Slow election Sunday: The longing to be there

Now I accidentally chose the left, I type as I walk. M. sends me back a laughing emoji. Accidentally, it's only half true. Actually, my second vote should go to the left, the first to the Green MP in Moabit; Taylan Kurt has his office near me and is very present on Instagram. He is close to the people, grew up here and is committed to the district, which I think is good. But then I'm too confused by the lists in the cabin. The cross for the left is now everywhere. And like last time, I have to tear up the long ballot paper when casting it anyway because of my Austrian citizenship.

Nevertheless, I keep trying. The longing to be there, to be able to do more than just vote in the district, is too great. Oh well. In any case, I dressed up for this small contribution to democracy. I'm wearing shoes that look like First Communion, but are too tight. Outside, everyone I meet seems to have the same destination or is in the process of leaving it. Many are traveling in twos or threes and I get a little wistful. That could have been us.

To combat the Sunday blues, I treat myself to pancakes and think of you because we ate them here at Arema. I share my portion with the last wasp of the year. The leaves on the trees around me are already rustling in autumn. It's a different noise than in spring or summer. One that is dry and sounds like farewell.

This mood, mild and a bit wistful, reminds me of the pictures from “Gentle Monster”, which I saw a few days ago with the other M. and P. at Delphi Lux. It's about pedocrime and sexual abuse by men. Hard topic, but director Marie Kreutzer answers this with a story from a woman's perspective and gentle images from an idyll village. I would also like to have the house in which the affected family lives, with its tube-like garden in the outskirts of Munich. Without the plot, of course. I think about how far away I am from something like this, how far away from any kind of planning that screams adult life.

Instead of wallowing in this feeling, I seek exercise. I'm meeting L. and a friend of his in the hall of the German Alpine Club to get to the top today. It smells of magnesium, sweat and the rubber floor that gives gym vibes. L. explains the basics to his friend, and I notice that you never stop learning.

At 6 p.m. sharp, a few climbing enthusiasts gather together for a break. We look excitedly at the projections on a smartphone and nibble on salted cashews at the same time. I'm very happy, L. is less so. His electoral party did not clear the 5 percent hurdle. He is disappointed. We talk a bit more about the pros and cons of the Berlin parties, and L. surprises me with a sentence that I'm not used to hearing in my bubble: "I don't like seeing the Left in the Red Town Hall." The expropriation choice was not his. I'm quiet for a moment, then I take it sporty. "And despite our different views, we're here and climbing together. That's nice," I say, and we give each other a fist bump, as we do here.

The wall doesn't ask who made their cross where. Whoever secures, secures, and whoever allows themselves to be secured, trusts. Maybe that's the kind of presence I was looking for today: not one that you tick and throw into an urn, but one where you look out for each other.