Marcel Winatschek

Pretty Good for the Park

Friday comes and you’re ready for it, even though Tuesday wasn’t that long ago. The ritual never changes—swing by Görlitzer Park before dark, before the evening turns into something you don’t want to be part of. Usually you get what you deserve: something that’s been sitting in a pocket, something that smells like it’s making excuses for itself.

This time it’s actually decent. Fruity, sharp, the kind of thing that makes you pause for a second and smell it again. Not amazed—the park doesn’t do amazement—just surprised enough that you think the weekend might actually start okay. You pocket it and head toward the U-Bahn already thinking about the couch, and for once you’re not disappointed before you’ve even started.