"Will I get it?”

“Almost everyone does.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Was it bad?”

“No, but it’s different with everyone.”

I sit on the cathedral steps, hugging my knees. Next to me sits my companion, staring out at the market square in front of us. I sift through the hazy fog in my brain seeking a foothold from which to continue my questioning. The silence continues. Birds hop up the stairs toward us, timidly edging near to the crumbs at our feet.

“It was like being cut out of a picture; I became an observer. It gave me time to think, assess, learn … but it’s different with everyone. You see?”

“Yeah.” I reply. I hug myself tighter. Culture shock is an unpleasant thing for me to contemplate. I have never been this far away from home, and with a whole year of unknowns looming in front of me, I am beginning to feel quite small and inadequate for the task I have begun. Suddenly, the glory of the adventure I am about to take, fades. I just want to go home, to a place of normalcy, of safety.

However, in a week, just a few days really, I will be miles away in what, to my mind, is a big blank, a wide space—“The Unforeseen.” But isn’t that the very reason I have come? To roam the unforeseen? I’m not so sure now.

The train jolts; I’ve arrived in the station. I grip my bag and feel my stomach turn. I am tempted to remain sitting, continue riding past the large city that is to be my home for the next year. I stand up: “No, I’m going to do this.” I walk out onto the platform and scan the crowd, trying to remember faces I have seen only in photographs. A family of three is searching through the crowd as well; they see me. They’re walking toward me, smiling and chattering in a language I can’t understand; this must be the right family. They take my suitcase and I follow them to their car. I assume they’re asking me how my trip was, but their language is unintelligible to me. It grows quiet. I stare out the window; massive concrete buildings tied together by spider webs of street cables hem me in. Bold graffiti shouts at me in a language I don’t recognize. So, this is Berlin.

Two days later I find myself approaching a large, imposing building—school. Kids are everywhere, stretched out on benches, sitting on railings, strewn across the yard. How will I ever find my way? In class, everything is a jumble of words; questions and answers fly across the room in all directions. Does everyone know what they’re doing except me? I watch silently. I want to reach out, to escape this cell that the language barrier is rapidly building around me, but I lack the words. Everyone seems so alike, each one dressing and acting the same as the others, and I feel distinctly like the stray color the painter’s brush missed when creating the picture.

The next few months I find myself swimming through massive amounts of new information and culture, desperately trying to get my head above water. And as I swim, slowly I become stronger. There are points in life where one can actually feel oneself growing up. I am learning to make decisions on my own, to be responsible for my actions and perceptive of those around me, all while facing a completely new culture and country.

Slowly at first and then with increasing speed, the months flow by. I become fluent in the language, form friendships, and become comfortable in this new culture I now call home. I have come to love the people and country of which I was once so afraid. It is hard to imagine having to say goodbye to it all.

But even good things must come to an end. It’s late June. My friends crowd around me at the train station. I look at their faces, trying to imprint each one of them in my mind’s eye, unsure when I will ever see them again. There are so many good memories that we have shared together, so much they have taught me during this year.

My train arrives, and I hurry to get on board. As I sit in the seat and wave goodbye, I feel tears springing to my eyes. But as the skyline of Berlin disappears in the horizon, I realize that while I have to say goodbye to Germany, I am bringing with me so many precious gifts: memories, experience, maturity, and friendships. I am so grateful to have had the chance to step off the train and roam the unforeseen.

Hannah Smith graduated from homeschool and spent her past year of studies in Berlin, Germany. In her spare time she enjoys traveling, snowboarding, playing soccer, and hanging out with her family of nine. She is now beginning her studies at Maryville College.