It’s just a costume, Jan Schneidewind, the carnival connoisseur, knows that, of course. But he and his bouncer agree: this man standing opposite them in a soldier’s uniform at the entrance may be in a good mood and easily sit down. Only he shouldn’t go to the Lotta Bar in this outfit. Not today. Not on this day when real soldiers are fighting a thousand kilometers to the east in a real war.
Schneidewind, who runs the pub together with 13 friends as a collective, tells of this encounter behind the bar counter, and he looks slightly contrite in his pirate costume. With the mascara under his eyes, he looks almost melancholic. Banning others from partying is somehow not his thing.
But now world events have just crept into the carnival, and with it into the Lotta Bar in the southern part of Cologne. Not at first glance, perhaps, because the Ukraine is geographically far away from Cologne. But the simultaneity in which people put on make-up and dress up this Thursday, on Women’s Carnival Night, and in which the news from Ukraine is pouring in – it just feels strange. And so some people notice a sinking feeling in their stomach hours before the hangover.
Jan Schneidewind empties his Kölsch glass. He doesn’t remember exactly how many. And then he says, which pretty much sums up the situation out there and the situation in here: “It sucks. And it’s nice.”
Jan Schneidewind, who runs the Lotta Bar, is a melancholic pirate.
(Photo: Marcel Laskus)
Long before admission at 11:11 a.m., people were queuing up, dressed up as Spiderman and princess, as mummy and football player, costumes without any political element whatsoever. Will they celebrate with the handbrake on, because of the Ukrainians, but also because of Corona? After all, dancing is officially forbidden and only swaying is allowed. The incidence in Cologne is over 1000. And only 111 instead of 200 people are allowed in the Lotta. “The people who come here have made their decisions,” says Schneidewind. Carnival, inhibited? No, this is probably not a real carnival.
At 11.47 a.m. the first 50 people are finally in, and the first beers are emptied by them with great concentration. There are tulips in glasses on the counter, next to them there are an infinite number of beer coasters. So that the wood doesn’t suffer if the Kölsch falls over. And the Kölsch will tip over, that’s for sure. Every year around 1000 glasses are broken in the bar during carnival.
People still only smell like perfume, the body’s own odors are still held back. Songs by the Cologne band are now booming out of the speakers Bläck Fööss, non-stop. “Because if there’s a drum, then we’re all ready”. Different heads move closer together. “Un mer trek through the city. And everyone would have jesaat. Kölle Alaaf, Alaaf, Kölle Alaaf”. A man with a hardhat on the left part of the counter gets the first clearly identifiable flirting look of the day from a ladybug on the right part of the counter. Spiderman goes to the toilet for the first time. The man disguised as a fattening pig with a sticker on his chest that reads “Attitude Level 3” spills the first beer. And so everyone sets up on this carnival day.
Martin has Long Covid, now his smile gets bigger with every sip of beer
There is the counter manager Jan Schneidewind, who taps and taps, and alternately drinks a glass of beer and a glass of water. “It helped me at my own wedding,” he says. There’s the man who calls himself DJ Pitter, dressed up as a sailor and doing the music. He has 3,000 songs from Cologne on his hard drive, but he already has an inkling of how this could all end: “The whole of Germany is mad at us. How people can celebrate carnival here while there’s a war!” And there’s Martin, who’s dressed up as a dwarf with a red pointed hat and who’s so happy to finally be able to celebrate again today. “I finally wanted to enjoy normality again.”
Martin is 46 years old and he only sips his beer cautiously because he’s not really well yet. At the end of 2020 he had Covid-19. A few weeks later he was fit again and at work, but some time later, after only half an hour at his desk, he realized: You can’t stand it. “Long Covid,” he says. He hasn’t been to work since May, and because he’s actually on sick leave, only his first name should appear here. He used to run ten kilometers a day, and he used to collect empty glasses at the Lotta carnival. It took him an hour to get from one end of the pub to the other because it was so crowded and cramped, a physically demanding job. Unthinkable for him today, even now. But he is doing better, at least gradually, which is one of the reasons why he was looking forward to the carnival. “I thought long and hard about coming,” he says, referring to the war in Ukraine. And now he’s here.
The rate of sing-alongs at the bar is increasing by the minute, while outside the Cologne radio stations are no longer playing carnival songs with a view of the Ukraine. But don’t get me wrong: The Lotta Bar is definitely a political place. Behind the bar there are stickers with leftist aphorisms. “Love Lotta, Hate Racism”. And: “No wine for the fascists”. Year after year, the pub collective discusses which disguises you get in with and which you don’t. Indian? Critical, but it’s okay. Trump? The Trumps had to pay at least ten euros if they ordered a Mexican. Half joking, but also half serious. Today, after joint deliberation, it is the soldiers who do not belong here.
DJ Pitter feels comfortable in his disguise, but also knows: “All of Germany is mad at us.”
(Photo: Marcel Laskus)
DJ Pitter is behind the bar again. He didn’t realize that the Shrove Monday parade had been canceled in the meantime. And if so: “I wouldn’t have gone anyway.” DJ Pitter’s performance will be broadcast live via video on the online platform Twitch. 15 people are watching. One now writes “Celebrate for Peace!” And that’s touching, because there’s no ironic smiley behind it, but an unsarcastic “1000 thanks!”. In the next moment, DJ Pitter plays a song that is particularly important to him. “I klaave am läave” (We are sticking to life), again from Bläck Fööss. “An anti-war song!” he exclaims. And everyone shouts along.
The coasters did what they could, but now the bar is sticky anyway
It’s always complicated when a crisis hits the carnival. In 1991, the first Gulf War had just begun, and the Shrove Monday procession was canceled there too. Despite this cancellation, politics then spilled over into the carnival. And so on Monday there was a parade, a self-organized “ghost procession” with more political messages than usual, the motto: “Camelles instead of bombs”https://www.sueddeutsche.de/panorama/.”After Bataclan were the pubs on the weekend afterwards are more crowded than ever,” says Jan Schneidewind, referring to the attacks by Islamist terrorists on the Bataclan club in Paris and other bars and pubs.
The demonstrative intoxication was also an announcement to terror and its agenda: You won’t take our way of life away from us. Now it might be more complicated. The war will continue, probably far beyond Shrove Monday. “But should we let Putin ban us from this?” says Jan. He empties his glass and wipes his mouth. His answer to this question is clear. For this Monday, the police are expecting tens of thousands of participants in the planned peace demonstration at Cologne Carnival.
Excess is systemically important, it was said again and again during the pandemic, and somehow that always sounded a bit too pathetic. But when you see the beer flowing in the Lotta and the joy of the exuberance of people who were completely strangers to each other a moment before and are now dancing together without any sense of rhythm, then you understand: sometimes excess is needed. Maybe right now.
It’s now afternoon, the beer coasters have done what they could, but now the bar is still sticky. A man without a suit nods away briefly over his half-full beer, but straightens up again immediately. The tulips are no longer on the counter, but are now being distributed by a man in a black suit, who explains when asked that he is disguised as “Bachelor”. And DJ Pitter sounds almost wistful when he says: “The first carnival where it’s not dripping from the ceiling here.” Kölsch glasses are ordered and ordered, but no longer drunk empty because the body can no longer absorb liquid. Compliments are given and kissed cheeks are returned. Circles are formed in which people dance. Six people, eight people, ten people. “We are who we are, we live on the Rinn“. And they all sing along.
Inside, in the Lotta, people no longer go down from the benches
In the early evening Martin has to say goodbye to his friends. Handshakes, hugs. “It was way too short,” he says. He looks exhausted, and quite sober at the same time. Then he hides the red dwarf hat in his backpack so as not to attract attention if colleagues see him, the sick man, on the street.
Inside, in the Lotta, people no longer go down from the benches. Only occasionally does someone dare to look at their smartphone, on which the breaking news from Ukraine occasionally makes it through the thick walls. But as soon as you click on it, the next hand is already on your shoulder and the mobile phone disappears back into your pocket.
DJ Pitter, who is now being replaced by another DJ, puts on his jacket and staggers home. The morning shift says goodbye. At the entrance, the line is now getting longer again because people who had to work during the day are now coming. And the counter, it’s no longer sticky, it’s floating.
Markus and Hanna Beul have the Cologne and Ukraine flags on their cheeks.
(Photo: Marcel Laskus)
Hanna and Markus Beul have now also made it into the Lotta with a clear view. With hats and cloaks, they disguised themselves as wizards and sorceresses, but there is something else that stands out about them. They painted their cheeks yellow and blue, the colors of Ukraine, including the flag of Cologne, red and white.
“We thought about it all day,” says Hanna Beul. Whether it was appropriate to come here or not on a day when war broke out in Europe. They followed the news on the radio. From the early morning breaking news until now. And then they came to the conclusion: they won’t let the carnival get away from them. “Carnival is political,” she says.
And while she’s saying this, sounding quite serious, she doesn’t notice how behind her around 11 p.m. a staggering rabbit and a staggering cat are kissing each other so wildly that a glass shatters on the floor right next to them. For a moment, the hare and cat’s glazed gaze sharpens. The shards, was that us? Then they keep kissing.