Shy

The boom-box is destroying my ears. I'm wearing my best jeans, battered sneakers and a plain T-shirt. I knew none of the writhing teenagers would care about how I looked. I'm in Hessen Germany, partying with underage locals.
I always do the same thing at parties. I find someone who looks as shy as me and I try to strike up a conversation.
I scan the room. Most of the girls are in denim minis and leather boots. They are trying so hard to look older. I remember how we used to cover up our faces with insane amounts of makeup. There's enough mascare here to paint a ceiling.
The guys are drunk. To my ageing eyes, they look like a throw-back to the grunge era, except they don't know it's a throw-back. All plaid shirts and holes. They can't dance and they were born in 1993.
One youth is propping up the impromptu bar. Alone? Check. Shy-looking? Yup. I advance towards him. The DJ is playing some ode to grinding. I pour myself some water and smile way up at him. He's tall. He wears braces. He's eighteen.

This is pretty funny.

As I speak with him in German, he answers timidly at first, but with more aplomb as the conversation advances. A drunk crony of his crashes into me. I force water down him, and let him cry on my shoulder.
When he goes off to lie down, my tall German sits next to me. He's pegged me down as an eccentric, worldly, older French girl. He confesses that he's never kissed a girl and that he can't wait to get his braces off. We drink to their removal. He asks me about France. His hands inch towards me, then retreat.

I'm five years older. I know all the moves, baby.

I dance, lost in the weirdness of the situation. Sweaty Germans merge hazily. The Tall German comes up to me. His hand clumsily clasps my waist, clumsily draws me towards him. His eyes are full of sadness, fear, desire and resolution. And I remember every single one of those emotions. I remember being a teenager.


I stare at him, watching him stare back. I'm surprisingly moved. I want to kiss him because I never got the nerve to kiss all those other boys, when I was sixteen. I want to kiss him because he wants me to. I know I won't.

He watches me leave the improvised disco. As I gather my stuff, I know how he feels, and as I walk into the cool autumn dawn, I see how pretty the mist is. My T-shirt clings to me. As I cross a shop window, a pink face is watching me with haunted smiling eyes, filled with forgotten anguish, and everlasting shyness.

Fire over Dillenburg!

A tale of two cities.





Look who's in Dillenburg, looking refreshed and not at all under the weather? 'Tis I,by Jove.


So I went, I saw and I conquered.
Yeah, my train was late, I was exhausted, but it was still pretty funny. I went back to my workcamp site from this summer to see the musical the town wrote, composed and staged: Feuer über Dillenburg.
Yup, it rocked.

They did an amazing job, working their arsches off for three years and rehearsing into madness; no one was a professional, the orchestra was the regional youth formation, the actors were local talents etc.
I was super proud and moved.
My friend Tosca (who's 14 BTW) was a dancer. I took a picture of her with Armin, who played the French bad guy.
Armin, Tosca und Annie. Is that a Napoleon look-a-like or have I stumbled into a wax museum?
Also Tosca danced as an evil gypsy, while looking like a German milkmaid.

Then I went to the afterparty. Ach du meine Güte. It was wild! So imagine a bunch of drunk German teenagers in a gym gyrating to Britney and David Guetta. Yup.
Here we have the before...Look at those innocent miens, and one of them teenagers is wearing a suit. I mean, really?
That tie would soon end up being used as a harness.
Unfortunately, I was too busy getting deaf next to the boom box to take a pic.
Then it got OUT OF CONTROL.








Look at the debauchery. Dancing and drinking.























One guy pictured here took a mad fancy to me and got some good lines. (He was seventeen).
My favourite: "My braces are being removed next week, let's celebrate by kissing."
How sweet. He did invite me for a slow dance, which was a first. He was much taller than me, and he stroked my hair and told me I was the prettiest girl in the room. Also that it was wonderful to meet a girl who had good conversational skills. Then he gazed at me romantically and asked me if I wanted apple juice or to be kissed. SMOOTH. I chose Apferschorle. Underage men are fun, but juice is wonderful.

After narrowly avoiding being mauled by the jailbait in the room, Tosca and I went to bed at five in the morning. Shocking.
We had coffee next day with Tobias and his girlfriend, both were super friendly and nice. Tobias taught me how to drive this summer.























Tobias, GF and Tosca





Neun und Neunzig Luftballoons of WIN. Bikers!

Then I went home. Oh Dillenburg, you are endlessly surreal.