The only person I knew who had moved was former elementary school classmate Anna. She vanished without saying goodbye on a Summer morning as if she was in some witness protection shit, giving me my first taste of irreparable separation anxiety and none of the Little Mermaid stickers she owed me.
As I hesitantly asked “Where?”, I got ready to leave everything behind and started picturing my new life in Burkina Faso, learning French like a pro and getting fat from Fufu.
“We’ll be at number 10”.
Two months later, we relocated from number 4 to number 10 on the same suburban street, which is where I ultimately spent my childhood, teenage years and beginning of adulthood, relentlessly chained to my nest like the most stereotypical Italian.
Then Berlin happened. In hindsight it was a huge step, but at the time I thought it would be a six month chapter of my life and it did not feel like I was properly MOVING here.
“So what makes you knowledgeable enough to write this post” – you say?
I’ll tell you what. Within Berlin, I have lived E V E R Y W H E R E.
Reason being rental contracts that couldn’t be renewed, low tolerance towards my flatmates (and vice versa), first attempts at independence or even love, the bottom line is that these six years turned me into a moving machine.
I already wrote about the hassle of finding a room in Berlin and it’s now time to put together everything I’ve learned from my 6.022×1023 relocations within the city.
Estimated reading time: 45 years.