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This is the story of Leonhard Liu, born in Seoul, transferred to Berlin by corporate decree, and somehow reorganized by the city in ways he didn’t anticipate. This is classic Berlin energy: people arrive with a tidy plan, and the city casually, silently, derails it until something more interesting appears.
Before we get too deep, a quick reminder, this interview is brought to you by A4ord. But we’ll get there once Leonhard starts assembling his Berlin reality. Now back to him.
Leonhard landed in Berlin in the fall of 2020 — yes, that 2020 — when the city felt like a grayscale art film. Fog wrapped around tram lines, the U-Bahn was half-empty and eerily quiet, and everyone walked with a kind of muted determination. His tech company in Seoul had just been acquired by a German firm, and suddenly, Berlin became the new data hub. The offer made sense on paper; the timing made sense to absolutely no one.
He told himself this was temporary.
A two-year assignment.
A neat CV boost.
A little “international experience” to tuck under his belt.
But Berlin doesn’t do temporary.
Quietly, steadily, it rearranges you.
Within six months, the blueprint he arrived with began to dissolve — shifting personal circumstances, unexpected connections, new rhythms settling into place until he realized he wasn’t going anywhere.
Ask him for his first Berlin sentence, and he delivers it like a thesis:
“A vast, grey, creative construction site where everyone is dressed for the apocalypse — but in a fashionable way.”
Anyone who has walked through Neukölln at 2 AM or observed the sunrise crowd at Warschauer Brücke knows exactly what he means (for more on that world, see our piece on Berlin Clubbing Culture).
Berlin is a collage of contradictions — brutalism softened by eccentricity, chaos balanced by sincerity, an unending parade of characters. Leonhard was fascinated before he even understood why.
Like every expat, he was immediately tested by the Kälte — both the literal cold and the emotional frost Berliners wear like a uniform. They’re not rude; they’re simply uninterested until proven otherwise.
Professionally, things were smooth.
Personally? A slow climb out of social isolation.
Then came German bureaucracy, Berlin’s unspoken rite of passage. His biggest torment wasn’t even the Ausländerbehörde — it was Elterngeld. The forms were labyrinthine. The logic, prehistoric. The calculations felt designed to break spirits.
“I’m a data scientist, and I couldn’t understand the logic. I hired a consultant.”
Every expat who has ever touched German paperwork just nodded in solidarity.
Then came Kita applications — the Final Boss of Berlin domestic life. The waitlists, the rejections, the silence, the mysterious “we’ll let you know.” If you know, you know. (And if you don’t, read our guide on how to survive your first Berlin winter — emotionally, it’s the same energy.)
Despite the challenges, Leonhard began absorbing the micro-pleasures Berliners don’t even realize they’ve normalized:
• A Wegbier on a long walk
• Sitting on a bridge at sunset for no reason
• Späti chairs that become accidental social hubs
• The freedom to just exist without performance
Coming from Seoul — a city of speed, precision, and perfect efficiency — this softness was shocking. Then soothing. And eventually addictive.
Berlin doesn’t expect perfection. It lets you be in draft mode.
He didn’t know he needed that until he found it.
He misses the efficiency of Seoul — the urban choreography that makes anything possible at 2 AM.
Food delivery, banking, government services — all executed in under ten minutes.
Whereas Berlin requires a six-week appointment for a stamp the size of a fingernail.
He also misses real chimaek — the combination of crispy fried chicken and icy beer that Seoul has perfected. Berlin tries, but it’s an imitation track, not the original song.
Still, longing for something doesn’t equal wanting to return. He holds both truths comfortably.
Ask him what makes Berlin special and he lands somewhere soft:
“It’s a city of people whose lives don’t follow straight lines.”
Berlin is full of people mid-transition, mid-redesign, mid-questioning. Stories here don’t need to be polished. They can be in revision mode indefinitely.
Leonhard fit into that energy instinctively.
He acknowledges the shift — the “poor but sexy” era is now nostalgic folklore. The openness remains, but it’s guarded by rising rents and higher income requirements.
Or as he puts it:
“The doors are still open — but they’re heavier.”
His favorite Berlin moment is spring, specifically the emotional thaw in May — when entire districts pour into parks, streets, cafés, lakes, rooftops. It’s as if the whole city collectively exhales. We talk about this in our Winter-to-Spring guide — that shift from survival mode to joy.
He’s also picked up some unnervingly German habits:
• Militant recycling (dating a German will do that)
• Shushing loud passengers on the U-Bahn
• Buying a proper winter coat
• Participating in the sacred 11 AM office pretzel tradition
But he draws the line at walking barefoot in public. You can take the man out of Seoul, but you cannot take the Seoul out of the man.
When he and Clara moved in together, they met the classic Berlin couple challenge:
Furniture assembly + concrete ceilings + fragile love.
Clara, gifted with Facebook-group instincts, found A4ord.
They booked an English-speaking handyman who arrived on time — a supernatural event in Berlin — and came armed with tools like a magician. He assembled their problematic IKEA wardrobe, installed ceiling lamps, and put an end to their slow-burn domestic crisis.
“We were drinking wine by 6 PM instead of arguing over screws.”
In a city where DIY can break couples, A4ord saved the day.
His one-word summary? “Efficient.”
And coming from a Seoul-born data scientist, that is high praise.
Next on their list: cleaning services — because adulthood is knowing when to outsource your sanity.
Leonhard’s Berlin today is quiet, grounded, and intentional.
A home in Prenzlauer Berg.
Weekends with his daughter.
Walks through Mauerpark.
A bakery that knows his order.
A domestic rhythm he never expected but now relies on.
He co-parents across continents — a logistical and emotional balancing act requiring patience, empathy, and calendar coordination that qualifies as its own part-time job.
Work remains his main community, but Clara pulls him into the deeper German layer of Berlin — the one tourists never see, newcomers rarely access, and long-term expats slowly earn their way into.
Berlin also reshaped how he sees Korea.
He appreciates its order — but also recognizes its rigid pressures.
Berlin taught him that linear paths aren’t the only valid ones.
“A good life,” he says, “can be built sideways.”
His metaphor deserves a spot on a museum wall:
“Berlin is a shared co-working space. Everyone is working on their own weird project, the Wi-Fi is terrible, the furniture is a mismatch, but the coffee is good and the people are fascinating.”
If you’ve ever worked from a Neukölln café, you know he nailed it.
His advice is pure Berlin survival:
• Get Haftpflichtversicherung immediately.• Buy it before groceries.
• Accept that this city runs on patience, not speed.
See our rundown of What Not to Do in Berlin for more essential intel.
Favorite U-Bahn line: U8 — gritty icon
Best night out: Kreuzberg around Kotti
Most overrated: Waiting two hours for a kebab
Most underrated: Moabit’s quiet Spree banks
Favorite German word: Feierabend — a lifestyle, not a timestamp
Currywurst: Only after 2 AM
Berlin habit he loves: The 11 AM office pretzel
Berlin habit he rejects: Going barefoot in public
Leonhard didn’t plan to stay in Berlin — Berlin simply rewrote his plan. He stayed for the canals, the green summers, the unexpected tenderness, the second chances, the domestic rituals, the chaos softened by routine, and the truth that home is often the city that lets you remain unfinished.
Check Expats Magazine for more stories about the people who make Berlin, Berlin.
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