Berlin: City of … Loneliness?
Bank of the Spree River. Photo by Lonely Girl, Lonely World.
Berlin: gathering place of eclectics, artists, and madpeople.
Berlin: a special sort of nightlife.
Berlin: City of … Loneliness?
It’s hard to describe my time in Berlin, Germany. I’d say it was terribly great. Terribly great and terribly lonely.
Yes, Berlin is a lonely city. Not the first thing you think of when you imagine this crazy place.
As I mentioned in my first article,
By myself in a foreign country, I’ve had to sit with a very newfound kind of loneliness — the kind that almost cripples you in its intensity. One day in Berlin, I was hit by a huge wave of said loneliness, and I found myself at odds on what to do about it.
[…]
I realized that the reason I could go solo all the time back home was because subconsciously I knew I had my parents and close friends and a permanent home. I had my jobs, and I had dance studios I visited regularly. I was caught up in the workflow of city life.
Once I extricated myself from that, it really became a free-for-all.
I’d taken myself out of the rat race, and there was no going back.
Perhaps I was especially sensitive this trip because Berlin was the first city abroad I’d solo-travelled to where I was fully independent, and it made me think about its nature as a cosmopolitan.
For one thing, Berlin is a very quiet city. The roads are well-paved, no one’s honking their car horn every 30 seconds, and people generally maintain their space. Germany also has Ruhezeit (“quiet hours”), which, by force of law, has nurtured a generation of people to shut up (excuse my language). Only when the night falls do the people of Berlin come out to play in all their glory. Except for the constant wailing ambulances, I never knew a city could be so docile in the day.
The landscaping and layout are also extremely spacious, which can make you feel quite small in comparison.
At first, this was great. I fully reveled in the peace and quiet… Except, as a new solo traveller, it didn’t take long for me to start questioning my inner introvert. I’d forgotten the most important attribute of the introvert: that we aren’t unsociable, lone wolves; we just build our energy from being with the right people, doing the right things (oftentimes one-on-one).
I had inadvertently isolated myself from my own world in the pursuit of freedom to see the rest of the world. I lost contact with my community. So excited was I to be away that I barely called my parents, and I didn’t message my friends back home. I also don’t like social media, so the only apps I had at the time were exclusively for communication purposes … a subject I was obviously failing.
Instead, all day, every day, I walked about town, footing the entire city of Berlin from north to south and east to west. I had so much to do, so much to see; most of the time, I just wanted to flop into bed and go to sleep after walking 9 hours.
Berlin apartments. Photo by Lonely Girl, Lonely World.
By the end of day 2, it started to seep in. The loneliness.
It was the same at the hostel, too. The neverending cycle of:
“Hey, my name is [blank]. I’m from [blank].”
“Why are you here?”
“Ok, bye! See you again … maybe?”
People coming and going at all hours of the day and night, staying for one day, two days, three. Just enough to justify exchanging Whatsapp numbers and eating some dinners together but not enough to maintain contact unless you really hit it off.
Contrary to the picture-perfect stories you see on social media, I’ve barely kept in contact with anyone from my travels so far. The connections we made at the Passion, Play, and Pleasure dance retreat were something unique, and the people there were the ones who inspired me to take the first step to solo travelling.
I partly chose Berlin because many of them live there, and I wanted to see them. So, I sent the group my itinerary once I confirmed the trip and invited anyone to reach out if they were in town.
The replies were slow to come back, if at all. I don’t think everyone even opened the message for a good while.
I reminded myself that people have lives within lives, but I felt uncertain nonetheless. We left the retreat with glowing hearts and new friendships, but even that had begun to dim as everyone returned to their work, their families. The decreasing updates and messages in the group chat were evidence of that. And the self-doubting thoughts came: What if they don’t want to meet me? Maybe they didn’t feel our connection as strongly as I did. Do they even remember my name?!
Everyone had something to go back to, except now I didn’t. I’d quit my permanent jobs for this, I was single, and I had enough money to last me until the end of this Europe tour. I literally had no responsibilities.
But I was lonely, and I needed somebody to talk to. Somebody familiar and who knew me, the person, not me, the visitor.
I met up with a few of my friends by inviting them out individually. On day 5, I was really hit hard, so I asked another person if she wanted to meet for dinner. She said she had to take care of her son, and that I could come over to her place instead.
When she opened the door to her apartment that evening, there it was again: that strange sensation that this person before me was the same but not the same. I had felt it almost each time I met my other friends. In the span of 3 months, their aura had changed. “It’s not a retreat,” someone told me later when I asked what living in Berlin is like.
Suddenly I saw the software engineer in him, the mom in her. Maybe they hadn’t changed but had just returned to their daily state. I wondered then if I ever knew them all that well in the first place.
My uncertainties were comforted over the course of the next few hours. Sure, my friend had a layer of “mom” now, but she was still the same generous, perceptive human being I’d met in the summer.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped into her apartment was that it was small. It was messy and small and perfect. Once I got over the feeling of being a guest in someone else’s home (added to the fact that I’d read in a travel guide how being invited to a German friend’s apartment is a serious honour — not sure how accurate this is in practice), I immediately felt cozy and relaxed.
This place was alive with the sensation of care. That’s what made it a home.
Berlin apartment door. Photo by Lonely Girl, Lonely World.
I lounged in the kitchen while my friend tried to whip up homemade lasagna. Something about her awkwardness with this dish but trying to make it anyway was extremely endearing. I helped chop some vegetables later using my own inadequate knifing skills.
Some family friends came and went throughout all this, and it reminded me of my grandma’s mountain village during the New Year’s, when people would “串门” (chuàn mén — go door-to-door to celebrate or just chat).
I felt better already. The real kicker came after we’d had a portion of dinner. I think I was describing a bit of my emotional state, alone in Berlin, when she suddenly asked me, “How are your parents?”
“They’re fine,” I said reflexively. A standard response conditioned into me from years of retail work and niceties.
“No,” she said. “I mean, how are your parents? What are they like?”
And the tears flooded.
I suspect she had some spider sense that tingled at the root of my distress when I didn’t even know it myself. She didn’t seem surprised by my outburst.
In truth, I’ve always felt like a solo traveller in life. I have no siblings, being a product of China’s One-Child Policy. At age 4, I immigrated to Canada with my mother, who raised me on her own for the next several years. At age 9, we moved back to China (so I wouldn’t forget my language, they told me, though the truth runs deeper than that), and I went through my adolescent years with the addition of culture shock and meeting family I’d never known before.
It’s tough to start anew in a different country, and it’s even tougher when those years are the source of so much childhood trauma. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t hidden behind closed doors, trying to block out the noise, while my parents argued outside about money (lack of), divorce, me, and money again. I grew up keeping my home life a secret, not knowing who to turn to when things got bad. Naturally, I kept my friends at arm’s length.
I once heard a TV show character say a person with a happy childhood will always grow up with confidence, while a person with a broken childhood will spend the rest of their life trying to make up for their childhood.
It struck home. Still, I’ve come a long way in healing, and my parents’ relationship was by no means the only source of conflict in my younger life. I know they love me, even if they can’t love each other. I told my friend that my parents have stopped fighting for a long time now; “too old to fight,” they said.
My friend, who’d been holding my hand throughout my blubbering, smiled and said, “It’s a shame people don’t realize that sooner.”
She asked if I wanted to stay the night, and I said yes.
They prepared a bed in the living room for me and let me settle down. I stared out the window at the glowing lights from the apartments opposite, wondering if their occupants felt as tender as I did. The sounds of family life filtered through the closed door: she and her partner softly talking in their room, their son letting loose a giggle here and there. Their large, black dog snoozed soundly near me, and I felt safe.
Lying there by the light of the moon, I understood deeply for the first time in my life why people want a family of their own. Some place to go back to, people to take you in no matter what you’ve done outside. A special someone to wrap their arms around you and whisper, “I love you.”
I used to balk at the mere thought of finding a partner. Marriage was not an option for me, and at the most, I decided I’d only do common-law. Kids? Forget it.
Now I found myself having my values and beliefs completely upturned. I’d felt a major pivot in recent events already, and this incident further revealed the potential of a home, especially when you have unclear roots as an immigrant or nomad.
The next morning was a slow one. My friend left the key for me to go as I pleased, so I bought breakfast at the café opposite and took it back to the apartment to eat, taking my time as a form of self-care. Then I returned the key, texted my friend thank you, and left to start my solo trekking once again.
I appreciated the slightly rainy day, which wasn’t dreary but matched my mood well.
Maison de la Danse - Berlin. Photo by Lonely Girl, Lonely World.
A few blocks away was a dance shop called Maison de la Danse, and the owner and I talked about business, the housing crisis, and other topics. I asked if Berlin was still worth moving to, and he said, “Well, every madman can find a place in Berlin.”
Looking back, I think I also did too much touristy stuff and not enough living. I wanted to hit all the major hotspots and some I found out about in the Welcome Card booklet, but I realized afterward that most of those attractions are just that: attractions. Blingy and glitzy to draw in a profit, but when it comes down to it, probably not worth spending all your time on. Maybe I would’ve felt differently if I’d taken a local dance class, which I thought I’d be able to remedy by attending the Weightlessness workshop that was my reason to go to Berlin.
So, I was thrown for a loop when the workshop got cancelled the previous day, leaving me with 3 more days of wandering. Thank goodness things started to pick up in those 3 days, and I met with more of my friends for a group dinner and brunch. The warmth I felt from being with them was just the medicine I needed. Plus, more friends = more dancing, and we definitely ramped it up on the dancefloor in the coming nights (they even let me raid their wardrobes!). I felt incredibly lucky to have them.
My ballet teacher once said to always go someplace with a local; if you don’t, “you’ll have a sh*tty time” and won’t have any fun. I didn’t reach that extreme, but I understand his point.
In Berlin, many people live alone, work alone, and eat alone. It’s the price you pay to be rid of the 9-to-5. I wonder if this peculiar kind of loneliness is the reason for the prevalence of casual sex and short-term engagement in Europe, rather than any personal or political empowerment. Co-working spaces, too, are popular. Food for thought.
And if I noticed this as a tourist, I can only imagine how living here as a resident feels, but maybe that’s just me projecting.
Loneliness is pervasive; it isn’t unique to Berlin. Big or small homes, more or less people, it affects us all.
Would I move to Berlin? I don’t know. At this point, I think I’d need a good reason to stay there, or at least a remote job that would allow me to test it out. I’m not completely convinced it’s the right place for me. If I’ve gained anything from travelling, though, it’s that you live and learn. Berlin is still the hub of expression, and I’d like to discover myself in this city with that in mind.
Berlin breaks my heart, but it doesn’t have to break yours.
Last edited: May 29, 2024.
Image provided by Unsplash