mp-trois

Without a reason, without a warning, all the girls have to pack their stuff and move to another dormitory. We moan and grumble, but we all know: it's Turkey, and there are no reasons, no warnings, you just get your orders and you have to obey them. Especially if you're a girl. If you're a girl, there's just no chance of getting out of the campus after ten. Luckily Gefion has discovered 'the secret entry': a small road across a steep hill. Not the best way to get in when you've been drinking though, and that's the main reason we get out of the campus anyway. We make up for our beers by playing football and volleyball. Tonight we want to try the volleyball court Magali found in the close by forest. But time passes as Gefion tries to dig up her sport clothes from the bottom of her thirty-kilo suitcase, and when we finally arrive the sun's already setting. After twenty minutes, Steffen's laptop remains our only source of light. To the creaking sound of the speakers and in the spotlight of the screen we perform one song after another. Magali sings with Serge Gainsbourgh to 'Les feuille des mortes', playing a bottle of water like a guitar; Steffen tries his best at agonized expressions as he moans 'Ne me quitte pas' along with Jacques Brel, and I do a very dramatic Morrissey to 'Some girls are bigger than others'. "As Anthony said to Cleopatra, as he opened a crate of ale (ooh, I say): 'Some girls are bigger than others, some girls are bigger than others, some girls mothers are bigger than other girls mothers'". When we're done singing we head for 'the BBQ-place': a bar surrounded by a big garden. Magali now connects her 'mp-trois' to the speakers and again the air is filled with Serge Gainsbourgh's sticky lyrics. As I've always focused on the 'Je t'aime'-part, I ask her for the meaning of the entire song. 'Je vais et je viens, entre tes reins, et je me retiens'. And I thought he was singing of butterfly-filled tummies. The moaning and gasping makes way for 'disco disco partizane' and Ignaz, Magali and I get up for a dance around the table. Ignaz shakes the salt, pepper and basilicum; 'mix!' is his special move. I'm grabbed around the waist and thrown into a high-speed hip shaking 'French dance'. Csaba walks over and joins Steffen for a 'quiet beer'. They give us tired looks. "Look at them, they must've found some mushrooms in the forest". I throw myself into a plastic chair and sulk over their lack of enthusiasm. An hour and one and a half liters of beer later the alcohol kicks in and we all dance our way back to the campus. The guards try to keep their faces straight as I moonwalk past the entrance. French songs erupt from Magali's blue glitterbag, until the sound is drowned by the ever-pumping Balkan beats in the cantine.