“Sunday is the day you want to go. That is the crowd you want to be around,” my Swiss-German friend David assures me. He’s frequented Berghain, the famously elusive techno club in Berlin, for nearly a decade, and debunked many rumors about this landmark for me.
Berghain is not a 24/7 club. Typically, they open for the weekend on Friday, and close on Monday at 9am. A Sunday afternoon arrival would immerse us into the final act of the 60ish-hour long party. Where fresh faces meet battered natives, some going on their 48th hour.
I had been in Berlin for almost a week, and my American mind was smitten by the European urban dream; the city was built to bring people together, with pockets of green spaces at every other intersection and walkways and bike paths easing our perceived hassle of movement. Picnic tables sat in front of convenient stores full of cheery neighbors playing cards and crushing cans late into the evening. With summer solstice around the corner, the sky began to blue around 4am every day, and the sun dipped back behind the clouds around 9pm.
I was fragile, coming off a week in Barcelona full of debauchery, insomnia, and self-reckoning. (I did however touch Addison Rae with my bare hands. Yeah. More on that later…) And more broadly, a year of autopilot on a life I thought I wanted, the engine ripping a hole right through me.
David assured me I had come to the right place. “Berlin has always been home to the lost and broken.” And the emblem of this restorative city, an abandoned power plant turned musical, sexual, and spiritual oasis. Berghain.
Let me preface the account of my experience by saying, going into this, I knew Berghain was going to be fucking cool, but I had not the slightest idea how profoundly transformative it would be. However you imagine it to be in your mind, it’s better.
PART 1 – THE ENTRY
We began to get ready for the night around 3pm, and as I swiped burgundy shadow across my eyelids, David coached me on the unspoken rules. “You don’t have to wear black. That’s another misconception.” “You should dress authentically, but maybe an expression of a corner of yourself that you’ve always wanted to blow out.” “You should wear a jacket as you normally would, but still communicate through this exterior how you will transform inside.” “You don’t have to speak German. You’ll be fine.” “They don’t love Americans, but then again, who does?”
Armed with the advice of a veteran, I felt empowered to live out my goth fairy glitchcore fantasy and tore up a black lace shirt I got, making detachable sleeves and a bonnet. I was channeling EUSEXUA meets the Dune witches, but in the eyes of the bouncers, I would be just another tourist in a ridiculous costume.
On the tram ride over David regularly refreshed a Reddit thread where people posted updates on the length of the line. When we got off the tram, we were approached by an innocent looking French couple, the girl in space buns and a retro sports jacket, the boy in cargo shorts and a bomber jacket. “Do you guys know where Berghain is?”
We walked with them down a tree lined path that spat us out into a bleak plaza with benches. A variety of people in black swarmed the area smoking cigarettes, on their phones, or talking with one another. David grabbed my arm to pull me back. “We cannot enter with this French couple. They will not get in.” We waited a few minutes, and then turned the corner and approached the doors of Berghain around 4:45pm.
The ominous multi-story structure loomed over a rather barren gravel lot. There were but a handful of people in line—mostly men—and some stragglers hanging by the fence smoking, seemingly having just left the club. I walked through an S-shaped metal barricade a few yards behind David who was now a stranger to me. Your chances of getting in are higher if you’re on your own.
There was one male bouncer, bald, with dark sunglasses, and one female, bright blonde hair and sporting a black tracksuit. I watched in awe as they seamlessly waved people either in through the doors or out toward the street. So few words were exchanged, but rather, a simple hand gesture toward or away from the door was all that was given to most.
David stepped up to the door and flashed the bouncers a smile. After a brief blank stare, they gestured him inside.
Right behind him, I stepped up, met the bouncer’s eye, and before I could even think about what I was supposed to be doing with my body—was my knee bouncing, was I flicking my fingertips, was I doing that weird thing with my mouth—I felt it. I can’t even remember if a verbal “no” was given, but I felt an instant sensation of rejection through a subtle expression on their faces, followed by a wrinkled, pasty hand held out to the street.
FUCK.
I found refuge on a bench around the corner, out of sight from the bouncers, with the rest of the rejects. That French couple waved to me from across the plaza. David called me from inside. “This is all part of the full Berghain experience,” he assured me. My EUSEXUA-Dune witch fantasy was shattered. “Was it the bonnet?”
We had strategized an entry at this hour in case of a rejection; the bouncers switch shifts at 6pm, so a second chance was around the corner. I ripped off the bonnet, unbraided my hair, released my spiky bun, and trudged off to an Indian restaurant for some paneer masala therapy.
As I ate I played that 2-second window in my head over and over again. I was in awe of how instantaneous it all was; I felt a “no” before any gesture was even made. Where did Berliners learn the art of telepathy?
An hour passed and I began to make my way back for my redemption arc. I let my hair fall naturally and flipped it around a bit to be more astray. I kept my dark purple wool jacket zipped up just enough to have a bit of black lace poking out around my neck, and I let my baggy black jeans drag across the gravel once again.
For my second chance, I made the decision to show up as my present, fractured self, not a fantastical dream girl. Standing in that line, I turned on the faucet of thoughts I had previously tried to keep at bay. Do I have a bad heart? Can honest desires be righteous? Am I capable of self forgiveness?
Introspection turned my expression to stone, and I felt a dreary stillness overcome each part of my body. I reached a sort of dark meditation state, and as a result appeared effortlessly disinterested. Perfect.
The line of 50ish people was completely silent and grim. On the off chance I made eye contact with someone, we both quickly looked away. A pair of young men in baby blue floor length skirts were swiftly turned away at the door, while a woman who looked like my high school math teacher was waved right through.
After many rejections and few admissions, it was once again my turn to approach. This new set of bouncers consisted of four burly men, each oozing their own kind of mystery. Three of the men stood facing away from or perpendicular to you, while one man with face tattoos, piercings, and slicked back grey hair, stood a couple feet from you, facing you, mirroring your precise position. Yes, this must be him. Sven.
Sven Marquardt, the 64 year old icon who has been curating the attendees of the world’s most sought after party for decades. The mind reader who is seemingly able to see your sins, or lack thereof, in between the lines of your face.
It all happened in another telepathic instant. One of the non-Sven bouncers said something to me in German, and I instinctually held up my finger to gesture “one person.” The bouncer gave me a blank stare, looked at Sven, and then a third bouncer gestured their hand toward the door.
FUCCKKKKKK YEAAHHHHHHHHHH!
PART 2 – ACCEPTANCE
The sullen environment outside was wildly juxtaposed with the animation that began to unfold inside those metal doors. Liberated from the fear of rejection, laughter and playful banter erupted in the halls as bags were searched, the 30 euro admission was paid, and stickers were put over phone cameras.
“I just had to be myself!” I jumped into David’s arms in the atrium where those just arriving began to transform. Layer after layer was ripped off people’s bodies and replaced with variations of leather, chains, and latex.
As we moved through the club, voracious techno pounded through my body, so powerful it was pumping my own heart for me. All the while, “Veridis Quo” by Daft Punk was playing in my mind, the soundtrack of a newborn baby opening its eyes for the first time; I sunk into a batty-eye admiration of this wondrous new spectacle.
We headed straight for the garden at first. David said to me, “It’s nice to sit here and take the time to fully settle into this strange place. Accept where you are. You’re a part of it now.”
Back inside, I perused the cosmic atmosphere of this techno temple. Sky high cement columns structured every space, and black, metal grates made suspended walkways through this multi-story contraption. There were various areas with couches, multiple bars, and a cafe upstairs that served ice cream, muffins, smoothies, and coffee.
In the main room, Berghain, German DJ Rødhåd commanded the bodies of hundreds. This chamber of relentless bass was immune to the passage of time; the darkened windows protected the space from anything that might exist outside. Nothing mattered outside of those towering walls.
From the mezzanine, I watched the floor of Berghain transform into a single organism. Some on top of platforms, some in the windowsills, but most on the floor, hundreds, maybe even a thousand, living, breathing particles pulsing as one in the darkness.
At Säule, another room on the first floor, I fell into a dopamine groove as UK-based DJ, Lone, spewed a dashing mix of drum and bass and deep house through an alcove of smoke.
Panorama Bar, the part of the club known to play mostly house, was the more airy and intimate cousin of Berghain. A red light glazed the atmosphere as closer to two hundred people filled the Panorama floor, infatuated with the rhythmic house-techno fusion. With the lush sounds of CHLOE, a French DJ, I had found my home for the night.
Hours passed for me on the Panorama floor. June 14th turned into June 15th as I marveled at each bodies’ reaction to the sounds, and let mine follow suit. Movement became habitual, like breathing, a second nature, and overcame the room like bubbling lava. Nobody missed a beat when a new person entered the floor; the organism effortlessly adjusted to welcome a new addition, and fell right back in line. This intoxicating camaraderie successfully diffused any thoughts of fatigue that entered my mind—the blisters on my feet the next day can attest. It felt like I was everywhere and nowhere, but precisely where I was meant to be.
A topless, nips out woman with long grey hair pulsed along to the beat to my left, while a couple overcome with infatuation melded their bodies together to the music on my right. The array of characters seen throughout the club were an exhilarating sign of life, and the many dimensions of our galaxy.
I saw a young man in only a thong swing across the metal grates like they were monkey bars. I watched masked strangers sip cappuccinos, and even saw a little man in the bathroom asking people to pee on him. (Okay, I didn’t actually witness that last one, but David did, he swears.)
With a strict no photo policy, and no mirrors in the bathrooms, the ethos of Berghain is existentially communal; instead of looking at yourself, relinquish vanity and look around you. That is where you’ll find what you need.
After nine-ish hours of blood-rushing and bone-trembling movement, I decided I was ready to get some sleep, and part ways with this temple, forever changed.
On my way out, I spotted FKA twig’s dance captain, James Vu Anh Pham, and my stanning ass got so starstruck. I had just seen them on stage two nights prior for the Body High Tour, and now I was sharing a dance floor with them. Maybe they would have appreciated my EUSEXUA–Dune attempt…
PART 3 – FOREVER CHANGED
Back at the apartment, I looked in the mirror for the first time in 12 hours and saw a woman doused in a newborn’s glow. Eyeshadow that once pointed north now pointed south, baby hairs were matted to my forehead, and a soreness overwhelmed my cheeks (lots of smiling) and my feet (lots of dancing). Disheveled and at peace, I scrubbed the goo of strangers’ shoulders off my body, and climbed into bed as the sky began to blue.
The next day (rather, later that evening) I met David for some mango lassis. He had stayed until closing, around 8am, and paid a high price for it.
I boarded my flight to Boston the next morning with an element of both weightlessness and nostalgia; I felt stronger, but I didn’t want it to be over—both Berghain and the journeys I had brought there with me. I reveled in those journeys on Berghain’s floors, and danced with them.
Berghain is a place where people come as they are—raw, worn, lost, confused—and if you’re accepted, every single part of you is accepted. And every part of you will be unleashed, and celebrated. And you will be whole again.
The Peeling 