I Tried Getting Into Berghain 4 Times in 1 Day
I had one goal for my weekend in Berlin, and one goal only: to go to Berghain.
I strutted into the city like I owned the place, somehow convinced I could fit into the scene like it was no thang. It wasn’t long before I realized I had misread virtually every set time in front of me (no, “12–6” was not a six-hour party, but instead an 18- or even 30-hour party) and admittedly might not have owned the place so much after all.
Fast-forward to 4am Saturday night/Sunday morning. I’d club-hopped without stopping since having arrived in the city the night before, and the disturbing amount of vodka/Red Bull in my system assured me I was far from done. It was time for the Berg.
My attire could be described as none other than techno AF—from my clunky Docs (shout-out to the employees at the Dr. Martens store in L.A., who kindly helped me with my clueless inquiries) to my all-black-everything pants/shirt combo to my neutral, black leather bomber jacket that was casually unzipped and hanging at my sides. It was the kind of outfit that would have produced all kinds of silent judgment back at home, the ensemble more suited to a misunderstood goth kid than a mere techno-head tourist.
Perhaps it could be argued that I wasn’t a total tourist: I’d visited the city a few times before, and I even speak the language. But once I got into that infamous line gathering outside the imposing stone building, my nervous, scrunched-up face and anxious side-glances indicated quite the opposite. I was in Berghain territory, and any self-confidence I’d had before quickly slipped away, like that of dozens of clubgoers accepting defeat at the doors in front of me.
I was in line with my friend—let’s call him Drew. He’s the kind of dude who looks like USC’s Sigma Chi has turned out its finest specimen, the kind of guy whose muscle tanks outnumber his socks. Thus, as we approached the front of the line, where Sven—the club’s notorious bouncer—was waiting, I felt almost responsible for our success or failure. Not long after I opened my mouth and let out a meager “Wir sind zusammen [We’re here together],” a swift shake of the head was all we got, and the two of us were sent away. I had just experienced my first Berghain rejection.
What had I done wrong? Did I not look techno enough? Would it have been easier to enter alone? My winning streak in Berlin had been abruptly broken by a single, silent headshake.
After I shook off the initial frustration, I noticed that Sven had temporarily disappeared behind the club doors, replaced by a few of his bouncer minions. Drew had gone back home to rest, and I was left there alone. Perhaps this was my chance to try again and prove myself still! I quickly darted back into the line (which, thankfully, wasn’t terribly long at the time) and prayed for the best.
As I neared the front, I realized it was possible that Sven hadn’t liked my appearance. Maybe I looked too casual—too sloppy, even? I quickly zipped my jacket up all the way and smoothed out the wrinkles. I officially looked like a Hell’s Angels dropout.
But alas, once again, a rejection—this time even swifter than before. I was stunned: not even a question, not even a brief up-and-down glance to make me feel noticed. All of those hours on Berghain Trainer had failed me. My night (morning?) was swiftly taking a turn for the worse.
“Hey bro, you get denied, too?” I heard from behind me. I turned around to find a guy—a Spaniard, I think—with a similar look of disenchantment on his face. “Yep,” I replied. “Come to another club with me for the time being; we can try again in a few hours,” he said. I nodded. I wasn’t about to sleep anytime soon.
Skip ahead to about 8:30 am. Sisyphos, the club I had ventured to, was a heaving, sweaty rave like I’d never seen before. I had spent the last few hours getting blown away by the hardest techno I’d heard in a good while, all DJed by an at least 60-year-old woman with frizzy, snow-white hair (because, well, Berlin). I had since lost my new Spanish friend in the sea of bodies and decided I’d waited long enough. It was now or never.
As I hopped into a cab and headed back to Berghain, the city was exploding with clubbers. Believe it or not, 8am is still considered peak party hour in Berlin, and the mix of people either starting their day or continuing their night was nothing short of entertaining.
I walked up to Berghain’s entrance once again, assuring myself that the lack of line, the daylight, and the lower number of tourists would be my golden ticket into the club. Without with much of a plan, I sauntered to the doors, stood in front of the doormen with a confident yet emotionless expression on my face, and waited for the word. No talking and no emotion, I thought to myself. You’ve got this.
But then came an unexpected question: “Bist du hier als dreiergruppe [Are you here in a group of three]?” I turned around, confused. Two men were standing behind me.
“Nein,” I said. “Allein [Alone].”
“Bist du sicher [Are you sure]?”
Fuck. What do I say? Is this a trick? Shit. Oh god. I wasn’t expecting this. “Ja,” I said. “Nur ich [Only me].”
He shook his head. I had failed once again.
I was livid. What had I done wrong this time? I’d heard many times that going solo was easier than going in a group—were they messing with my head? I felt hopeless, and I knew that arguing was the worst possible thing I could do. Remaining patient and inconspicuous was my only hope, and I was sure as hell running out of chances.
Defeated and tired, I made my way back to the Ostbahnhof station and took the subway back to my hostel. I had one shot left, and one shot only—the afternoon. Berghain club nights begin on Saturday and run all the way through Monday morning, so I still had time—the question was, did I have the motivation left? I figured I’d leave it up to the much-needed nap I was about to take.
Around 2pm, I awoke in my hostel bed, drenched in sweat and smelling like absolute death. It took all of my energy to get myself up and back into my techno gear. I need to do something different this time, I thought to myself as I looked in the mirror. I flung my jacket away, threw some sunglasses onto my face, rolled up my sleeves to reveal a wretched farmer’s tan, and pulled up my pant legs a bit. I’d gone from classy techno to homeless techno, I thought, amused as I sipped on some Pilsner. When in Berlin.
An hour later, I was back in front of the club doors. This was my moment to shine—or not, since I’d hardly slept since Friday, and it showed. But it was an important moment, nevertheless.
As I walked to the front, I was completely alone—no one in front of me, no one behind me. Just me, myself, my woes, and the doorman.
Just get it over with, I thought to myself. I’m dead to them. You’ve got no chance.
“Allein?” he asked. I nodded. No talking, I reminded myself.
He hesitated. His eyes traveled from my disheveled hair, to my glasses, down my torso and to my boots. And back up again. And back down. And back up.
He turned to the man behind him—the same doorman who’d rejected me that morning. They spoke for what seemed like ages, and he turned back to me. Up and down went his eyes. Up and down.
And with that, me motioned for me to come inside. I let out a noise like a frightened animal and quickly passed through the looming doorway into the vast, hollow dungeon that is Berghain.
I’d made it. I was safe. The walls thundered as the angels sang Marcel Dettmann overhead. The techno gods had pardoned me and allowed me into their temple, and I was ready for worship.
