If Prague was magic,
Berlin was a confrontation.
Not with the city.
With myself.
We took the train from Prague to Berlin.
It should have been simple.
But I had a suitcase.
A backpack.
No mobile data.
No SIM card.
No German.
Berlin Hauptbahnhof is not small.
It’s glass, steel, levels, escalators, stairs, and if you don’t know where you’re going, it can feel like a maze.
My friend had data.
My friend had traveled before.
My friend seemed to know what he was doing.
I didn’t.
So I leaned on him.
And the more I leaned, the smaller I felt.
Every question I asked:
“How do we buy the transport card?”
“Where do we load money?”
“Which platform?”
Was answered with growing annoyance.
And suddenly, I felt like I was stupid.
I wasn’t.
I was just new.
But when you’re in a foreign country for the first time, that difference matters.
Berlin is big.
Huge.
So my friend suggested we rent bicycles, or those electric tricycles to move faster and see more.
It sounded efficient.
It also terrified me.
I don’t ride bikes in my own country.
And now I was supposed to ride one in traffic… in Germany… in a city I don’t know… without data?
But I didn’t want to disappoint.
And there it was again, that pattern.
“We paid for it.”
“We can see more.”
“Don’t waste the hours.”
So I forced myself.
And instead of seeing Berlin,
I was staring at the road the entire time.
Watching cars.
Watching traffic lights.
Trying not to fall.
I wasn’t enjoying anything.
I was surviving it.
There was one intersection.
Big road.
Cars everywhere.
Noise.
Speed.
And my body just… stopped.
I froze.
Right there, in the middle of Berlin traffic.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t breathe properly.
And then I cried.
Not softly.
Not elegantly.
I cried in the middle of the road like a child who had reached her limit.
Because that’s what it was.
A limit.
My friend apologized.
He comforted me.
But something inside me had already shifted.
I realized:
I am not a “push through everything” traveler.
I am not someone who thrives in chaos.
And that’s okay.
We had booked one bed.
I wasn’t worried. I trusted him.
But what he didn’t explain properly was the snoring.
It wasn’t normal snoring.
It was earthquake-level snoring.
The first night, I didn’t sleep.
At all.
And when you’re already overwhelmed, sleep deprivation makes everything worse.
So I did something that felt “dramatic” at the time:
I booked another room.
It was expensive.
But I needed space.
I needed quiet.
I needed one night where I wasn’t sharing my mental or physical space with anyone.
That was the first time I chose myself on that trip.
Coldplay was playing in Berlin.
My favorite band.
Tickets were still available.
They were expensive, yes.
But I was willing to pay.
And when I suggested it, the response was:
“Who pays that much money for a band?”
And just like that, I dropped it.
I didn’t push.
I didn’t insist.
I didn’t say,
“This matters to me.”
I shrank.
And I still think about that sometimes.
Not because of Coldplay.
But because I didn’t advocate for what I wanted.
Here’s the truth:
I didn’t hate Berlin.
I hated how I felt in Berlin.
Tired.
Dependent.
Scared.
Dismissed.
Overstimulated.
Berlin is intense.
It carries history. Trauma. Politics. Division.
It’s not soft.
And I arrived already exhausted from Prague.
So instead of absorbing its depth, I was fighting my own nervous system.
Berlin taught me:
Always get a SIM card.
Never underestimate sleep.
Don’t share a bed if you value rest.
Don’t force yourself into activities that scare you just to “keep up.”
Money is not more important than your mental safety.
If you want to go to the concert, go.
But most importantly:
Travel will show you who you are.
Not the Instagram version.
The real version.
The anxious version.
The overwhelmed version.
The boundary-less version.
And if you’re lucky,
it will also show you the version that learns.
Yes.
But differently.
Alone.
Slower.
With better sleep.
With data.
With confidence.
Because Berlin isn’t a bad city.
It’s just not gentle.
And sometimes, your first international trip doesn’t need gentle.
Sometimes it needs growth.