Detour: Sisyphos
I slept in and was feeling less jet-lagged than my first few nights in Berlin. I was going to need it since I was going “out out” ( English slang for partying through the morning, as opposed to just going “out”) with my hostel-mates. Their local friend, Lily, was taking us to her favorite club.
We departed around 3 a.m., hopped on the underground, and walked for a mile in the cold. We arrived at 4, the queue (the English don’t say “line”) was out the door. We waited a torturous 90 minutes as the line slowly crept forward, and I questioned what could possibly be worth a wait this long at this hour.
We were greeted by a mammoth of a bouncer at the front. His skin was a tanned white. He was dressed in a crisp, blue blazer that clung to his broad shoulders and complimented his white slacks and brown loafers. He had a curly, ginger afro the size of a beach ball. Equal parts sleep-deprived and intimidated, I committed the sin of offering him cash upfront. He looked down at my wallet before leveling his deep, blue eyes with mine. In an accented baritone he said, “How embarrassing.” I grew nervous, having heard stories of how easily people were turned away here, regardless of how long they had waited. I quickly apologized, hoping my obvious accent would win me some pity points. “Here, we say ‘good evening’ first. Place these stickers on your phone’s cameras. No photos. Be nice to everyone. Have a good time.” After being patted down and paying the entry fee, I stepped into a courtyard and entered a dream.
To my right, a brick building with projections of clock-like mechanics ticking about. Above me were large, wooden sculptures of winged insects and a rotating double helix. People sat atop an old bus to my left; its internals had been replaced by the shell of a large bomb wrapped in mirrored-disco tiles. Behind me was a small tea house filled with people smoking and chatting over delicious coffees and teas. Taking a few steps forward, I found myself standing in an artificial beach with a small koi pond in the center. Industrial-sized smoke machines filled the courtyard with a dense cloud every 10 minutes that caught and refracted the lasers and strobe lights making it difficult to see more than three feet in front of you. Every hour a large flame would shoot from the yard’s center and create a heatwave that warmed your skin from 40 feet away. Everywhere people were moving, talking, dancing, laughing. They were dressed in robes, in street wear, in whatever they liked. A mixture of hipsters, hypebeasts, and neo-bohemians. A bar and small pizzeria were adjacent to the beach, and behind those were the main dance halls.
We entered the main hall. Dimly lit, incandescent lanterns hung above us, pulsating in rhythm with the music. Some of my hostel-mates quickly procured some ecstasy, or Mandy as they call it in the UK, and were high within the hour. I stayed sober, trying to pace myself for the rest of my travels and thinking it better if someone was looking after the group’s health (i.e. bringing them water every 30 minutes or so). Nothing blows the travel high like a trip to a foreign hospital. All of the DJ’s were top notch and after a lifetime of not “getting” techno, it finally made sense to me. We danced for hours, bouncing between different floors. One of which had 30 disco balls suspended from the ceiling, entangled in vines, cords, and reflective wrapping. We relaxed outside between sets, striking up conversation with any nearby dance denizens. A few people complimented my dancing and someone even asked if I was a professional. I felt proud coming from the Bay, where dancing was a large part of the culture growing up. I replied, “If you think I’m good, you should see how they dance back home!”
At around 2 in the afternoon, I was burnt out. All of my sweat had evaporated, leaving a thin film of smoke and salt on my face, hair, and clothes. I waited in the cafe, nursing some tea while a few of my hostel-mates danced out the remainder of their Molly-induced mania. I met a gentle artist named Dan whose life thesis at the moment is to create art from joy and play. He thinks it’s too easy to make art from tragedy. I met a kindergarten teacher named Yansa who was coming down from her own trip. She was at Sisyphos to avoid celebrating her birthday, which felt a bit ironic. By the time I got back, it was 3 p.m. I promptly fell asleep.
Being horizontal after nearly 10 hours of dancing was glorious.
The shower afterward: even more so.
