Anyone who steps through the Berlin Gate in Mittenwalde might still hear the clatter of hooves from centuries past, faint, as if coming from a distant courtyard. The Powder Tower stands there like a defiant sentinel with a belly – 25 meters high, a good eight meters in diameter, and has done so since the Middle Ages. The stones below: round, old, steadfast. The masonry above: red brick Gothic, a little proud, a little battered by time.
The city wall fell long ago, but the gate still stands. What a blessing. Through the arches, you look out onto well-kept paths, a few benches, a quiet piece of Brandenburg. A car is parked behind the tower, grass grows beside it, and the smell of drizzle and cobblestone joints fills the air.
Mittenwalde is one of those places where you break your stride. Not from exhaustion, but from awe. You sit down for a moment, let your gaze wander over the rounded masonry, and wonder: Who once defended all this? Who was let out, who wasn't allowed in?
Then you continue – through the gate that used to be called the Zwinger. And you realize: you were let in long ago. Into one of those places where Brandenburg is completely at peace.