Words: Eva Lopez-Lopez (she/they)
I invite you to my ideal party. I organised it, but I don’t host it – my heart couldn’t
withstand the possibility of another family object damaged (last time it was a flower
vase). This is why it’s also my ideal party: it’s not hosted in my house. The party is set
in a big house, almost a mansion, you don’t know who it belongs to, but it’s not
important. It is located in the outskirts of the city, no neighbours around us to complain,
a train station ten minutes away. You ask again who the owner of the house is, I shrug,
you believe we are doing something illegal. Your favourite song starts playing and you
forgo that line of questioning, you think it’s a coincidence, but it’s not: the ideal party
has the ideal playlist, catered to the likes of the guests and the mood they’re in. The
dress code is elegant, but not exactly the elegant clothes you wear to a family dinner and
that are so expensive that you are extremely afraid they will be stained and ruined. You
wear your best casual outfit, you look very charming and attractive and you’re not
afraid of anything tonight, not even embarrassment. Everyone around you looks dashing
as well. The theme is joy and excitement and all the grand emotions that deserve a party
in their honour. I’ve gathered this group of people because I knew they would click, it’s
people I’ve had great conversations and dances with, in the past. Some people drink,
some don’t, some people smoke, some people don’t, some people are doing drugs, some
people aren’t. No one is sick by overindulgence and no one judges. There are several
rooms, different atmospheres in each one of them. One is for dancers who want to give
it all on the dancefloor, they sing and shout and kiss and hug each other ferociously.
You look away, embarrassed by the intimacy of the embraces. You don’t know it yet,
but you will join them later. Another room is for those who enjoy all the rituals of
preparing to go out partying but not partying that much: they’re dressing up and putting
on an improvised fashion runway, they’re getting each other’s makeup and hair done.
They are playing drinking games and there’s no rush to go somewhere else before
midnight. They chat and smile and share the giddiness like it’s an offer you cannot say
no to. You will also join them after the dancing, never doing the things in order (there’s
no need for that here). Another room gathers the smokers: they are smoking inside like
it’s the 70s and I don’t care because as I said, it’s not my house. They are smoking and
talking about the meaning of life around a funny-looking green lamp. Someone, maybe
everyone, offers you a cigarette, you start saying ‘I don’t usually smoke but…’ while
taking a drag. You feel compelled to share your dreams and hopes but also failures and
your shame with this group. There are not enough words to capture the vibe that’s
emerged here. No need. We move on. The last room of the party has an array of games
(beer pong and foosball) for those who want to prove to themselves that the hand-eye
coordination is not all gone after the fifth beer. They challenge each other constantly
and if you step a foot into the room you know you’ll get roped in. You play for hours,
like hypnotised by the energy – sometimes you win and sometimes you quit before you
lose. The night is slowly retiring into the sunrise.
No one gets cold on their way home or fears for their life, there are enough beds and
space on the floor for everyone to stay the night. You end up hugging a stranger for
warmth, and they hug you back. You wake up with the smell of churros and hot
chocolate. It’s sunny, and a brand-new day, and the birds are chirping outside feeling all
the joy and excitement you felt last night. The party is over. It wasn’t hard at all to
accept.
