Fictional Article and Photos
June 18, 2017 / featured on Kevin Kish Photography seaandcityblog
There was only one thing that stood in between me and a legendary trip to Berlin—a trip which would exist in my memory only in flashes, in swirls of dark purple lights in rooms filled with smoke pulsating to deep techno beats, with Robert Smith lookalikes pouting and smoking rolled cigarettes on a couch, to be recounted one day to captive American audiences at dull baby showers and fluorescent workplaces—the kind of trip that rightfully awaited every travel-happy 20-something who pretended to come to Berlin for the Bradenburg Gate and the Holocaust Memorial, but really came for the dancing girls and the ecstasy.
The only thing between me and this coveted accomplishment was perhaps not actually a thing (debatable, but we’ll get to that), but a man. His name was Sven, and he was the man who called the shots at the door of Berghain, known colloquially as the coolest club in the entire world.
I tried to get into Berghain three times, twice on the same night. By the third attempt, I had nonchalantly accepted what I was sure to be my fate, and trailed behind my friend Nina and a guy named Miles who I had met at the hostel, drunk and eating an amazing falafel. To no one’s surprise, the answer was again, “Sorry, not tonight.”
Sven was the stuff of Berlin legend, and it was not even he who greeted people as they approached the door—you had to pass several assessments to get into Berghain. Sven was a symbol of the exclusivity, a forbidden Berghain entity in itself; the bouncer personally rejecting you was probably named Max or Carl. The day before I left New York, I had drinks with a friend who had lived in Berlin for a year. His tips to get into Berghain, and other exclusive clubs, were the following: “Wear black. Don’t look at your phone. Don’t smile.”
Dutifully, I had done just that on my first go-around, but no such luck. Why one person got into Berghain and another didn’t was often a total mystery. There has been talk of A-listers getting rejected by Sven and Co., including Britney Spears, though to me that made total sense.
Although Sven’s rejection stung a bit, my six-day stop in Berlin on my way back from my Christmas break in the US to my new home of Estonia was one of frigid, happy, snowy, schnitzel-filled days. I arrived on a Friday afternoon. Snow fell lightly as I embarked on a long and arduous journey to my hostel on the train, which I eventually found after several wrong turns. The outdoor S-bahn train travelled alongside endless graffiti, as industrial buildings and spacious areas slowly morphed into a more urban landscape. When I got to my hostel in the early evening, the reception area/bar was already filled with people yelling and drinking. I would be alone for two days before Nina met me in the city, but I was ready to explore the edgy streets with strangers-turned-friends or on my own.
But first: physiological needs. I found my dorm room upstairs and almost immediately fell asleep. It was the last restful sleep of the trip, which despite the failed Berghain attempts still managed to feel like a secret after-hours party; smoky, dark purple, the music switched over to The Cure. It wasn’t the coolest club in the world just because of Sven. It was the coolest because Berlin.
~
Berlin, like every cool thing that is cool, was cooler in the ‘90s. This was explained to me by an excitable Australian tour guide named Nicole on a street art walking tour.
Standing in an East Berlin alleyway covered in art, and a few remaining bullet holes, Nicole explained that after the Wall fell in 1989, much of the city’s buildings were left empty. People started squatting all over East Berlin, which was “basically like living in anarchy,” Nicole said. This alleyway in particular had been home to a group of artists, who had not left a single spot uncovered. Branches were growing on the discolored walls, and some of the windows had bars on them. The art alternated between perfect murals and scribbles and curses, and colored lights and rectangular pieces of paper hung on strings above my head. The squatters had seen potential in this gritty, war-afflicted, unwanted post-Soviet space. No matter the intention—whether to simply make the squat’s communal area more appealing, or to leave behind a monument to Germany’s resistance and creativity—they had accomplished art’s greatest feat: immortalization. The many layers of art and graffiti decorating the walls made it clear that the space had not been preserved in its original state; it had become living art.
The day before Nina and I had seen some of Berlin’s less “alternative” attractions. We walked through the Tiergarten, which was covered in a light dusting of snow, and ate lunch in a café hidden within the park. An ill-informed purchase of a 7 euro bottle of water was made. En route to the Bradenburg Gate, we came across the Berlin Victory Column, which offered a panoramic view of the city at the top. The Victory Column had been unveiled in 1873 as a way to commemorate the many impressive Prussian victories of the time. The lobby held miniature versions of other famous monuments. We made it to the top just as the sun began to set.
From there we continued to the Gate, the Reichstag Building, and the Holocaust Memorial, which were all located within a few blocks of each other. At the Holocaust Memorial, Nina and I wordlessly split up and got lost within the steel grey blocks. The celebration of Germany’s strength just blocks from the sprawling testimonial to its primary role in history’s deadliest genocide did not occur to me as in bad taste, or even accidental. Berlin’s main tourist attractions were much more than sources of federal funding. They were a testament to lessons learned: how to be proud of their victories, and cope with their faults and disappointments.
During the street art tour, Nicole had suggested to all of the participants that we check out a jazz show that night if we were inclined. After dinner and a few beers, Nina and I took a train to Kreuzberg, or “Little Istanbul,” a diverse and less well-off part of Berlin reminiscent of my own hometown of Queens, New York. We walked through Gorlitzer Park, known for its easy access to drug dealers, to a bar inside the park called Das Edelweiss. There was an open jazz show inside. Musicians could enter the stage as they pleased, but there was clearly a hierarchy. A woman singing “My Funny Valentine” off key had to be nearly peeled off the stage. A young saxophone player excited the crowd and an older musician playing a wind instrument, who happily patted him on the back each time he played an especially funky interlude; while the trumpet player in the middle of the stage seemed to be struggling internally with his receding fame and hairline.
The next day was our last in Berlin, but we would spend most of it hungover and lounging around the room we had rented. The morning after that it would be back to Tallinn, even further beyond the Wall. The part of the Berlin Wall which had been turned into art, the East Side Gallery, first appeared to me on a drunken walk in between Berghain attempts and before the falafel. It was quiet, and snow was lightly falling again. We were headed to some club, which upon arrival would prove to be too expensive and playing terrible music. Miles, Nina, and I walked the entire thing in what felt like the blink of an eye. It was Sunday night and the streets were quiet. The walk had a dreamlike quality to it, and perhaps it was all the smoke and dark purple lights swirling through my mind, but all the escape plans, all the bullet holes, all the tears and the loneliness, seemed to fall away in an instant, had nothing to do with the tremendous beauty that had been painted over such misery.Fictional
