I hereby present to you, the Tao of Pooh:

” Not like Pooh, the most effortless Bear we’ve ever seen.”
“Just How do you do it, Pooh?”
“Do What?” asked Pooh.
“Become so Effortless.”
“I don’t do much of anything,” he said.
“But all those things of yours get done.”
“They just sort of happen,” he said.

Eventually.

You can’t forget where you came from, even though you can forget where you are headed:

There are almost three million Turkish people living in Germany and, according to a new study released this week, almost half of them intend to return to Turkey at some stage. And interestingly, more younger Turks want to return to Turkey than their elders.

This is despite the fact that almost two thirds of respondents to the study (61 percent altogether)– one of the first polls to compare the world views of around a thousand individuals from Turkey, Germany and the Turkish population living in Germany — had been born in Germany or had been living in the country for over 30 years. Turks are the largest ethnic minority in Germany and make up almost 4 percent of the country’s population. Yet only 21 percent of those polled feel happy to call Germany home. In fact, over half of the Turks living in Germany (62 percent) said that when they are in the country they felt like Turks. But when they were in Turkey they felt like Germans.

When I am here, I am asked where I was born, which makes me Iranian in most Germans’ eyes. But I grew up on Gouda and hagelslag, among endless meadows squared by razor-thin ditches and under an ever changing sky. Cycling to school, the only wind I knew was westerly, land-inwards, which made the morning race to be just in time for class even more of a struggle and the afternoon journey home along the gently lapping Old Rhine, even more leisurely (all that homework that needed delaying until the very last minute). Unless it rained. But if it rained, showers came and left in five-minute intervals, unpredictable and almost without purpose, other than to accentuate the lines of the orange brick houses, the rustling treeline or the tips of church towers distant and near.

Not that you notice these things when you live in Holland. I’d only hear the squeak of my bicycle chain and make a mental note to grease it before the next morning. A friend would quick-fire a riposte to a lame joke about his new haircut. We always cycled in packs of four or five boys, never alone, unless you were really late. But, depending on the size of the school you were attending you may even cycle in cavalcades  stretching to a good fifty metres, bicycles side by side and laden with school bags.

This is where I come from. This is where I would feel like home. Not that I have been back in the past eight years, despite the fact that my brother lived and worked in Rotterdam for a couple of years and still owns an appartment there. I don’t know why this is so. I have settled in Germany, that much is true. There is no need for going back and forth, even though the Gouda tastes so much better there, and even though, if you asked me if could imagine living there again, I’d say yes. But I could imagine living here for the rest of my life just as easily, or in the UK for that matter.

Nowhere I will be seen as wholly Dutch (don’t even start on the Iranian side). Having worked in England for the last two weeks on a project, it was noted that some Germanisms had slipped into my English. I have been told by a number of visiting Dutchmen and -women that I don’t look and certainly don’t sound Dutch much anymore. Truth be told, I’m not sure if it matters. You’re either here or there, you can’t live in two places at once and if you forget where you were headed, it might help if you take a close look around to see where you are.

You can’t be in two places at once, even if you tried.

Eeyore:

‘I didn’t stop to ask, Pooh. Even at the very bottom of the river I didn’t stop to say to myself, “Is this is Hearty Joke, or is it the Merest Accident?” I just floated to the surface, and said to myself, “It’s wet.” If you know what I mean.’

Sometimes, all there is to it, is to keep floating.

This universe where we’ve been hanging appears a tad rough and ready.

.. or nein or nee. Dearest daughter mentioned at lunch she would like to learn Dutch beside German and English. I said two languages might be more than enough for now, but she insisted I tell her the Dutch for table (tafel), fork (vork) and knife (mes), making the astute observation it all sounds a bit like either German or English, so it would be easy.  I thought she was getting a bit blasé already and tried to change the subject to Peppa Pig (link not safe for adult viewing), which prompted the polite query what pig was in Dutch (varken). That perked her up again, noting how different and funny varken sounded. She ensued to point at random objects in the room for their Dutch names (bank, stoel, muur, boek, bloem, etc.) until she got bored (two minutes later). Then she finished her Nudeln mit ketchup und cheese, drank up her applejuice and went to the bathroom to wash her Gesicht. Despite reading no arguments against raising a child trilingually, I think two are more than enough. I hope she agrees.

Katzenkindergartenerzieherin n., definition pending, as coined this morning by a Mutterkatze of my acquaintance. I guess you had to be there for this to make any sense. I’m merely curious if this will add any traffic from google searches.

The hotel I’ve been staying at is small and cozy. The white lampshades are spotless, but have that matte complexion that comes from age. The walls are not as convincingly yellow as they should be. The windows – though newly double-glazed – are set in windowframes that have been attended to and painted over at least couple of times. The shiny sink is equipped with two well-polished taps displaying a hint of rust: one for hot and one for cold water. The familiar heaters are on full blast in spite of the unusually warm temperatures outside.

Yesterday I booked the same room for the end of next week when I return for my final assignment in this little town. The hotel is homely and not far from the place I’m working at, but more important than that for my decision not to take a chance on the Travellodge down the road or the other family-owned hotel on the other side of town is that the proprietors of this place are an Indian couple: the hotel restaurant serves the most intense and spiciest of Indian meals.

Restaurants cater to the locals that frequent them. Indian restaurants in Leipzig or Dessau where I lived previously just didn’t add the chillies and the ginger the way it’s done in England. The tongue sizzles. The blood seems to come unstuck. Objects appear more present. To eat spicy is to feel alive and to suffer longing. To eat spicy is to see the intangible become tangible and to reach. After my first meal late Monday evening, there was not a doubt in my mind I’d be returning to this same place next week for this same food.

Today I was told I was on the list.

I’ve been spending the week working in a little town between Reading and London. There are two things to say about this: 1) the work, which is a return to a previous profession I thought I had left forever, is much more fun than anticipated, and 2) due to a collapsed bridge it has appeared impossible to either take the train to Reading or to London.

I don’t know what these two observations say about life, but I’m sure it means something.

And I will need to find an escape plan by tomorrow if I want to catch my plane in time.