Recently I was at the wall, that wall, the 28-year wall, the Berlin wall, the wall that I have long envisioned looming so large, and the weather was drizzly and gray as I imagined it might be, should be, must be. But the wall itself was far different than the mind’s eye. It wasn’t scary or surreal or spooky or super thick or extra tall. It was just a tall wall. A piece of wall with its historical baggage. A sliver of past oppression surrounded by a sea of hope. Now a long stretch of the wall is covered in paint, colorful and gray, and art, some political, some whimsical, and it felt historical and curious. I was curious. I walked down it and around it, sniffed it and left my mark.
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