To get to the Humboldthain summer swimming pool, you first have to go through the turnstiles.
Photo: imago/ Stefan Zeitz
It’s five to ten, a Thursday in June. The weekend is supposed to be the first really hot one of the year, now it’s 22 degrees.
Five women and one man are standing around in front of the Humboldthain summer swimming pool, another one locks up her bike and joins them. I hesitate. This is not a line, no one seems willing to queue.
The entrance sliding grille is closed except for a small gap. No one looks at their cell phones, most of the eyes are pensively directed to the smooth blue of the swimming pool in the background.
I show my annual spa card to the woman closest to me: “You have it too, don’t you?” The woman presents me hers, which she is holding in her left hand. The three other women do the same, we all smile at each other.
“One would like to help push,” says one and nods her chin in the direction of the sliding gate. Now a woman and a man from the baths push their way out through the gap, begin to slide the two parts of the gate to the right and left and hook them.
It’s stuck on the right. The woman pushes and scolds, the bars keep slipping apart. Finally it gets stuck at a resistance.
Now the barriers, which are supposed to separate the entrance and exit in the waiting area, are carried out of the bathroom and hung one inside the other. It goes very slowly, several hands twitch helpfully with us waiting.
Next, the two lifeguards carry a table into the sun, with a plastic box on it that slides back and forth and has to be saved from falling because the table leans dangerously towards the barrier.
“Same thing every morning…” the woman next to me mumbles. The door is finally released and our little group walks quickly towards the entrance sensors with the turnstiles.
“Are they on yet?” I ask the woman who wanted to help push. She points to the top of the shoebox-sized box: “When it lights up green, let’s go!” She holds her season ticket to the pane with the camera, it lights up green and the turnstile opens. The first one next door is also through.
I hold my barcode in front of my black pane, nothing happens. The man shouts over two women: “Keep your distance, keep a little further away!” I wave the card around, from right to left, closer and further away. I somehow get into the right position, it turns green.
Quick steps to the changing room, which is already left by the first woman in a bikini. I catch an envious sideways glance as she wades jaggedly through the water lock, takes off her flip-flops and grabs the ladder.
I’ve already put on my bathing suit, took off my sunglasses and watch as I walked and stowed them in my purse, took off my pants and top, grabbed my goggles and towel, locked the rest and off I went.
The lifeguard is already sitting on her high seat, a lawn sprinkler rattles fountains over the grass and sidewalk, where puddles form. A wasp explores the water lock. I shower with the towel in my hands and I still have five meters to the ladder. Exultation rises up the throat.
The water is cold, the sun is shining, a raven caws on a tree nearby and I am the third in the still almost motionless pool. Ten o’clock and seven minutes, here we go.
