Party of three

A smear of drizzle snuck its way down the ashen sky, sneakily soaking the former passengers of the cheap inner-euro flight arriving from Barcelona.  The new found temperatures danced around zero degrees, slipping through jackets and worn shoes, scrapping just above the surface like an eagle ripping a trout from it’s swim.  The moment I stepped off the plane I felt Berlin; its twisted humor laughing, a mischievous low rumble bubbling from below.

Asking questions to get to the desired outcome has always served a dual purpose for me whilst traveling through foreign lands – not only can I gain the piece of information that I require, but when choosing the right person to ask you can evoke their own questions directed back.  As I cleared the baggage area the target for my inquiry stood directly in front of me – us rather – as my girlfriend Sabrina was right by my side.  The fact that I approached a German girl with wavy blond hair just past her shoulder, bright blue eyes, and an effortless rosy lipped smile, holding a sign with a name on it – only seemed to be acceptable by the fact that she was literally the first person who stood beyond the waist high metal posts with connecting elastic canvas material that marked the baggage claim exit.

As I approached her, an energetic tornado rose up spinning from beneath the two of us, and her softness washed over me like a languid fall sunset in California.  I felt as though I could have hugged her deeply and warmly at that very moment.  James had already provided me the outline of the directions needed to find our temporary Berlin apartment, but I lacked the strings connecting the main points.  The lack of details opened the door for the simple and perfect question to ask the most attractive local at the airport.  “Hi, I was wondering if you could help me find a certain Metro station?” I calmly asked, hinting a shy smile.  The outline of the information was written down in my phone, but of coarse you can never be too sure when getting directions from a friendly stranger.

The question was received as the mountains receive the dropping sun, and she leaned closer, her eyes lit up, her smiled urged upwards, and the energetic symphony struck its tune.  Perhaps in another time the symphony tinged with melancholy would resonate through the cold dark night, and all else would disappear.  My beautiful, and desirous Brazilian travel companion, bedmate and current life partner stood attentively beside me, eyes narrowing with Latin passion and haste.  The precise and accurate information that my would be German friend provided snuffed any need for rebuke from my girlfriend.  The directions were updated in the notes section of my phone, and I gave her one last knowingly smile.  I resisted any urges to swim deeper into the cold, comforting blue German waters, took a long deep breath and wistfully stepped into the night.

The path of lights leading to the underground metro began beyond the first sign of true, yet perhaps not authentic, German cuisine.  A restaurant that was built from wood attempting to appear of age, interrupted the flow of lights before they arched away in the distance.  Between the lanterns there were two meter spaces giving way to illuminated humans bustling towards the train.  Suitcase wheels clacked along the pathway, and those lighter travelers shuffled past Sabrina and I with our cumbersome over packed luggage.

The ticket machine was entirely in German, and I felt the excitement of world travel once again tingle through my skin.  I was lost, safely hidden amongst the world.  The unmistakable thrill of the unknown began to rise in my belly as we tried to figure out the all German piece of technology.  By continuing to ask anyone that looked remotely local, we figured out the chain of buttons necessary to select in order to purchase two metro tickets headed in the direction of Osloer Strasse station.  Just as the tickets were falling into the tray at the bottom of the machine, two girls with British accents approached.  “Hi, how do you buy one of these tickets?  It seems quite complicated.”  Their gentle voices tinged with bemused excitement. Flattered and slightly filled with glee to be at the other end of a travel question, I past on my new found knowledge.  Practicing my second bout of self control of the evening, I abandoned any further urge of engagement with the alluring female duo from England.

The train passed through different stations, as pieces of Berlin began to peer out from the night.  The sharp, crystal clear male German voice coming from the trains’ speakers efficiently gave notice to all stops.  The train was filtered several times over, while the bohemian population of Berlin wove their way in and out of the dispensing vehicle, bottles and cigarettes fueling their inner city transit.  By the time we arrived to Boddinstrasse station, it seemed as if the train was headed to a hedonistic warehouse party.  All the passengers silently seemed to be following the same directions to some sort of secret place from the underground.  Except for us of coarse.  With our skin being recently scolded by the Southern Hemisphere summer sun, and bright running shoes, we were clearly not invited to the party.  Add the two overly packed suitcase roller bags (with color), and we barely earned a glance.

Out on the street, it was different.  Not just the people spilling grizzled German utterances through the night, while obviously not giving one fuck about two travelers who just arrived from Brazil.  We dodged lit cigarette butts tossed into the road, the newfound temperatures working their way to our bones.  Something else reeked its way around the smells of Turkish food and sausages.  The melting pot that is Berlin pulled itself up the wall of my mind and peered in through the darkness.  Ragged graffiti marked the walls, rubbish was scattered across the sidewalks, cold damp mist fell from clouds that made no distinction from the sky itself.

Sabrina leaned into me and said “O ceu parece mais baixo aqui.”  The sky seems lower here.

I would have much preferred to have silently snuck into Berlin’s grasp, but instead our suitcases bounced over the cobble stone streets, and the pattern of sounds echoed through the quiet residential neighborhood.  A cold whisper seemed to leak it’s way from the people, as if everyone had a secret to tell.  On that night at least, on that street, things were eerily silent.

As we trenched down the side walk we found the street numbers illuminated with just enough light for us to make out number 11.

Watkins was the name, and I followed the map and pressed the botton.  “Hello” James said in a slightly German undertone.  He buzzed us in, and we were once again reminded of our over-packed bags as we ascended on the third floor of the post World War II piece of German architecture.  James seemed taller then the last time we’d met in California, as if the falling Berlin sky stretched him upwards.  His thin blond hair reached just past his eyes which were defined in a natural ring of dark pockets, easily brought on from not having been exposed to sunlight for several weeks…or months.

Despite his pale and somewhat withered appearance, James possessed the firm equanimity that I knew from our past charades together.  We spent much of that time galavanting around California, surfing by day and partying by night.  A warm sense of kinship rose in my chest, and a sense of peace only an old friend can evoke settled any nerves still left from the strange Metro ride.

_______

It was 1:45pm on Sunday December 11th, and the line for Berghain stretched back from the entrance, ominously quiet for the size of the waiting party.  The patient array of optimism was hidden amongst the faces of those who wished to disappear from the world on a Sunday afternoon.  Like birds on a migration journey, except instead of flying to sunnier lands, the people of Berghain wanted a darker place.  Only the line stood to stop them.  The end of the line rather, where on the gateway to every party found a group of three large German men; their job was simple.  Perhaps not easy, but straightforward, lacking any fancy titles or history.  There job was the Berghain door.

The nerves that danced through the would be clubbers were not merely stemming from anticipation of the party that lie within.  The anxiety that rippled through the group of pale skinned, dark clothed, all but sumptuous music lovers came from knowing that they might not get into the club.  Berghain has built a reputation for denial.  Why denial?  To keep Berghain dark and twisted as the city itself.  Nothing was certain on that Sunday afternoon.

The frigid air seemed to plummet further below freezing as the line inched it’s way forwards, biting wind sliced through my cap chilling the inner depth of my ear canal.  It was hard to imagine waiting in a longer line, with colder weather.  That’s when it started to rain.  The grim Northern rain spattered down, wafting in sheets through the grey sky.  The rain wasn’t strong enough to send any people away, and the crowd demanded no sympathy.  Together we waited, and my body temperature went lower as the water soaked through my useless skate shoes, down to my socks.

The cold became a mental game, either expect it or move on.   I grunted along with the shuffle towards complete abandonment of restraints.  Cigarettes were rolled, beers were tossed towards the chain link fence, and few words were spoked.  Those that spoke and danced to the distant ‘thumm, thumm, thumm’  boasted true confidence only found through staying up all night.    They knew there place lie just ahead, and all fear had been abandoned.

The building loomed above like a great castle, except there were no spires, or decorated windows.  Six rows of rectangular windows monotonously lined each floor, and the floors stacked one on top of the other.  The windows with sharp edges seemed to become longer as the building moved to its center, rising to a create a completely square fortress, fighting upwards towards the ever falling sky.  The longest, middle windows would awaken with sudden flashed of lights, and the distant scream of the people made a counterpoint with the repeated deeper thud of the bass.  “They opened the shutters” James whispered knowingly, looking up beneath his brow with a wicked smile.  “They only open them once a weekend.”  Berghain opens Saturday night, and closes Monday…at some time far past sunrise.  At just one moment during the weekend time warp, they surprise the darkness by opening the shutters with a shower of light.  The crowd celebrates in the amalgam of the two worlds, a glimpse into the day before the shutters are slammed closed again and time can be forgotten.

Until she appeared, not a soul had left the club since our time in the line.  Suddenly, she burst from the entrance, floating from the dark with the grace of theatre in her stride.  As she strode towards us my skin flashed with heat, the hair on my neck rose, and her presence washed over me like a warm autumn breeze.  She was the perfect storm of beauty and darkness.  Shadows gathered around her enticing eyes, her long black hiding her sharp features.  Her teeth shone through the shadows and a wicked rueful grin flashed into my eyes, ticking the back of my brain.  The wind caught her black trench coat and lifted it back, revealing a black lace piece of lingerie, extending from her legs all the way up to her fully exposed breasts.  I could see the sex steaming off of her.  She laughed into the bitter afternoon cold, and strutted past us, off into the depths of Berlin.  But Berlin was hers, and I was left intoxicated with her lust.

Sabrina’s mouth gaped in a sultry from of awe.  The entrails of Berghain left on the dirt where she passed, and our mouths nearly watered with growing elation for escape.

As we approached the door we could see the doormen.  A group of four ragged looking men in their twenties approached, sporting the ‘not giving a fuck’ look perfectly.  As the door man at the front of the entrance look them up and down, one of the group stood face to face as the doorman frown plummeted into inspection.  Another one of the group rested against the railing and stared off into space appearing to carelessly allow the door crew to scan him over.  The bouncer turned and consulted his colleague who sat in the chair three feet further within the door.  A faint nod and the four men were swept up the mysterious staircase into the guts of Berghain.

Two girls approached.  One had a white fur coat with black intertwined, cropped blond hair, black jeans and boots.  The other had one long bang that streaked across her face and wore all black.  They tapped there boots from side to side in nervous expectancy, and surely shivering from standing two hours in the freezing line.  The bouncer scowled down at them, turned to his seated associate and a swift hand movement shunned them away.  Back to the cold afternoon, denied from the mindful madness.

Further back in line I had it all planned out.  When my time came I would hold my head high, and flaunt the careless attitude demanded to get into this apocalyptic like establishment.  But as we neared the door the minutes slipped away.  My heart began to race, and I could feel the restlessness stirring in my chest like the base from the club.

We stood at the front of the line and six eyes of glared down on us with not a thread of patience nor sympathy.  “Drei” James said with an urgent tone of confidence all but hiding a dash of fear.  He held out three fingers, with his thumb to index finger held together, hand at the waste. Time froze, my racing heart near irrupting in my chest, as if I had taken one of the many drugs that was consumed within the clubbing fortress.

The bouncer from behind brought his gaze to me, his disconcerting eyes penetrating my shell of optimism.  Our eyes met, and he stared at me, beyond James and in front of Sabrina – his mouth pressed into a hard line curving down at the edges.  His eyes seemed to looked deep into me, like he was reading my very thoughts, his expression somber has the afternoon sky.  The plan flew from my mind like a skittish horse.  I couldn’t hold the gaze.  My eyes darted left, right and brought them back to his.  His eyes lay sullen and cold like the Northern winter wind itself.

His gaze finally moved beyond me to Sabrina, who stood bundled in her long fur lined jacket, not the sort of garment one would buy in Berlin.  The jacket was an online purchase through a trendy surf brand.  In a alternate reality of fashion, the clean, trendy jacket was out of place just as much as our tan skin.  A quick scan of the female component to our group, then the hard eyes moved back to James who all but held the confidence of the entire trio.  The fray ended abruptly when the doorman made a smooth diagonal hand gesture, back to forward, in the direction of the wet line of people.  In that moment we were denied from Berghain, and the bitter taste of defeat rose like bile at the back of my throat.  Although this is said to be a right of passage for Berlin, it was a bitter defeat, a slap to the ego. I looked back at the strange, thrilling, frightening structure once more. I once again imagined the sultry mayhem unfolding within, the thought haunting me evermore.

The three of us turned away, moving through puddles and soft ground, carefully not making eye contact with anybody lest they see the face of defeat, melancholy forced upon our expressions like the graffiti on abandoned Berlin walls.  Silent and sheepishly, we moved beyond the low chatter, smoke and anxiety of the queue – slowly fading away into the haze.  Whatever sun was hidden behind the blanket of clouds disappeared beyond the horizon.  The cold rain slithered down, icy drop after icy drop, and the sky turned black.