The week I loved someone

Happy and very special Schlumbl in my hometown. 

Mardi Gras in my town is very special. It started hundreds of years ago, where people in this tiny village in the middle of the woods wanted to dress up, but were too poor to get costumes. Anyways, half of the town had died due to the black pest (only 7 families had survived). Well, they were very poor, then. The only thing they had was ashes from burned wood, old clothes, curtains and fur. To celebrate Mardi Gras a costume is extremely necessary. You should not be easily recognised, so nobody can blame you for things you did. It just wasn’t you!  So people started to paint their faces black using ashes, wrapped themselves in curtains and pieces of fur and went out in the cold to the pubs, to the parades and the masked ball. It has been like that for hundreds of years. 

I had a huge box in my cellar. It was called the sacred box. It still is. Nobody is allowed to touch my box. There, every year, I treasured my clothes for the next year. People wrote on my clothes and from year to year a new piece completed my collection of Mardi Gras outfits, each one reminding me of a moment with my friends. 

It was Mardi Gras and I was recently been kicked by my longterm boyfriend, whom I loved desperately. At least I thought I did. I found myself being single during the greatest week of the year. We call it the fifth season  and my friends and I carried baby bottles, filled with Wodka and orange juice, painted our faces and met everyday to walk around town like zombies. Celebrating the liberty of doing whatever we felt like, because on these days the German conscience was too drunk to judge. Your enemies share a drink with you, the bitchy neighbour becomes your best friend and you cross boundries. You kiss girls and smoke weed in public. You walk home and you know: It doesn’t matter. It’s Mardi Grass!

So, single and drunk I found myself with my charming friend Nawina going after some weed.  I felt powerful. I felt pretty, with my black face, my new skirt made of colourful socks, and my awesome fur coat. I had a crown and my two baby bottles full of Wodka. The first masked ball (on a day called dirty Thursday) was coming to the end and we finally found two guys from the neighbouring town. They had something we wanted.  And it felt like we had something they wanted. We sat on the lawn, talked and shared the weed. After a while we decided to go to a pub to continue the party. 

He was so handsome. His black hat and his huge fur coat were amazing. He had a chin like Bob, Barbie’s boyfriend. His name was Neven. I’ll never forget Neven. Neven Millavic, from Croatia. He had the bluest eyes I have ever seen. We went to the pub, drank some more Whisky and sat on the floor. Like every year, the owner of the pub had put all furniture away and substituted by matresses, which would burn soon (but that`s another story). We sat there and chatted and it felt so comforting. The smoke burned in my eyes, I was thirsty from drinking and sad from hoping. Hoping to get a kiss. When you’re single, a kiss matters a lot. And a drunk, hot, exciting kiss matters even more. We sat, cuddling on the wall, mumbling and we knew we were together in a surreal reality, feeling excited and numb at the same time, listening to music from the 70ies, when the world was full of hope and people dreamed of a better future. I’m not sure if people still dream of a better future nowadays. 


The thing is, on Mardi Gras, there is no future. Only the present counts. There is no yesterday and no tomorrow. You’re stuck in the present, there is no way out. And this, makes it so special. No plans, no regrets. Just like that. Easy, hm? He looked at me, put his strong hand on my neck and pulled me, close. Closer, until our lips met and the delicious, drunk, Croatian kiss made my head spin. I got dizzy, it felt like a never ending twirl was pushing me somewhere. Bottles, kisses, smoke, blue eyes, lights, darkness, spinning, weed, a black hat...delicious . 

He waited for me everyday for seven days on the same corner. We talked for hours. We walked for hours. We smoked for hours. We didn’t talk about the day before and we never mentioned the future. It was an unsaid agreement. From masked balls, to pubs, to the streets: we were the happiest couple on Mardi Grass. His hug felt like home and his kiss tasted better than anything I had ever tried. 

On the seventh day we knew we would go to the funeral. The whole town went to the funeral every year. Hundreds of people, black faces, fur coats, curtains, bottles, hats and trumpets. The sad sound of trumpets singing the funeral march. In the middle of the lawn, under trees and silence, a huge bonfire. Lying together on the frozen lawn, hugging, watching the fire reflecting in each others eyes we were still. I had never seen his real face. I knew nothing about him. There was nothing to say. The fire went off. Luigi, our funny Italian restaurant owner was dancing around it, melancholically singing. (Luigi would die soon, but that’s another story.) 

The fire turned to ashes and people with their heads hanging, headed home. Holding hands, hoping for a last kiss we walked down the street we had walked together for seven days. In front of my house, the last house before the forest he would have to cross to get home, I looked up to him and said: I loved our week. Thank you. He smiled with his perfect chin, the bluest eyes and kissed me into a neverending twirl.