(1) On spaces in-between
It’s a memory I can feel with all five senses. The coarse, irritating fuzz of the seat’s upholstery, the aesthetically grating colour combination of industrial blue and orange. The metallic, electric smell that is probably exclusive to railroads, intertwined with occasional boiler-coffee aroma. This one very particular sound, that doesn’t exits anywhere else, that abrupt whizz when another train passes on a parallel track.
And before that, the soft, warm light of my bedside lamp that I purchased back home and brought here in my father’s car, secured with a seatbelt. 4.30 am on the clock, coffee brewing on the stove. And, absolutely essential, TV on, reruns of sitcoms dubbed in German.
All that in order not to fall asleep again, on my hastily made bed. Not to forget my ID, not to forget my keys, not to forget all of this sensation, which I know I never could and the early morning train rides will stay with me forever.
The 5 am commute, with all it’s details — so ordinary, unexciting, yet I remember everything so well. In fact, I see travelling more vividly than the building of the college I have attended for the past two years, than the streets I walked a thousand times, than the nights out, when all I could think about was that I’ll never have as much time as I do now, and besides, it’s not like I would have remembered these nights anyway.
The ride would start at Berlin Hauptbahnhof and end in three hours at Poznan Główny station. Three hours, to be neither here or there. To talk to strangers next to me like I’ve known them forever. To give advice on where to grab a drink in Berlin. Because, you know, I would know. To discuss Polish politics, because, again, I, of course, have authority to speak on it. I like the feeling that I know something about a place that you don’t. I like giving directions that, more often than not, lead to nowhere.
Three hours, during which being an expat felt rather powerful than miserable. It’s always the mix of the two, only in varying proportions. On a train, it was fun; like a manifestation of all my hard work and big luck that made me an expat, in the form of coming home from somewhere. It felt like it all was easy, perhaps because the train was moving ahead at 200km/h, away from my small apartment where I’d leave all confusion and loneliness and the feeling that I maybe I am not doing any of this right. On the train, everything outside was a blur. The sun rose as the travel progressed.
***
And then, in the cab home, at 9 am. I’d watch through the window as it left Poznan Main Station and passed through the city centre. Everything was the same, but I always felt like something important happened when I was gone. Something I would’ve liked to be involved in. Like I left the place where I was meant to be and it didn’t wait for me — it just went on with its life, proving that my presence was rather meaningless. And yet, I felt a sense of relief to be back here, to reassert that I am a part of this city, or maybe, more precisely, it is a part of me. A certain possessiveness over something that feels inherently mine.
It seems like the simplest logic to me: I was born here and grew up across three homes, each located in a different area of the city. I went to school, I made friends, I was really bad at maths, all here.
Later I grew older, found out that it’s actually June that’s my favourite month, hosted parties, rode my bike too close to the bus at that one particular roundabout, yelled and got yelled at, spent long nights at the same bar (in fact always in the same chair), met someone, and then someone else, accumulated over two hundred books, each of which are just so important to me, broke my heels and lost my keys, laughed till I cried and then cried till I laughed, imagined someplace else, somewhere it doesn’t look like this, learnt to recognize birds by their songs, looked into someone’s eyes and thought, for a moment, that it all made sense, cursed at the potholes in the street, only to stand and look up in awe at the historical buildings, boarded a plane for a quite lonely, ten-hour journey to New York, where I’d sigh wishing I was from there, only to return and end up here, again.
And yet, in the background, there was the dream of leaving. Of going somewhere, bigger, better, new. Following the instinctive idea that I was meant to leave. To go and find what’s been missing and what was necessary to make me feel fulfilled. To leave behind all that I knew so well and, in some twisted way, felt better than. To visit for a week or two during Christmas, have stories to tell at the family table, smile politely and then, not without relief, return abroad. To a home, one that I have chosen, that I feel a connection to, somehow more real than to the place I was born in, just because it was a consious decison, supported by hard work, to build a life there. To my apartment, where my surname is stuck on a little sticker by the doorbell, without the polish “ź” accent, just a simple “z” will do. I’d look down at the street from my balcony the next morning, watch stylish men and elegant women ride their bikes, even in wintertime, falling into no potholes whatsoever, everything bustling, alive, friendly, and me, becoming a part of it now.
Berlin was just like that. It was beautiful. It was vivid. Something going on, someplace to be, someone to see at all times. My apartment, small but not missing anything I’d ever need. Kind neighbours who helped me move in and never complained about how I’d sometimes play music on loudspeaker, controling the volume with a particularly heavy hand. I did my best to become a regular in certain bars and cafes, to befriend the people behind the counter and to assert my recurring presence as something that will be the norm from now on. I had my favourite shop, and never-changing weekly grocery list. I made friends. I spoke English. I had a strong, Eastern accent. When I talked, it felt flat and square. A reminder of what I can’t let go of, each time I spoke. It was unfortunate, but also charming in a way. Despite all the pushing through, all the efforts to make an impression of being from nowhere precisely but rather of the world, the pronounciation of words such as mountain or February eluded me and gave away that I am not of the world but rather from a very precise area of the world.
***
Sometimes when I’d board a train, I’d feel like entering a space in-between. A space that was somehow separate from its start and its end. Getting on a train always was equal to a kind of relief and a certain promise. A promise of finding something that was missing, awaiting at the final station. The excitement when coming from Poznan to Berlin.
The thought of passing through a corridor at the end of which, on the right side, was my door, the door that led to my single bedroom, which held most the life I have made for myself, one that I always envisioned myself having. The one that turned out to be everything I was looking for. The one I chased, knowing it’s better. Where I thought I was shining, even though my light was slightly dimmed by my strange accent.
But why, as I became assimilated with the “better”, did I feel something, almost like solace, while boarding a train homewards?
Why did I feel like every kilometer passed was bringing me closer to somewhere I belonged without chasing the sense of belonging. Somewhere I fit, without a single thought. Somewhere that, even though I curse it out daily, feels like place I am made of, of it’s good, and it’s bad. It’s something I am, deep down, scared of losing. Something that feels inherently, inevitably, unchangeably mine. A place made of familiar faces, familiar tastes, familiar anger. A place that wouldn’t move on without me, even though of course it would. Where I could feel shamelessly complacent. Shamelessly, until I reminded myself that there’s my life waiting somewhere else.
***
The morning, and the train. A true space in between. The early hours when I felt as if I were the only one awake in the world. Warm lights, brisk air. Silent streets, just for a brief moment. It is a memory I can recall with all five senses, even though it ultimately felt like nothing much. It was nothing much.