2023-08-03 18:18:02
Unfortunately, the darkest moment of my otherwise light childhood holidays came back every year: saying goodbye to the holiday camp. One session lasted three weeks, we were 40 children between the ages of eight and 13, boys and girls, we slept in two larger rooms in a farmhouse, ate together, hiked against our will, preferred to bathe, listened to what the forester and the fairytale aunt were saying , which we visited every year, celebrated costume and Neptune festivals, sat around the campfire, played table tennis tournaments, and danced at the disco. So much for the official highlights, now for the secret protocol.
At night we stayed up as long as possible, longer than the adults traveling with us, then crept through the house, which strangely doubled in size in the dark and smelled different. The goal was the girls’ room, where everyone wanted to visit the love of their life or this summer, maybe lie in bed with her to exchange a few kisses and see what they dared to do. Cold feet, hot hearts. Sweetness on the lips, acidity in the stomach.
The giggles became quieter and quieter, the endorphins fought with the need for sleep. Before the latter asserted itself, we made our way back, traditionally through the windows, along the quiet cobblestone street, once around the house and in the yard back into the boys’ room. We would catch up on sleep the next night if the girls weren’t knocking on the window.
And then last night was over. Pack your bag, sweep the room, wait on the curb for the bus, in pairs. Tears. Oh, Mandy, Cindy, Swantje, Silke, Gabi, Sonja. We still had the bus ride, we gave each other the last kiss in Mecklenburg. We exchanged addresses pro forma, hugged each other, looked at the fields, then at the city, then at the waving parents, separated and went our separate ways. And with a soft crackle, the heart ripped open again next to last year’s scar.
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