There’s the city that never sleeps, the city of angels, and now, with the help of The Dean Berlin, the city that pulses. 

It’s somewhere between midnight and 1AM – the night of The Dean Berlin’s launch night – and I’m stationed by the lift, waiting for it to arrive. In Berlin, nights don’t so much end as loosen their grip, but my body is quietly negotiating otherwise. As the lift doors ding open, a young man, cap backwards with beer in hand, turns the corner and says, unexpectedly yet prompt: “I’d love to talk, but I really don’t have the energy guys.” Room 320’s secret comedian immediately quips: “Okay cool, shut the fuck up.” And I guess, I guess, that’s the charm of Berlin – or at least the magic of The Dean Berlin.

As morning arrives, those stories have multiplied. Over brunch at Benedict’s, Charlottenburg’s beloved breakfast spot, The Dean’s co-founder Keith Evans’ night is retold in fragments – each version louder, embellished with laughter. A fifth-floor afterparty. Champagne bottles, emptied and abandoned. “We had great fun!” he shrugs. 

I stop on the memory of the other co-founder, Kai Tan. He sits humbly, tucked away in the corner of another hotel room, which, for that evening, has doubled as a mini art fair/gallery. He’s magnetic. Visitors flock to him, sitting around him on the floor with an almost-awestruck wonder as he commands the room, simply asking: “What’s your story?” and “Tell me about you.” And what he does in return is listen.

Dancing the night away gets you hungry – and what better city to tend to that stomach rubbing for a kebab? Berlin, of course, demands one at some point between night and morning. Conveniently, Sam’s Gemüse Kebap sits just across the road. We eat perched on the truck’s benches with a man we’d only just met, who, mid-bite, reveals himself to be part of the hotel’s art curation team – and co-founder of Pictr. Even here, the conversation circles back to the work – or fanning over it. And it seems, in Berlin, it always does.

Set in City West, where Wilmersdorf softens into Charlottenburg, The Dean Berlin feels deliberately unpolished in its charm – a kitsch five-floor, 81-room hideaway that leans into its quirks and personality. It’s part residential, part ‘what’s creeping around the corner?’, where all roads lead somewhere. And its award-winning interior designer Rachael Gowdridge adds a favourable contrast, bringing together patterned upholstery against plush primary tones, blush pink offset by burnt orange drapery. In the bathroom, Italy waves its flag, as reds and greens stripe the mirror and black and white tiles stamp the floor – a cold contrast from the plush carpet that otherwise coats the floor. Across the lobby, a hidden nook charmed with literature and photography books offers brief reprieve, while the sweet waft of coffee, pastry and sourdough simmer through the lobby, blurring the line between hotel and neighbourhood fixture. It’s a curated colour-drenched abyss, which, of course, hotels are in the business of doing – but this one does it well. Instagram ready.

Art is woven into the hotel’s rhythm. Curated by Thom Oosterhof under the title Wanderers, the collection reflects Berlin’s ever-changing cultural and artistic pulse. At check-in, walk right into contemporary artist Xia Peng’s technology-inspired paintings, Kanta Kimura and Ricky Lee Gordon’s moving paintings are hung above beds, made especially for The Dean, and you can have an in-room coffee under a Wiebke Maria Wachmann frame. Under your nose, while you’re tucked in, or taking your mirror pics, in your transition to the lift, there’s art all around you. New sights and new stories to feast on, all in the safety of the hotel. 

As you step outside, on its corner read the words, ‘IF I WEREN’T THIS CORNER I’D BE THE HORIZON’, a mirrored installation by the married duo, Fiete (who studied under Karin Sander) and Julia Stolte. Both day and night, it lights up the pavement. Their work, which we learn on an intimate guided tour through their studio, is influenced largely by time – both metaphysical and visual – and has received the Tracey Emin stamp of approval. It makes sense, then, that they would enlist the help of two artists who get, well, time, and therefore, the timelessness of the hotel and the imprint it wishes to have on the city’s culture – and is already set on achieving. 

As they walk us through their studio, adorning their sentences with “I tell you”’s in the way we’d say, “You know what I mean”, we get an intimate snapshot of Berlin’s creative circuit. Despite how casual the tour was, their approach to art is anything but. And this is when the vibe of the city kicks in – they’re in the business of taking things that may not be the most gorgeous, chic or fanciest, and turn into something worth getting your attention. Like Kai said of The Dean Berlin, “It’s not the prettiest building, but it’s the stories behind it.” 

The rest of the trip pans out the same. A slew of people in adjacent fields hearing each other’s stories and unpacking them. And by the end of the trip, friends and fellows amassed, we feast. And naturally, there are very few right ways to honour a great holiday – but one of them is wine, which the city is great for. 

One of its hidden gems, definitely an ‘if you know you know’, and even more so if you’re able to get a recommendation, is Bottega Seppel – a 20-minute walk away from the hotel. As we sit in the dimly candlelit restaurant, where every table is full except for incoming reservations, and a mix of soul and jazz swirls around, time seems to fly as a bread-packed tasting menu unravels before us. A wispy, salt-fused whipped butter is gone before another knife dips into it. The creamiest hummus appears from above my head, floating in an orange-hued olive oil, with thinly-sliced beetroot roses embellishing it on top like a strawberry-sauce glaze on ice cream. A platter of seasoned shrimp goes mostly untouched due to full stomachs, lined already with succulent slabs of steak and chicken. And then, of course, there’s the wine. Through the sommelier’s suggestion, we lisp through glasses of reds, whites, and oranges, sprinkling a champagne in there for a surcharge of extra celebration. Eventually, between plates and spoons of sticky toffee pudding and an olive-oil slathered chocolate mousse, D’Angelo’s “Send It On” simmers in the background, making a fitting send-off for my final hurrah in Berlin. 

So, with one final walk back to the hotel, faces lit by the glow of Prada, Louis Vuitton and Emporio Armani stores along Kurfürstendamm, the streets carry a calm buzz. Car wheels screech in the distance, and lights flash by, in sparse increments. Faint sounds of glasses clinking, people chatting, heels click-clacking, doors shutting.

The night rarely ends in Berlin, but if it does, there’s always The Dean Berlin to return to.

Words – Aswan Magumbe