“Sorry Babe, not tonight.”
We all gasped. Out of all of us standing in the queue, Inez was last person one would expect to be rejected from the club. Her doe-like eyes did all the talking — she was as shocked as we were.
The bouncer shrugged and pointed down towards her feet, our gaze followed. “I just can’t let you in tonight wearing those shoes.” Inez was wearing a pair of wooden mules with a red band across the top. The cherry on top of her outfit, but not the most practical choice for dancing. Shoes like those clock out at around 80 bpm — they wouldn’t survive the evening.


It was around midnight, on the eve of fête de la musique — world music day. A day when the city erupts in pockets of dancing from dusk to dawn (of the next day). I’ve definitely put my foot on the gas when it comes to going out in Berlin, but my numbers are still probably at a rookie-level. Tonight was a big night — we didn’t intend for it to — but I felt as if I earned a few stripes that perhaps may be enough to cash in for a blue belt.
The evening began in a standard way: we met some friends, got a beer from a späti, had a little dance (more like swaying to the beat while chit chatting). The group then divided like cells, and our nucleus made it’s way to another party on the other side of the city.
Here’s the thing about Berlin. It truly is the perfect place to party. The infrastructure makes it so simple and easy to buzz around from one location to the next, and you’ll probably end up running into a friend en route. To contrast, if you’re in Los Angeles and the party is weird, it takes a village to change locations. In Berlin, everything is a stones throw away from one another, making a pivot quite seamless.
I never felt like I understood Berlin until I started to go out. Berlin is a place where the subways are more crowded at 2am on a Saturday than 8am on a Tuesday. Berlin doesn’t follow the circadian rhythm of the rest of the world. The city feels quite sleepy, until the sun sets and the everyone comes out to play.
Our north star for the night was a party recommended to me from my brother: the unofficial party king of the city. There had been too many evenings where I set out to attend a party of his curation but then ultimately never made it out the door.
Tonight, we were ready. Perhaps, a little too ready… We arrived at the club to be met with doors sealed shut. We were the first in line….
…..Or so we thought.
Casually leaning up against the wall was a slender figure casually smoking a cigarette, watching the throngs of people strut past. There were multiple venues along this stretch, and his stillness contrasted with the hustle and bustle all around us. Berlin and New York are quite similar in this way — people walk with a distinct sense of purpose. The only difference is the destination: one marches to the office, the other to the club. I’ll let you decide which belongs where.
We got to chatting, and turns out he shared our north star. Only thing is that we both were looking at a flyer with the incorrect opening time. Peter was a physics phd student, waiting to meet a friend for a night of dancing. We had give or take an hour until opening, so naturally we became fast friends with Peter — his friend showed up later.
As the hours ticked by, the line began to grow. Peter maintained pole position, while we were squished back to fourth place. We had made some new friends along the way, and there was no need to grip onto second place. Inez was one of those new friends, so our goodbye to her an her shoes was tragic, but not a tragedy.
After what felt like a moon cycle, we had finally made it into the venue. Our night was heavily seasoned with chit chat, and I felt my social battery reach a low. Lucky for us, we finally had a good excuse to leave the conversation and go recharge on the dance floor.
When A and I go dancing, the ideal spot for us is the second row. Our combined height and limb-length makes first row a hazard for those around us, and second row takes the pressure off (at least for me) to really perform. Plus, I like to support the baddies in the front. I’m not baddie status (yet).
Berlin has the best dancers in the world (it’s no secret who my favourite dancer is). There is no need to look through a technical lens to evaluate, because here the dancing is of it’s purest form — self expression is the name of the game. Everyone moves with their own flavour that laughs if one would try to possess it into words.
At the heart of every Berlin dancer at the club is a 1-2 step — a move that everyone has, yet does so with their own variation. It’s like rice: a meal isn’t complete without it, and everyone has their own rendition of it. It’s always a simple move that takes very little effort to execute. Now this is important when dancing in Berlin. Why? Because the sets tend to be around four hours long — far too long to be pushing maximum effort the whole time. The 1-2 step is the antidote to this: it’s the the gel pack one ingests when running a marathon to keep going.


I have observed many 1-2 steps, and like snowflakes, there is no step that is the same. Similar yes, but never the same. As for myself, I had yet to develop my own recipe. It’s been three years in Berlin, and only tonight did I finally find my rhythm. You see, dancing was always quite intimidating for me. Having grown up dancing ballet, I needed someone to tell me what to do in order to feel confident in my movement. Lucky for me, the dance floor is always filled with teachers — they just might not refer to themselves as so.
My technique when dancing, is to find someone doing something that looks interesting, and then replicating it in my own body. Think of it like the video game Just Dance, just in real life.
Normally when I’m dancing, the act is fun, yet there’s always been a piece that feels like I’m drinking from someone else’s tap. But tonight I found my source. All it took was a quarter turn to catch a glimpse of the gentleman dancing behind me. He was magnificent. And by magnificent, I mean so truly in tune with his own rhythm, the rest of us didn’t exist. He parted the sea of the dance floor — taking up three parking spots for just one gorgeous car. It soon dawned on me that there was no dance move I could do that would outshine his: the flood gates opened.
Any shred of doubt or insecurity of mine melted away in the instant I turned back around to face the front of the room. Dancing King behind me was my buffer to truly let loose. And boy, did it feel good. I was like a kid again: alone at home, blasting Rihanna and doing all kinds of ridiculous movements with my body. Out on the dance floor I felt like I was finally letting out the dirty little secrets I had been repressing for so long. My secrets took the form of hip shaking, wrist swirling, hair flips, and oh so many twirls. I had found my 1-2 step: it’s a bit bouncier and bubblier compared to the others I tried on.
Upon retrospective inspection, a lot of my dancing was reflective of my yoga practice. Unfortunately there were no down dogs on the dance floor, but I definitely had some tree-pose adjacent situations sprinkled in. Dancing in a club is quite similar to doing yoga on a mat — you’re confined to a space of your own, and your only job is to make the most out of it.
Throughout the night, we buzzed around the club: moving from second row, to back row, saying hi to Peter and our other friends from the queue, and then ending up somewhere in the middle. Regardless of where we were, my eyes always found their way back to my Dancing King. Still in the same spot, third row from the front. Initially I found his movements quite boisterous, but upon further observation I found my body itching to move with the same energy. He became my Just Dance avatar, which came in handy when I felt my creative juices begin to dry.
The attempts at copying him were kept to a minimal, as I began to feel my lower back talk to me (happens when one repeatedly has their arms interlaced overhead with hips wagging side to side). Nonetheless, he was my new north star for the night. Whenever my mind would drift away from the moment, my eyes found him through the crowd, and I’d do a little twirl.
—
I also finally understand techno music. Funny enough, this venue happened to be the first club I had ever set foot in after moving to Berlin. Some girlfriends more fluent in Resident Advisor had found a party, and we all decided to venture into our first clubbing experience in Berlin. This was a night of many firsts, and techno music to that degree was one of them. I had grown up clubbing to the likes of Pitbull and Ne-yo. Bottle service was the name of the game, and us girls would sneak our way into VIP tables to stash our purses and be offered a drink or two.
There’s no shade to a sing-a-long experience, but I will say that techno music stands above the rest. I used to find techno a little abrasive and difficult to exist with. Tonight, I realised that my previous conviction was a product of my insecurity. Growing up, going out dancing was more of a performative act — something to do in order to attract the attention of others. In Berlin, going out is more informative — the gaze turns inwards.
Techno music acts as a blank canvas for everyone colour in in their own way. Pop songs definitely allow for self expression, but the experience is more limiting. Think about it, when’re just around the corner from the chorus of the song, Sweet Caroline, it’s safe to assume that the crowd will erupt in impressive synchronicity: “BA, BA, BAAA!” It’s a natural human (American-adjacent human) reaction — like when the doctor hits that spot on your knee and your foot jerks up into the air.
Instead of needing to swim within the confines of lyrics, a melody, or even the beginning / end of a song, techno expands the horizon. Pop music is like colouring with Crayons, and techno music is like calligraphy.
—
After a few rounds of interval training from dance floor to restroom to outdoor garden repeat, A and I had reached the conclusion that we had both boogied our butts off, and so we set off to perform our signature Irish Goodbye. As we headed for the exit, I saw Peter laughing with someone. I assumed it was his friend he was waiting for —the two were catching up with chemistry that only comes from years of friendship (we had just scratched the surface).
Just when I was about to walk up to them, they had slipped away from my sight. The heavy door leading to the outside world exhaled closed. Funny, I thought to myself, I thought he’d be the first one in, last one to leave. I grabbed my purse, reapplied lip gloss and then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Peter’s friend looked oddly familiar: the fabulous demeanour, impressive muscle tone, and sunglasses that never budged on his bald head.
I gasped: he was my Dancing King.
I smiled to myself — my lower back smiled back.
Going out in Berlin is utterly special. The allure and intimidation factor around the clubbing scene here serves a purpose — not to prevent, but to protect what thousands of people stand in lines for. The Berlin clubs are a place where the synthetic labels we hide under stay at the coat check, so the essence underneath can sashay onto the the dance floor.
I would want my future children to do a stint in Berlin. It’s the perfect city to push against preconceived notions of what should and shouldn’t be. I may have only just found my groove, but three years in Berlin has broadened my lens of the world in ways that would make my younger self gasp.
Who wouldn’t want to be young and living in Berlin? The coffee is great and so are the people. Yes the weather is terrible, but at least we can dance — so long as you’re wearing the right shoes.
‘Till next time.
xo
P
I want our grandchildren to do a Berlin stint too:-)
Bad weather great dancing.. life is a balance to savor..