Tag: Clubbing

San Francisco: Night out Clubbing at Ruby Skye.

Posted on by Mayowa Osibodu

The first club I visited in San Francisco, was Club X. Someone in the class mentioned on our Facebook group that they were having an event. And I think it was free for people with student IDs. It was either free, or at a significant discount.

Our student ID cards weren’t actually ready at the time. We all had our pictures taken a while back, but were yet to receive our ID cards.

The Facebook post mentioned however, that there was a way to join the event guest list. So you could be eligible for the discount/free entry even without a student ID.

All you had to do was to go comment your name on a post on Club X’s Facebook page or something like that.

And so people began to comment their names. We were all very excited.

Mm Clubbing, Mm Club X, Mm let’s go Mm

On the night of the event, it was like we were going for a meeting with school’s founder at the HQ. We were so many.

We were like thirty. Or more. Trooping along the sidewalk and chatting excitedly, our eyes alight with anticipation.

Most of us were new to San Francisco. A lot of us were new to the USA. And so that event provided an interesting opportunity to venture out into the city on our own, while still being surrounded by a group of people within which you generally felt safe.

The event was also 18+ which was great, because very few people in our class were 21 years or older. And so all 21+ events were out of our reach. Well that was unless you had a fake ID.

Club X was fun. Club X was very fun.

Clubbing at Club X became something of a regular thing over time.

At some point, some classmates began to form a negative impression of the club. They would talk about it on the group. Say it was rowdy or disorganized or not very classy, or some other concern that never resonated with me.

People generally go out for events in smaller groups now. SF is less unfamiliar and so people are more comfortable going out on their own. I myself have gradually been curating my personal algorithm for finding events in San Francisco. Eventbrite is generally where it’s at. There’s usually always something of interest happening on Eventbrite, on any given day. Given that, the question then involves which events you’re the most interested in.

Ruby Skye is a cool club people have been talking about. They generally speak very highly of it. Practically all of their events are 21+ though. So it seems to be something people just fantasize about from a distance.

I was scrolling through their website the other day. I don’t even know how I landed there, or what I was looking for.

At some point I saw something about an upcoming event. 18+.

Sorry what? Eighteen what did you just say?

I looked through it more carefully.

Yes. Yes it was an 18+ event.

Ohohohoho

I put a post up on the class’s Facebook group. A bunch of people were super stoked about it. We began to make plans. I think there was like a party Facebook Messenger group or something. We used that to correspond in more detail.

Seemed like something great was up ahead.

We’re in the club.

We’re about ten people from school.

Ruby Skye is super cool. It’s very big and spacious.

We’re dancing and having fun.

The girls go to the bathroom like every ten minutes. I have absolutely no idea what they’re always going to do in the bathroom.

And they go collectively. Like all of a sudden four girls are like, we need to go use the bathroom.

Like, do all of your bladders have synchronised timers or something- I don’t understand.

I just met this guy. He says he’s Australian. He’s a good-looking guy. Seems fun.

At some point I introduce him to one of the female classmates. She’s from Eastern Europe. They look like they might hit it off.

We keep dancing. Dancing and chatting, and there’s some flirting going around too.

The girl from Eastern Europe is back. Doesn’t seem like she and Australian guy really got something going.

We’re dancing. The room is generally very energetic. There are flashing lights and music, and every now end then there’s a super stimulating “beat drop” that just completely revs the energy level of the hall.

The Eastern European classmate looks like she’s interested in dancing up-close with me.

I don’t pay her body language any significant attention. I don’t have the energy for ambivalent and confusing signals right now.

We spent some time together over the winter break.

I used to have something of a crush on her.

We used to watch “How to Get Away with Murder” in my room. Watching steamy sex scenes of Annalise Keating and the tall muscular detective guy.

The guy was weird. Time and time again Annalise would do things to ruin his life. He lost job, his reputation was ruined, but yet he still kept indulging her- I was like dude the fuck is your problem, what is wrong with you, her own life is good- you’re the one who keeps getting in trouble- what is your problem you this guyyy.

One of those nights I indicated an interest in taking things further- I wasn’t exactly interested in spending time alone with a pretty girl in a dark room, and all we’d do would be to watch other people have sex.

She said she want interested in taking things beyond platonic movie watching.

Okay.

Okay.

I didn’t offer to have her over for movies after that night. I needed to reorder my life priorities.

Now she’s sending all of these confusing signals my way.

I don’t have the energy for this. She had her chance.

I’m at a different end of the club.

The view of the stage is different from here, mm.

Two girls walk up to me.

We talk for a bit.

At some point one is like:

“So, my friend”, she points to her African-American friend.

“She has been feeling a bit shy. And she told me she would be more comfortable dancing with someone who’s similar to her. Like racially.”

Hm.

I don’t understand what’s going on, but I don’t intend to protest.

There’s no problem shy African-American girl- I’ll be your black guy. I’ll be your safety-exuding black guy, there’s no problem.

We begin to dance.

All of a sudden she’s not so shy anymore.

In just a few seconds she went from demure-looking girl to vigorous hip-twister.

Oh she’s comfortable alright.

She’s definitely comfortable. This has to be what a mind at ease looks like.

I’m not complaining.

I’m not complaining at all.

Image: View of the Sutro Tower from somewhere. Either Corona Heights or Potrero Hill.

Lagos: On Dating Apps and Strip Clubs. 1.

Posted on by Mayowa Osibodu

I’m in conversation with the doctor.

She just said something I find counter-intuitive.

She said at any given point in time, female sex-workers are less likely than women in general to have sexually transmitted infections.

Hmm.

Hmm.

Hm.

Well first it depends on the place.

I’m in a clinic on Victoria Island (VI). Victoria Island is one of the more affluent parts of Lagos. Sex workers here would generally be in association with a more affluent and health-conscious clientele. And consequently I imagine their employer would ensure they underwent medical checks on a frequent basis.

And so first I think her perspective varies by location. I’ve spent time in different parts of Lagos and so I’m somewhat aware of how different things can be. Take Obalende for example.

Second, I disagree with her choice of words.

Her words were “They are cleaner than the general woman you come across on the street”.

I don’t know about “cleaner”.

I don’t see how someone who has sex with other people for purely financial reasons, is cleaner than someone who doesn’t. I don’t see how that works.

But I definitely see the logic in her thinking.

I first visited this clinic a few weeks ago. I had some things I felt I needed to discuss with a healthcare professional.

I was in VI for the weekend.

There’s this interesting DJ guy (I think. I don’t know who exactly is behind it), who throws really cool parties I like to come around for. Pretty frequently they fly in DJs from other countries to perform. I think it was a few weeks ago they flew in Hanna Hais from Paris. It was fun.

I’m not sure who exactly is behind the Instagram page that announces new parties, but whoever it is definitely has considerable international exposure. People generally seem to be aware of this, because there’s usually a substantial expatriate presence at the parties.

The events are cool, and the prices are fine. Nothing like the usual overpriced bougie Victoria Island events. I get annoyed by a lot of them because they’re so much about spending money and exhibiting financial capability, than they are about genuine interactions with other people.

Lagos can get very annoying. You can spend an entire week going out every night in Victoria Island and still not feel like you’ve really met anyone. I think it’s partly because at events in Lagos people generally keep to themselves a lot:

They go out with people they know.

When they’re out, they talk almost entirely with those people they went out with.

And when they leave, they leave with the people they came with.

Lagos makes me miss cities I’ve lived where people frequently go out with the primary intention of meeting new people.

The only people I know in Lagos who regularly do this, are the women who go out for parties and stuff, with plans to meet guys who will pay them for sex.

Like seriously. And it’s normal. Like, very normal. That’s just the normal thing. It even has a name.

See, let’s not even go there yet. Let’s still talk about some other stuff.

I got a ride from the hotel where I spent the night, to the clinic- all the while wincing about the inflation that came along with the COVID-19 pandemic. Everything is more expensive. The places I stay whenever I’m in VI, are now about 50% more expensive than they used to be. Hotel prices have gone up, and I’ve quickly realised that my personal surveys on the cost-effectiveness of different hotels around VI are now outdated. A lot of things are different now.

I got to the clinic like Okay I’d like to speak with the doctor.

The clinic is actually very visually appealing. Medicenter. I found it via a Google search. A considerable amount of effort went into the aesthetic of the place.

Got a brief glimpse of CNN on the TV in the waiting room. Something about Lebron James getting the COVID vaccine. I spent some time wondering why that was on (inter)national TV.

The receptionist was like Okay sir you’ll need to pay the fee for somethingsomethingsomething.

Which is twenty thousand Naira.

Sorry what?

Hehehehee!!!! Wetin happen? What is the problem??!!

In my head I was thinking: What is this person saying?

Just to see the doctor? I’m not sick o. I didn’t come here with a heart attack. I’m fine– I just need to talk with a healthcare professional.

For some sort of a reference, twenty thousand Naira is like the cost of eight very solid meals. Say we label meals in any city from 1 to 5 based on price. 1 is a meal from like a roadside stall or a food truck, and 5 is the priciest of the priciest. Then by eight solid meals I mean eight meals which are a very good 3. And so depending on how frequently you eat out, that could be the amount you spend eating out in say a week if you eat out everyday or a couple weeks if you don’t.

People generally convert into dollars and go Oh X Naira is equivalent to Y dollars or so. I feel conversions like that are misleading because they do not take into account the purchasing power of the concerned amount of money, and how that varies with location. So whenever I hear stuff like “Soso people (whose primary legal tender is not denominated in USD) live on X dollars a day”, I’m like Jesus Why. Why.

I had some back and forths with the receptionist, and then at some point she said I should come talk with the manager of the place.

She took me into a different room. The manager was this dark-skinned thickset woman pointing out some things on a MacBook Pro screen to someone who looked like a young nurse.

The receptionist introduced me. And then the manager and I began to exchange words.

I explained that I just intended to talk with the doctor and ask some questions.

Usually with a hospital in Lagos, any sort of visit requires that some you have some sort of membership account. With a first-time visit you’ll need to have this account created, and this usually comes with a fee.

I was aware of this, however I was really just at the hospital for information. I wasn’t about to begin a treatment routine or anything, I was just there to talk with a doctor. And so it was pretty unsettling to think I would have to pay for the full package. I asked questions to know if there was a way around it somehow, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

I liked the way she spoke though-

So, I enjoy learning new words, I enjoy using new words, and I enjoy hearing people use interesting words.

The manager (she herself a doctor) and I exchanged some interesting words, and then at some point I thought Ah to hell with it. I’ll just pay this money and keep moving forward with life.

That was the first time I visited.

That was a few weeks ago.

I got here this morning and told the receptionist I intended to see the doctor for a follow-up on the initial appointment.

Got another glimpse of CNN in the waiting room.

The receptionist was like Okay sir you’ll need to pay the fee for somethingsomethingsomething.

Which is Sososo thousand Naira.

HAAAAAA!!!!!

What do you mean?!

I didn’t really register the amount she mentioned. I just registered the range. It was not too different from the amount I paid the first time. It might have even been the same thing.

For a follow-up?

The receptionist and I began to debate.

At some point she said I could discuss with her manager.

Manager wasn’t on seat so I had to give her a call.

We began to discuss.

Yes, hello?

Oh Yes Hello! Yes!

I began to explain the situation.

At some point we began to exchange words.

You this woman. You’ve come again. With your voice and your English. All you Doctor people. Leveraging my anxiety and my need to hear pertinent reassuring words from a healthcare professional. Leveraging that to empty my bank account.

Where is the money?! Where is it?!

We debated a bit more.

At some point she went, Alright don’t worry you can go see the doctor. I’m going to let this one slide.

Yeah that’s right you Manager Doctor woman. You’d better let it slide.

I’m in conversation with the doctor.

She just said something I find counter-intuitive.

This piece is one in a Series. A list of all of the pieces in this Series can be accessed here.

Image: A My Coffee shop at Victoria Island.

Detainment at Abeokuta. Part 2.

Posted on by Mayowa Osibodu

This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.

Olorun lo yo e pe o o try lati salo. A o ba ti yin ibon si e lese!!

You were fortunate you didn’t try to run away. We would have shot you in the legs!!

Osama is speaking, as I am being bound in some pretty thick-looking ropes.

I have been explaining that I came to Abeokuta to check out some tourist attractions. I intended to spend the night in the hotel next door, but decided against it given that my bank account balance was just a little higher than the cost of staying a night.

I spent the past year and a few months living in a country where I was free to spend nights out camping or just chilling in the open expanse of unoccupied desert that generally stretched across the entire archipelago.

I have been in Nigeria a number of weeks, after close to three years of living in three different countries, each on a different continent. Now I’m sitting here on the floor while my hands and feet are being bound by a duo of night watchmen, one of whom is named after an ex-FBI most wanted terrorist. I am gradually coming to a realization that open idle expanses of land and vegetation are not viewed with the same idyllic innocuousness that I personally grew used to seeing them while in Cape Verde.

Here, some ambiguous being lying down on a pile of gravel in an empty parcel of land- in the dark, is not some post-clubbing guy chilling in the night’s air and looking at the stars- what fucking stars. He is a thief, employing darkness-induced anonymity to actualize his dastardly thieving intentions. As a matter of fact he is one of the reprehensible thieves who stole the tires of a neighbouring truck last week. He should be shot in the legs if he tries to run away, and he should be bound in thick ropes by Osama Bin Laden.

There are three entities surrounding me right now. One is Osama. The other is the second watchman. The third stands further back, silent. An unspeaking silhouette. A mute menacing shadow whose name is Reverse Culture Shock.

It is morning.

The ropes have been loosened. Osama interrogates me some more under the newly-arrived light of day. He seems much less suspicious of my story now. I think I don’t look so much like the typical Abeokuta thief.

I am in an acrid mood.

This Abeokuta is a horrible place. Nobody dances in their clubs. Everyone just sits down and drinks beer and looks very composed. Like they are at a job interview. I wonder why you would go to a club and just sit down and look very serious and composed and judgmental. You might as well have just spent the night at your place of work.

I skimmed through about four different clubs last night before I found one that was somewhat amenable to dancing. At the penultimate one I checked, some guy threatened to punch me in the face when I asked for a puff of what he was smoking.

I was like, Okay I am in the wrong place. I am in the motherfucking wrong place and I need to get out of here ASAP.

All of these Nigerian people are just so angry, I have absolutely no idea why.

Some guy chatted me up while I was leaving the last club. Said he loved my dance moves. I expressed appreciation at the compliment. He said I must be very happy. And then said for me to be that happy, I must have a lot of money. Then he asked if I could give him some money.

He didn’t really look like someone who was in need of money to solve fundamental life problems or anything. He didn’t look malnourished or without a place to stay or anything. He looked like someone who was pretty okay, but was in search of more. More money.

Ugh. These people and money.

Now I’m here, trying to make sense of last night. Bound with ropes and verbally accosted and threatened by a very fulfilled Osama Bin Laden throughout the night.

What sort of a place is this?

I am in a very acrid mood.

Osama says I need to call someone. Someone to come vouch for me. Says my father is alright.

Oh God. My father and I have just had a very turbulent year. Some very intense disagreements on life direction. I do not want to bring him into this. Ah Christ.

But Osama has spoken. I make the call. Now my father will have to travel all the way down to the state capital this early morning to facilitate a resolution of this issue. Ah Christ.

Osama senses the pungent displeasure in my mood. Says I should go get some food to eat. Points me in the direction of a woman selling some freshly made rice and beans and spaghetti and stuff. Usual Southwestern Nigeria roadside breakfast combo.

I am not in a mood for food right now. Recent experiences have been extremely unpleasant. I let Osama know I am not in a mood for food. He says I should get the hell up and go eat something.

Again Osama has spoken.

I am eating breakfast.

Rice and beans and spaghetti, with the usual scintillating tomato sauce and some animal protein.

The food is very good. These roadside sellers are generally very reliable with regard to some serious stimulation of the taste-buds.

I am munching on the food. I can feel my mood getting better very quickly. I don’t like it. I want to keep being annoyed and I want to make Osama feel extremely guilty for putting me through this very annoying experience when I committed no actual crime.

I keep eating. Enjoying the food, while being annoyed at how quickly it is ridding me of my acrimonious annoyance and concentrated displeasure.

I am back with Osama.

He just bought some traditional alcoholic bitters from a roadside peddler. I say I’d like to try some bitters. He advices me not to. Says the smell is very strong and my father will perceive it the moment he sees me. Says my father will know I’ve been drinking questionable alcoholic bitters first thing in the morning. Says he himself is circumspect with the drink whenever his parents are coming around.

I am surprised. I am very surprised.

From hearing Osama exchanging morning pleasantries with some neighbouring traders, I know he has a wife. A wife and two children.

Osama. Osama Bin Laden. FBI Most Wanted Terrorist. Hiding his alcoholic predilections from his parents. Okay. Very unexpected. Very very unexpected.

I thought adults could do whatever they wanted, regardless of their parents’ perspective on acceptable behaviour. I thought a man with a wife and two children could drink strong-smelling alcoholic bitters first thing in the morning if he wanted to, and not have to worry about what his Dad and Mum would say.

I am surprised. I am very surprised. Apparently this whole adult thing is a bit different from what I thought it was.

I keep pondering this astounding observation, while contemplating the complications of my own situation.

Osama is happily sipping on his strong-smelling traditional alcoholic bitters.

Image: A different part of the state, but still generally consistent with the environmental appearance of the more rustic parts of Abeokuta.

Now Playing:

Buying Cocaine with Rob.

Posted on by Mayowa Osibodu

I am in conversation with Rob and Tom.

We are in Manu’s living quarters. Manu, the very dark and muscular Cape Verdean. Manu with the very irascible bulldog that seems to just hate me for some reason. Manu with the young son. Manu the thief.

A Slovenian tattoo artist is a temporary resident at Manu’s quarters. He found himself stranded after being robbed by some island locals. According to him, one of them jumped out from nowhere and snatched one of his devices. While he was trying to lay a hand on that one, some others came along and snatched his bag and the rest of his possessions. His camera, mobile phone, all gone. Now he’s stranded here, bereft of all of his things, strapped for cash and not quite sure what to do next. He says he has a friend in Stuttgart who he’ll reach out to, to help with some money so he can leave the island. I hope things work out fine.

Manu has been stealing the very few things left of the tattoo artist’s possessions. Perfumes, etc. I wonder why you would still steal from someone in that position. While he’s sharing your living quarters as he tries to come up with a plan to move forward. I don’t know- I guess all of those perfumes and stuff, are a very very big deal to Manu the muscular Cape Verdean thief.

I am in conversation with Tom and Rob.

We are talking about cocaine.

I met them both on this day where I provided some unsolicited help with an open bottle of wine they left at a defunct bar in front of the building in which I live.

I had downed a considerable amount of the wine when two guys came to accost me. I was very hungry that day.

We began to talk. They had both spent some time in the USA. I never actually asked, but I suspected they were deported on drug-related charges- that was just what I felt.

Rob is a cocaine addict.

I’m asking questions, and he’s giving an exposition on what life as a cocaine addict is like.

Don’t ever take it man, it’ll ruin your life. You’ll never be able to do anything sensible with money. Whatever money you get will be spent on it. You’ll always be thinking of how to get money, just because you need another hit.

But it makes me feel very energetic though. Whenever I take it, I’m hyper. I can clean the entire house in minutes. It gives me a lot of energy.

At some point, someone asks me if I’d like to try some. Some cocaine.

I take some time to think about it. Rob has just made me very aware of the severely pernicious consequence of cocaine use, but at the same time I am also cognizant of the fact that such a deleterious outcome is a function of probability- and that it’s not entirely certain that my life will become irrevocable ruined, just because I tried it once.

I’m thinking about what to do.

The prospect seems exciting. Taking cocaine for the first time on some random island off of the coast of West Africa with some guys I recently met. I’m weighing that against the possible life-decimating consequences.

While I make up my mind, Tom says he’s not going to let me do it.

Tom is like Rob’s big brother. He takes care of him.

I mean, Rob is his own guy with his own place, and with this sexually attractive but somewhat repressed Cape Verdean woman living there with him- and whose exact function in his life I can only imagine, given that I never see them outside together.

Tom takes care of Rob with regard to life direction and life decisions. Rob can get very irrational- partly as a personality thing, and maybe also as a consequence of his drug addiction. Tom seems to be relatively sober. He has this daughter he’s always going to pick up from school and stuff. He seems to provide Rob with some sort of general life guidance.

I actually like hanging out with them- the dynamic between the two of them is interesting- Rob always being funny and loud and energetic and whimsical, and Tom always trying to be the more reasonable half of their duo.

At some point Rob wants to go get some cocaine. Says he wants me to come with. I think he feels the dealer will think more highly of him if I come along with him. I’m not quite sure why.

Him and his friends seem to find me very well-spoken and intelligent and educated, but I’m not really sure how to feel about all of that. I’m not very happy with the current state of my life, and I’ve realized that being happy with your life is more important than being described/complimented as being intelligent or well-spoken.

Rob first takes me to his place for a shower. I haven’t taken a bath in days. Maybe weeks. I’ve been paying very little attention to my physical appearance/impression because I’ve been entirely overwhelmed with life problems.

In my head I’ve been like:

My life is in complete and utter disarray. My future is drenched in panic-inducing uncertainty. I don’t care about looking presentable for the next twenty four hours, just to look unkempt again and be in need of another cleaning/grooming session. I’d rather just look very rough and maybe a little insane, while I focus on fixing the real and fundamental problems in my life.

We are at the apartment of the cocaine dealer. He’s from Nigeria. For some reason all of the cocaine dealers I know on the island, are from Nigeria. I am yet to come to an understanding of the factors underpinning that correlation.

We are in discussion with the dealer. He finds it hard to believe that I deliberately decided to put a pause to college studies in the USA.

I am not surprised. Pretty much everyone from Nigeria who once lived in North America but now lives here, did not choose to make that change. It was forced on them. By like deportation or an expiration of status or something of the sort. And so they usually find my story completely impossible to believe. At this point, my F1 US visa is actually even still valid. Haha.

The dealer says he used to live in Canada. Says he had a Canadian girlfriend. Says he tried very hard to impregnate her, so he could get some sort of a residence permit in Canada.

I’m not too surprised. These guys are usually like that. I don’t quite understand this obsessive hunger people have for North American citizenships. Honestly I don’t get it. Above all, I don’t get the debasement they put themselves through all in a bid to acquire those citizenships/residence permits.

A prevalent dream of a number of African-origin guys on this island, is to become romantically involved with female European tourists so they can relocate to Europe with them. I mean, I’m not really one to judge, but you should see the women some of them get involved with. People who could be their mothers. Or at least their mothers’ younger sister.

Back to cocaine.

Rob has made the purchase. The dealer is done expressing suspecting disbelief at my story. Now we are heading out of his apartment.

We are at a club. It’s a cool club. I’m having fun. Dancing and enjoying myself. Rob isn’t dancing. He’s more interested in spending some money he recently got, and being praised for his generosity.

I don’t quite understand his behavior. It seems like he’s experiencing some sort of deep-seated inadequacy, and somehow derives some temporary reprieve for that whenever the people around hail him and chant his name for spending another few euros on drinks for them.

I don’t know why keeps doing that. If he doesn’t know what to do with money, he should designate me as being responsible for making the most judicious use of his money. I really need some money, and I have some very important things to use money for. He’s just throwing everything away on people who’ll most likely begin to make fun of him the moment he leaves the club.

We’ve left the club.

I’m heading back to the studio apartment where I stay. I’m walking by the white bakery I like to buy bread and baguettes from. Their stuff tastes very nice.

There’s this baker-cum attendant they have there: Light skinned Cape Verdean woman. Usually she’s nice. Recently she has been getting more unfriendly though. Without reason.

Sometimes it almost feels like she’s angry at me about something. But she cannot possibly be angry at me at anything, because she doesn’t even know me. Her pregnancy has been getting progressively heavier though. I wonder if her change in disposition has something to do with that.

I wonder if there’s any scientific treatise on the irrationality of pregnant women. I wonder what all of those staunch feminist women will have to say about that.

As I walk past the white building of the bakery, I find myself suddenly hit by the apathetic pangs of heartbreak.

Immediately my mood turns sour and I begin to berate myself bitterly, in pain.

In my personal experience, heartbreak is weird. With the passage of time, you begin to feel like you’re past the severely disorienting trauma of being separated from someone you love. Sometimes you have an almost-complete good day. Everything is fine and everything is alright. And then all of a sudden you’re hit by this fiendish sonuvabitch of an emotional hurricane and you find yourself right back where you started.

I head back to my living space, talking and swearing at myself and at my absent partner and at life and then I swear some more at no one in particular- angry and bitter and indignant.

Image: At a nightclub in Nigeria.

Some names have been changed.

Nightclubbing in Berlin: Sisyphos.

Posted on by Mayowa Osibodu

I am skateboarding down the road. I’m heading for a club.

“Hopetosse” or something like that. I found it on Google. Traced out the directions on Google Maps.

Everything is annoying. Life is bad. I need some clubbing in my system this night.

I am at Hopetosse. There is a queue of some sort. I join.

It’s my turn to go in. The bouncer guy looks at me. He is asking for something. I wonder what he is asking for.

He is saying something. Tonight’s event is by invitation only, something like that.

Ugh. Bloody hell. Ah. Everything is terrible.

I am walking back. This is such a terrible night. Everything is bad. Even the nightclub I intended to visit was not accessible.

Ugh.

Someone is calling out to me. Some guy across the road. I wonder what’s up with him. I’m thinking he could be a drunk homeless guy, but I don’t know- this guy sounds too confident and clear-voiced to be a drunk homeless guy.

I walk up to him. We begin talking. He is German. He is tall. He is very tall. He is like six foot seven. I like him. I like very very tall people.

We keep talking. His name is Michi. He has had such a great night. And he also had such a great day. We keep talking about how great of a time he has been having.

He is in a very good mood.

I tell him about the severely disheartening event at Hopetosse.

He tells me not to worry. Says he has a friend who manages a club nearby. Says it’s a very selective club, but that he can get me in.

Ohhhh. Okay. Okay. Maybe tonight won’t be so terrible after all.

Now I myself am beginning to get in a good mood.

We are at the club.

The name is “Sisyphos”.

I am talking with his friend. I think he is the manager of the club. He is also very tall.

Wow I like these guys, they are so tall.

We keep talking. There’s another guy- one of the managers I presume. His girlfriend is next to him. I think her arm is around his neck.

He’s telling me about how he dropped out of an Architecture college programme a while back. He tells me about a motorbike roadtrip he undertook across a number of countries in West Africa.

My eyes are wide open with admiration.

The manager guy asks me what I’m doing in Berlin. I tell him school. I’m a college student.

He goes, “Oh so you’re a smart one!”

I don’t know what he is talking about. I think I’m actually seriously considering dropping out and going on motorbike road trips like his friend.

At some point they welcome me into the club.

The club is going to be open all weekend. From Friday night till early Monday morning. Nonstop. Wow. These German guys really mean business with their clubbing.

I don’t have enough cash in hand for the gate fee. And I think paying with my card is problematic. Michi has a female French friend who is also here to club. Her name is Virginie. She helps me with the additional required Euros. I’m to pay her back later. We exchange contact details.

Oh wow these people are so friendly. This night has taken such a dramatic turn for the better.

I am in the club. I am in one of the halls. Berlin generally has this lyricless Techno House kind of music that’s like everywhere. Initially I found it very strange, but I think I’m gradually getting the hang of it.

I keep dancing to the Berlin lyricless Techno House kind of music.

I am outside. I’m on the way to check out another hall.

On the way, I contemplate the ethics of clubbing as a boyfriend. What should I and should I not do in a nightclub, when I have a girlfriend (who is not with me in the club)?

What is allowed? What is right? I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.

I am in another hall. This place has so many halls. I have a lot of regard for these German guys. This club gives me a lot of respect for them.

I am dancing. I take some puffs of someone’s marijuana.

Wait, where the hell did he go. Isn’t he going to take it back? I don’t understand, what

I keep dancing. Every once in a while, I find myself in a situation which brings to mind my earlier contemplation on what is right to do in a nightclub when you are in a committed relationship with someone somewhere.

I keep dancing.

It is in the early hours of the morning. I am on the way out of the club. I come across the tall manager guy. We shake hands and laugh. He has such big hands. I let him know how much of a great time I had, and how much regard I now have for German nightclubs.

You’re going home alone? You’re a loser.

I’m not quite sure what he means.

Wait do you have a girlfriend?

Yeah! Yeah I do.

Oh okay.

The expression on his face changes. I am not quite sure how to interpret it.

I am back at my apartment.

For some reason the girlfriend is still up. She is at her place. We’re messaging. I let her know how much of a great time I had. Told her about the club managers I met.

She doesn’t seem too excited. She has become weird recently.

Very serious. Always thinking and talking about CVs and career and internships and all that stuff.

It annoys me so much. She used to enjoy hearing about my clubbing stories. That was one of the things she liked about me when we started dating. Now it feels like she passively disapproves.

I don’t like how it makes me feel.

It makes me feel like the nonchalant boyfriend who goes clubbing all the time and for some reason seems unconcerned with CVs and internships and career stuff, which unarguably are the absolutely most important things in life. More important than food or air to breathe even.

Ugh.

I keep thinking about what a great night I had.

It was a great night.

I don’t care if the girlfriend disapproves.

Okay. maybe a little.

Just a little.

Image: Berlin. A different night.