I’m not lost. Just trust me. I lead Lionel down concrete steps to a featureless door, tiny neon humming. I feel smug. Inside is bright and not-cold with long, shared tables like we’re in Munich or something. I drink Panke Gold, a citrusy kick, he, a Roter Wedding that’s boring. Red beers are boring; fight me. The next bar is named after vagabonds. He sips a Schwarzfahrer, some dark stout, talks about Ireland, jumping in a freezing Loch Lomond at 3am that I don’t remind him is Scottish. I, a bittersweet DIPA, and talk about Canada, the time we did Centurion with Blue Buck shots and I kissed Mae as soon as we got to the party, on the stairs, her knee between my legs. We sneak Flensburger bottles onto the bus. They have flip-top lids that plop open and fit the inner pocket of a Levi’s jacket. Me and Lionel both like no-nonsense north German beers; we like to think ourselves stony-faced fishermen on harsh Baltic Sea beaches. Next, in a twenty-on-tap kind of place, I take a smoked beer that reminds me of cheese and the firepit at Kath and David’s, and how I hope they have kids soon. He takes a frothy Belgian Dubbel that any Englishman would ask to be filled to the rim. Our last is a something-or-other on a corner doorstep. We watch some poor bastards head to work. A white puppy sniffs our feet. Yellow trams jangle. Laughter comes from black-clothed shapes over there. We cheers and clink and talk of nonsense til the bus arrives.