On Leaving

2013-05-08T06:24:00.000-07:00

My neck hurts and my throat is sore and my back is tight and my wallet is empty and I’m tired. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. I’m drained. I’ve poured everything I’ve had into the past few weeks and it’s made me love everyone and everything in my life that much more. The only thing left in my bedroom is a mattress, a desk, and three coat hangers, all of which I’m giving to the guy who moves in May 1st. Everything else I have is packed in three suitcases and one backpack that sit by the door waiting to be put in the trunk of the cab that is taking me to JFK where I, along with it, will travel 9 hours to Berlin, Germany, my new home for the next who knows how long. What are you doing this week?

I’m looking up. My head is against the wall in my Bushwick living room. The ceiling is cracked and stained yellow from the water damage we had during Hurricane Sandy. I had two friends in town for Halloween and they ended up staying almost until Thanksgiving because public transportation shut down. When our power went out and both of my roommates and I were told we had to work from home, the five of us ate tacos in the living room and drank whisky on the fire escape. Do they have tacos in Berlin? If not, I’m setting up a truck. BYOTortillas.

I have friends here. Ex-girlfriends and bike routes and regrets and open tabs. I’m even a regular at this one restaurant, a goal I’ve had from long before I moved to New York. Tina knows how I like my eggs and I don’t need to say a thing. You can’t buy that. That type of relationship takes time. I know the subway routes and the feeling of running into a turnstile when you swipe your card and your pass has expired. I’ve been poked in the eye by an umbrella and I’ve given secret passwords to get into bars. I’ve paid 12 dollars for french fries. I accidentally accosted Elvis Costello on the street. And it’s only been two years. Less. It would be two years in August. What’s a year in Berlin going to do?

It’s scary. Anything this new and exciting is supposed to be scary. It would be insincere to say I am completely comfortable with it. But I’m doing it because it’s an opportunity and a chance of a lifetime and because people keep telling me that it’s an opportunity and a chance of a lifetime. And that I’m only young once. People say that a lot. Young people, too. Young people who think they are old. Young 29-year-olds who are neurotic enough to see the top of the hill and assume they are already over it. Young 55-year-olds who have actually been over a few hills and know that this is just one of them. Young 78-year-olds who walked uphill both ways when they were my age and know that this will be a life changing experience. But aren’t all experiences life-changing?

(Thinking is the worst, isn’t it? No matter how good you are at it, at the end of the day all you end up with is your thoughts and what good did those ever do anyone who’s trying to make a big decision?)

I’m nervous and excited and anxious and only just starting to get comfortable with the notion that I don’t know what I’m doing. There’s a freedom in the ocean of possibilities I’m about to be dropped into but it’s as paralyzing as it is motivating. It’s an amplified version of the way I feel in every bookstore. I want to read it all and I don’t want to choose anything. I just want it all in me. I’m overwhelmed by my own interests and I don’t want to waste a single moment of it. But it quickly becomes too much and I buy the Calvin & Hobbes flipbook instead. That’s just the fiction aisle in my local shop. What am I going to do with Europe at my disposal?

No one else knows any better, either. I know that. But I like advice and adventures and not knowing can be healthy. Good for the skin, even. So I’m hearing what people have to say. Even if, historically, people are full of shit. We’ll see.

Here’s what I know. I know I want to live in Europe. I know that having a job provides me with the opportunity to live abroad with a stability I wouldn’t have otherwise. But who goes to Europe for stability? I have that here. Part of why I’m leaving is for the unstable nature of it. For the romance. So I can live like all those old dead white guys I enjoy reading and so I can finally see what all the fuss is about. I can call myself an expat, which still seems like the coolest thing to be called. I can be an American when it’s convenient; on the 4th of July or when someone has an opinion about New York. And I can write out everything longhand and drink wine and pretend I’m important. Isn’t that why people go to Europe?

I’m already thinking about not coming back for a while. It’s a fantasy now but I also know how easily it could become a reality and it’s scary because of how much I like it here. I like it a lot. And the thought of leaving fosters insecurities over the strength of my relationships that have never been tested by distance before. I’ve had close relationships dissolve over nothing more than distance in the past. Negligible distance. Different boroughs, even. And the advice I give to other people in this situation is that the good relationships last. The ones that are worth it will stick around, no matter where you are. And that’s a nice thought. It could be true, too. But I don’t want to find out who matters that way. I want it to stay the same.

That’s not how it works. Things change. Even if I stayed here, things would change. And they’re supposed to. But as much as I’m excited for what lies ahead, I’m scared and I’m sad.

I’m not used to heading off for the next adventure when I’m still enjoying the current one. I usually make sure to burn everything into ground before sifting through the ashes, picking out the pieces worth saving, and moving on to the next thing. So it makes leaving New York a new experience. I love it here. I’m not ready to go. I feel like I just lit this motherfucker. These past 6 months? Some of my best. I even got a new haircut. I’ve spent the past few weeks drinking in my life as heavily as possible and I’m full and happy and everything is the best it’s ever been, making it, I realize, the perfect time to pull a George Costanza and leave on a high note.

So now what? Now I do the thing I do. I'll write about it. This is the first entry in my new blog. It’s like the old blog, except everything is different. New city, new people, new language. New continent. New me. Old me, too. I’ll update when I have something to say or when I want to say something anyway. And I’ll think about a lot of you a lot of the time. Visit, or don’t. Write, or don’t. You do you, I’ll do me, and I’ll see you when I see you. By then I hope you’ll have some good stories for me. If not, make some up. It makes the conversation more fun.

Here On Earth

On Leaving