I really hate moving. Probably because I have moved so many times in the last ten years. Since 2004, I have moved to four different cities, in three different states and finally to a alltogether new country. A country where they speak German. A language that in the right hands can wrap words around complex thoughts, tie up all the loose ends into a bow, and present it as a complete complicated whole to the listener. In the wrong hands, well, no need to go into that.
I have visited Germany several times before, and have spent a bit of time with J’s family. This idea, that quite a few people in this world speak another language that isn’t my native language, I thought I had a pretty good grasp of it. I have been watching movies with subtitles for many years now, have heard many people speak many different languages, and have done a fair bit of my own studies in German. However, this time was different. This time, I needed to keep reminding myself that everyone around me speaks German. Ironically going to IKEA and hearing and reading German, bizaare.
My brain is very confused with everything that I have done to it the last month. I either sold, tossed, or packed everything I owned. Gave almost everything that I owned to the nice truck driver in Madison, with the hopes that it would all arrive in Dresden some day through the magic of transport. I take my instruments, 98 pounds of clothes and treasures, and my two cats to the airport. My husband does not need to be taken, he brings himself. Then for one more layer of stripping, the cats are taken away to their secret place in the back, and the baggage is checked. Then we fly.
I am waiting for my brain to catch up with that trip that I made. It doesn’t quite yet realize that I have moved. However, there must be a part of my brain that realizes it, possibly part that wants everyone to speak English. However, most of me thinks I am on this vacation. It hasn’t quite sunk in that this is where I am to live. As I build a new life here, I imagine that my brain will slowly realize that this isn’t a break from life, it is life. A new life, on a different continent, with different street signs, different windows, and different foods. It is like a shift to a new dimension. A dimension that is similar to the one I knew. The foundation is the same, the clothing is different.
Moving to a different country is a unique experience. An experience that I truly believe you cannot understand unless you do it yourself. It isn’t easy. I never realized that before. I always felt that since I never really felt at home in the US, that moving elsewhere would be easy. I am not finding this to be the case. Maybe because I hate moving.