I'm no good next to diamonds

The past few weeks have been laced with exhaustion. I would ask myself what fresh hell the fates could come up with, how much shit I'd have to wade through to get to some point far off in the distance that signalled an end to whatever this limbo was. And I'd wallow in the apparent hardship of things not working out quite as planned, also because I had not in particular planned anything.

But the tides have turned somewhat. May the odds be ever in your favour, and all that.
One of the reasons is that I get to see JR on a daily basis. The new job is situated in an old industrial area that is being gentrified to seduce startups and other exciting medium-sized enterprises to use the tall stone buildings as bases. One of the towers features an image that was part of JR's 2013 project Wrinkles of the City  where the portraits of an older generation on buildings that have equally stood the test of time indicate how people grow and change with the hardships and joys that their cities experience.

I wonder if this will be true again in 50+ years when a portrait is created of this generation, a generation that is constantly on the move and wanting to experience the world. Do we all have a home? A place we cling to, a place we can return to, when all else breaks away? Or do places and spaces become increasingly irrelevant as concepts of what home is in a time of crisis have to adapt to people being driven by the hundreds of thousands out of the cities that were once theirs?

Questions for another day.

Unless

There is something about the courage of others that makes us extremely nervous. It calls into question every safe decision we’ve ever made, and forces us to ask what we’re really protecting when we do things in the most comfortable way possible. [...]

 The biggest regrets we have [...] are the decisions we don’t make because we think we’re guaranteed something. We choose college because we think we’re guaranteed a job. We choose staying home because we think not traveling guarantees more money. We choose not leaving our hometown because we think it guarantees us friends and comfort. We choose to stay in unfulfilling relationships because we think it guarantees we will never be alone. [...]

And then we are confronted with the reality that none of this was ever guaranteed, and we only gave up on the thrill of our dreams because we were too afraid to see what else was possible. We convinced ourselves that we were investing in something, when all we were doing was excusing our cowardice.

in The Things You Will Always Regret If You Don't Do Them by Charlotte Green

I was thinking about having to save money, about it being too great a risk, about not being able to do it on my own. Then I spoke to my friend for a long time and, as always, she had the answers. Or rather, she knew how to ask the right questions. I went online and proceeded to book the ticket to London for 4 days. Because why not. Because I shouldn't fear my own capacity to discover what is new. Because that is why I left home, after all. Not to study at some silly hippy university that can't provide paper to its students during exams and doesn't even have a remotely decent library. Not to get into student debt for the first time in my life. Not to miss my people so very much. No. I left to see the new.

And now my attempt at adventure has been foiled by a tiny fact: lack of a credit card. Should I not be rewarded for my wanting to pay it all by debit? Hah. No. Anyways. New plan. New destination. Kopenhagen can be reached by train. And the Bahn accepts my card. Always onward, tilting at inner windmills.

Start

Sometimes you don't know what the hell you are doing.
You get caught up in a senseless routine. Everything seems horrible and pointless.
You don't know why you chose this, because in that moment it equals misery.
Sometimes you just need a win.

And that is what I got: I won.
I have an exciting history with winning: it is never the lotto or a car or money, but it is always an experience. Somehow I end up winning adventures.

The first three times these experiences took me to France (or rather, the French embassy did as part of the annual Francophonie celebrations) and every time I met the most wonderful people. We came from all over the world to share our passion for similar subjects(be it language, the arts or photography), and we bonded in those hot Paris/Perpignan summer weeks filled to the brim with lessons in Frenchness: in between language courses we ate baguettes and went on a cheese tasting, we climbed the Eiffel tower and the steps to Montmartre, and the one time we took the TGV down to Perpignan for the Visa pour l'Image photojournalism conference.

Through one another we learned about other worlds as well: practicing an Iranian dance on the Pont des Arts; eating a maple-shaped cookie whilst hearing about life in Canada; wondering about the strange habits of the girl from Azerbaijan or being taught by a young Serb how my camera works. We reveled in being a young, multicultural group on an all-expenses paid trip to France. The memories from those trips, and the new friends from all over the world will stay with me longer than winning an object in any case.

This time the win was again unexpected. I was skyping with my mother when an unknown number called on my cell. I thought it was the bank or some government agency wanting my non-existent money. Instead, it was a nice man from some company explaining that I had won a dinner for 10 people, cooked in my kitchen by a professional chef. It was part of a promotion by Telekom at various German universities and I had entered through Facebook.

Elisabeth Opel showed up loaded with fabulous food and I had invited some of the other students. It ended up being another fantastic experience. Somehow we managed to squeeze into our little kitchen and different teams worked on different dishes. As a starter we made a parsnip soup; the main course consisted of Spätzle with filet, an onion sauce and onion rings; and dessert was Kaiserschmarrn with apple compote. They had asked if I wanted a specific dish and since I haven't had a traditional German meal in a long time that is what I asked for.

Parsnip soup with croutons and duck breast. 

Spätzle with filet and onion rings. Although Spur's onion rings will always remain #1. 

My German grandmother used to make Spätzle as well with Rouladen and she'd fill our plates with a second enormous helping as soon as they were empty. I don't remember much about her, but her food was always delicious. Her dishes were traditional and time consuming and not really suited to the climate of SA. It must have been strange for her to come to such a hot country knowing only recipes that were suited to the cold - somehow rich and creamy does not work as well when it is 35° (except if it is a rich and creamy ice cream). Now my mom makes Spätzle on occasion as well as a special treat.

Kaiserschmarrn

With the courses we consumed 6 bottles of white wine, 2 bottles of sparkling wine and 2 bottles of red wine so irrespective if you liked the food or not you would have had enough to drink to make up for any distaste.

Hello new friends.

So glad I now have an apron. 

I was a bit apprehensive at the beginning of the evening, because in Pretoria I would know exactly whom to invite and how to lay the table. I'd have had everything we needed in an enormous kitchen, and we could've eaten outside on the porch, enjoying the spring. Here, the kitchen is quite small and none of the utensils are mine (I have a knife). Also, I just invited the first 10 people that I saw during the course of that day, so it could have been quite a fail. Luckily everyone was really into the cooking-together thing and I hope that it may have sort of laid a good foundation for moving from being merely people who study together and are all new in this city to actual friendship.

Slow it down

I feel like I am constantly in some existential crisis here. It hits me at random moments: I'll see myself in the mirror and suddenly the mind/body split seems almost tangible. It is as though I am standing outside of myself and seeing flesh that is not mine. Physically I might be here, now, but there seems to be no intrinsic connection to my brain that makes me feel at ease here.

I get over this level of asking existential-Angst-fueled questions pretty quickly, but then I'll get lost in language. Language has always belonged to me, somehow. I am used to hearing entire conversations I cannot understand happening all around me. The ladies at the tills, the people queuing with me, the actors in shows like Muvhango or Stokvel, they are all conversing outside of my language skill set. But it has never felt strange, it is usual to have to switch often, riding various intercepting language tracks in a short space of time. Here, it is German. Just German.

I was under the impression that the university would be offering at least half of the core subjects in English, but now only one subject (Literature) is actually not in German. Add to that the fact that any other communication here (be it with friends, roommates or some governmental organisation that wants my money) happens in German as well and you'll understand that I get slightly overwhelmed at times. Salvation then comes in tiny little increments made possible by modern technology - whatsapping with friends or Skyping with my mom. I don't want to make the mistake of living in another country and permanently wanting to Skype with those back home, because then having left would be rather pointless. But it is immeasurably reassuring to be drinking tea in my room and listening to my mom talk about unimportant everyday occurrences. Hearing about what goes on in the lives of others helps with forgetting that I haven't found my sea legs here, yet.

The third wave of existential crisis is much less in my mind. Instead, it is solidly tied to my bank balance. I was not excessively naive when I applied for Bafög (a type of governmental student loan system where you have minimal interest and only have to partially pay back the money you received), but apparently here every time you fart there is a stack of paperwork to fill out so everything takes forever. Not knowing if I'll receive any money or if I do how high the amount will be is also quite frustrating.

Time to see if I'll sink or swim in these strange waters.

Life's for the Living

I haven't posted in a while because before a move there is always so much that still needs to be done, and the same thing goes for when you have arrived where you moved to. At the moment I am in Berlin, whilst trying to find accommodation in Flensburg. At least the university only starts at the end of October, so I'm hoping that that will be sufficient time not only to find a place, but an awesome commune with great roommates. Aiming high :)

In comparison to Pretoria it is amazing how much is happening here at all times. Through my FB stalking I saw that Bastille was coming to SA for Ramfest next year, and I was superjealous. That is, I was superjealour until I found out they played here, yesterday. Ok, I missed them, but the likelihood of them playing somewhere accessible here is greater than in SA.

On Wednesday we spent the day on the Museumsinsel (museum island) where the amount of statues, paintings and information was overwhelming. Afterwards, we went to a photographic exhibit in Mitte at Mein Haus am See. Walking in felt a bit like being home, because it was full of hipsters. Then I remembered I have no friends here and after a long day of walking around I looked decidedly uncool, so my whole 'I have found my people!' sentiment went out the window pretty quickly. Maybe the Apfelschorle instead of beer didn't help my coolness factor either. Anyways, becoming slightly more German in order not to be astounded/confused/enraged by everything is a long process, apparently.

There was a guy playing on his guitar as well, Graham Candy from New Zealand, who was quite cool. He started of with a cover of Bon Iver's Flume, and mixed covers of the Black Keys, Alt-J (I think) etc., in with his own stuff. Very nice, Mr. Candy.

The photographs were by Kevin Russ, and upon further investigation (meaning I went to the website) it turns out he works with Photocircle, where you order the photos you want, printed the way and in the size you want, and a part of the price goes to different charities. More on that at a later stage.

Here are some first-experiences photos :)

Somewhere over Germany

Alphonse Mucha-inspired enormous mural in Pankow

On the Museumsinsel

Pergamonmuseum

Caesar

Yo. Cup. 

Kevin Russ's work

Graham Candy

Die Blou Bul weet nie van verloor af nie /Die Blou Bul sukkel nie sy roer af nie /Nou vra jy my vir wie ek skree

I've successfully avoided watching rugby for the entire 15 years that we've been living in Pretoria. Not live, not on TV, not by listening to the match on the radio. I went to a cricket match once, but it was a 20/20 between two IPL teams, so it was short and I didn't know who was playing. And it wasn't rugby.

Rugby to me is always associated big men with thick necks ramming one another repeatedly. And by that I mean both the players and their fans. Maybe the fans just have the added padding of their beer bellies. It has never seemed like much fun. But in Pretoria rugby, and the Loftus Versveld stadium, is an institution: families and friends meet up hours before the match begins to braai (barbecue) a "vleisie" (a piece of meat), to drink some beers and socialise before heading into the stadium decked out in their blue kit and enjoying the match.

The local team is called the Blue Bulls, and from years of reading the news headlines on the lamp poles I believe they are one of the best teams in SA, maybe in the world. They seem to always win, but I have a feeling that it is because they are one of the wealthiest clubs and can thus afford to coax young, promising players away from clubs that do not have the same means.

This Saturday was the first time I went to Loftus to watch rugby. I'd been there in 2010 for one of the quarter finals of the soccer world cup, but it was an extremely boring, extremely long match between Japan and Paraguay and thus the place holds no fond memories. This time it was interesting to observe how much MONEY goes into rugby, or any sport for that matter.

The Blue Bulls have been renamed the Vodacom Bulls, because yes, you guessed it, they are sponsored by Vodacom. Thus the Vodacom branding is everywhere. And the fans are committed to buying blue jerseys, blue flags, blue caps, blue everything. One man even had a Blue Bull cushion to sit on. Adding ticket sales, TV sales, ad revenues, drink/food sales, etc. to the costs probably makes the sport quite a profitable business. I found it quite strange to think about how invested people become in a game that could theoretically be played anywhere and by anyone.

It is also fascinating to see which sports are popular in different countries: here, rugby, cricket and soccer dominate. I assume soccer is popular all over, but as an example handball is hardly known in Africa, whereas it is on probably the same level as soccer in Scandinavian countries. Or rugby even:  in America people don't even know what rugby is because of the popularity of American football.

Well, back to the game. As far as watching sports goes this was quite fun, but I won't go buy my seasonal tickets just yet.

Obama coming back from his day in Joburg maybe?

Like I said, a Blue Bulls cushion

Spring can be the cruellest of months/ but...

The geckos are back on the walls. (Which freaks me out.)
The garden smells like Jasmine. (Which I adore.)
The evenings are too hot for my blankets. (But I am too lazy to change them.)

And these beauties have resurfaced.

 

Now just the Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow needs to start blooming in front of my window and I'll be in smell-heaven.