Potsdam and Berlin

OK so more from Potsdam, rather quickly probably (though it deserves much more time than I can give): we went to a party in a warehouse that happens at the begining of every semester. It was at Lindenpark, which I thought would be, you know, a park, IV style, but is, as I said, a warehouse. A crazy warehouse full of lights! And sound! And drinks! And dancing Germans, dancing German! German dancing is the best kind of dancing-- everyone does their own thing. It's like: feel the music, move to the music. And nobody gives a shit what they look like and no one tries to grind up on anyone else. Not to hate on griding, but this kind of dancing, man, it's the best. You know what happens when the rule is to dance however the fuck you want to? Everbody dances. No one's embarrassed. Marge and I figured something out about Germans during one of our late night talks (which we have frequently and which are so rad 'cause...we figure things out). Germans are more direct than Americans. Point #1: I smoked my first rolled cigarette with this wonderful German guy, Friedrich, who pointed out immediately "you don't have to smoke it like a blunt," without an apologetic smile, without lowering his voice, or taking into consideration we were in a smoking bar. Literally, I think it was called, like, SMOKE, or something; so everyone in there is legit, right? Definitely smokers and I'm just this poser, right? The great thing about this is, Friedrich just said what he was thinking, I was, infact, smoking it like a blunt (haha I'm smiling to myself in this internet cafe right now). But in the US, I feel, in a parallel US Universe (does that work?) Friedrich would a) not have said anything, b) given me a weird look which I would have to interpret, c) I dunno, be way less direct. Look, this is just an example that's gone on too long, what I'm trying to say is, Germans are more direct socially so there's no need to feel self concious 'cause you don't have to worry about subtleties, you don't have to guess at what a group is thinking-- they'll just tell you. Therefore, lots of people were dancing (if you are a terrible dancer, someone will tell you, but probably they'd tell you to chill out, nobody cares). It was a crazy night at the warehouse, but we kept hearing about Berlin, Berlin, Berlin. So, we went.

A group of students from Marge's Uni and I hopped on a train to Berlin's Club Soda. Ladies got in free that night, and another plus: drink vouchers. But we get there and I don't have my ID, so the others go in and Marge and I walk to this other club, across the street. More German dancing! woo! Germans don't dance with eachother, though, right, so Marge and I have a bunch of fun running around the dancefloor and playing with them-- tryin to get em to dance with us. I think, also, they don't usually dance with someone in the middle of a circle, so when I saw a group circled up dancing I had to take the opportunity. I jumped in and they loved it (it's my interpretation, ok). Then we started pulling them one at a time into the circle, and some wouldn't go in. One memory strikes me now: pushing in some guy who didn't want to dance in the middle of a circle and be like a silly drunk American girl, and spinning around him, anchored by my index finger in the middle of his bald spot. It was definitely time to bounce.

We tried Club Soda again and got in this time, but I had to pay. It's this huge 3 or 4 story club with all these different rooms. Each room has it's own music, so we ran around it going from soul, to rap, to electro, to whatever. Best. Time. Ever. At one point, Marge is occupied with this German who looovveedddd her, and I'm dancing to mad beats, and I meet this guy from Italy, who is studing art and seemed really chill. There are lots of hippie looking people in Berlin-- dreads and everything (verrryy nice). On the hour long train ride back to Potsdam from the club, Marge and I sit across from these two Berliners, who laugh at our tired eyes.
"The best thing to do is wake up at 5, have breakfast, and go out to clubs," they told us. It's Berlin's style. That warehouse in Potsdam doesn't even compare...

We finally get on a bus that takes us to Marge's dorm. Somehow, I woke up just in time to nudge Marge awake and we stumble out of the bus at 7 Am, on this very cold morning, definitely still drunk but weighed down from the night/ morning. We started the short walk on the dirt path to Marge's dorm in this half-dream state, squnting in the Potsdam morning light, when we saw it: the deadest bird we'd ever seen. It was a black bird, stone dead, on it's back-- a stark contrast to the almost white-grey cement and the lights, moves, and kisses which were still swimming around in our boggled heads.
"That's the deadest bird I've ever seen," Marge said, "it's so... fucked up." And she was right.

I went back the next night to Berlin to this other nuts club with these two guys from Marge's Uni and it wasn't as big, but the beats were sick and beers kept coming. I don't have time to tell you more about this except that my jacket was swiped on the train, we didn't get back until 9 AM, and I love Berlin.

Then there was this Tulip festival in Potsdam in the Dutch quarter. Please recall everything I said about Potsdam being this ridiculous magic, fary tale place, add Bratwurst, sweets, and merry making, and multiply by 100,000....000,000.

I very much wanted to get a feel a better feel for Berlin, so I left Marge's on Wednesday and set off alone for hostels--excited to meet all kinds of cool, weird, and interesting people, hangout with that Italian, Alex, and maybe get into a little bit of trouble...