Last week, I embarked on a solo expedition to Looking Glass. I sipped a latte, reminiscing on my Tuesday and listening to the egregiously loud game of Dungeons & Dragons unfolding at the table next to me. I mulled over the inexplicable, seemingly constant presence of said Dungeons & Dragons players; I read some Yeats poetry for my English class.
I basked in the leisure of being alone, congratulating myself on escaping the overpopulated ranks of campus.
Two hours passed; I started getting restless. Where were all my friends, anyway? I texted one of my group texts. I texted another. I texted my mom, just to say hi. Being alone felt, abruptly, less voluntary and more uncomfortable.
The realization hit me suddenly: I was about to live as an intern in Berlin — in a city where I know absolutely no one and barely speak the native language — completely alone, for the next two months.
I saw, as if watching a horribly depressing indie film version of my life, the next two months unfold before me: long, lonely afternoons wandering the streets of Berlin; solo tours of the Reichstag; lonely meals and lonely beers at the end of every solitary day, before returning, alone, to my Airbnb apartment. (If anyone reading this — literally, anyone — is going to be in Berlin this summer, please, PLEASE visit me. Please.)