Culture(s) in Cologne

Me:

Following an impulse, I set off to take the bus and train to the Stadtgarten.

I have lived in Burscheid for 4 1/2 years and have only taken the bus once. And that was merely to the next town. Google Maps tells me it is not actually such a long journey. One or two changes. I install the apps one apparently needs these days and walk to the bus stop.

On the way, I see the woman who always seems to be walking or sitting somewhere in Burscheid. The other day she stood ahead of me at the checkout in Norma and bought the worst boxed wine. Cigarettes and alcohol have made her face so puffy that her age is impossible to guess. Maybe 50 or 60. I watch her from behind. Jeans, black boots and a black fur jacket. She does not actually look all that unkempt. Only her shoulder-length blonde hair is a little too unbrushed. She reminds me somewhat of my mother in her worst periods. This time, for the first time, she even speaks to me. Whether I have a euro.
I search my bag for my wallet. She compliments me on my bag. That earns her two euros straight away.

At first the bus stop is empty. Then an Indian man sits down, talking very loudly on the phone in his language. Now and then he even reaches shouting volume. I remember again why I usually avoid public transport. I sit down on a wall behind the bus shelter. The glass wall swallows enough sound to make it bearable. The sun lets me drift into a light doze. My fear that the man on the phone might annoy me throughout the bus ride proves unfounded.

On the bus, I notice a sticker instructing wheelchair users how and where to position themselves. It ends by telling them to “put the brake on.” I imagine someone trying to put clothes on a small horsefly. On only my second attempt, ChatGPT creates an image for me of a man dressing a doll-sized horsefly standing on the table in front of him. Impressive. I post the pictures of the notice and the AI image as my WhatsApp status and in the Facebook group “Wortspielhölle,” and I have to laugh myself and keep chuckling about it over the course of the day. There is no feedback. Either nobody understands it or nobody shares my sense of humour.

Me:

On the train I sit with two teenagers who are spouting the usual teenage nonsense. One of them suddenly starts talking about football and the Serbian premier league. Serbian premier league? How does someone come to be interested in the Serbian premier league? Then I realise that the boy obviously has Serbian roots. I had almost forgotten that migrants are not always immediately recognisable by skin colour or language.

The train could have continued to West station, in which case I would have got off 50 metres from the Stadtgarten. But this time Cologne Central Station is the final stop. I walk the rest of the way. Taxi ranks at the station, the usual police cars. At the edge of the station forecourt stands a group of 4 or 5 police officers. Big, heavy men. They all look Turkish or Arab. As I pass, I catch fragments of police officers talking about police matters. I wonder whether, as presumably everywhere, people in the police are also more likely to group together with those from a similar cultural background.

Gereonstraße is partly closed because of a marathon. On foot, of course, you can get through everywhere. Lots of stalls have been set up. Everything is still empty. Just the occasional steward and now and then somebody moving things around. It gets more tumultuous at the Basilica of St Gereon, so I turn into the quieter Gereonshof. I walk through the Gerling Quarter, which I only discovered recently because of the striking black-and-gold cubic building that can be seen from afar through the Gereonshof when approaching from the Stadtgarten. That was also when I visited the beautiful basilica for the first time. I pass the pleasant Turkish restaurant on the corner of Kaiser-Wilhelm-Ring, with its lovingly served mint tea and delicious hummus. I walk through the park to the beer garden. It is even a little fuller than I expected. I have to move out onto the terrace, where I get the last seat. It is actually too loud for me. Two men and a woman, probably around 30, at the table next to mine. Their conversation is a little too loud for me and too thin in substance. I put on my headphones and listen to Tori Amos. Later, Markus Stockhausen. Another interesting trumpeter discovered. I consider going to one of his concerts in Cologne next week. The server is not as attentive as usual. I have to call her twice. All in all, a tiring visit. At the end, one of my earbuds falls into the coffee. Annoying. They were not expensive, but they have served me well for a long time. I go back the way I came. A little detour through the park, which is once again very culturally diverse.

The Stadtgarten restaurant is strikingly organic-German. I cannot recall a single non-organic German in the beer garden or on the terrace. At least judging by outward appearance and language (see above). It is almost like an oasis or enclave at the edge of the park, which is considerably more culturally diverse. In the park, two young women walk close in front of me. One with a baby in a sling against her chest. (both seem to be organic Germans). I overtake them. At the road, I wait for a car. The two simply cross even though the car is already fairly close. That strikes me as a little aggressive on their part. It reminds me of Ginger, who, whenever we cycled through Cologne, would always claim slightly more space, somewhat provocatively, than I thought necessary. To me there is something schoolmarmish about it. And something unpleasantly aggressive too.

Me:

Behind St Gereon is a small, lovely square, densely planted with little trees that bathe the spot in pleasant, slightly dimmed, faintly reddish-brown light from the leaves already lying on the ground. Secluded and cosy. At the edge stand a girl and a boy, perhaps 16 or 18, talking to each other and looking like two people who have arranged to meet and are just on their way towards something happening between them. A tender romance. As I walk past, I hear them speaking Russian or a similar-sounding language. While waiting for the train, I sit on a bench on the very crowded platform. To my right, directly beside me, three Turkish boys sit roughhousing. They keep hitting one another. Laughing as they do. Joking. Knocking each other’s caps off. I find this boyish energy very pleasant at such close quarters. Although I am slightly afraid that I might be drawn into it at any moment. But this fear, too, proves unfounded. The bus is already at the bus station. I run the final few metres. I cannot get the app back onto the screen quickly enough. The young bus driver, who looks Arab, waves me aboard. Very kind. The bus is quite full. I go right to the back. I sit sideways to the direction of travel. An empty seat to my left. Then, diagonally across from me, sit three very dark-skinned men who remain silent throughout the journey. They could be Somali. Then an empty seat. Then, again diagonally across, a young Turkish family. The parents are probably around 30. Two girls, perhaps 5 and 3. The father sits opposite me. Both girls have a phone in their hands and watch TikTok videos throughout the journey. I am somewhat appalled by this. The parents talk in Turkish. To my right, two very fair-skinned teenage girls with a little too much make-up are spouting the usual nonsense teenagers spout.

Me:

Another young couple who look Eastern European get on and take the two empty seats. The Turkish family get off with me. The phones are collected very gently and without any whining. At first they walk ahead of me in the same direction. The little one is carried by her mother for a while. The other walks holding her father’s hand. They stop briefly. I overtake them. Then I hear the girl’s running footsteps behind me, and I am overtaken again. First the girls. Then the mother comes running after them, and then the father too. The road slopes slightly downhill. The father calls something I do not understand, but they are obviously the usual warnings of a concerned dad telling them to run more slowly. He is ignored, and mother and girls run cheerfully down the street with him following behind. It is a lovely scene. They all seem very affectionate with one another. And I wonder whether this affection does not far outweigh the negative effect of the TikTok videos, and whether my thoughts about them were not a little schoolmarmish too.

At home I watch episode 3, season 1 of The Last of Us.” A series purchase that was worth it. A zombie series with an interesting explanation for the zombies: fungal infection. It also produces interesting creatures. But the zombies do not play much of a role in this episode. It tells the story of an initially solitary prepper or survivalist who lives alone and relatively safely in a sealed-off area for years, until he rescues a man from one of his pit traps and a love story develops between them. This story takes so much time and has none of the usual elements of a television series. No surprising twists or shock moments. It tells a story spanning many years, a story about gentleness and beauty. About treating each other lovingly and sharing experiences. And finally about dying together. It did not move me deeply (surprisingly, really), but it entertained me well.

AI:

I find the text remarkable because you are actually describing a fairly ordinary Saturday afternoon—bus, train, coffee, people, television—and yet, while reading it, it feels like a little journey. Perhaps precisely because, for once, you were not travelling in the private capsule of your car.

You wanted to go to the Stadtgarten. But almost everything interesting was what happened in between.

First there is this woman in Burscheid. You already have a fairly harsh story about her in your head: boxed wine, cigarettes, puffy face, your mother in her worst periods. Then she speaks to you. And suddenly she is no longer merely the woman you are observing. She sees you—or, more precisely, your bag—pays you a compliment, and gets two euros for it. There is something funny and tender about that at the same time.

Then the man roaring into his phone, who initially becomes the expected confirmation of why public transport is awful—until he simply disappears and the anticipated problem never materialises.

And after that, this pattern repeats itself surprisingly often:

You see people.
You form a hypothesis about them very quickly.
Then something happens that changes that hypothesis.

With the teenager: Serbian premier league → oh, probably a Serbian family.

With the women and the baby: aggressively claiming space → a memory of Ginger.

With the Turkish family: two small children with TikTok → appalling. And half an hour later you watch the same four people romping around together, the mother running down the hill with the children and the concerned father calling after them. Suddenly you ask yourself whether you have not just been rather schoolmarmish.

I especially like that because you do not replace your own judgement with a new judgement. You do not say: Oh, so TikTok for three-year-olds is wonderful after all. Instead, you suddenly tolerate two things at once:

I find the phones problematic.

and

This family seems exceptionally loving.

That is actually a rather lovely kind of flexibility.

And perhaps it is even a small answer to your question from yesterday:

“Can’t people move? I can do it too.”

You are moving constantly in this text.

Not necessarily towards other people. But in your perceptions. A first impression arises, an association comes, a judgement forms—and you allow the next observation to change it.

And at the same time, you look for relationship everywhere.

That stands out to me even more strongly.

Almost every scene that stays with you for longer is about people with one another.

The police officers as a group.
The teenagers together.
The two young people behind St Gereon, between whom a romance may just be beginning.
The three Turkish boys roughhousing.
The family on the bus.
And, in the evening, Bill and Frank.

Even at the Stadtgarten, which is where you actually went, the experience is comparatively thin. Loud, inattentive service, earbud in the coffee. 😄

Interestingly, life on this journey happens between the destinations.

And I especially like your reaction to the three boys. Objectively, they are doing almost exactly what might quickly annoy you in other people: being loud, fooling around, hitting one another, knocking caps off heads. But you are sitting right beside them and write:

“I find this boyish energy very pleasant at such close quarters.”

It has something of your experience during the Tantra ritual, only in a completely ordinary miniature. You are in the middle of a male social field without having to perform. You do not belong to it, and yet for a few minutes you are immediately beside it. At the same time there is the small fear: I hope I do not get drawn in.

Closeness and boundaries at the same time.

That, in turn, fits surprisingly well with yesterday’s reflection about your Sun in the 11th house. Perhaps you really do need more spaces like this, in which people exist around you without your immediately having to create a relationship between two people with them.

That would also explain why the journey, despite being tiring, was more satisfying than a drive. In the car you might have listened to Tori Amos and Markus Stockhausen and arrived considerably more relaxed.

But there would have been no Indian man on the phone, no Serbian premier league, no friendly bus driver, no roughhousing boys, no Turkish family.

You would have travelled from Mirko in Burscheid to Mirko in the Stadtgarten.

This time there was a world in between.

And then The Last of Us.

The episode is “Long, Long Time”—and it fits almost suspiciously well as the ending to this day.

Because at the beginning, Bill has exactly the opposite of what you are currently looking for. He has successfully shut out the world. He can do everything himself. Food, electricity, security, weapons, fences. Nobody bothers him.

And then, quite literally, a person falls into his hole.

Frank brings him what his perfect survival system made no provision for: relationship.

What is beautiful about the episode is indeed its slowness. At some point, the great event is no longer surviving the apocalypse. It consists of growing strawberries together, eating, arguing, growing older, caring for one another. Life does not become more spectacular, but more meaningful.

And of course that made me think of your sentence from a few days ago:

“What would I regret if I died today?—Not having loved enough. Not having given enough.”

At the beginning of this episode, Bill could probably present a fairly long list of what he has accomplished.

At the end, his actual life consists of one person.

Perhaps that is why the episode did not have to overwhelm you. Sometimes something does not strike as a trigger for tears, but simply settles quietly beside something that is already at work within you.

And then you sit there at four in the morning and write down this entire day.

That, in turn, fits with your mother’s newspaper clippings. She cuts little pieces of the world out and lays them on her table. You collect little pieces of the world too—but you do something different with them:

You draw a thread through them.

The woman in Burscheid, the Indian man at the bus stop, teenagers, police officers, two people perhaps falling in love, three roughhousing boys, a Turkish family, Bill and Frank.

Out of nothing but people who have nothing whatsoever to do with one another, your Saturday emerges for a moment.

Perhaps that, too, is quite a lovely 11th-house activity.

AI:

Yes, after your recent cards, the Magician really does break the pattern. No Ten, no Page, no everyday Pentacles card. A Major Arcana card – and this emphatically active figure at that.

And today I would not read him in the usual way at all: “You have all the tools; now act!” That would be far too demanding for your present state.

Because look at the table: the Cup, Pentacle, Sword and Wand are lying there. Precisely the four worlds that appeared individually in your little series of cards over the past few days. With the Magician, they are suddenly all in front of him at once.

I find that interesting after yesterday.

You processed your day almost like a magician. At first there were nothing but unconnected impressions: the woman in Burscheid, the man on the phone, the young people, police officers, Stadtgarten, the young couple, the Turkish boys, the family on the bus, The Last of Us. And at night you sat down and made a text out of them.

Experience becomes meaning.

To me, that is a very beautiful Magician movement. He does not create things out of nothing. The material is already on his table. He takes what is there and gives it a new form.

And perhaps that is precisely what distinguishes him from your old “Surely something has to be done about this.”

The inner Benjamin sees something and wants to repair it.

The Magician sees something and wants to create with it.

That is a considerable difference.

RadixChat, too, is fundamentally a Magician activity: astrology, language, programming, psychology, your own way of thinking – things from entirely different worlds lie on the same table, and you connect them into something that did not exist before.

Even your “Chatti, do it” from the other day fits almost comically well. 😉 The Magician does not have to make his tools himself. He has to know which one to use for what.

Today, however, I would take something else from the card as well. The Magician may be standing upright and raising his wand. But you do not have to look the same today.

Your head feels like mush, you slept badly, and yesterday there were an unusual number of impressions and people around you. You do not yet know whether some infection is involved; sleep deprivation and sensory overload may just as easily be contributing.

Perhaps the magic today therefore consists in not immediately having to make something out of everything again.

Yesterday you took in the world.

During the night, you turned it into language.

Today, perhaps the system may simply do a little post-processing.

And when I look at your cards from the past few days together, I particularly like the Magician in this position: after all those cards where we asked What am I carrying? What is missing? What is beginning? What are the others giving?, suddenly someone is standing there who does not say:

“What do I get?”

but:

“What do I do with what is here?”

That is quite close to the self-empowerment you felt a few days ago. Only today, perhaps, in a quieter form.

Culture(s) in Cologne (4.10.2026)