A wave to the hated tourists

At least once a week, I do a jog/walk along the canal near my flat in Kruezberg.  I go past the open tables of restaurants where people are having coffee or wine on the river, underneath a swaying willow tree.  I go past Kottbusser Brucke, where I dodge cars and bikes to cross one of the busiest streets in xberg, as my neighborhood is called, and I hit Admiralbrucke, where friends meet for a quick drink from the local spati.  I continue on, focusing on panting down the dirt paths instead of the more damaging stone ones, and try to improve my form with each step, moving as if through water.  I pass friends meeting for lunch, preschoolers on an outing with their teachers, homeless men looking for bottles to make some quick change.  I turn back when the river turns away from me, and work my way back on the other side.  I pass the wine store that tempts me with liquid gold and sometimes jump my way through the obstacle course that is the Kruezberg Market, mostly Turkish men selling cheap and in-season fruits and vegetables that pass by. 

I stop at "my" bridge, Hobrechtbrucke, and there, I stretch, using the gate that keeps me from drowning as a barre to stretch my tired, jumpy legs.  My neighborhood is covered with graffiti, and this bridge is no exception.  As I look down to focus on my stretch, I see three separate statements hating the tourists, damn them all.  And as I look up, I give a wave to a boat full of them as they pass underneath me, my disco music drowning out the tour guide as he rambles along.  Berlin is a little gritty and conflicted in that way, and that's why I love it.