Berlin Stories: Rabbits reclaim Hitler's runway

When I first landed in Berlin two years ago, it was at the city's most famous and architecturally impressive airport, Tempelhof. Originally opened in 1923 for Zeppelin transit, extended by Adolf Hitler in 1936 to become the largest civil airport of its time and famously used for the 1948-9 Berlin airlift, Tempelhof is one of the last remaining pieces of Nazi architecture in the city, and loved by locals; but now, it is set to close.

With Berlin broke and planning a new Heathrow-sized terminal in the south-east of the city, Tempelhof's rising costs and the dwindling number of passengers going through its airy 1930s departure hall forced last week's decision by Berlin city authorities to shut its doors on 30 October. The plan is for the local police to use part of the runway as a car park and let rabbits graze on the rest.

The fate of Berlin's smallest, yet most centrally located airport (known as "the coathanger" because of its curved façade) has hit Berliners hard. "It's a disaster," said one. "I don't know how I'm going to cope when it's gone."

I've always regarded Berlin as one of the cleaner European cities, although my bleach-loving flatmate, Bettina, who arrived from Munich last year, maintains the German capital is an "utter tip" compared to the squeaky-clean streets of her beloved Bavarian homeland.

But Bettina hopes this may be about to change, thanks to the latest development on Berlin's allegedly rancid streets. Last month the city authorities installed new hi-tech "talking bins" in messier areas, such as the Potsdamer Platz and Zoologischer Garten station.

The solar-powered orange bins have a special sensor that sets off a recorded message when you throw rubbish into them. The "Hitlist Harry" bin thanks you with a song and the "Siggi Sport" bin screams "Goal, Gooaal, Goooaaal!".

The talking bins speak French, Japanese and English, but not German. Clearly the city authorities think foreigners are to blame for Berlin's grimy reputation.

With its lakes and rivers, vast expanses of green, beer gardens, outdoor pools and inland beaches, Berlin, as most Berliners will tell you, is at its best when there's a bit of UV around. And last week summer finally arrived, together with the start of my favourite Berlin tradition: the city's Freiluft Kino, or open-air cinema season.

There are eight "drive-ins without the cars", including the recently renovated amphitheatre-style cinema in the public park, Friedrichshain. Before the Wall came down, the cinema in former East Berlin used to screen Communist-approved movies for the workers who lived in the area. Now it provides classic German films and the best of Hollywood between May and September for the trendy twenty- and thirty-somethings who've moved wholesale into the district since reunification.

Another Freiluft Kino is the temporary screen on Berlin's famous Museum Island, with its stripy deckchairs and champagne-stocked bar. Most people don't mind bringing their own blanket when a ticket costs only €5.

Sadly, we are unlikely to enjoy the same impromptu entertainment as last year, when Anita Ekberg arrived for a screening of her most famous work, La Dolce Vita. Swaying dangerously after an apparent sojourn at the champagne bar, she declared her intention to throw pennies into the fountain at Alexanderplatz "to make Berlin rich again!" It will take more than that, though, to make any impression on the capital's €49bn debt.