People say to me, what are you going to do in Berlin? And I mostly say, oh, I don’t really know. Or I say, same as I’m doing here, except with less connections. They say, why are you going to Berlin? I tell them, because I can.
This is it, I’m living the dream, right? I want to turn the supposedly passive state of redundancy into an art form. I’ve survived for a year already and I still don’t have a stable or remotely substantial income, but I’m frugal and stubborn and not ready to hand over my mornings to a boss any time soon. I’m going to Berlin to write in peace without a whole bunch of clutter getting in my way. I’m going to Berlin because I like to wander anonymously round foreign cities. I’m going to Berlin for the challenge of starting somewhere new for the first time since I was eighteen. I’m going to Berlin because I’ve already gotten off with Edinburgh and it’s time for a change of scenery. I’m going to Berlin because summer is coming, slowly but it is, and there are new things to see and new people to meet and new experiences to have and I want them all.
I wonder this time whether I’ll note the changeover, that point at which things stop being new and unfamiliar, and become a part of everyday life. I can never remember exactly when that’s happened before, when I got used to Edinburgh, when I settled into a job or a relationship, when my flat became my home. Other people do this so often, they pack up and move to new places all the time. I’d always wondered if I would do it. My move is only temporary, but everyone still seems excited about it. Because, for one thing, it’s Berlin. Holy shit I’m gonna be living in Berlin.
When Cockroach Stuart moved to Australia many years ago, my friend Will just said, “Ah, he’ll be good at that.” So. I want to be good at this.
Abyssinia, Henry. I’m outta here.