I Bartered My Way Through a Night Out

This article originally appeared on VICE Germany.

Bartering is an age-old way of doing business without having to hassle with money—ten sheep for a cow, a carrot cake for some help in the garden, sex for WiFi. We live in a world where you can pay with invisible money by holding your phone close to a beeping thing, so money has become somewhat of an abstract concept. Bartering, on the other hand, is very real. And it's perfectly legal—as long as you pay tax over the value of the bartered product.

So why do we hardly ever barter in our daily lives? A waste of a perfectly decent tradition, if you ask me. I've decided to barter my way through one of my favorite activities—drinking. Do I expect I'll get really drunk from trading stuff for drinks? No. Do I expect people to think I'm an idiot? Absolutely. But it'll be interesting to see how people respond to a form of payment other than cash or card. Also, I'll possibly have a cheap night out and can finally rid myself of some junk I have lying around.

I'm going to one of Germany's liveliest party streets—the Weserstraße in Berlin's Neukölln—and I'm bringing the following: A glass figurine of a hippopotamus with two big blue crystals for eyes, a salami, 2 grams of weed, a yet-to-be-assembled bedside lamp from Thailand (it's the thing that looks like a frame), How to Start a Revolution by Pussy Riot founder Nadya Tolokonnikova, a lottery ticket, a beach ball, and the New Testament in magazine form.

The first person I meet is a bodega owner known as Wiesel. He is interested in my hippo. I want cigarettes in return.

"I can't trade tobacco with you," Wiesel says. He's 52 and wears a hat and a crooked smile. "Why not?" I ask. "Because it's poison," he says. "I can't trade poison for something harmless." I ask if he's willing to trade for three beers instead—one for me, one for a thirsty friend who tagged along, and one for the photographer. "I'll give you one," he replies. "One bottle of stout and some gum," I say, and I add, "How long have you owned this store?" to show him I'm not a terrible person. "Eleven years—no gum, just the stout." Wiesel drives a hard bargain.

After the beer, I still need a cigarette. I have a bit of tobacco, but I don't have any rolling papers. The man at the next bodega isn't interested in anything I have to offer, so I try one of his customers instead. She wants to buy me some rolling paper and puts a euro on the counter.

"No, that's not how this works," I tell her. "We have to trade. I'm not a beggar." She shrugs. "But I don't need a bedside lamp from Thailand," she says. I suggest I tell her a joke, and if she laughs, she can buy me the rolling papers. We shake on it.

"Why does a golfer always wear two pairs of underpants?" I ask. She asks me why. "In case he gets a hole in one," I say. She doesn't laugh.

I soon realize that I am not the only hustler on the Weserstraße. Two women sitting on the windowsill of their ground floor apartment have turned their living room into a cocktail stand. They have set up a few tables on their stoop, hung up a sign, and are blasting music to attract customers.

I suggest to the two tattooed ladies in black that they could give me three shots of vodka in exchange for the weed. They think it over for a second. "No, thanks. It would have been a different story if you were offering coke or speed," they say. "That's out of my league, sorry. What do you guys do, when you're not selling alcohol illegally?" I ask. "We work with children," one of them tells me. "And adolescents."

A little farther down the street, three guys are sitting outside another bodega playing dice. If you join them and roll a six, you win a shot of bloody mary. Anything under six is up for negotiation. I roll a one, a three, and a five. We agree on three shots for an air-dried salami.

Mehmet, the owner of another bodega, gives me rolling papers and beers in exchange for the Thai lamp. Back on the street, we trade the beachball and about 0.4 grams of weed for a pack of rolling tobacco with someone. Not for fun, but rather to diversify our business model. Instead of intentionally losing our whole bag of weed to someone, we're now offering individual, pre-rolled joints. Who says that the black market can't include customer service?

It's possible that my next trade is the biggest mistake of my life—the odds are 1:140 million: I give Bernd, the owner of a bar called Herz, my lottery ticket in exchange for a whiskey sour. If he wins, he'll use it for a trip around the world, he says. Before he opened the bar, he sold designer clothing, and he could use a few million to relax after years of being self-employed. It will be a tough pill to swallow if he does win, but I would call to congratulate him after they've drawn the lottery numbers. His whiskey sour was really good.

We saved our best stuff for Vater Bar, where we exchange How to Start a Revolution, the New Testament in magazine form, and a proper user-friendly joint for three melon-vodka-mint cocktails—plus a shot for each of us. That's objectively an amazing deal. My backpack is almost empty, and my heart is filled with pride. By bartering, I've provided for my friend and my photographer, who are properly drunk. I've proven that you can have a great time if you have no money, but do have an air-dried salami to spare.