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COSMOPOLITAN ·^89as if they were state secrets.
There’s Saskia, who has the
word “no” tattooed on her
left palm; Steffi-Lotta, the
bouncer of club Kater Blau
and founder of “market-
village” Holzmarkt25, who
prefers to be known as a
“concierge” rather than a
bouncer; Esther, known as
“mutti” (mum), who once
caught two underage boys
climbing over the fence
of her club and, instead of
calling the police, called
their mothers to come and
pick them up. Then there’s
Eli, who I chat to while
inside the club simply
called ://aboutblank. It’s a
Monday afternoon and the
club’s 24-hour monthly
queer party, Buttons, is still
palpable in the musty air.
She became a bouncer 10
years ago, after seeing a club
with an all-female door
crew for the first time. “I
wanted to be one of them,”
she says, running her hand
through her cropped straw-
coloured hair. “I started
practising martial arts and
then a friend told me about
a position opening up.” That
was at ://aboutblank – once
an illegal club, now one of
Berlin’s top destinations.
It’s also the club where Eli
agrees to put me on shift,
to see the work for myself.
Eli is dubbed the club’s “Ice
Princess” – from her cold
and tough door manner,
which is, she admits,
downright unfriendly at
times. “Especially at the
beginning when I wasn’t
too confident and sure if
guests would accept me as
a woman. I think sometimes
I was acting too strict or
arrogant. Now I’m softer.”
“You welcome and take
care of a lot more people
than you send away,” says
Steffi-Lotta, who chats to
me via a translator over a
lemonade one day. She says
this looking straight into
my eyes without blinking- and I nod in agreement,
knowing that her nickname
(unprintable here) implies
she’s one of the strictest to
get past in the city. Despite
their reputations, all the
women I meet are funny,
friendly and caring, yet I
know that they have also, at
times, been impossible to
get past. You just have to
look at Saskia’s tattooed
palm to see that.
On shift
Taking my position at the
exit doors of ://aboutblank
(I have to watch closely toensure no one tries to
sneak through them), I
observe the queue that’s
next to it, trying to guess
who will get that elusive
“yes”. Eli’s off tonight, but
in her place is Alina –
whose T-shirt lists all the
weight-lifting competitions
she’s participated in. She
stands square on, in front of
the queue, and to her right
is a bulky, shaven-headed
man who reports back to
her if anything – or anyone- seems suspicious. The line
is an eclectic mix: one man
looks like Neo from The
Matrix, while others have
a dishevelled look akin
to Stranger Things’ Chief
Hopper. One woman has
a gigantic spider tattooed
on her chest, dreads to the
floor, and a leather cropped
top and jeans. They all get
in. The group of late-teen
boys swaying in a fog of
aftershave? Nope. The single
guy with short yellow hair
and eyeliner? Yes. In my
three-hour shift I watch
as Alina fires questions
at approaching punters.
“German or English?” she
demands. “How are you?
Have you been here before?
Do you know the name
of tonight’s party?” If the
answer’s yes, she says: “It’s
13 Euros. You may enter
one by one, but only when
I tell you so.” If it’s a no,
instead, a brief: “Not
tonight.” Why do people
want in so badly? Why
are they willing to queue
for hours when getting
in is far from guaranteed?
It’s because that sacred
atmosphere is unlike
anything most clubbers
have experienced. Berlin’s
venues usually open their
doors at midnight, and few
people bother to show up
before 2am. Party-goers are
dressed for dancing for at
least six hours straight,
rather than to show off ›E l i , A K A
“Ice Princess”The dancefloor
in club Weekend