The Berliner Standard.

The longer I've been here, the more I've learned about The Berliner Standard (would you like that sentence in German? I can write it if you like! Hooray, I'm actually learning). Now, mind you, this isn't an established term, but perhaps for those of you who have the desire to visit Berlin in the future and feel like whoopin' it up or gettin' local, doing as the Berliners do, then you will need to know The Berliner Standard. Of course, this could apply to many things, but I will use it to describe one particular feature of Berlin life that really does feel unique--or perhaps, only unique to an American who has never had the opportunity to experience something like this before. 

Saturday night started out fairly low-key. We had spent the day playing ping-pong in the park, and then came home to some beers and leftover homemade pasta Bolognese for dinner (oh, and if I've never cooked this for you, demand it when I am in town). Our friend Moose (yes, his legal name is actually Moose) came over and hung out along with my Dutch friend Annemarie, and we decided to head out to a bar nearby. We spent an hour or so in this bar/club, which by the way was Soviet-themed and therefore VERY red, and as I was wondering where the time was going and how long I'd have to stay before I could go home and collapse. Suddenly, Moose announces to us that he's going to head out. Wait, what? You're just going to leave? Where are you going? Well, he wanted to meet some German friends of his at A CLUB. Really? A club? A place where you're going to knock up against meaty dudes wearing tight t-shirts, girls wearing too much makeup and dresses that don't cover their bums, while bouncing up and down to ooms-ooms music? Having American club experience in mind, I was ready to decline almost immediately, considering my partner-in-crime is, shall we say, dance averse (and I was wearing stretchy pants and my favorite Tom Petty baseball tee, mind you)...but for whatever unknown reason (and thinking my PIC is going to negate our dancing chances) I said to Moose, "Ask Jack. He's the one who hates clubs. If he wants to go, I'll go." Well by gollygosh, what do you think Jack said? "Let's go." Huh.

So we said goodbye to Annemarie (who had participated in The Berliner Standard the night before) and followed Moose to Maria am Ostbahnhof. Luckily, instead of having to wait 2 HOURS to get in (seriously, people?) we joined Moose's friends at the beginning of the line, who were waiting for us. Remaining skeptical of this warehouse-like structure on the river, we were further annoyed by the 15 Euro cover charge to what seemed like, at first glance, a complete and total dump. We walked through a rubber curtain to what seemed like the bar and dance area, which was thick, smoky, dirty, and neon-lit, with that inevitable ooms-ooms rhythm. It wasn't looking good. 

But then I started to observe my surroundings. Almost no one was dressed up all hoochy-like, there weren't tons of frat boys swigging Coors, people weren't shooting each other dirty looks for bustin' a move--everyone was just dancing. Huh! Jack's and my collective skepticism began to melt away, seeing the opportunity we had in front of us. One ladyfriend of Moose's, Marlene, immediately sensed that I wanted to dance, and thus swiftly thrust us into the crowd to begin our maze-like search for the best scene. Maria am Ostbahnhof didn't just have one bar and one huge dance floor--it had four, each of which had hundreds upon hundreds of Berliners moving to the hypnotic beats with smiles on their faces.

So we joined in. We found a spot on one of the dance floors, which quickly enveloped us. We put aside any pretenses about the music, which turned out to be refreshingly unpredictable yet rhythmic, and lost ourselves in it. We truly moved like no one was watching. And no one was watching--there was no capacity for judgment, because everyone there expressed themselves differently and individually. All of a sudden, it didn't matter that I was wearing my Tom Petty shirt and purple Adidas sneakers. It didn't matter how wildly I swung my arms, swayed my hips, or how much I bounced up and down. It was beautifully freeing. Being at Maria truly epitomized what I truly love about Berlin: there is so much room for individuality, yet individuality isn't what makes people different; it is what unites them. I've never danced in a larger crowd, but I've never felt more a part of one than I did Saturday night. 

Night quickly and unassumingly turned into day. At one point, our group had gone outside to get a breath of fresh river air while it was still dark. But the next time we went to do the same, the sun had come up. It was now morning, and the scores of people who were dancing inside hadn't left--they were still going, until who knows when. Truly amateurs, we decided to hit the road and walk back to the U-Bahn station to take the train home. Marlene, the unaffected Berlinerin, grabbed a cup of coffee like she was ready to go to work. We rode sleepily back to Alexanderplatz, where Jack and I wandered around in search of anything resembling American breakfast. We then arrived back at our apartment around 7am, sticky from sweat, still hungry, and totally exhausted, ready to fall asleep in broad daylight. We were happily and completely spent.

And that, my friends, is what I will call The Berliner Standard. To know it is to love it. No drugs necessary.