No one ever tells you how incredibly lonely Erasmus can be. Especially the Sundays. The way I’d heard other people talk about it, the way other people will hear me talk about it, you’d think it was ten or so months of non-stop socialising in a glamorous European city with beautiful people from all over the rest of the European Union. And yeah, there was a lot of that. A lot. My eleven months in Hamburg were overall the happiest of my life so far. I got to know Greek people for the first time, I ate the first of many, many falafels and I spent thirty minutes in Denmark on a cheap day trip (who needs Copenhagen when you can visit a petrol station in Krusa?). But everyone I know who went away this year also spent a lot of time alone in their room; in my case, watching episodes of Hot in Cleveland or Facebook stalking half of Michigan. It’s just one of those things.
Everyone I know who went away this year also spent a lot of time alone in their room; in my case, watching episodes of Hot in Cleveland or Facebook stalking half of Michigan. It’s just one of those things.
Germans are odd. Wonderful, but odd. When lectures end, for example, everyone raps their knuckles on the table; not because it was an especially good lecture or anything, just because it’s the done thing. They also rarely, if ever, break a red light. Even in the middle of the night on a deserted street, people will still wait for the little green man. I picked that habit up pretty easily and jaywalking this week in Dublin has made me feel a little bit sick and ashamed. Thankfully German data protection rules are strong enough that Mammy Merkel probably isn’t spying on me here. But for me, the oddest part of Germany is how little national pride they have. They’re one of the world’s most successful countries, they have amazing infrastructure and a vibrant culture and in spite of all of this, the general attitude is one of ambiguity and ‘meh’ness. German flags are to be flown during football tournaments only.
This hangover from history also extends to more simple things like making gestures with your arms, or writing. I was in a production of George Orwell’s 1984 in my first semester and during the crowd scenes we had to raise our arms in victory. Simple enough, right? Oh no, not in Germany. Getting the angle of our raised right arms correct so that we wouldn’t be seen to be imitating Hitler took a week of rehearsals. And even if you’re blind and deaf, you still can’t escape the legacy of the Third Reich in Hamburg. The city is filled with Stolpersteine, little golden plaques placed on the footpath outside places where Nazi victims lived. Our university was right beside the place where Hamburg’s Jews were rounded up and deported. I lost a kind of innocence this year because of things like that, but I’m glad.
Being abroad for the year made me so proud to be Irish. But it also made me even more frustrated with some of the aspects that go with it. We’re nice people; we’re generally relaxed about making eye contact on the street and no one here has a fit if someone forgets to say prost!, clink glasses and look everyone in the eye before taking a drink. But I also felt so embarrassed, angry and ashamed whilst watching things like the abortion debate from Germany; frustrated and confused at how a small island with a relatively tiny population always seems to have to turn even the most personal matters into an angry, bitter debate.
I missed hills, or any kind of slope really. I missed having the sea on my doorstep, ready to make my day smell different every morning.
It also made me really apprehensive about being back in Ireland when the referendum on same-sex marriage takes place, because this time all the ignorant people on the radio and TV will be talking about me and my future and how they think they can dictate what I want to do. That’s going to hurt, and hurt bad. I hope I’ve been overthinking it. But then again, the parish newsletter in our church in Kerry did carry a piece by the local priest this week where he praised “Mother Russia” for their recent moves to defend traditional marriage against the onslaught of Irish Times wielding liberals. Whoop whoop, welcome home Eoin.
I missed hills, or any kind of slope really. I missed having the sea on my doorstep, ready to make my day smell different every morning. I missed the close familiarity of Trinity, where every second person you see is someone you know and there’s no need to eat alone in anonymous student canteens. I missed friends, whether because I needed them, or they needed me. I missed my Granny not so subtly telling me to shave and my mum’s dreadful puns. I missed being able to buy self-raising flour in a normal shop and not having to worry about my cakes being flatter than Holland. But I would do it all again in a heartbeat.
