I arrived in Berlin on New Year’s Day on zero hours sleep with four pints of beer slowly processing through my system. The city was completely deserted. Shops were closed, the roads were clear and we passed maybe two or three people on our walk to the hostel. The only signs of life were to be found in fresh pools of vomit dotted about the pavements and discarded fireworks which would occasionally go off as we walked past them. Evidently, the Germans know how to party.
Our first night was spent in the hostel bar full of rowdy English lads, still riding high from the night before. The second night, however, opened our eyes to a whole new genre of dance: the ‘Beautiful German Dance’. We wandered around the clubbing district (which is in the middle of nowhere and looks like a dodgy warehouse estate, mainly because it is, in fact, a converted dodgy warehouse estate), only to find every single club bursting to the brim with beautiful Germans, dancing beautiful dance moves in a beautiful way.
After accidentally ending up in a drag bar (an easy mistake to make, I assure you) we headed to Tresor, a huge abandoned department store which wouldn’t look out of place in a horror film. Though the interior design wasn’t exactly the most inviting thing in the world (everything was concrete), the fact that it blasted techno from midnight till 9am left us suitably impressed. We lasted until about 5am, when the jiggling Germans could no longer compete with our tiredness.
Cassiopeia was our port of call on the final night. Usually a rock bar, we stumbled into it on a dubstep/D&B/jungle night, where it was full to the brim with jumping Germans who wanted nothing more than to boogie the night away. The highlight of the evening was a dance-off between a ballroom dancer and (an incredibly drugged up) skanking man. The ballroom dancer took it upon himself to teach others how to move around in a graceful manner, while the skanker seemed adamant to prove that he was the superior dancer, leaping around as his opponent waltzed across the dance floor. In hindsight, I’m not sure whether it was a dance-off or just a man high on acid attempting to have a good night.
Before heading back to England and its tame, ugly dance moves, we decided that we simply had to sample some delicious German meat. Specifically pork.
That sounded very wrong. Very wrong indeed. But I do actually mean German roast pork, the kind with crackling and dumplings and gravy. Not penis. We settled in a very nice restaurant where we were presented with approximately half a pig each, and GOOD GOD, I still dream of it. It was probably one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten (though admittedly, the first time I had KFC popcorn chicken also rates very highly – I’m a classy bird). The meal actually ended in something resembling an argument over who had received the most pork because it was SO DAMN DELICIOUS (I was the lucky lady, much to the jealousy of my friends). OH GOD, THE INNUENDO.
The combination of dancing German men and large amounts of tasty meat, make Berlin a great place for dancers and meat-eaters alike. Also, they sell beer by the litre. It’s the stuff dreams are made of.