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.)
I’m incredibly excited, and incredibly lucky, to go to Germany this summer. Of course, I recognize that. This isn’t about pre-travel jitters — it’s about different realities of solitude. I’m one of four siblings; I have a roommate; I live with three of my best friends. I don’t currently, and have never had, much alone time.
In high school, I would disappear intermittently into the basement of our local Barnes & Noble. There was no cell phone service down there. I could read for hours, hidden among the bookshelves. This was, obviously, very annoying for people who actively needed to contact me, and for Barnes & Noble, from whom I essentially stole entire books without paying for them.
Regardless, I cherished those solitary hours. They were restorative, creating a sense of self-reliance.
Is there a difference between the experience of carving out time to be alone, wresting precious hours from the grips of omnipresent friends and family, and that of being constantly, inescapably alone in a foreign country? I assume so.
