A short story about partying a bit too much and trying to be a responsible adult at the same time.

“What time is it?”, “Five thirty”. I jump up from the couch and grab my head. “Oh man, I have to get up at eight!” The others just laugh. It’s just the four of us now, most of the people long left the party. We’re sitting on the couch talking and at this point mainly drinking tab water. The room smells of smoke. On the table are a bunch of half empty bottles and glasses.

I didn’t actually want to go to this party. The morning I was meeting my parents at the central station to take a train together, visiting family as well as my grandmothers grave. She had just passed a few years ago and we promised ourselves we would visit every year for her birthday. On top of that I was out all day walking around and had only just eaten when my phone rang, “When are you coming?” my best friend asked, “I don’t know”, “Can you bring some frozen chips and some hard liquor?”, “All right, I’ll be on my way in a minute”. As always, she had come up with an unusual motto, this time it was “Fashionably derailed”. Mix two outfits that don’t fit together. I was flipping through the stuff in my wardrobe looking for inspiration. In the end I put on a cropped black suit and a red dress over it, kind of a masc/fem mix of evening attire and set off with the sound of Reggaetón in my ears as loud as I could. Dancing and hyping myself up in the metro.

I don’t remember much about the party itself. When I arrived, there were only four of us, chatting on the balcony. I was making myself a drink when finally someone new arrived. Don’t get me wrong I love catching up with friends, but that’s not why I go to a party. It’s the exciting possibility of meeting someone new exploring who they are and learning about new ways to enjoy life, that’s what fuels me to go out again and again.

And exciting she was, we quickly discovered our shared love for traveling and the Latin rhythm, and I was painfully reminded of all the Spanish lessons I had skipped when she nonchalantly switch to fluent Spanish after I dropped an “Increíble!” or ” Sí!” here and there. “Ahh, ¿hablo español?”, “¡Sí, hablo un poco de español!” I gesture half a centimeter between by index and thumb. “¿Cómo te llamas?”, “Simón, ¿y el tuyo?”, “Emília”, “Encantado”. She launched into some story and I was completely lost. Giving up on understanding anything I just admired the sounds. To save myself I just say “¿Bailando?” and point in direction of the dance floor.

She was one of the few that danced with me that night. In a small room we created a makeshift dance floor with a portable speaker and a few lights. With our sunglasses on and our eyes closed, we let totally loose to mostly Reggaetón, as well as some techno and house. It was beautiful, we moved completely removed from any self-conscious just for our selves not to impress anybody.

During a break in the kitchen, we drank tequila shots together. From then on, everything got a bit fuzzy. Once I turned too quickly while dancing and must have fallen onto the bed, because she had to help me get back up.

Probably after that I sat down on the couch, because in the next memory I’m knee-deep in a philosophical discussion with Theo, as happens every time we meet at parties. He is a friend of a friend who is not afraid to get to the bottom of questions and who has no problem with conflict. The kind of person with whom you make new discoveries in a frenzy that are forgotten by the morning. Eyes blood red from just the right mix of tequila, weed, club mate and sleep deprivation, us two hotheads threw arguments at each other and build logic chains. Without me realizing it time flew by and the party was empty again. Emília had already left and I was hit by the realization of a missed opportunity to stay in touch.

Theo and I started to plan our journey home, I thought out loud “If I went home now, I wouldn’t be there until six thirty, which would give me ninety minutes of sleep.” Even though I very much doubted whether I would fall asleep at all with the cocktail of fun still sloshing around in my stomach. Theo said, “Well, now we can have that coffee you promised me!” We had to laugh, “Yeah man, might just pull an all-nighter at this point. Why not?”

We all took another shot and sat down on the balcony to smoke. The sun would be up soon, the sky was already turning light gray. I set myself four alarms, each one hour apart. I had to make my way home at seven, arrive at eight then shower and pack my backpack to catch the train to the main station at nine and meet my parents there at ten to catch the 10:06 train heading to Amsterdam Centraal.

So we still had plenty of time to kill. Theo and I set off on the hunt for coffee and something to fill our stomachs. The Dönershops were all closed, but we found a breakfast cafe for early shifters and first responders.

The caffeine fueled our discussion until to new heights, and I remember us having several breakthroughs but unfortunately not what they were about.

We were rudely interrupted by the first alarm clock. It was now seven in the morning, at this point I was awake for twenty-four hours.

The sun had already risen and the birds were singing their beautiful melodies, the leaves in the treetops were lit up in gold. Having sat down in the S-Bahn I tried to keep myself awake with loud techno, but the exhaustion was overwhelming and I slipped into a restless half-sleep that mixed scenes from the party, the last few days and surrealism tasks in a caffeine hectic loop.

I was startled awake by a loud scream right next to me. Some crazy person or drug addict must have collided with an airport worker. In his pre-work morning mood he had pushed the crazy one into the seat behind me. My heart was pumping wildly with blood and the rush of adrenaline woke me up immediately. I kept an eye on the situation without trying not to get caught in the action myself by making fleeting eye contact. They were still growling at each other, but it seemed like the worst was already over. My station was announced and I staggered to the door. Normally I stay seated until the last second when I see the platform, but when you’re tired it’s always better to get up early before you lose yourself in thought and miss the exit.

It was far too bright outside and the sun was stinging my eyes. People in work clothes and coffee cups in their hands pushed past me. An unpleasant feeling spread through my stomach, there was no way to hide the fact that I had just come from a party and everyone was looking straight through me at my soul. Maybe they thought I had done something wrong in life, met the wrong people somewhere and didn’t say no a few times. I saw a drowsy pity in their eyes, but I knew in reality quite the opposite was true. I was exactly where I wanted to be and actually felt sorry for the people around me. Having to get up so early and work, you know, being responsible adults and such.

Finally I turned into my street, up the stairs and I was home. As soon as I enter I hear a loud beeping from the apartment. I sprint into the kitchen expecting a blazing fire, but there is no smoke and the gas stove is switched off. I realize that it’s the alarm clock in my bed ringing. I turned it off without leaning in too much, afraid the bed was too comfortable and I would fall asleep right then and there.

I looked around the room and was shocked at the state of it. There were clothes on every surface, one half of the bed was full of books and scribbled notes, and there were piles of unopened letters on the desk, crowned by an empty packet of ice cream. When traveling it’s always a good idea to clean before you leave. Not only does it prevent things from getting moldy, you also don’t have the energy to clean arrive back home and just want to feel comfortable. But time was limited and I had more pressing matters to deal with. I couldn’t meet my parents in the state I was, hair all greasy smelling of sweat and smoke. I jumped into the shower. The water was pleasantly warm, it helped to shake off the intoxication and tiredness a little.

My backpack was still half packed from my trip to Warsaw a few weeks ago. I have most of the things you need on the road twice, like toothbrushes and such. It makes things a lot easier, because I can just leave them in my backpack. And anyway, after a year of living in hostels, I’m a quick packer. Everything already has it’s place. I tick “pack backpack” off my mental to-do list.

I’m not hungry, but I know I should eat something and make myself a small bowl of müssli. The alcohol is still heavy in my stomach. The kitchen smells of rotting trash. In front of my two overflowing bins is another completely full garbage bag. I know for sure that it will only be worse when I come back in a few days. I take the garbage bag and put it in the fridge so that at least I won’t get a fruit fly problem.

I still have a bottle of white wine in the fridge that I used for cooking, I think it was risotto. I feel like drinking a few sips of it now. It would motivate me a bit. And keeping the level up has proven to be very useful in stressful situations. But the thought of meeting my parents tipsy or even drunk and with boozy breath in the morning changed my mind again.

Although, I could also just cancel. Go to bed with a cool bottle of wine. Sleep in properly and then go to the Turkish bakery for breakfast. The Istanbul menu, Sucuk with scrambled egg, a small salad, two freshly baked buns and fruit. A strong coffee with it. Read something or just listen to the conversations.

But no, I already got the train tickets, the accommodation is payed for, and it’s important to my parents that I come along. I also wasn’t there last year.

I generally have a low opinion of people who canceled because they partied too hard. I was aware that this trip was coming up today, so I could have just gone home earlier. You can’t expect excess without consequence.

The alarm clock rings once more, it’s now nine o’clock in the morning. I put on my shoes, put on my backpack and make my way to the metro. On the sidewalk, I’m overrun by cheerful joggers. I walk the whole distance on autopilot. All my thoughts are now just short snippets, not even subject, predicate, object. “Left here”, “Watch out for the car”, “I’m tired”.

I stop at the Späti on the corner. Another Club-Mate would definitely perk me up a bit. But I think pretty soon I’d just be as tired but wouldn’t be able to sleep. At some point, even caffeine won’t help any more. Doesn’t give me more energy but just prevents falling asleep. Besides, I already had the coffee earlier. If I want to sleep on the train, Club-Mate is not a good idea. But it would slide down my throat so cold and refreshing.

I move on without the Mate, thinking I’ll soon be on the subway where I can sit down again. But in the train children are sitting on the bench on their way to some weekend outing, maybe the zoo. And I have to stand holding onto the walls as not to fall over. I make eye contact with a child and imagine what she might see. It’s unpleasant to imagine how exhausted I look and I put on my sunglasses, stare at the ground and hold on to the pole above me.

When I arrive at the main station, I move through the tunnels passing by people with suitcases turning in circles looking for their platform. I’ve walked these paths many times before and squeeze past the disoriented tourists. There are police in full riot gear everywhere and I’m unsure if I’m in trouble.

There are people blocking my way on the escalator, but I’m too tired to take the stairs. When I arrive on the platform, a group of Dutch high-schoolers are standing right at the escalator exit, blocking the way. I give them a nasty hiss and push past them.

They shy away and I feel a bit guilty. My hiss is probably the last thing that happened to them before they left Berlin. A man dressed all in black, wearing sunglasses inside, hisses loudly and almost pushes them onto the platform. My head heats up at the thought.

Finally I’m on platform 11, marker C. I sit down on the floor and lean against an advertising board, which vibrates and rattles every time the poster changes.

I watch the people walking past me, every now and then someone runs with a panic-stricken face. I see my parents. They don’t even recognize me sitting there in my corner. I stand up wave them over and we hug.

It’s ten a clock and I’m finally on the train, but I can’t fall asleep, I missed the window of opportunity. I put my head on the table in front of me, moving around in my seat trying to find a somewhat comfortable position.

“Do you want me to roll you one too?”

“No, I don’t smoke.”

“No cinnamon either?”

“Hmm, cinnamon? All right.”

He takes a branch of large cinnamon bark from the fridge and saws off a strip, rolls it into something that looks like a cigar. He hands me the cinnamon stick and a lighter. I light it and the smoke smells like chewing-gum.

11th of May 2025, on the train somewhere outside Berlin