Marcel Winatschek

Je m’appelle Marcel

Sunday afternoon I landed back in Berlin after two weeks recovering in Bavaria, and I had actually missed the city—more than I expected to.

Bavaria wasn’t nothing. Montana and I worked through some genuinely filthy manga porn together, danced ourselves stupid with André and the two Silvis at Schön&Wild, and Ira and I ate expired chocolate cake and pizza that had probably seen better days. It was good. But Munich isn’t home, and I kept feeling the pull back north.

Deutsche Bahn, which has never once let an S-Bahn run on schedule without extracting some toll of inconvenience, accidentally did me a favor this time. A cancelled train means standing around on a platform, and standing around on a platform means you meet Chloé—exchange student, a French accent so genuinely sweet it felt rude to keep talking German, and a laugh that made me want to keep saying stupid things just to hear it again. We practiced my French, which is generous as a description of what I do to the French language. We sang something. It was completely lovely.

The weekend closed out at the Spreeterrasse for the Sunday Seance summer open-air party, where we ran into Frank from iHeartBerlin and Juliane from Reigen. We talked about confetti and sausages and the ethics of slave labor, as you do at these things. Good people. I hope the city keeps producing evenings exactly like that one.