Stress Kills: What I learned From My Mammoth Month of Travel

I never get to blog anymore... what an awful sentence. It was true about five months ago, when I was already coming to terms with the reality that my job, at least for its initial super-exciting year, was taking over my life. Hobbies, such as blogging, had to be replaced by the ones one cannot skip. There are only so and so many hours in the day, and hobbies such as yoga and reading cannot be skipped, because if I do, I die (maybe not immediately, but a lot earlier). But then came the summer, or, as I will refer to it in my 2019 review, the busiest time of my life. Even yoga and reading are now luxury. Life is a cloud of stress, appointments and responsibilities, plus all the thinking about things I would like to do. But I wouldn't be me if I didn't use this experience to draw on the silver lining: I just had to become more efficient about stress.

Before the summer, I was receiving my first few speaking assignments. I asked my manager about which ones we would say yes to, and since the first two coming in were asks from abroad she couldn't follow herself, I jumped on the chance. Then, weeks later, whoops, there are five more requests, some of which I can't even say no to (neither would I want to) and homework from myriad of other teams. Suddenly, a full time job means full time, as in all the time there is. I did weekends and late nights, fully knowing this wouldn't stay this way. It was all fun and great experience... but ultimately tiring.

I never had to do anything. But I wanted to. I loved working hard because the outcomes were great. But my body was taking note. In July, after a stressful time at work and personal things happening, my face blew up. As in, I literally woke up and my face was gone: my eyes were swollen shut, my whole face was twice the size and without a cold compression on it I could barely speak. My body had reacted to the stress. While it wasn't just the job that time, but my body literally saying "no" to an emerging personal situation, I learned something important: I cannot fool that body. It knows things. I can try to be the person that can deal with stress, but give that body something it doesn't want, and it will find a way to let you know.

In this case, my body was saying no to a reemerging relationship before I even realized I didn't want it. There are signs, and my mind is slower at picking up on them than my body. Some of them can be read if practicing mindfulness. But if you want it or not, reality will get ya. Sooner or later. Sometimes powering through is what is necessary. Then, my body usually just pauses the exhaustion for when it's ok to come out. It's like there is a certain amount of relaxing that has to happen; a process of finishing a stress response cycle. The more stress occurs, the more time is needed to finish the cycle. There is just one problem: There is no time. I don't have time to do everything I NEED to do and actually finish my stress response cycle. Thankfully, there are ways to cheat.

For me, to relax, I need to either be alone and "do nothing", so watch a show or read, listen to music, or do yoga or run. I definitely need time to be alone, otherwise I don't think, and thinking, I suppose, is what is needed to process what is going on. Lord knows I'm not good at processing. But procrastination of these relaxing activities will become a problem for me. Sure, going out for a drink or going shopping is also fun to me, but it doesn't help my stress cycle. I have found that to actually get my heartbeat back to normal, I have to become more efficient about relaxing, because I never have time to do it.

Step one: regular yoga. I take time at lunch to do it. Meetings piling up make me want to skip it sometimes but I just know that they won't be productive if I do them strained. So yoga is, and should be, a priority in the day. If I have no access to it, like in the past two weeks on the road, I can virtually watch the stress build. After a week like last week, I'd need ten hours of yoga, and that, of course, is not an option. Which brings me to step two: regular long breaks. I don't think I've ever been as stressed as now, so yesterday I checked into a spa. It took me four hours in the sauna to actually stop contracting my neck. My heartbeat was insane. A three hour nature walk this morning was the first time in a month I actually realized I wasn't clenching my teeth.

When everything happens - and with everything I just mean too much - actually saying stop is a skill. Listening to your body is not a talent, it needs to be learned. Just like speaking, and dividing by three, and the capitals of the world. But nobody taught us. Quite the contrary, with all the pressure on performance, a ticking time bomb and influences our bodies were simply not created to withstand, we have to put effort into learning. And I feel like I am in need of some more tutoring. All I know for now is that, as little as I know still, I do know when everything is too much - I just need to get better at catching the moment before I get there, and actually act accordingly. 

"Any Dream Will Do": How The "Joseph"-Musical Opened My Eyes

My mother had always wanted to see the musical "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat". Of course, in Germany in the 90s, the last time the show ran there, it had a different name. And Joseph, the biblical son of Jacob, had blond hair and blue eyes because: 90s. Political correctness or representation was not an issue then. But money was, for us. We dreamed about going to see musicals like Joseph dreamed about his coat. But before we could make it, the show ended there and 25 years went by before the opportunity presented itself again. This year, for six weeks only, the show was playing London Palladium. On my mother's birthday. No longer too poor to see a show, I got her a flight to London and see the show on her 66th birthday. As the show opened with the song my mother had been singing for 25 years, we both couldn't hold the tears back. The reasons for that were complex…

When I was eleven, I came to London for the first time with my separating parents. I was a child and blown away. I had never seen anything like this place and didn't understand what people were saying. London was "the world" to me and I was determined to live in it. One day, I dreamed, I'd live there. Spoiler alert: I did it. But then, with my schoolbook three sentences of English, feeling like a whole new world was opening up with the new language, couldn’t have dared to dream. No kidding, English opened up a couple doors for me. I mean, I’m not blogging in German right now, eh?

My mom and I discussed the journey it took to get there; there being HERE, grown up, steady and lucky - in London, the place I always dreamed about. Much like Joseph in the story, my way also led to Egypt. When the pyramids made up the backdrop of the London Palladium, I choked up a bit. I wouldn't have seen the connection then but in order to have the future I have now, in London above all places, those two years in Egypt were essential. Looking at the backdrop and feeling grateful for everything that part of my life enabled me to do was quite the reaction, and most likely one that not everyone in the audience would have. In the last couple of years I have learned to look back at that time in Cairo and really appreciate it which, God knows, was impossible to do while there.

Joseph did all this talking about dreaming, ya know. Not the kind of dream I had last night where I took five different buses to get to the airport this morning fearing to be late. What I heard in the song "Any Dream Will Do" was encouragement: dare to dream big. I agree that it takes courage to dream. Once the dream is there, and it doesn't come true, the only outcome is disappointment. You'd think there is no downside of dreaming and it’s regular practice for little kids. But it couldn't be; it's scary. I dreamed really big as a child. I saw myself as a Hollywood star actress winning the Oscar one day. Why not me, I thought. But dreaming is different from believing, and I forced myself to do both. I was disappointed so many times. So many of my dreams did not come true. But the ones that did are jaw-dropping.

Now, I am not a Hollywood star actress. I am also not living in the Central Valley in California where many a dream of mine was set (I know, sad!). I am also no longer a journalist which was my dream for most of my adult life. But both of these dreams evolved, while the initial one I had as a child never did: be a woman, with success of my own, in a worldly city like London; have a career that allows you to tell stories; live a life that makes you proud on your deathbed (if they don’t come up with immortality until then, that is, in which case, be rich enough to buy immortality). Granted, we are not at the end of my life, hopefully, and I have a bunch of other dreams I am currently trying to make come true. But our tears when the musical started playing were not coming from memories, but from appreciation; appreciation of a trivial thing as simple as being grateful for being able to finally see this musical which, really, is anything BUT trivial. It’s a huge blessing and our lives are full of them.

As an eleven year old in London, we also saw a musical. I remember the organisational team saying that it was expensive but my mom said that “when you’re in London, you just have to do that”. The money was invested, and we saw “RENT”. I remember nothing. I didn’t even know what it was about, didn’t understand a word. The music and dancing seemed nice though. As my mom and I were sitting in our seats at the London Palladium last week seeing “Joseph”, I remembered that. What venue was “RENT” playing at in 2001, I wondered. I had to laugh a bit when I looked up its Wikipedia page: the musical had been playing at Shaftesbury Theatre. Next to Shaftesbury Theatre, there would have had to be a construction site where they built my future office in 2001. Today, I look at that theatre from my desk every day, but neither my office, nor my company, never mind my job, existed yet. “Any dream will do,'' he said. No shit…

Ode to Beyonce

Tonight, I was fining myself on my balcony with my flatmate after a glass of wine, singing along to Beyonce. Yes, a normal Tuesday night acknowledging our generation's biggest boss. For the first 13 years of my life, I always tried to hate what others loved, and vice versa. But I woke up, thank God! And would you look at that, I just said 13 since that was exactly the age I was when I first bought a record that Beyonce was involved in. "Survivor" by Destiny's Child. I had learned enough English to know what "child" meant in German, but I thought "Destiny" was a person, and the band was named after her daughter. And although I couldn't understand her words, I realised tonight that Beyonce influenced me with them then, without me knowing.

"Survivor" is what we were singing tonight. I can translate what I was singing age 13 today. And man, is that one easy message to get behind, right? I didn't even know then that I was one such "survivor". I didn't know what it meant to "survive" because that means there would have to be a threat to overcome, and I hadn't been threatened. Yep, cute! Not so much now. I believe I actually did survive at times, rather than just getting through things. I learned the only way, the "hard" way, that "after all of the darkness and sadness, soon comes happiness", and that "if I surround myself with positive things, I'll gain prosperity". Although it's a good song, only life can teach you just HOW good it is.

I wasn't particularly raised to be a strong woman by my family. I did go to a Catholic all-girls private school where being a girl was obviously not an issue. The premise of the school was "we can do everything a boy can" which, I know now, is incomplete: it's about doing the things men do just as well. The things I am most proud of achieving in my life are things that can compete with whatever a man can achieve, not just women. And for that, I had to be a survivor because that just isn't reality just yet. I don't want to feel good about having achieved something as a woman; I want to just achieve whatever is possible - for everyone.

Beyonce is a great example of that. She isn't just a woman, she's also also a racial minority. Both being black and a woman usually doesn't help achieving (anything!). And of course, her talent makes up for some of that. She's just a fucking great artist. But let's not talk about how great Beyonce is because everyone knows already. What is significant to me is that she has found a way, through pop music, through visuals, through fashion and through empowerment, to shape a young girl that wasn't even aware she could be influenced. At age 30, I am able to see her for her artistic achievement but I need to also acknowledge her for the change she has caused in my life when I was barely able to make my own decisions yet.

I went through the lyrics of "Survivor" and genuinely couldn't find a line I don't understand today. Shit, I've been through some bullshit in this life. And none of that made me quit. Obviously Beyonce was barely older than me at the time and probably didn't know what she was singing about either. But I'm sure she does now. She has pulled off things that aren't even feasible rationally, like making Alexandra Burke win the X-Factor, sing a rendition of "Can Yo Feel The Love Tonight?" that isn't an absolute joke in comparison to Sir Elton - and making a silly little pop song that teaches 13-year-old girls to never give up! What a lady...

"It Is What It Is": Even Love Island Can Teach You Things

Oh, there are so many word jokes I could make to start off this post. Anything with "cracking on" or "loyal" works. But the bottom line is, I'm just happy Love Island is back on the screen. This might be an unpopular opinion but it is my job to analyse pop culture, so even if I didn't enjoy watching it, there's no way I wouldn't. For those who simply believe Love Island is a show devoid of substance, full of superficiality and with no value to society, I say - so what? People enjoy it, and I do, too. And even in this seemingly senseless program I found lessons for myself. And actually, the show's language is to blame for that.

The first couple hasn't even hit the Hideaway yet but the tagline of this year has already been decided on. "It is what it is" is this year's sentence soon to be found on myriad Primark shirts. I hated that expression before the show and now that I see in what ridiculous context it has been absolutely staged to appear on the show, I hate it more. Joe even said "it was what it was" last night and I almost cried. No, lads, it isn't what it is. When has this sentence ever been useful?

I guess it makes sense to say "it is what it is" when you seriously couldn't care one bit less, and I would assume that applies to most people in the Love Island villa. They came for love - and fame. But mostly, for the fame. So, when Molly-Mae doesn't like them back, they are arguably more upset about the prospect of being dumped from the biggest show in the country rather than being 20, super good-looking and single. So yeah, maybe things are what they are but those who really care would never use this bullshit sentence. Maybe that's why I have never - until just now.

To be facing rejection from someone you are interested in should probably generate a different response. How are these people so chill about being turned down by someone they are interested in? It's not what it is; it's shit, and annoying, and maybe unfair - pick your adjective. Or better, consider doing something about it. The attitude of these islanders, but really of the whole earthly population, to just go "it is what it is" when things ask for a response is making me go anything but "it is what it is". It makes me want to speak to every one of them individually and tell them to step it up.

I know, I know, it's cool to be cool. We all want to seem so chill, nothing can phase us. "Me, liking you?", they might as well say, "are you crazy?" Actually expressing to somebody how interested you are in them has never been a weakness, yet that entire house says it to a camera guy only. To anyone but the person they like, it seems. And rejection doesn't phase them because, lo and behold, that could make them seem vulnerable or less in control. Funnily enough, that would maybe result in them being liked back.

For me, watching Love Island is a fun little window in how much it sucks to be young. I pity every single person entering the villa. They're so young and clueless. I know, of course, because I was even dumber and more clueless at their age. I didn't know "my type". What I know now, though, is that "the type" is a construct in their head that will impede their success at love rather than help it. Also, I cannot believe they think the type "bad boy" will actually work out for them. "Bad" is not a good word, ladies, or my branding these days is off. But maybe they will learn while they are on the show - and I'm here for it!

Back in Hanford, CA: Do Things Ever Change?

Last Saturday, I rented a car in Santa Monica and headed North. Past Burbank and Santa Clarita, I chose to keep going. I did not stop at Magic Mountain or along any of the beautiful places along the mountains. I was heading into the Central Valley. All the cars that were driving beside me finally got off the Highway and less and less people stayed on course north. And for good reason: why would anyone rather spend their Memorial Day weekend in Bakersfield or Fresno if they could also stay south of the Grapevine? The only reason I could think of was the one I had, driving to the “city” of Hanford, where I used to live, to revisit a life I had said goodbye to over a decade ago.

As Hanford was coming closer on the GPS, I no longer needed it. I started thinking about the last time I was in there; I couldn’t drive back then and cars didn’t have GPS. My own life had also not seen a lot of progress: I didn’t have any degrees, had not lived in Cairo or worked for either Amazon or Google. Or anyone, to be exact. I was only a few weeks into having had my first drink and I had just befriended this weird-looking guy called Conor. And although this sounds like a long time, I got off on 12th Avenue, drove over to Grangeville towards a very familiar house which had a poster up on the garage reading “Welcome Back Sina! We Missed You!”

Now well over 13 years ago, I asked my friends David and Daniel’s parents for help. I was facing homelessness during my senior year and needed a place to stay for a bits. The Medinas were part of my church and had allowed me to crash their family on occasions since they met me at one of the boys’ football games. At 16, I had made a T-Shirt for my favorite Husky football player, like every Hanford West Husky had. Mine was #50, Daniel Medina, their son. Knowing them now, it makes sense they loved me, because they loved everyone who liked their kids. But objectively, them loving me made no sense, and it still doesn’t. Although I didn’t stay with them then, they helped later when I was staying up every night to talk to them on the phone in the weeks after my father’s death. Relentlessly, they said prayers for me every night and invited me to spend Christmas with their family because mine had stopped existing.

I walked into the house on Saturday, where Hot Cheetos, my favorite PopTarts and a gallon of Sunny D were waiting for me. 13 years ago, I had written down all my favorite American treats on a post-it which Momma Medina had kept. Then we sat down and had a chat. Where do you even start after ten years? I had asked myself beforehand if it would be weird. Back in the day, they had referred to me as their daughter from Germany but lots had happened since. Maybe my eventful past with their son had made it weird, I thought. But it wasn’t weird. Love of a certain kind is not affected by time or events, and that is the love I feel for them. And now evidently, the love they feel for me.

The boys and I then hit “downtown Hanford”. I had spent virtually no time there in high school because other than the Farmers Market on Thursday nights and the best ice cream shop in town, downtown Hanford had nothing to offer, much like the rest of the city. Often referred to as Cowtown rather than its actual name, Hanford had not changed much. Only me. I was also above 21 for the first time, so we hit a bar and had a beer. A good day in Hanford is incomplete without a visit to La Fiesta, the best Mexican restaurant in the city. And another highlight was waiting for me as we returned to the house: Marcus, my bestie from high school, was joining us by the pool in the backyard where we had ice cream for dessert.

naps and dogs... like wow!

The next couple of days had more of the same. And although there is nothing new in the 559, being ten years older in the same place is a different experience. I witnessed my first Hanford thunderstorm with actual rain from the porch, went back to the mall that is now more like a retail ghost town (thanks, Amazon!) and visited my first Hanford bar where I got a buzz from one rum and coke for four dollars that tasted like straight rum. Americans! First and foremost, however, I felt a sense of achievement: last time I had been there I had dreamed about and imagined being an adult, now I was one.

At no point during my high school years in Hanford did I imagine my life would go the way it did. But hasn’t it been amazing? And how lucky am I to be able to come back to those small places that shaped me and still find people who love me. I often feel torn between wanting to be a small town person, but simply not really fitting into that life. But am I really a city girl instead? Where is the balance between London and Hanford? I love both and I could see my life, ten years from now, going either direction. Coming to Hanford made me see that, whatever the size, a place to call home just has to give you this feeling. And those people. And a good burrito.  

Notre Dame: What (Should Happen) Next?

Where do you find out about the apocalypse, should it happen? Do you have news alerts? Are you on Facebook so regularly, the real breaking news reach you because you liked "CNN"? Whatever it is that informs you of bad thing happening, it definitely went off this week. No, nobody died, and no, this time no terrorism. No, it was an old building on fire. The mighty Notre Dame which survived 800 years of destruction, World Wars, Civil Wars, revolutions and earthquakes almost didn't survive people. People in charge of restoration. People who should have known better. But oh well...

Before I start complaining about how there could be a fire this destructive at a sight like this, let me get to the bottom of what really bothers me about it: how is this the biggest news story of the month? I am a huge fan of Notre Dame, one of the most beautiful buildings in the world and a cultural treasure chest that impacts lives. Yes, the beauty and significance of Notre Dame could hardly be overestimated. At the same time, I had to wonder: why is social media going nuts over this? It's a fire, and people who have actually visited Notre Dame would know it's not the first one. Within hours we thankfully learned that the building was not lost, although many treasures were, like its spire. But: is the attention this is getting justified?

Ask a historical or art lover, or a Frenchman, and the answer is probably yes. I agree that this fire is bad news but isn't this what happens when you try to keep an ancient cathedral around for centuries? I was sad to see it happening and scared this masterpiece would be lost. At the same time, I knew that probably wouldn't happen. Fires destroying parts of medieval buildings is not a new concept either. Go to anywhere in East London and you will find it a pretty great place to be despite it being completely destroyed back in the day. Let's not even talk about Berlin which was destroyed not even by fire but human beings, the much more ridiculous force of nature.

The cathedral on the Île-de-la-Cité I visited in January had only existed in that shape much less than 200 years. As far as I remember from my recent trip, I was surprised to see how little of Notre Dame was actually 800 years old. The surrounding buildings were older than most of Notre Dame. Parts being destroyed and rebuilt were literally part of the history of the building, so big deal, we will have to do it again. Of course that doesn't trivialize just how crap the news were of Notre Dame being on fire but the truth, in my eyes, is that nobody got harmed and thanks to Emmanuel Macron's bulletproof austerity plans the French reserves will be filled with eligible dough to bring back our lady, eh?

Oh, what a beautiful bridge: could this be a political issue? I sure hope so. The minute I saw the news alert, I said to my colleague that it'd be interesting to see how Macron was going to justify the insane amount of money this project will cost to the Yellow Vests at the Place de la Republique on a Friday afternoon. The reason we don't build monuments like the Notre Dame anymore is that it's too effing expensive. Sure, in the Middle Ages, when wages for church builders were optional, something like this could exist because leaders were vain, but how are they going to justify that expense today? Good thing a couple of billionaires already provided all the money.

I totally get why people are outraged. Grenfell was on fire two years ago and I don't remember seeing that amount of money anywhere, never mind from the government. This ridonculous bill will hopefully buy Notre Dame a new roof that is not like the last one. When old is destroyed, let's find a way to express what is new. The French government will be able to hire the biggest designers on this planet, they will undoubtedly have a vision for the building that is current but true to the original heritage or the building. When the Twin Towers came down, I don#t think anyone would have suppested to rebuild them. What we have instead is a new era. And I hope we can have a new era of Notre Dame. And a new era for France not too much later after that as well...

Tatort: How A TV Show Connected Me To My Country

One of the pillars of being German is watching Tatort on Sunday nights. With over 1000 episodes over the last, I think, 40 years, Tatort isn't just a show, it's an institution. "What are you up to tonight?", for example, is a question nobody dared asking in the mid-2000s on a Sunday, when half the population would watch the the various detectives, one more German than the other, solve crimes. Except me. I never did. When Tatort reached peak popularity, I was a teenager in the States. So I knew that everyone at home watched Tatort, but I wasn't home. I never watched much TV so this whole craze passed me by - until a few weeks ago when I watched my first Tatort.

I had been home in Germany, hanging out with my friend on Sunday night. Her mother was over with her knitting tools and Tatort was about to start. She expressed she was only staying, if we watched it with her. I thought I could stay for a while, then leave. I didn't think I'd enjoy 90 minutes of a TV show; I never watch stuff that long. But I didn't leave. I needed to know how Inspector Borowski made the murderer confess. It had happened: I loved Tatort like every good German would. And while I tried to explain what I liked about it so much, I actually realized that it might be exactly that: Tatort is a German gem, a cultural phenomenon and in its presentation as German as it gets. Finally a show I can identify with.

In the last few weeks, while starting my last job, I have come to see more than ever before how much I like Germans. The German leg of my new job is by far the best. When I watch videos on YouTube, which is my job, the German ones are way better, smarter and funnier to me than the others. My German colleagues are definitely the funniest. And speaking in German, about Germany, about history, about everything we have in common just because we are all from there, has been so nice for me after all this time "away from home". We can laugh about wanting a process, we find Lothar Matthäus funny and we remember Alex K. - Superstar. I am the last person that seeks any sort of exclusivity, but I find it hard to believe that for onlookers who are not German, we would make any sense.

I can't explain why I have to genuinely laugh out loud when I watch German late night shows, but when I watch the likes of Jonathan Ross, Alan Carr or whatever their names are, the best I can do is crack a smile. Obviously, internationally Germans are not known to be very funny, but I find them way funnier than any of the British. And maybe it is the same as loving Tatort: just understanding. I understand why the German detectives act the way they do. They barley smile which isn't crazy because, of course, they're German, they eat their Butterbrot in the morning and drink their Feierabendbier after work. They crack jokes about all kinds of people, being mean is funny. They are like me. 

On a recent trip with my German team in the Bavarian Alps, the playlist was entirely German. I usually didn't enjoy a playlist like that because I would worry about those in the room not "German enough" to be able to appreciate Schlager. But that night, everyone knew the lyrics to Atemlos, those who had grown up in Germany could also sing Pur Hitmix from front to back. No German ever WANTED to learn this song by heart, but it just happens. And in that, I made a discovery that took me a few years to make: whether I want it or not, where you're from will never change. I can never not be German even if I burn my passport. I will never run late, I will never stop loving a clearly defined plan, a measurable process, a color code in documents and Tatort. The lyrics to Verdammt ich lieb' Dich can never be unlearned. Even after a decade away from the Fatherland.