Starting From Scratch – Again

A little too perfect.

That was my first impression.

How can a place be ‘too perfect’? Well, for a start, it looked like it had come straight out of a glossy advertising brochure. Trendy young people cycling down pristine avenues, chatting and laughing with friends. Outwardly: the perfect life.

My life, however, wasn’t up to the standard of this glossy brochure.

I have never felt so alone. Not lonely (I’m content with my own company), but alone. There was no one looking after me here or telling me what needed to be done or how to do it. Not like in Russia and Austria on my year abroad, where Durham University had my back – and not like the Czech Republic, where my employers and colleagues immediately welcomed me into the ready-made community of English teachers.

This time, in Munich, I knew one person in a city of 1.5 million people. I didn’t yet belong to the university here and I didn’t yet have a job. No student loan: money trickling slowly but surely out of my bank account into Germany’s most expensive city…

What was I doing here?

Starting from scratch. Again. Having put so much in last year in Liberec – only to leave it all behind – I was daunted at the prospect of beginning all over again. Daunted at the knowledge of the time it takes to build up relationships and to transform the city from an empty shell into a place with meaning and connection. I couldn’t imagine this place ever feeling like home.

At least one place in the city wasn’t a shell. On the first morning in my new flat, I awoke to the sound of coffee brewing, kettle boiling, the clatter of plates. I rolled out of bed off my mattress (furniture somewhat limited) and, still half-asleep, went into the kitchen. Florian and Berenike had already laid the table for breakfast. They were wide-awake and highly entertained by my sleepy responses to their questions.

‘I thought we were going for a run at five o’clock this morning?’ Florian said, grinning.

I stared at him. Without my glasses, his face was blurry and I couldn’t tell whether he was serious. ‘You’re joking, right?’

Proof that the Germans do have a sense of humour.

University also didn’t remain a shell for long. A couple of weeks into term, my Russian classmate asked me a very basic question as we came out of our Czech lesson:

‘How are you?’

Maybe I’ve spent too long in Russia, where that question is never answered with a dismissive, ‘Fine, thanks.’ I told her the truth. The sky was grey and had even sapped the colour out of the usually autumnal trees but, in true Russian style, we went for a walk. Our long conversation took us through Munich’s expansive English Garden: fast-flowing river and wide, open space.

At the end of the day, exhausted by a mixture of German, Czech, Russian and Emotion, I headed back to my new flat. A shaft of light beneath the door welcomed me even before my flatmates could do so in person. We finished the day as we had started: well-fed and warm.

A few days later, I went for a walk in the English Garden again, and I was struck by the vivid colour of the leaves.