Home again

jack russell terrier

I am sitting at the Copenhagen airport, clinging on to what is probably my third cup of coffee this morning—who’s keeping count at this point—in the hope it might heal the current state of pain my brain is suffering after only 3 hours of sleep last night. Memories of the week at home sooth my state of mind. Besides running endless errands, going home in my case always means indulging in delicious meals, indulging in many pleasant conversations with my grandparents, about the past and the future, and about how to live in the present despite them both, and finally, indulging in cuddles with the world’s cutest puppy, Madame Flo.

Sleeping Jack Russell TerrierSleeping Terrier

Madame Flo may have turned 15 years two days ago–which translates to 99 human years (1st dog year = 1 human year, each following dog year = 7 human years; 1+(7*14)=99), making her a grand dame more than a puppy, but she has miraculously maintained her puppy looks and charm and playfulness. How could anyone not want to shower that bundle of cuteness with love? How?, I ask you.

cute jack russell{Madame Flo enjoys to travel aback my back in a backpack}Medi52 Bielefeld{This is my beloved mother at the newest of the family restaurants, the Medi52}
M52 Bielefeld{This is a swordfish carpaccio drizzled with orange oil}Medi52 BielefeldMedi52 Bielefeld MauerstraßeJivino Enoteca BielefeldGerman garde
{My mother’s garden}
Jivino Enoteca Bielefeld

Nothing says I’ve been spoiled for life by growing up around meals like the one depicted above, like the meal in question: A Sashimi-quality seared tuna steak with ginger and lemon and salad for lunch. Clearly, I am a very lucky one.

photo (3){This is what Germany looks like}photo (2)
{This is what my German grandmother looks like}photo (4)
{And this too happens in Germany. At that restaurant by some lake in the woods, where my grandparents sometimes take me, and where fish have eyes made of halved, stuffed olives}

Now, here I am. Sitting at the Copenhagen airport. Memories of life lived in Scandinavia awaken with the smell of kanelstænger, the Danish version of the cinnamon bun, not that any cinnamon bun could ever get anywhere close to a kanelstæng. Not enough time to meet my friends in the city, enough time to wonder what I’m doing here. But now they are starting to board and I better get going and next time you’ll hear from me it shall be from the other side of the Atlantic. Much love. After this week home, it’s time to go home again. The other one, you know.


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