The arrival.

The first day is always the most exhausting. In theory, getting from here to there should be the easiest part, though for some reason it is just the opposite. I was up at 3am, packing last minute essentials before my taxi arrived. When he did, he sped through the city unobstructed by signs of human life and thus, free to ignore red traffic signals. I arrived before anyone else in the airport, so I sat alone with my book, lulled by the sound of flickering lights and the gnomes that work the escalators when no one's around to use them. When I wasn't fearing the sudden onslaught of a zombie attack, I was learning about German history.

By noon I was queuing in front of the information point in Berlin, my usual first stop at any airport. Here I stocked up on maps and timetables and bought a ticket into the city. Maps were made for travelers and I've never spent a day without one since my disaster in Paris. I have come a long way since then.

After unloading my bags at the hostel, I contacted Michael, a friend whom I had met one year ago just days before I moved to Wassenberg. He was an exchange student from Germany, which is the only reason why we delved into a thorough conversation and kept in touch. A month ago he relocated to Berlin, and with an coincidence like that, it would be silly not to meet up. We agreed to meet in half an hour and when he arrived, my weekend began.

In minutes we were joined by a fellow German, Frank, (whose first words to me were "nice glasses," as he was wearing a matching pair), and together we walked around the city. Over the next few hours I knew there was something special about Berlin and already the desire to return was pressing.

The night ended in Frank's extremely large apartment whose bathroom lights triggered the radios to turn on (It was described to me as, "German engineering"). After Berliner beer and a night of great company, I caught the subway to my hostel and sunk into a solid state of sleep.