It’s my first Saturday evening in Berlin out from under the cloud of jet lag. I’ve found a gorgeous little spot called Rhinoceros, a small, dark, candle-lit cocktail bar spinning jazz on vinyl. It’s one of a handful of English-forward places I’ve found—anywhere that calls itself a cocktail bar is liable to be, I think—and it’s a Saturday night womb. I think they might even prefer customers who come alone, the better to lose themselves in the music. The little signs on the tables declare their refusal to seat parties larger than four, and request that patrons keep their conversations low. It’s late night here all the time, that sleepy end of the evening when loud guests have gone, the bottles are mostly empty, the doorbell won’t ring again, and the candles have melted down.
School starts on Monday. I’m grateful because, lonely as I’m not, the aloneness is starting to gnaw. More importantly, I’ve been eat-sleep-breathing logistics and bureaucracy and plans for months. I am ready for some substance—to be lost, immersed, challenged, asked of—creatively, socially, and spiritually fed. This next chapter has been hard-won and a long time coming. I am ready, I am ready to dive.