Sincerely, Moving to Berlin...?

I have to leave Ireland in July, but where to next? I planned a trip to Berlin with the intention of answering one big question: could I live in Berlin?

Many of you have asked me where I will go after Ireland. I still don’t have a specific answer, but I have, at the very least, narrowed down my ideas to one country: Germany. I have a few practical incentives: Germany has a favorable visa program for Americans, there’s tons of jobs in English there, and learning German seems cool. But the actual reason why I want to go to Germany? Because I want to. Something is pulling me there. It’s a question I have to answer. 

Months ago when I started considering where I wanted to go after Ireland, Germany was just one place on a decently long list. But, after visiting Munich last fall and talking to a bunch of people about various cities in Europe, I was sold on Germany. I liked the cleanliness of the cities. I liked the parks and the easy access to outdoors. I liked the clear, blunt style of communication.

Yet, although I liked Munich, the city that caught my imagination was Berlin. An artistic, musical city full of immigrants. One of Europe’s cultural hubs, if not the capital of European culture (in terms of art, anyways). Everyone spoke of Berlin as a liberal, queer, diverse, free paradise. The fantasy of Berlin that had lodged in my mind parallels the way that people used to imagine New York City: a city where dreams come true and adventure and beauty lie on every street corner.

(I discovered that there was certainly a LOT of beauty in Berlin. Here’s one of my favorite murals for proof)

There was just one big issue with my ideas about Berlin. I’d actually never been there. So, I planned a trip. I went with the intention of answering one big question: could I live in Berlin? 

I traveled straight to Berlin from Amsterdam. It took about six hours. (for the Americans reading this that’s about the same amount of time by train from Washington, D.C. to Hartford, if not a little faster).

Immediately when I arrived, Berlin felt different from Amsterdam. (obviously, right?). For one thing, it seemed way less tourist-oriented. And for another thing I was alone. A wave of anxiety washed over me as I stood on a street corner trying to figure out which way google maps was telling me to go. Not a great start if I got lost while looking at directions in English… 

After going the wrong way a few times, I finally made it to the underground entrance. Yes, yes, most people in Berlin speak English and I could’ve asked for help, but for someone (me) with a touch of fear when it comes to talking to strangers, the idea of boldly speaking in English to a stranger in a foreign country where English is not the native language was completely unthinkable. 

And yet.

My feet were rubbed raw from walking around in Amsterdam and I desperately needed bandaids. Lucky for me, there was a pharmacy right beside the underground station. Apparently the pain in my feet was worse than the prospect of having to interact with strangers. It was a little awkward and the older lady at the counter definitely treated me with exasperation when she discovered I couldn’t speak German, but I successfully purchased bandaids and got on the train. Ok, I thought, I can do this. 

I’ve traveled plenty of places before where I don’t speak the language, both on my own and with friends. But somehow everything felt different this time. Probably because I viewed it all as a test. Could I survive this for more than a few days? Could I get my most basic needs here (food, medicine, a place to live)? Of course, all of these things were clearly available. The question was more if I’d be able to access them with very little German.

It was hard not to imagine all the ways I could fail if I moved to Germany. Maybe I wouldn’t find a job. Or I wouldn’t find a place to live. Or maybe I wouldn’t make any friends. Or perhaps all the little challenges of living in a new country and learning a new language would add up to overwhelm me. It took a lot of effort to ask myself, “how could I grow here?” rather than, “how could I fail here?”

I refused to wallow in panic, though, and went for a wander. I passed through streets stuffed with shops and rumbling trams. I heard tons of languages and lots of Arabic, which was honestly a relief. At least I can speak that language. I made it to the Spree River, which bisects the city. Perched on its bank was the Berliner Dom, a cathedral dripping with Prussian imperial wealth (that, yes, was reconstructed after WWII). I sat in a plaza in front of the cathedral, a museum on one side, the church on another, and a street full of what looked like bureaucratic palaces on the third. I spent a long time admiring the view.

Here’s a photo of the Berliner Dom:

Unlike Amsterdam where everything was groaning under the weight of its history, Berlin was polished in a way something old never can be. The cool thing about it, though, was that even if buildings were reconstructed or replaced, the history was not obscured. The newness of it all seemed to bring more attention to the city’s violent past. It helped that memorials and informational plaques were everywhere. I learned over the next few days that however Berlin had been rebuilt, however buildings had been repurposed, the history was not lost. Perhaps I thought I could feel and see the history of the place because I knew it was there. Or perhaps the vine covered restaurants in abandoned buildings and reconstructed streets carry the weight of history with them. 

Photo of one such restaurant:

When I could barely keep my eyes open anymore, I returned to the area of my hostel, found some cheap Italian food to eat, and then passed the heck out. 

My first day, my curiosity took me to the Charlottenburg Palace. It took me about an hour to get there from my hostel in the city center by public transport. And that’s not because the public transport is slow. Berlin is just MASSIVE. It sprawls and sprawls and sprawls. And yet every corner is still interesting. 

As soon as I entered the palace I smiled. It was stunning. It was originally built for the first Queen consort of Prussia, Sophie Charlotte, and it was named in her honor after she died. Her husband Fredreich III, who was duke of Prussia at the time, gifted Sophie Charlotte the land. She built the house for herself. Even her husband could not visit without her permission. On the palace grounds and in its impressive halls, Sophie Charlotte cultivated Prussian art and literature. She sponsored musicians and poets and gathered around her a cohort of creatives. You could say it was a feminist residence.

(Much of the Charlottenburg palace was destroyed during World War II, but it has since been rebuilt and some of its most impressive rooms returned to their former glory).

Picture of the ballroom below:

Needless to say, I was in awe of the palace’s beauty. And unlike when I visited Versailles, I was also surprised by it. I knew very little about Germany before the First World War, and what I did know was colored by stereotypes that resulted from the world wars. I always pictured Germany in crisp military uniforms, sharp lines, and ugly industrial styles. But here was this palace, stunning in its beauty and washed with elegance. 

Maybe you’re thinking, Sarah I know you like palaces and stuff but shouldn’t you be focusing on stuff that would be more relevant to living in Berlin? Well first of all visiting palaces is FUN. Second of all, I wasn’t sure yet exactly how but I knew I needed to confront the history of the place as part of my exploration of it as a potential home. More on that later. 

The night after I went to Charlottenburg, I rode the momentum of the palace’s glamor all the way to a ballet at the Staatsoper. It was not bad. Though, the splendor of the building completely stole my attention. Massive boxes where I imagine royalty used to sit. A Gilded ceiling. Ushers waiting at every door. I felt underdressed and out of place, not in a bad way, but in a way that made me want to be a part of it all. The people around me chatted and laughed. Warmth spread through the whole building. At one point, I dropped my cloakroom tag and the woman behind me kindly tried to help. I sensed a welcoming community that was there for me to enter if I so chose. I desperately wished I spoke German.

And that wasn’t the first time in Berlin that I’d brushed the edges of a community I wanted to explore. Earlier that day, when I was on my way to the palace, I stopped at a bakery in the train station. I noticed the woman working there speaking in Arabic and a warm relief filled me. Now that was a language I could understand. I stepped up and greeted her in Arabic, ordered in Arabic, and chatted in Arabic. It surprised me how comfortable it felt. Well at least compared to everything that had been happening in German. I left smiling.

So there were a few questions answered: were the people nice? Could I see myself finding a community here? Yes to both questions. And even more importantly, I wanted to join the community.

I went back to my hostel fully in the midst of falling in love with Berlin. And the more I liked it the more I knew what questions I had left to answer. In the back of my head I imagined my ancestors asking me, “Germany, really? Even after everything that happened to the Jews there? How could you ever feel safe? How could you have a life where your people were murdered?” After that day when I discovered how much I wanted a life in Berlin, I knew that the fear reflected by these questions was not mine. It had been passed down to me from generations past. It was time to answer those fears and to look at Berlin from a new perspective. 

So, on my second full day in Berlin, I visited the museum of Jewish life. And wow. I was amazed and emotional. I was thrilled to learn my own history and I was saddened by it. It was a whole roller coaster. I can only recommend visiting the museum if any of you ever get the chance. 

The museum is, as the name suggests, about Jewish life in Germany. It includes a monument to the holocaust which is heart wrenching, sensitive, and constructed with obvious care, but the holocaust is not the focus of the museum. Instead, the museum details the history and culture of Jews in Germany stretching back around 1500 years. Without skating over the violence that Jews endured, the museum shines light on Jewish culture and success. 

At first, I felt so relieved to see that Jews didn’t just die in Germany. And then I felt a wave of anger so powerful I almost cried. I was infuriated that I’d only ever been told about all the ways Jews died in Germany. The stories of the holocaust and of pogroms were told to me over and over, but never had I heard these stories of Jewish success. I didn’t know they led the music and film industries in Germany in the early 20th century. They worked in the German government. They were philosophers, business owners, and diplomats. Yes, they were excluded from parts of German society, but so many Jews learned to leverage this separation to their benefit, becoming important power brokers.

The museum offered me a new way of imagining Germany as a place where Jews THRIVED despite violence. Where they were resilient, creative, joyful, and successful. Where they grieved, sacrificed, and struggled. Where they had whole lives. It’s hard, I think, to conceive of people as entire whole beings when all you learn about is their deaths and suffering. 

I held onto the anger, relief, and pride that the museum gave me as tightly as I could. When I once again confronted the questions that had burned in my head about how a Jew could possibly live in Germany after everything that had happened, I could answer it by saying violence isn’t everything.

When I left the museum I could breathe easier. I no longer felt like I had to hold onto the trauma of the holocaust on behalf of my family because that wasn’t the whole story, and even if it was my history it wasn’t my story either. 

What a burden to put down! How much space to have left for other considerations!

That evening, I felt more fully open to Berlin than before. So much so that I set aside my anxiety and made myself go to a bar, just to see if I liked the vibe. I looked up gay bars online and found one specifically for lesbians and thought, well, that’s less scary than a bar with men. I trekked through the city to the bar. If I weren’t so nervous when I walked in, I would’ve laughed. I was the youngest person there by about forty years. Nothing feels safer than a bar full of old lesbians.

I got a glass of wine and sat down with a book. I liked the spot. I liked that it was warm and full of laughter and people who’d obviously known each other for years. I liked that it had posters of queer cultural events around the city on the walls. Even if I wasn’t a part of it, I was again full of longing to become a part of it. 

The following morning, my last morning in Berlin, I wandered around looking for a good breakfast spot. I discovered a restaurant that specializes in hummus. Its logo? “People who eat hummus have better sex.” Well, I obviously had to check it out. I had a delicious meal. I decided that any city where I can find good hummus can become home for me.

So, anyways, will I move to Berlin? I have no idea…yet. Would I move to Berlin? Absolutely. If my whole intention is to find a place where I can be entirely authentic and free, Berlin definitely seems an attractive option for my next city. After all, being wholly myself involves embracing my flaws, my history, my joy, and my creativity, and Berlin itself does all of that. 

Sincerely,

Sarah

P.S. here is another street art photo that I just really liked, found in an alleyway that was covered from floor to roof in graffiti.