One Night in Berlin
A spring vignette from Germany
We were met by a small oil lamp; one of a dozen unique illuminations spread across the nooks of the aged bar. Smoke lingered in the air, prompting Oskar to offer a Toscanello.
As we lit up, the Turkish bartender introduced himself; inviting our preferences before turning to his craft. Between the shadows, I could make out Victorian furniture dotting the space; patterned, tasseled, plush. Pockets of small conversation could be heard; an older, stately gentleman exited behind us with his equally-stately wife. “Jem” handed Oskar a cocktail of whiskey and, mango, of all things; a favorite of my oldest friend.
The clubs wouldn’t open for a few hours, and we were pleased with our discovery. One cocktail turned to two and then three; light banter to politics and then international affairs. Berlin, as European melting pot, seemed to invite such exchanges. Oskar’s Arabic studies, the best döner kebab, the war in Ukraine — the conversation flitted from one to the next.
Two young women attempted to enter; Jem turned them away, citing the late hour. As they backed out, he shrugged — “Not the right energy. They can be loud, filming TikTok’s …“ Sexist? Maybe. Wrong? Not necessarily.
Sufficiently lubricated and approaching midnight, we made our leave and headed off to the main attraction.
I hadn’t expected the Uber to drop us right at the door. I’d figured I’d have a moment to survey; to steel myself for the challenge. Instead I was greeted by the inscrutable face of the bouncer — a man whose sole vocation was to gate-keep the risqué club from vibe-killing tourists like myself.
In this moment of surprise, I defaulted to American, puppy-like enthusiasm: “Hi there! Is this Kit Kat Club?!” Without batting an eye: “Not tonight.” I shuffled away in my curated black outfit; weeks of mental role-play wasted.
Even on a Monday, there was another option. Tressor was only a few blocks away; an underground concrete bunker with significant history in the techno scene. I sheepishly apologized to Oskar for botching our first attempt, determined to project aloof confidence at our next stop.
The exterior matched my expectations; an imposing, industrial building loomed, dressed with red accent lighting. A small queue had formed by the door and another broad-shouldered man stood guard.
As we joined the line, his irritation was apparent. The party in front of us wore bulky coats; he explained they would need to check them. They stammered, switching between English and German; eliciting an eye-roll. He reluctantly let them in.
It was our turn. “Why are you here?” “Music.” “Don’t cause problems. Be respectful.” “Understood.” I stifled my relief as he whisked us inside. Stickers were placed over our phone cameras; other belongings stayed in a locker. Bass reverberated down the sloping concrete hallways as we made our way towards the music.
As the volume increased, the space widened into darkness, shrouded with fog. The occasional beam of light revealed the mass of bodies as I worked my way to the front.
Many cities have venues for dancing, their floors occupied by the most extroverted and intoxicated. As I neared the DJ, it became clear Tressor was something else. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, much less be impressed by or embarrassed for my fellow patrons. No cell service, no cameras, not even vision — the only performer stood behind the turntables.
There are few places left to fully live in the moment; a German techno club is one of them.
4am rolled around quickly. We stumbled into the night — sweaty, tipsy, and hungry. One German delicacy had so far eluded us, and it appeared around the next corner. Sausage, french fries, spiced ketchup; a blend of salt and fat designed for this very moment. We waiting in line for “currywurst” alongside the other early morning revelers.
As our food arrived, nature called — inconveniently. I went off in search of a discreet alley, and was quickly intercepted by a homeless man. Did he speak English? German? Who can recall. I rarely carry cash, but he caught me on a good night — I passed him ten euros. I assumed it a handsome sum for the situation.
As I returned, Oskar hovered over my food. “A homeless guy tried to eat your currywurst!” Was it the same man? We think so.
Moral of the story: if you give a homeless man ten euros, he may round the corner and try to eat your currywurst.