Beginnings in Berlin
It’s August 2018. You step out of Tegel Airport and breathe in the fresh air. You’re in Berlin for the 3rd time, and for a little while this time. You’re excited to not be a tourist again.
The first day of your program, you feel slightly uneasy. You’re not an anxious person, but you are a little nervous to meet the people you’ll be spending the next four months with. You scan the crowd of 150 and wonder who will become what in your life. A travel buddy here, a dancing partner there. You wonder, as always the case in the face of novelty, what inevitably will develop.
You jump into conversation with dozens of strangers who may soon be friends, introduce yourself a million times, realize almost everyone is from the US and a third from California. The casual banter is familiar and easy, but you’re slightly crestfallen at how natural it all is, at how much you have in common with them. At how little you’re out of your comfort zone.
You head to the city center with a dozen Americans, speaking loud English. You’re the only people talking on the subway and a group mentality is already developing. You walk on the wrong side of the bridge. You’re lost already, in this strange yet familiar city, feeling the most American you have in years, feeling like it’s both a blessing and a curse. Both an embarrassment and a source of pride.
Ich komme aus den USA. I’m doing an exchange here four months. Yes, I’m loving life here. No, I didn’t vote for Trump.
The move from tourist to expat is steady but distinct. Your classes begin, you have homework, you go to the pharmacy and grocery store, you hang out at cafes and by bodies of water, you listen to podcasts on your commute. You have full days with lunch in the Mensa and dinner with your “family” for the semester. Business as usual.
You develop a mental block for activities only foreigners do. You scoff at those who came just for Lollapalooza. You flinch when your professor says thank you to the Americans (addressing your class) for bringing his country democracy.
Ich wohne in Berlin. You fill out a resident permit application, request your absentee voting ballot, and see friends and family friends in different places in the city. You talk to strangers in bars, meet refugees and newcomers, study at the same library as German students. Two weeks in, you’re “practically a local.”
Practically a local who still feels cheated when you’re charged for water. Who avoids paying for public restrooms at all costs (including just squatting on the street). Who orders in German but switches to English when any further questions are asked. Who dances her heart out surrounded by Americans blasting only English music. Who still, in large part, moves in packs. Who is not free the next four weekends to meet up with new friends due to travel plans. Who is late to everything because she’s used to Berkeley time (10 minutes late), not German time (15 minutes early).
Mein Deutsch ist nicht so gut. You regret not taking German classes before coming. You regret not taking the more intensive German series here. Everyone speaks English, but you still feel illiterate.
You live in a state of awe characteristic of a temporary visitor, as if everything will disappear before your eyes if you don’t snatch it right now. You marvel at the wonderful distinctness of each Berlin district. You feel as though you’re walking through history in the city center (when you’re not triple checking your phone to make sure you’re walking in the right direction).
Yet, you’re comforted in knowing that this is only week 2. If your stay in Berlin is a night, you’re barely living through dusk (and if it’s a night out in Berlin, it’s 11pm and you’re still curled up in bed in pajamas texting about plans). Perhaps in a few weeks you’ll have more German friends, your routine will be more pronounced, and you won’t feel like you’re in transit (not that that’s bad either). For now, though, you’re along for the ride.
Most of all, you’re in disbelief that you’re living the dream — the endpoint the past several months have seemingly led to. That all those conversations you had explaining your semester abroad in Germany were about this moment. That’s happening. Right now.
You are here, and it’s marvelous.
