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.
Once, in Mallorca, we asked each other if we’d still be friends if we were just getting to know each other now. What makes this friendship special is its brutal honesty—which is why the answer to that question wasn’t a resounding yes. The older we get, once we’ve left certain structures—school, family, education—behind us, the more we tend to seek out people who are like us—in lifestyle, in political views.
But time spent together builds bonds. In a study at the University of Kansas, researcher Jeffrey Hall examined how time spent enjoying each other’s company affects friendships. He found that it takes between 40 and 60 hours for an acquaintance to turn into a casual friendship. A close friendship takes up to 100 hours, and you have to spend over 200 hours together to form a best friendship. F. and I met in kindergarten. We’ve been friends for 30 years. I wonder how many hours that adds up to? I can remember the day she joined my class—half a year younger than me, blonde, and shy—and the day she told me she’d like to become a mother. We took a selfie, grinning at the camera, with the Port of Hamburg behind us. Ten months later, her daughter was born. We’ve been through a lot together—both everyday things and life-changing events. K. was sitting next to me in the back seat of a small van on New Zealand’s North Island when it careened at breakneck speed toward the precipice. H., the most freedom-loving of us all, always travels where the sun is—and once followed me to the Atlantic after I’d quit my job and was knee-deep in a “30-something” crisis.
When one of us decided to freeze her eggs, it was F., the doctor, who gently administered the hormone injection to her lower abdomen at the airport, the rest of us forming a shield around them both. When G. got married, we visited her in her room shortly before the ceremony, and she looked so incredibly beautiful that we all burst into tears; tears we also shed when C.’s father passed away, a man who was just as full of life as she was. “When you hurt, when you suffer, I’m your angel undercover,” sings Meredith Brooks. We sing along—in Madrid, in Mallorca, on the Baltic and North Seas.
By the way, over the years we’ve never even considered bringing our respective partners along on our group vacations. Not because we don’t like them—quite the opposite—but because we’ve created a space that belongs only to us. It takes work to maintain an old friendship. The unspoken promise of our annual long weekend together only reinforces our bond.
