While others were hellbent on having a beer, and some on a
more serious pregame, I was fixed on a cakegame – this would be when you prepare
for an event with a prelude of cake. Eight of us sat at an outdoor table
clouded with locals blowing smoke, but delighted that the menu was in English
and the staff spoke English. When I asked the staff if we could have a table, a
server said to me, “Sit down there. We will come.” I think the cross between
his height, the language barrier and Euroservice attitude really was classic.
Really, every other server was just lovely and dealt with special requests and
questions with grace. I had a Zwetschgenkuchen – plum cake, and while it was
delish, regret not getting the apfelstruedel, which was better.
After the kuchenstravaganza, I was ready to plotz, but I ran
into the pregame crew who was ready to go hard and definitely not home. Since
they were celebrating a friend’s birthday, and staying local, I felt compelled
to go. So, I rallied on the walk to a ‘Gypsy Club.’ This term is derogatory and
irrelevant. We stepped across a courtyard and into a slim hallway toward
muffled music, passed a chalkboard labeled ‘swing.’ Yes, guys and gals, put in
your banana curlers and roll up those bobby socks: hardcore swing dancing. In
era attire. In partners. With skill. As we epically failed to fit in (not sure
we even tried), our hodgepodge crew bar-mitzvah danced like we’d never see these
folks again. We probably won’t. While no Great Gatsby soundtrack came on, the
DJ pumped songs with familiar melodies and lyrics appropriated by modern-day
rappers like Kanye West and Lil Wayne (think GoldDigger, Get Low…). After a
while, the lack of familiar tunes and moves had us on a mission for a more
fitting scene.
On every corner, our friend who spoke the most German
attempted to ask for directions, and while we never got lost looking for some
bar called Kaffee Burger, it turned out to be quite a hike. And with every
step, my toe that had been run over by a shopping cart stung a bit. But we had
a good walking crew and great sights. Eventually, after finding Kaffee Burger
and seeing that it was not at all what we dreamed of (read: no DJ, closing in
10 minutes, cover charge), we went down the street to check out a suspected gay
bar.
As we debated whether or not it was a gay bar, I noticed
some girls in lawn chairs outside mocking us for our suspicions. In fact, the
bar was an international hipster ping pong joint. Almost everyone had a paddle
and was rotating in a circle around a ping pong table, losing the game if they
missed on their turn at either side of the table. The match became heated quite
quickly and I retired to the foosball area, where I was coerced into a losing
game. I did score a goal, and it was one of my greater life accomplishments
because I am horrific at foosball in general. My partner and I high-fived four
times, but I have no idea what his name was.
Eyes grew tired, and so did legs, and I decided to head
home. Before leaving, I mocked birthday boy Daneel for conversing with
Valencian Hugo in Spanish because, as a pelirojo, he can't really be a hispanohablante, and then I asked an Australian girl lots of
questions about living and working in Berlin (apparently, it’s cheap and easy
but the Australian quality of life is also excellent, she says). On the way
back to our hotel, we shared in a round of the Yiddish Birthday Song (Hoorah
Hoorah Oo Vinschtindeer….).
I would say the night is in the category of strange,
memorable, and reasons why I so love travel.
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