Berlin bars seem to resist street theatricality. Each one I’ve been to has had nothing more than a sign outside their door. I suppose if they’re worried people judge books by the cover, they’ll be satisfied with anything more than a bouncer who frisks all your junk without so much as a hello.
I arrived at a speakeasy to a bartender who was none too pleased to see us walk in at three in the morning. “You couldn’t have came yesterday, could ya?” He made us promise to leave as quickly as college students could consume alcohol, but an hour passed and Dean Martin’s croons were still coming through the speakers. When we returned to the bar with our beers half drunken, he put his hand to his heart. “You know you can finish that!”
Smoke has followed me home after each excursion I’ve made in the night. It’s started to give have a soothing effect as I get ready for bed, reminding me that the paths I’ve taken in the smoke are something I would never had crossed had I stayed abroad. Like a European blanket of smoke.
Those handles on the mugs are amazing. It’s like drinking a huge cup of tea that intoxicates you. If only they came with scones.
You aren’t able to get into a club unless you appear to look like you couldn’t care less about the club. All I can say is thank God they don’t serve doner kebabs at Berghain.
I haven’t stepped in any dog droppings. I swear, sometimes this place feels like a piece of heaven.