Last night I took myself to Berghain, the rumored club to put all clubs to shame, which as you know is not really my scene, but it seemed — seems — germane to be going to a place and doing the things everyone else goes there to do, the things everyone else is excited about, if only periodically, if only just to see, because what reasons are there to do anything ever?
In the same bar that la patrona of my casa rural brought me to last week, killing time before my blablacar to Barcelona, I have ordered some kind of open-faced mini-sandwich featuring something squiggly and, to my eye, marine.
Pescado, said the barman to my quizzicality, but I bet it’s not actually, not taxonomically.
Everyone is starting to look familiar to me, moving so quickly from place to place as I am.
I tried to tell Sigrid and Omiros about what happened with Christos, starting with the other people involved. They are brother and sister, I said, Constantinos and Sophia, and Sigrid said, That could be anyone.
