.SOMETIMES RAW.

One beautiful but chilly July morning, on her way back home, she walked past the 100% perfect man. In her hand, a bag of oranges to make juice. Tell you the truth, he is not that good looking. He does not stand out in any way. His clothes are not special. The back of his hair is still messed up from sleep. She guessed it was a long night. But still, she knew from far away: He is the perfect man for her. The moment she saw him, there was a rumbling in her chest and her mouth was as dry as a desert. Not dessert. She wished she could talk to him. Half an hour would have been plenty: just ask him about himself, tell him about herself, and what she would really like to do, explain to him the complexities of fate that had led to their passing each other on a side street this morning. After talking, they would have had brunch somewhere, maybe seen a Woody Allen movie, stopped by a hotel bar for brunch. Potentiality knocked on the door of her heart. Now the distance between them had narrowed to ten meters.

How can she approach him? What would she say? Good morning. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation? No, ridiculous. This sounds like an insurance salesman or the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Maybe just the simple truth would do: Good morning. You are the perfect man for me.

They passed in front of a flower shop. A wisp of air touched her skin. The asphalt was damp, and she caught the scent of lavender. She could not bring herself to speak to him. He wore a black sweater, and in his right hand, he held a white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: He has written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in his eyes. The envelope could possibly contain every secret he has ever had. He took a few more looks at his watch and turned: He was lost in the crowd. He is gone. Her bag of oranges ripped at the bottom. She rolled her eyes. Now, of course, she knew exactly what she should have said to him. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for her to have delivered it properly. Usually, the ideas she comes up with are never very practical. Oh well. It would have started like “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don’t you think? Remember when the bag with the oranges ripped?” “But, he smiled at me,” she whispered.

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl seventeen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary boy and an ordinary girl. But they believed in miracles. One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. There was a lamp post. They walked a bit and then sat on a bench in the park and talked, however, a tiny sliver of doubt root in their hearts: This was perfect. Was it really all right for one’s dream to come true so easily? Could this be it? And so, when their conversation stopped for a bit, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test ourselves. If we really are each meant to be together, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again. And when that happens, and we know that we are the perfect ones, we will marry then and there. What do you think?” She said, “Sure, let’s do this. We are still so young. There is still so much out there to explore.”

And so they parted. The test they had agreed upon was totally unnecessary of course. They should have never agreed to something dumb like this because they knew and felt that they are meant for each other. It was a miracle that they have even met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. Then life happened. They didn’t see each other for years. They were two bright, determined young people, studied, wrote dissertations, made good money, got married, got divorced, had children and lived in the same city all those years. They became members of society and started families. Maybe they actually become citizens who know how to figure out the subway lines in a heartbeat and can send special-delivery letters at the post office. The ones when a signature and another document needs to be filled out and is required.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was forty-two and the girl was thirty-eight. One beautiful July morning, in search of a cup of coffee and the post office, the boy walked from west to east, while the girl walked from east to west, both along the same narrow road. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each of them felt a rumbling in their hearts and they knew. He/she is the one.

But the glow of their memories was too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of all those years ago. Without a word but with a smile they passed each other and disappeared into the crowd. Maybe this time forever. But nobody really knows.

She then picked up the oranges and walked home.

“And you who loiter around these graves think you know life.” – Edgar Lee Masters

There was this idea to start a Ph.D. at the University of Vienna. There was this idea to start working again at my former job. There was this idea to move back to Europe. There was this idea to turn things around and end 2019 in style to start fresh. So I did. I found an apartment and moved (with child) from Canada to Austria. If one door closes, I will open it again because I have the keys. After five months in this beautiful country and city, I can say that studies are going well, work is awesome and things are turning the way they should.

On my new apartment and living in Vienna.

I moved to the heart of the city and love it. I can scream my food order through the open window and the Sushi Restaurant will deliver it within five minutes. But, looking out the window at the neighbors across the street with whom I share a not-entirely-consenting proximity, I felt a twinge of claustrophobia. City life at its best. For a second I thought there is something wrong here and things need to change but then my son said, out of the blue, he wants to decorate the bookshelf. He knows how to make me happy.

On decorating an apartment with books and bookshelves.

My son and I are crazy about putting books everywhere. Mostly because, well, we have lots of them. I moved many times in my life and every time I had a ton of books that somehow found new homes with friends. My favorite ones traveled with me wherever I went. I picked up a lot (for free) while walking around in Vienna. I have a complete hardback volume set of Shakespeare that I found on the sidewalk on my way home from work. I was like, “Oh my God, this is free!” And we had bags of groceries with us and my son was like, “Are you serious? We have groceries,” and I was like, “We’re carrying them home!” And we did. So the books take on their own special meaning after a while. To me, they’re an important design element because they somewhat define who I am. When you see what I read, you kind of understand what I am all about.

On Vienna and nature.

Without going all the way back to Darwin, as a human being in touch with my animal side, I know I came from nature and need nature. I cannot compare Vienna and Midtown New York City where I also lived for many years. But amid the greyness of New York’s concrete jungle, I was able to find my current apartment near a park this time to quench my vital need for chlorophyll. Nature is not far away. Just a couple of subway stops and if I choose to, I can be really in touch with it and not only through the mint in my mojito.

I grew up in the countryside and I love(d) it. But, what about deciding to go to a party or a movie on the spur of the moment, art shows, my little neighborhood Sushi place, see La Boheme at the Wiener Staatsoper on a Friday night? I kinda love to have all these opportunities available in the blink of an eye.

Of course, a place with a clear view (minus half-naked neighbors) and sunlight filtering through some leaves would greatly impact the quality of my life. But, taking a look at a few listings of apartments outside of the city, I quickly hit a snag. For the same square footage I have, prices have gone through the roof. Getting a little closer to a tree trunk has the same effect on prices as having a room with a view in a five-star-hotel. The countryside is sometimes still tempting when imagining all those brunches I could have outside, the dog I could adopt, the walks in the forest, mushroom picking, and when I get back home after work I light a fire at my fireplace. I could plant flowers, start a vegetable garden, eat what I grow which would, of course, be all real organic produce. I could live that dream.

I would need to buy a car, wake up earlier but doesn’t the early bird catch the worm? I could leave my bike at the station and ride to work; nothing better than a little exercise. My complexion would be rosy, my legs firm, my biorhythm boosted and my red blood cell levels would match those of my son. Green with envy of my new life and body, my friends and colleagues would start searching for their own little Eden and join the countryside-movement. Maybe I will consider this one day.

On Vienna and Unwinding.

From the outside, my apartment building does not look special but upon entering it seems like traveling back to the early 1900s in Vienna. I am a tall person, just about to brush six feet, and the first thing that drew me to this apartment is that the ceilings are close to 4 meters tall. I love the generosity of the space. It is incredibly open and intimate at the same time. But to me, an apartment or house isn’t a home until I have friends come over. Many people I love do spend time here and give this apartment its soul.

The possibilities in Vienna are endless. One breathtaking museum next to the other. Readings, lectures, university life, (vintage) bookstores and so much more. I do love the countryside but I enjoy this feeling of “everything is available most of the time” in the city. But I need some plants. I also don’t accept defeat. With my eye on the prize and being so fortunate to live here, I head down to the florist and come bounding back up the stairs with four little potted plants to set on my windowsill: basil, thyme, mint, and parsley. I don’t have the greenest thumb but I have to start somewhere. And this is here. A new chapter. In Vienna.

“Slowly at first, then all at once”— these Hemingway lines are just one of many literary quotes that I have fallen victim to over-utilization to the point of tedium. But that’s only because it has yet to be associated with the undertaking of routinely eating lunch at 11.30 am or 12:00 p.m. from Monday through Friday. I’m hard-pressed to find a more accurate way to describe the evolution of my weekday meal habits over the past few weeks. What is now one of my most passionate crusade: consuming a salad and soup at the cafeteria with my colleagues and looking forward to having dinner with my son in the evening.

Guided my ambivalence toward the endeavor known as “breakfast” I found myself compelled to skip it accelerate straight for lunch (intermittent fasting) a few hours later. Intermittent fasting feels good to me and I love to do it. When I first sat down again under the glare of super early-morning light in my kitchen I contemplated joining my son having at least for a bowl of cereal because I knew that satiety will await later. But I could not. That early, my digestive system is just on a strike and wishes to sleep a bit longer I guess.

I am a Certified Holistic Nutritionist and before I proselytize further, I must state for the record that I do not recommend skipping breakfast and eating lunch as your first meal of the day if you loooooooveeeeeee breakfast or if you feel like you need it. Some people actually do. I would never dream of convincing you to forgo the sweet pleasure of your daily warm oatmeal or Friday eggs. However, if you, like me, are ambivalent about breakfast but ardently enjoy grilled cheeses, spaghetti with meat sauce, hearty salads, lentil soup, sourdough pretzels, french toast, dinner, snack time, or brunch, then this article has your name written all over it in balsamic vinaigrette. Its benefits are plentiful, but allow me to enumerate some of the most notable benefits to skip breakfast and have an early lunch at 11.30 am instead.

My benefits of an early lunch and skipping breakfast:

I will be hungry but will have given my organs a chance to rest since I did not have eaten anything since dinner last evening. Usually, in my case, this is around 6:00 pm.

I avoid the lunch rush. While the hoards of sweet but foolish innocents cram themselves in line at “normal” lunchtime, I will be in and out of whatever eatery I choose to patron in two shakes of tzatziki. Unless I bring my lunch, in which case, I will be eating even quicker.

I have the opportunity to ingest one of my favorite meals of the day with renewed vigor and enthusiasm, not only because I will be hungrier and therefore equipped to eat more than I usually would for lunch, but also because I will have yet to hit the inevitable midday slump that occurs with regularity at around 1 p.m and riddles any concurrent meal with a sense of sluggishness.

I can get away with eating stuff like eggs and bacon on a bagel without feeling like I am trespassing on Saturday’s territory. Or order 6,000 chicken fajitas just because.

Like I said, I only dabbled in the late morning weekday brunch intermittently, but eventually, it morphed into something I pursued with jubilant deliberateness because of all the reasons listed above. I picked up recruits along the way, too; colleagues who were willing–nay, eager–to join me in my recalibration. Or those who have no choice. I very much advocate for converting others as it’s never easy being ahead of your time–in this case literally–and when it comes to eating roasted cauliflower or broccoli at strange hours of the day, the more the merrier!

Occasionally I will message a regular weekday brunch companion at 11:30 a.m. to see if they’re almost ready to venture forth, and they’ll sheepishly tell me they happened to have eaten breakfast that morning and won’t be hungry until later. At first, it might feel like a particularly piercing betrayal, but after a few disappointments I started to understand: This path isn’t for everyone. It is, in every sense of the word, a calling.