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My Britty Brentrance No 3

Today I gave away the first ones of my plants. Two of them, the big kitchen plant and a tiny one from the bedroom. It might have been only the next item to tick on my Move-from-Hamburg-to-Somerset/UK to-do-list, but it was also... you know.... an odd moment.

I have nine pot plants in my flat. They are lovely, sort of shy, very green (suits me, my fave colour) and easy to get along with as they only want a drink from time to time but they don’t party too hard! I didn’t give them names or anything, but they all have a history and they are dear to me. One, which is still with me, I have now for, let me think, 21 years. And another one, which I said good-bye to today, I had for probably 17 or 18 years.

I love my plants. Despite it being my fave colour, my fingers are not the greenest (in German it’s the proverbial thumb only anyway!), so I was always happy they survived living together with me and survived the occasional drought because lazy mummy forgot to water the little darlings again. Ahem. But as I said, they all survived. They are tough as an old root, I think goes the saying...

So, today, this late afternoon, when this nice young woman who had replied to my free ad online came by with her sweet baby daughter... it was a bit like saying goodbye to my teenagers leaving for uni... I guess. I don’t know, I don’t have children, but you know, you raise those plants, you watch over them, you talk to them (yes, and I admit it openly!) and you feed them for years and years and then suddenly their place is empty and they are gone. It must feel at least a bit like that? Aren’t we all some kind of parents to someone... something?

Anyway, tomorrow I will carry three of them to work to give them to my new colleague/successor and next weekend another man who also answered within five minutes after my ad had gone online will come to collect another big one. For the rest I’m sure I will soon find new adoptive parents, too. People love to get things for free, don’t they?

That leaves only my orchid.

My orchid. White, delicate blossoms, in bloom several times a year, looking healthy and happy. My ex-boyfriend, an English bloke from France, gave it to me when he was still thinking he was in love with me. Well....he wasn’t maybe after all, but I was. Definitely was. I guess I still am, to be honest. He was the reason I considered leaving my country for the first time.

Well. So, it turned out he needed our relationship to end for a reason he forgot to tell me. After he broke off with me, the orchid, which had been bare at the time, started to grow a twig again with little buds that became bigger and bigger every day until they grew into those beautiful white innocent blossoms again. For two years I hoped, if I kept this orchid alive, he would come back to me like the blossoms always came back. Well, guess what, he didn’t. Life is not a bowl of cherries. Or a twig full of blossoms.

The other day I asked my mother whether she wanted another orchid for her window sill in the living room. And she said, how lovely, she just had thought of getting a new one as her old one had sadly died a couple of weeks ago. My orchid would be very welcome. I was happy to hear that.

So, with leaving my country now (for the home country of my ex-boyfriend, how ironic is that, think about it...) I finally, finally will give away the last memento that still reminded me of him. I don’t know if there is a message there somewhere, something to learn from this, but maybe I’m closing a chapter here I should have closed a long time ago. Time for new plan(t)s in my life!

PS: I wasn’t quite honest here, sorry. I still have this gorgeous green cardigan my ex also gave me. But come on, I’m not getting rid of any item of green clothing! Am I crazy? Do you know how hard it is to find decent yet gorgeous green clothes? There you go! So, the cardigan stays, and that’s that then. A girl is a girl is a girl, what can I do!?!

illustration by Daniela Faber 2016

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My Britty Brentrance No 2

Today I started training my successor. Wow, can anyone imagine what this feels like? To be able to do this because there IS a successor I get to know? So far, all my life, I was always fired or my contract wasn’t renewed. I was always let go, I never once had the chance to quit myself. Right now I am so happy and relaxed, working seems almost like being on holidays.

My successor: A man, not another legal secretary. A nice young man, interested, clever, law student. He already had worked in an office before, not in a law firm, but of course he is very much willing to see it all from the office’s point of view before he gets to see it from the lawyer’s point of view. So I started showing him the ropes today.

This is so unknown to me, I feel almost blessed. Being able to pass on what I know about being “the office” to someone else instead of being fired, often surprisingly, after days and weeks of hidden agony and bad feelings in the stomach. People who were always promoted (”falling up the stairs”, as we call it in German) or even snatched away by competing companies, who never got fired or always had a new job before quitting the old one probably don’t understand what it means to me to be for once in control of my own fate. I quit. Me. On the day I wanted to. Heaven. I decided what to do, not someone else. Me. Me alone. So often I wished I was able to do this just for once. And now, this year, I could and I did. And as much as I like my two bosses, it was one of the best decisions I ever made in my life. And certainly one of the good decisions. I made so many wrong ones because I was too young, too shy, too stupid. Now I thought about it long and thoroughly, and I decided to take the step into the unknown. And it feels so so GREAT!!!

I wish my successor all the best, I hope I can teach him all he needs to know to be a useful member of our little team and then ... I will move on into the direction I chose all on my own. Hahhhh, heaven!

illustration “Self-portrait With Mug of Tea”, Daniela Faber 2017

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My Britty Brentrance No 1

This is the start of my online diary about My Britty Brentrance as I call it.

What am I talking about?

Easy. I’m a hopeless German suffering severly and chronically from anglophilia. And in the middle of Brexit I decided to move to the UK.

WTF??? you may ask. And many have. So, let me explain:

I fell in love with England, London, Britain, the UK, Wales, Scotland, the “double-you” and “tea-8ch”, marmite, Sherlock Holmes and Robin Hood, British friendliness and politeness, queuing at a bus stop, thick mist, saying sorry, rolling green hills, Horlick’s, bread and butter pudding, and putting on kettles about 30 years ago. The trigger had been Michael Caine and his unique voice in the film Dirty Rotten Scoundrels in 1989. Then Monty Python’s Flying Circus was repeated on German telly for the first time in 20 years in 1990 with subtitles and I laughed my head off. My own sense humour wasn’t weird after all, it simply was British! And on my first trip to London in 1991 after stepping through the sliding doors at Heathrow to face the most colourful group of people that I had ever seen until then, I was done for. I had fallen in love with this country, the language and the people - and for me love is eternal. 

Because I am a shy person by nature, I take my time to decide the really important things in life. And leaving your country is one of those things, at least for me. I am not adventurous. I love to know what happens next. I need security. Despite being a Pisces, I am truly a chicken, to be honest.

So after finally deciding that leaving my country would be indeed okay for me, I started applying for jobs on the island. But this didn’t work out at all as the first and only question/reaction I ever received in return was: When will you move to the UK? If I then explained, contract first, then move, I never heard from them again.

So now I will do it the other way round. Move first, job later. A risk, the biggest ever in my life. But I feel good about it. I feel happy. And I know if I don’t do it now, I will regret it for the rest of life asking myself: What if? I regretted so many things in my life, I don’t want to regret any more. So I’ll take the risk of not knowing what lies ahead.

UK, here I come!

to be continued

Illustration “Union Jack” by Daniela Faber 2017

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Deep in Contemplation

- just make sure not to dive too deep! :-))

photo by Daniela Faber 2017

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Topsy-Turvy

People strolling around, dwelling on their thoughts, checking messages, talking to partners, watching their children. Some idly stand about, some take pictures, some wait for someone else.

So far, nothing weird about this image. A normal crowd somewhere in some city. Right? Well, let’s have closer look.

The above photo I took in Marseille, France, near a métro station and under a roof, as we can clearly see the pillars left and right. But something doesn’t add up here, now, does it? Those weird lines slicing people into bits and pieces, that is somewhat creepy.

What happened here?

Easy. The roof has a mirror installed underneath, so if you take a photo of the mirror image and then turn it around and crop it fittingly, it can look like this!

Sometimes looking at things from a different angle can help get new perspectives! :-))

photo by Daniela Faber 2017

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Notre Dame de la Garde

I am not a religious person, not at all, but I love ecclesiastical architecture and therefore always try to have a look at local churches wherever I go.

In Marseille, France, there is a true majesty watching over the Vieux Port (Old Harbour), the city, its people and their boats: Notre Dame de la Garde. Built by seafarers for sailors and fishermen, the wanderer can see it from far away as it is standing on the highest point within reach.

I decided to climb instead of taking the little train that carries lazy folk up the hill. And I was rightly so rewarded with some great views on my way through gnarled trees, as you can see above.

Everyone can enter the church complex on different levels with stairs or lifts, depending on what you want to see first, the shop, the restaurant, the crypt or the church itself. I went straight for the upper level - and despite the many tourists buzzing around me, Notre Dame surprised my the moment I set foot over the threshold.

As I said, I am not a religious person, religion to me is nothing but fairy tales and an interesting topic for heated discussions amongst friends. But others believe in God and here, their strong belief manifested in an outstanding architectural design, donations in the shape of paintings and wooden boat models, richly coloured mosaics on walls and floors and a warm, almost personal atmosphere that I can only call full of hope and gratitude. This was by far the most beautiful church I had ever seen anywhere!

I sat down in a pew and took my time to marvel at the colours, the artistic effort which went into the mosaics, the Greek and Latin inscriptions high above me, the shere richness of patterns, the palpable love which jumped at me from every corner. This church didn’t seem to be built by someone rich to make a name for himself in history books. This church was built so Our Lady can watch over her children at sea so they will safely come home to bring fish and other seafood to feed their families. It is even for a non-believer like me nice to think this really works and no harm will ever occur to any of them.

After a long while the realist in me left the dreamer inside and stepped out into the sunshine again. One of the two best views over Marseille you will find here - but beware, the wind up here is murderous. It not only ruffles your hair as if it wanted to braid it without hands, it also impudently steals innocent hats and maps, and many a woman might wish to have chosen some trousers instead of a fluttery skirt.

I managed not to bare everything despite my wrong choice of wardrobe, but believe me, s/he who wants to pay a visit to Notre Dame de la Garde definitely needs to be on guard!

photos by Daniela Faber 2017 

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La Cité de Carcassonne

This summer I spend two weeks in France and three days of those in Carcassonne, a place either known to history buffs for its famous medieval Cité (fortified Old Town) - or to avid board game players because of the game with the same name. I never played the game, I always wanted to see the real thing.

I was so much looking forward to this, for years, really, and this summer I finally found the opportunity to go. Before I left Hamburg I checked the weather, it would be hot in the most southern part of France on this journey. But I was armed with 50+ sun cream (new bottle!), I was ready.

From my b&b room I could already see the Cité, so after arriving around noon, I quickly packed something to drink and went to see what I had longed to see for ages. I love the Middle Ages, wherever I go I try to visit as many old places as possible, laden with history and sagas. I wouldn’t be disappointed here. After all, this town was made part of the UNESCO World Heritage. No, I wouldn’t be disappointed.

Well.

Have you ever imagined yourself to be a bee in a very windy hive? No? Okay, why would you, right? Well, try it now. And then put some amazing and impressive old stone walls around that hive and voilà - Carcassonne!

I expected to see other tourists visiting this place, of course I did, but at about 4 pm the Cité was CROWDED! I had once been to Mont Saint-Michel in Normandy as a teenager, there it had been the same, masses of bodies shoving each other through narrow lanes, shoes trampling on cobbled stones and other people’s feet, pushing, rubbing, sorry, sorry, shove, drag, push, punch - my goodness!

I took the first lane off the main street to catch my breath. And I made an oath to myself to get up very early the next morning to get a fair chance to see some of this strinking beauty without so many PEOPLE around me, all pushing, shoving, rubbing - but I already mentioned that.

And at half past 8am La Cité is as breathtaking as expected, a charming old lady with quaint little lanes, flower pots everywhere, salamanders hiding in cracks in the rough walls, and more than a handful topnotch views over town and land. She suffers a bit of strong wind, to be honest, but a good comb later will help I’m sure! :-))

At 10am the Castle opened with its walkable ramparts, some of them dating back to Gaulish times! The results of my eye peeking through the camera lense you can see above.

What I want to recommend: If you visit, come in July instead of August as the festival is on, with lots of events taking place in the Cité. If you want to see the town and not only people’s backs and bums, then come before 9am or after 8pm and you will discover a different world, and a very enchanting one. And if you love ice-cream, go to the Basilique Saint-Nazaire in the south, because in front of the entrance at the shop Petit Saint-Nazaire you will find what you seek. Utter-ly de-li-cious! Yum!

photos by Daniela Faber 2017

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Grand Central Berlin

Yesterday I went to Berlin for a job interview.

After a pleasant conversation with my maybe future boss I didn’t have much time left to catch my coach back to Hamburg, so I took the next tube train into the direction of the ZOB (Zentraler Omnibusbahnhof, or central coach station). When the train arrived at Berlin Hauptbahnhof (central train station), I decided to hop off for a couple of minutes and one stroll around the shops, as there was enough time left for that.

I did exactly that, had a look at some magazines, some hot soft pretzels, some crying children and a banana skin on the floor (what a cliché!), and walked back high up to platform 16.

On my walk around, I had heard some music, but couldn’t really figure out where it came from. Back on 16, I glanced through the glass balustrade down one flight of stairs - and instantly felt catapulted into one of my all-time favourite films! What a ride!

Do you remember The Fisher King from 1991, with an incomparable Robin Williams, Amanda Plummer and Jeff Bridges amongst others? There brilliant director Terry Gilliam enchanted us with this magical scene at Grand Central Station in New York City. People are walking, running, tottering, stumbling, catching trains, missing trains, lingering with nothing to do. Suddenly, as if an unseen gun shot a sportive GO! into the air, those people lose all precipitation and glide creamily into the most elegant and sophisticated waltz you’ve ever witnessed. The entire station is dancing! And ever so suddenly they stop, the magic is gone and everyone hurries along as if nothing had just happened.

When I looked through the balustrade, I saw people dancing. To me it looked like a tango, but honestly, I couldn’t really tell, dancing isn’t one of my talents. But it looked beautiful. Couples, man/woman, woman/woman, no man/man unfortunately, twirled around, lifted legs and heads and had some high-brow fun you wouldn’t necessarily expect to see at a central station.

I missed two trains into my direction watching this marvellous scene, yet still caught my coach in the end. Berlin waved good-bye to me this time in a very romantic way. A good sign for the job? I will keep you posted.

illustration “Tangled Tango” by Daniela Faber 2016

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Will You Marry Me?

This is how some French people get married: In style, I dare say! This is not too shabby, isn’t it?

Visiting Toulouse in France this summer, I found the Place du Capitole. This is nothing less than the square in front of the city hall, named rightly so Le Capitole. The building is old, the name as well, and the entrance to the very impressive rooms inside - is free. So I thought, let’s have a look.

It was a Sunday, therefore quite a handful of people climbed up the stairs with me to marvel at various paintings, depicting various periods of art.

The staircase starts with a mock medieval mural which already leaves you spechless. Many flashes from many cameras told me others were as impressed as I was. Through the door to the first hall or salle as the French like to say. There we were allowed to gape with open mouths at curvy bodies, some bare bosoms, gorgeous gentlemen, horses and hounds, and lush flowers, lots of flowers, countless bouquets of flowers. That was it? No, it wasn’t.

Picturesque pointilism awaited us in the next room, performed by one painter called Henri Martin. He shows us his world at the shores of La Garonne, the river that runs through Toulouse. Blues and greens dominate this room, soothing, relaxing, just sit there and dream. Is that it now? Oh no, it isn’t, just you wait.

The last room, la Salle des Illustres, is the cherry on top of the icing on top of the cake. And a VERY sweet one in this cake, er, case. You peek through the open door into this room, you look to your right and to your left and you humbly think: No, no, I can’t do this, I can’t enter here, this must surely be the king’s very own splendid appartements! Marble columns, gold embroidered, carry a curved ceiling, depicting rich heavens with plump cherubs watching over us from clouds. The long walls guide your eyes to discover armies at battle, innocent children, towns on fire by the enemy, monks and angels, naked women with flags, oh so many flags, it’s a sea of flags. This is French history, bon sang, c’est vachement très français!

And you can marry here your Prince Charming or Lady Love. The chairs are all lined up, what are you waiting for?

photo by Daniela Faber 2017

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Up and Down and Up and Down and...

I love staircases, old ones that is. And beautiful wooden dreams like this one here I particularly love. I found it by pure accident. Visiting Toulouse in France, I wandered aimlessly through the many small streets in the city centre on my first day, leaving it to my feet where the rest of the body would end up.

I saw a sign outside a big open portal and translated the written words into: Look this way for fashion shop. I threw a quick look through the portal and saw something colourful in some shop window and thought, yep, this way for sure.

I came into an inner courtyard and the fashion shop turned out to be only an alteration shop. But this magnificent flight of old stairs rewarded me fully for having a look behind the portal.

The last time I had seen stunning courtyards like this one was in Lyon, also in France. There you can find many of these and many more and all are open to the public as well.

How I wished I could have taken these stairs home with me! :-)

photo by Daniela Faber 2017

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White walls? Why?

People who live in flats or houses with white walls in their rooms were, still are and always will be a mystery to me. Why white walls if there are so many ways of making this bland boring flat or house your very unique own? And honestly, you don’t need to be a trained painter to do most of this stuff. Yes, okay, I admit, orginally I am a trained painter, so maybe that is easy for me to say, but look at the pictures and decide for yourself. The majority of what you see is no magic. Just a little imagination is necessary... and guts to say bye-bye to white walls!

I love history, so I decided I would live in different historical eras. My kitchen is Ancient Egyptian, my hallway Roman-Pompeiian and my living room late medieval. This latter one I’ll show you today and I explain how I did it.

First you need to have an idea and then a good look at the empty room. Imagine what it could look like, if necessary make some quick sketches of each wall, do some research. Then think about how to get where you want to go. Staff in DIY stores probably can help you with choosing the right material if you are uncertain.

I love half-timbered houses. We have a lot of those in Germany, equally in France or the UK... I wanted some wooden beams in my living room, but my flat is too new for real old beams. So I painted them. First beige wall paint top to bottom. After this coat has dried, take brown wall paint, a plan where which beam would go (to hang some prints of old maps later from them, maybe?), and that was it. No magic. No need for straight lines, wood doesn’t grow like that. A smaller, good brush for the edging, a bigger one to fill the spaces inbetween - voilà! I painted the ceiling in the same colour. Leaves the room quite dark, but what do you want, it’s the Middle Ages! If you light some candles - gorgeous!

You could add some patterns here and there if you feel comfortable enough to sketch them first or trace them from real patterns like the ones above, which I found in a church in Toulouse, France.

Just go for it, is my motto! :-))

PS: The fireplace is made form cardboard and was a shop-window display, lucky me.The tapestry is taken from a medieval book. I changed a few details and painted it on a piece of jute/burlap. The quote took longer to find and is in old French, around the 14th/15th c. Candle sticks, sickle, wooden bowls, etc are mostly from fleamarkets/garage sales.

photos by Daniela Faber 2017

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Hidden Treasures

When I stayed in Toulouse, France, this summer, I was lucky enough to have picked the right accommodation. A private room, rented out by a nice woman with a teenage daughter, in a calm sidestreet, away from all the hustle and bustle of the city centre, yet near enough to all shops to easily walk everywhere. Perfect.

The view from my room was okay, the window looked down onto the street. Pas mal, hein? Bon. What I really loved was the view from the balcony, which you accessed from the kitchen. Each floor had two flats and each flat had a balcony looking over the backyard. This is our view.

Isn’t it beautiful?

(photo by Daniela Faber 2017)

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Toulouse Houses

I absolutely ADORE the architecture of residential houses in Toulouse, France. During my three-day visit I extensively walked around the old town, where there were despite the August holiday season lots of open shops and many tourists pushing in or flowing out, but still it didn’t feel overcrowded. Many times I just stopped walking to marvel at the beauty of red bricks or orangey-rosé paint around me.

Toulouse is very different to other southern French places. Most of them are painted in a beige palette with grey or white highlights here and there. These red and orange tones in the capital of the Cathar country surprised me pleasantly. But as it also reminded me strongly of my hometown I instantly felt less like a stranger. Whereas I didn’t see any half-timbered houses in Bordeaux or Marseille and only two or three in Carcassonne, here in Toulouse they cheekily hide between their neighbours as if they are waiting for an innocent passer-by, so they can jump out and shout: Boo! :-))

Although Le Mans resides in a more northern region and has its very own look again, much more medieval, Toulouse and Le Mans could be half-sisters and everybody would believe it! If you visited them both, tell me if you think so, too!

(photos by Daniela Faber 2017)

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Le 7e art

This is an arthouse cinema in Toulouse, France. Wouldn’t you just want to see a film here at once, no matter which film? :-))

I love films, they were my first big love in my life. I didn’t have posters with Hollywood stars on my bedroom walls as a teenager, I had film posters.

For me always the whole work counts, not just famous names in bold print. The genre doesn’t play a role, the quality is important for me. As long as the story makes sense and the characters are believable, it doesn’t matter to me at all if a film is a romantic comedy, action blockbuster, a crime story, horror flick or children’s film. It only and simply needs to be good.

Just in case you live around the corner, check here for the newest releases: https://www.american-cosmograph.fr/

photo by Daniela Faber 2017

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Silent Ben

Britain’s capital London is the place in the world I know best after Hamburg and Berlin. And which I love best after Hamburg. Berlin, hm, I find it interesting, but really liking it would be a bit much maybe. But that is a different story.

London. Big, loud, dirty. And colourful, very colourful. That was my first impression in 1992 on my first trip to the island. And at this moment I had just stepped out of the arrivals door at the airport!

This mass of people waiting for their loved ones, business partners, friends, whoever, holding flowers or signs with names, was what I first saw of the UK. It was overwhelming! Silky saris, grey business suits, men in long white dresses, women in scarves, men with embroidered hats, black people, white people, brown-beige-gold people. I wouldn’t have wondered to see someone with green skin and blue spots in a stripey shirt saying: Welcome to London, Earthling!

Germany at the time was still rather much a virgin in terms of immigration. Where I lived a Turkish person was the big exception from mostly fairhaired people, but black faces you didn’t get to see much, even in a city like Hamburg.

Ever since many things have changed, the crowd in London is still as fascinating, but the crowd in Hamburg today might not look that different anymore.

London has always been something very special to me. Hearing Big Ben would fall silent for four years was not really shocking, but sad in some way. London without Big Ben’s iconic voice is still London, still big, loud and dirty. And colourful. But one tiny, yet important detail is missing. As if the Mona Lisa’s smile was a bit crooked suddenly. You get the picture.

Dear workers at Big Ben, hurry, do a good job as I trust you will, and give us back good ol’ Ben’s voice as quickly as possible. We all love it, no matter where we live. Thanks!

illustration by Daniela Faber 2017

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Croeso i Gymru

A quick word about the title of my blog, Cariad, and why I chose it.

Around 1990 it must have been that I saw a Welsh text for the first time. I looked at it and thought: No human can possibly make any sense of that!

Welsh looks like this, for example: “Prifddinas Cymru yw Caerdydd (...); hon yw dinas fwyaf Cymru a'r ddegfed fwyaf yn y Deyrnas Unedig.” (quote: Wikipedia, “Cardiff”, Welsh page)

For my taste there were far too many “w”s involved in places where you can’t pronounce them. And all those “y”s made it look pretentious. But as soon as I had found out, the “w”s are “u”s in fact, the text shed its skin and  a very pretty language indeed emerged from the maze of letters.

On my first trip to London in 1992 I purchased right away a Welsh-English dictionary. I still don’t know more than about fifty words by heart, but the dictionary is well worn by now, as I love to look up the odd word from time to time. Welsh is soothing, it caresses your ears, believe me. Could I move to Wales for a job, I would learn this language properly.

Cariad is amongst those words which I utterly love. And that’s what it means: Love. The French amour or Italian amore are lovely words, soft and round and easy on the ear. English love and German Liebe have a tender beginning and middle as well. But cariad, despite its hard k-sound at the beginning and the dark rolled r in the middle, is an entirely different thing. It is harsh and beautiful at the same time and that is Wales to me, too. Harsh and beautiful. I adore those contrasts.

Not so very different from Northern Germany, by the way! We have sheep and rain and lots of green hills. Well, dykes. And we are also proud owners of a weird language: Low German. But I will tell you about that another time.

illustration by Daniela Faber 2017

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Hamburg, most beautiful city in Germany

I am a Hamburger, I love to say that, as it is funny but also how I feel. I’m not German. Well, yes, I am, but it doesn’t mean so much to me as being a Hamburger.

First and foremost I consider myself to be a human being, of course, and then a woman. But then I’m a Hamburger. My region, Northern Germany, comes next, and only then I’m also a German, because, well, that’s the country I was born in and where I was brought up, with all its traditions, customs, children’s songs and quirks like waiting for the green light although no car is coming. :-)

Why is Hamburg for me - and loads of others, actually - the most beautiful city in Germany? For me that is easy to answer: Because of the colours. There is so much blue, red and green. Blue water in Rivers Elbe, Alster and Bille, both lake Binnenalster and Außenalster, dozens of canals (so-called Fleete). Red brick buildings like you can find them in the Netherlands or the north of France as well. And many green parks, trees lining the streets, lots of gardens and allotments. Not to forget the green of old copper rooftops. Our emblem, the Michel (St Michael’s church), got a new roof some years ago. It still is copperish brown. Can’t wait to see it turning green again!

But other things are equally lovable about Hamburg, and without them it wouldn’t be Hamburg. Seagulls screaming and sh*tting onto your shoulder. Rain wetting you well. The songs of ships in the harbour. Waves lulling you in while sitting on a pontoon, going up and down, up and down, up and down...

I love Hamburg, I lived here all my life. And real love is eternal, I think, even should you move on one day. Right now I’m looking for a new job to move to another place, another region, maybe even another country. But I will always be a Hamburger. Once you have been here and seen this city, maybe you will understand what I am talking about.

(illustration by Daniela Faber 2017)