Let me just start with a fact that contains no exaggeration whatsoever this time: I have been forgetting my hair for 2 or more years now. I just wash it twice a week, put in hair rollers in 2 strategic places and let it dry, then I simply make a ponytail and that was that. For years, as I said.
Were this a glossy mag or something, I could now continue by telling you about the miracles my hair has conjured up while being unobserved and seldom trimmed. Well, this being the Real Life: it didn’t. It just grew, all thin and curly as always, it fell out again, it has been turning grey and I do not intend to do anything about it and that’s all.
I still feel I should show some appreciation, since my hair has never been longer, so here’s a photo of it, still wet and while I am creating a fake length by leaning backwards – to introduce some much needed exaggeration here (Drama, baby, drama!):
Sometimes I just do it: I assume all my troubles started in the Neolithic period.
You see, this was a time when people sat down and liked it. So they thought “Oh, I could get used to sitting here every day”, which is why they invented farming, domesticated animals and settled in permanent places. Jep, I blame it all on the Neolithic Revolution.
While your average scientist would probably hang me for simply stating this, as it is a highly controversial topic, I assume people in those Neolithic villages, towns and cities soon became very modern and started to have eyes only for their neighbors. And if those neighbors had a better hut, a sharper knife or a larger piss pot, they caused one to feel all kinds of strange and unpleasant feelings. In short, I am assuming here people soon concentrated on other people and nothing has been the same ever since. Nor better, if you ask me.
I could sit here writing for years to let you know what exactly makes me dislike the general fact that people tend to be only/mostly interested in their own status as compared to other people, but I just don’t care, do you?
Maybe a hint will do: when life on our planet requires us to concentrate on hard facts, we better do it, hard and fast and most of all, without checking our own status every second of it. This ability to deal with things other than Me and My Neighbors is something that one acquires during a process known as Growing up. Or should – this is what our planet is for.
My Jahresendmüdigkeit. That is: end-of-the-year-tiredness. It appears more or less in October and has run its course by January. Pity I cannot afford to leave it all and take a break right now.
I say this every year, too.
Of course I am old enough to resort to truthiness from time to time: “A house that needs renovation (aka a doer-upper) is actually perfect. In the end, we decide how it turns out and need not live only with other people’s decisions.” Yeah. True dat. It’s just … we both work a lot, have free time issues as a consequence and are not experienced “upper-doers”, only eager learners in general. So yes, it is a great feeling to put in a new floor by way of Youtube-schooling for the very first time, but there are many floors and many doors and many gates and rails and vital things here that need an overhaul and that great feeling of having done it soon gets replaced by the OK-next-dread. That and also: chemical burns on hands are actually bad for freelance translators.
(been here, done that and hurt myself with a stripping agent, because I can actually translate “use appropriate protective gloves” into a few languages but cannot actually do it when necessary)
So while I still really love the idea we get to create our own living space, I am also quite impatient to have it all done, sit down and read a book in a cozy, personal environment that does not need me that much anymore.
OK, so what’s next. The ugly stairs covered in Pukey I guess.
Da ich auf so ziemlich alles neugierig bin, schaue ich mir die Bilder an, eins nach dem anderen. Ich stelle fest, dass Angela Merkel in den 16 Jahren sowohl im Dienst als auch zu feierlichen Anlässen eigentlich immer dasselbe trug. Das kann ich verstehen: immer dieselbe äußere Form. Fast. Wirklich.
Bin zwar berühmt dafür, dass sich die lieben Umzugsmänner immer, aber wirklich jedes Mal über meine Klamotten- erm … -berge echauffieren, aber im Grunde genommen sehne ich mich nur nach ein paar wenigen Sachen: fließendes schwarzes Kleid, blaue Jeans, weißes Shirt und Karorock oder auch -kleid. Sneaker. Alle anderen Kleidungsstücke, die ich mein (und mein und mein und mein …) nennen darf, kann ich mir gar nicht erklären. Außer dass mir mein Verantwortungsbewusstsein verbietet, passable Kleidung wegzuwerfen. Und natürlich, weil es schon noch Spaß machen könnte, mal was anderes zu tragen.
Da also auch nach dem Umzug alle meine Schränke voll sind, muss ich auf ein paar Tricks zurückgreifen, um mir überhaupt noch neue Stofflieblinge anschaffen zu können, und zwar nachdem ich schon meinen größten Schatz überzeugt habe, dass er weniger Schrankvolumen als ich braucht (kennt ja jeder: Mann, Frau, Schrank). Es hat sich inzwischen herausgestellt, dass gebrauchte Kleidung für gebrauchte Kleidung tauschen tatsächlich unglaublichen Spaß macht. So komme ich an einige wertvolle Stoffjuwele, bei denen ich früher die Ausgabe gescheut habe, weil ich ja “nur zu Hause arbeite und die teuren Sachen nur im Schrank hängen würden” (wobei man das kaum noch “hängen” nennen konnte – ein passenderer Ausdruck, den ich hiermit der Welt zur freien Verfügung anbieten kann, wäre “sardinieren”). Heutzutage tun in meinen Schränken tatsächlich hochwertigere Sachen tatsächlich hängen und eine Ausrede für diese Pracht habe ich auch schon parat: Bald gibt es in Norddeutschland ein kulturelles Leben zu entdecken und zu feiern und da brauche ich dann hoffentlich auch all die wunderbaren Wollblazer, die mich in den letzten zwei Jahren gefunden haben und wohl zu meiner Lieblingsgrundausstattung gehören (werden). Erst jetzt bin ich so weit, eine Blazerfrau zu werden, ja.
After a few steps I realize my legs are shaking. And of course I say hey, what’s going on?!?
After all, I’ve only been cycling for a short time and without a hill in sight, surely there is no need to act up like this, dear legs of mine? This is only the beginning of a cycling holiday, you know.
They know. After a short trip to a local supermarket in Ribe to buy food and drinks, my legs are all shook up and then return to normal, as I tell them to. Denmark feels great as ever. Time to discover some more.
That same evening, we enjoy a most wonderful sunset on a North Sea beach and life feels quite … unreal, what with our last vacation being in 2019 and our last trip to a foreign country even further away, back in 2018. To Denmark. While the Sun is majestically performing its last daily chore, I notice I am starting to decompress and breathe more freely. Seems promising.
The next day, our weather apps are basically telling us now would be the best time to visit Fanø, so we decide to just do it – surely an island with one of the most beautiful villages in Denmark is a good choice? It is. The village,Sønderho, really is wonderful, but so are the heather plains, the dunes and the coast all around Fanø.
Nothing can beat walking barefoot on the sand while a mild breeze rejuvenates ones good old home office skin, so when I decide to use my phone as a Ghettoblaster (thereby quoting a satirical German movie) and bring some good old Top Gun music into this world, life seems full of possibilities. Never mind young people looking at me like that. I start to feel this really is a vacation and not something coincidentally nice to be taken from me abruptly.
That evening’s consultation of weather apps tells us we should visit the Viking Museum near Ribe the next day. Okay. As always, we get a lot of new information, exciting views and some great Danish ice cream, but I also experience what feels like a beginning of a slight sunburn on my face. Yes, I am generally aware that 20 degrees can be as dangerous as 30 degrees, it’s just that I am busy watching and thinking.
Since we fell in love with Fanø the day before, we simply inform our weather apps we will be going cycling on the island the next day, which we do. We have taken our bikes for a ride at the back of our Prius to show them some world, but if we hadn’t, we could have rented bikes easily then and there. And not just that: there are bicycle pumps installed all along the cycle paths, there is water, repair services, the cycle paths are in perfect condition and lead just about everywhere. A cyclists’ paradise. Time to explore the beaches. The heath. The dunes. And then to do it all over again, in the other direction, the island being only 13 km long. I feel blessed and excited and full of energy. So when we get to watch the local seals on a harbor bar, I almost run out of words to name my feelings. Vacation. Means. Sitting. There. And enjoying oneself, right? Right.
While strolling around the old town of Ribe the next morning, I see a pair of denim shorts I’d like to wear over my cycling shorts bulges, so I go in, try them on and buy them. It is only after emerging with a blissful smile from the shop and having a good look at it from the outside that I realize I have just bought men’s shorts in a men’s clothing store. Which would explain the shop assistant’s range of facially active thoughts and prayers. And also my need to giggle the rest of the day, my husband joining in. They are a good pair of shorts, though, and I get to wear them a lot. They also have pockets for pebbles, which seems important now. After Ribe, we continue our journey to a village near Thisted to spent a few days in Thy National Park, cycling, strolling along the beaches and anything else life has to offer.
It all starts with our Danish B&B host being a most communicative and nice person one can imagine, which is why we spend whole mornings listening to the many stories his life has written, before we venture out to show our by now sore muscles who the boss is.
I would never admit this out loud, but I am still silently waiting for life to turn its thumbs down on us careless frolickers, so I am sometimes a few moments late into the game when life offers nice surprises instead: while sitting at the lake Nors Sø with our binoculars at the ready one evening, I actually take some time before I say it, slowly, so as not to jinx it: “This must be a white-tailed eagle?” My husband is calm on the outside as well: “And there is the other one.” A bad birdwatchers’ wet dream x 2. The sea eagles fly around for some time and then gradually disappear into the landscape. I feel privileged once again that my mother tongue offers a word meaning TWO eagles instead of just eagles. I also wonder whether I will be able to sleep tonight … of course I am.
No consulting the weather apps the next day either, as we are simply driving to the third place we want to spend time at, Skagen. We do stop to visit the Viking graveyard in Lindholm Høje and learn a few things in the process. It never ceases to amaze me that people used tools in the 9th and 10th century I recognize as similar or identical to those my grandparents used on their farm.
And then Skagen. Small, beautiful, with expensive but tasty food and a harbor I call real, what with so many ships and people looking busy. We cycle to the spot where the Northern and the Baltic Sea shake hands (called Skagerrak and Kattegat), which would be at Grenen, a sandbar very popular with tourists … To my sudden despair, my husband says: “Oh, look, a Northern gannet! Seen it?” Nope. Disappointed, I turn away and … freeze. “Errr … look to the right? Like, there is a whole bunch of Northern gannets frolicking around?” I adore Northern gannets – to me, they seem like these happy energy machines, always on the move, jumping into water, seemingly fooling around, no matter the weather … whew. When people start to notice we are the only ones looking in a different direction than them, I get asked to take photos of them. People. Okay … Gannets!
On our way back south we stop at Jelling, where Harald Bluetooth (after whom the wireless technology standard was named later) was king ages ago – he set up a stone for his parents in a local graveyard near a beautiful small church and that stone with important words still stands there, after more than 1000 years, next to the stone his father Gorm put up, calling himself king of Denmark. Harald was converted to Christianity and we crack a few jokes about the means the church must have used to change him. They are not very funny jokes but make the pleasant day somehow nicer and lighter. It is still our vacation, after all, or so I tell myself. The strawberry ice in the Jelling museum is superb.
Time to drive to Køge, where our next hotel is. While taking a quick evening walk around this lovely town I realize there is a U2 cover band playing at a party in a pub and they are drenching the whole town in U2 music, even the beach late at night. I like that (a few days later, I will also love the fact that the hotel sent a pair of jeans and a blouse I had forgotten somewhere in that tiny room so fast – they arrived on Wednesday).
We did not come here to stay, though, we just want to continue our journey southwards, to finally return to one of our favorite places in Denmark, the archaeological open-air museum Sagnlandet in Lejre, and, after having spent hours walking around this nice place and blissfully learning things about the past, to have a quick look at the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde from the outside just before its closing time. We have been here a few times before, so it feels a bit like home. We also live nearer to Lejre and Roskilde now, so maybe, in the future, we could … We are obliged to drive home now.
Home. We reach that late at night and finally I can admit to myself: this really was a vacation, as in: replenishing my batteries and offering most beautiful memories. And nothing can take that from me now.
To so te iteracije enega in istega: hitre, podzavestne možganske celice strahtrpečega človeka pogruntajo, da sem se navzgor prištudirala in prigarala iz njegovi grozotrpeči dušici koristnih globin in da zagotovo ne obvladam geografije.
Res je ne. (Obvladam pa rodilnik, a to šteje?)
Vseeno me je vedno sram za sogovornika, ko ta začne vzneburjeno preverjati, ali je to res. V obliki vprašanj, trditev, namigovanj … na ljubljanskem faksu celo med izpitom.
Dragi moji, res je: v geografiji sem šibka, evropske celine še nisem zapustila (Predvidevam, da Gruzija ne šteje, imam prav?) in nič od tega me ne matra. Vas pa očitno že.
Modrosti je vseeno, po kateri poti jo iščemo.
Obstaja pa tudi dokaz, da geografijo mikroobvladam: živim namreč na evropskem severu, kar se je izkazalo za idealno kombinacijo. Naravnost obožujem svežino vremena, vonj po vetru na severu, neskončno ravnino, bližino severnega morja. Sanja se mi ne, zakaj, vem samo, da je to moja geografija.
Yes, I am an old person: I roll my eyes and shake my head and curl my lips sarcastically on the inside (don’t ask) at some behaviors. I very well earned the right to do so. So did you, I guess.
Most often, a version of “Damn it all, alcessa, why are you such a…person? It isn’t as though you could afford to be” (Hilary Mantel, modified) is thrown at my head and I always have to stifle the urge to shake it. The head. You see, everyone’s a person. We are all made of genetic, learned and … I don’t know: ignored, well-loved, diligently acquired … behavior modules and I assume every one of us is simply made of a different combination of these.
Of course, all those people shaking their heads at a certain kind of person simply want other people to be more like them, summertime, and living is easy, and so on. Sometimes I wonder whether they would really like their true copies in their vicinity. Maybe that would be a good lesson?
Anyway, this is such a boring shit. Pretending everyone else’s guilt for one’s own Angst.
Doch, man kann schon sagen, dass ich gewisse Zeit- und Raumprobleme habe.
Wie wenn ich auf Insta feststellen darf, dass die meisten Europäer, die ich instakenne, längst geimpft worden sind, obwohl ich rein theoretisch … ähm … paar Wochen eher geboren wurde. Die gute Nachricht? Ich befinde mich auf der Impfwarteliste, zuletzt war das zusammen mit 11T (Sch-?)Impfkandidaten. Knuddelig ist das.
Dafür waren im wunderschönen Weltvogelpark Walsrode am Samstag kaum andere Menschen zu sehen, was ziemlich angenehm war. Und obwohl der Park wirklich interessante Vögel beheimatet, war ich diesmal vor allem von Bäumen und Pflanzen angetan: Wau. Einfach nur Wau. Gleichzeitig kam ich mit meiner Rolle als Tagesausflüglerin trotz Pommes mit Majo und Eis mit Schokolade nicht ganz klar: Am Anfang hatte ich das Gefühl, dass ich mein Ernst (Hans, Robert, you name it) des Lebens verleugne, indem ich gemütlich herumlatsche und mich wohlfühle. Erst nach und nach vergaß ich, dass ich auch ein richtiges Leben habe, und verschmolz mit der Umgebung. Herrlich! Mehr davon! Häufiger! Überall!
Nicht klar kommen tue ich auch mit der Tatsache nicht ;-), dass wir jetzt Garteneltern sind. Einfach so. Und was für ein Garten das ist! Sicher, Außenstehende würden gleich sehen, dass der Rasen nur 3/4-herzig gemäht wird und die Ränder gar nicht getrimmt werden. Dass wir auf unsere Löwenzähne stolz sind. Dass wir es noch immer nicht geschafft haben, die knarrende Holzterasse zu ölen. Dass wir Beetumrandungen selber geflochten haben, aus den abgeschnittenen Harlekinweidenruten vom Januar. Und und und … schlechte Gärtner halt: #badgardener ist zur Zeit meine Lieblingsinstarautenbezeichnung.
Ich sage es für jeden Fall nochmals: Was für ein Garten!