Lucía’s Guide To Surviving A Berlin Escapade

I get into Emil’s shower and feel my mascara uncrusting under the hot water. Last night we got home at 6am from Lokschuppen (which on a bad night is just Chantal). After 4 hours of house music (God forbid), we called it quits. I am ever grateful for Emil’s filtered shower-head and lily-scented shower gel, I only had 3 drinks and still I feel like I’ve been shot 16 times.

Oracle Revelation #1: A hangover is only cured with carbs, shopping, and another drink. Kreuzberg offers up a Cavalli F/W 2004 jacket and wine bar happy hour, who am I to say no?

As we wait for happy hour to start at L’apero, Emil reads excerpts of the BUTT Magazine interview between Gaultier and Margiela to me. I’m trying to read Tristessa by Kerouac, but the intense discussion about Gaultier’s denim kink is so entertaining. We dive into an extensive discussion on it (impermissible on Tangtang, sorry, inquire further). After happy hour and dinner (charcuterie at the wine bar, the last apricots of the season), we have three drinks in the dark red of Mano. The heavily tattooed bartender at Mano says he understands I’m thirsty, but if I ever take my drink again without letting him put a garnish on it he’ll bite my hand off… heavily tattooed bartender at Mano, I have a crush on you.

When I wake up Saturday morning, I still feel the bass in my chest from the absolute baby rave at Club OST, and all I care about is that they had Fountain of Youth coconut water at the club bar. The rookie 7 hours I slept Friday night are amended by the cup of tea Emil hands to me in a blue Le Creuset mug. I smudge the remnants of my eyeliner and head out haphazardly. As I’m browsing around vintage stores, I reflect on how my rhythm of life is incessant and I’ve had to defend it plenty of times. Yet beyond this, my bandwidth for patheticism, and inconsistency is shortening rapidly. I hardly drink, I yearn for about Hope Sandoval on vinyl, slow nights with my cat, and a glass of orange wine. My life is so romantic, I purge it of everything that isn’t.

Oracle Revelation #2: There’s very little romanticism in industrial techno, you don’t have to force it.

Now, I must brag that I did really strike luck with the thrift on Saturday (the highlight is a little D&G denim skirt I wear to Borchardt that night). That night, we’re circling back to Lokschuppen for actual good music (unlike Thursday) after a very languid bottle of Rioja over dinner. I feel so lazy post-risotto that when we’re getting drinks at the Späti (Fritz-limo Apple-Cherry-Elderflower with rum, trust me) I call off our Sunday morning Berghain plans completely.

Oracle Revelation #3: Being a 365 party girl is an extremely short-term commitment, choose beauty sleep sometimes. Go home.

I walked out of the 3-4.30 set in the boiler room at Lokschuppen with my right meniscus more fucked up than ever, and it was the best night out of the three. Sunday morning Emil and I go over to Mano for a fresh tea (and a margarita). I’m waving around a cigarette as we debrief, we’re really too old for this shit (the meaning of “this shit” is up for interpretation). Emil demolishes me at chess, and the evening fades into dinner at Amrit. We’re not going out tonight, I finish Tristessa and go to sleep early. Back in London, I put on Sigur Rós on vinyl and reflect with a mint tea…

Oracle Revelation #4: The key to surviving Berlin is not reading Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico, and therefore not giving a fuck. Everyone cares so much about their image in Berlin, people are so bad at committing to the grime. See the city, maybe. Fake piercings, bad cheap tattoos, idolatry of clubs, disrespect of the scene, constant desperation for taking photos. Everyone knows someone, the commitment to being fucking grimy and edgy has to be absolute. Commit or don’t attempt it at all. The ‘vibes’ that will get you in are authenticity. Put down that MAC Carbon!