November

If there’s a month that makes most people pull their coat collars so high you’d think they never wanted to take them off again, it’s November. It’s that dark, gloomy, “please just leave me alone” kind of time, when it’s pitch black in the morning, pitch black in the evening, and at noon you’re still blinking around in a dim half-light as if someone simply forgot to turn up the sky’s brightness. Weeks pass without a single ray of sunshine, and people become more and more spiritless.

For me, November has always been a sort of grown-up Advent, except instead of opening little chocolate windows, I’m pushing open the entrance door of Marilyn Night Club. Because really, what else is there to do? Outside, the fog settles over the city like an enormous, sedated cat, but inside… well, inside, it’s a different world. Especially at Marilyn.

Marilyn is not exactly a club, nor a bar… it’s more like a warming hut for the soul. You know, one of those places where the moment you step in, the scent alone makes you feel like you’ve come home after a long, exhausting day. Except here no one asks you for anything, you have no more tasks, your only job is to enjoy yourself. And once you become a regular, you know exactly which stair creaks, which bartender girl you’ll end up chatting with, and what kind of music brings each dancer into her real flow.

And in November, all of this becomes even more pronounced. Because during this month the darkness isn’t just outside: it settles into people’s minds too. The year-end rush at work, the cold, the misty drizzle, the icy wind… everyone becomes a little sourer, a little quieter, and a little more inward-turned. Meanwhile, Marilyn feels like the city’s personal light therapy. The warm, golden lamps aren’t harsh or flashy; they’re exactly the kind of glow you feel you needed right then and there. Warm, soft, and comforting.

And you know what’s the most beautiful? That in November, everyone inside becomes more honest. I don’t know why. Maybe because of the darkness, maybe from all the tension piling up under too many layers of clothing, or maybe it’s the half-light, but people let themselves go so much more easily. No need for summer loudness, no need for spring romance, no need for the obligatory winter holiday smile.

In November, you just exist as you are: tired, quiet, a bit withdrawn, but somehow more genuine.

As soon as you sit at the bar, the bartender girl slides your “usual” in front of you without asking. She knows perfectly well that in November you order your drink a little stronger than usual. The lights play softly on the side of your glass, and the music floats somewhere between slow lounge and old-school funk. Not too loud, but just present enough to sweep your thoughts into the room’s own climate.

And when you look up, you see which girl steps onto the stage next. The November lights catch each of them differently. On the red-haired girl, it looks as if a fireplace is blazing behind her. On the tall, long-legged brunette, every curve of her body seems to emerge from the dark itself. In November they also move slower, more deliberately. No rushing, no exaggeration. Just movement, light, and rhythm. Like a slow-motion scene from a film you want to watch over and over again.

In November, the Marilyn feels like the city’s secret warm heart. Night after night the light dies outside, and somewhere inside, another one turns on. And whoever steps in forgets for a moment that the streets are soaked, that the cold has bitten their ears, and that the sun retired at four in the afternoon.

That’s why I love November. That’s why I love Marilyn. Because when the city looks its ugliest, grayest, and most miserable, this club still glows just as brightly as always, maybe even more. And when the door closes behind you, the darkness outside suddenly doesn’t bother you anymore. Because you know that inside the light, the atmosphere, the women’s laughter, the clinking glasses, and that special kind of warmth – not from a heater, but from somewhere much deeper – are waiting for you.

November may be the darkest month of the year, but somehow at the Marilyn it never is. There’s always a little light, a little story, a little movement, a little life. And sometimes that’s more than enough to get you through the cold.