Ode to Club Bed

                     Likely the only non-incriminating photo of Club Bed in existence

For lack of a better phrase, Club Bed Rotterdam is everything your mother warned you about. When you crowd obscene numbers of 18-25 year old international university students – most of whom are already intoxicated – into a venue that sells cheap alcohol and plays ratchet music in a sultry, dimly-lit dungeon of a dance hall, odds are, shit's going to hit the fan on a weekly basis.

In fact, the metaphorical effluence will typically stream forth like some hormonal Niagara Falls, inundating the aforementioned fan in a veritable river of debauchery and loose morals.

That's precisely why we love it.

I think I speak for everyone when I say that every Tuesday, after an arduous day of class, drinking Irish Coffee, and watching documentaries, Club Bed provides a much-needed break from taking a break. It's quite literally, the weekly shitshow that drags you down from your cloister atop the Ivory Tower into a world of grit, grime, and self-imposed alcohol intoxication.

I know what you're saying: why not just study instead, right? This sounds crazy, but it's hard to study when everyone you know is out on the town, drink and drug-induced dopamine pouring into their bloodstreams, dancing on table tops, and bonding over conversations that can only occur when any semblance of sobriety is torn asunder.

The magic of Club Bed lies in its ability to make you aware of the fact that, instead of studying, you're chain-smoking cigarettes and dancing awkwardly in front of complete strangers, some of whom look like they might be human traffickers. Put another way, Club Bed is pretty much an opportunity to blackmail yourself into actually being productive for the remainder of the week.

Seriously. You wake up in the morning, perhaps with no recollection of the previous night's events. You're then forced to confront the reality that you've had your fun for the week, and therefore, must atone for your sins by putting in hours at the library. I think we can all agree, for the most part, that school isn't fun. Thus, one must take solace in an evening of merrymaking, however grossly disproportionate, if one hopes to avoid burning out on school/losing their soul entirely.

Surely, there are healthier ways to have fun. You could do yoga, go for a walk, draw, or play guitar, but all of these require effort. It's simply much easier, as a 21 year-old student studying abroad, to cut corners and let the five euro convenience store wine accomplish the task for you.

Moreover, if there's any further redeeming quality to Club Bed, it's this: I never once imagined that I would be drunkenly biking around a city like Rotterdam at 4:00a.m., narrowly avoiding errant car mirrors, and fleeing angry crack junkies, all with a person who was a complete stranger only weeks prior intermittently vomiting and losing consciousness while holding on for dear life on the back of the bike.

Going through such an experience with someone forms an inexplicable bond that persists, even into sobriety. It also makes for a great story that can be whipped out at any time in the future for some good old-fashioned nostalgia and laughter.

I feel like Club Bed brings everyone back down to Earth and there will always be a spot in my heart (and likely, my liver) for the place not because it enables the consummation of carnal vices, but because it helps you develop a wholesome discipline with yourself; an ability to self-deprecate and avoid the insidiousness of Holier-Than-Thou hubris which all too often, negatively affects relationships.

You can have ten degrees on the wall, drive a Beamer, and wear Cartier watches, but at Bed, you're just another person out to have a good time like anyone else in the world.

Until next Tuesday, thanks for reading ya'll.

-Drew