Butterflies and Hurricanes

Nothing can prepare you for the whirlwind that is moving countries. 

Getting a visa is when it begins to get real. Everything before that feels up in the air; fragile. Once the initial giddiness settles down, strange fears start creeping in. What if something goes wrong? What if we don’t like it? We’ll be away from everyone we know. How will we assimilate? 

Somehow, though, everything starts to fall in place. You book your flight tickets, find a place to stay, sell your old things, say goodbye to people you love, and suddenly, insanely, you’re on a flight to a new land you’ve never been to before. 

To be honest, the period between emptying your apartment and finding a new one feels like limbo. That entire stretch also feels a bit like… mourning. Of course you’re eager for the barrage of new experiences. But the period leading up to it drips with emotion and breaks your heart in so many ways. 

Everything has a special quality to it. Every encounter is coloured with the reminder that your time here is brief. The look in your friends’ eyes as you say goodbye: a little sad, but mostly full of hope. The awkward slaps on your back the men in your family give you as they wish you good luck. The overloaded plates of food your mum serves you, reminding you you’d miss that food in the new city. The encouraging smiles. The bittersweet tears. It’s all a bit much. While you’re still actively processing it, bippity boppity boop—hello, new country. 

Your flight lands. You walk out into a new airport, and everything’s different. The signs are in a language you’ve barely begun to grasp. You’re in Berlin! People talk in German, and you walk up to a bakery with a growling stomach and manage a timid “Ein Kaffee und ein Sandwich, bitte?” It’s cold even in April. You wear your jacket, step out and feel the sun on your face and smile. You did it! Congratulations. Get ready for the next one thousand things on your to-do list. 

For the first two days here, I was happy. Almost deliriously happy. I couldn’t believe we were here to stay, and not just on vacay. Everything immediately dazzles you (especially when you come from a country like India where chaos and cacophony are the order of the day). The streets, the canals, the parks, lakes, the bikes, the diversity and design of buildings, the open air cafés and restaurants, the system and orderliness. Oof. It’s gorgeous. 

Then, you remember the litany of documents you need to justify your presence here. And an endless list of tasks: find an apartment, manage your meals, fix appointments, get new SIM cards, open bank accounts, buy groceries. And in the midst of all this, show up for job interviews and find work as well. We were lucky enough to have two wonderful friends who not only invited us to stay with them but also showed us around and helped us with great food and advice. That made the transition so easy and warm. And somehow, miraculously, we found an apartment within a few days. It’s a small studio, but it’s fine. It’s home. It’s ours. For the next six months at least. 

We’ve only seen a sliver of our new city. A few picnics in parks, a live orchestra with a Chaplin movie, a few awesome (and some not-so-awesome) cafés and restaurants, some marketplaces and lots of trains, trams and buses. There’s still so much to see. So much to eat. So much to travel. I can’t wait. But I also want to wait, you know? To absorb it all in. To rest. To let the newness seep in. 

I want to notice how magically the sunlight falls on trees. How the tulips sashay in the middle of a busy road. How happy dogs trot next to their parents, leash-free. How the sun sets at 9pm, and how the night sky turns a velvety blue. I want to visit museums, art shows, concerts, open mics. I want to travel to nearby cities, make pit stops in dandelion fields and look at puffy clouds. I want to take long train rides, chugging dreamily as I listen to my favourite music. I want to make friends with people from places I haven’t heard of. There’s so much life left to live. There’s so much love left to give. There’s so much beauty around, sometimes I can’t take it.

I’m going to slow down. Walk around, lie down on the grass while the sun is still shining, read, game, sleep and relax. 

There’s still so much I want to talk about. I’ll be back soon. 

Until then—take care, my lovely pumpernickels.