A horse called Friday.

A big week.

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I crossed my bridge over the Spree river late on Thursday evening. The city was dark, but the hotel across the way had its lights on. Another restaurant nearby did, too. Though the stars and moon did little to illuminate my path, I glimpsed to the left as I hastily crossed the bridge on my way home, and caught a glimpse of the lights dancing on the river. I crossed over to the railing and looked out at the water and the buildings behind it. I was on my way back from an apartment viewing. Well, a house viewing, really. I would be one of five people living in what used to be a family home. Three stories and a basement. Two kitchens, three bathrooms, a lounge and dining room. Great connections to work and to my girlfriend’s place. They even have a wood-burning fireplace. That South African staple is a German rarity. I’d be able to braai in the garden, too. I have yet to braai in Germany. In the fifteen months since leaving Cape Town, I’ve had one braai, and that was when I visited home. Trivial as it seems, the idea of standing barefoot on the grass and standing over an open fire, preparing a meal, stirred me. I was never one to braai every weekend. It wasn’t a symbol of home when I still lived in South Africa. Now though, it feels like the chance to bring some of South Africa with to Berlin. A little of my old home, present in my new one.

On Wednesday I got a phone call from the furniture dealership you may have read about in several previous journals. They said they’d call before the end of the week last week. They were late. On our phone call they said they’d like to discuss a job proposal, and asked if I’d like to come down to the store so we could talk everything over in person. A hour later I braved the cold and walked to their shop. I tried my best not to overthink. They greeted me with handshakes and smiles and made me an offer. They’d like me to work with them for four days a week, starting in February. I’d work alongside the two co-founders to create my own job description. I’d help them grow their business, and hopefully, I’d grow with them. They are willing to build me a photo studio, if things go well. I told them that it all sounded lovely, but that I’d need to sleep on it. I wanted to check how much salary I’d be left with after tax and I think I needed the time to allow my emotions to settle. We agreed that I’d give them my answer before end-of-day on Friday.

On Friday morning, I got a text from the house share. I was getting dressed to go on a run when my phone pinged. The room was mine. Instead of crying and dancing and jumping around, I went for my run. I didn’t tell anyone. I think I needed time to process it all, then, too. For six months, I’ve been trying to find a job, find a place to live, secure my place in the country. After weeks on end of facing joblessness and hopelessness, this hit me like a brick over the head. Friday. On Friday I said yes to the job. I said yes to the room. All I need to do is sign on the dotted line.

I have dreamt of this day. The very fact that it is here is an answer to prayer. I have longed to have rib-crushing weight of worry yanked from my chest. I’ve longed for freedom. Now that its here, I realise just what freedom means. It means that I won’t live here anymore. This has been my neighbourhood for the last year and some change. That was my train station I walked out of on Thursday night. That’s my bridge I crossed. It’s my view of the river and the hotel. I’m so ready to continue on my adventure. I’m ready to sink my teeth into my photography job. I’m ready to make my room my own. What I wasn’t quite ready for is saying goodbye to my bridge. Goodbye to my view. Goodbye to the lights dancing on the river.

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I then remembered that I’d cross that bridge every day on the way to work and abruptly stopped being so sappy. If you enjoyed this journal, please subscribe.