Blue Jeans, White Sneakers, Garlic Sauce

It’s pouring rain and my Diesel jeans have bled half their dye onto my white Adidas, and I’m stumbling home through the Westend down Sophie-Charlotten-Straße from a night I can only partially reconstruct. The party boat in Schöneweide comes back in pieces: beating everyone at table football, some idiot pouring his entire Vodka Orange down the front of my shirt, and then—somewhere deep in the small hours—tracking down two döner with extra garlic sauce. That part I’m proud of. The rest is noise.

Barcelona and its rumored brothel remain a mystery. Apparently I missed the bus.