14. Holly, Berlin
The air in the Lustgarten is fresh after the rain, and sunshine has replaced the grey skies. I find an empty bench in the shade to finish my coffee and soak up my first Friday afternoon in Berlin. After two days, my jetlag has lifted, along with some of the heaviness of the past few months. My body feels lighter and I can breathe easier.
After I left Tom on the footpath, vulnerable and broken, I drove to Adam and Meg’s, sobs jerking my body. They rushed me inside and let me fall apart, while my young nephews patted my wet cheeks. The following morning, trying to ignore Tom’s pleading messages, I spent time with Mum before Nat took me to the airport. By the time I boarded the plane, the crack in my chest was deep, and I was questioning my decision. But as the distance grew between home and me, a sense of calm took hold and that glimmer of possibility I felt the afternoon I left Caleb’s bar spread.
The moment I stepped out of the doors at Brandenburg Airport into a grey Berlin morning full of foreign sights, sounds and smells, a rush of memories hit me. First, being here three years ago with Adam and Mum and her excitement at being somewhere new, then my university exchange semester. The shock of suddenly being in Berlin almost made me run straight back into the terminal, but I reminded myself I came here to form new memories and to fall in love with the city again. So, I took a deep breath, jumped in a taxi and headed to my accommodation, forcing myself to stay awake for the day as I wandered Mitte.
Since then, I’ve rediscovered a small part of the city with a fresh lens, visiting the places that had darkened for me eleven years ago. I spent a chunk of my twenty-seven-hour plane journey reading psychology magazines, absorbing tips on ‘how to let go’ and learning how events from the past, no matter how small, can scar us. The advice was to feel the emotion, release it, then replace it with a positive experience to form new neural pathways. I’ve been to the suburb where my dorm room was, past both our campuses and a few bars, and to the spot by the river where we shared our first kiss. I’ve allowed myself to enjoy the memory of Casey and the experiences we had together, then focused on new things to like about those places, mainly through my camera. I’ve photographed incredible art along the wall, old buildings covered in plant life, food from around the world, lush city gardens and local people doing everyday things who were more than happy to let me photograph them.
Worrying about Mum is constant, but Adam has bought her a new phone and we’ve spoken a few times. She carries it everywhere, not always remembering why until I call. It takes her a moment to register I’m away, but then she wants to know everything, and she has some memories of being here. The hurt on Tom’s face is still fresh in my mind. My head tells me it was a heartless thing to do, but when I ignore those thoughts and listen to my gut, I’m certain I did the right thing.
I place my coffee on the bench beside me and scroll through my photo app, choosing an image from earlier today that doesn’t need editing – a close-up of plants in the Tiergarten, fat, glistening drops of rain balancing on forest-green leaves. I’ve held off posting photos because I didn’t want to rub Tom’s face in it. Not that he uses Instagram, but Nat’s husband might show him at work without thinking.
I feel a surge of anger. Why am I worrying about Tom? This is my trip, and I want to share my travels and promote my photography. Before I can change my mind, I upload the photo with a simple caption, slip my phone away and think about what’s next on my ‘letting go’ tour, because it’s 23 August – the day. Time to release more memories.
I leave my shady bench and venture through the park until I reach Bodestrasse and take the path to the Alte Nationalgalerie. I glance up at the sandstone building with its Roman pillars, extravagant stairwells and the equestrian statue guarding the entrance. The scene is the same as it was eleven years ago, although I didn’t appreciate the beauty of the building as a twenty-year-old.
Inside, the visitors have thinned out being late afternoon, and I’m alone as I head to the upper galleries. On the top floor, I pause for a few seconds to get my bearings, then make my way to the room I want, taking a sharp intake of breath when I see it. The bench seat with the same dusty pink cushioned top is still there. I see a younger version of myself gazing at the painting, na?ve, hopeful and focused on my studies, no clue that the person who was about to talk to me would leave a scar. Casey had told me she’d followed me from the gallery below, watching me tilt my head at paintings trying to figure them out, and waiting for an opportunity to talk to me.
I walk to the middle of the room, my sandals making a soft thud on the parquet floor, and sit in the same spot I had that day. Italia und Germania is long gone, in a gallery in Munich now. I take in the painting in my line of sight. All I see is a house among some trees. It looks rushed, like something my nephews would paint at preschool, but if Casey were here, she’d talk about the significance of the brushstrokes, the symbolism in the art, and how it reflected society at the time.
I shake my head to clear the thought. I’m not here to dwell on what might’ve been. I close my eyes and let that day swirl in my mind – walking through the different galleries, Casey showing off her university-level art knowledge, all cockiness and swagger. The way she gazed at me, dreamy-eyed, as I spoke. And later that night, our first kiss. My stomach flutters at the memory. I’ve never experienced a first kiss like it. The way we both sighed when our lips pressed together, her warm tongue tentative against mine, her mouth as soft as it looked, and the way my fingers tingled when they brushed her skin. I hold a hand to my chest, reluctantly let the memory go and say a silent goodbye to her.
I head outside, unsure if that exercise has made any difference, so I do the thing that always helps – set up my tripod, adjust the camera settings to architecture mode and line up the building. I snap image after image. Different angles, shifting light, the contrast of sandstone against the expanse of blue sky and feathery white clouds. The edges of the building are sharp in the summer sunshine and the starkness of the different textures is striking. I snap some with my phone, send one to Adam and Mum, and upload another to Instagram. I stroll along the busy walkway to the Bode Museum where I take more shots, focusing on the way the sun casts a sheen across the magnificent copper dome.
Once I’m happy with my photos, I pack up my gear and slowly turn around, my stomach jumping. Across the small body of water is Monbijoupark. I peer at my watch – 5.40 pm. My legs have suddenly become heavy but I force myself to move, cross Monbijou Bridge and descend the concrete steps to the park. Crowds are gathered along the promenade, lounging in deck chairs, soaking up the late afternoon sun and live music.
I head towards the centre of the park and take the dirt path. It takes a few minutes to orient myself, but then I’m certain I’ve found the right spot because the Berliner Fernsehturm antenna is peeking over the treetops. I know the tree by the width of its trunk; I’d measured it against my body when I first returned looking for Casey so I’d never forget.
I sit cross-legged on the grass and let the memories surface. My head on Casey’s shoulder, her mouth on mine, my fingertips brushing her silky skin. I’ll remember. This spot. This day. This time. My mind shifts to our other conversation that day – me pushing to go to London, trying to force a situation where we’d be together – and deep regret flares in my chest. I release a heavy, shuddering breath, hoping it will rid me of this hurt and confusion I’ve carried for so long.
‘Time to move on,’ I whisper. Opening my eyes, I look around the park. Nothing has changed. No one has magically appeared in front of me. But I feel a shift inside, a willingness to let it go, and that’s a start.
I pull out my camera and take some random shots. Maybe I’ll go to a bar tonight and find myself a new Berlin romance – create new, amazing-sex neural pathways, test whether this letting go stuff has worked. I flick through the images I’ve just taken and consider my own invitation to go out. Too much effort. Maybe I’ll just get some nice food, a bottle of wine, take it back to my Airbnb and spend the night in Lightroom, editing my photos.