Berlin. 1am.

Belin. 1am. A colonial delegation: two Yankees, a couple of Canadians, one Ozzy, and a Brit. Plan B. Refused entry to Plan A due to "not interesting" outfits, we morph with the imposing line that betrays a nondescript industrial complex. Grungy, dark apparel sets the tone as dozens huddle patiently in a display of understated urban vogue. Dim, red lights offer sultry reprieve from fluorescent sterility. Freshly rolled cigarettes choke the cool summer air.

We weigh our odds. Three guys, one girl—bad odds. Our attire (though freshly rejected by a middle-aged hostess wearing fishnets and a captain's hat) is good enough: Oscar's loose-fitting getup from Down Under and faded Jan Sport fanny pack are appropriately evocative of 90's nonchalance. Priya rocks her own thrift store ensemble straight outta Shoreditch: retro crop top, athletic joggers, over-engineered tennis shoes and, of course, her own self-deprecating fanny pack which sags precariously around a childlike waste. As Americans, the struggle is real but we've managed to evade Costco couture: Daniel's beige chinos and black V-neck are incognito enough and I fly low myself with dark skinny jeans and a generic black T fresh off the H&M clearance rack.

Fashion aside, our pecs-to-breasts ratio is still a hard sale. Not as tough, albeit, as the maple leaf duo ahead: Devin's floral shirt would suit an Italian teenager but is painfully at odds with all things Berlin. As for Erik, his preppy short sleeve button down and boyish khaki shorts are a hopeless display of frat house caprice.

I digress. The line has receded, its contenders swallowed alive or rejected and wretched. And now Devin and Erik are up to bat. They step towards the posse of bouncers.

"You're together?" probes the ringleader tersely, grouping the Canadians and Oscar with a cursory glance.

Oscar steps up and unwittingly seals his fate. "Yeah," he volunteers with feigned confidence.

The bouncer looks down, shakes his head, and extends an arm towards the exit. "Sorry guys." He's respectfully unapologetic.

We're up.

"You alone?" Daniel's vis-à-vis with the gauntlet and, by a stroke of serendipity, has been mistaken for the type of counterculture loner Berlin secretly adores.

"Yeah, I am." Daniel plays it off with a shrug and says "So what?" between the lines. He's promptly admitted by a head tilt towards the entrance.

Confronted with our personal hybrid of St. Peter and the grim reaper, I rest my arm possessively on Priya's shoulder and strike an unimpressed pose. We're solemnly given the go and ushered inward for our ceremonial cleansing. After a dispassionate frisk, the bouncer minions meticulously cover our phone cameras with grey stickers—more a gesture of fiat than force—and we wander in.

Daniel's waiting patiently, bathed in a sickly green glow. It feels good to regroup, but my giddy disbelief is somewhat spoiled by Oscar's absence. The guilt doesn't last though. Instead, dull vibrations resonate within my chest and gently muffle the cognitive dissonance. Onward I'm lured.

We proceed to orient ourselves in the stark, concrete foyer. Save a dull pounding in the distance, it's eerily quiet. A naked corridor of urinals greets us shamelessly on the left, each symbolically separated by towering cinderblock partitions which hug the ceiling two stories above. I give one a whirl. We settle on an unmarked passageway in the corner and a brief flight of stairs drops us into a rectangular tunnel. Epileptic strobe lights surge periodically above our heads and send their electric pulses ricocheting towards the beat. Gradually evolving into an ever-clearer rhythm, the music is no less hypnotic as we funnel towards its source. The tunnel eventually empties us into an equally oppressive cavity with shallow ceilings and barred off chambers surrounding the dancefloor. Everything is steeped in a dim haze. Dark figures reverberate mechanically before a caged-off altar of turntables. We wade further into the fog and are separated moments later.