As a backpacker, Martin changed my life. We found each other again 30 years later

The last thing I expect when I walk into Berlin’s Hotel Adlon Kempinski is to burst into tears. My suite overlooks Pariser Platz and the Brandenburg Gate. Built by the Prussians, this neoclassical monument – topped by Victory steering her chariot drawn by four horses – is now a powerful symbol of Germany’s reunification in 1990. I’m not weeping at the scene (which is beautiful), but for the reason I’m here.

I visited Berlin as a young backpacker with my friend Caroline, four months after the fall of the Berlin Wall. The wall had not yet been dismantled, which meant we still had to go through Checkpoint Charlie – what had been the border crossing between the American sector and Soviet-controlled East Berlin – and change Deutschmarks to the near-worthless East German Ostmarks. I vaguely recall the border post’s long, rectangular building. Behind a narrow, brown counter a uniformed guard placed a small slip of paper – not an official rubber stamp – into our passports.

On entering the East, and with no plans, we wandered aimlessly up Friedrichstrasse until we reached Unter den Linden, a wide boulevard lined with crumbling grand mansions. Here, we lucked upon a handsome baroque building, Humboldt University, it transpired. Students around our age were pouring out of its massive iron gates.

Keen to engage, we asked if anyone spoke English. A young man, his thick hair tied back in a ponytail, introduced himself as Martin. This exchange would change my life. On learning we were Australian, Martin jumped: he invited us to his English class. (“We hadn’t heard any native English speakers until then,” he explained later.) Thrilled, if a little nervous, we agreed. The class fired questions at us, mainly about our travels; until then, their travels had been restricted to Eastern Bloc countries.

After class, Martin approached us, four others in tow: “Come, we’d like to show you our East Berlin.” This six-hour jaunt was the beginning of many journeys together, including, several months later, a backpacking trip through Portugal. Given our new friends’ lack of funds, our group travelled on a shoestring: we ate market produce, camped illegally on beaches, and caught the cheaper, slow trains. It was magical. Free from their experiences under a repressive regime, they willingly reflected on the impact of the Stasi, the East German secret police.

They shared tales of “suspect” Stasi acquaintances and the impact of surveillance on their families. (When Martin’s father had tried to escape from the East as a 25-year-old, he was captured and jailed. He could never speak about this time). Stefan, Martin’s best friend and our fellow traveller, was particularly scathing of the regime. It was all so foreign and repulsive to me, and I couldn’t get enough.

But it was Martin with whom I formed an intense bond. We chatted about history, architecture, food and music. Freddie Mercury, The Pogues and Sinead O’Connor lingered large. Our friendship flourished over the next few years as we explored parts of the globe together. Then, without warning, it all ended. After a brief ski trip together in the Austrian Alps, I never heard from Martin again. My many (pre-internet) letters to him went unanswered. I was devastated by the abrupt alienation. Eventually, I met my life partner and we travelled widely. But I couldn’t bring myself to visit Berlin again. Until now.

Out of nowhere, 30 years since our last contact, Martin tracked me down. And one year later, here I am. Back in Berlin. Our reunion at Hotel Adlon Kempinski is easy, the conversation seamless. The “whys” are left well alone. For now, at least. First, we’ll retrace our first steps through the former East Berlin. But as we start to explore, I become confused. My mind oscillates wildly between the past and the present, like a tune that loses its groove on a scratched vinyl LP and can’t regain traction.

While I’m able to square this gentle, middle-aged man with the intense, athletic youth I first knew, I can’t yet reconcile the Berlin of my former experience with the city before me. I’m as hazy as the smog that used to hang over the East, the legacy of the brown coal that the “Ossis” (East Germans) burned in their fireplaces and stoves.

The one exception is Humboldt University, where we first met. I recognise it immediately. This handsome stone baroque building remains much as it was, though it’s cleaner now, the grey exterior having been scrubbed of layers of grime. Inside the university’s airy lobby, the lingering aroma of disinfectant transports me back to Caroline whispering under her breath, “It smells like a hospital.”

Back on Unter den Linden, Mercedes-Benz and other slick European cars stream past. They’re a far cry from the “Trabis”, the tiny Trabant vehicles that I recall putt-putting by, their two-stroke engines spewing sour, noxious fumes. Just beyond the university is Museum Island, a small section of land surrounded by the River Spree. We recreate our tour of all those years ago. We pose against the backdrop of the Berlin Cathedral. We climb to the top of the Französischer Dom (French Cathedral) and peer across at the Concert House and German Church. Beyond these, the cityscape is unfamiliar to me.

We wander northwest, to the historic Jewish Quarter. My yesteryear photos depict blackened buildings, pocked with bullet marks – the legacy of World War II – and piles of furniture covering the footpaths, the discards of squatters who’d moved into buildings following reunification. Today, it’s another world; even the Neue Synagogue has had a glorious makeover. The surrounding streets feature leafy courtyards, trendy restaurants, design offices and yoga studios (though scars remain; bullet marks are prolific in places).

As for Prenzlauer Berg, an inner-city neighbourhood, where Martin himself had “claimed” an apartment all those years ago? Gone are the grey hues, the crumbling walls, the boarded-up windows.

The decay has been eradicated. Instead, digital nomads sit in the shade outside cafes, design boutiques sit alongside bookshops and stylish, multi-storey buildings have replaced those mansions that were too dilapidated to be repaired. It’s vibrant, colourful and welcoming. Our last stop, Potsdamer Platz, is seared in my mind. I recall the Berlin Wall behind a vast void, not the buzzy commercial centre before me. A subtle line of stone blocks delineates where the wall once ran. I’m disoriented, but amazed by the transformation.

On my final evening, I present Martin with a collection of photos from our time in Berlin and our former travels together. We reminisce about the group, long since splintered. Martin is no longer in touch with Stefan, his “radical” best friend. After reunification, Stefan left Germany and cut off all former ties; it turns out his parents were full-time, paid officials of the Stasi, part of the regime he so vehemently opposed.

I’m sad for Stefan, but hardly surprised. So much has been written about the former Eastern bloc, including Stasiland, Australian author Anna Funder’s captivating and award-winning book. Published in 2003, it reveals much about individuals’ lives in the former German Democratic Republic. Stefan’s story is typical of so many who bear past traumas. So now is the time to hear why Martin had been silent for so long. What reason, what secret, does he have for his estrangement? I hold my breath.

It’s remarkably straightforward. So mundane that I immediately write myself “out” of a Stasiland sequel. It has nothing to do with the Stasi. Nor enigmas. But simply, a former partner unable to embrace Martin’s life before they were a couple. And, in his words, Martin’s inability to handle this maturely. Now, happily re-partnered, he is reconnecting with his past. And that includes me.

So, here we are, sipping on champagne in the stunning Hotel Adlon Kempinski. It’s an appropriate place to reunite. Built in 1907, the hotel was the height of opulence during the “Golden Years” between the world wars. It partly burned down during World War II and was later demolished. After reunification, it was rebuilt in a way to reflect the hotel’s traditional design, heritage and soul.

New but old. Old but new. Just like our friendship. And the revitalised, ever-changing, German capital.

Kate Armstrong was a guest of Hotel Adlon Kempinski.