Slightly perplexed, I descended the stairs. What greeted me was the usual bombastic outfits and stunning makeup, but with a twist: the place was thumping, literally.

Packed bodies gyrated across a spacious dance floor with the ebb and flow of a crimson and black tide, a dark swirl of energy powered by a bass-heavy soundtrack that rattled the ribcage. Overlooking the scene was a well-appointed balcony, where the queens (and kings) of Europe’s vampire community surveyed their subjects with dour expressions. As before, their attire put the likes of John Galliano to shame. Corsetry and long skirts dominated, but a profusion of lace was also prevalent. The leather, thank goodness, seemed to be at a minimum.

The first thing that came to mind was the opening scene of the rather forgettable 2001 Vin Diesel action flick XXX — the part where a ridiculously out-of-place secret agent gets himself killed at a similarly sinister Prague nightclub — or the even more forgettable Blade, where an unsuspecting “regular guy” finds himself the starring attraction at a rave for all the wrong reasons.

Either way, my crisp navy blue suit and white bowtie just screamed “journalist,” “lost bar mitzvah attendee,” or “food.”

I decided to take my inimitability in stride. Fully adopting the secret agent persona and drifting over to the bar, the service from the blonde-haired bartender with a pronounced widow’s peak was swift. “Dry martini,” I told her in English in as serious a tone as I could. “Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shaken, not stirred, and with a large, thin slice of lemon. Can you do that?”

James Bond would have been proud.

Laughing, the bartender produced the concoction in a remarkably short period. My wallet suddenly became a lot lighter.

Grossly overpriced drink in hand, I turned to the black-haired woman sitting next to me. A fishnet mourning veil covered part of her face, but given the setting, I wasn’t quite sure what she was mourning. I tried a different approach.

“I like your dress,” I began. “The patterning and the way it complements your hair. Did you make it yourself?”

She blushed. “No,” she answered, smiling slightly. It was a good sign. “But you seem to know a lot about clothes.”

“Well, I am a fashion journalist.” I chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to write about something I didn’t know anything about. That would be like an oxpecker resting on a giraffe instead of a rhino.”

“A what?”

“Exactly.”

She laughed. Sharp as her fangs appeared, I was relieved to know I wasn’t about to become someone’s dinner.

“So where are you from?” I inquired. Given the model UN feel the last vampire party I was at had, I thought it was an appropriate question.

“Croatia.” I realized she had a striking physical resemblance to Pauley Perrette’s character in NCIS.

“Croatia! I hear it’s a nice place. I saw it on TV once, if that counts.” She laughed again. “So you’re from Zagreb I take it?”

“No,” she corrected, “I’m actually from Dubrovnik. Do you know where that is?”

“Of course! Just a little bit warmer than here; wouldn’t mind going there one day.”

“You should,” she said. “Nice beaches and a lot of history.”

“Well, I do enjoy beaches, and I’m rather fond of history.” I paused. “So what do you think of this night so far?”

“It’s kind of crowded,” she answered. “But the people are nice. And you?”

“It’s not bad,” I replied as coolly as possible. “Not what I’m used to, but life’s for living, right?”

Another laugh — her Gucci seemed to mix with my Michael Jordan cologne (surprisingly, it does not make one smell like a sweaty basketball player) in a sultry cloud of atmospheric élan.

“First time in Berlin?” I asked her.

“No, I’ve been here before with my boyfriend.”

“Really! And what did you think about it then?”

“We really liked it! That’s why we decided to come back.”

Boyfriend — so much for that conversation.

Finishing my suddenly bitter martini, I worked my way across the dance floor. Partygoers swayed to-and-fro with a giddy verve. My spirits quickly lifted as I gamboled with them. Like before, it struck me what the vampire community is really about: a celebration of life. Or at least the fine art of not accidentally stepping on someone’s toes — a feat that’s all the harder when one has feet as large as mine.

Sweating buckets and losing track of time, eventually I ran into the man of the hour. “Father Sebastiaan,” as Van Houten is known, immediately stood out due to his western-style hat that wouldn’t have stood out at all back in Oregon.

“What do you think?” he asked, his tone of voice a microcosm of the evening.

I thought about it for a moment.

“It’s amazing.”

It was the understatement of the year.

______

The next Endless Night Vampire Ball will take place Sunday, February 17 at Element in New York City. The next European event is Saturday, April 13 at Cabaret Sauvage in Paris. For more information, readers are encouraged to visit http://endlessnightvampireball.eventbrite.com/.

Cincopa WordPress plugin