We have developed a rather solid group of friends. If we have a free weekend, we typically know we can call any of these folks and have a pleasant time preparing a meal or sharing a drink. There are three pairs of partners. It is the first time either of us have primarily had couple friends.
Silvester presented another initiation: the first occasion where we awkwardly crafted social plans here in Germany. One couple initially planned to have a party, then canceled. Another couple invited us to their friend’s party about an hour away, but they could not invite everyone else too. At the same time they asked me, V. proposed hosting an event. Since we were already planning a different party for later in the week, I suggested holding off and taking up our out-of-town invitation. We worried about what to do and who and how to tell, not wanting to alienate any members of our new gang. It all turned out okay.
Really, I bring all of this up because it points to some level of integration. The intricate, delicate patterns between groups only really matter when one actually cares about the particular friends. I think this is a good sign.
This was not a regular party, but instead themed. Our friends described it as “Russians on the way to a discotheque. You know? They are always sort of over the top.” We didn’t really know, but I figured they meant what we affectionately call Eurotrash in the U.S. or a European club version of Jersey Shore. V., his hair geled into a lite faux hawk, donned white pants, a belt with splatters of neon paint, a black button down, my tight purple V-Neck, a few chain necklaces, and sunglasses. My hair pulled tight and high in a sleek ponytail and eyes made up even darker than typical, I wore a gunmetal, shimmery A-symmetrical shirt, a ridiculously short skirt, lots of sparkly bracelets, and knee high boots. I was excited to go all out; costuming was certainly overdue since we didn’t celebrate Halloween this year.
At six o’clock, T. rang our doorbell. We opened it, showed off the outfits we crafted, and received laughter approval of our theme interpretation. I jumped into the backseat with T’s wife and their friend from out of town. We drank beers (legally!) as we made the hour-long ride to Biberach. When we arrived, we realized our hosts lived in the center of the Marktplatz, a place similar in style to Aalen, but more open. We made our way excitedly up the stairs and greeted our enthusiastic, entertaingly-dressed hosts. Soon, we were lost in conversation. The footholds of this gathering were a group of women who were friends from college and their boyfriends. It was great to be with a pack of girls, laughing as they shared their stories and photo albums with me, but it made me miss my own tribe for sure.
I have written it before, but it bears repeating: the Germans can eat. Fuck. People always say Americans are fat because we eat so much, but the Germans eat more than most people I know at home. The party table overflowed with various small plates: walnut dip, roasted potatoes, grilled vegetables, bread, and even caviar and schnitzel. Various cocktails were offered – vodka punch, mojitos, gin and tonics — and we sipped them up between dance songs and a viewing of Dinner For One.
At 11:50 pm, the fifteen or so party attendees began their migration to the city streets. It seemed that every gathering on the block did the same thing, and people spilled out from every door. In Germany, fireworks are only available for common purchase during the week between Christmas and Silvester. It is only legal to detonate the fireworks on New Year’s Eve. As one might imagine, this creates a moment of collective insanity. As soon as we were on the sidewalk, tiny rockets were whizzing by our feet. People from our group were placing lit sparklers into my hands and throwing whirling neon firecrackers into the road. When I looked up in the sky, trails of ascending light came from all directions, exploding in every size and color. I pressed record on my camera and panned across the scene (click here to check it out). It was fun an exciting, but even the presence of the police did not ease my fears; it did feel a bit like a warzone.
At midnight, V. kissed me hard. We had mentioned this tradition to our friends earlier, but they don’t seem to follow it in Germany (at least not en masse). V.’s taller than me and as I looked up at him, I could see the smoky air and bright bursts of light in the night sky behind him. He made a promise about the New Year. It was really lovely and made me full of so much appreciation for him and our past year together. I’m truly excited for the future.
When the fireworks began to die down about a quarter past twelve, we stormed across the street to another apartment. Our new friend’s knew the people who resided there and had been waving to them from their own windows earlier in the evening. The living room transformed into full-on dance party of around twenty-five people, the two parties mixing and the enthusiasm overflowing.
After an hour or two (who knows), all of us stumbled back across the street.
The next morning was so lazy and glorious. All of that leftover food (plus a frittata) made its way out to a group of us parked on the big living room couches. The group spoke in German and I was amazed at how much I really do know. I don’t realize it sometimes because I do not have the opportunity to be around native speakers often for long periods of time (and when I am, they usually excitedly use their English). V. goes to work everyday and can practice, but I am typically practicing with fellow student who are at or below my level.
At home, V. and I parked on the couch for the afternoon and evening. At around 6 pm, I got a Skype call. When I clicked to answer, I was greeted by nearly all of my girlfriends, together in Montauk, just having their own lazy brunch meal after a New Year’s Eve of drinking and dancing. I love those women.