oil-drum braziers burn late into the Berlin night; spikes and mohawks warm themselves in a sultry august heat. it's an urban patterned jungle of spray paint and tags as the S-Bahn trundles high on its way, above the clamour of 1991. I'd only just arrived and my small provincial eyes tried not to flicker or shy from the sights of those underbelly vistas; was it deprivation or freedom, necessity or choice, to stand around a burning barrel late at night? my host assured me we're perfectly safe as long as I listen to her expert advice. And then we arrived, leaving the car outside we got through on the guest list and so started our night.