Tension from an arduous week mounts to a head of energy on Saturday night as motley groups of German youths wind through the maze of beckoning pubs and discos. The weekend ritual begins as waning dusk is electrified by the city night, and the vacant streets are populated with passers-by combing for mates.

We push through passing shoulders, stretching up the hill to our regular haven, Maxim Gorki. As we approach the unassuming entrance, a dozen sets of two or three litter the sidewalk and perch themselves on parked cars. It is still early, 8 o’clock, yet already smells of beer, sweat, and cigarettes ooze out to the street. We dive in.

The pub is hazed by the heat of the night and suffocated by tightly packed bodies. From the stairs that lead into the pit of action, we can see the current flow. Its path passes from the bar, vending mugs of cool ale, to the left past rows of eager-eyed Jungen lining the wall, to a cove of benches and tables cluttered with closely talking faces. Here it swirls around, then congeals on the dance floor into a mass of dripping flesh that swells with the music and floats on a foam of beer. From there a stream trickles by the stairs and to the right, and ultimately, to the bathroom, only to resume its continuous search.

We descend into the bubbling fountain and establish an island from which to launch. With the first sips of refreshment, our eyes dart as we map out the plan of attack. Then, bull’s-eye, Leslie catches another searching, und dieser ist heiss (this guy is hot). She drains her mug and lights a cigarette, the smoke curling up to the amber-shaded light above her head. His intent face slides into a smile that radiates, unburdened by the thick air. Leslie sweeps into the current, floating, singing the song of the Lorelei. A kiss? Do tell! The fountain bubbles.

Early into the morning we stumble up the stairs and into the clear black air. Its coolness is invigorating and triggers inebriated grins of triumph. Leaning into the arms of tonight’s catch, we weave down the hill.