Emma Watson, I’m Coming

There’s a list I scrawled as a kid—rough plan of a life, brain-tattooed so deep I’ve actually mostly followed it. Not cleanly. There have been romantic disasters dressed up as adventure, and the kind of spectacular self-sabotage I still maintain is preferable to a life without incident. A quiet existence of manageable compromises is genuinely what I fear most, and I’ve taken some decent shots to the face for refusing to settle for one.

But the broad map has held. Bavaria: escape. Done, years ago. Berlin: the interesting middle chapter, the place where things would either make me or break me or both. Also done—and almost over now. My time here is winding down, and I can feel it.

England is next. In autumn I’m heading there for six months—Bournemouth on the southern coast first, then London—funded with suspicious generosity by the European Union. The plan involves intensive language courses and a design internship or two, and I’m cautiously optimistic about exchange students. English ones, specifically. Emma Watson specifically-specifically, but I’m trying to stay grounded.

We’re preparing for the trip the responsible way: bingeing Skins and Harry Potter until we feel we understand the full range of British civilization, from council estate hedonism to boarding school mythology. Everything in between will figure itself out on arrival.

After England there’s only one stop left on the map: Tokyo. That’s been the destination since I first scrawled the list. Whether it still makes sense when I actually get there is a question for future me. For now—Bournemouth, London, one last great Berlin summer, and the strange feeling of knowing you’re about to leave somewhere you genuinely loved.

Adios, Berlin. You were worth it.