Mohawks and butterflies.

Last Thursday night I boarded the U1 line at the Goerlitzer Bahnhof station to travel back to the Hallesches Tor station. I sat down next to a woman - perhaps my age, perhaps a little younger. It was hard to tell. Head shaved on the sides, pink mohawk flopped over to one side on the top sticking out from under the black hood pulled over her head. Dozens of facial piercings, black steel-capped boots, skin-tight faded black jeans with a chain attached to the belt. Looked as if she were desperate to get off of the train for another hit of tobacco. In other words, a stereotypical Berlin punk.

Kneeling next to her, looking out of the window, was a girl, perhaps four or five years old. Shoulder-length brown hair, pulled back with a pink ribbon, tied in a bow, brown fluffy jacket with butterflies sewn onto it, blue jeans, pink laces in her white sneakers. The girl was talking incessantly with the punk - with her mother, I presumed. The punk looked back at her with her eyes full of love (but still desperate for a cigarette).

I could only wonder how the girl would view her mother in future years. And be jealous of what I was observing.