How To Get Into Berghain

Dark side rooms, pulsating EDM, leather belts, chokers, pixie haircuts, chunky boots. Oversized shirts. No shirts at all. Mesh. SWEAT. Need I say more? Welcome to your insider scoop of Berghain, the most exclusive club in Berlin. From an andtost perspective, of course. 

When prepping for my tour-de-Europe, my number one stressor was what to wear in Berlin. I’ve slowly grown to incorporate more monochrome color palettes into my outfits, but I knew that my favorable pops of patterns or ruffled layered mini scarves wouldn’t cut it. “Lila King” doesn’t exactly scream Berlin-grunge. I approached Berlin as a styling exploration, where I had to be wary of both space and general aura. Luckily, I had a few expert tour guides who gave me the best advice, which I am now passing down to you, dear readers. 

But let’s cut to the chase. The night we arrived in Berlin was the night — not to mention the irony of going from the utopia that was Copenhagen, straight to the piss-filled streets of Berlin. I felt at home, though. It was Saturday and we were prepared to go to war (stay up past 8:00 AM and really go out). My newly invigorated TikTok page was filled with “what I wore to get into Berghain” videos, with most people looking like they were straight out of the West Village: slick backs and leather micro shorts. I assumed that those who get in regularly maybe weren’t making TikToks about what to wear, so I went with my gut, a quote-on-quote chill look: baggy basketball shorts, a black tank top, and Solomons. And when I say I went with my gut, what I really mean is I kept my Berlin expert and goddess Ava on FaceTime for upwards of two hours as I expressed every aesthetic anxiety going through my head. I threw my hair up into a pony tail and didn’t even bother with a purse. 

Our first stop was a bar. My anonymous travel partner (Amelie Boose) and I brought cards and ended up staying for a few hours playing with new friends who claimed to be professional dancers. The difference in our outfits versus the rest of those at the bar, though, was palpable. While it looked like we were ready to go hiking in a goth version of LA, everyone else appeared incredibly normal, wearing colors, baggy jeans, boots and sneakers, button up tank tops, loose band tees. It looked like a happy hour in Bushwick but with a tinge more class. After our game of cards, it was about 2:30AM and Amelie and I decided it was time to go to our first stop. As we stood up, one of our dancer friends asked why we were dressed the same. Immediately we looked at each other and popped our figurative mental bubble: we were wearing the exact same outfit, down to the color of our sneakers and color of our basketball shorts. Maybe our intense height difference or overall manic getting ready state shrouded our perception of what we were each wearing. After that comment, minor anxiety seeped into every move we made. After a few stops in different bars and clubs in various neighborhoods, we finally decided it was time to make our way to Berghain. 

To reiterate the energy, it was Saturday night, 4:00AM, and perfectly temperate. You’d expect a massive line, but once we arrived, there was only a couple in front of us — a man and woman who looked to be about 30. The guy was in sunglasses and all black, while the girl had bleached short hair, extensive eyeliner, and wore a cargo-esque mini skirt. They were shuffled right in, as if their presence in Berghain was essential. Once we were finally up, we gave our best nonchalant, stone-faced gazes before one of the bouncers said without hesitation “have a nice night.” 

That’s right, this whole thing was absolute clickbait. But how much fun was it to read?! The story isn’t over. Stay with me. 

We walked away and started laughing. We came to the conclusion that we didn’t get in because of Amelie’s energy (she attempted to speak to the bouncer in German) and my overall aesthetic (blonde, somewhat bubbly, looks like the kind to carry hand sanitizer in her purse). The sun was up and we had nothing to lose, so Amelie and I changed our hair into extreme side parts and walked back towards the bouncers in an attempt to try again. We came to our senses and also grew icked out by our behavior, and instead found a back entrance and an abyss of red lights and EDM calling our names. Screw the side parts, we wanted to sneak in. As our Salomons carried us to the entrance, suddenly a lengthy man appeared and chased us out. I swear to god he looked like a heroine-chic Santa Clause, only if Santa wore exclusively camouflage. I’m talking shirt, pants, gloves, sneakers. In my memory he was also carrying a large rifle, making the whole situation even more absurd, but alas … I believe reality escaped me at that moment. 

We were deflated and decided to sit in the dingy back entrance courtyard where we could see a small sliver of what could have been. I couldn’t stop saying “And so I walked. I walked 48 blocks in $400 shoes,” even though I was wearing shoes that Carrie would physically gag at. But it was 5AM, the sun was rising, and I was tired of making my way around a city that felt as massive as the state of Texas. Our sitting, however, led to one of the best parts of our night and, in retrospect, one of the best parts of the trip overall. We saw who was leaving Berghain and, in turn, who got in over us. It was essentially my journalistic dream. 

Men in their 40s-60s stomped out in their big black boots, grazing our curious eyes as we sat there. Their unimaginably hairy bodies were accentuated with leathery harnesses and g-strings. We saw one old man in a bucket hat and fanny pack who looked like he had just been plucked out of touring the Eiffel Tower. One man came out with his black shirt draped over his dripping, sweating body. 

These men were massive. They looked like they could lightly flick me and send me flying to the floor. Everyone came out silent with bulging eyes, probably regaining a sense of reality after their all-night experience and probably wondering why they were being studied by two  peculiar American girls clearly rejected from the club. We never saw any women emerge, let alone anyone in their twenties. 

In a weird way, watching these unexpected men trickle out humanized Berghain for me. As opposed to being a club where Berlin’s version of LES baddies alike join together in their sports sunglasses, it seemed as though the club represents a mode of old Berlin and club life that excludes our generation for fear of becoming too “sceney” (rightfully so). It is a place where old men still get to boogie and take drugs, so to speak, without feeling like they’re being aged out of a culture that once revolved around them. After all, clubbing and having the EDM aura should override outfits, and I guess the hairy old men bring that energy more than an andtost princess. 

So while I didn’t get into the “best club in the world,” in a weird way, I’m not that mad about it. I hope that those who got in that night and get in in the future aren’t doing so to write a silly little article. Regardless, I love you, Berlin. You taught me a lot and I have come to the conclusion that, regardless of where I am, it’s probably best if I stick to dressing like myself.