"So, what did you guys do last night after I came back here?"

We're sitting outside at the café of our hotel, two of my sons and I, at the Kempinski Bristol on the Kurfürstendamm in Berlin. It's sunny and hot, and due to hit the mid-90s again. The previous evening we had had dinner across the Ku-damm and down one of the leafy side streets in a kitschy, dark-paneled restaurant serving typical Berlin fare — which seemed to consist of pig-fat in all its many forms. That in the heat, and a toothache, had driven me back to my room early. Still, I'm curious about what Chris and Mike were up to. Even though they're grown men, the paternal instinct is never far away. Also, I'm at the point where they have more fun than I do.

According to Mike, the sounds of Lynrd Skynrd had drawn them inside a bar — as if they needed an excuse. "Incredible, imagine hearing a German band playing those guys," Chris added, like his brother a guitarist. They are twins, and while they don't finish each other's sentences, their thought patterns often parallel. Inside, crowded around the tables, they had encountered a group of young Americans working in Berlin, curious about what was going on back in the States (this was before September 11). They had stayed until fairly late, but put aside the tempting invitation to a party in another part of the city in favor of sightseeing the next day with relatively clear heads.

The Berliner Dom, the former court cathedral of Prussia's royal family.

"Well, has it changed much?" Mike asks abruptly.

"What, Berlin?"

"No Kenny, Siberia."

"Very funny. Actually, the last time I was here, about a year after the wall came down — 1990, I think — I stayed in some grim pension, and could only afford a single drink in the lobby bar of this place. Now we're staying here. Five-star hotel."

"That's right," Chris said. "I remember that, you were trying to make a living as a writer. Heh, heh."

"You guys. Anyway, I drove up with our old neighbors from home who were living in Heidelberg, for a short weekend right before Christmas, and we spent most of our time looking around East Berlin — where we're headed after this beer."

The previous day, we had walked slowly around inside the bombed-out spire of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church at the end of the Ku-damm. Berlin is probably the only major European city I've seen where there are still readily visible traces of World War II, in this particular case, the ruined spire left purposely by Berliners as a monument to the catastrophe that befell them. It's been turned into a mini-museum next to the new church. At floor level are exhibits and photographs showing the damage to the city, while on the ceiling are the original renderings of the coronation of Wilhelm I (his son and heir, the soon-to-follow infamous Kaiser Bill of WWI, looms in the background). It's only a small exhibit — but worth it.

Shortly, we were in a taxi heading down Strasse de 17.Juni, the broad avenue that runs through the green expanse of the Tiergarten and sort of connects the Ku-damm with and the old Eastern Sector through the Brandenburg Gate. Along the way our driver offers ironic commentary: gesturing out the window at the woods, he indicates: "Turks on the left, nudes on the right." (Cutting through on foot the next day looking for the beer garden, we realize this means that Turkish workers and their families barbeque — or shish-kebab — on weekends under the trees on one side, while mostly male sunbathers preen nakedly on the lawns on the other.) As we motor further on down the broad boulevard, he jerks his head again, this time at the huge statue of a Red Army soldier at the massive Soviet War monument, chuckling: "last Russian in Berlin."

Later that first hot afternoon, heading back toward our hotel, we had stopped for cold Pilsner and delicious browned sausages under the trees at a small combination grill and beer garden by the towering Siegessäule. Commemorating Prussian 19th century war victories, the tower, with its shiny gold Winged Victory on top, was moved to this wide traffic circle by Hitler in 1938 from in front of the Reichstag. It was probably one of his good moves, as it provides a perfect backdrop for an unhurried snack. (Hitler didn't care for Berlin, he much preferred Munich. In either case, he didn't like paper work either, and patrons in both cities might occasionally see him at one of the cafés' afternoons, holding forth at a corner table with his cronies.)

I thought back to that first visit to Berlin, and the area around the Brandenburg Gate where we had just been, then mostly a big flea market. All that construction we just saw hadn't begun yet, and it was a huge open muddy field, flanked by hideous cheap-jack Stalin-era monoliths the Communists loved so much. Right by the gate were rows of tables cluttered with clothing, remnants of the Red Army and its satellite, the armed forces of the German Democratic Republic. The Turks were selling medals and decorations, cap badge insignia, fur-lined caps, even entire Red Army uniforms. The Soviets were so broke, they actually had no money to get back to Russia, so were selling everything to pay for train fare, including the toilet fixtures and pipes right out of their barracks. We walked around in the cold drinking mulled wine out of plastic cups and buying this equipment for a song. Unfortunately, with less money than the Russians, I could only afford a few hammer & sickle cap badges. I remember wishing I had enough for one of those Red Army fur caps.

They were also selling huge chunks of the Berlin Wall, but earlier we had found a long section of the real thing, so we had chipped out our own.

The next day we are back again walking around the Brandenburg Gate, squeezing past the construction that has it temporarily shrouded (to be unveiled this Spring), past the restored Reichstag with its modern glass cupola and lines of visitors, pausing briefly to pick over the goods at the few remaining souvenir tables (manned by what looks like the same Turks) and finally, to stroll down the Unter den Linden, where thousands of motorcyclists are driving pedestrians crazy with their noise.

The new glass dome of the Reichstag, behind some of the ubiquitous construction going on in Berlin.

"Is this a demonstration, or a parade or something," we ask a passerby and her dog, ever mindful of Hitler's legions jack-booting down this same tree-lined boulevard.

"No, they're just out for pleasure," she replies.

"Jeeze, try tying up Fifth Avenue like this," Mike observes. But the racket seems a symptom of the new Berlin — tolerance for everything.

Berlin in the 1920s and early 30s had been much the same, the city a by-word for avant-gardism, kicking with an extraordinary culturalism and a post-modern energy that generated shockwaves in architecture with the Bauhaus school, unleashed bold new musical directions, a flowering of expressionist art, including Grosz's socially penetrating caricatures, Brechtian drama and a burgeoning cinema that produced Dietrich, Lubitch and Wilder, plus Leni Reifensthal, cinematic queen of the Germanic dark side.

At one time or another, they must have all gathered at the Adlon Hotel, a Berlin landmark since Imperial days, now restored to all its five-star glory. Here, as the gaudy 20s faded gradually into the Nazi era, here was the place to see and to be seen. Reduced to a shuttered-up shell by 1945, the Adlon has been rebuilt by the Kempinski group and just recently re-opened. I am glancing around its surprisingly austere lobby, when I realize that my sons are still outside, talking with the doorman.

"What he say?" I ask, joining them on the sidewalk.

"Yore trowzzers are too schort for zis hotel," Mike replies.

"Vot? I mean, what?"

"No shorts allowed."

"What's he, the fashion Polizei?"

"I'll ask him"

"Never mind. I mean, we're staying at a Kempinski. No one bothered us there. So what'd you guys say?"

"I asked him if he was a Yankee fan," Chris grins, pointing to his Red Sox T-shirt, "but I don't think he got the point."

"That's what you get for wearing that shirt anyway," Mike interjects. "Hey," turning to me, "let's see if there are any sections of the wall left."

The guidebooks aren't too helpful about this. On Bernauer Strasse, well to the north of here on the other side of Invaliden Strasse, is the Gedenkstätte Berliner Mauer, said to be the only preserved section of the original wall. But we've just come on something that looks good, here – right in front of us, right in the middle of a construction site – are what appear to be two, 10-foot long sections of the wall, and behind, looming above, an abandoned watch tower. It's fenced off, but that shouldn't stop us. This is amazing, for this hated, reinforced-cement-block artifact that once curlicued like some malignant serpent dividing east from west, has virtually disappeared. It's not missed though, and what its collapse has done is not only open up the city, but also to make it more fun and more lovely to explore.

During my first visit, the old East Berlin was still a muted lonely place, empty and soulless, like Detroit or Pyongyang. In contrast, before World War II, in this same area behind the gate — the Pariser Platz — there were grand hotels, sophisticated shops, cafés and restaurants along elegant streets and boulevards. A bit further down, where Wilhelmstrasse intersected the old Imperial boulevard of Unter den Linden, government buildings and foreign embassies lined the tree-shaded avenue along the western end of Friedrichstrasse.

After the destruction of the war, the western sector of Germany rebuilt and prospered, the Ku-damm lined with Mercedes and BMWs. By contrast, the Cold War in the east brought its own symbol, the ugly little Trabants, vile smoke boxes with lawnmower engines spitting down East Berlin's deserted boulevards, trailing oily clouds and scattering engine parts past drab state office buildings. Inside these gray hives, paper-pushing drones labored to prop up crumbling bureaucracies like something out of the movie "Brazil." It was a worker's paradise where the avenues stood empty, shop windows displayed shoddy goods and dust curls, while the streetlamps cast a weak gas-lit glow over everything through a brownish, soft-coaled haze.

But on this warm sunny day, there's a renewed feeling to a reunited Berlin: it's all light and freedom, like the new glass dome of the Reichstag. It reflects a city returning to life, a Berlin now less Imperial and more inviting. This is most apparent in the eastern sector, of course. It turns out the Communist planners (an oxymoron if there ever was one) did everyone a favor. By undertaking little, and making what they did as ugly and barren as their political and economic philosophy, it broke no hearts to see it replaced with glittery, airy, modern structures. Much remains to be done, but while the clutter and cranes impart an air of confusion, you can see it coming.

Many of the storied, pre-war Berlin squares, like the Potsdamer Platz — the city center that was once Europe's busiest – are close to completion, with designer-dream modern glass high-rises and corporate headquarters like Sony and DaimlerChrysler. The great boulevards – Friedrichstrasse, Unter den Linden — historic names restored to past glory, are once again wonderful places to stroll and shop, or just to sightsee. The Alexanderplatz remains the last piece of this mosaic, the former heart of East Berlin, waiting for investors to fulfill its master plan of development. Right now its boast is the Fernsehturm, Europe's tallest structure, a 1,198-ft television tower with the inevitable observation platform and rotating restaurant. Along with the tethered balloon ride that pops up near the Reichstag, you can't miss it.

On this lovely, late-August Saturday afternoon, we wander into the broad grassy expanse of the Lustgarten. In front of the Berliner Dom cathedral with its great green copper dome, the fountains spray over the young people lounging around its perimeter, or wading in its shallow depths. Along one border facing the cathedral are sun-dappled rows of planted trees, so pleasing to American eyes. Royalty once exercised their horses beneath shaded rows where today young couples push strollers, and old people sit quietly on benches, glad of the day. To me, the Lustgarten has an almost Latin look, with the wide piazza bordered by the imposing bulk of the Altes Museum, built in 1822, just one of the 170 museums and palaces in Berlin, devoted to everything from Egyptology to erotica. But where the Altes is pure classical, the Dom, completed in 1905, is Italian High Renaissance, ornate and cupola-ed. Whatever the effect, it's lovely and peaceful, with a mixture of tourists and young people enjoying the weather. Over on the boulevard, the velotaxis, Berlin's latest fad, shuttle sightseers along Unter den Linden, heading for various tourist attractions. They look like fun, egg-shaped rickshaws pedaled by students that operate in the good-weather months, and seem capable of holding a small family with some creative cramming. Within sight of here is the Berliner Rathaus (Red City Hall), named for its red bricks rather than its politics, seat of the current city government. The River Spree glides past to the north, brown and placid this lovely day, cut by sightseeing boats.

Tourism to Berlin has been growing significantly over the last decade. During the year 2000, Berlin met its forecasts of a 25% growth, with some five million visitors registered, 152,000 of them from the U.S. Length of stay averaged about two-three days, and, in a city that is the largest in Europe, this still can be too brief. The range of world-class events and venues available to the visitor is at least equal to and probably exceeds most of the great capital cities: concerts, plays, opera, ballet, cabaret, the Berlin Philharmonic — one of the best — and all manner of festivals, trade fairs and conventions. Glass-and-chrome shopping arcades have sprung up amidst the new construction, and the Ka-De-We, right off the Ku-damm, the largest department store in Europe, claims it has more goods than Harrods.

There are all sorts of hotels to choose among, from five-star hostelries like the Kempinski Bristol where we are staying, to tidy and atmospheric pensions scattered around the city. Restaurants and cafés and bars crowd in upon each other, sidewalk vendors offer everything from hot sugar crepes to cold ices in a city that, in the warm-weather months, stays open all night.

Unfortunately, Berlin has suffered the tourism consequences of the events of September 11. Travelers from the United States, Berlin's greatest source of visitors, dropped dramatically in the months following, down some 37% by the end of November, according to the Berlin Tourismus Marketing, the city's super-efficient marketing agency. It is interesting to note in passing, that while visitor arrivals and overnight stays from the United States had climbed in the first six months of 2001, according to BTM figures, they had started to taper off during July and August, as the U.S. economy began to show real signs of softening. Tourism Authorities will continue to aggressively market Berlin as a destination, especially in the U.S., and hope for a quick return to normalcy.

Perhaps someday, someone will put up a statue in The Hague for whomever it was in Europe that first thought of putting tables and chairs outside on the sidewalk in the nice weather. Broad squares, endless boulevards, even tiny street corners, morning and night, all have their small communities of furniture waiting invitingly, metal or wicker, shaded by umbrellas or open to the starry night, all endlessly filled with a coterie of regulars and strolling visitors crowding happily together.

As for us, we've decided open-air dining and drinking is a wonderful way to live, especially with the parade past our table of the incredibly attractive women of Berlin. Seemingly no matter what their age, they are in fact fabulous. This is no more apparent than during summer's hot weather, with everyone wearing minimal dress, even at night.

But even more than beauty, it's that sense of history Berlin provides. In addition to the museums and cultural attractions, there are still buildings, especially in the eastern sector, pocked with chips and bullet holes from the Battle of Berlin. On my first visit, we had found what we were pretty sure was the location of Hitler's bunker in that open field behind the Brandenburg Gate. The air was sharply cold that day, with a touch of snow, and I shivered standing there looking down at what seemed to be a waist-high ventilation outlet, and thought of what had occurred at this spot. Now, Sunday morning in another time, we are standing over our luggage at the Banhof Zoologisher Garten on our way to Luxembourg. This will be an eight-hour journey through endless farmland that was much of what was formerly East Germany. It's easy to travel by rail in Europe, and even easier in Germany. Schedules are prominently posted, platforms are well marked, and electronic signs announce each arrival and departure. Still, I know I am not trusted completely by my sons, especially as I have told them that I have traveled all over Europe by train and hardly ever gotten off the track. They know that there is always that first time with me. I try to distract them with questions:

"So! Where did you go after dinner last night?"

"Well, we finally got tired of drinking that Berlin Pilsner, and went looking for a place with Budweiser," Mike reports.

"We saw a big Bud sign out on the street in front of the Hard Rock Café, so we went in," Chris continues.

"Normally we wouldn't be caught dead in a place like that," Mike explains.

"So what happened?" I ask.

"We ordered Bud, and the bartender immediately asked what state we were from," Chris replies. "He was from Chicago himself. Been here 11 years."

"We tell him New York, and the first thing you know, half the bar is talking with us."

"Any invitations to parties?" I ask.

"No, but Mike called everyone he ever knew in the states from the bar. I think he used up all the coins in the place."

"And the people I missed," Mike adds, "Chris called."

"Well, actually," I respond, "when I got back to the room I called your sister, and brother, Brian, in Dallas, but neither was home."

"By the way," Mike explains, "you were asleep when we came in, so we turned off the television. Topless wrestling, Kenny?"

"Hey, where else but in Berlin?"