First We Take Manhattan (According to Yelp)
My name is not Leonard Cohen, but my soul burns with the same smoky, poetic intensity. After a profound spiritual experience involving a stale bagel and a particularly strong cup of bodega coffee, I understood my mission. The prophecy was clear. It wasn’t a metaphor. It was a two-phase strategic operation for world domination, starting with the most daunting conquest of all: the online review.
Phase One: Manhattan.
The “taking” would be achieved not with brute force, but with scathing critiques and effusive, yet condescending, praise. I would become the most feared and revered voice on the internet.
My first target was a minimalist café in SoHo where the coffee cost $9 and was served in a beaker. The barista had a beard so meticulously sculpted it looked like a topiary. My review: “The espresso possesses a certain je ne sais quoi, which is French for ‘I don’t know why I paid six dollars for this.’ The ambiance is a symphony of concrete and existential dread. 2 stars. A promising start, but the foam art lacked a coherent political message.”
I was a ghost, a phantom of judgment. I took a $275 helicopter tour and reviewed the pilot’s landing technique as “adequate, but lacking the graceful despair of a falling angel.” I spent $75 on a gym class where a woman named Starlight screamed at us to “burn away our emotional baggage through burpees.” My review: “My baggage and I have reached a new understanding. We now both hate burpees. The locker room towels were pleasingly abrasive. 3 stars.”
I was dismantling the city’s ego, one carefully crafted pan at a time. I felt the power coursing through me. Manhattan was softening. Soon, the influencers would weep into their avocado toast, and the power would be mine.
Then We Take Berlin (A Reality Check)
Flush with my New York successes, I landed in Berlin Tegel, ready to apply the same formula. I strode into the first likely-looking venue—a club located in a former laundromat, the entrance marked only by a single, flickering fluorescent tube.
A man with a face like a forgotten stone wall looked at my name on the list.
“Vat is your purpose here?” he grumbled.
“I’m here to take Berlin,” I declared, channeling my inner Cohen.
He stared blankly. “You have taken nothing. You are on the list. The list is nothing. Go away.”
My first review was a masterpiece of withering prose: “The bouncer’s social engagement strategy is curiously nihilistic. The queue moved with the urgency of a snail on quaaludes. 1 star.” I posted it and waited for the seismic shock to ripple through the city’s nightlife.
Nothing happened. A single comment appeared: “lol. tourist.”
Undeterred, I moved to the food scene. I found a Döner Kebab spot, universally hailed as a masterpiece. I ordered one from Rüyam Gemüse Kebab. It was a glorious, messy, life-affirming tower of flavor for €4.50. My New York-trained critic brain tried to formulate a critique. “The meat-to-sauce ratio is… the structural integrity of the pita is…” I failed. It was just perfect. I ate two.
I tried to review the S-Bahn, criticizing its “lack of theatricality” compared to the New York subway’s performance art of chaos. A local reading over my shoulder said, “It’s a train. It takes you places. Why are you like this?”
My plan was falling apart. Berlin was immune. You cannot “take” a city that fundamentally does not care about your opinion. My scathing review of the East Side Gallery (“The graffiti on the graffiti feels conceptually redundant”) was met with a shrug. My attempt to critique the Tiergarten for its “un-manicured lawns” was met with the simple, devastating question: “Who hurt you?”
The final blow came at a Späti, where I bought a cheap beer and sat on a crate. I tried to review the beer. “Notes of… hop-based apathy. A finish that suggests the brewmaster has given up on life itself.” The man next to me, a philosopher in a leather jacket, took a long drag of his cigarette and said, “Or maybe it’s just beer, man.”
The Aftermath: A Lesson in Context
I sat in my poorly-lit, “charmingly rustic” Airbnb in Kreuzberg, my ego as deflated as a day-old pretzel. I had approached Berlin with the tools I’d honed in Manhattan—a weaponized sense of superiority and a thesaurus of condescension. But Berlin’s armor is its profound, unshakeable indifference to your performance. You can’t conquer a vibe. You can only surrender to it.
Manhattan was a game I could play. It was all about the hustle, the take, the relentless optimization of experience. Taking Manhattan meant learning its language of ambition and turning it against itself.
Taking Berlin? That was a fool’s errand. Berlin doesn’t want to be taken. It wants you to put your phone away, grab a beer, and just be. Its magic is in its refusal to be curated. My 1200-word, five-star review of a forgotten park bench would be as meaningful as a one-star review of the rain.
I never wrote the final, triumphant review announcing my conquest. Instead, I deleted my account. The real takeover wasn’t about subduing a city; it was about letting the city subdue you. Leonard Cohen, the magnificent trickster, wasn’t giving a plan. He was singing about a transformation. First, you master the art of the take. Then, you learn the grace of letting go.
My new mission? To find the guy who wrote the “lol. tourist” comment and buy him a beer. No review. Just a beer…