I arrived in Berlin in autumn 2000. I had boxed up all my belongings, left London, dumped the boxes at my mum’s house, then puts some clothes and CDs in two suitcases, went to Stansted airport, and got on a early morning flight with a load of already-drunk Welsh football fans on their way to a Warsaw for a World Cup qualifying game against Poland (It ended 0-0, but you already knew that, right?).
Assuming I don’t die in the meantime, I’ll be leaving Berlin in 100 days time. Give or take a day or two, anyway; 100 days from now is when I give up my flat. I’ll be packing my seven-years-worth-of-stuff and paying a storage company to be my surrogate Mum’s-spare-room, and once again, packing a suitcase or two and… well, I don’t know what I’ll do.
And that’s the fun thing. I have no idea where I’ll go.
The nice, easy-ish, realistic option is to move to Ghent. It’s a town I love, and I have friends there already, and most people speak the English, and you’re even close enough to the British Isles to get a BBC signal on the telly.
The difficult-to-manage option would be New York. Visas, logistics, and the worrying healthcare system chew away like woodworm at the sparklingly beautiful thought of living in such a great city.
But the immediate thing I think that I’ll do is take some time off from life, and start living. Pack some clothes and my laptop in a big old rucksack and get on a plane to who-knows-where and see what happens. The idea of not knowing is fun. Maybe I’ll end up being a fisherman in Kiribati after all.
The title of this weblog entry references the Underworld album “A Hundred Days Off.” Not their best work, but still pretty smart, especially the first single “Two Months Off”.