In search of lost time

The most important part of Berlin has nothing to do with the language, the people, the ever-present history and monuments, the cheap food or the electric nightlife. It’s the way that it’s changed my approach to time.

In Australia, I never really relax. I couldn’t, or perhaps didn’t want to, escape the treadmill, the quick two-step. It’s like there’s a grandfather clock next to my head and I’m aware of every second passing and with them things I could have done. Psychological, environmental or genetic, driven by ambition, education or boredom, I don’t know. But I had to stay busy, or at least justify to myself the way I spent my time.

But here, I’ve forgotten what my alarm clock sounds like. I sleep at least eight hours a night, an extravagance compared to semester time in Melbourne. I frequent park benches and comfortable chairs, sometimes reading but mostly just thinking and soaking up the weak European sun. “Doing nothing” doesn’t bother me like it used to. And it makes me really happy.