pizza • sunrise • lemon-poppyseed muffin •
mirror • mail • salad •
blue skies • the two cuties • sunrise •
Archives for March 2013
Friday Link Love
All adventurous women do: On being Hannah Horvath by Kate (Suburban Sweetheart). Is the series “Girls” too real?
There is no going back home by Riayn (Geek Mädel). As a fellow expat, I can very much relate to that.
On… the value of a person by Melissa (Press Play). This is me!
Two sides of every story by Heidikins (Heidikins). So true! Sometimes we have to remind us about that.
My case for Internet friendships by Lesley (Barefoot on 45th). I am sure you feel the same.
Hey Google, we still love the Reader by Chris Taylor via (Mashable). I am going to miss Google Reader dearly.
Enough of this. Let’s move forward, yes? by Kelly (Insert Clever Title here). I couldn’t agree more.
Are there any blog posts that you’d like to recommend to me this week?
Happy Friday, peeps!
#Scintilla13: Childhood memories
I am participating in the Scintilla Project, a fortnight of storytelling. There will be writing prompts every day for the next two weeks. You can follow along on Twitter @ScintillaHQ and by searching the #scintilla13 hashtag for other participants and their stories.
Prompt: Post a photo of yourself from before age 10. Write about what you remember of the day the photo was taken. It may not be a full story – it may just be flashes of event and emotion – but tap into the child you were as much as you can.
While I don’t recall exactly what happened on the day this picture of me was taken, I know I was around 3 years old. I was a terribly shy and timid kid. Maybe you can see how uncomfortable I was in front of the camera. My expression basically screams “can you put away the camera, Dad?”.
This is one picture out of a series of black and white pictures that my Dad took of me and my sister. I am kind of bummed I don’t have one of them digitized that shows both of us. Those were beautiful, intimate moments between my sister and me that my Dad was able to capture.
Although he doesn’t do much in terms of photography anymore, besides documenting vacations and now (with the ease of a smartphone camera) the daily adventures of my niece and nephew, he used to be quite into photography when he was younger and I believe that’s where I got my passion for photography and the strong urge to collect memories by picture taking.
I know the pictures were taken in my parents’ first apartment (and my sister’s and my first home). Sometimes it’s really hard to pinpoint which early childhood memory is the earliest one you clearly recall, but I know that we moved from this place when my sister and I were three and, even though I don’t remember specifics about the apartment besides my parents’ hip 70’s brown corduroy couch, which I am actually sitting on in the picture, I visually remember the layout of the apartment.
There was a square hallway when you opened the front door. The living room was off to the left, the bedroom in the far left corner. To the right of the bedroom was the kitchen, the bathroom and then my sister’s and my room next to the front door. It was the room where we had two cribs next to each other (because my sister and I would communicate through the bars) and where my sister, at a very young age, pulled herself up and swung herself over into my bed, so we could be together. When my parents realized what she was doing, they took out some of the bars, so that she could just crawl over into my bed.
We lived on the third floor and from the kitchen window, we looked down on a single family house, which was owned by an old lady that so often stood at her kitchen window and looked up to us and waved. We called her “Winke-Oma” (waving grandma).
Our downstairs neighbors were a family with two small boys roughly our age, that we sometimes played with. To this day, I recognize those boys young men when I am back home in my hometown, even though they don’t seem to remember me or my sister. I guess I’ve always had a good memory for faces.
I also remember getting stung by a bumblebee in this apartment. I stepped on it in front of my parent’s bed and it stung me underneath my foot. It’s the only time I ever got stung, I believe.
These are more individual, random memories that I connect to this photo than a complete story, but it’s fun to go back and see which random bits of the past actually stuck with you all these years.
#Scintilla13: Losing it over a yellow felt ball
I am participating in the Scintilla Project, a fortnight of storytelling. There will be writing prompts every day for the next two weeks. You can follow along on Twitter @ScintillaHQ and by searching the #scintilla13 hashtag for other participants and their stories.
Prompt: We exert control over ourselves and others in many ways. Talk about a time when you lost that control. This can go beyond the obvious emotional control into things like willpower, tidiness, self-discipline, physical prowess – any time that you felt your autonomy slipping away.
I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with tennis. I’ve played since I was 6-7 years old. My Dad was a tennis trainer at our local tennis club (he still plays competitively). I spent many, many afternoons around the courts before I was physically able to pick up a racket and then many, many years on the court hitting on balls. I liked that it was an individual sport that could be played in a team. I loved doubles with my friend S. She and I, we played well together. She had a mean forehand, I had a perfectly killer two-handed backhand.
There were days where I loved tennis with a passion. I loved going to practice. I couldn’t wait for the weekend tournaments. I spent many days on the tennis courts in the summer. And then there were days, when I swore (more than once) that I would never touch a tennis racket ever again.
I was always a mediocre player. Never consistent enough to play at the top of my team, but also not quite bad enough to fall off the other end either. I won some matches and I lost some and even though I never carried out the threat of never touching a racket again after a particularly brutal loss, it did affect me every time.
I am not a bad loser at all. I recognize when someone is simply better and can – most times – take comfort in the fact that I did my best (and that was good enough), but one time, I almost had a physical reaction to losing a particularly close match.
Have you ever seen John McEnroe go bananas on the court? Yelling at his opponent, the referee, the audience? That’s what happened to me. Sort of.
Well, I didn’t technically yell at my opponent or the – non-existent – referee or audience, but I did make quite scene and my teammate, who was “coaching” me must have been quite embarrassed. As well as my Dad, who was watching, too.
I was quite upset, mostly with myself, because my opponent that day wasn’t really all that skillful, besides the fact that she could consistently hit the ball back into my half of the court and was simply waiting for me to make the mistake. I hated that I was, as so many other times, the more skillful player; however, she kept winning the points.
I often wondered if having the better technique would ever make up for not consistently being able to keep the ball in the game.
When I finally lost the match, I was furious. I was so upset that I threw my tennis racket into the back fence and cursed loudly. I didn’t even want to shake the other girl’s hand or congratulate her on her win. She probably thought I was the most pathetic and rude person she had ever met. The worst part: I started hyperventilating and there was nothing I could do about it.
“I am never going to play another tennis match ever again”, I sobbed.
I literally felt like I could not breathe, I was loudly gasping for air, while hot, salty tears rolled down my hot, red cheeks. I was dirty, exhausted, disappointed – and all I could think was: Sandra, what the hell is wrong with you? Pull yourself together. This was not an important match and it’s not the end of the world.
I rationally knew that, but I physically couldn’t control myself. I felt silly, immature, and I did not like it. Not one bit. My teammate and my Dad were trying to talk me down, but I wouldn’t have any of it. I stomped up and down the sideline, arms over my head, still trying to control my breathing.
Strangely, cleaning the court with the mat after every match had always brought me emotionally down in the past. It seemed like brushing away the marks that the balls left on the clay court was like wiping the slate clean again. It wasn’t any different on that particular day. I was back to my old “you gave your best, nothing to be upset about”-self in no time.
Later, I profusely apologized to the girl for my behavior, but I never shook her hand or complimented her on her undeserved victory.
Beautiful Napa
On Saturday, Stephanie, who was in California for a 5-day getaway with her husband, invited me to come and hang out with them in beautiful Napa Valley for the day. I was so thrilled to get the opportunity to meet up with her. We met up for brunch at the popular ‘Fremont Diner‘, a really quirky little brunch spot between Napa and Sonoma. The weather was absolutely gorgeous and just perfect for a day of great company, good food and wine tasting.
I tried the Ricotta Pancakes with Blood Oranges and Vella Butter. Drinks were, as Stephanie and I instantly noticed, served in Mason jars. How Pinterest-y!
With fully bellies, we headed over to Artesa Vineywards & Winery, set into the top of a hill overlooking beautiful Napa Valley. The grounds were a mix of modern architecture and art and quite beautiful. We oohed and aahed over the beautiful views and enjoyed some really tasty wine (although I have to admit that I was the least experienced wine taster in our group and not quite as sophisticated in my appreciation for the different wines).
We then headed over to the Domaine Carneros Winery with its beautiful French Château and big sun terrace. It’s a well-known winery right off Sonoma/Carneros Highway 12 /121 and easy to spot for visitors.
I immediately had to send this picture to my Dad (who’s a wine enthusiast and completely in love with Napa Valley!) to make him a tad jealous. He recognized the winery, of course, since we had been there together a few years ago, and I know he wants to go back to Napa so bad! I am hoping my parents will come back and visit again soon!
We sat down at a table on the terrace, sunbathed, sipped delicious sparkling wine and munched on some almonds. I also had absolutely fantastic conversations with Stephanie, her husband Andy and their friend Jon. They were super-easy to talk to and so fun to be around.
We finished our wine tasting tour at Cuvaison Winery, a very modern, architecturally almost Scandinavian-looking winery in the Carneros region.
Cu∙vai∙son [koo∙veh∙ZOHN]: “The French term for the period when grape juice is kept in contact with the skins and seeds during both fermentation and maceration. Critical in the making of red wines, cuvaison allows color, tannins, and aroma to be transferred from the skins and seeds to the juice.”*
I read on their website that the winery is solar-powered and that they comply with a bunch of Sustainable Winegrowing Practices. I think that is pretty awesome.
I had an absolutely fantastic day with you, Stephanie, and I hope we can do that again sometime! Maybe we’ll come and visit you in Seattle and you can take us to some of the local breweries!
Other good things this weekend:
an appointment at the hair salon ♥ pizza night ♥ phone calls with my parents ♥ lots of coffee ♥ Facetime with my cousin ♥ hanging out in my PJ’s ♥ reading ♥
2013 in pictures: week 12
#Scintilla13: On not being a pushover
I am participating in the Scintilla Project, a fortnight of storytelling. There will be writing prompts every day for the next two weeks. You can follow along on Twitter @ScintillaHQ and by searching the #scintilla13 hashtag for other participants and their stories.
Prompt: Sometimes we wish we could hit the rewind button. Talk about an experience that you would do over if you could.
If I could hit the rewind button…
I would not sit there and let you unload on me as if I deserved it. I would stop you right there and tell you that you had no right to be upset with me.
I would not apologize for something that was not my fault, but ask you for a little bit of perspective.
I would not take the blame for a situation I wasn’t even involved in and instead, clearly point this out to you.
I would not let you trample my feelings and go on and on about how awful the situation was for you and how much you deserved an apology from me when I was the one who deserved the apology.
I would not tell you that I knew how you felt, because I honestly didn’t.
I would not try to be a friend to you, but tell you that I needed you to be my friend and you weren’t there for me.
I would not empathize with you feeling oh-so-bad, but ask you to consider my feelings just for once.
I would not tell you that our email exchange must have been a big misunderstanding, because I know you meant every word.
I would not wait for you to call, hoping that I was misinterpreting your silence, but pick up the phone myself.
I would not wait for you to quietly and slowly cut me out of your life, but tell you right then and there that I was the one that had no desire of being your friend anymore.
I would be more cautious about thinking that, after a year, our friendship was rock-solid, as it obviously hadn’t been tested yet.
I would not try to fix a relationship that apparently was lopsided to begin with, but consciously make the decision that I didn’t need ‘friends’ like you in my life.
I would, for once, stand up for myself, stop giving people the benefit of the doubt and not wait for others to decide the state of our relationship.
#Scintilla13: Who would have thought?
I am participating in the Scintilla Project, a fortnight of storytelling. There will be writing prompts every day for the next two weeks. You can follow along on Twitter @ScintillaHQ and by searching the #scintilla13 hashtag for other participants and their stories.
Prompt: Many of our fondest memories are associated with food. Describe a memorable experience that took place while preparing or eating food.
We had only known each other for a couple of weeks, I believe. Food quickly became one of our common interests. We loved having long, drawn-out conversations over dinner. He seemed very sophisticated and grown up (also: European!) to me, seeing that he was able to sit and talk for hours and not get the itch to get up right after finishing his meal. He introduced me to Thai food, Sushi and In’N’Out. I cooked him German dishes and taught him the significance of real German bread in my life. He loved the fact that I was a girl who did not just pick at her meal, but actually liked to indulge. I loved that he was willing to try new things and experience culinary diversity. To this day, we frequently try new restaurants, new ethnic foods and still love long conversations over dinner.
The memorable experience in food-eating was a little less fancy than you would expect after this intro though. Having been raised in a different country, I felt quite overwhelmed by the food choices at the giant supermarkets here in the US. A shopping trip for groceries more often than not turned into an hour-long wander through the aisles that were packed to the ceiling with packages larger than I had ever seen and food items that were simply unfamiliar to me.
One night, I agreed to meet him at his dorm. We hung out and talked. I think he also had some homework to do. I just enjoyed being with him. We went for a walk later that evening and then over to the little shopping area right off campus. I steered him towards the little independent coffee shop (or it might have been a Starbucks, I don’t recall) and ordered two coffees.
We set down on a bench, next to a drive-through ATM, in the middle of the parking lot. I know. The setting couldn’t have been more romantic.
“Wait here.”
He got up and ran over to the AM/PM gas station right at the corner of the intersection and came back holding a giant bag of chips. (As I said, things are HUGE here compared to what I was used to.) He ripped open the bag and dared me to try one.
I looked at him like he wasn’t really serious while glancing and hinting sideways at the coffee cup in my hand.
“I don’t think coffee and chips really go together.”
“Says who?”
He pulled me down on his lap, took a big gulp of his coffee followed by a handful of chips, then held the bag daringly underneath my nose. I took a peek inside.
Most obviously against my better judgment, I witnessed my hand reach into the bag and pick out one of the triangle-shaped, seasoning-covered chips. I held it up right in front of my eyes and turned it back and forth. I’ve never had these before. I put the chip in my mouth, sucked on the flavor that quickly spread as a spicy tingling sensation through my mouth and thought to myself: damn, those are good.
A sip of the hot coffee intensified the spiciness x 100, but surprisingly, I liked it. No, I loved it. It was actually a really good combination of flavors, too. Who would have thought?
I starred at him. In disbelief.
“THIS is amazing.”
“Told you” is all he said. Followed by a big smile as I reached for the bag once again.
Salsa Verde Doritos and coffee is where it’s at, guys. It is, to this day, one of our favorite snacks that never fails to bring back memories of the early days.
#Scintilla13: The people that shape us
I am participating in the Scintilla Project, a fortnight of storytelling. There will be writing prompts every day for the next two weeks. You can follow along on Twitter @ScintillaHQ and by searching the #scintilla13 hashtag for other participants and their stories.
Prompt: Write about someone who was a mentor for you.
Ha. I got you there, didn’t I? Actually, I have high respect for teachers (I come from a teachers’ family!) and think that often they don’t get the appreciation and respect they deserve. Sure, you all know the bad apples that you encounter during the course of your education. Teachers that hate children (and you wonder what made them chose to go into that field of work), teachers who mean well but are ill-equipped to handle a bunch of pubescent 13-year olds, teachers who are wicked-smart but have no clue how to transfer their knowledge to others. I remember a particular teacher from high school who, repeatedly, tried to teach a particular mathematical causality the same unsuccessful way over and over and over again. Ever heard of trying a different approach? I eventually stopped taking him seriously and looked elsewhere for help.
And then you have the occasional teacher who is the complete opposite. She inspires you. She motivates you. She makes you eager to learn and to succeed. She makes you jump out of your bed in the morning, because you can’t wait to get to her class.
I recall such a teacher. She was my favorite and the one that has shaped my professional future more than any other person. My first encounter was in 5th grade.
Mrs W. walked into the classroom and I remember the first feeling that I felt was “fear”.
I know, not a feeling you expect to associate with someone who turns out to be your favorite teacher. She was strict, often cold and not easily to warm up to, and therefore quite intimidating to my shy little self.
She expected a lot from her students, but she also never got tired of explaining and repeating and answering the same question again and again. The joy she gained from seeing a student finally “get it”, and be just as excited about it as she was, was contagious, and the passion with which she spoke of the matters of the earth would later make me wonder how in the world someone could not be interested in geography. I mean, it connects pretty much everything. It’s one of the most interdisciplinary subjects I encountered in school and therefore one that was most closely related to things that were going on outside the classroom. I felt like I was actually learning something for life!
This is how it should be. Teachers should be able to make you fall in love with the subject they teach and inspire your passion for life-long learning.
I admire people who know from a very young age what they want to be when they grow up. I was not that lucky. I was bouncing around from idea to idea, having too many interests to narrow it down to a straight career path.
I am pretty sure though, Mrs W. is the reason I am sitting at my desk here today, having pursued a degree in natural sciences. I wish she knew how much of an impact she had on me as my teacher, how much her classes (she was my teacher on and off again until graduation) mattered to me in the process of deciding what I was going to do with my life. Sometimes we fail to let people know how much they have shaped us and how much they influenced us to become the person that we have grown up to be.
Ch-ch-ch-changes
If you’re reading this in your reader, please click over and check out my brand-new blog design.
It’s been a long time coming and I am so excited to finally show you what I have been working on for the last few weeks. Today’s launch wouldn’t have been possible without the help of my friend Kat who helped me with some last minute trouble-shooting today, after I had stared at too much code already for the better part of my weekend. Sometimes you miss the forest for the trees (or something like that).
I had been toying with the idea to give my blog a little facelift for a while. After all, it’s been like a year and a half since I did anything with my design. I wanted it to be a little cleaner, a little prettier and with more white space.
I am planning to exchange the blog links with blog buttons eventually. If you have a new button you want me to use, don’t hesitate to email that to me so that everything will be up-to-date!
I am super-excited about the new look!
Let me know what you think and please let me know if you see something that doesn’t look quite right or isn’t working. It always takes a bit to get everything up and running after a re-design!
As always, thanks so much for taking the time to read and comment here.
I appreciate every single one of you.