The Major Setback

I got off at the subway station Fraunhoferstraße. I was eager to find a place I had never been to before. I have this weird habit of associating locations with different moods and tasks of mine. The library was for exams, the student cafeteria for emails and job applications, and the vegan café on the corner of Schellingstraße for procrastination. Whenever I wanted to feel like I was not in Munich anymore, I would escape to a random café around Fraunhoferstraße, hoping that the sense of newness would make me more productive, yet I always failed. I used to blame my ever-distracted mind for having such a hard time focusing. At some point, I stopped whining and thought of a constructive solution. Hence, the associations.

On my hunt, I found the perfect place to resonate with my writer persona. It was not like I had many choices due to the European Sunday; still, I was contemptuous of my luck. Their coffee machine was broken, so I jumped at the opportunity to order Munich’s most popular beverage after beer, the Aperol spritz. I could use some courage.

I had always wanted to write fiction. Yet, on the first attempt of my adult life to produce some written work, I only wanted to write about my reality. As insignificant as I valued my experience for a book, I felt like I had to spill my guts before I went looking for the corners of my imagination. They say philosophy started in ancient Greece because they didn’t have to worry about food. I will not be creative until I battle my own demons.

I moved to another country, got my own place, started one of the most challenging universities in Europe, and started working. The cherry on top: It was the coronavirus season. I was still carrying the heartbreak of not being able to study in the US after years of hard work. Feeling like a failure, I had to build myself a new life. I cried myself to sleep most nights. Mainly because I was mad at myself for feeling like the victim. What was done was done, and I was given opportunities most students in Turkey did not even dream of. Then, why did life still feel this hard?

Returning to these feelings in my little café on a sunny Sunday twisted my stomach. For the first time, that was a good thing. I knew I would feel light as a feather by the time I was done with this chapter. I took a sip from my drink. Only way out was through.

Making German friends and excelling academically was hard, but harder in online lectures. Moving out and becoming responsible for your bills, paperwork, and kitchen was hard, but harder in another country. Working as student was hard, harder if your whole education depended on it. Getting used to a new culture was hard, harder if only the grocery stores were open and you had a curfew.

I had accepted these at the time and stopped being mad at myself for feeling this way. These factors might have delayed my transition into a functioning adulthood, but three years later I was feeling as adult as I possibly could. I took another sip from my drink.