Gardenless: in which I stumble across California while searching for England

I said that there were few houses in the central parts of Berlin, but Sunday morning, while biking through Tiergarten on my way to see the Englischer Garten, I came across this micro-neighborhood in the Hansaviertel district. It could not have been more than 20 or so houses, anchored, to the south, by the eerily stark St. Ansgar Church (1957, Willy Kreuer), and to the north by a desolate sort of plaza with a library. Surrounding it to the north and west are the mid-rise apartment buildings more common to this part of Hansaviertel designed by modernist giants like Alvar Aalto and Walter Gropius; while I find many of those buildings inhospitable, I was absolutely entranced by these houses.

It reminded me a little of London, and of the mews that you find in West London in particular - except these buildings, unlike the mews, clearly had been built in the automobile era. It was this fascinating mix of urban and suburban - walled courtyards and gardens, attached buildings separated by narrow lanes, cerulean garages, rustic tree houses.

For that reason, the neighborhood also called to mind the area of Northern California where I spent a summer several years ago. It may have been the easy, ramshackle modernism, slightly irregular, not pristine, that one sees in many parts of the Valley and the hills of Redwood City. (Like Silicon Valley, as the Range Rover parked in the Mews above indicates, this neighborhood is likely to be far more expensive than it actually looks.) It is not often that Berlin reminds me of Northern California, but even the weather co-operated with the illusion yesterday morning. By late afternoon, of course, it was bleak and cold and pouring rain.

But the little courtyards seemed so lush and sun-filled, vines clambering up and over the walls.

I don't know how the demographics of this neighborhood skew, but considering the provenance of the neighboring buildings, it would not surprise me if the owners should be involved in some creative field. Consider, for example, the building below:

The bright, crimson door is an inspired choice; it welcomes you to the entrance and keeps the space from feeling dark, as it might easily feel in the bleakness of a Berlin winter. Right from the start, you notice the repetition of the color of the door and the reddish-pink hydrangea to the right; and then you might notice how well the pink plays against the rich brown of the wall next to it. Upon closer examination, you see that the pinkish-reds and brown are joined by alternating shades of purples: on the right, the pink of the astilbe blossoms, the purple of heuchera foliage, and the purple-brown of the barberry bush;

and on the left, another barberry, a lilac which would have bloomed purple or pink in April, and lavender Russian sage whose flowers pop against the entrance.

Its neighbor across the street also plays with dramatic color combinations. It may look overgrown, but look a little closer:

That's a wonderful climbing hydrangea growing up the tree in the front, its white blossoms and green leaves gesturing to the variegated holly at its feet;

and look how well the deep blue of the fence and of the front door pops against the orange of the Asiatic lilies -

an orange echoed elsewhere in the garden by those common orange daylilies I so love.

(I found this link online, which shows the interior of one of the houses in the neighborhood. Needless to say, my fantasy life in Berlin now takes place in the Hansaviertel.)

Oh, and the Englischer Garten! symmetry and soft colors of white and green and purple set against the oxidized blue of the statue, cleome in box parterres, pleached beech hedges with benches in between, the eye directed through gates and down tree-lined allees. Restrained, subdued. Lovely.