queue: musings

The queue stretches out before us. A zipper of hopefuls. Standalones, groups of two or three, never more than four, because it’s next to impossible to get in as four. We’ve split in two groups to better our chances: Marcus, Finn and I as a trio, with Alice and Kerry standing farther back in line. The night has already been delayed due to a cash register malfunction inside, meaning that instead of opening at midnight, they only started letting people in at 1. From our current position in front of the kiosk, we estimate it will take at least an hour or two to reach the snake, but it’s impossible to tell.

We had no idea it would be this freezing at the end of March. The wind bites our cheeks. Heavy clouds overhead threaten rain. Finn’s wearing nothing under his coat but a flimsy kimono he thrifted earlier in the day. I’m sporting a long gray coat buttoned to the collar and a fur-lined hat that looks somewhat Russian, but it’s not enough—we’re all quivering in Doc Martens. Marcus remarks that he can no longer feel his feet, but I don’t have the strength to respond. I’m too cold, too focused on what’s to come.

Up ahead, blocking the stars, looms a tall, square building. Its gray-yellow stone façade is crisscrossed with paned windows, through which I can make out colored lights blocked by passing human forms.

It’s Berghain, the most exclusive nightclub in the world.

Countless articles and Reddit threads have been written on how to gain entrance, with a lot of contradictory advice. Don’t look the bouncers in the eyes. Look them dead in the eyes. Dress in black. Don’t wear black—everyone wears black. Wear fetish gear. Wear comfortable clothes. Heavy makeup. No makeup. Answer in German. It’s fine to speak English. A few years ago in France, some Italian girls showed me the ‘Berghain Simulator,’ an online video game where you try to answer a fictional bouncer’s questions correctly. (“Have you been here before?” the man asks; two text responses appear at the bottom of the screen for you to choose from.) But just as there’s no trick to win the simulator, there’s no trick to win in real life. It’s a gamble. If you win, you pay thirty euros for a wristband and have the chance to experience the party of a lifetime. If you lose, not only have you wasted hours of your life standing in a cold queue, but you’ll probably feel like shit for the rest of the night.

I’m positioned on the right side of the queue so I can peer down the line and observe the bouncers at work. There’s always at least three of them. They laugh with each other and lean nonchalantly against the doors. They seem far less interested in letting people in than they do in cracking jokes. Sure, they should be conscious of not overwhelming coat check, but it’s opening night, and the club is empty, no? Drunk on power, they seem to revel in our discomfort.

The bouncers always address the Guest List line to the right of the door first. If someone happens to know a bartender inside, they can skip the normal queue and saunter straight to the doors, where the bouncer will check their name against an iPad and sometimes, if they’re a regular, give them a big pat on the back. Within seconds, they’re inside. The rest of us watch on in envy.

Because besides its elitism, the club is, unfortunately, amazing. The sound system on the main dance floor is among the best in the world. Ceilings so high they disappear into darkness. Dancing in smoke pierced by lasers and spotlights, perfectly timed to the beat. Top-notch ventilation systems ensure it never gets too sweaty. Upstairs, Panorama Bar is where the mood shifts—lighter, brighter, with DJs weaving disco, house, and grooves (our personal favorite). Then there are the chill-out zones, bathed in the glow of red and yellow stained glass like some sinful chapel. If techno was a religion, Berghain really would be heaven; the bouncer, Saint Peter himself.

And just as Martin Luther preached, no amount of indulgences can guarantee admittance through those pearly gates. If you’re not Guest List—that is, if you don’t personally know anyone working inside—you stand in the regular queue at opening. Simple as that. There’s no VIP line that you can pay your way into, no amount of pleading that will magically make them say yes. They judge by vibes and vibes alone. Everything else being equal, who do the bouncers want in their club? Theoretically, you have just as much of a chance of getting in as a celebrity does, which rings true when considering that Elon Musk and Britney Spears were rejected.

Statistically, there’s about a 50% chance that someone from the regular queue will get in. I count silently on my fingers as I watch the door. How many accepted, how many rejected. How many groups, how many singles. Sometimes they’ll let in ten people in rapid succession, before rejecting the next seven without so much as a glance. Sometimes they’ll wait a whole two minutes before even considering the next in line, which is particularly infuriating.

Over the years, we’ve tried like hell to recognize some sort of pattern in the people they let in. Beyond the easy rejections (being too drunk, rowdy, an asshole in line), it can be difficult to predict. Are they wearing something specific? Is it something in their makeup, jewelry, or hairstyle? Or is it some inextricable quality that the bouncers have been trained to spot—authenticity, confidence, grit?

Perceived sexuality has got to be a factor. Gay men are the club’s historic clientele. Lab.oratory, hosted in a side building off Berghain on Fridays, is reserved for male cruising. The bouncers admit proportionately more gay men to keep Berghain true to its roots. At least, that’s the sense we get on the inside. More broadly, it’s assumed they’re sympathetic to queer folks, those who rightly use the space for self-expression, exploratory sex in the darkrooms, and a needed escape from cis-hetero societal norms. But simply being a part of the LGBT community is not a guarantee. The doorman brushes away twinks and bears and butches alike.

“It’s random. It’s got to be,” I mutter under my breath. Finn disagrees. “There’s has to be some sort of system,” he whispers. “Like, they’ve let in too many women, so they’ll say no to the next woman. Or too many white guys, so they’ll reject the next white guy.”

We watch as the rejects exit the metal barriers and make the sad, slow walk of shame down the queue and to the street, where they plop down on concrete blocks and order an Uber. There’s no use in trying again. Not at least until the bouncers change posts. Enzo tried that, once. Went right back into the queue after receiving his not today. When he got to the front again, the bouncer asked him, “Englisch oder Deutsch?” “English,” he replied. “Well,” the bouncer replied with a smirk, “I rejected you once in English, so I’ll do it again.”

—

The queue functions as an extended transition, a pause before arrival, a liminal space suspended between yes and no, out and in.

The “end” and “front” of the line are fluid poles of the same phenomenon, as every person in line has at some point constituted the end and will, eventually, constitute the front. Degrees of ‘end’ and ‘front’ shade into each other gradually toward the middle: at what point can I confidently say I am towards the front? Where does one draw that line? ‘Ahead’ and ‘behind’ being purely relational adverbs—I am (almost always) ahead of someone just as I am (almost always) behind someone. Deictic expressions: meanings derived from a reference point. If we stand in place for an hour while the queue behind us steadily grows, we are closer to the front in relation to the queue itself, yet paradoxically, we are no closer to our destination.

When I take a step forward, I am responding to a gap made by the people in front of me, just as I am influencing two hundred others behind me to also take a step forward. I can see it coming in the sea of heads. Up ahead, a bristle of movement, which I only partake in thirty seconds later. A ripple, an emergent property: we are dependent on one another.

Time within the queue operates under its own theory of relativity. The glowing digits on my phone—12:23, 12:24, 12:25—mark chronological, Newtonian time. But lived time here follows different laws. A long queue can feel short if the momentum is constant; conversely, a mere thirty minutes in a static line can feel like several days.

Queues in Berlin are the city's true universal constant. If you’re not in line to get into a club, you’re in line for the bar, or for the bathroom, wishing everyone would hurry up and snort their drugs so you can take a piss (or vice versa). And no matter where you choose to queue, whether it be KitKat or Sisyphos or RSO, it always feels like ten thousand people had the same idea, shuffling forward in tiny increments like zombies in an endless conga line. The only escape is to become that person who breaks the social contract and cuts ahead.

At Berghain, it’s easiest to cut right before the snake—the zigzag of metal barriers that begins about 30 feet from the doors. Once you enter the snake, an unspoken rule takes over: no more talking, no cigarettes, no swigs of beer, no glancing at your phone. The goal is to look cool. To look like you’ve done this a thousand times before. To look like you belong. Just so that you can hear those golden words—Viel Spaß—and be waved inside. Those who decide to cut right at the snake usually get away with it. In total silence, no one dares to protest.

If you’re like me, unwilling to cut but still hoping to avoid the crowds, timing is everything. The queue moves in tides—swelling in the afternoon and evening, ebbing in the early morning. That’s why our strategy is usually the same: start at a smaller club, get in fast, spend six-odd hours there, then head to Berghain around 5 AM. If we’re rejected, at least it’s quick, and we can still say we had a great night otherwise. Why today, of all days, did we decide to line up at opening? If we’re rejected, it’s after midnight—peak queuing hour at any other venue. Which means another Uber, another long line… No, I have to think positively. I’ve done this many times before. I take deep breaths and another step forward.

I like to observe my fellow queuers. Not that there’s much else to do. It’s sort of cute to think about how each person picked out specific clothes with the hopes of getting in. Like me, that woman with the red coat stood in front of the mirror at home, asking herself, will this work? I don’t know the red woman’s name, nor her age. I probably don’t speak her language. But we are the same. All around me, people tap their feet, fiddle with their zippers, put their hair up then let it down again with a sigh. Anxiety directly correlated to one’s proximity to the doors. A shared fear stemming from a shared goal, transcending language, culture, or class. The queue does what a good party promises: it dissolves us into something greater. A collective, undulating mass.

Why do we wait here for so long? Each one of us has conducted a cost-benefit analysis and concluded that somehow, these few hours are worth it. The outpouring of relief when you’re waved inside. That tingle in your body as you stand in line at coat check. Your worth evaluated, confirmed. Congratulations! You’re part of the club. And on the flip side: sorry, you’re just not cool enough. Try again next time. Like children playing made-up games on the playground: you can’t be the princess, I’m the princess. See, I have the crown, and you don’t. It does feel childish, doesn’t it? The whole thing. Hundreds of grown adults waiting in line to get into a secret clubhouse, many doing it just to say they did.

We’re at the snake now. A group cuts in front. Typical. I take a deep breath. Marcus and I have tried our luck at Berghain twelve times and have never been rejected. But that could change at any moment. We try not to take it for granted. In planning, we always use ‘if,’ never ‘when,’ staying conscious of our friends for whom fate has not been as kind. Though there’s a small part of me that believes we truly have that special ‘something.’ That Sven Marquardt, the infamous tattooed bouncer, will be able to read it in our faces when we get to the front. Oh, those two, they’ve been here before, they’ve got what it takes.

I hold onto this shred of hope as we wind our way through the metal barriers. We can faintly hear the bass throbbing inside; we can see the bouncers’ faces now. I try not to make eye contact. I have to blend in. Or should I stand out? I have to look like I don’t care, one way or another, though it’s difficult to truly pull that off, given that I’ve waited here for two hours, of course I care, we all do, and the bouncers know it. It’s a fun little game. The chill Olympics.

The people who cut the line are by the doors now, and I feel a rush of schadenfreude when I see them get rejected. It almost makes me believe in karma. As if there is any rhyme or reason to the bouncer’s decision. The next group is also rejected. Then surely the next one will get in—gambler’s fallacy. There’s only a handful ahead of us now. I don’t notice who gets in, who gets rejected. It’s all a blur. Heart thumping so loud I can hear it. Look anywhere else, at the wall with its multicolored graffiti, at the set list on the door, at the ground, just not at them.

Just like that, we’re at the front. No one to hide behind. Empty space between us and the bouncer and the door. It all happens so quick. With a non-discerning glance, the bouncer shakes her head. “Not today.”

My feet move me forward, past the door, out of the line. They carry me dejectedly down the queue to the street. Everyone is staring at us. It’s not so bad. To the people further down the line, it’s hard to tell the difference between who just got rejected, who just arrived, and who just left. But inside, I am completely, utterly crushed.

It’s funny how quickly my first rejection shifts my perspective. What once was an overwhelming sense of awe and excitement is replaced by unfiltered anger. I can’t believe that just happened. Locked out of heaven. I really thought… This is so stupid. Berghain is so stupid. Why did they reject us? It was my hat, they didn’t like my hat. No, it was probably my coat: I looked too put together, not messy enough. Did Marcus have long hair last time we were here? Did he have a beard? They prefer people that look a bit older, after all. No—it’s completely random, just as I suspected. The bouncer didn’t even take a good look at us. Why do I care so much, anyways? Why did I just spend two hours in line? I’m so cold. I can’t feel my feet. We should have stuck to our regular plan; we shouldn’t have gone for opening.

As we walk down the queue, I spot Kerry and Alice. Will they get in, I wonder? Probably. Good for them, if they do. Secretly, I hope they don’t. Because at least we’ll be together. Rejection sucks, but if it’s spread out over a group, it loses its sting. Mostly: what the fuck are we going to do now? Should we go to a different club, then try Berghain again later? If we line up again at 8 am, when the bouncers change posts, we’ll have a chance…

I’m addicted. Plain and simple. Hungry for the bouncer’s validation, no matter the cost.

—

Marcus, Finn and I spend the night at RSO, a club on the other side of town. It’s okay. Nothing to write home about. The worst part was the queue. We thought we were cold standing in front of Berghain, but we had not experienced true pain until the two hours outside RSO. I was virtually silent the entire line, ruminating obsessively on our rejection. Alice and Kerry got into Berghain, which is not a surprise. They’ve gone enough times recently that some of the bouncers recognize them. I harbor no ill feelings towards their experience, just a lingering frustration that we couldn’t join them. No matter. It’s almost 8 am now, time to try again.

We cram into the Uber. It’s always fun when the car veers around the final bend and we can see how long the queue stretches. Unfortunately for us, it ends well past the kiosk at Wriezener Karree. A pit grows in my stomach. Is it even worth it? I just paid twenty euros for the ride, so sunk-cost fallacy says it is. Although now it’s truly starting to drizzle.

Waiting, shuffling, waiting, shuffling. Still buzzing from a Yerba Mate downed at RSO, which makes the wait slightly more bearable. Keeping in contact with Alice and Kerry on the inside through our group chat:

Finley [9:35 AM]: we’re in the queue

goes a bit past the kiosk but it’s moving at a fair pace

Kerry [9:44 AM]: Okieee

Finley [10:07 AM]: we’re by the porta potty

making progress

Kerry [10:07 AM]: Okay yaaayy

Kerry [10:26 AM]: Any queue updates?

Finley [10:27 AM]: halfway from kiosk to snake

Finley [10:51 AM]: approaching snake

Right around the snake, it really begins to pour. I’m lucky to have brought a hat, and Marcus has a hoodie, but Finn’s hair is plastered to his forehead, making him somewhat resemble a drowned rat. In the Uber, we had agreed that Marcus and I should queue together this time, Finn separately, just to try something new. But somewhere in the queue, that understanding was lost. We’re bunched together in a trio. I wonder if it will make any difference.

Just a few people ahead of us now. Do I lose the hat? I was wearing it last time. I stuff the hat in my pocket and instantly the wind whips my hair into my face. I struggle to keep the mess at bay, but we’re at the front now, there’s no use…

“Not today.”

We’re all rejected. Jesus. Two in one night.

Is it random? Who knows. Chance is but a name for law not recognized. Maybe the door selects for the illusion that randomness is the point. If the criteria were obvious, the magic would dissolve; people would game the system or call it unfair. But when the logic is opaque, every entry feels earned and every refusal becomes a puzzle to obsess over. The bouncers aren’t just picking people, they’re sustaining a narrative: that this place exists beyond formulas, that it’s alive in its discernment.

Rejection feels easier this time around. We get to go home now. My body is exhausted. Alice and Kerry meet us out front. They’re tired, too, after nearly ten hours of partying. “So, what’s the plan for after we sleep?” I venture. Wondering if Alice and Kerry will want to head back to Berghain with their wristbands, hop in the Guest List line, pay only five euros for re-entry. “Personally, I’d be down for a fort night,” Finn says. The term is a relic of our uni days—back when we’d raid every closet for blankets to construct pillow forts, then lose entire nights to cheap wine and conversations that felt, at the time, earth-shattering. To my surprise and guilt, Alice agrees: “I’m so down.”

We hop into Ubers and head to our respective apartments. After a good sleep, we reconvene at Alice’s apartment and binge Egyptian pyramid conspiracy videos over pizza. We share a joint and drink Fritz-kola. It’s exactly what we needed after a night in which everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.

Alice gives me a copy of The Kybalion; I give her a copy of The Artist’s Way. We vow to start a book club over the next few months, keeping each other spiritually and creatively accountable. “I’ve been thinking a lot about circles,” Alice tells me on the couch. “How there’s a good side and a bad side to everything. Nothing is ever truly good or truly bad. With every action, there’s a reaction.”

She’s right. My first rejection at Berghain felt like the worst thing in the world. It shattered the version of myself I’d clung to: the kind of person who always got in, who belonged effortlessly underneath those lights. But rejection taught me to appreciate the nights I’d once taken for granted. One closed door opened another: hours spent laughing with friends until our sides hurt.

Next time I’m in Berlin, I’ll join the queue again. Of course I will. Like everyone else, I can’t resist rolling the dice. High risk, high reward. (Plus, my Berghain Minecraft build isn’t going to complete itself.) But now I understand the balance. Getting in is not a given, but a gift. And it’s certainly not the end-all be-all of a good night. What’s ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are two sides of the same coin: opposites identical in nature, different in degree. My experience is readily transformed through my perspective. And as for my friends, I am eternally grateful.