Maybe You Know Me Already...

I am the mom with the sunglasses slipping off her head while she is trying to haul some futuristic looking car safety contraption across the airport on top of a carry-on while at the same time balancing a half undone diaper bag with a precariously perched no-spill Sippy-cup. Somewhere behind me there is a guy trailing with his shoelaces undone carrying multiple bags and children while scanning the sport headlines he passes on the pilgrimage to gate 89 Z. I have spent quite a bit of time recently coming to terms with my life. That life. Before that, I spent about twenty years coming to terms with humanity. So this last part should be easy.

I was born and raised in Germany. My parents are German, and so are my grandparents, and – with one promiscuous exception – all of my great-grandparents. My native language is German. Which makes me, I suppose, very German – no, it’s not what you think. I am not a Nazi. My parents aren’t Nazis. Hitler is dead, Germany votes in free elections, and freedom of expression is a given – that is unless you are a Nazi.

I moved to the States, more precisely to Washington, D.C, when I was twenty-two and started grad school at Georgetown. I was determined to make my way in that place that calls cynicism its favorite pet. But I am jumping ahead. The reason why I decided to leave Germany and, more reluctantly, Europe presented itself when I was on a fellowship program at Universidade de Lisboa in Portugal. It, or rather, he was ahead of me in landing a place to live in Estrela – a coveted Lisbon neighborhood. We teamed up and remained that way ever since. He became the guy trailing behind me with the bags, and also my greatest ally, brother in arms, and soul mate.

Moving from place to place has turned out to be a thing we do. So we are actually quite good at the airport stunt – even though it may not seem so. It never does. Staying in one place is what we are not good at and yet we eternally crave that ethereal place called home – or whatever re-heated childhood memories we have of that place. One reason for our nomadic life-style is Matt’s job. But then, he got the job because neither he – nor the attached spouse (me) – had a problem with that. As for myself, I tend to avoid strong attachments to any particular place, which is funny really because as a child all I wanted was to remain uncomfortably suspended in my grandpa’s apple tree. But today at 5’11’’ I no longer fit the requirements for that position. So that’s not an option anymore.

Although our D.C. lives are behind us, it was then and there that the story of my more recent self so unglamorously started, brought on by a bout of intense anxiety attacks followed by depression. As they say, nothing good comes of a life spent in blissful serenity.

These last months and weeks, I have been busy moving once again, this time into a space all to myself. It’s as much a physical as an emotional space and I enjoy spending my day in it. Here, I spend my mornings home schooling our two daughters and jotting down ideas for my two hours of freedom in the afternoons. It tends to get a little messy at times with all the tangled issues that keep piling up as you will easily find out as you make your way through my laboriously filled folders – unless, that is, you chose not to. Which, on second thought, I would be inclined to forgive.

Oh, by the way, last time I checked, I now live in Costa Rica and I have at least three surprising children. And this is as good as it gets.