An education in Germany, the James Clay way.
Shorts packed. Sunglasses stashed. Sun cream forgotten. Little see-through plastic ASDA sandwich bag filled with toiletries under 100ml prepped. Branded Berliner glassware wrapped in clothing and needlessly hidden in hand-luggage.
In-flight beer badly poured and soaking slowly into my trousers hours before the Berlin sunshine will dry it. Severe customs man with Tekken Jack-like military haircut looking at my face, then my passport, then my face, then my passport, then giving the index-finger beckon.
To the hotel. Neon sign, flat-fronted austere façade, hidden by scaffold. Shady lobby to sheltered courtyard, all ambient synth-house, coffee whurr and pot plants. Navigate corridors lit only by The Big Lebowski beaming out from flatscreens four to a floor.