We trade cities. I speak to him of Venice; he speaks to me of Berlin. There is a place near where a friend of his lives that used to be an airport. “Hitler’s little baby,” he calls it. It’s a public park now, he explains, where the runways are now used by skaters and people fly kites when the wind is good for it.
The pride and joy of a brutal dictator is now a place where people fly kites. A place where my friend discovered how delightful flying kites could be. This is why I have hope in humanity.