Anyone who knows the Havel knows: It refuses to be rushed. It doesn't flow, it moves forward – with a measured pace that slows the pace of the day. Where small bays open up between branches and reeds, lies the silent promise of a summer day. Or that windswept space in spring, when the water is still too cold for the skin, but already warm enough for thoughts that long to wander far away.
Nothing is staged at these bathing spots. The sand is coarse in places, the water dark and honest, shadows fall slanting through the trees, and occasionally a piece of wood lies there like a forgotten sign – from whomever. The people who come here seem to know this. They sit on tree trunks, resting their elbows on their knees, silently gazing into the distance. Children splash in the shallow water as if this were the center of the world.
In the background, boats drift by, sometimes silently with sails, sometimes rattling with motors – and then disappear from view again. The seagull calls. The swan glides by, like an old acquaintance who doesn't greet you, but still believes you belong together.
Places like this are rare in Berlin. And those who bathe here aren't just bathing in the water. They're bathing in life as it is, if they let it.