Two Less People in Hamburg

Two less people in Hamburg tonight. Nandu and Thao.

Starting from a group of 36 people from 19 different countries, the Erasmus Mundus Journalism 2006-2008 is now dispersed as we were before this program. Dust to dust and ashes to ashes. If life is a series of coincidences and rendezvous then what is left when people depart after a short encounter?

When leaving Aarhus I felt sentimental standing in front of the train station knowing that the 36 of us had or would enter the building and would never exit from it again. I might visit this little town after 20 years for nostalgic reasons but the life I had was impossible to be recreated. No one will be there except the boy in ARoS. The train station is like a giant mouth that devours us, one by one, spiced up with our memories.

When leaving Amsterdam I was heading for Scandinavia for my summer vacation knowing that this is it. For many of us. We’ll be divided as three groups and although the distance between them is next to nothing, for now, the group came to an end. This April I passed by Amsterdam and walked in the city knowing that this is it. We used to rule this city, didn’t we? The Prinsengracht was under the sovereignty of Al, Jeff, Nandu and Juliet; the north part went to Maren and Mia. The most popular windmill in Amsterdam was famous because Emily, Ruta, Priya, Pati and Zhanna lived close by. On my way back home I would came across Cuckoo’s room on the ground floor at the corner, though I seldom knocked to bother her. I remember she left early. The next day I saw a black guy sitting there with the window wide open. I was shouting inside, “No! That is Cuckoo’s room!!” Not anymore, obviously.

Sooner or later we all left. I didn’t even keep a map of Amsterdam.

Then how many of us met again in Hamburg, 13? Now we have 5. The next will be leaving in two months and that will be me. I start to think about what to buy as gifts for my friends and family. In the era of globalization it’s a headache for everything is attainable everywhere.

We are simultaneously here and there, scholars say, for the communication is in real time now.

True. But it’s a small piece of me here and another piece of me there; adding them altogether it is only one, but not multiplied, me. We are torn apart.

What is left is just the memory. A walk in the park, a dish on the table, when the map is ditched and the recipe is unknown. The unsaid words are appreciated; the look in the eyes is understood and returned. So, farewell.

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