Dear friend,
After I graduated from my architecture degree, I returned to London, my birth city, and began searching for a job. But with the UK still deep in recession, architecture practices were barely hiring. And in order to qualify as an architect, I was required to clock up at least a year of work before I could return to university for the second part of my studies.
While my contemporaries jetted off to work in faraway places, such as Hong Kong and Jamaica, I dug my heels in, living at home with my parents and sending out CV after CV, convinced that if I persisted I’d find one of the rare jobs available. London was where I wanted to be: my favourite place in the world and where my friends (the non-architect ones, at least), my family and my crush were. He was gorgeous. And, four years my junior, still at school.
Months later, all I’d achieved was a thick pile of rejection letters. Plus, it wasn’t as if the crush and I were exactly going places: our ‘relationship’ never progressed much beyond sitting in London cafes together or wandering round its parks.
‘Berlin,’ people kept suggesting. ‘There’s loads of work there. And such a fun place to be a young person in.’ I knew nothing about Berlin. My only images were from November 1989, watching on TV as crowds cheered and danced on top of the graffitied Wall, the night the border between East and West finally opened.
I half-heartedly booked a three-day visit, to check it out. The city was a construction site, its two halves trying to stitch themselves back together and create the country’s reinstated capital. I returned home with six job offers, despite barely speaking a word of German.
Before I left London, I said a reluctant goodbye to my crush. We promised we’d write. Lots. And on a Monday morning, I rang the doorbell of my new office, located on the high-ceilinged first floor of an old apartment building. A smiley, curly-haired man opened the door, and showed me to my desk. It turned out I’d be working with him.
Within a few days, thoughts of my London crush faded, as my attention shifted to this young architect, four years my senior, who sat at the drawing board opposite mine. We went for lunch most days, sitting at café tables in the spring sunshine. I had no idea whether he was even single, or liked me.
It turned out he did. And that year, I fell in love. Twice. With him. And with Berlin.
Of course, these two love affairs were intertwined: how could I not love the city where we danced by candlelight at a party beneath the arch of an old bridge spanning the Spree River, or lay on the beach by one of the city’s lakes on a sunny Sunday, or huddled together in the warmth of a walnut-panelled Viennese-style coffee house, drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream on a November afternoon.
But Berlin was more than just the setting for a love affair. The better I got to know it, the deeper I fell in love with this strange, broken city, where walking along a gracious cobbled street of nineteenth century apartment buildings, you might suddenly come across a vacant lot, overgrown with wild grass and flowers, and dotted with sculptures made from found objects. It was a city that felt so much more relaxed than London, its cafes full of people eating breakfast at 3pm on a Wednesday, and where no-one cared if you sat for hours with a single milch cafe or glass of wine.
After I eventually returned to the UK, the love affair with the man unravelled. But my love affair with the city continued. It’s somewhere, every few years, I feel the urge to return to. When I fly in from London and catch my first glimpse of the forests and lakes that encircle the city, something in me softens. And there’s a spark of excitement, should the flight path takes us over the city centre, and I spot the bauble of the Alexander Platz TV Tower glinting in the sunlight. And when I finally step onto the Berlin pavement, with its familiar gritty smell, I’m overjoyed. Like the best kinds of love affairs, being there is both comforting and exciting; a chance to rediscover familiar places, such as the seven interlinked Art Nouveau courtyards round the corner from my favourite Vietnamese restaurant, as well explore new ones.
Of course, neither the love affair with the man nor the city would exist had I stayed in London which, at the time, felt like the centre of my world. I had no idea there was an even more glorious one waiting to be discovered. Which I came close to missing.
I often remind myself of this. I’m not one of life’s natural risk takers, and can easily convince myself I’m better off staying in the safety of the status quo, especially when it’s perfectly ok there. Yet almost every time I have dared to dive into something unfamiliar and (inevitably) a bit terrifying, it’s been enriching. Obviously, there are no guarantees. Berlin could have proved miserable. But most decisions in life are not irreversible, and I could always have come home.
And guess what, when I finally did, all I could think about was Berlin, and how much I missed it.
Love,
Annabel
THINGS I LOVE RIGHT NOW
TO WATCH
I’ve had two solo trips to the cinema in the past couple of weeks, and loved both these films:
Tar, starring Cate Blanchett, is a fictional story about the brilliant, autocratic lead conductor of the Berlin Philharmonie orchestra, and the gradual unravelling of her life.
Empire of Light, starring Olivia Colman as a cinema manager, is set in Margate in the early 80s, and is a love letter to the cinema, and also touches on themes of mental health and racism. It’s beautifully shot and is a very moving and humane film.
Yes! And thank you for the reminder of why also I keep pushing myself out of my comfort zone... very pertinent right now!
I'm glad it resonates! I've actually always thought of you as the opposite of risk averse xx