The Rocking Horse

There a not a lot of possessions I have that I could not leave behind and give up. One of the items, though, that I would rescue out of a burning house without thinking much about it is my wooden rocking horse. When I mention that to people or when they see it first when they come into the apartment, they usually laugh and think it's a silly thing to hold on to or have in your apartment. But there's so much more to this horse than it being a pretty and decorative piece of furniture or an old childhood toy.

On Christmas Eve when I was five years old, my brother and I had already unpacked our presents and started playing when my father asked me if I hadn't missed one present. I looked up and around the room and then my eyes widened. There was a wooden rocking horse hidden behind the drapes that I  hadn't seen before. "For me?" I asked and ran towards it. For the rest of the night and most of the following years it would be my favorite toy in the world. From cowboy, stagecoach, to circus or just a girl and its horse roaming freely around the world, there was no limit to my imagination when it came to games involving the horse. Latter, girl and horse riding through a wide and open country, was my favorite and I'm incredibly happy that I am, indeed, going to travel freely across the US. I just replaced the horse with a motorcycle. Same color, though... 

The horse and I have been through a lot. Yet, apart from a few tiny scratches it looks almost as good as it did when I got it, 36 years ago. That's one of the reasons why I love this horse. The main reason, however, is that my father built it. He spent countless hours, evenings, weekends in his workshop in the basement, sawing, gluing, filing, constantly concerned that I might walk in and spoil the surprise. While the monetary value of the plywood and glue he used was probably just a few bucks, for me it's invaluable and I would never give it up, no matter the price. Every time I look at it, I can see my father standing in his workshop, sawing, gluing, and filing away. And while he did that he imagined my reaction. My eyes lighting up when I would first see the horse (I still feel bad that I missed it at first), my smile and laughter when I played with it (though I don't think he expected the actual extend of my love for this horse). Now that I am older, I see much more than just his beautiful work of art. I can see his boundless love for me that he wasn't that good at expressing in words. But he sure did an excellent job expressing it with all the work he put into the horse. Ever single time I look at it, I feel all fuzzy and warm and loved. Very much loved.

Being A Woman - Continued

• You get to pay student price (being 35) for a 4th row ticket at the Scala, "Just because you're here".
• You can wear dresses (granted, men can do that, too, but it might take a while until that will be socially accepted).
• You can make yourself several inches taller by putting on a pair of awesome heels.
• Orgasms, multiple and many, whenever you want.
• You and your girlfriends get to park in the VIP parking section of a club just because you smilingly convinced the bouncer that you were "The cleaners".
• You don't constantly have to prove that you have the longest and biggest of all the women in the same room.
• You get to see and play with boobs whenever you want.
• You can not only have emotions but also show them freely without anyone calling you a wimp.
• Just your mere presence can make a man confuse the sun with the moon.
• You can be 100% sure that your child is actually your child.
• You can grow a person inside your body.
• You have an insanely high pain threshold.
• You can get out of pretty much everything with the help of your period. Except having your period, I guess.
• You only look half as silly as men in biker shorts.
• Did I mention orgasms?

Squirrels

Sunday morning I went on a motorcycle ride. The weather was perfect. Clear air, not too warm, not too cold. The roads were dry despite the early morning. The sky was a perfect blue and everything looked clean and lush due to the recent rain.

As I was house sitting my friend's place in the hills above Redwood City, it took me less than 5 minutes to get to I84, a lovely windy road up towards Skyline Boulevard and then down to Pacific Coast Highway. Oftentimes, when I take this road, it is very warm or even hot on the east side of the mountain and it gets a lot colder the closer I get to the ocean on the western side. But this time, it was just perfect.

I made it all the way down to the ocean, let a few impatient riders pass who couldn't wait behind slower cars but had to pass them despite the curvy road and the double line, covered with those plastic, slippery reflector thingies, that are very useful in the dark but can kill a rider so easily.

A few miles south I turned into Pescadero Road to ride back up again. At one point further up in the forrest, I rode behind a big pick up truck that had slowed down, probably in order to turn into one of the smaller dirt roads ahead. So I was pretty close behind him in anticipation of passing him once he would be gone. Then I saw a squirrel on the right side of the road, running quickly, trying to cross the road. It ran directly under the truck and made it safely past the front wheel. But then something must have happened that made him change his mind and turn around to run back to where it came from. Either the realization that it was being driven over by a car or maybe the front tire did touch his tail. So it tried to escape, turned around to run back to the side of the road and ended up in front of the rear tire... It got run over, thrown in to the air and landed on the road, right beside me. Dead. Well, I hope it was a fast death.

I know it was just a tiny squirrel. But it just died. One moment it squirreled across the road and the other it's just another piece of road kill that people drive by. But I was shocked and sad. To see the life get smashed out of the tiny creature in an instant. And I realized that, thankfully, I have never had to see anyone die like that right in front of me. Or anyone die, for that matter. Given my level of empathy, that's a good thing. I mean, I even cried a little for Mr. Squirrel who just wanted to cross the road on a warm sunny spring morning.

Now, a friend of mine told me that the squirrel just did what it was used to do in dangerous situations: it zig zagged to get away from the danger. Instead of holding still until the car was gone (admittedly, that could have had dangerous results for me if I hadn't been able to avoid it. Slipping on a squirrel is not something I ever want to experience while riding my bike) or just keep running to get away. Although latter could have resulted in him being run over by the other rear tire.

This instinctive behavior when feeling threatened and how hard it must be to adjust it made me think of humans. For example the US Americans, whose idiosyncracies I am really trying to understand but I'm having a hard time doing so. Like the need to carry a gun or the aversion to anything that sounds like socialism. But when I look at them like I look at the squirrel, I begin to understand them. Like the zig zagging, those things result from hundreds of years of history and experiences, like entering a country they've never been to before and know nothing about. They didn't know what you might find around the next corner or behind the next rock. A giant buffalo, a rattlesnake, a mountain lion, or something even bigger and crazier? If you wanted to survive, you'd better make sure to have something to defend yourself with. Like a gun.

I know there a lot more reasons why there is a constitutional right to carry a gun. But sometimes, zig zagging will kill you and it makes sense to just hold still and see what happens. Most of the time, the situation will not require you to shoot or bomb anyone and you'll come out save on the other side. But it will take a while to change this instinctive behavior to something more appropriate for the situation at hand.

It's too late for Mr Squirrel, RIP little friend. Let's hope it's not too late for us humans.

Way Too Dangerous

This Blogpost is definitely a very selfish one. I’ve had this conversation so many times that I just find it easier to send people to a website that answers their question. It’s a little bit like work used to be. I rather invested a few hours in creating a training video than having to answer the same question over and over and over again.

So, why do I continue to ride a motorcycle. Even though it’s so incredibly dangerous?

Every few seconds, a motorcyclist dies or is injured badly. Motorcyclist are incredibly vulnerable, and get easily missed by other drivers and are just the weaker party when it comes to collisions with other motorized vehicles in traffic. And still, I continue to ride my motorcycle.

It’s true, I am vulnerable. The helmet, the gloves, jacket and padded pants that make women’s heads turn when I ride past (that jacket has a way of pressing your boobs into your chest…) are the only things between me and the tarmac. Car drivers are usually busy doing other things than actually driving the car. Such as reading, listening to the radio, texting, checking Google Maps for the route, talk on the phone, sleep, eat, smoke, etc. And in the US, they don’t even have gone through proper driving school. Not every country makes his citizens pay thousands of dollars to allow them to drive a car and potentially be able to kill pedestrians and other motorized vehicle drivers… Admittedly, they’re often much nicer and considerate. IF they actually see you…

And still, despite all the dangers, the 98% probability of getting killed or seriously injured, and the clothes that make my broad shoulders even broader and the big ass even bigger, despite all that I will continue to ride my motorcycle.

When I have managed to put on all the gear, pants, boots, jacket, gloves, and helmet, the bike warm enough to not stall at the next traffic light, when it purrs and vibrates and feels like she can wait to get on the freeway to let off steam, when she reacts to every single one of my moves, leans into curves, accelerates easily within seconds, seems to jump a little like a carefree wild bronco, and sprints along the Californian Highways as if she never did anything else. There is not a lot in this life that makes me happier. And I feel that the same is true for her. As silly as that might sounds, but it’s easy to see what kind of roads she likes. She doesn’t like driving through the city where you have to stop at each traffic light. She loves curvy highways with fast, straight parts. She loves to ride fast on the freeway. Why 100mph is not fast for her. However, for me it is. Given the lack of driving skills and the amount of traffic here in the Bay Area.

But there are so many roads in California, besides the freeway that are just meant for motorcycle riding and where you don’t see a car in hours. Every now and then you see a deer, a squirrel, and a lot of insects. But no car. The most dangerous thing, apart from the curvy road, is the breathtaking nature. You shouldn’t turn your head too often or too long for gorgeous, majestic redwoods or the sight of the beautiful Pacific that makes your eyes well up. No, keep your eyes on the road!

This is another reason why I love to ride a motorcycle. When I ride I don’t think of anything else but the road and the bike. There’s no room. Every, even a little distraction can have lethal consequences. Therefore it’s like Yoga, meditation, or wake boarding. Full concentration. No room to think of work or anything else happening in my life right now. Road, cars, deer, bike. Nothing else.

Being A Woman

• You can't walk down a street and hear someone whistling and just think "Someone is having a great day."
• You walk through a packed club and someone grabs your ass or between your legs.
• You don't wear skirts when you're planning to go to a club that will be packed.
• You walk to the subway in the early morning, wearing cargo pants. Two guys walk behind you and one of them slaps your ass and you're scared they might do more if you yell at them or punch them in the face. And then you grab one of them by his shirt and yell at him in front of his friend and all your friends say later is: "You shouldn't have done that, who knows what they could have done to you?"
• You're asked, "Where is your boyfriend?" when you walk into a bar wearing motorcycle gear and a helmet.
• You're regarded as a couple when you're going on a motorcycle trip with your girl friend.
• Men look at your boobs and not into your eyes when you shake their hands. 
• You feel uncomfortable when you walk home in the middle of the night and walk faster when you see strange men walking close by.
• You blame yourself for looking too nice when a stranger starts following you when you're strolling through a city while on vacation. And you don't even think about going to the police because it's your fault, isn't it and he doesn't do anything wrong other than scaring the hell out of you and ruining the only day you have in that beautiful city.
• You are regarded as an arrogant bitch when you ignore cat calls or strangers talking to you unsolicited on the street.
• You try to avert your eyes when you see men running or exercising without shirts because you're either aroused or, more likely, appalled. 
• You feel like you have to explain yourself or apologize for not being married and having children to people who think that's a woman's main purpose in life.
• You're utterly confused and depressed and really don't know if you want children or not for most of the time you're able to have children. Theoretically, because you might not be able to have children at all. Something you find out once you finally managed to decide that you want them.
• You feel bad when you're getting favors just because you smiled at a guy in a shop or a bouncer at a club.
• You don't ask for favors or discounts because you don't want to get them just because you look nice.
• You're already self conscious and confused when your boobs start to grow without everyone commenting on how big or small (at the same time) they are.
• You know how to deal with pain that feels like your body is being torn apart. Every few weeks.
• You feel what everyone around you feels and you can understand why they do and say what they are doing so it's hard to just dismiss them or judge them. Nothing is black or white for you.
• You feel that you need to defend yourself for your lifestyle choices especially when it comes to your sexual lifestyle.
• You have to endure mockery for the amount of cats you chose to surround yourself with. Although everyone knows that you cannot have enough cats. Cats are awesome. End of discussion.
• When working with male executives you have to endure weeks of endless discussions and revisions of your project plans until you finally end up doing what you had originally proposed.
• You can significantly increase the number of followers on whatever social network is currently the last hype by posting photos of your ass.

If you're lucky you find a place to live and friends who will make all of the above obsolete or easier to endure. And I truly hope that, some day, every woman on earth will life in a place like this, surrounded by people like this.

The Age of Zero Fucks Given

I love being 40. Early forties. Apart from the frequent reminders of my body that I am not 20 anymore, like after a day of snowboarding when even washing my hands was a motion that caused my sore muscles to hurt so bad. Let alone walking. Other than that it's fabulous. You really do not give one fuck anymore. Am I living the right life, having the right job, wearing the right clothes, saying the right things, dating the right guy? Who cares? No one does, really.

In fact, I noticed that more people envy or admire me for the life that I live. I used to think that I was a big failure, not being married, no kids. Almost everyone else had that. But then, I saw people getting divorced. Friends being unhappy in their marriage, with the kids, the house, the mortgage and the full time job. I have friends who are happy and who have great kids and a working marriage. But that must have been a lot of work. And I truly hope for them that it will be worth it in the long run. Like it seem to have been for my parents. Or it seems to be for my brother. I wouldn't want to miss my sister in law or my nieces but I do see how hard is has been for them and still is.

I know that this is a popular subject for single, childless women my age. But the way I approach it is like a curious scientist, like a child seeing a rainbow for the first time. When I see friends who get married or have children I can't help to ask the question "Why?". What makes them do it? Why don't I feel like doing the same thing? What makes me different?

And then, I see that I am not that different. So many other people finally realized that they do not have to get married. That they don't have to have children, not even a relationship to be truly happy or normal (whatever that means). It's just one option. Not the defined goal that you have to reach to not be regarded as a failure. We're over that. What is the goal, anyway? And how hard has one to work towards it?

I know one thing. I am happy where I am right now and I wouldn't want to have anyone else's life. It wasn't always easy on my way here. And it won't always be easy in the future. But I know one thing: Giving zero fucks about what other people think you should be or do is the best advice I can give.

The Next Generation

There are a lot of good things that come with age. And a lot of things I could easily live without. Like the stiffness of my muscles every morning, the way my skin is changing in certain parts of my body and the knowledge that this will only get worse from here, how bad of an experience jet lag or long distance flights have become, and the worst: having to deal with the next generation.

I'm pretty sure that every generation has felt this way and we all have had confrontations with previous generations caused by very different views, opinions, likes, and dislikes, and different environments. I mean, how can someone like me who grew up in a peaceful, secure, and wealthy country relate to my parents who were born in World War II? My mother still woke up shaking every time the fire alarm sirens went off.  I'm always amazed by people who bridge that gap easily but they're usually the minority. I have been wondering why I am so impatient and a a particular type of person makes me angry so easily. Especially here in the Bay Area. People seem to think that because they're paying an ridiculous amount of rent or bought a shitty place for 10 times its actual value or have a big, ecologically friendly car with a t-shaped logo, that they're entitled to ignore most traffic rules, keep their neighbors from sleeping with loud parties on school nights, walk on the sidewalk without looking up and expect others to jump out of their way, or park their cars that are too big for their garage on the sidewalk.

I've tried a few approaches to deal with my anger and annoyance. The latest one while I was at work. With all these young software engineers running around. Unless, they're in front of you in the cafeteria line or blocking your way when you're late for a meeting. Then they're like sloths. Anyway, I got a little annoyed by a few of them, once again. Most likely because they were looking at their phones while walking towards me so I had to step or jump aside to avoid them bumping in to me. Or they picked noodles on their plate at the cafeteria, one by one... So I tried to imagine that all of them were puppies. Cute, fluffy, clumsy puppies. Running around on their big paws, tumbling over, peeing everywhere, but being very cute at the same time. So you can't get angry at them whatever they do. And it did work. I got calmer and understanding and I was able to accept all the things that had annoyed me till then as part of who they were. The one thing I still have to work on, though, is to keep my self from saying "Auuu", all the time when I see some particularly clumsy ones.

The Great Wide Open

Just the thought of the imminent trip makes me so happy and my smile so wide that it is impossible to hide from my colleagues. And being the lovely colleagues I know they are so happy for me. Which makes me smile even wider.

Riding the bike is just one part of what I look forward to. Traveling on a motorcycle is unlike every other form of traveling. You are outside. You feel the wind, the heat, the cold, the rain. You smell the smells. The good ones and the nasty ones. You get hit by bugs. Some of them feel like rocks. Apart from the gear you're wearing, you are unprotected. You feel each turn, each incline and descend. The difference in temperatures between sun and shade, between higher and lower altitudes. It is not as strenuous as riding a bicycle but it is not easy, either. You better make sure that your attention is 100% on the ride and anything around you that could potentially kill you. It is like meditation. At 80 miles per hour.

Another part I am very excited about is the 'big unknown'. As a German I'm used to planning and knowing where I am and where I am going and how and when to get there. But I'm trying very hard this time, to not plan at all. Other than collecting names and numbers of friends and families I could stay with along the route. The route I will end up taking, not the route I've planned out to the last mile. Not having to stick to a schedule. Not having to be at a certain place at a certain time. I'm just so curious and excited to find out where I will end up, who I will meet along the way, and what I will end up doing, seeing, experiencing.

The most difficult but also most exciting part is the absence of planning. It's so hard, not to give into that nagging voice that still tries to get me to figure out what to do next and secure my next paycheck even before I've left Google. And it's challenging but also a lot of fun ignoring it. I just KNOW that I will be fine. If I've learned one thing during my time at Google and if there's one thing I love about being 40+ it's that I can fully trust my gut. I will find a way. I will figure it out. And THAT is the part I am looking forward to the most.

Can't argue with that

Last Saturday I went for a run in the morning. A mile away from home I saw a truck on the other side of the still empty street. Next to it stood an older guy who seemed to be having a discussion with a slightly drunk hipster. The truck was full of large images of bloody babies. And I read something like "Abortion gives you breast cancer." The older guy who owned the car seemed to be an expert in that matter, I mean, him being a person with neither a uterus nor breasts and, I suspect, no medical degree or any knowledge of obstetrics or gynecology. Like so many self proclaimed experts in the field of abortion.

I had it. I took out my ear bud and yelled at the guy: "You keep the hell out of my uterus. You don't get to decide what to do with unborn babies because, YOU don't have one! Once you've had your first pregnancy and had to struggle with the decision to abort, you get an opinion!" He started to respond but I just shook my head and kept running. The hipster guy was obviously amused and gave me a thumbs up.

Immediately after, I knew that that had been a stupid idea. You just cannot argue with people like that. If anything, he must have felt encouraged by me. One more person to convert. He certainly didn't hear or let alone consider (or even considered to consider) what I yelled at him. And the fact that I yelled it didn't help either. I must have been just one more sheep on the wrong path for him.

There is just no arguing with radical people. And radical includes politically as well as religiously or just plain stupid. You can't. They will not listen to what you are saying. They are so set in their beliefs and opinions that they don't even hear anything that doesn't align with or supports those. They might just be lazy or scared. It's not easy to try to understand a new point of view. To really listen to arguments and facts and then go ahead and find out more, research, gather all the facts and other opinions and then, finally, come to a well informed conclusion. Such as, yes, we are fucking up our planet and the sea levels are rising and the poles are melting. Let's DO something about it. It's hard to change. It took years and years, a whole lifetime to build that system of beliefs and opinions. Listening and maybe even accepting someone else's opinion or just the facts could negate their whole existence! And who wants to realize they were wrong for more than 69 years? No one. And so they keep going, fighting, and arguing for what they believe is the right thing. And nothing, no statistically significant studies, not millions of people with a different opinion, no hard facts, no bombing with drones or shooting with guns, and of course no yelling at them from across the street will get them to give you even one inch, not even a centimeter.

Fortunately, there are people who are willing to change. And the interesting thing is, once you did, it really doesn't feel like you've lost or wasted your life so far. Sure, there's this short moment where you go, WTF, if I had only done this when I was younger! But then you look ahead and are happy that you were able to make it at all. Because that is what makes really good and smart and compassionate people: they don't cling to and worry about the past and they don't hope to have a better life in some distant future or in heaven. They live today! And they give their best to make life better for everyone. Today. Now!

Still not afraid

Thanks to my dear friend Andrena for this photo. I wish we could hang out for real sometime :-).

I have about 1.5 months left with a steady, well paid job. And still no idea what I will do next. Where the money for my rent and bills will come from. And yet, I am still not afraid. Not even a little bit nervous.

To be honest, I don't even want to think about it at this point. My mind is still too occupied with my current job to be able to make the right decision. What I have started to do though, is plan my trip. I've been reading travel journals of motorcyclists. Like "All the gear. No idea" of an English woman who traveled through India. By herself. On a motorcycle she bought there after she had just gotten her license in England. I admit that my balls aren't even half as big as hers. And as much as I think that India must be fascinating and I love the hospitality of the people, I need something less crowded and a place where I don't stick out that much. And of course, a place where I can ride on roads that won't force me into a shop every other day and won't get me killed that fast.

Now I'm reading a book about a motorcyle trip across the US. That's more what I want to do. And I love how this guy writes about riding. How he describes the feeling of sitting on your bike, the road ahead, nowhere else to be. Absolute freedom. While I know that doing this trip in a car, maybe even a small SUV, would be so much more comfortable especially once I reach rainier regions and also cheaper if I sleep in the car, it would just not be the same. Nothing compares to being on the road, you and your bike, enjoying every single mile. (Haha, I sound like such a dude...). It's not so much running away from something. Quite the opposite. I know I will not only find new friends and make lots of exciting, scary, good and also not so good experiences but I will get to know myself so much better and learn how to rely on others more and ask for help. The latter will be challenging. It's so much easier to pay for a hotel, have your own room and privacy after a long day on the road instead of meeting strangers for the first time who kindly offered their guest room or couch to you. And talk to them about the trip and yourself. And worse, feel indebted to them. On the other hand, on my last trip I found myself talking to many of the Innkeepers or fellow travelers and I do feel that I have enough to offer in return for hospitality.

In a nutshell, I can't wait to finally leave and be on the road. For at least two months or for however long it will take!

Uncomfortably Excited

I quit my job.

After almost 11 years at Google and over 21 years of either working, or studying and working I am going to take a few months off to see what I'm going to do next. I'm not so much nervous than happy and a little relieved. And very excited about all the options and possibilities. And also very grateful for my time at Google and everything I learned and what I've become while working there. And, of course, for all the people I got to know there, many of them dear friends now.

At this point I don't have a clue what I am going to do next. Or where my next paycheck will come from. The only thing I know is that I made the right decision. That it was time to leave. That I contributed my share to the success of this company and that it made its contributions to my personal development. It gave me the skills, and more importantly, the guts to make this decision.

I must admit that I've never been very fond of technology. The new Android phone, the next MacBook or iPhone, virtual reality, self driving cars. Although, I can't wait for the latter.  There are way too many incompetent drivers on the roads in this country. While I am aware and impressed by the technological advancements made during my life so far, I'm longing to be away from this fast-paced environment where everyone seems to be running to be the one who discovers the next big thing or at least buy the next big thing discovered by someone else.

I am exhausted. I know I am good at what I do and I love my colleagues and most parts of my work. I love presenting and speaking in front of others. Love, when their faces light up when they understand what I'm saying and when they nod and agree. And when we really dig into a seemingly unsolvable complex issue. And we think so hard that my brain hurts like crazy and I can feel it burning calories. And then, after countless sessions, the break through, the solution. But then, what was it that we do? Code is written, some data tables are getting rearranged, some websites get updated, some changes to a user interface. And a few years later, someone else will do the exact same thing: sit in a room to figure out how they can rebuild and improve what we just did. Software development is like building things with Lego. It's really only fun while you're building something new. You don't usually play with what you build for very long.

And that's the thing, I don't feel like I'm creating something that will last for a long time. I might make peoples lives easier. Granted, in our case, A LOT of people's lives. But I don't feel it. I want to stand in front of a room of people, look into their eyes and see that I had an impact on them. On their lives.

So, what is next? I don't know. My immediate plan is to do another motorcycle trip. This time with less planning and more spontaneity. And this time longer. I always wanted to just go without knowing where I will end up next. And stay in places I like for as long as I want. This time, though, I will have to rely on other people more. Ask for help. Ask friends if they know someone I could couch surf with. House sit, baby sit, dog or cat sit. All in exchange for a bed and a roof. Instead of spending hundreds of dollars on fancy B&Bs or hotels. I'm so excited to be able to be scared again. Or maybe scared for the first time. Ever since I left home I never had to worry about anything. There always was a steady, relatively well paid job. I had what I needed and usually more. But for a year or more, I won't know what comes next. I know that I will find out. It's always worked out that way. I just need time to be able to listen to myself. Relieve my brain from the constant input and strain it's under at work and give it the opportunity to reset, synch with my heart and my body and tell me what to do. It will, eventually. If there is one thing I know for sure it's that I can always trust my gut to send me in the right direction.

I know I can do whatever I want to. I ran two marathons, for god's sake! I jumped out of an airplane. I've been working in an industry and a job that I do not officially qualify for. And I do rock it! Or have rocked it. And I will find something I can rock even more.

Hamburg, meine Perle

Today it rained, for a change. Although I wouldn't really call that rain. Barely more than fog. Nevertheless, it reminded me of Hamburg. Once again. I've been thinking a lot about Hamburg, my former home, recently. There was a point in my life when I thought I'd never leave it. When I thought I had found the place that was right for me. But then I did leave. And I miss it. So much. 

I still remember the first weeks and months after I moved to Hamburg. November 1996. One of the nastiest and coldest winters in history. As cold as -20 degrees (that's -4 in Fahrenheit). It was dark, wet, and cold. I almost froze to death in my first night in my new apartment. That's when I learned that electric heaters suck, big time. Especially the ones that recharge at night and need at least 36 hours notice to be able to warm up a place that had been dormant for years.

The winter remained as cold and I was relatively lonely as I didn't know too many people. I didn't have a TV but that turned out to be a good thing. A month later I got my bicycle and I rode to work every day. Through the snow and temperatures way below zero. And eventually, I made friends and I went out to the Reeperbahn for the first time, also by bicycle. And I was blown away. There was this huge party area where people were fun and crazy and didn't give a shit how you were dressed. The music was trashy old German Schlager (oldies) we sang along to at top of our lungs. And at the crack of dawn we went to the Fischmarkt (fish market), by the Elbe river to each crab rolls before we went home to sleep all Sunday. No last orders or 1.30am closing time. Bars closed after people had stopped having fun and gone home.

Originally, I had planned to stay only a few months and then leave my job and start another one in a different city. But then spring arrived. Spring in Hamburg is very special. First, it's still cold but you can already tell that it won't be cold for much longer. Then that first evening right after the sunset when the sky has this special kind of orange-pinkish blue and the air smells faintly like spring. Everything just bursts with anticipation. You can practically feel how every living organism around you sits in their starting block, waiting for the signal to 'spring'. To finally wake up and bloom and live again. And then the first blossoms. The first snowdrop, the first crocus. Finally small spots of color in the city that had been dark and grey for too long. And you know that now it's merely a matter of days or weeks until spring is there. Until the whole city smells like a flower shop and everything is pink and white and green and beautiful. I can still see the Japanese cherry tree behind my house, in full pink bloom. Hamburg is full of trees and parks and, consequently, an abundance of flowers and blooming trees in spring. I miss that so much.

So spring came and made me rethink my decision to leave. In fact, I never wanted to leave Hamburg again. Well, every now and then during a particularly nasty kind of horizontal rain shower I did. But only until the sun came back. And so I got a permanent job and managed to extend my lease and Hamburg became my home. I made friends at work and outside, became the mascot of my company's soccer team, drove through the city in a car without a working clutch. I rode hundreds and thousands of miles on my bicycle with only one major accident. I ran through the streets around the Alster lake at temperatures below zero. Had barbecues on the beach. Laughed and cried with my friends. Moved a few times. After a few years I quit my job and went to university. And had a whole lot of other crazy experiences with people I still love dearly. 

A few years later I started working for my current employer who eventually asked me to come to California. I can still remember seeing the email. I had been thinking about my professional future as I hadn't been happy in my job for a while. And there was it, the dream job. A job I wasn't even officially qualified for. A way out. But it was at the other end of the world. I would have to leave the city that I had become to love so much. Leave my friends and colleagues. Leave a life I thought had been settled and boringly comforting. I can still remember the night when I told my friends that I got offered a job in California. The looks on their faces that so perfectly reflected what I was feeling. You have to take this job! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! Move to California, who wouldn't want that? And: Don't go! I spent several days and nights pondering and weighing pros and cons until I made the decision. I would leave. I would give up my life and start a new life. 

And here I am. In one of the most beautiful parts of this world. The Pacific Ocean at my doorstep, red woods, deserts, mountains, the best weather you can wish for. And I miss Hamburg. I miss getting rained on and having my umbrella getting torn apart by the storm. I miss going everywhere by bicycle. Miss hardwood floors and high ceilings. Miss power outlets that are level. Miss the smell and the colors of spring. Even the harsh winters. Even breaking into sweats after two steps in those humid summers. And most of all, I miss my friends, miss German humor and sarcasm. And Hamburg, Hamburg I miss you so much.

Girlhood

When I was little I often wanted to be a boy. Not in a transgender kind of way. Just because it seemed like so much easier and so much more fun. I never liked dresses or skirts, or played with the dolls that I kept getting as presents, and I never really understood why girls were nice one day and mean the next. I preferred hanging out with boys and, most of the times, the boys were okay with that. I never cried unless I got really hurt. I loved to get dirty, and was usually bolder than most of them. It was so much easier being with boys. Granted, they could get a little annoying at times, or play a little too rough but they were never really mean. They were less moody, more predictable, and they did more fun things, such as play sports, climb trees, play with model cars and trains, Lego, etc. But I did like to hang out with girls, too. There are some things that only girls understand and that are way more fun with girls, than with boys. Yeah, talking about boys was one of them. But it always puzzled me how girls could be the loveliest and nicest creatures one day and heartless mean bitches the next. I was just too naive to assume that I could trust everybody in this world. Not a good idea. I'm still like that, though. Just more careful and more experienced in trusting my gut feeling.

People mistook me for a boy quite often. Given my skinny physique, my preference for hanging out with boys, my boldness, my usually bruised elbows and knees, and the fact that I wore my brother's old clothes most of the time, vs. the pink outfits that my parents had bought me in a desperate attempt to "disguise me as a girl". Most of the times I didn't really care if that happened. Sometimes it was annoying, especially the one time when my hair was long but I had pulled it up into a ponytail. And sometimes it was kind of fun. Like that time when every girl had to leave the boys' tent in summer camp and I didn't. When, on vacation, two girls had a crush on me and my parents cracked up every time at lunch when they walked in to our cafe at the hotel, looked over to where I sat and blushed and looked away when I looked over and grinned. 

It was just one of the things that seemed unavoidable when I grew up. And I was okay with it. In fact, once my body started changing I was actually a little sad. I loved to go topless without everyone staring at you or looking away. Even more so now that I live in the US where it's not even legal. And something else happened, too. Suddenly, the boys became a little awkward with me. And it became a little awkward to hang with the boys. That was the saddest part. It seemed like I had lost most of my friends. Much later, however, I would realize that I had also gained access to a large pool of people I could have all other kinds of fun with.

Also, I think that restrooms should be unisex everywhere! That will spare a whole lot of boys and girls embarrassing moments and impossible decisions.

Run the Rockies

I'm at the airport in Denver, on my way back home after spending a few days in Colorado, were I participated in another Ragnar Relay. Before and after such a race, they always sound like such a good idea. Until you actually have to get out of the van and run your share. At 10,000 feet. In the middle of nowhere. At ass o'clock. When it's dark as fuck. Or unbearably hot. And yet, I think I'll do another one next year. Because, why not?

This time my colleague who organized the group I joined, had recruited folks from various parts of the country, with the result that a bunch of those didn't cooperate very well and we ended up with about half as much break time as usual and with one more person in our van. But well, sleep and legroom are overrated, anyway.

I had flown out a few days earlier, hoping that I could adjust a little to the elevation and maybe do a couple of training runs as I hadn't run since my marathon. Denver itself is quite nice but the main reason it's so amazing is its proximity to the Rocky Mountains with their breathtaking beauty. It does look a lot like the Alps, however, a thousand times bigger. Like almost everything here. Especially the food portions...

Eventually, I drove up to Copper Mountain, a ski resort at about 9,000 feet elevation where the race should begin at 6.30am on Friday. I met the team for the first time the night before, everyone but the first van, the four guys who were supposed to run the other 5/12 of the race, causing us to spend way more time driving than resting while they were able to rest longer and, consequently, run faster and decrease our resting time even more. But well, at least they showed up at all exchanges and removed the decorative dicks they had drawn on their van which had caused some complaints from other participants. I really don't understand why Americans get freaked out by naked body parts but are perfectly fine to see heads explode after being shot by a crazy guy who bought his gun at Walmart, no background check required.

Anyway, our first runner was on the road and the race had officially started for us. The first and second runner each gained about 1,000 feet elevation up to the pass where I'd begin my first leg. At 10,622 feet (3.200m). I thought that it couldn't be too bad. Given that my roughly 10 miles would be just downhill. So I took the baton and started running. Until, after 20 seconds, I had to run up a little hill to get out of the rest area where the exchange was located. It felt as if something really heavy had just sat down on my chest. Breathing was hard and I started seeing stars. But, fortunately, once it went downhill it became a little easier. And incredibly beautiful.
I sent a few happy "thank yous" to my fellow runners who, I don't know how they did it, had taken us up that mountain that I was allowed to run down now. Only about 2,000 feet down but still. Everything was lush and green and it was warmer than expected. The temperature difference between sun out and sun behind clouds and the effect on how hard/easy it made the running was surprisingly big. I got a few incredulous looks from people in cars and trucks who drove up the mountain. Seeing a bunch of folks running there didn't seem to be a usual sight. There were two more inclines that took the wind out of me. And I was glad that I hadn't been the one to run up to that elevation.

As I had followed the advise to drink as much as possible I noticed at mile 7 that my two liters were almost gone. But I thought I had only 2.7 miles left so I wasn't particularly concerned. When I got close to where I expected the van to be I started running faster and finished the last drop of water. But I didn't see the van anywhere. The exchange wasn't marked so the teams were able to pick a spot along a two mile stretch. And my team picked the farthest spot... I tried to keep running but eventually, I had to give up and call them to pick me up. No water and no more grains to give. But happy that I had been given this incredibly beautiful stretch to run.

Now I would be able to rest until after midnight when my next leg was scheduled to begin. Right when I got in the van, the rain started. Lucky me just finished in time to not get soaked. The next exchange was in Vail, the exclusive ski resort I had only known from the times when my mother watched winter sport competition on TV. Despite all the big resorts Vail has managed to remain a little quaintness until the next Porsche or the couple dressed in Armani appear around the corner. The sweaty bunch in the colorfully decorated vans didn't really fit in very well.

Once our last runner was done, we realized that we had less than three hours until it would our turn again. So we had to decide between sleep and food and, naturally, went to get dinner. After dinner I was particularly happy as I had gotten a double portion of a kids plate of simple pasta with tomato sauce instead of the adult plate drowned in heavy cream (YUCK!). And, my thermos was full with freshly brewed hot coffee. I didn't really sleep before I was up shortly after midnight.

Ever since the security briefing I had been a little concerned. The area we were going to run through during the night was bear territory. They told us, not to worry. We should just walk towards the bear and try to appear bigger and make loud noises and the bear would run away. Sounds easy. We should, however, avoid running away from the bear because that would make him chase us. What scared me was that they couldn't give us a good answer for what to do in case we didn't see the bear while running and he saw us running away from him... The handout wasn't very helpful either. It said that in case where a runner encountered aggressive wildlife the team should get him back in the van as soon as possible. Well, the trail was mostly obscured from view from the freeway and only accessible every other mile and cell service was spotty to nonexistent. You can imagine how I felt when I left the exchange to run about 5 miles through the dark right into "no cell service but lots of bears area".

Running in the dark

Despite my fear I stopped a few times, switched off my headlamp and looked up to the abundance of stars that was visible in the absence of any lights but some bobbing spots from my fellow runners' headlamps and the cars. Milky Way in all it's beauty. One of the vans was fully covered in lights and looked very much out of place, kind of like a space ship or an art car at Burning Man. I can only imagine what people in the other cars must have thought. I kept checking left and right for bears but the only things I found were fresh pieces of bear poop on the trail. I made sure to keep in sight of the next runner in front of me. So that I only had to outrun them, not the bear. But no bear showed up. The run, while only half as long as the previous, seemed harder as there was no downhill just flat or slight inclines. And the elevation was still sitting heavy on my chest. About a mile from the finish line, I scared myself to death. The trail led trough an area covered in trees and bushes and when I stepped on a few dry leaves I was sure a bear had just jumped out of the bushes and was about to attack me. I don't have to mention that, despite being tired and exhausted, my last mile was my fastest.

With impeccable timing, the county had decided to do some construction on the highway we were running along. This would have caused us to take at least an hour or two longer to get through our legs as every second exit was closed if it hadn't been for our daredevil driver who mad a few u-turns and got us to our resting point at least two hours early so we could finally get some well deserved sleep. Sleeping on the floor in a gym with hundreds of other runners isn't really something I thought I'd still be doing at my age...

We got about two hours of sleep when we had to get up again to meet the other team at their final exchange. And we got on our last part of the trip. Only a few more hours and we would arrive in Aspen, the finish line. My leg was short with a nasty hill and a long stretch of no shade that made me regret my decision not to bring water. Two other runners, however, were about to run their hardest legs. Altitude, elevation gain, and the heat mad sure that they had to give the last amount of energy available until, finally, around 2pm on Saturday, the last runner made it across the finish line, sweaty and burnt but happy triumphant, given that he'd passed the owner of the illuminated van who, as well as the van in the bright daylight ruined the magic we had built up during the night, imagining the occupants of the van while following him through the dark.

Done, roughly 200 miles. Between 5,000 and 10,600 feet. 11 runners, two vans and not enough sleep. And yet, I can't wait to do it again next year!

Another marathon

So, I'm going to run another marathon. This Sunday. And compared to last year I feel strangely calm despite the fact that I didn't train half as much and hard like I did last time. I guess, it's the same with pretty much everything you do for the second time, it's not as exciting or terrifying anymore because you know what to expect.

Childbirth, flying, public speaking, public speaking in another language, driving a car, driving a motorcycle, kissing, or sex. All of them are terrifying but less so after you've done them once. Well, I can't speak for the first but I am actually not sure it's true in this case. Given that you do know how incredibly painful it will be you might be even more terrified. But at least when you give birth you do go home with a much better reward than just a plastic medal and a shirt. Also, I've read and I will most likely be able to confirm it on Sunday, one tends to forget how painful a marathon (or birth, which I won't be able to confirm) actually was and is looking forward to the experience. Which will be as painful or even more painful than the first time. But then, once you have crossed the finish line and all those endorphins hit you like crazy, you just forget about how hard it was to finish all those miles and how you wanted to quit at mile 5, 6, 7, well, all of them but then you did it. And you're just happy and can't wait to run the next one.

When I say I didn't train that much I mean that I never ran more than two times a week and sometimes I didn't run at all. I completed, however, a few longer runs. 13, 17, and 20 miles (21, 27, and 32km). Latter didn't even feel as bad as my 20 mile run last year. When I just managed to run 19.5 miles and had to call my father to pick me up because my legs hurt too bad to walk.

The 17 miles were supposed to be only 10, half of it uphill somewhere in Napa. So I started running up that hill, briefly scared by a fake mountain lion that was sitting on top of a garage. Then, after 2.5 miles I felt something dripping from my face to the ground. I thought it was sweat and wiped it away with my hand. But it wasn't sweat. Blood was squirting out of my nose. At that point I had only reached an altitude of roughly 300 meters so it could not have been the altitude. Regardless, I turned around and decided to do a long run instead of a high run. Not before I had taken some pictures of the bloody mess and sent them to all my friends in time for Saturday breakfast.

The 20 mile run seemed really hard while I was running. I considered stopping plenty of times. I started with a bit of a hill, running up 17th Street in San Francisco all the way to Golden Gate Park. Once I was over that hill though, it got a little easier. Until I reached the next hill and the stairs at Lands End. As I had started a little later that morning a lot of people where already on the streets and hiking Lands End. Honestly, I'm kind of concerned that I might not even get to the marathon in time, given that I didn't do a single training run that early during the day. Anyway, when I climbed up the stairs at Lands End and a teenage boy started to race me, I was tempted to ask him how many miles he'd run so far and was going to run still. 7? 13? No? Then back off!

The climb up to the Golden Gate Bridge along Lincoln Boulevard was less strenuous than I had remembered it to be. At the bridge I refilled my Camelbak and started the remaining 8 miles. Mostly downhill or flat. At that time I started bargaining with myself for how much more to run. 17 miles would be fine. Maybe to Whole Foods on Potrero Hill instead of all the way home? 18 miles should be doable, too. Eventually, I decided to run to Whole Foods. And half a block away I reached 20 miles. It got me thinking that maybe, I can tell myself that I have to run 27 miles. And then, when I get to 26.2 I allow myself to end the run early :-).

I will certainly not break any records and maybe I'll even be slower than last year. Given that this year there will be 25,000 runners vs. 500 last year I will definitely have to start slower and water stops will certainly a lot busier. But the route will be more scenic and I do know it very well. There are no terrifying hills, there might actually be someone who runs the same pace as I do who I can talk to. Or silently suffer with. Or I could just watch the other runners. That's usually entertainment and distraction enough. As long as I don't get too competitive and end up running a minute faster than my usual pace and break down on the last few miles.

And this time I'll have a bunch of friends waiting for me (thank you Nihan, Barry, Danny, and Olivia). And we have a brunch reservation at 11.30am. So I do have a hard stop at 5 hours if I do want to take a shower before we eat. And I should. If only to wash away the blood :-).

Childhood Memories

When we drew houses and roads with chalk on the street. In hot and dry summers we'd eventually run out of street to draw on as we relied on the rain to tear them down so we could draw new ones.

We played tennis on the street in front of out house. On a chalk-drawn field and a rope for a net strapped to trash cans on either side of the street. The soles of our feet were black and we had to run after the ball so often, given that the street was slightly descending.

When I played horse and carriage with my rocking horse in a harness while sitting on my wardrobe with my bed as carriage behind me.

Horse race or circus with the rocking horse. Using my balancing skills from artistic cycling when standing on the horse arms held out on both sides, while rocking the horse like crazy.

When I cut open my stuffed animals in my pet hospital. And sew them back together.

We built cities with Lego and tore them down, then built new ones, and tore them down.... We spent whole weekends crouched in our PJs in our playroom without ever getting up.

We played soccer in the field behind our house. Before our neighbors built their house there. And I got hit so hard in the stomach by a ball one time that I was unable to breathe for a while.

We jumped off the swing into the sandbox. Or just tried swinging high enough for a 360 around the bar the swing was attached to.

Summers in the pool. Every day, I got home from school, finished homework, got on my bicycle and rode 3 miles to the public pool. I'd ride home reluctantly, but also happy, tanned, and exhausted. The trip home always seemed 10 times as long and hard.

Every time I greeted the life sized (ie. brown bear life sized) stuffed teddy bear that stood in front of the toy store in the city center by shaking his huge paw. Judging by how worn the fur on the paw was, I wasn't the only child that was not afraid of the huge teddy.

My favorite food, cooked by my mother. A huge pot of Letscho with rice. Lean spare ribs where the fat had dripped to the bottom of the baking dish so we could soak our bread slices in them. Cabbage and ground meat casserole. Or just plain boiled potatoes, left over from lunch. My mother always made more than necessary so skinny and always hungry me had something to snack on later. Hmm, potatoes!

My favorite food, not approved by my parents. Bread with anything on it but butter and cheese. Ketchup, Nutella, Maggi, and curry powder or salt. Anything chocolate, candy, or cracker.

Taking one "After Eight" chocolate after the other out of it's packaging and putting the package back into the box so my mother wouldn't notice. She always did.

Singing along to our favorite cassettes with my brother in the back of our Westfalia when we were on vacation. Not pretty and never in tune but awesome and loud!

Making up new rules for card games so I got all the trumps and my brother all the useless cards. Then singing while playing and making up card game relevant lyrics, while crying and almost peeing our pants from laughing so hard.

Detecting faces and figurines in the wood panels right above my bed in my large and beautiful attic room, my father built for me and my brother.

Helping my father built the attic room by handing him nails and brackets to attach the paneling.

The smell of the new carpet in the attic and the salesman we bought it from. And the carpet burn on my knees after a sliding incident...

I designed furniture for my Monchichi dolls that my father built. And my mother sew bed sheets, carpets, and table cloths.

We built houses for our Playmobil dolls with the wooden bricks our parents had made for us. Then we tore them down and built new ones.

Swimming in the ocean or in pools. And how my parents always tried to stop at every pool or beach when we were traveling all over Europe in our Westfalia so I could go for a swim. By the time I was 10 I knew the word for pool or beach in at least 4 different languages.

Diving under waves in the North Sea or the Atlantic Ocean. No wave was big enough. The feeling when I made it in the last minute or when I finally came back to the surface when one of those huge rollers had caught me and tumbled me around for what felt like 10 minutes.

Sleeping in the back of our Westfalia, curled up like a cat. Or waving to truck drivers on the Autobahn or any freeway, either using my hand or my stuffed dog, Debbel's paw.

Walking barefoot through deep and soft lawn. And the smell of freshly mown lawn.

When my grandpa came visiting and greeted me with a "Hello, my Heart (Hallo, mein Herz)!" before he picked me up and gave me a big hug.

My best friend's dog, Laika. Small, black, smart, and incredibly sweet and loyal. Who I spent so much time with that she still recognized me when I saw her almost 10 years later. The time when she ran full of enthusiasm through a rapeseed field in full bloom und we only saw her head when she jumped up to see where she was.

Our self made tents in the garden. With blankets and the timber trestles my father had made. I'd say makeshift but nothing he has ever made could be called "makeshift".  I can still smell the old, ragged blanket we always used because it's shape was so perfect. Until it was all torn, dirty, dusty, and smelled so bad that we didn't want to be near it, anymore.

My fake secret agent ID I made after watching some movie or TV show.

How I was able to spend hours by myself, making up games, imagining lives, worlds, things, without ever getting bored. No TV, no book, or expensive toys required.

Walking on stilts. I can still see them leaning against the wall in our little tool shed. Not too difficult if you could hold your balance and once you got the hang of it. It's always safer to keep walking fast. The same approach I had to riding a bicycle. That's why it's so hard to me to drive slowly.

We played ice hockey on the frozen lake in our village. And used to swim in the lake in the summer. There was a huge floating wooden cross anchored in the middle of it, where we could rest or play seesaw if there was more than one person. Unless the lake was closed for swimmers because someone had recently drowned in it.

Building igloos in meter high snow. And getting back inside after hours, all wet and cold. And the smell of the boiler room where we left our wet clothes to dry.

Racing down the little hill up the street behind our house with wooden skis, no ski poles. Who needs those? Sledding down that same or other hills. Until my brother drove straight into the barbed wire when he tried to avoid some woman who stood in his way.

Dressing up for carnival in self sewn costumes that my mother or grandma had made for me. A belly dancer with a veil for my face, looking like an 8 year old harem woman. A pierot. Zorro with my little red leather boots.

My stuffed dog, Debbel. Who I got for my birthday when I was two and barely as big as him and who's still with me and even survived a serious eye surgery.

All the people who thought I was a boy and wouldn't let me into women's rest rooms, almost punched me because I was so naughty or, in an extreme case, had a crush on me.

The forest that pretty much surrounded the village I grew up in. Just a few minutes walking distance and an incredible place to play and for adventures.

Self made popsicles, frozen cherry or orange juice. Or even frozen lemon soda. Watching Saturday night game shows while curling up on the couch in my PJs, and crushing the frozen juice with my spoon.

The mold on top of the bottle of home made cherry juice. We just poured the first glass using a sieve to get rid of the mold. That might have been one of the reasons we never got sick. And I liked the fact that my mother used empty rum bottles for the juice.

The sound of the black bird that used to sit on the roof top right outside my bedroom window in every summer night and kept me from sleeping. But no matter how often I tried to chase it away, it always came back the next night. 

When I read a book in one sitting. Getting absolutely lost in the story without a break to eat or go to the bathroom.

I spent almost all of my pocket money on candy and ate in minutes it without ever gaining any weight. 

We played Winter, Summer, and World Games on our Commodore 128 and, thanks to the joystick moves required, we ended up equally exhausted as the athletes.

The time when we were small and skinny enough to built a tower around each others with our wooden building bricks. And how surprised we were that, a year later, it didn't work so well, anymore.

When I learned that my brother would survive his accident and we slowly realized that he had as much luck as someone in his situation could have possibly had.

Being curious and fearless without thinking of consequences or wether or not I could get hurt.

All those memories. I'm so incredibly grateful that I can still remember all of these and, when I close my eyes, still see the images, smell the smells, hear the sounds, and feel the feeling. Keep your childhood memories alive. Never forget how you were, felt, what you did as a child. Children are honest, sometimes brutally so. Children are innocent but can be cruel at the same time. But, most important, children are curious and take nothing as given. They question everything and imagine the impossible. Wouldn't it be nice if we could retain this ability until the end of our lives?

Drive again

You're trying to get into a car the first time after that accident that almost killed you and maybe a friend or family member. That accident that left no bone in you body unbroken. That had you have to learn how to talk and walk again. That accident that almost took your will to live. Why would you want to stay alive given that your body was almost dead anyway and there wasn't really any reason left to live. Death was so much closer and easier to reach than life so why take the longer and harder road where there was a so much easier one. But you made it, you took the long road. You got up again. Mended your wounds. Learned how to talk again. Letter by letter, word by word. And how to walk. Step by step. You swore you would never get into or even near a car again. Ever. You would never let something like that happen to you again. Never let anything hurt you again. Protect yourself from that kind of pain and devastation. You hardly ever looked at cars again let alone got near or into one of them. 

But here you are. After years of healing, scarred and scared. The car door is open and you're standing there. Your heart is beating so loud it's deafening. You can hardly breathe. You want to run away as fast as you can. And yet, you're drawn to the open door. Somewhere, deeply hidden below all that fear and pain and covered by that protective layer you've built up, you can feel something else, a faint memory, the memory of being in a car. The memory of driving. Of feeling the wind in your hair, hearing music in your ear, seeing a beautiful road ahead. All those places to go. So many opportunities. And you know that there is more than just fear of being hurt. More than the memory of horrible pain and grief.

You take one step towards the door. And another. Breathing fast, hands sweating, unsure if you can get any closer. If you are ready, yet. But will you ever? You're wrestling with your memories and your fear. Curious to find more of these warmer, fonder memories. A feeling of home, of security and love. One more step and you could touch the door if you lifted your arm and stretched out you fingers. Only one more step and you could smell the car's interior. A flash of memory, the sound of glass shattering, of sirens, makes you hesitate, almost pull back. You're on the verge of turning around and running away. So close. Breathing faster. Sweat on your upper lip. You close your eyes, inhale deeply, summon all your strength and courage, the courage that took so much to rebuild, and you take that final step and slide into the driver's seat. Another deep breath to deal with the hurricane of memories that hits you there. You won't budge, let them come, you can do this. One more breath. You open your eyes. And you know that you can do this. It will take time. And you will never again be as reckless and fearless as you used to be before the accident. But you managed to overcome your fears. You're back in the car. You will drive again. After all those years. It feels a little strange and scary but you have been here before and you know that you loved it. And you will figure it out and not let you fear take over and keep you from living anymore.

Don't you want children?

I am fully aware that I don't really know what I'm talking about. I am not a mother and I will never be one. At least not for children with 50% of my DNA. All of what I'm writing here is based on several years of being a woman, things I heard, read, saw, concluded myself applying logic and some economics I learned, common sense, and a large amount of empathy. And at this point I'm grateful that my mother and other mothers made a different decision and so many women still do every day.

I am very glad that I haven't gotten the "Why aren't you married? And don't you want children?" question very often. By now, given my age, people probably think I'm gay or infertile or just too old for that. But I have heard it. And I really don't understand why people ask me that. They should ask every woman who, without being forced to do so, gets married and has children. Given all we know about how poorly mothers are being rewarded in most societies for being a mother which woman in her right mind, with access to all the information she needs to make such decisions would do it? 

Women are paid less in general. With the justification that they could get pregnant if they wanted. So the mere fact that our bodies were built to produce offspring results in a disadvantage for all working women. Now, first of all, by now women have successfully proven to be able to work the same hours, produce the same quality of work, and be equally reliable than non mothers (that includes men), which fact alone should result in higher salaries for mothers. Someone who has managed to carry and grow a living person for 9 months in their own body! Who has had a living being feast on his bones and who has pushed a small bowling ball out of their vagina and is still alive and well enough and willing to work? Hire them!

The smaller income becomes even smaller when a woman is married and the tax system allows the couple to file their taxes together. Usually, the bigger earner, the man, choses the better tax level and leaves the women with even less money for harder work. Societies that keep stressing how important gender equality is should have killed such tax rules long time ago (Germany). It practically forces women to stay home unless they like to work for almost nothing. And that would be stupid and who will hire a stupid person? Economically, tax rules should incentivize people to work more and, consequently, pay more taxes. But, what do I know...

And then, once the children are there and the after baby body doesn't look too appealing anymore. Or after the woman has supported the man and held his back so he could advance in his career and make even more money, he leaves her for a younger model. Ideally, he will use some of his bigger income to support the family he left behind. But that doesn't always happen. To be clear, not all men do this, many men end up struggling either having full custody and no support from their ex-spouse or no access to their children at all. But in the majority of cases it's the woman who is left behind and oftentimes (50% of times in Germany) the ex-husband does not pay one cent to support his former family. Of course, a younger and faster model requires usually more maintenance. That leaves no money to feed the children or allow the ex-wife to have only one job at a time to be able to feed them.

Being a single mother makes it even more difficult to find a job. Given that dealing with two children at a time without killing them or oneself is quite the unique skill and can be compared to running your own business she should have no problem finding a job but most employers see that differently. And then she does find a job and even manages to have a career. And, wham, she's considered a bad mother. Selfishly pursuing her career while abandoning her children. 

Now, even the best of parenting doesn't necessarily mean that your children will love you and care for you until the end of your life. They will move away, hardly ever call or visit, maybe have a fall out for whatever reasons and never come to see their parents again. So after all the trouble she went through, the mother ends up alone in her nursing home with no visitors and no one who cares. Not unlike the spinster who never managed to get a man to marry her or have children. However, chances are that the spinster ends up in the luxury nursing home or in a commune with her other spinster friends. She will most likely have more retirement money as she didn't have to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on her children's education. What a high risk investment with such an unpredictable return. The poor mother will most likely have a very low retirement income as she earned less, was in and out of jobs or worked part time all to make sure her children had food on the table, a good education, and enough time with her mother. So, the most important job in our society does not seem to be important enough to be considered when social security is applied.

At this point, I haven't even mentioned the physical and psychological implications of being pregnant and giving birth. Or, worse losing a child. And I won't. They sound horrific but I bet they're the weakest argument for not having children.

I don't want to go on. It's unfair beyond imagination. Given the above facts one would think that no woman in her right mind would voluntarily agree to get married or become pregnant. Many societies address this by forcing women, most often when they're still children into marriage, don't allow them to go to school, And make it illegal or impossible to use birth control or safely abort a child if necessary.

Which woman in her right mind who knows all of this would want to get married and have children? The answer is simple: almost all of them. And here is why. Again, I can't speak from own experience other than having lived in a women's body for such a long time, empathy, and hearsay. 

Because we can :-). The mere fact that we can do it is probably enough for many women. We can fucking grow a person inside our bodies! I let that sit because that is a pretty amazing feature our bodies came with. 

The possibility of having a bond with another being that is like no other connection in the world and a love that is absolutely unconditional. Until the little sucker figures out how to manipulate his mother to get her to buy him what he wants, that is. Some mothers are certainly more motherly than others but when evolution gave us our bodies it made sure that we would do everything possible to keep our and sometimes even other mothers' children alive. Maternal instinct and hormones are a big help with that.

For many women, this force of nature hits them even before they get pregnant and plants a desire to have a baby in them that gets louder the older they get and is said to have an annoying ticking sound that can even be heard outside of our bodies.

But even if you never heard that clock before you got pregnant, once you are, every single cell of our body will focus on growing that tiny little accumulation of cells into a being that will eventually become strong enough to survive outside of our body. The decision to abort a baby must be the hardest thing a woman will ever have to make. She practically has to overrule ever single cell, organ, emotion and physical desire in her body. Her body is determined on protecting and growing this little embryo and giving birth to it. She doesn't need anyone outside of her own body to make this even harder. What she needs is someone who sees and addresses all the issues above to help her either not to have to make this decision at all or, if she choses to abort, make it as painless as possible in all aspects. People should really stop trying to control other people's genitalia or what they chose to do with them.

Every single women and mother is such an integral, such an incredibly important part of every society. Of the world as it is today. Many societies, in particular some of the non human ones have realized and accepted this. Male and female members equally share the hard work that comes with creating a family and keeping it alive and happy. I can only hope that the human societies will catch up. Women everywhere should feel safe, supported, and accepted whatever decision they make and no one else should make them for them. They should not be judged for their life decisions.

Instead, we should do our best to eliminate all the obstacles and unfairness that women and mothers do have to face. To make lives easier for all women who, despite all circumstances, still find becoming a mother more rewarding than not. Every single one of them has my deepest respect and admiration.

War and Children

For the last few days I've been listening to the songs of this slightly corny German band "Silbermond". I do love some of their lyrics, though. This song I hadn't heard before, "Weisse Fahnen" (White Flags). It's about a little boy who lives in a war zone. Even though he's never seen his home at peace he does dream of peace. Every night. He dreams of a sky full of stars instead of fire and smoke. He dreams of a night that is quiet and safe and not full of deafening sounds of exploding bombs, firearms, land mines or the dreadful sounds of humans running for their lives, dying, or mourning the death of their loved ones.

I cannot imagine how it must feel to be a child during a war. The constant fear of death, torture, abduction, or even worse, unknown horrors made up by a child's imagination. And as with any war, the weakest suffer the most. While the strongest, the ones that make all the decisions, and benefit from the horrors they inflict are usually safe and well fed in a secure location. Cowards so different from true leaders who would lead their armies into the battle. Riding in the front row. Children are the easiest target. They are abducted, abused in front of their families, recruited as soldiers, and forced to do horrific things to other children and innocent human beings.

Both of my parents were born during World War II in Germany (my mother in a part that is part of Poland today). The first five years of their lives, they did not know what peace was like. They heard sirens, ran into basements and bunkers to find shelter, they lived on the little food that was available. My father lost his father when he was four. His father was barely 25. Already a war veteran at that age, he died of Tuberculosis. My mother and her family had to escape from the Russian Army. I don't know all the details but I heard various stories from grandparents of friends about what happened to families who did not manage to leave their houses early enough and encountered the soldiers who heard about what "all" the Germans were doing to innocent people in concentration camps. And who took it out on every German they found. I don't think that a little girl of 5 had anything to do with Hitler's horrific cruelties. But she sure paid for it... And if she survived, she might still be paying. Every night. With every nightmare that brings back what happened on that day. When the door was kicked in by those young Russians. She and millions of others.

The older I get the more I understand how my parents' behavior was affected by what they had experienced. By loosing a childhood. My father gave me a long list of books to read on the topic and book after book I had a better idea what he must have been through. That's how my father and I communicate. I write a blog and he suggests another book to read that explains why he his like he is.

At this very same moment there are millions of children who go through the same or way worse. Every night when they go to sleep, try to sleep, they don't know if they will survive the next day, don't know what kind of horrors the next day will bring.

And yet, a country like Germany, where every single family could easily feed another mouth, foster at least one child, only harbors a few thousand refugees. A political party that calls itself "Christian" claims that the country will get "overrun" by millions of refugees if they "opened the gates".

"Christian" values are being used to justify all kinds of ridiculous things such as to ban abortion and gay marriage but no one seems to think of using it to cite Jesus saying "Let the children alone and do not hinder them from coming to Me". Let them come. All of them.

You Christian Democrats and Chrisitan Social Union: Why don't you, just once, do the right, the Christian thing, and let them come. Give them a future. Show them that life is so much more than war. Nurture and raise them and let them go back home to spread the news that there are humans in the world who care about others. Plant a seed of good and see it grow. You might be surprised by the result.

Tod im Stadtpark

Die Sonne hatte den Horizont noch nicht ganz erreicht. Es schien, als ob der Tag sich das mit dem Aufstehen noch einmal überlegen wollte. Erst ein Auge vorsichtig öffnen...schnell wieder schliessen, um noch ein paar Minuten herauszuschinden, bis man dann schließlich doch beide Augen öffnet und sich entscheidet, sich einem weiteren Tag und seinen Ereignissen zu stellen.

Der Stadtpark lag in völliger Stille. Tautropfen glitzerten auf den Grashalmen. Die Wiese von einem feuchten Schleier verhüllt. Nach und nach begannen die Vögel zu zwitschern. Erst zögerliches, heiseres Piepen, ein Orchester beim Einstimmen der Instrumente. Dann legte einer nach dem anderen richtig los. Schließlich sang die ganze Mannschaft, als wollten sie den Tag dazu bringen, nun endlich die Beine aus dem Bett zu schwingen und die Jalousie zu öffnen, um die Sonne hereinzulassen. 

Während dieselbe sich nun auch anschickte, den Horizont zu überwinden und den Tag in Augenschein zu nehmen, war die Stimmung im Kaninchenbau mies wie jeden Morgen. Vater Kaninchen bestand auf eine allmorgendliche Gymnastikrunde, mit anschließendem Thai Chi. Raus aus dem Bau, im Kreis aufstellen. Nun ja, aufsetzen. Und dann den linken Löffel heben, senken. Den rechten Löffel heben, senken. Die Läufe der Reihe nach anheben und drei Mal fest auf den Boden klopfen. Vater hatte im letzten Sommer "Bambi" im Stadtpark Open Air Kino gesehen und bestand seit dem darauf, daß sie ihn Klopfer nannten. 

Schließlich stützten sie sich auf die Vorderläufe, hielten den Po in die Luft und schüttelten diesen ausgiebig.

Von der Kaninchenfamilie unbemerkt, hatte sich ein Hund genähert. Mit schiefgelegtem Kopf betrachtete der Golden Retriever interessiert das seltsame Treiben der kleinen Tierchen. Fünf unterschiedlich große, braune Kaninchen hockten im Kreis auf der Wiese und vollführten lustige Bewegungen. Wäre es ein Tag wie jeder andere gewesen, hätte der Hund noch eine Weile zugesehen, den Kopf geschüttelt und wäre dann schließlich seinem Herrchen hinterhergetrottet.

Nicht so heute. Nachdem ihm gestern vom Schäferhund aus dem Nachbargarten vorgeworfen worden war, daß er ein verweichlichter, feiger Schoßhund wäre und eine Schande für seine Art, mußte er etwas tun, um diese Anschuldigungen zu widerlegen. Unerhört! Er, der so mutig seine Familie beschützte. Zumindest würde er es wahrscheinlich tun, wenn er müßte. Aber als er diese fünf pelzigen kleinen Gestalten sah, wußte er was zu tun war, um im Ansehen des nachbarlichen Hundekreises wieder zu steigen.

Er setze sich in Bewegung. Zum Glück für ihn aber zum höchsten Unglück der Kaninchenfamilie, waren diese gerade bei der progressiven Muskelentspannungsphase. Alle hatten die Augen geschlossen und lagen entspannt auf dem Rücken, als der große gelbe Hund plötzlich in ihrer Mitte stand und nach der ältesten Schwester schnappte. Erschrocken und voller Todesangst erstarrten zunächst alle. Dann nahmen die restlichen Familienmitglieder die Läufe in die Hand und machten, daß sie in ihren Bau zurückkamen. 

"Bruno! Aus!" rief sein Herrchen. Zu spät. Zwar ließ er das nun nicht mehr zappelnde Fellbündel fallen, aber die Blutstropfen an seinen Leftzen ließen keinen guten Ausgang erahnen...