Office talk: what makes a relationship work

Oh look, a sweet strawberry stand. They are all over the place in this season. Just give two euros to the nice strawberry people, and eat your Erdbeeren in the subway. Sommer in Berlin!

Let me rephrase that.

What makes a relationship work?

First of all, I'm never quite sure how you're supposed to understand the word "work" in this context. Is a working relationship one that lasts forever? Doubtful, no? Because I'm sure that we've all had relationships that did not last but which could be defined as having worked.

(Just typing the word relationship makes me think about my sister who mocks my "serial monogamy" and I miss her so much even summer strawberries can't really compensate)

I've been thinking a lot about this topic because ever since I've become a German working girl, I've been listening to my co-workers chat. And boy do they chat. And they chat about relationships. Men. Break-ups.

It's like a wave of stereotypical oestrogen; it's like I've become one of the GIRLZ: braid my hair! tell me about how your boyfriend encourages you to diet! und so weiter!

So all they do is complain about their relationships. None of them work, yet they stay in these apparently miserable unions, bitching and bitching about how boring/predictable/slobby/bad in bed their Männer are.

So once in a while I'll open my trap and ask the question: why do you stay?

Maybe what makes a relationship work is realizing that nothing is perfect, as one co-worker told me. "Of course, it's not perfect. But it's better than many other relationships I know. At least he respects me."

Or maybe it's shared passions, like the co-worker who is a photography geek like her boyfriend.

Or maybe just fear of the unknown.

I have no idea what makes a relationship work. I know what worked in all my past relationships: learning how to become an adult with someone you trust, discovering adventure and passion with someone you admire.

When the nosy and nice co-workers quizz me I can tell them about my past. I like remembering the funny, teenage years with H and the thrilling, rollercoaster years with X.

So I can talk about that, but not about my boyfriend. Not about how I feel, how it feels. Because it's all so fragile for the moment. Life is so fragile at the moment.

Fire over Dillenburg!

A tale of two cities.





Look who's in Dillenburg, looking refreshed and not at all under the weather? 'Tis I,by Jove.


So I went, I saw and I conquered.
Yeah, my train was late, I was exhausted, but it was still pretty funny. I went back to my workcamp site from this summer to see the musical the town wrote, composed and staged: Feuer über Dillenburg.
Yup, it rocked.

They did an amazing job, working their arsches off for three years and rehearsing into madness; no one was a professional, the orchestra was the regional youth formation, the actors were local talents etc.
I was super proud and moved.
My friend Tosca (who's 14 BTW) was a dancer. I took a picture of her with Armin, who played the French bad guy.
Armin, Tosca und Annie. Is that a Napoleon look-a-like or have I stumbled into a wax museum?
Also Tosca danced as an evil gypsy, while looking like a German milkmaid.

Then I went to the afterparty. Ach du meine Güte. It was wild! So imagine a bunch of drunk German teenagers in a gym gyrating to Britney and David Guetta. Yup.
Here we have the before...Look at those innocent miens, and one of them teenagers is wearing a suit. I mean, really?
That tie would soon end up being used as a harness.
Unfortunately, I was too busy getting deaf next to the boom box to take a pic.
Then it got OUT OF CONTROL.








Look at the debauchery. Dancing and drinking.























One guy pictured here took a mad fancy to me and got some good lines. (He was seventeen).
My favourite: "My braces are being removed next week, let's celebrate by kissing."
How sweet. He did invite me for a slow dance, which was a first. He was much taller than me, and he stroked my hair and told me I was the prettiest girl in the room. Also that it was wonderful to meet a girl who had good conversational skills. Then he gazed at me romantically and asked me if I wanted apple juice or to be kissed. SMOOTH. I chose Apferschorle. Underage men are fun, but juice is wonderful.

After narrowly avoiding being mauled by the jailbait in the room, Tosca and I went to bed at five in the morning. Shocking.
We had coffee next day with Tobias and his girlfriend, both were super friendly and nice. Tobias taught me how to drive this summer.























Tobias, GF and Tosca





Neun und Neunzig Luftballoons of WIN. Bikers!

Then I went home. Oh Dillenburg, you are endlessly surreal.

Subway lust

I was sitting in the Parisian subway, reading a book by French novelist Maupassant. Coming back from the Track and Field practice, I could already feel the burn in my legs and abdominal muscles fade, and I was in that mellow state of endomorphinese that long-distance can give you. I'm told it's like a shot of morphine or heroin. Being quite the neophyte in drug matters, I can't tell you. Someone got in at the next station. I noticed beautiful honey-blond hair and since I am very short-sighted, not much else, and as the person sat down next to me, I apologized in case my running gear bag was in the way. I then found out my neighbour was a gorgeous man. I then blushed and returned to my reading. He started to fumble in his own bag and got out a compendium of Russian poetry, translated in German, so I could read over his (broad) shoulder. Handsome and German-literate? OMG. For the next four stops I wondered if I should ask for his phone number. No, wait, give him mine. What if he's taken? Or wait, I've just come back from my training session, all sweaty and pink-cheeked. I must look like shit. He's really beautiful. Oh no, only two stops left.

As the train grumbled through Paris I leaned back on my seat and purposefully brushed his shoulder with mine, before leaving my arm to rest against his. My heart was beating ridiculously hard. I couldn't believe I had to meet the most handsome man I've ever seen when I felt so high and so unattractive at the same time. He did not move his arm away, but he seemed so concentrated in his poetry, I couldn't decide whether he knew I was making a pass at him or not. And damn it, I had to leave. So I got up, still blushing ridiculously intensely, and left the train.

I turned around to check him out one last time.

He was staring at me. And I smiled lustfully. And he smiled back. And then I never saw him again.

Note to self: next time, give phone number. WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU?