Non-Fiction
The Sun Will Rise
April 26, 2024, Berlin
I am scared. Tomorrow, I am embarking on a twelve-hour train ride from Berlin to Paris, back to the city I used to call home ten years ago. Does the city have the potential to become home again? Or would I now feel like a stranger in the place that once brought me a sense of home?
I grew up between cultures. Being from everywhere is like being from nowhere. I never belonged somewhere the way some people appear to be connected to their hometowns. I spent most of my childhood in Paris, but even as a child, I was aware that I was seen as an outsider – from how often my name was changed by autocorrect or how people commented on my “good Parisian accent” that is now gone.
In Tokyo, my friends complimented my clothes saying they looked foreign despite all my wardrobe being acquired in Japan. My parents, who taught me Japanese, think that my native language skills are questionable; I don’t trust myself to write essays in Japanese anymore.
Moving to Berlin with Minerva was my first time in Europe since I left after finishing elementary school. The distance between me and my childhood home was the closest in ten years, but strangely, I did not have the urge to hop on a flight on the first weekend, the first break, or the next…
After some time, I had to realize: I was scared. I was scared of facing how bad my French had become, scared of not being able to find familiarity in Paris anymore. And most of all, scared of not having the liberty to imagine what Paris has become in my head. I avoided looking up my neighborhood on Google street view for the past ten years to preserve the imaginary freedom that only ignorance allows for.
Seeing the reality of what Paris has become would come at the cost of letting go of everything it could have been in my mind. I did not want to leave the safety of my imagination and be faced with the reality of what Paris had become – the same as not wanting to wake up from a dream even when I knew that I was dreaming.
But I decided to take a leap of faith. Faith that I would be able to process what Paris and I have both become over the past decade, and faith to make peace with it.
April 27, 2024, Paris
I wasn’t aware of it when I booked my trains, but I think I needed to approach the city slowly. I wanted to do this long-awaited reunion justice by taking the time to build the proper anticipation. Because letting dreams fade by waking up naturally to the sun shining through the window feels much better than being startled into consciousness by a blaring alarm.
But there are no dreams from which you don’t wake up, and trains eventually make it to their destination. After three transfers, I was there. Paris. I stood in the bustle of North Station, looking for a sense of familiarity.
I found it first in the metro tickets, the street signs, and in the grocery stores. The big bags of Haribo snacks that my parents never allowed me to buy, or different types of mineral water that I forgot existed.
It was already night when I made it back to my room for the stay. As I was gazing through the window, the Eiffel Tower was standing still, shining quietly and diligently – in the same illumination pattern as ten years ago – indifferent to my excitement. But it also felt like my very own welcome back message from the city.
June 4, 2024, Paris
Even after getting here, I needed to take my memory tour slowly. Last week, I finally called my elementary school principal, who kindly agreed to let me visit the school.
Classes were still in session when I arrived, but the colorfulness and energy of the school immediately brought me back to when I was a student there. I met my old teachers and talked to them in the printing room, which used to be off-limits for students; somehow, it still felt wrong after all these years.
I stopped at my old classrooms and facilities one by one. Some of them were repurposed completely, others looked similar but with different name cards. The unchanged structure of the building made the shifts in its use more apparent. Classrooms were reassigned based on the number of students, and art that was up ten years ago was gone and replaced by creations of current students. Drawings and posters that my classmates and I left were slowly disappearing, reminding me of the impermanence of my presence in any place.
“I have a feeling that you actually want to become a teacher,” said my first-grade teacher as I looked at the shelves full of books after saying that I was studying political science.
Maybe I do want to be a teacher and have that sort of conversation with old students.
June 15, 2024, Paris
My last day in Paris was a little rainy.
I did a last tour of the places I used to go as a child, and saw my elementary school best friend, to make our first goodbye ten years ago really only a “see you later.”
When I first left Paris, what hurt me most was the unavoidable reality that I would not be able to experience the moments that meant everything to me anymore. Laughing during school recess for things that do not make any sense, seeing my friends and teachers, hanging out in the park after school.
And 10-year-old me was right. Moments don’t come back. I won’t be as close with my elementary school friends as I used to be, and I won’t be a kid forever. But the impermanence of these memories does not make them any less real.
In fact, memories live on even after I leave. Teachers at my elementary school still remembering me or staying connected to my friends means that I never really left Paris. Even if it is not home anymore, my memory lingers — maybe that means I haven’t left definitely yet.
As I was going to bed for the last time, I was watching the Eiffel Tower shining through the window, like the first day I arrived, and like it will continue after I leave. I found my own smallness in an old and rich city comforting.
I am scared. Tomorrow, I am embarking on a twelve-hour train ride from Berlin to Paris, back to the city I used to call home ten years ago. Does the city have the potential to become home again? Or would I now feel like a stranger in the place that once brought me a sense of home?
I grew up between cultures. Being from everywhere is like being from nowhere. I never belonged somewhere the way some people appear to be connected to their hometowns. I spent most of my childhood in Paris, but even as a child, I was aware that I was seen as an outsider – from how often my name was changed by autocorrect or how people commented on my “good Parisian accent” that is now gone.
In Tokyo, my friends complimented my clothes saying they looked foreign despite all my wardrobe being acquired in Japan. My parents, who taught me Japanese, think that my native language skills are questionable; I don’t trust myself to write essays in Japanese anymore.
Moving to Berlin with Minerva was my first time in Europe since I left after finishing elementary school. The distance between me and my childhood home was the closest in ten years, but strangely, I did not have the urge to hop on a flight on the first weekend, the first break, or the next…
After some time, I had to realize: I was scared. I was scared of facing how bad my French had become, scared of not being able to find familiarity in Paris anymore. And most of all, scared of not having the liberty to imagine what Paris has become in my head. I avoided looking up my neighborhood on Google street view for the past ten years to preserve the imaginary freedom that only ignorance allows for.
Seeing the reality of what Paris has become would come at the cost of letting go of everything it could have been in my mind. I did not want to leave the safety of my imagination and be faced with the reality of what Paris had become – the same as not wanting to wake up from a dream even when I knew that I was dreaming.
But I decided to take a leap of faith. Faith that I would be able to process what Paris and I have both become over the past decade, and faith to make peace with it.
April 27, 2024, Paris
I wasn’t aware of it when I booked my trains, but I think I needed to approach the city slowly. I wanted to do this long-awaited reunion justice by taking the time to build the proper anticipation. Because letting dreams fade by waking up naturally to the sun shining through the window feels much better than being startled into consciousness by a blaring alarm.
But there are no dreams from which you don’t wake up, and trains eventually make it to their destination. After three transfers, I was there. Paris. I stood in the bustle of North Station, looking for a sense of familiarity.
I found it first in the metro tickets, the street signs, and in the grocery stores. The big bags of Haribo snacks that my parents never allowed me to buy, or different types of mineral water that I forgot existed.
It was already night when I made it back to my room for the stay. As I was gazing through the window, the Eiffel Tower was standing still, shining quietly and diligently – in the same illumination pattern as ten years ago – indifferent to my excitement. But it also felt like my very own welcome back message from the city.
June 4, 2024, Paris
Even after getting here, I needed to take my memory tour slowly. Last week, I finally called my elementary school principal, who kindly agreed to let me visit the school.
Classes were still in session when I arrived, but the colorfulness and energy of the school immediately brought me back to when I was a student there. I met my old teachers and talked to them in the printing room, which used to be off-limits for students; somehow, it still felt wrong after all these years.
I stopped at my old classrooms and facilities one by one. Some of them were repurposed completely, others looked similar but with different name cards. The unchanged structure of the building made the shifts in its use more apparent. Classrooms were reassigned based on the number of students, and art that was up ten years ago was gone and replaced by creations of current students. Drawings and posters that my classmates and I left were slowly disappearing, reminding me of the impermanence of my presence in any place.
“I have a feeling that you actually want to become a teacher,” said my first-grade teacher as I looked at the shelves full of books after saying that I was studying political science.
Maybe I do want to be a teacher and have that sort of conversation with old students.
June 15, 2024, Paris
My last day in Paris was a little rainy.
I did a last tour of the places I used to go as a child, and saw my elementary school best friend, to make our first goodbye ten years ago really only a “see you later.”
When I first left Paris, what hurt me most was the unavoidable reality that I would not be able to experience the moments that meant everything to me anymore. Laughing during school recess for things that do not make any sense, seeing my friends and teachers, hanging out in the park after school.
And 10-year-old me was right. Moments don’t come back. I won’t be as close with my elementary school friends as I used to be, and I won’t be a kid forever. But the impermanence of these memories does not make them any less real.
In fact, memories live on even after I leave. Teachers at my elementary school still remembering me or staying connected to my friends means that I never really left Paris. Even if it is not home anymore, my memory lingers — maybe that means I haven’t left definitely yet.
As I was going to bed for the last time, I was watching the Eiffel Tower shining through the window, like the first day I arrived, and like it will continue after I leave. I found my own smallness in an old and rich city comforting.