Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened on a Tuesday evening. I wasn't really sure why. Was it because nobody worked on Wednesdays? Who knew ...? After all, the same applied to other days, as nobody worked on Sundays either and only rarely on Saturdays. Also ... What did work mean anyways? Opinions differed wildly on this topic. For some, any movement that went beyond involuntary bodily functions, such as opening one's eyelids in the morning, was definitely hard work. For others, work only began when an activity was carried out for the benefit of other people, other beings or the environment as a whole.

Of course, it was not true that there were days when absolutely nobody worked. In some communities, the declared aim was to work every day. And there were also activities that could not simply be left to rest for a whole day, especially not for three days a week. This included, for example, direct care for other people or beings, supervision of time-critical experiments or being on emergency standby. And let’s not forget continuous processes that were always kept running, tasks where many people fulfilled their annual industrial quota. But on the whole, this model prevailed: Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays could be characterised, let's put it this way, by reduced workload. Instead of the usual average of 3-4 hours a day, most people worked a maximum of 1 hour.

The doorbell rang. I frowned involuntarily, but still had to laugh briefly. The damn doorbell! I didn't look up from my tablet. Someone was about to receive a visitor. Last month, a history nerd in our community had installed a doorbell at the entrance and thought he was being extremely imaginative. He said we should experience what life used to be like. So pointless! There were no locked doors anywhere in the city, so there were no doorbells anywhere. But apparently enough people in our community thought it was a funny idea, which is why it hadn't been dismantled already. And anyhow: It would never have been used if there hadn't been a large sign above the bell: ‘Press here to wake up the community.’ Of course, no one needed to be told twice.

As is so often the case, however, the visit was not aimed at a single person or a small, clearly defined group of people, but at everyone in the community. This did not mean that everyone felt addressed. However, those who practically always felt addressed were the children, which is why they immediately surrounded the visitor, Marla, and asked her for a story. There was certainly curiosity behind this, but the children were also well aware of the magical effect of such a request: one of the few unwritten laws of the new society was that new arrivals could be asked for a story, a request people usually were not supposed to refuse. At this point I was sitting in the open square under a tree and saw that Marla had agreed. The children went from shouting loudly to singing in a way that might seem strange to people outside our community, turning onomatopoeic noises into a kind of wolf howl - clearly announcing to everyone that a story session was about to begin. Before that, however, it was time for dinner.

There were several hundred communities in our town and there were around 500 people in our community. A large buffet was always organised for everyone in the morning, snacks at lunchtime and there were a handful of different sized dining options in the early evening. Some people usually ate at the same place, while others decided where they wanted to eat the evening before at the latest so that the crew could estimate the number of participants. An option was also to eat at some other community. Some venues functioned exclusively as participatory kitchens, while others actually exuded the flair of old-fashioned restaurants. At least that's what older people told me who, unlike me, had consciously experienced the time of upheaval. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, on the other hand, the surpluses from the previous days were creatively re-utilised, reflecting the reduced workload theme. Sundays were usually festive days when everyone socialised with each other in one way or another.

After the meal, the large dishwashers were filled everywhere and people from different kitchens streamed onto the main square. In the end, around 80 people had gathered. The youngest was probably Mika, aged three, and the oldest was Karim, who was an impressive 93 years old. Some, especially those who were sitting far away from Marla, our visitor, took a small receiver. We sat down in a large circle so that everyone could potentially see each other. A handful of people of different ages took care of organising the round. For this month, they had agreed to accompany such events and introduce our community. The person who spoke held a red microphone in their hand, which also indicated who was speaking. How long a person introduced themselves depended entirely on their own wishes. In our case, it took almost an hour until everyone, including Mika, had had their say.

Then it was Marla's turn. She came from a town about 30 kilometres away. Her comparatively small community of around 100 people ran a thermal spa there. But we hadn't had any direct contact between our communities for many years. And that was precisely the reason for her visit. In order to break the ice and also to ensure a more direct exchange between the communities, Marla had brought a gift with her: Her community invited ten people from our community to an all-inclusive wellness weekend. We immediately issued a counter-invitation, which had nothing to do with the offer itself, but with the fact that we felt the same way. We also wanted to be in closer contact, and nothing could strengthen such bonds more than personal visits.

However, Marla had not forgotten the desire for a story, expressed by the children before the meal. The story began sadly, because it was about an accident in a mountain region where many people had died in an avalanche more than fifteen years ago. Everyone, including the children in the group, listened intently. Some of the older ones among us had heard about the accident back then. What we didn't know, however, was that Marla's community, in co-operation with psychotherapists, had spent several weeks looking after a group of children and adolescents who had been most affected by the deaths. Marla herself had been part of this group, and today she lived in the community that had helped her back then. And a friend of hers was now involved in developing avalanche warning systems.

After the story, the group dispersed. Many of the children went to bed, some people stayed and talked to Marla. I also had a lively chat with her. Someone was playing the violin softly in the background. I realised that I really wanted to visit her. So, I told her about one of my jobs, where I worked with a team to critically scrutinise and help optimise statistical data collection for production planning. Personally, I wasn't particularly interested in the wellness programme. But in any case, I was confident that together we would come to an understanding who were the people most suited for this.

There was a guest room for Marla, where she retired to after a while. I sat down again under the big tree and read a few more pages until my eyes fell shut. At some point, someone brought me a blanket. Those around me knew only too well that I tended to fall asleep under the tree. As I said, nothing out of the ordinary ever happened on a Tuesday evening. But that didn't mean such an evening couldn't still be very nice and interesting.

Juan Tramontina