There’s a moment every time I get off a plane—when the door hisses open and that blast of air hits you—and I genuinely forget what city I’m in.
Not in a cool, jet-setter way. In a scrambled-brain, borderline existential way.
Frankfurt to Ibiza. Ibiza to Frankfurt. Back again.
Same laptop. Same inbox. Different light.
I thought I’d left the grey German grind behind. That was the plan, wasn’t it? Palm trees. Orange juice. A desk with a view.
But Frankfurt didn’t get the memo. Frankfurt’s still calling. Literally.
The weirdest thing is how split I feel. Not in a “two homes” sort of way. More like someone sliced my life down the middle and forgot to tell either half they were divorced. I keep waking up in Ibiza thinking about Frankfurt tax forms. I go to Frankfurt and crave the Ibiza sun like a junkie.
Some days I feel like a fraud in both places.
In Frankfurt, I’m the guy who ran off to “live the dream.”
In Ibiza, I’m the guy on too many calls who doesn’t know how to order ham in Catalan without panicking.
Language, by the way? Still not fluent. Not even close. I can order coffee, nod through small talk, and smile blankly when someone tries to explain why the pharmacy is closed on Wednesdays for “regional reasons.”
Healthcare? Paperwork? I had no clue. I spent two days Googling insurance options before I found this—click here for a really good guide. Honestly, saved me from losing my mind.
But even with that sorted, the feeling sticks. Like I’m in two time zones at once.
It’s the phone that does it. The emails. The pings. My body’s here, sure. But my calendar’s still set to Frankfurt logic. 9-to-5 meetings, German holidays, clients who don’t understand siesta and think “mañana” is a threat.
I go to the supermarket and forget how to say toothbrush. I walk on the beach and think about quarterly revenue targets. My villa feels like a postcard someone else bought. And yet, when I’m in Frankfurt, all I want is to be back here—to sit in silence and not be useful for a while.
Maybe this is what happens when you chase a life without cutting ties to the old one. You hover. Never fully land.
And everyone keeps asking, “So do you live here now?”
I say yes. I think I mean yes. But it still feels like an answer I’m rehearsing.
The truth is, I haven’t figured it out.
I’m still commuting between identities. Between versions of myself.
And I don’t know if that ever stops—or if you just get better at faking consistency.
All I know is I’m here now. The sea’s in front of me.
Frankfurt’s still on my phone, but at least I’ve got a signal strong enough to ignore it when I want.