Kotti Café

My good friend, who thinks a lot, says a whole bunch of different, sometimes very interesting things, sends me more information than I can consume and way too many opinions about my plans, fears, choices or aspirations, tells me that in Germany is not acceptable to nominate animals as places or things, as pets have their own personality (which I’ve told him myself a couple of times while discussing cats), that they should get people names. Maybe he’s right, after all animal rights are recognized in the Portuguese law first since 2017, while there first world standards educate citizens for other species’ sensibilities and basic needs since the 70’s. My little baby cat was abandoned here under the heat, by the road before the train station - unfortunately not a rare situation in my country, it’s more like a pandemic every summer. But I do know and live with cats since much longer before this gigantic civilizational step forward; my friend, on the other hand, never dealt with one apart from my own deceased Friedfertig, better known as Friedy, the peaceful one, that my partner and I adopted and took care of for 13 years. He taught us what reciprocity is really about.

This unconscious creature was lounging in the sun right in the middle of the tarmac, yesterday just as my partner had almost run over his sibling. We stopped the car to check on the possible tragedy and I called out to him. He came straight to me, trying to climb on my lap with his lovely velvet paws. From that moment on, there was no other possibility than his rescue from my arms to our family. Café Kotti is not a reference but a huge slice of my affective memory. It popped up spontaneously like a sound that never took off again; we were in our future café at home, welcoming and getting to know him, without yet being able to speak a common language, but trying to communicate anyhow. Just like people from all over the world do in Berlin's best-loved Kottbusser Tor café. At least that's what I used to do, till the police swooped down on its glorious terrace that always brought together artists, drug dealers, activists, tourists, locals, lost ones and who knows who - everyone was welcome, whatever they were called. It was the safest place around and one of the few corners I felt at home in since the beginning of my migrant life in Central Europe. I’m probably never coming back.

So this is Kotti, sometimes I call him Cocóti. Some people do lists with baby names before birth, others pick up a name from a song or a poem, some others just look at someone’s new face before deciding what might be the most suitable. Maybe my friend doesn’t know that there are people called Moon, Mountain or Stone, as much as Lisbon or Café.