Annette and I are rich in bicycles. Most are not thoroughbreds, but they are sturdy and reliable. We pride ourselves on having them stabled in New Hampshire, Boston, Brooklyn and Berlin. When Annette moved to the US from Berlin fifteen years ago, she left behind two bicycles which she stored in the basement of her parents’ apartment. Her parents had given her one of these bikes when she was thirteen. The other dates back to college. Over the years we have dusted off and used these bikes when visiting Berlin.
Within a week of arriving last month to live in Berlin, we had added to our collection of mounts. We bought Mamta a new bike, in the hopes of bolstering her enthusiasm for bicycling — and to better enable her to keep up with us. Annette’s sister Doreen and her husband Stefan both have two bikes each, and Rani and I were able to borrow their “seconds.” Although not much to look at, Doreen’s older bike worked well from the get-go for Rani. The bike I borrowed from Stefan needed some work: the rear derailleur cable was disconnected, the brakes were squishy, a fender was loose, the chain guard was kaput, and one wheel had a serious wobble. Annette encouraged me to bring the bike to a repair shop to have it fixed, but I had other ideas.
Reception, day care, woodworking shop, etc.
Courtyard
Bicycle repair shop
In the shop
Parts room
Parts room
Ball bearings
Another DIYer
I had read online about a do-it-yourself bike repair shop in the alt/punk/multi-kulti/now-hipster Stadteil of Kreuzberg. The shop is part of a complex called the Regenbogenfabrik, or Rainbow Factory. This collectively-governed organization has a 30-year history of community-building, job-training, and political action.
The collective was initiated in 1981, when the buildings were occupied as part of a widespread squatters movement to protest the demolition of older buildings. The Fabrik now houses a hostel for inexpensive overnights, a cafe, a day care center, an independent movie theater, a playground, a woodworking shop, and the bicycle repair shop. It also serves as a clearinghouse in the current housing battle between long-term residents of Kreuzberg, and the real estate developers eager to capitalize on the neighborhood’s cachet.
As I rode my bike across town from our apartment, I could tell I was getting closer to Kreuzberg by the increasing prevalence of graffiti, tattoos, fixed gear bicycles and black garb. The entrance to the Fabrik is easy to miss — an unassuming archway that ushers onto a large courtyard. I headed for the mass of bicycles in the far corner.
I found several people in the shop, some working on bikes, others chatting. The scent of hand-rolled cigarettes hung gently the air.
I explained to a woman who looked like she might be staff what I hoped to accomplish. She confirmed the terms that I had read online: three Euros per hour, and I had to do the work myself. Can I get guidance, I asked? She nodded, set me up with a bike stand, and pointed toward tools and the burgeoning parts room.
An hour later, with occasional help from the woman, the rear derailleur was connected and tracking, the front fender was re-secured, and the brakes were better. I had ditched the chain guard, having run out of time to find one that fit in the parts room. The wobbly wheel would have to wait.
As I biked away from the complex, I saw that the neighborhood’s well-known Turkish market was in full swing across the Landwehr Canal. But I was already running late to pick up Mamta from school. Further explorations of Kreuzberg would have to wait.