be nothing to see.

Downtown Rustavi consists of well-maintained Soviet-era architecture, built in the late 1940s and early 1950s. But that impression holds only along the main avenues. The moment I turned off those streets and walked behind the façades, Rustavi appeared worn down, lived-in, and as charmingly old as many other places in Georgia. I’m aware that this is an outsider’s perspective; in reality, I wouldn’t be happy if the building I lived in looked like that. I can’t imagine the infrastructure inside these apartments being of particularly high quality. For example, tap water isn’t drinkable in Georgia—not because of the water itself (which is excellent) but because of the pipes.

Just like in Tbilisi, dogs are everywhere in Rustavi. But unlike in the capital, here they aren’t tagged. I like dogs, so I didn’t think much of it at first. That, as it turned out, was a rather naïve assumption.

Rustavi underwent massive changes after World War II. First came the construction of the Rustavi Metallurgical Plant between 1948 and 1953. Then housing was needed for the workers. Many German prisoners of war took part in building both the steelworks and the surrounding infrastructure. German architects also helped design “New Rustavi,” inspired by the early-twentieth-century idea of the garden town.

According to this concept, cities were to be built from scratch as self-contained sections—unlike the grim industrial cities of the nineteenth century. In a garden town, workers were not supposed to live in overcrowded tenements next to smoking factories. Instead, they would have their own neighborhoods with shops, childcare, and above all, green spaces to relax in after work. Public transport would take them to the factories, where they’d be ready to “serve the people.”

So, in Rustavi they built massive high-rises for the workers, away from the steel works. They still stand today, but without much maintenance they now resemble a dystopian future more than a socialist paradise. Upkeep remains one of the city’s greatest challenges. After the collapse of the USSR, 60 percent of Rustavi’s working population became unemployed, crime rates skyrocketed, and many residents left for good. The economy has improved since the 1990s, yet decay is still visible everywhere. Funding is scarce—even the local football stadium is in poor condition.

Eventually, I visited the old, abandoned Rustavi Steel Works. I hardly noticed yet another stray dog at first—until the situation escalated. The dog didn’t like me and called for his friends, and soon I found myself surrounded by a pack of growling dogs. Luckily, the guard appeared and chased them off. He didn’t like me either, to be precise: He didn’t like my camera. So I gave up, called a Bolt, and waited—standing perfectly still—as another pack circled nearby. I have never been so happy to see a car pull up.

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The people of Tbilisi are kind. All of them. Whether they are sellers trying to advise me as a customer—no matter the price of the product they recommend—whether they are locals, more than friendly, showing the right way, or whether they are hosts of accommodations doing everything they can to fulfill the needs of their guests. Whether they are seamstresses trying to make the impossible possible – there is a permanent kindness, even to be found in graffiti in public. (See picture below.)

However, there is one exception. And that is some of the personnel of a supermarket named “Goodwill.” Unfortunately, the name of the place is in no way a hint of what happens when an identified tourist enters and simply wants to buy a bottle of wine.

The following is an incomplete attempt to describe the experience. And—important to say—by telling this story I do not want to imply that all salespeople at “Goodwill” are like this. But unfortunately, the ones I met there were.

Entering Goodwill supermarket.
Seeing a stand with wine on offer. Stop. Check. That is pricey wine. A lady shows up:

“This is very good wine.”
OK (I appreciate the opinion—and why is this good wine?)
“This wine is red wine.”
OK (I can see that; it’s written on the label.)
“This is dry wine.”
OK (That’s what the label says.)
“This is Georgian wine.”
OK (Again, the label says so…)
“This is very good wine.”
OK (You said that before.)
“Thank you, I appreciate the recommendation. Now I’d like to have a look myself.” (A zillion bottles here.)
“But this is very good wine, you should buy it.”
“Thank you, I’d like to have a look around.”

After buying all kinds of things, I come back to the wine area a couple of minutes later. Another lady:

“Are you looking for a specific wine?”
“No, thank you, I’m just looking around.”
“OK.”

She leaves. I keep checking various wineries—year, grape, region—finally choosing one. Turning around: the first lady again, excited.

“Why do you choose this wine?!”
“Because I want to.” (Feeling interrogated.)
“But why?” (She’s looking back toward the stand with the bottles at the entrance.)
“Because I want to.” (Felling helpless.Feeling defiant. Feeling the need to escape. Hard to endure the disappointed look.)

Thinking: Why not offer a sip of the “very good wine”? Why not provide more details—grape, taste, year, region, anything? Handmade? Family business for 500 years? Whatever? Why the aggressive selling attitude? What’s the intention? To sell at any cost?

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Batumi is the second biggest city in Georgia, home to around 180,000 residents. It’s famous for its beaches, even though they’re rocky—no sand anywhere. During the season, Batumi can get very busy. There’s a lot of gambling here, and wealthy Russians come to enjoy themselves.

Batumi has an old city core, where the traditional apartments with high ceilings are found. There are plenty of restaurants and fancy cafés here—it’s easy to get a decent latte (isn’t that the real measure of quality of life, the presence of Italian espresso machines?). However, there are streets that mark the edge of the city center, and beyond them real life begins. These areas are crowded with locals, most of them men of a particular age group, between 40 and 70. The same men seem to gather later in the day along the seashore, where they fish or play cards.

The real Batumi has narrow sidewalks, heavy traffic, and plenty of cars missing their bumpers—thanks to the rough roads and the rather adventurous driving style of their owners. Everyone seems to be either selling or buying something. The side streets are filled with markets of all kinds; once you enter one, it’s easy to get lost in the labyrinth of passages. Curtains upon curtains, shoes, clothes—genuine and fake—and even an entire district devoted to tools, screws, and machines.

So there’s the old-turned-new (the Old Town), the worn-down real Batumi, plus the abandoned building projects spreading a somewhat morbid charm, and, finally, the remnants of its glorious past—best seen in the beautiful Octopus Café, built in the Soviet eighties and luckily preserved after locals protested its demolition following the end of the Cold War.

What happened back then in Batumi has shaped another defining feature of the city today: the high-rises, mostly along the beach, built after the fall of communism. Because of these developments, some people call Batumi the “Las Vegas of the Black Sea.” Well, they clearly haven’t been to Las Vegas…

What’s far more impressive than all the public money poured into construction is the creative and inspiring mix of times, cultures, and people that make Batumi what it is.

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There are two Georgias. One is a state in the U.S. The other is an entirely different country—some might say it lies at the edge of the world. It’s nestled between Asia and Europe, by the Black Sea, just south of Russia. Georgia is a land of towering Caucasus Mountains (over 15,000 feet) and deep valleys between them, roughly the size of South Carolina.

Georgian history began long before Christ, even with the Romans. A major turning point came in 1783, when the rulers of Georgia signed a pact with their powerful northern neighbor, Russia—hoping not to face their many enemies alone, especially Iran and Turkey to the south.

The relationship with Russia proved delicate. Russia left its mark on Georgia in many ways, yet Georgia has always resisted total submission, and in many instances, succeeded. After World War I, in 1918, Georgia managed to establish itself as an independent state—briefly—until 1922, when it was absorbed into the Soviet Union and governed once again by Moscow. That lasted until 1991, when Georgia finally gained independence—an independence it still holds, despite ongoing tensions with Russia and frequent internal unrest.

I visited Georgia last summer and have thought about going back ever since. The country offers a long list of compelling qualities—its breathtaking landscapes, its incredibly flavorful cuisine, and its ever-present history. But what draws me in most is its genuine authenticity. Georgia has managed to preserve its original character. Everything feels unfiltered, real. That’s not always comfortable—but it is grounding. Being in Georgia feels like experiencing something true. It’s an honest place.

This time, I’ll only be in Batumi and Tbilisi. It’s another chapter of slow travel. In both cities, I’ve booked old apartments through Airbnb.

The photos here are of the apartment in Batumi, right in the heart of the old town. These kinds of apartments were built in the late 1800s, when Georgia’s economy was booming and a new middle class was emerging. Eager to show off their prosperity, people began buying and building apartments that resembled palaces.

The apartment I’ve booked has 13-foot ceilings (4 meters), a living room of about 430 square feet (40 m²), and windows nearly 10 feet high (3 meters / 120 inches). The wooden floors seem at least a century old. There are cracks in the walls—but also signs of thoughtful modernization: a brand-new bathroom, a modern heating system.

After the fall of the Tsarist regime in 1922, the Soviets “communalized” these apartments. My 430-square-foot room, for instance, would have been divided among three families. A permanent housing crisis forced such measures, often resulting in poor, overcrowded living conditions.

So here I am today, imagining what this place looked like 150 years ago—before the Soviets. I picture wealthy businesspeople, oil barons, merchants, affluent academics, and Russian officials living here in luxury. And then I imagine families of six, crammed into these rooms, children screaming, food simmering on a shared stove, space divided between too many people.

Today, things have changed again. These buildings have been bought, renovated, and lovingly maintained—sometimes by descendants of former residents. Many have become boutique hotels or Airbnbs. Others are still lived in by people who appreciate the scent and style of history.

Either way, the feeling is intense. It’s a privilege to live, walk, and sleep inside history. Times change. But in Georgia, it seems as though history prevails.

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