You Can Have Alone Time When You’re Dead
My biggest concern when I started college wasn’t about the courses, the professors, or future fears about what I would do with the degree, but how the other students would react to my age. While the president of the university gave a speech on the first day, the campus was packed with young people scurrying back and forth, equally confused and full of nervousness. In between the guided tours, through the buildings, the city, and the room where the beer fridge throned, I got into conversation with my fellow students. Gradually, the more or less fashionably dressed puppets turned into interesting characters with names, pasts, and humor.
When I entered the cafeteria the following Monday, the first familiar heads were already smiling at me. Hey, Marcel!
I heard from one of the tables cheerfully call over. Of course, I’m still the old fart. Just like Kerstin is the stoner, Jonas is the farter, and Dana is the one who got mounted in a fire truck. I’m not the only one who gets stupid looks from other students I don’t know yet, no, everyone has to carry their baggage in whatever way. Since that fateful first week, various friendships have emerged from the hundreds of encounters that have taken me all over the city, to buoyant apartments, clubs, and bars.
No matter where I go, I see familiar faces everywhere. Not only from university, but also from friends, roommates, and relationships of those who didn’t avoid me because of my difference, but, on the contrary, invited me into their lives with open arms. As we stumble out of Iveta’s apartment, hooting loudly, and smelling of tequila, wine, and popcorn schnapps, into the nearest convenience store to buy a few more road beers, I glance down the brightly lit street. I am now part of this scenery. Because I have dared to do something and have not closed myself off from the unknown. Since one truth is certain: You can have alone time when you’re dead.