"I arrived at 6:45 pm that Monday evening at a nondescript office block in Dalston, a recently gentrified area of East London. I was greeted at the door by the event host, who was wearing a T-shirt that read, "The Offline Club." I handed them my phone, which they stowed in a specially built cabinet-a sort of shrunken-down capsule hotel. The entryway opened into a narrow room with high concrete walls painted white, with space enough for about 40 people to sit."
"The attendees began to filter in, leaving their phones at the door. They ranged in age from roughly 25 to 40, fairly evenly split between the genders. The collective wardrobe bore the hallmarks of British winter-knitted woolens, corduroys, Chelsea boots, and so on-but with a modish flair typical of this part of town: a tattoo here, a turtleneck there. Many people had come alone and fell easily into conversation; I met a video producer, an insurance claim adjustor and, ironically, a software engineer."
An event called the Offline Club convenes people to surrender phones and spend an evening offline. Attendees hand over devices to a specially built cabinet and occupy a narrow, plant-lined room with a central wooden table, mezzanines, kitchenette, and soft lighting. Individuals engage in quiet, analog activities—coloring, reading, puzzles—and converse with neighbors. Guests range from mid-20s to 40s, evenly split by gender, showing a stylish, locally typical wardrobe. The club runs similar phone-free gatherings across Europe and charges an entry fee of about $17, attracting participants seeking a brief, intentional break from digital life.
Read at WIRED
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