I get off the taxi half way between drunk and tipsy. I had only 10 Euro but the driver brought me home from a club 15 Euro away from my place. I didn’t even have to ask twice. In London, the driver would probably close the window on my nose or laugh. Nevermind.
The Germans tend to have the charming talent of ignoring differences. You can talk about amputation while wanking in the name of Jesus in the back seat and still, they will look like they are 10 miles away, unconcerned. Hell no, I was just wobbling about.
They allow me to see whatever I want to see, like there was no objective reality. I’m having a ball with my senses. I suitably don’t understand anything. There’s no fresher feeling than walking around in a foreign country, isolated from the signals by your lack of knowledge of the local language, startled by every new system, guided by intuition, fuelled by organic sausages.
Everything here is so casual and chilled. If I accidently go to work with coffee stains on my shirt, they don’t even notice it. This city brings out your inner self, whether you want it or not. You might end up in a dungeon, all dressed in leather, left hand on a tranny, right hand on a bear, and that’s ok.
There’s nobody here, unless it’s Friday or Saturday night. Then there’s a crowd. Where do they hide during the day? It’s like a holiday camp. I can walk on a straight line, forever, and then start walking in zig-zags, for miles, and I still won’t bump into people.
That would allow the daring ones to have sex in public places, like clubs and empty squares. Yes. Welcome to Debbie Lloyd’s Rough Guide to Berlin.