It wasn’t the club scene that was holding us back. It was a feeling, a tingling sense that shouldn’t be ignored and that quite frankly got me out of trouble plenty of times in the past. Because truth is, I loved hanging out where there were people, and whether that was a cafe, a restaurant, a club or a bar as long as I was with a good group of acquaintances or friends, I could soak up the atmosphere even if the music was . . . let’s be polite, meh. I’ve been to some awesome places and to some that were so dodgy people (including myself) wondered how I still managed to make it out not only alive but completely unscathed (It was, let’s be honest, a combination of dumb luck and simultaneously keeping your wits about you, so that you left just seconds before the proverbial shit hit the far, be it via a raid in a country where you really don’t want the cops to have you on any kind of record or merely avoiding a fight between two Alphas wanting to square off or an Omega deciding he was finally drunk enough to take on the Alpha he’d been eyeing all night because of something he’d heard).  

“I don’t like the idea of this club,” I told Sober Companion Too and they nodded in agreement. Mrs. 52 Hours of Freedom had shown us pictures well in advance, and while they didn’t evoke any particular feeling either way when I’d seen them, intuition wise things would really only hit the fan a few hours before we were set to head over. It’s the same before a performance. I’m absolutely fine even on the day of. Until about two hours before curtain, and then I’d really rather be in the equivalent of a medieval torture chamber than having to go on stage. Until I connect with the audience and whoever is onstage with me, and it all falls into place. 

My main concerns in terms of worry were (in no particular order): not being dressed right, wearing the wrong shoes and in general being subjected to a really bad vibe. It wasn’t something I ever concerned myself with, even when I was going to clubs with a more – let’s call it eclectic – dress code. I’ve since read their reviews. Having been in some dodgy places in college means I never really research where I go if I’m clubbing with people I trust  and Sober Companion Too and I unequivocally have everyone’s back. No wandering hands will go undetected and good luck trying to drug anyone’s drink with Sober Companion Too around. To label them fierce would be akin to saying Superman was “perhaps a bit stronger than most others.” 

I never really thought about it until I started writing this post, or rather, I became conscious of it when I started going out in college but then forgot about it many years down the road. No matter where I went, I always had a feel for the establishment we were about to set foot in. If I deconstruct it even further, I guess you could say that I somehow soak up the vibe of a place and – if I don’t exactly melt into it – adjust to its vibe. My guard goes up (or comes down), and I am either on high alert taking everything in around me, or I can slip off into my own world. This club had me on high alert from the moment we approached it, though if I’m being honest that feeling already kicked in when The Escaped Convict for 3 Days was willing to leave me at the hostel when I told her I felt like I was coming down with something so she could go out with Sober Companion Too. That feeling was the precise reason I didn’t want Sober Companion Too to be alone with her, because being the only sober one sucks and doesn’t guarantee you any kind of safety in a club where groping is not only condoned but downright encouraged. 

Long story short, if you ever want to go clubbing in Silesia and hit on something that evokes the opposite of an angel in its name, run. Run as far as you can. Give it a wide berth, especially if you look ethnic and do not speak Polish. Based on the reviews people have had items stolen from their checked coats, have been pepper sprayed for no reason other than standing in the line by the entrance waiting to pay and then get their coats checked. People were also aggressively removed, had to pay the entry fee all over again if they went out for a smoke and were refused entry for wearing the wrong shoes. The club’s standard reply of” we hope you’ll give us a 5-star review next time” is as classy as their decor inside: a place trying to live up to an image it has of a club in The Capital but failing miserably. 

It reminded me of an old Jewish joke I found in one of the many Jewish Hungarian joke books my father collected. This one was social commentary to the core and centered around Jews “naturalizing” their names into something more in line with the country they were in, because Cohen, Kohn, any of the colors (in German of course) are not only dead giveaways but alienate the carrier before even giving them a chance at any type of success. 

And of course, as everywhere, once given the chance to reinvent oneself (albeit by name only), snobbism can all too easily rear its ugly head by choosing a name that might evoke an image of something higher and much more power-adjacent than the family names assigned, often with malicious intent by German administrators who made no pretense of hiding their hatred towards certain groups of what they deemed undesirable. 

But snobs must be called out and brought back down to earth from whatever orbit they are floating around in, so in this particular joke a certain Blau calls out his friend, who is constantly putting on airs with these words, “Lafontaine, stop acting like you’re French royalty. My grandfather knew yours when he was still called Spritzwasser.”