by Feña Ortalli
The alarm rings at 5.45 AM.
It’s dark and silent. I call an Uber and go to the airport. I check for the tenth time if I have my passport and the vaccination certificate.
I have two suitcases, one with too many winter clothes and the other with the costume and props of our show.
I get to the airport too early and I have to wait. And think. And remember. And feel.
It’s been almost two years since Impro Amsterdam 2020, my last festival.
I board the plane. I arrive in Frankfurt. I eat something and go to the train station. I wait. I get onto the wrong train. I have to make a new connection. Is too close. I run. And then I run again. I make it. I arrive in Bielefeld.
That’s it. I’m there. I relax.
I hug people. I meet new friends. I eat pizza. I play a show. I have some beers. I go to sleep.
I teach a 6-hour class about a topic I cannot teach online. I play a show. I watch a show. I have some beers. I go to sleep.
I teach another 6-hours. I welcome my impro partner. I warm up. I dress up. I play my favorite show. I play the last show of the festival.
I cry. I look around. I thank. I get flowers I hug people. I have some more beers. I talk with people. I say goodbye. I go to sleep.
I look forward to the next festival.