Recently, somewhere in Madrid, my friends and I were standing by an old grand piano, belting out what we thought were Spanish classics at the top of our lungs. We’d ended up at this music bar—which a friend had recommended—more by chance than anything else, and while we were still waiting in line outside, we debated whether we should really go in, since none of us felt like paying the 20-euro cover charge. In return, however, each of us were handed a drink token, which we exchanged at the bar for red wine, vodka and soda, and Coca-Cola. The place filled up quickly, which didn’t bother the waiter, who carried his tray high above his head and sang along so fervently that you’d think he, too, was there for the first time. We danced and sang, held each other in our arms, and stumbled—in the early morning hours—first to the nearest snack bar and then home, as carefree as if our school days together hadn’t ended 16 entire years ago.
Once a year, my five longest-standing friends and I go on vacation together. I don’t remember exactly who started this tradition—it was probably K., the tireless heart of this group, who, when we were in our mid-20s, gathered us up like stray cats scattered across the world and planned a vacation for all of us in the south of France. Before that, during our college years, we had little contact with one another for the first time in our lives. We lived in different cities and countries, and each of us was preoccupied with new friendships, our first professional experiences, and, of course, love.
It rained for a whole week in France, but that didn’t stop us from smoking far too many thin cigarettes on the terrace and dancing through the rain. Perhaps that’s where we decided we should do this every year from then on. No official vow was ever made, but since then, we’ve strolled through Bucharest and Rome, sipped overpriced Crémant straight from the bottle on a windy Baltic Sea beach, and once we almost got into a fight in Croatia because G. pointed out (as always, quite rightly) that we were being snobs for refusing to eat at a restaurant that advertised its dishes with photos. Even in the year when two of us had babies just a few weeks apart, we managed a day trip; the following year, our regular routine resumed.
We’re single and in relationships, we’re mothers and childless, and we shout “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother, I’m a sinner, I’m a saint” when, in a Spanish sing-along bar, the hits we know by heart finally start playing. Meredith Brooks’s most famous hit was released in 1997, when we were six years old and had no idea what a “bitch” even was.
In the science magazine Quarks, I read about a study that says, on average, people have 3.7 really close friends. I have at least five. But the word “close” doesn’t quite capture it, and the concept of having just one best friend has never quite made sense to me. What we have is more like a family structure. I’m not in constant contact with all of them; sometimes I don’t talk to them for weeks. My mind is often right where my body is, so I’m primarily focused on the people immediately around me. I’ve always found it hard to stay in touch with people in other cities. But once a year, we go on a trip together.
A vacation like that requires quite a bit of planning for six working women, especially when you’re also juggling relationships, kids, pets, and a social life alongside your jobs. My friends, whose weekends are often booked up years in advance, usually cut me some slack; I’m self-employed and the kind of person who prefers to plan my free time two weeks at a time. However, in a large group, you’re never alone with your flaws. My friend C. is just as noncommittal as I am—and equally grateful that the other four of us insist that we at least commit to a weekend, to a date. To them. You’re allowed to make demands of the people you love.
