Yesterday, I signed up for an all-afternoon walking tour of the avant garde arts scene in Berlin. The prolific, ever-present art on the buildings and walls of Berlin has caught my interest, so a street art tour seemed like a good choice. So, I bought myself a ticket for a four-hour tour that started at noon.
After breakfast, I made the 45-minute journey to see Michaela. It was my third time traveling to the hospital and the route was beginning to look familiar. I was no longer missing my stops on the subway and was starting to recognize landmarks along the way. I hadn’t yet tackled taking a bus. That still scared me; it felt way too easy to stand at the wrong corner or take a bus heading the wrong way. And knowing where to get off? I wasn’t ready to face that.
Unfortunately, I’m shy, reluctant to ask for help or directions. In Berlin, that would be easy—English is widely spoken. How I wish I was more like Susan Cooley, a woman who came on our last Camino pilgrimage. Susan readily talked to everyone she met and made friends everywhere. I was in awe of this quality of hers and wish I had more of it.
But as things stand, buses remain a challenge for another day. For now, each time Google maps delineates my options for getting from point A to point B, I choose one that only requires walking and taking a subway.
After visiting Michaela, I mapped out a route from the hospital to the meeting point for the avant garde art tour. Lots of public transport options were listed. Or I could walk there; it would take about an hour. I opted for being a pedestrian. That might seem foolish—to walk for an hour to meet up with four-hour walking tour, but I wanted to see how my knees and feet would hold up with all that pounding on pavement. Urban walking is very different from walking on soft forest trails and beaches at home. I wanted to ascertain: am I really ready for the Camino?
I also think being on foot is the best way to get to know a city and its daily hidden treasures.
All told, I walked 24,000 steps yesterday, approximately 10-12 miles. I was completely wiped out by the end of it. My knees ached from hundreds of metro station stairs, all that pounding on hard surfaces. When I finally got back to my Airbnb, I wished I could teleport myself back home for a dip in my giant soaker bathtub with Epsom salts. I had to settle for rubbing in the arthritis ointment I’d picked up at a local pharmacy.
I was proud that I’d made it. And this morning, after a mediocre night’s sleep, I’m ready to walk again. I guess that means I’m ready for the Camino.
For me, the most interesting part of yesterday’s tour was a visit to Haus Schwarzenberg, an artist-run counterculture pocket in an part of Berlin that is rapidly gentrifying. Because street art is inherently temporary, the work there is in constant flux: pieces get painted over, papered on top of, added to, and reworked in an ongoing collage that changes on an almost weekly basis. Well-known street artists, including El Bocho, Miss Van, Stinkfish, and Otto Schade are represented on its walls, and our tour guide, Twan, taught us how to recognize their signature work, which we then started seeing on walls all over the city.
Video: click to play. And this is one of the pneumatic, kinetic monster sculptures built from salvaged materials by artist Hannes Heiner.
When I got back from the four-hour walking tour, which necessitated moving way faster than my usual pace in order not to lose sight of our guide, I was exhausted. I’d slept poorly the night before and it showed. I was tired and my body ached. I decided to take a small nap, which turned into four hours passed out in my bed. I woke up after 10:00 pm, groggy and disoriented, and made myself a salad (thank you Michaela, once again for the groceries). By 11:00, I was wide awake. So much for my smooth resolution of jet lag.
It was late, but I felt antsy and lonely and I wanted to go out again. I’d already bought an online ticket for an annual event called Long Night of the Museums, which happens just once a year. From 6:00 pm to 2:00 am, dozens of museums would be open with all kinds of special events. The theme for 2026 was “Crime in Berlin.”
This happened to be the night. I wanted to be part of it.
When I initially checked it out, I found the event website overwhelming. There was way too much to choose from. I had no idea where anything was or how to get there. But I learned that there was one central area in Berlin that houses a lot of museum complexes. I figured if I went there on this special night, there would be a lot of street activity happening. I decided to just go there and wander around. That had been my plan: come home and rest after the walking tour, then set out again in the early evening for the Long Night of Museums.
But now it was after 11 at night. It was dark out. I was a woman alone in an unfamiliar city. I didn’t speak German. I didn’t know where I was (I couldn’t seem to retain the name of my new neighborhood). I didn’t know if it was safe to be out. I looked at the transit options on Google maps; by the time I’d make it to that central museum area, it would be well after midnight. I certainly wasn’t going to ask Claude, “Is it safe for me to be out late at night by myself in Berlin?” The advisability of going out at this hour was something I’d have to assess for myself.
I wished I had a friend with me. A companion. Someone to confer with. Someone to advise me. I texted Michaela, but she was already asleep. For a moment, I wished I was a man, conditioned to feel safe on the street. But I was just me—a 70-year-old woman, solo in a strange city, making this decision alone.
I could have stayed home, gotten comfortable, and read a book, but I was full of FOMO and my adventurous spirit was whispering “go” in my ears. I wanted be part of something. On our tour, Twan hd informed us that Berlin is famous for its nightlife, its all-night clubs and cabarets. I was only going to be here once; I wanted to at least try.
I thought back to the time in my twenties when I worked in Oakland, California in a sketchy neighborhood, commuting back and forth to San Francisco every day. I began recalling all the practical tips I’d learned for being a woman in a city. Wear sneakers so you can run. Wear jeans and clothes that cover you. Don’t carry too much, and what you do carry, keep close to your body. Walk down the center of the street if you ever in danger. Keep your senses alert. Thrust your keys between your fingers in case you need to poke out an attacker’s eyes. Turn on your spidey senses.
It had been a long time since I’d had to think this way.
But bfore you know it, I’d put on my jeans and my sneakers, reduced the items in my bag, swapped out my purse for a fanny pack. I researched the closest museum venue to where I was staying and headed out. At a minimum, I was going to stand out on the street and see how things felt.
They felt pretty good. Lots of people were out: biking, pushing baby carriages, walking and talking in groups. Outdoor cafes were full.
I kept going. I was now officially on the hunt for an experience—and a story. The subway station felt okay and I rode to the stop nearest the museum. But as I walked the rest of the way, I was guided onto empty streets, an almost full moon overhead.
It’s not like I could tell Google Maps, “Only give me routes on streets that are safe and full of people.”
I kept walking.
When I reached the museum, it was filled of people, some costumed, some carrying little dogs, many drinking, all celebratory. A stage was set up with a cello, a trumpet, a guitar and a piano. The musicians were able to start a new set.
After the mini-concert, I was reluctant to get back on the subway, so I walked all the way home. I was back in bed by 2:00 am. I’d had my adventure.
