The Wedding Can Have It

Half an hour ago I gave notice on my apartment. My landlord printed something out on his ancient PC, I signed it, that was it. By the end of February, I’m out of Wedding for good. A few days later I’m on a plane to Tokyo. That’s how fast decisions become actual life.

I always need three times as many hurdles as normal people to get anywhere, so usually everything takes forever. But this moved too smoothly. It’s starting to feel suspicious. Which is stupid—you don’t complain when things work out.

What do I do with all my stuff? Sell it, give it away, throw it out. Keep the actually important things somewhere safe. Standard collapse-of-a-life logistics. But first I have to fly home for a week and listen to Christmas dinner arguments about what an insane idea this is. Do they only eat sushi there? Don’t bring home some girl in a school uniform. Isn’t it dangerous? Earthquakes, yakuza, meltdowns? I’ve heard all the questions already.

I’ve lived five years in Wedding, this cheap Berlin neighborhood, secretly hoping the trends would finally reach it. The rents are low, artists show up, location’s decent. But probably people have died waiting. Since the world won’t come to me, I’m going to the world instead.

The thing about deciding to move somewhere on impulse is that for a while it feels fictional—something you’re telling people, not something that’s actually happening. Then one day you sign a form and suddenly it’s real. You’re committed. In two months I’ll be in Tokyo with a suitcase and no plan, which is either the best or worst position to be in. Probably both.

Everyone wants to know what I’ll do next, like I have an answer. I don’t. I’m just leaving. That’s usually enough for me.