Where does the time go?
Looking backwards and forwards.
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A few days before Christmas my girlfriend and I filled my battered old suitcase to the brim with presents, slippers and all the clothes we could fit so that we could take it with us on our two week holiday. Luckily, a lifetime of cramming a tog bag full of books and clothes for camping trips with my parents aptly prepared me for the massive task of lugging practically all of our belongings across the country to spend some much needed quality time with her family. After Christmas with my girlfriend’s family, she and I ditched the massive suitcase, chucked the essentials into a pair of rucksacks and set off for England, where spent New Year’s with a mutual friend and then visited some of my family. I had a wonderful two week break from work and writing and the time was so full of life, travel and Lindt balls that I am unsure quite how rested I actually feel. The only thing I really feel is a slightly tighter pair of trousers.
We set foot on German soil this week and got straight to work: she with university, and I with my au pairing. Somewhere in the middle of the week, I brought my suitcase home from my girlfriend’s flat after she had emptied it of her things. I stood in the isle of the bus, being rocked to the familiar rhythm of Berlin traffic, keeping a keen eye on my suitcase to prevent it from swinging into the shins of my fellow passengers. At some point on the journey, I glimpsed my reflection in a darkened bus window. All at once I was aware of the last time I was on this bus clutching my suitcase. Not three months ago I rode this bus for the first time, anxious to turn the page on a new chapter of my life, unsure about what my one year of au pairing and living in Berlin might look like.
As I stepped off the bus with practiced ease, I considered how comfortable I was in a city I didn’t know last year. When I first visited Berlin in January I spent the majority of my time tripping over my words whenever I ordered a coffee. I would practice my order a dozen times in my head—in German—before I asked the barista for a cappuccino. I was totally thrown when I was asked if I’d like oat or cow milk, that was decidedly not yet covered in my Duolingo lessons. Though I wasn’t baffled by the public transport (as I was when I first stepped foot in London Victoria Station at 18), I certainly couldn’t get anywhere without the constant support of my phone. I was dependent on the help of technology or my wonderful girlfriend to translate, direct and inform me. I was clueless and helpless. While I am still working on my general cluelessness, I am far more independent. After checking my phone battery percentage on the return flight and being met with anxiety inducing number, I realised with relief that I didn’t need the help of my digital maps; I knew how to get home from the airport. I actually knew a few ways home (which has come in handy in the midst of many public transport strikes). When I opened the door to my room and stepped in for the first time in a while, the smell eased me. It smelt like the kitchen of my best friend’s home every time I visited. It smelt like the same holiday home my parents and I escaped to every year or two. The scent of familiarity outside of home, perhaps. On the way home I understood every traffic announcement, every sign and picked up on a handful of conversations too. Ordering a coffee is no less an inconvenience than deciding which slice of cake should accompany it.
While my girlfriend and I were enjoying the frigid European temperatures over the Christmas break, my parents continued the annual tradition of camping. My dad was sorting through his photographs this week and while browsing, he found a well of old family photos and sent me a few. Some of me playing Danny Zuko in my high school production of Grease; I was probably fifteen or sixteen years old. Though I look mostly like myself, the man I see in the mirror today is broader and hairier. Other photos are of my first dog, my parents and I sat on the wall of an old stone house we would often go to during my school holidays, hidden away in the Cederberg mountains. I must be about eight. My parents look about the same to me, funny enough. My favourite photo is one of me when I’m about four or five. The photo is a bit blurry, it appears as though it was taken just as I turned around to look at my dad and his camera. We’re at home, I think. The photos my dad sent were accompanied by a short message: where does the time go.
That reflection in the bus mirror caught me by surprise. Had I not known any better, I would have mistaken the man I saw for a Berliner, not for the African-out-of-water that he is. Next week it’ll be a year since I first visited the city I now live in. It feels far too sudden to me. The fluency, the comfort with which I travel, the comfort I feel away from home. Every word of fluency was hard won, acclimatising to German culture and society was and is hard work. The time didn’t go quickly, but when I look back at how far I’ve come, I’m shocked. I get a pit in my stomach when I see four year old Jeremy. I don’t wish I could go back, but the realisation of how much time has passed since then shakes me for a moment. It reminds me how short life is. I want to try and keep that in mind this year. One day I’ll look at the pictures I take this year and wonder to myself, where does the time go…
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