Phil Nite

It’s late at night on Friday, turbid bulb light shivers as we climb the stairs of and old German apartment building. The owner of a tiny room in a shared flat takes out his keys and warns us: “There’s my neighbor, she’s a little insane – strolls across the corridor with a knife at night.” Lanky guy with tousled hair, dressed in tight female jeans and black sweater, opens plastic bag and gets a bottle of Belenkaya out of it. “Vodchillin’,” – he pronounces imperturbably, then pours the drink into plastic cups.