Leaving Liberec

The hardest part of leaving was two weeks before I actually left. That’s when the reality of it hit me. Until then, it had seemed sufficiently distant not to think about it; but with only two weeks to go, I had to turn my face from the joyous present moment to the uncertain future. Having been wonderfully spontaneous this year, I actually had to plan and accept the fact of my imminent departure.

I put a lot in this year. And it’s true I got a lot out. But when it came to leaving I couldn’t just take out what I’d put in. I couldn’t just press ‘stop’ to the feelings I’d developed for people and place. And from the soaring highs of this year (no drugs needed: just give me a pair of skis or a lake to swim in), there is an inevitable, accompanying low.

Still, self-pity isn’t pretty. I had two more weeks in the Czech Republic and I was going to enjoy those two weeks as much as I possibly could.

My German friend Kathrin came to the rescue. She had received a voucher to stay in the iconic Hotel Ještěd as a leaving present and invited me to join her. The hotel spears the sky in Soviet sci-fi splendour and commands a spectacular view across the city and surrounding countryside from its mountaintop vantage point. I’d hiked to the top on my first Friday after work, accidentally walking up the grassy black ski slope instead of the footpath; and I later skied down this same slope in winter. As you must know by now, hiking and skiing are normal activities for me – staying in iconic hotels is not.

The following weekend was back to ‘normal’: we hiked up Sněžka, the Czech Republic’s tallest mountain, in the aptly named Giant Mountains. On the way up we crossed the border into Poland and entertained each other with tongue-twisters from our native countries: France, Germany, England – and a Czech tongue-twister thrown in for good measure. Unfortunately we didn’t know any Polish ones. We reached the top (and the Czech Republic again) just in time to watch the blood orange sun sink slowly beneath the horizon as the clouds caught fire. If only departures were always that beautiful.

And then it was the final week. I didn’t tell the kids that I wouldn’t be teaching them next year, and was relieved at the lightness of the goodbyes. One of the kids said ‘See you soon!’ as she skipped out of the classroom. I didn’t feel particularly sad: it’s hard to get too attached when you teach 400 kids and see them for only 20 minutes a week. Only one class knew I was leaving and they all wanted selfies with me.

Climbing. Volleyball. Slacklining. Swimming, swimming, swimming – even at midnight. Especially at midnight. Beer of course, too, and plenty of food with friends – picnics and barbecues and, well, beer.

And then it was the final weekend. Saturday was a Czech day: tea with Romana, as patient as ever with my linguistic efforts, and dinner with friends from church. Justin is American but has learned perfect Czech since he moved here six years ago (and married a Czech!). He and his wife Lucie had helped me with the language and made me feel incredibly welcome. Terka also spoke Czech with me whenever I saw her – as halting as my language skills were. And so it felt like a huge achievement to spend the evening speaking Czech with all three of them. It’s always harder in a group.

On my final day in the Czech Republic, I flipped. In the literal sense. After some hesitation, I threw myself off the diving platform into the water. This time, Radek made no comment. I took that as success.

When it came to actually saying goodbye, it lacked the weight of finality for me. I simply cannot accept ‘never’ or even ‘not for a long time’. I’d much prefer to take a leaf out of my student’s book and say, ‘See you soon!’

On the last day of term, I received an email and was surprised at the intensity of my relief on reading it. The uncertainty of my future is now a little more certain: I am going to Munich to do a Master’s in Slavic Studies.

Not before the summer holidays though.