Clara in Germany!

The word “privacy” does not exist in Italian. Literally, there is no translation or equivalent word. Italians like to know what you are doing, how you are doing, and how that person over there is doing. The Italian value of closeness is reflected in the architecture. The streets of Florence are so tiny and narrow, that it is a safety hazard to be anything but small and swift. My first few days of wandering the city felt like a pretty, video-game stress-dream. Side-mirrors and mopeds are my new least favorite things. But it's worth the anxiety knowing that you'll eventually be spit out into a wide-open piazza where you can take a breather and an espresso.  Lots of directions Serene moment while getting lost A PIAZZA! Open space

No photographs are allowed at Sisyphos, therefore I can only trust my red stamped wrist that I was in fact at this club, in this city, and on this continent. Because at Sisyphos, a former dog-food factory turned clubbing wonderland, the only thing that reminded me that I was still on this planet was the long line for the bathroom.   Otherwise, I was occupying a different cosmos. The outdoor area of Sisyphos is like a twisted Christmas village, complete with food stands, a man-made lagoon and endless orbs of spinning, colored light. Here you can find pretty strangers strewn across the sandy floor, chatting, regrouping and even sleeping. If at some point you want to leave this Candyland and enter a sweet sort of Hell, have no fear. The dance floor awaits. To get to the largest dance floor at Sisyphos (there are a total of four) one must first pass through a dark stone tunnel. This tunnel-time-machine will then lead you into a room of shameless 70’s decadenc...

Constructed with glitter glue and guarded by stoners, the gates to Berlin’s nightlife are eternally open. Everyone from expectant mothers to ancient Opas are welcome, for no Berlin party is ever complete without representatives from both the beginning and end of the life cycle. I was pleased to find this patch-work crowd at Festaal Kreuzberg, an outdoor club located near the river Spree where all you need for entrance is a body to move, a mind to lose, and exceptional hair.  During a typical night at Festaal, one can expect everything from Brazilain DJ’s spinning Italian disco to Australian shamans leading fermentation seminars. But last night, I went for something else: to see the notorious lo-fi pop prince, Ariel Pink. Half an hour late, Ariel stumbled onto the stage like a drunken cowboy, wearing a studded belt and black jersey jumpsuit. And like a true cowboy, whatever Ariel did looked impossibly cool. He batted the air like a feisty kitten. He threw te...