I saw the photo again recently. It showed me sitting behind my familiar desk in Utrecht. “Quotenknaller”—that was the name of my shift on my last day. With the news hot on our heels—as soon as a story came in, we’d call, call, call, and ask for a response. We’d type up the scripts and hear them back in the news bulletin just a moment later. Not exactly a laid-back last day, but still a very straightforward task, with me in my element, at the helm, everything under control—whatever you want to call it. Professional ease. That’s how it often felt. And on that day, too.
That was a year and one week ago.
Exactly one year ago, I took the train. Three of us, one-way from the border. The truck wouldn’t arrive until two days later, so I went ahead first.
This week I found last year’s ticket in my backpack. Neatly tucked away in the back pocket—I’d long since forgotten about it.
One year.
1 year.
My daughter has turned 1 in the meantime.
Every day, around the clock.
How did that train ride feel?
I could write here: special—unique—once-in-a-lifetime—full of homesickness—crazy. But none of those words would be quite right. Because I can barely remember that train ride.
And that’s what’s truly unique.
Somehow, it just feels completely normal that we live here. We’ve traveled back and forth to the Netherlands quite a few times by now, and we’ve noticed once again that 650 kilometers isn’t that far. Not for us—we’ve been taking the same train back and forth since 1994.
Living there? Living here? Is there really that much of a difference?
Emigrating isn’t what it used to be. I still play WeFeud with the same coworkers. I scroll through Facebook and Twitter, and I still do that mostly in Dutch. Because that’s how it’s evolved over the years. I’m in WhatsApp groups with my friends; photos and messages fly back and forth, and it really doesn’t matter where we are.
Of course, it also helps a lot when you have brothers-in-law who call on Thursdays and ask, “Can I come by tomorrow? I’ll stay until Sunday! Sounds fun!” They visit us here at least as often as they did when we lived in the Netherlands. They stay a little longer than just for a grilled cheese sandwich, but it turns out that gives us much more time for fun conversations and great outings.
Sure. I don’t see my friends nearly enough. Way too little. I don’t talk to them often, either. And I miss that. One of my best friends just had a baby, but I won’t actually get to see her little girl until she’s four weeks old.
In the meantime, thankfully, my phone beeps and I can admire her digitally. And back in the Netherlands, we were already quite far apart and had to check our calendars to make time to see each other.
Someday, I hope I’ll be able to just pop in to see them for a cup of coffee again.
But for now, we’re enjoying a summer in Berlin.
One year is nothing. It really doesn’t feel like it’s been that long since we moved.
But we’re not that far away, either.
Everything is more normal than I ever dared to imagine.
