Primum et Extremum

I didn't take Latin in school. It was either Latin or French, so I went for the living and opted for French. Maybe not the smartest choice I ever made but in the end it's just one of many insignificant ones that did or didn't shape my personal path of life, which seems to revolve around these take it or leave it decisions continuously.

To be, or not to be.

Take your chance or leave it.

It's all about binary pairs. Binary beings in a binary world. Two eyes, ears, arms, legs, lungs, kidneys....duality everywhere. Male or female. Old or young. Good or evil. Yes or no. Black or white. Which makes sense in a way that it structures the complexity surrounding us, guiding us towards decisions, categorizing, labeling, defining. Constructing meaning in a way we couldn't without these pairs, without words for them, without opposites. But the choices we make, the decisions we take aren't about black or white, they're about the shades of grey in between. The personal experiences of everything we voluntarily or involuntarily encounter.

Especially the firsts and lasts. Our own personal firsts and lasts, although we as humans share so many of them, we might think they should be similar.

The first firsts are deleted from our memory, only being retold to us by those who have surrounded us our entire lives, witnessing these first firsts, maybe the most important firsts we've ever had. First breath of air, first smile, first words, first steps. When firsts came naturally. Growing up they outweigh the lasts, new experiences being added to our mental curriculum vitae on a daily basis, linked to memories, feelings and songs only we can make sense of. Like remembering the first time my Dad took me to a soccer game when I was four, the stadium a green and white cauldron of chanting and shouting fans, cheering on the one team I am still a fan of. Dad simply trying to make sure I don't turn out to be one of these übergirly princess daughters that solely play with dolls and refuse to wear anything but pink. Check. Bless him for that.

And then, at a certain point or place in life the firsts and lasts began to merge, a maelstrom of excitement and timidity, one door being closed while another one opens up. As they always do. To change you, to open up possibilities, to shape your personality, your point of view, your self- perception. Like the night before the first sleepover at a friends house being the last night you couldn't let go of your stuffed toy tiger. And suddenly you can. Easily. Or the first time doing a somersault from the 5-Meter tower being the last time to attend training after six years of high diving. Experiencing height phobia for the first time, accepting it, dealing with it, taking consequences. Crowdsurfing for the first (and last) time in '97 at the first (and luckily not last) punkrock show I ever went to. They all go hand in hand.

The first sex, being not nearly as exciting or sensual or overwhelming as your friends or the media constantly promised it to be, at your own regret. Only much later the first time it actually turned out to be as indescribably, thrilling and satisfactory as you always hoped it would be.

The firsts we couldn't wait to happen, to check them off our inner To-Do List, to cross them out and be happy and proud about it. Like the tattoo I kept begging my parents for for months when I was seventeen. The tattoo they said I could have when I am of legal age at 18, being completely responsible myself for what I do. What can I say, I am still a tattoo virgin. One of the firsts I failed on or rather chose not to experience. A first spark of wisdom?

And after a while the firsts and lasts begin to balance each other. More and more lasts start to invade our daily repetitive rhythms of simply adding 'once more' to the things we previously did for the first time. The last day of school, a last one you couldn't wait for and suddenly it's there and you wish it wouldn't be as it is as definite as anything can be, marking the end of your childhood, a sacred, carefree time.

Not all, but many firsts and lasts start to have a different meaning now, a more profound one. They don't come naturally anymore. Lasts we didn't expect, lasts we didn't hope for. Lasts we never wanted to have. The unexpected lasts, the ones you didn't know would turn out to be lasts, are the worst. Like the last time I hugged Steve goodbye, not knowing he'd be gone a year later. Now wishing I would have cherished that moment more than I did back then, instead of just being happy to see him. To suck in every second of it, making sure not to forget a single smile or gesture.

Or that last kiss before it all fell apart, before breaking up that special relationship that wasn't supposed or planned to end. Finally, the firsts we never wanted to happen. Hospitals. Funerals.

The planned firsts and lasts are rare these days. The unexpected ones tend to pop up more often and although some of them will be unpleasant and scary and devastating, I am in general looking forward to the things to come in the distant future. Hopefully. The firsts and maybe even lasts you hope for.

Important firsts, like the first firsts we ever had.

Each at its time.

Es brennt

Monday morning. 7am. Being spoiled by the first sunrays of a day that will fully live up to its expectations, as the daring swallows zigzagging above your head suggest, climbing up into the deep blue like a jet fighter before plunging down, again and again. Once. Twice. Teasingly circling each other like lovers, knowing exactly what they want, intrigued, longing, yet not daring to make the decisive move. A coffee-to-go in your hand, shades already on, another great day ahead.

Until...

Until the displayed newspapers or the radio or the tv force you to zoom out of that perfect moment, painfully depicting Sundays events. European elections. A black date, or rather a brown one, considering the alarming results, the ease with which so many right-wing populist parties strongly increased their impact on European politics.

And I feel ashamed.

Ashamed to be European these days.

I don't wanna turn this into a huge political statement, as I neither have the time or nerve for a digital shitstorm and haters gonna hate anyway, but I got some strong opinions about certain basic issues like gay marriage (yes), death penalty (no), gun control (yes, please) OR the fact that fascism, racism and any kind of right-wing populism has to be prevented no matter what. No tolerance. Ever. Voting for right-wing populist/radical parties is never gonna be a legitimite way of protest, it's just plain and simple stupidity. Denmark, France, Great Britain, Italy... why, oh why? It saddens me, shocks me, leaves me speechless, makes me wanna scream and just slam my fist into a wall.

Of course am I prejudiced. There is probably no other coutry on this planet that is as cautious about racism and fighting right-wing movements as much as Germany is these days. The cultural heritage we carry constantly reminds us of the monstrous things that happened 70 years ago. The ease with which Hitler and the NSDAP managed to take over control, to establish a dictatorship under the blinded eyes of the representatives of the Weimar Republic, gleefully nodding their heads, like lambs that silently let themselves be led to the slaughter. The terrible, unspeakable crimes and injustices that happened after that. You can't shake it off. It's everywhere. You're not patriotic. You're not proud to be German. Unless there's a World Cup or some other major sports event going on, but besides that? You must not be. And you aren't. And that's fine, I don't need to claim being German 24/7 or put up a flag in my window to cherish my culture, my identity, my heritage.

We got so many priviliges in the European Union. A strong currency. The freedom of movement treaty. A shared internal market. The European Erasmus programme. Achievements our ancestors fought for after WWII. A vision of a united continent that actually seemed within reach following the collapse of the Soviet Union. One can't, one must not abandon these ideals, and despite the recent struggles, despite Greece being bankrupt, despite the way too high unemployment rate among young academics in Spain and Portugal we must face these problems united, instead of turning towards anti-european right-wing populist parties trying to drive a wedge between us as nations. Being a blue-eyed caucasian girl I have had the priviledge so far to not become a victim of racism or xenophobia, no matter where I traveled, but that makes it only twice as much my responsibility to fight and condemn it. What does it take for those angry, confused, politically lethargic voters to exit that one-way-street towards national socialism?

I wish I knew.

Les Montres Molles

11396.

11396 days have I crawled, stumbled, walked on this earth. How many of them can I actually remember in detail? Honestly? Not enough. When you're a kid days can't pass by fast enough, especially if there are exciting events like christmas, or your birthday, or a trip to the amusement park ahead. Nowadays too many of them fly by in a blur, you following the same repetitive rhythm day by day, falling in line, being a responsible adult, whatever that may be.

Do you ever really feel all grown up? In each and every possible definition? I can't say I do.

Sure, I get my life straight, I pay my bills, I actually stick to my yearly dental check although I despise going to the dentist, I know how to get my taxes done and I try to go to sleep at a more or less reasonable hour if there's an important appointment in the morning... but still. Growing up always has this connotation of being 'old'. I don't feel 'old'.
Thirty is not 'old', as much as forty or fifty aren't either.

My dad turned seventy in October and he kinda admitted it's the first time he feels not too comfortable about his age anymore as seventy isn't exactly that young. But then seventy is the new fifty I guess. If someone can pull that off it's him.
Let's face it, age is nothing but a number that determines your Zodiac sign and your future retirement date. Or the level of embarressment you feel looking at old photographs and the terribles clothes and haircuts you once sported.

Growing up was supposed to mean having a husband, a small town house with a garden to grow some vegetables, a dog, a horse, a bunch of kids. What a cliché. A lovely cliché. Small town suburbia is home, my home. My childhood. Climbing trees, digging earth caves, wading barefoot in the river. An infinite horizon of cyan above your head, a welcome seduction to daydreaming for hours.
Did I expect to be married with kids at 30? Or married at all? Maybe. But as it turns out, you can't always get what you want. Instead I got what I needed. Traveling. Europe. Asia. The States. Finding myself, my inner peace.

Invitations to three wedding ceremonies are piling up on my desk; August is gonna be one busy hell of a month this year. It's like a virus, spreading out until your entire circle of friends is infected, passing it on to other friends, relatives, co-workers. Dresses. Invitations. Cakes. A big fuzz, an endless competition to throw the best, the biggest, the most merorable party. And while most of my friends get nuts about what to wear I simply am looking forward to some damn good parties with the people I love, awesome food and some booze.

Bowie and 'Doolittle' by the Pixies have been on endless repeat the last few days, music my twentysomething year old friends either haven't heard of or consider 'old'. If those tunes qualify me as being 'old' I can't help but happily embrace it. I'm fine.

11396.

11396 and counting.

Marmara on my mind

My Converse are slowly falling apart. That's what you get for buying fake ones on a crowded chaotic bazar in Eminönü in the shade of a dozen different minaret-towers. They are everywhere, and be sure none of them are the real deal. Only cell phone cases outnumber them by far, filling the walls of every second shop, a kaleidoscope of lifeless plastic shells, prestigious status symbols for a generation controlled by the constant urge to define themselves by brands and the latest technology.

Day after day, fighting the battle to be the coolest, the hippest, the one everyone else is looking up to. A neverending waste of time and energy, establishing exceptations they won't ever satisfactorily meet.

Istanbul is a peculiar place to be, a metropolis of contradictions, a melting pot of culture, religion, history, geography, art and politics, struggling to do justice to the numerous expectations and demands of its 14 million residents. Walk the streets at any given time of the day (or night, as I have noticed); you won't be alone. The Turks pratically live on the streets and in the thousand little cafes and shops all over town regardless of the time. It's wonderful. Unless you're in a misanthropic kind of mood, in which case Istanbul must be hell on earth.

They all speak English. Most of them German. Of course they do. Since each and every shopkeeper apparently has a brother, uncle or cousin in Germany that has lived for a while in your hometown, of all places. Of course they did. At least on the European side of Istanbul. Crossing the Galata bridge, lined day by day by hundreds of fishermen whose fishing rods are as much of a landmark in Istanbul as the Hagia Sophia itself, you slowly walk your way up the steep hill to get to the pier and jump on one of the countless ferries that take you from Europe to Asia. Isn't it bizarre? It sounds so damn cosmopolitan, crossing from one continent to the other by boat, maybe twice a day, for groceries or a simple shopping trip to the Istiklal, Istanbul's famous shopping Avenue. Twenty minutes. The Bosporus a shorttrack, a welcome cooling in the heat of the deep canyons that characterize Istanbul's asphalt jungle. An ever crowded bottleneck between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara, name sake of the word 'marble' or 'Marmor' in German. Bless the Romans, they surely knew where to get the good stuff.

And before the blink of an eye you're in Asia, or rather in a place you might have expected and hoped or prayed for after the usual madness on the European side. Turkey without the masses of international tourists, without oriental bazaars full of useless souvenirs or countless Nazar Boncuk, the Turkish Eye every single bloody tourist desperately pins on his backpack to show off that he has indeed been to Turkey. Or their limited understanding of what turkish culture and lifestyle actually means.

Unexpectedly I stumble upon a group of local folklore street musicians that get the catchiest rhythm I've heard in a long time out of their instruments; jingle rings, handdrums, a turkish bagpipe, everything you believe turkish folk music should be like. A group of students starts dancing, taking their hands as they do in Greece when dancing the Sirtaki, shouting, singing, smiling. A middle aged business man enters the scene, drops his jacket, joins the dancers, claps his hands to the beat and suddenly does a somersault. A fucking somersault! On the street. Let me get this straight, I am not kidding, cross my heart. I didn't know whether to keep staring in utter disbelief or rather start smiling like a madmen on account of the sheer absurdity I just witnessed. What a crazy beautiful city it is.

Suddenly you need your bare hands and feet to bargain with the shopkeepers, as none of them speaks neither German nor English. What a blessing. It took me about thirty minutes to explain the nice old man who sold handmade leather bean bags that I wanted just the seatcover without the filling, as I had to take it on the plane with me. Have you ever been trying to mimick a plane on a crowded turkish street full of suspicous looking housewifes and easily amused kids? You feel like a damn idiot. In a good way though. Describing the desired color turned out to be my statutory audit in mime bargaining. Proving that even speaking four languages is not the key to being a successful globetrotter.

Grün. Green. Vert. Verde.... Sigh.

The old man simply makes a call and orders some black tea for us. As they all do for you. I drank more tea during that one week in Istanbul than during the entire last year at home. Hell, I don't even like tea that much. It's Hospitality. The Turks must absorb it with their mother's milk. And you gladly aceept it, as every tiny glas of tea offers you another chance to get to know a local, to talk about life in Istanbul, about censorship in Turkey, about your whereabouts, about life in general. Two minds from different countries and cultural backgrounds happily exchanging words of kindness and wisdom, glad to end the day with an extended knowledge and the awareness that you both did benefit from it, no matter to what extent.

Tea is one thing you can't walk away from, cats are the other. Istanbul's hidden heroes are everywhere. It's hard not to bend down to pet each and every one of them, as they all persistenly circle around your legs, eager to receive some loving care. Nuzzling their head against your palm, purring, waiting to be scratched on that special spot right behind the ears. I could have taken them all home with me. The little tabby next to the Masumiyet Müzesi (Museum of Innocence) being my favourite one. The quarter has a typical Parisienne charme, flower boxes on every window, artistically crafted ironworks seperating the buildings and miniature backyards from one another. The well too known accordion melody everyone associates with France comes to my mind. So clear, so beautiful. Until I turn around the corner to find a turkish teenage boy with an accordion sitting on the steps of the museum, his eyes closed, lovingly playing exactly the one melody I had just been thinking about. Talking about coincedence... I doubt it.

It's the only museum worldwide that's based on a novel, which actually goes by the same name as the museum itself: Masumiyet Müzesi by Orhan Pamuk. As unimpressive as the crimson three story building may look from the outside, the second you enter the building and allow yourself to be absorbed by the unreal yet fascinating atmosphere, you can hardly get your eyes off the carefully arranged displays, artifacts of the tragic semi autobiographical love story Pamuk recounts in his novel. A wall of one thousand neatly pinned down lipstick-covered cigarette butts sorted by year. Letters, video installations, photographs, dioramas. A portray of a city. A melancholic portray of what Istanbul used to be like. A sad city, a poor city, an abandoned city that still carried a natural beauty. It's been a year and I still haven't gotten around to finally read the book. If it impresses me only half as much as the exhibition did I might be in for a real gem.

Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul. City of contrasts. In every possible way. Why do my reflections revolve around it so much lately? About nights being spend in Istanbul's countless rustic rooftop bars, smoking shishas while gazing at the full moon being reflected on the dark surface of the Bosporus. Nostalgia? The absent feeling of falling in love with something intriguing you can't fully understand at first but value now?

I don't know.

Outlines

So H.R. Giger passed away.

His works used to scare the hell outta me as a kid. I did watch Alien years before I should have. 'It', too. Huddled together under a blanket with my best friend, anxiously peeking through our fingers. His eleven year old brother supposed to babysit us.

Oh, the irony.

Giger's work never failed to fascinate me for the artically realistic details and their severe darkness. Inspiring in a pretty twisted way, encouraging creativity to take new paths. I've always had a passion for drawing, illustration, graphic design. The art of art in generel, perhaps. There must be tons of sketches on my parents attic.

'Kunst kommt von Können' they say. (Art comes from ability/skill)

AMEN.

As a kid my parents took me to Paris for a week. I fondly remember Montmartre, L'arc de Triomphe, Champs-Élysées et and Notre-Dame, which I immediately fell in love with after reading Victor Hugo's Hunchback. I wish I would have enjoyed the Louvre more. I was a only eleven back then, my inner compass needle pointed straight toward Euro Disneyland. These days I'd probably stay as long as possible at the Louvre, gaping in astonishment at the beauty and expressive power of the displayed paintings. When artists equaled real craftsmen. Requiering talent, a perfect eye for colors, proportion and space. Creating a unique masterpiece. Monet, Rubens, Dürer... to admire them not only for their paintings as an overall work of art, but also for their incredible talent and passionate output. I'd rather spend all day looking at classic 'old hat' art than desperately trying to decipher the artists intention eveyone is looking for in most abstract modern art. If there is any at all. I sometimes doubt it.

Maybe because it's easier to relate to. Beuys may have been a genius. Me the cynic. Applying a band aid on a bathtub is anything to me. But not art. Rather theatrical self-enactment. I prefer the past. Living history all around you, everywhere. It paved the way for our contemporary society, shaped who and what we are. Our social interactions, moral decisions, whether we are patriotic or not. How can anyone not be interested in history? May it be historical architecture, culture, literature or art, it doesn't matter. I don't get it. Never will. Even studying history was an option at some point. Before realizing becoming a teacher did not exactly fit my career or life plan.

English, History and Art, my favorite classes throughout highschool. I loved my art teacher Ms Helke, the most adorable teacher one could have, may she rest in peace. Pint-sized, always wearing too much blue eyeshadow and a broad grin on her face, encouraging even the most talent-free student to keep on working on their pieces, honouring rather the effort than the actual outcome. She once made us cite a famous piece of art, altering just a single aspect of the painting, yet changing it's entire meaning.

I still got mine.

A pencil/crayon version of the Mona Lisa. Face and hand replaced by the Episode 1 version of C3PO, all cables and lightbulbs. A sarcastic comment on technology and self-perception, seen through the blue eyes of a seventeen year old highschool girl.

Not nearly as dark, apocalyptic and disturbing as Giger's work.

But in the end, inspiration is all you need.

Fireflies

It's been raining for hours. A steady, mesmerizing rain, pounding against the windows, an enchanted song only understood by those who listen closely. Formations of puddles form on the streets and persistently soak up everything that dares to venture out on the streets.

You can hear the fireworks across town. Thunder alternates with another shower of rain pattering down, giving the spectacle a distinctive beat. You can't see it from my apartment but if you've witnessed it before you know exactly what you're missing out on. A thirty minute marathon of vibrant explosions coloring the sky like there's no tomorrow. Musically underscored by a perfect compilation of classical pieces of music. Bach. Beethoven. Tchaikowsky. Schubert. Haydn. A perfect performance. Fireworks as actors, presenting a play told by the music on a stage framed by baroque statues and artistically trimmed trees. Utterly surreal. Like being caught in a freaking fever dream of Louis XIV. What a spectacle it must be witnessed from a plane.

The Royal Gardens are just around the corner. The entire parking lot is filled with touring coaches from all over Europe.

Insane.

They queue to buy tickets, they queue to enter the gardens, they queue to enter the grotto, they queue to see the castle. Like cattle being driven by invisible sheepdogs, anxious to step out of line. Like bloody Brits each and every one of them follows the ongoing mantra of getting in line: queueing, queueing, queueing. Meanwhile clinging to their digital cameras, capturing every piece of unique architecture or floral arrangement displayed.

I get it. Somehow.

Sophia of Hannover must be spinning in her grave knowing that wagonloads of foreigners wearing Ed Hardy shirts and crocs are roaming the carefully arranged paths that frame the Great Garden. In fact, Crocs should be added to the No smoking, No food, No shirt no service sign. Period. People fly to the moon and discover the depths of the oceans but apparently don't have the skill to opt for decent, fashionable shoeware. Instead they hurry up to see the fountain, the corner pavilion, the grotto, maybe the Mountain Garden or the Orangery, impossible to see the forest for the trees.

Real beauty can be found outside the man-tall hedges though, just a stone's throw away. No aritifical arrangements, just ponds, trees, bushes and endless grassy plains that invite you to lay down, read a book, sunbath or simply set up your grill to have a BBQ in the park. We all do it as soon as we're blessed with some rare sunshine. Too long... Not only a green lung, but rather Hannover's green heart, a giant radiant hotspot to enjoy life's little pleasures.

The rain has finally stopped. My beer is empty. I head down to the kiosk to grab another one, it's midnight. But instead of ghosts only drunken first year students pass me by, euphorically realizing that the bar across the street has no official closing hour. Singing drunken lullabies not even the most sober one could decipher.

For a minute I just stand there, breathing, taking in the fresh scent of spring after the long hours of rain. What a lovely smell. Only this time of the year. And before I know it, the first drops of another rain shower start falling down on me. Too good to be true.

Off Shore

I didn't intend to get back in here on a daily basis. For my own sake and yours probably, too. BUT I somehow gotta get this off my chest and the usual social media outlets I usually frequent just don't seem appropriate to me right now.

It's 5 pm. And I am scared. Scared like hell. I can't help it, no matter what I do or say or think, how much I reason that I don't have to be.
It's actually that simple: in 14 hours I'll be having minor surgery. Nothing fancy, a simple laparoscopy/hysteroscopy under general anaesthesia. (Go and look it up yourself in case you're interested, I am too worn out to go into detail right now.) It's a standard routine surgery and I'll be just fine. I know it. Everyone keeps telling me I will. Hell, I am supposed to go home in the late afternoon unless something unpredictable comes along the way.
Nevertheless I can't shake off that damn fear of... being out of control? I can't even phrase it, an undefined uneasiness that covers me like a blanket, only without the comforting effect. Rather paralyzing.
I am not good with stuff like this. At all. I hate hospitals, but who doesn't?
Sometimes I wonder if my personal preference to spend some time on my own once in a while is the result of being an only child. As much as I love to spend time with friends, family, loved ones - I can't do that 24/7. Being a part-time-hermit comes in quite handy there. So my friend asked me if I'd prefer some company this afternoon, watching Firefly, talking.. whatever comes to our minds. And what do I do? I politely decline, saying I need some time on my own. To think. To brood. That's how I roll from time to time... gotta do things on my own.
Anyway.
I still am grateful.
So come on join me in the water, and we'll swim for home. Sometimes it's hard to remember: I couldn't do this on my own.

Cowboy Chords

Just putting on my riding chaps, feeling, touching the black leather that has turned as soft as baby skin after all those years of wear and tear, fills me with an incredible sense of satisfaction I have been missing for way too long. That too-well-known distinctive smell of leather, dust and horse hair finds its way to my olfactory nerves and triggers a firework of endorphins racing through my nerve system – and I am done. Spending hours, days, weeks at the ranch, day in day out, it all comes back to me in a second and I can hardly imagine I survived this long without it.

Saddling and snaffling(?) is as much of a routine as it used to be and before I know it I am already sitting in the saddle, feeling as comfortable and relaxed as one can be. I am in my own personal version of heaven and loving every damn second of it. Pure bliss. 'Das Glück dieser Erde liegt auf dem Rücken der Pferde' / 'The greatest happiness on earth is sitting in the saddle of a horse' – whoever originally voiced this wisdom surely knew what he was talking about.

The twins and me grab the reins and off we are, crossing the street and making our way into the fields. Getting lost in an ocean of sparkling yellow rape fields, surrounded by its bewitching scent and an uncountable number of bumblebees. The twins kindly offered me to ride their beautiful white Arabian gelding Ijadh and I can feel his gracefulness below me, the way he carefully arranges his legs, already letting me know he can't wait for the moment we let them run loose like there's no tomorrow.

The poor souls who have never experienced the beauty and serenity you feel the second you get on a horse and out into the open can hardly understand what I am talking about. It's the most perfect refuge and retreat there is. Just you and your horse. Nothing but nature all around you. Perfection. Minutes, yes hours to let your thoughts fly while the wind blows in your face and takes all your worries and pains away. At least for a while. Nothing but 900 pounds of muscle below you. And then you adapt to this movement and focus on the trivial beauty all around you and suddenly you are completely absorbed by it. (Oh, just screw your dirty thoughts right now...) It saved me more than once from losing it after a stressful day at school, after fighting with my parents or the usual and unavoidable drama we all experienced during puberty.

As usual we stop at the little tavern, get off our horses and have a beer, the horses grazing next to a group of children eager to pet each and every one of them. It's weird how fascinated yet apparently anxious they approach the horses, I bet some of them have never touched one before. It seems to me most kids are not that confident around animals and nature in generel anymore. My parents must have had one hell of a hard time with me as soon as I was able to walk, as I kept running towards every dog I could get my hands on to pet and hug it. I guess I didn't have a choice, I am a dog person after all.

Riding through the forest we decide to change into the trott to burn up some distance before the sun begins to set. After a while the muscles in my thighs painfully remind me that they actually still exist and aren't too fond of suddenly being overexerted. My bad. I know I will pay for that in a day or two. And I bet it's getting worse the older you get. Damn it. We pass the old waterworks and turn right to get back onto the open fields, my old racetrack. I'd give anything to fast gallop down the field only one more time on Bronco, my old horse. Fast enough for the wind to make your eyes water, feeling the adrenaline rush take control over your body.

Nora just screams 'Let's go!' and off we are. A black cloud of dusk surrounds us as we are dashing down the field, each of us eager to be the fastest, to win the race. Making the others eat dust. In the end Nora was bold enough to speed up to the max and win. It takes a few meters to get Ijadh from a fast gallop into a slow trot, sweating, breathing hard, eager to keep on running as his Arabian purebred blood forces him to. I just give him a pet on the neck and breathe audibly out while we're slowing getting back to the ranch. Mosquitos have replaced the bumblebees by now, it's getting dark. And I feel like I'm home in every possible way.

The welling of nostalgia, and feeling kind of strange,

Because despite the little changes, this place still feels the same.

Brawling David Bowie

The one thing I make sure to wear when getting on a plane is my St. Christopher necklace. No, neither superstitious nor a believer over here. Just taking certain rituals serious. Even if that damn thing gives me a slight rash every single time I put it on. I got it ten years ago at ZJ Boarding House in Santa Monica. It constantly reminds me of S. who used to comment on it all the time. I miss him. A lot. The big brother I never had. We his 'german family'. It's been more than five years since he passed away and I am still in utter disbelief somehow. LA is not the same without him, without the gang.

Glorious nights spend on the porch of his tiny bungalow, beer and cigarettes... just hanging out, getting drunk, talking the night away while counting the cars passing by Ocean Park library. Surf Liqour just across the street in case you ran out of booze. Well, usually Jaeger since, I gotta be honest here right now, too many american beers just taste like shit. Blame it on my spoiled sense of taste due to being raised in a country with a neverending variety of excellent beer.

It will never cease to amaze me how ridiculous buying beer (or any alcohol for that matter) in the US is. Brown paper bags? Really? Best idea ever, I get it. And no one will ever figure out what's inside those paper bags. Cause, you know, everyone who comes out of a liqour store carries one. And they look so completely unobtrusively, it's amazing. People will totally fall for that. Just like the black shopping bags you get at sex shops. Who would've thought? I get it, it's the law. The Law, capital L. Ridiculous? Naaaw. You musn't drink alcohol in public, but the second you get behind the railing of Rick's Tavern, which is right on the sidewalk of Main, you can enjoy one drink after the other? Law, go home, you're drunk! Maybe it's just my stubborn European point of view, but I think I can expect the freedom to have a beer wherever the hell I like in a land that calls itself the Land of the Free. On the other hand, who am I to judge?

I honestly can't remember how many of my international friends I got to meet for the first time on that old and battered couch in S. apartment. From the UK, from all over the States. Mingling on the sofa, while he was playing the grand piano that took up approximately one third of his living room, being his distracted self, only to laugh once in a while on a joke his little brother C. cracked. The dogs at our feet, even the slightly mad one. We went down to the beach around 2am, to 'chase the ocean' as C. put it. It was stupid and cold and beautiful all at the same time, lying in the sand, watching the stars, singing awful trash 80s songs for no good reason except to live up to our expectations of a perfect night. It surely was. April 27, 2004. All-night. Completely overtired. Hung over. No regrets. Nearly one year later we sorta relived that night celebrating S. 35^th birthday. For one more time we all hung out together in that tiny apartment of his. Last year I set foot on California soil for the first time since his death in 2009 and it felt so damn surreal to walk the streets, to spend Sunday morning on a blanket at Farmer's Market knowing that he wouldn't just walk around the corner sporting his out-of-bed-look (that actually was nothing more but a too-lazy-to-get-ready-out-of bed-look), being all flirty yet absolutely comfortable at the same time. 

So much has changed. 

I still got the Jaegermeister bottle we emptied during 'the infamous night'. And as much as that stupid little worn necklace it's a piece of no value for anyone but me. Something worth treasuring with my life.