Berlin, baby Between the familiar feel of the unfamiliar and the unfamiliar feel of the familiar, the former has overcome. The world I know and love involves comfy youth hostels, another tube, a whole new strange city. I am cheating on facing the unfamiliar, though. I joined the boy scouts, formerly known as the first years, in their latest quest. Being part of the group involves drinking beers and jump-dancing, almost break-dance-fighting (that’s a quote, you know from which movie or else, find it out) in a “Russian disco”, to unknown, possibly obscene lyrics. A party with a dress code I could not anticipate, feeling very un-punk, overdressed in jeans, feeling genèvoise. Walking the U-bahn with the guys, I channeled Pulp Fiction, wearing a head scarf, witnessing pointless (not to say Seinfeld) conversations of the following kind. J: "What time does our plane leave?" PL: "Two twent-five. Do I look like a fucking clock? I am not a fucking calander, ok?" And F: "You know the rule." S: "I am not listening." F: "Don't fuck up."