How to get into Berghain

I deliberated long and hard about whether to write this or not. It is perhaps the most grating, anti-Berghain thing I could possibly write. Not just the clickbait title, but that the first thing the straight-edge yuppie does after coming back from Berlin, is publish an article about his experience at the most sacred club in Germany, perhaps the entire world. It would be less public, but certainly just as dorky, to write a journal entry about it, but if it helps, that’s how you can think of this. I have read that when it’s impossible to write something straight, the best thing to do is to write it in a story. And when that’s impossible, write it as a poem. Unfortunately, I’m no poet, and I know writing long meandering short stories without a point gets me flak from my hater, her last barb still stinging, so I’m going to write this blog post.

It wasn’t entirely by chance that I ended up in Berlin. Though there were a few flight cancellations and opportunistic connections that had conspired to put me there, but in honesty I’ve always wanted to go, with the express purpose of visiting Berghain. And it was a good thing that I went when I did. Like many other things in life of late, I felt the window of opportunity closing on me: at a certain point, I would have no longer wanted to go to Berghain. Regardless of intention, I landed in Berlin on Friday morning, dressed like Ethan Hawke from Before Sunrise. No, exactly like Ethan Hawke. The original plan was to go to Vienna and make another homage of equal weight to my younger self, but that’ll have to be saved for another time.

We landed in Brussels early in the morning, had a ninety-minute layover, and then another ninety-hour flight, and found ourselves in Berlin. It was a small neat airport, and we quickly found our way to the trains which took us into the city and to our hotel. Shockingly, we were greeted by armed police upon leaving the U-Bahn station, and were escorted to the hotel. Joe Biden was visiting Berlin and staying nearby. Enjoy those taxpayer dollars while they last I guess. Our room was available for us upon arrival, and we checked in, had a bite, and went on tour. Brandenburg Gate, Monument to the Murdered Jews, Topography of Terror, and Checkpoint Charlie were all ticked off in quick succession before returning to the hotel where we did some work and ate dinner. We then headed out once more to see everything and night, and purchase some nail polish. It’d be tough enough getting into Berghain as a straight-edged Asian yuppie, and even harder as one wearing beige Chelsea boots and a maroon turtleneck.

Then came the first attempt for Berghain. It was only a forty-minute commute from our hotel, half of it a walk, half of it more U-Bahn. The club was slated to open at ten that evening, and we arrived at eleven. To our shock, there was no line. In fact, we were so shocked that I hadn’t even had the opportunity to let my hair down yet. We quickly turned back towards the trees, preened ourselves a little, and then strode towards the doorman. We had no time to prepare or to be scared. We thought we’d have an hour to ruminate on strategy. And just like that, he waved us in.

The ritual once inside wasn’t any different from any other club, except they stuck stickers onto our phone cameras, We excitedly checked our jackets and made our way in. What we saw looked like a small venue. There were people smoking, having drinks, and sitting. The sound and music was great, but it wasn’t really anything to write home about. Still, we hung around for a few hours, bobbing to the music until we saw the second act. There was an interesting mishmash of people there that night: some dressed in mesh, fishnets, and leather, others dressed much more casually like us, and some people my parents age. There was a mix of ethnicities, styles, and degrees of intoxication across the dance floor. We made our way out around two in the morning, Tomorrow was another day of sightseeing.

After a trip to the Ritter Sport flagship, Museum Island, and the East Side Gallery, we had a quick dinner, and were at a crossroads once more. Through a much Googling during the day, we had learned that the part of the Berghain we were last night was called The Panorama Bar, which wasn’t the main dance floor. The reason there was no line and it wasn’t anything to write home about was because it was the house floor, not the techno floor. So, were we to quit while we were ahead, and tell everyone we got into Berghain, or attempt Klubnacht, and try our luck in earnest?

Just before midnight, we set off again for Berghain. This time, when we arrived, there was a massive queue, longer than anything I’d seen before for a club. It stretched at least two hundred meters from the entrance, and there were several food carts set up along it to sell beverages and snacks. We decided to wait twenty minutes to see where the line would take us. Our flight was at seven the next day after all, so we couldn’t stay past four. At a certain point, we just needed to cut our losses. To our surprise, the line moved very quickly, and we arrived to the front in a little over an hour. And then, somehow, some way, we were let in. The people in front of us were denied, as were the people behind us.

I was wearing the same beige Chelseas, black cigarette jeans, and a maroon turtleneck. I did have waist-length hair, aviator-style glasses, and painted nails, which might have helped. My sister was wearing a floor-length black leather trench, blue jeans, and a white top. She had buzzed pink hair, which also might have helped. But point being, as alt as my sister looked, we were far from the best-dressed people in line, by a long shot. We weren’t even particularly dressed for Berghain. Sure, our hair helped, but but I credit our attitude and confidence. And vibe. We have cool vibes.

I’m not going to detail too much about what it was like inside since they take so much care to keep it under wraps. As the sort of elaborately dressed poseur that the bouncer is tasked with keeping out, I think it is the least I can do to not publish it on the internet. But yes, it was something to write home about, it was worth the trek, the wait, the judgment at the door.

Though a visit to the techno mecca didn’t leave me fundamentally changed, my brain chemistry altered, or life goals re-evaluated, I did have an out-of-body experience on Monday. I sat in a 9AM call about revenue maximization, and I was just thinking that just yesterday, I was stomping to techno in Berghain without a shirt on. And no one knows. No one knows I was cool enough to get into Berghain, and if it wasn’t for this job, I’d still be there at that moment. I have to go back.