Baddie goes to Berghain (part 1)
Last weekend, Baddie’s “Indian tonic” (aka Naggie) flew in from London … and almost didn’t make it Tegel due to weird happenings on the plane. But all’s well that … err… begins strangely. For a few days, Naggie, myself, and occasionally Mr. Baddie, painted the town grey. You know, to match the weather.
More of our adventures in the new section of this blog called Baddie’s Berlin. For now let’s stick to last Saturday evening. Naggie had already threatened she wanted to go “to one of those dance clubs” Berlin is so famous for; and me, having watched Queer as Folk religiously, and very much hoping for something Babylon-style, literally jumped at the opportunity.
Let me begin by saying that, like all the other entries I have had the dubious pleasure of writing so far, this is made
up out of entirely true stories. And in the interest of truth, we did start the evening by drinking one bottle of white wine, one bottle of champagne, and one of red wine, with two other friends (the fat girl and the black girl). Anyway, that’s almost a bottle per head. During which we found out that in a village somewhere in … Germany? Kazakhstan? (can’t bloody remember), the inhabitants will literally shout “WHO ARE YOU?” and other such questions at strangers. Good stuff.
Soooo. We took Twain’s adage that “sometimes too much to drink is barely enough” quite seriously and more or less ended up in fits of giggles. Around midnight though, Naggie and I did a Cinderella and took off, as we were supposed to meet two other friends (the techno guy and the gay guy) to go to legendary Berghain. Ok, in the interest of truth again, we weren’t all exactly bosom pals, as we had only met the gay guy the day before, but hey, he was cool and I bond quickly.
Now, our meeting place was called the Ressort bar. The techno guy – friend had sent me a longish text with this name, about four lines with hints and tips about the location, and a final piece of advice to “google it”. Which I did. Without paying much attention to the bits in the middle – who would, anyway? Skimming is soooo much better! That’s how I got to believe we were going here. Nice, no? Well, I did think at the time that it was too good to be true, and my friends would probably not choose such a posh place except by accident (though I would). I also thought that it might be quite dreary to go on a terrace by the river in the cold and rain, but I’m not one to whine upfront (just during and after) so the address we gave to the cab driver was Hamburger Bahnhof.
Oh man. Big mistake. Because that area is dead. And the cabbie dropped us there and sped away as if his engine was on fire. Imagine now, two fuzzy heads, a vacant industrial plot, a large-ish amount of unrelenting rain, no people, and an iphone that does not show the exact location of this club, but appears to believe it is on the right side of the river Spree. Oh, and stumbling across a sign directing us to Ressort, 450m with an arrow pointing vaguely North West. When no such path was clearly visible.
We did what any sane person would
never in a million years do: we started along the dimly lit walk way on the left side of the river taking us through some sort of … parking lot? everything closed, empty and dark. After about ten minutes of this cheerful jaunt, muttering maledictions in the general direction of the by now long-gone cabbie, we decided to go back. We went over the bridge. And stopped in front of a large metal gate. This is where my phone clearly wanted us to go through. Even if it was locked. And it said “cemetery” on it. Hmmmm.
Trudging on, then, to the next street. And on. Still raining. Ah, there we are. Going left. Just a bit more. Should have reached it by now… oh, what’s that? The ministry for agriculture? Ok, I give up. We call my friend and ask where he is. He is in Ressort club. And where is that? Raw Gelände, Warschauer Strasse, the other end of Berlin.