It’s June again. The sun is squeezing up behind the white clouds, and the birds have been singing the song of spring for almost two months. It’s finally summer. And this means that we are ready to jump into that good, old, recognizable bubble. The bubble of Roskilde Festival.

The feeling of entering another world or dimension, where nothing matters and no one matters. Except for the music. The music matters and so does the feeling. The Orange Feeling.

It’s finally time for us to pack our totally damaged backpack, to jump in our worn-out, red rubber boots and to grab that huge box of cheap, canned beers and the cardboard 3-liters vodka that we so desperately were searching for in the German border shops.

As we jump on the train towards Roskilde, we fantasize about last year’s main artists, last year’s beer bowling tournament and the handsome brown-eyed man or cute blonde that we woke up next to in the enclosed baking tent. We enjoy the cleanness and silence in the compartment of the train, while we gaze upon the trees that passes our dreaming eyes and fall asleep trying to store up some sleep for the next week.

We arrive in the burning midday sun and find a spot in the line for entrance West. With still 22 hours to the opening of the camp area, the waiting time begins and the first Sloths from the generous border shops, are opened.

A drunken day in the line and a sleepless night later, we stand with our already sunburned, shrimp-looking faces, and we get ready to run for the best spots in the area. A whistle blows, the fence is torn down, a bunch of orange-wested security guards shows up and off we go. Running for our spots like wildebeests on a run on the savannah.

We conquer an area and start throwing around with huge tarpaulins that we bought cheap in a DIY together with a few rolls of duct tape – the two essentials for surviving seven nights in a tent on a festival campsite. Sporadically, we’re connecting tent poles and trying to manage the huge canvases while holding on to that precious beer that we opened to celebrate our conquer of an awesome area.

Finally, the tent is up, the tarpaulins placed strategically underneath the bottom of the tents and the white pavilions put up to protect us from the burning sun in our fragile festival chairs in bright colors. The festival can begin.

Eight days later. And it’s not June any longer. No more artists are playing at the Orange Stage. No more cheap beers are left in the boxes. And only a sad, sad and nasty section between the tents are reminding us about the last week’s hardships. Broken festival chairs are lying around, half-filled beer cans floating in mysterious looking brown water and a weird smell of mackerel in tomato mixed with the stench of the cheap vodka.

We snuggle out from our smelly sleeping bags, roll our beloved sleeping pads together and throw our even more smelly and dirty clothes in the backpack. Then we tumble out from the tent for one last time, and as we take a look at the campsite, we remind ourselves to enjoy the last moments of being on this other planet, where nothing matters. 

As we leave the tent and the miserable pieces of festival chairs behind, we take one last look at our home for the last eight days, and with a feeling of nostalgia creeping in, we turn our backs to our beloved camp and go for the exit. This year’s Roskilde Festival has ended. And we can’t wait for the next one.