The departure

Leaving the comfort of a home for a new unknown destination can be unnerving. For most of the people I know, home is that one place they know better than any other. I have many friends from college who will still refer to their childhood house as home, although they have been living elsewhere for the past 8 years. Their “home” is a place where they have memories spanning their lifetime, families, the room they grew up in, etc.. They understand the history of that place, the cultures, traditions, hangouts, colloquialisms of their hometown and nothing will replace it until they found a new home for themselves and even then that original home will still remain. Unlike the large majority of my friends, I did not grow up in the same town all my life, nor have the people or the culture and language stayed consistent, and I was never in one place long enough to truly know its streets, neighborhoods, restaurants etc. until Berlin. Since I was born I have never, without exception, lived in one place longer than 4 years in succession. The idea of home for me is like the temptations song Papa was a Rolling Stone: “Where I put my hat is my home”. Or better yet the quote from Garden State comes to mind:

“You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore…all of the sudden even though you have some place to put your shit, that idea of home is gone…or maybe it's like this rite of passage…you will never have that feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, for your kids, for the family you start. It’s like a cycle or something. Maybe that’s all family really is: a group of people that miss the same imaginary place.”


Home was always something transient and the friends and memories I acquired in those places were either temporary or proved strong enough to withstand the challenge of distance and the confines of a physical location. With every time I left a home for a new one it gets easier and easier. I block out emotion and prepare myself for whatever new home awaits me. But this time it was harder than usual. In the hours before my flight I kept myself busy packing, saying good byes, and preparing for my departure. But as I zipped the last zipper on my backpack and looked around the apartment I had called home for the last three years, I felt a wave of anxiety. Maybe it is because I was heading for a region where I am unfamiliar with the languages, customs, religions, and laws, and maybe it is because I have no defined target and I am heading out to open sea in small boat cushioned only by what little money I could save up during the last season of bike tours, but without doubt a lot of it had to do with my love for Berlin. Berlin is the only place I have ever lived for more than 4 years, and more than any place, as long as I can remember, has become a home. I had lived in Berlin as a child and like many other places I formed memories there, but over the last 3 years I got to know Berlin in a way I had never managed to know any other place I had ever lived. On the one hand it was the first time in my life where there was no end date insight. The structure of school was over and the harsh reality of real life and survival followed and in that search for survival I found a job working as a bike tour guide for Fat Tire Bike Tours. The job surrounded me with fascinating people which like myself were transients, and it allowed me to explore Berlin and get to know the city in a way you can only do if its your job. I learned about Berlin’s unique history, its nightlife, streets, weather, and most importantly its unique spirit for life. I love Berlin. I was surprised to find that after leaving my apartment for the airport I did not look back once.