What You Should Do If You Ever Get The Chance

Why going back to where it all began was a blast.

By

Dian Holton

 
Published August 27, 2025
7 people looking through doors, german school, high school reunion
Peter van Agtmael/Magnum Photos

So, here’s the thing: my high school class never had a reunion. Not a 10-year one. Not even a casual “let’s grab drinks and pretend we liked each other” meet-up. When I realized our 30th anniversary was coming up, I figured why not go big or at least go back to Berlin?

Horizonational collage, Dian Holton, BAHS 1996 ephemera

I graduated from Berlin American High School (BAHS) in 1994, just before the Allied forces packed up and left. That makes our class the end of an era — and possibly the last to eat schnitzel on a government meal plan. Since I was that student (cheerleader, student government, Model UN, HIV peer educator, travel addict), it only made sense I’d start the planning. I looped in a few fellow extroverts: Ivettza in New York, Winifred in Maryland and Ruben in Brazil, a State Department unicorn who’d even been stationed in Berlin previously. He knows everyone and their German Shepherd.

The plan was simple: go back to where it all began. The venue? The Hotel Intercontinental, where we had our prom. Still there. Still glam. Just like us, but with better lighting. BAHS was a Department of Defense (DoD) school, so our class was basically the original UN. Military dependents, diplomats’ kids, students whose countries didn’t make the Eurovision cut and even a few German celebrities-in-the-making — like Tarek, a rapper-turned-director who was, let’s be clear, my high school crush. And after seeing him in person 30 years later? Yeah… still is. Some things don’t change.

Now, I’ll spare the full project management saga, but know there were spreadsheets, surveys and heated debates about whether reunion swag should include a commemorative mug, tote bag or hoodie (spoiler: none of the above, because of budget).

My event planning background kicked in. I wrangled daily itineraries, booked restaurants and tapped local Berlin-based creatives from my day job (as art director of this platform) to help us out. Special thanks to The Girlfriend illustrator Christine Roesch, who didn’t just offer suggestions — she straight up made the reservations. I thanked her the only appropriate way: over champagne at KaDeWe, the Neiman Marcus of Berlin.

BAHS High school senior portraits

Only a small group could make it, but with this crew, it was all that was needed. We had Ruben (the global plug), Ivettza (plus her husband and sister), Christer (our Norwegian calm-in-the-chaos person), Tarek (you heard about him), Joaquin (for nighttime only!) and my brother (five years younger, six inches taller and a retired airman who had a better memory than Internet search photos). And every single day, someone had to call someone else to wake them up because the hangovers were real. (Was that dreadful rose flower wine not rosé wine? Ew.) Sometimes the magic isn’t the headcount. It’s in the connections.

A few highlights:

• My brother and I arrived early and scouted a new hotel and restaurant. I found an illustrated coaster, messaged the artist and hired her the next day for a Girlfriend newsletter assignment on “When Middle-Aged Women Act like Middle School Girls.” Look at me! I was making memories and making deals!

• Reunion night: We kicked off at the hotel bar, then dinner at Ja! Niko Ja!, a Greek restaurant across the street, where we closed the place down. We laughed until our faces hurt, rehashed stories that only get better (or less accurate) with time and stumbled back to our respective rooms like time travelers from the 1990s.

• Friday was Operation: Sneak Into Our Old School. We heard our alma mater was still standing, now renamed the Wilma Rudolf School, and obviously, we had to see it. Our first plan? Hop the fence. Very subtle. Very grown-up. As we crept around looking for an opening like the cast of Stranger Things: Reunion Edition, we noticed a door was ajar. Inside was a man who looked like he made and fixed furniture the same day. Turned out he was the wood shop teacher; they were doing summer repairs. School was out, but the tools were on. We tried to explain ourselves, luckily, Tarek and Christer spoke German, because the rest of us were just waving our hands and holding our 30-year-old yearbooks like confused time travelers. The teacher, once convinced we weren’t just random nostalgic trespassers, gave us a full private tour. And y’all, the maroon floors were still there. The same echo in the stairwells. The gym, the home economics room (now featuring modern and vintage tools), the cafeteria. All of it.

Grid of images, classmates looking at BaHS mural, BAHS mural, Holding yearbook, looking through yearbook, stairway, classmate looking through gym door

And the giant Berlin Bear mural in the lunchroom was still proudly standing. Slightly faded, still majestic like all of us. We attempted to recreate our senior photo, minus, you know, 39 people and tried to locate our time capsule which none of us could remember. Just before we left, we found the school’s front lobby, which now includes a literal shrine to Berlin American High School. There’s a display with an old locker, photos, a desk and ephemera from an era long ago. It was beautifully weird. Like stumbling across your teenage diary, but behind glass and on display for strangers.

It was inside those hallways that everything clicked. We weren’t just looking at walls, we were seeing the younger versions of ourselves. The games, the school clubs, the travel, the friendships, the chaos. The magic that only international schools have.

Dian Holton and brother at Allied Forces Museum, Classmates sitting outside allied forces museum

We wrapped the weekend with a Love Parade detour, an emotional trip to the Allied Forces museum (where my dad, Colonel Walter Holton, is honored for helping lead the U.S. drawdown) and one last schnitzel dinner that turned into another late night of jokes, memories and mild dehydration. In the end, there was no time capsule to dig up and no need to make a new one. We are the time capsule. Every story. Every laugh. Every “OMG, remember when…” that we brought back with us. And that we’re carrying forward.

Classmates having dinner, cheering, high school reunion memories

The moral?

If you ever get the chance to go back not just to a place but to the people who knew you before the world got loud, take it. Hug hard. Dance like no one’s livestreaming. Berlin was the background, but the real reunion happened in us.

Classmates, outside of U bahn station, high school reunion

Did any of YOU ever attend a high school reunion? Let us know in the comments below.

New York Times Bestselling Art Director and contributing writer for AARP The Magazine and independent designer of textiles, sneakers and experiences.