Why we should never grow up

XVII

“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, 

you cease for ever to be able to do it.”

J.M.Barrie: "Peter Pan"

***

When I was about nine years old, I promised myself that I would never grow up. I decided to have short hair like a boy and whenever I could, my brother and I would dive into the world of make-believe.

‘Hook, you’ll never defeat Peter Pan!’

‘Watch out little boy! Tonight I’ll catch you and have you jump off the plank!’

 ‘Haha, you make me laugh! I’ll fly away beforehand!’

We had a swing in our back garden, but it wasn't an ordinary swing. I strongly believed that, if I swung really fast and jumped when I reached the highest point, I would be catapulted into the air and could defy gravity. At that time, flying like Peter Pan was my ultimate goal. And through my imagination, everything was possible.

Even though I have given up waiting for the boy who would never grow up to knock on my window at night (maybe he just didn’t know my tiny village), I have refused to believe in leaving childhood behind for good. OK, perhaps there was a short period in my life where I pretended to be an adult. Adolescence is such a creepy time. Your body changes - the hormones are all over the place - you try to become more independent AND think for yourself at the same time. I can see no reason why teenagers wouldn't go absolutely mental.

When time and age put everything back in order, I suddenly realised that I was just about to graduate from school and enter university. Oh dear. Was this where the fun was going to end? As shocking as it sounded at the beginning, being a student sometimes actually felt like an extension of childhood. It gave me more freedom than I'd ever had at school and simply was a lavish celebration of youth.

It felt like being one of the Lost Boys and Girls: I lived in a flat away from my parents and was therefore in charge of everything without my parents interfering. I could party as often and as long as I wanted wherever I wanted to; I could choose the people I wanted to hang around with because they had similar interests and study the subjects I enjoyed. Life was a playground, a Neverland with the bonus of getting to do grown-up things (ooooh!) I’m not referring to Michael Jackson’s Neverland here, by the way. Just to be clear.

And then, my personal Neverland collapsed in itself. It virtually imploded. Captain Hook had finally caught me, tied me up and sent me wandering over the plank, and I hadn’t even realised until then.

‘Got ya!’ Hook shouted and laughed his evil, hysterical laugh.

‘What do you mean?’ I replied, baffled. I tried to get rid of the rope around my hands, but it was way too tight.

‘I tell you what it means’, Hook smirked. ‘You are going to jump into the sea right in front of you. Send my love to the crocodile!’ I could hear the pirates chuckling in the background.

There was only one chance to get out of this situation.  I just had to get this one good thought into my head and fly away. Easy-peasy. You’d think.

I swear to you, I’ve never tried that hard. What was the problem? Why were there so many doubts in my head? What had happened?

One of Hook’s stooges pushed me so that I moved closer to the edge of the plank. It was getting serious now.

‘Well, you’re not so clever now, Pan, are you?’ Hook shouted. ‘You’ve grown up now, haven’t you? Can’t fly away any more?’

Only then, I saw my reflection in the water beneath me. My face appeared to me droopy and sad, desperate and bored – I looked like one of those grown-ups I had feared to become when I had been a kid.

No, it can’t be true, I told myself. There must be a way out of it. I had come off my plan a little bit but surely, this didn’t mean I was completely lost and bound to die!? Even worse - the pirates started to shout: ‘Jump! Jump! Jump!’

Just when I thought there was no hope left, I heard a sound: it was as if thousand tiny bells were ringing. Astonished, I searched for the cause and there, at the end of the plank, I saw it: a wee pretty fairy was gaping over the edge, winking at me and waving.

And then I had a r-r-revelation which made the ‘r’ roll smoothly over my tongue: I was able to see the fairies which meant that I had not lost my imagination which meant that I could still choose if I wanted to grow up or not. A smile crept across my lips and spread all over my face, wiping out the wrinkles of boredom, despair and sadness.

Quickly, I turned around to face Hook. His confident smirk slowly turned into a frown.

‘Why are you grinning like that?’ he barked.

‘I’ll see you on the other side!’ I laughed and made one step backwards. The pirates’ eyes seemed to come out of their holes when I fell off the plank.

Only for a second, though, because my good thought kept me floating safely in the air: one moment, I was hovering over the hungry crocodile’s open jaws; the next, I cut the rope, which tied my hands, with the animal’s sharp teeth; and then, all of a sudden, I was up over the boat, circling the dumbstruck pirates and cawing proudly.

Pan was not dead!

***

I have finally found a way of staying young at heart. Working for a publisher of children’s and young adult’s books for the past few months has been a real eye-opener. Making sure that talented authors spur young people’s imagination with their vivid and colourful tales is what I’ve always been looking for in a job. Inspiration is floating around in the office and I don't feel like the only enthusiast anymore. Also, I am finally writing my own stories again which makes my heart burst with joy.

I'm proud to say that there’s still a child inside me and I hope you can say the same about yourself. We should all try and prevent the sickness called “How-to-become-the-perfect-adult” from infesting us. Let it not kill everything in you that is innocent, fun and curious, or in other words, childish.

So, laugh and enjoy your life.

Have a good thought (maybe about the upcoming Christmas?)

Spread your arms and fly.

And send my love to the crocodile!

Let's jump to conclusions!

XVI

And now I know how Joan of Arc felt.

Now I know how Joan of Arc felt.

As the flames rose to her Roman nose

And her hearing aid started to melt.

Bigmouth Strikes Again, The Smiths

In the winter of 2013, when I was working at the call centre, I used to wake up for early shifts at 6 a.m. It was pitch-black outside and I rushed into my clothes, uncomfortable and freezing, then brushed my teeth in the cold bathroom, whilst avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. I must have looked terrible and I felt even worse.

Before I left the house, I forced down some warm porridge – my only refuge after having dragged myself out of bed. The SAD light was on and fired its 10,000 LUX into my creased face. It felt weird, looking out of the window into the dark morning whilst having my personal sunrise in a tiny kitchen. Wasn't it depressing that the sun would not yet be above the horizon when I entered my work place and would be down again when I left it at 4.30 p.m.?

On my way to work I tried to think of something that could distract me from the miserable weather and the thought of having to answer phone calls from 7.30 a.m. I usually listened to The Smiths to make me feel better, which is somehow quite contradictory as their lyrics are not well known for being overly optimistic. And yet – as I merged into the songs, becoming Bigmouth and feeling the Thorn In My Side (even though I am a girl), trying not to get hit by the next Double-decker bus, a warm feeling emerged.

The Smiths promised me something bigger. I had definitely not come to London for a shitty-paid job, a midget flat (and beg-bug-infested room, as it turned out later) and for a life without sunshine and friends. I realized then what I had come for. Deep down inside me I felt the hope of success rising which the city apparently had to offer. These moments weren't so much about the question when my break-through would happen, but about the certainty that it would eventually happen. I guess the thought kept me going and spurred me on to apply for better jobs.

This is, of course, all very nice and thanks to Morrissey and Johnny Marr for being such great musicians, but I would be lying if I said this was all it took to get me through the first half year. I am dead certain I wouldn't have made it that far without my best friend. There were times when I missed home so much I wanted to leave this bloody city and get on the next plane to Austria (or anywhere, the leaving part was the important bit). I am glad Dan put so much effort into keeping me positive as he was the one who initially dragged me to his island. I don’t know where he gained the strength to be my psychotherapist at a time when life wasn't easy for him either but I am so proud of us for having stayed.

Like in any good story, the gloomy winter finally came to an end and suddenly, everything changed dramatically. London turned from Jack-the-Ripper-Town into a bigger version of Vienna, in short, a Happy Place, with lots of things to do and see. We were now able to meet people, to actually make friends and enjoy ourselves.

Cycling to work saved me the money I could spend on cultural events, going out, discovering England and flying to Austria. Moving to a new place helped, too. Long, desperate nights of scratching myself bloody and being convinced that I had gone nuts were in the past and I enjoyed my first comfortable sleep in seven months, without my insectoid nightmare.

The second half of my year abroad has, surprisingly, been one of regular and unexpected good news. I decided to hand in my notice at the call centre as I was offered work experience at Penguin, a publishing company I had admired for a long time. The main reason I got this internship is that I didn't keep my mouth shut, like I had done too often in my life. What I've learned is: if you want something, just talk to people, ask them for help and don't think you're getting on someone's nerves. If you need some inspiration, watch the great Amanda Palmer on TED: http://www.ted.com/talks/amanda_palmer_the_art_of_asking.

My risky choice of going back into unemployment turned out to be the right one as the internship opened other doors for me and got me in touch with some great people. As if all of this hadn't been enough, I was suddenly offered a scholarship for a Masters at UCL, a world-renowned university. This is perhaps the best thing that could have happened as it will finally challenge my brain once again, after two years of mental stagnation.

Sometimes it’s hard to take it all in: Within a year I have changed from a frozen, moody and lonely call girl without any directions into a much happier and successful woman with new friends and goals to hold on to. Even though I know that life usually provides a down-period after an up-period, and even though there will be dark days of despair or loneliness in the future when everything turns from gold into shit, it will now be a lot easier to accept this fact and get on with it. There's new and old friends beside me who I trust to help out in moments like these.

I've never grown up quicker than in the last twelve months and I would have never made any of these formative experiences had I not spread my wings and jumped out of my comfortable nest. Thank you, London, for teaching me this intense, partly horrifying, but overall amazing lesson. And thank you, Dan, for giving me that final push that made me fly.

D'ye spaek Scots?

XV

''Lay the proud usurpers low! 

Tyrants fall in every foe! 

Liberty's in every blow! 

Let us do, or die!''

Robert Burns

Scotland. A country that is a complete mystery to me. Having heard so much about its defiant people, its savage-like traditional food, its highlands and Lochs, I wonder which of the prejudices are actually true. At any rate, the Scottish accent with its peculiar, yet absolutely gorgeous sound shifts and the alveolar trrrill of the consonant 'r' is a charming distraction from the harsh London and internationally connoted English dialects. In my head, I've always thought of Scottish English compared to 'Queen's English' as Swiss German compared to Standard German. I wonder if its mountains will also remind me of a faint version of the Alps.

I haven't been more excited about travelling in a long time. It's a fast train from King's Cross up to Edinburgh and the flat English landscape is passing by in a flash. It's just past eight a.m.; our eyes are sticky and narrow and my dreams have been wild and have rendered me weary, as if I had been in a battle. The Scots have been fighting the English usurpers for hundreds of years and have now, through the referendum on Scottish independence, which will be held in September, almost achieved their freedom. Wallace would have been proud.

Prison or Scottish Parliament? You decide!

Wait a sec. Freedom from what exactly? Does the Queen still force the Scots to deliver their economical output to England? Yes, but for a greater good; Scotland's biggest natural resource is oil which is undeniably a lovely contribution to the United Kingdom's treasury. One must, however, not forget that unemployment in the north of the UK is relatively high which means that in the case of Scotland's independence the flood of benefits for Scottish citizens would be put to a stop. I wonder whether it's worth the risk? Scotland has already got quite an autonomous government anyway. Is the grudge they hold against the Southerners that strong indeed? What are they trying to prove?

One of the many supporters of Scottish independence

I've recently learned that Scottish universities are free for everyone (that is, Scottish and European students) which is, in fact, quite an achievement. Why, then, have they excluded English students from this regulation? Something doesn't seem right, but what can you do? I presume that most Scots are really nice people, but we'll see. And at least I'm not English... 

***

Loch Harport (Isle of Skye)

In hindsight, it did feel like coming home, at least when wandering through the dense woodlands. Carpet-like light green moss engulfs the ancient stone walls and protects the thick yet fragile roots of oak trees. Green heathers and grasslands full of familiar flowers are ideal grazing places for cattle and sheep. The Lochs might be a bit colder than most of Austria's lakes but they are equally beautiful. And then there is the mountain range, or highlands, which covers a vast part of Scotland and keeps this northern part of the British island exceptionally wet in summer and snowed-in in winter. Temperatures in London are nothing special in summer: they usually range from 15-25 degrees Celsius; however, the city seemed tropical compared to what we experienced in the west of Scotland.

A river of whisky

We realized that the best time to visit the Isle of Skye is actually May, but never mind. The rain didn't bother us that much; and the famous Tallisker distillery even depends on the frequent rain fall it as they only use spring water for their Whisky production. I have to admit that I've never been a huge fan of the golden, smoky drink (apart from when mixed with coke) but I was dumbstruck by the complicated process it takes to make qualitatively excellent Whisky.

The coastline, with its steep cliffs and blinding green slopes, seems to go on forever but somehow every corner looks different. And when the grumpy, greyish clouds open up for a rather strong ray of sunshine and the everlasting wind drags you closer to the edge of the extremely narrow road you know that you will return to this country in the near future.

The Austrians at the Highland Games

What can I say about the Scots and their culture? I wish I had had more contact with the locals, apart from the humorous pub staff, ginger-haired conductors and the friendly people at the tourist office. I recommend renting a wooden cabin in a rural region – you’ll feel like a Hobbit in the Shire, surrounded by gentle green hills, crystal-clear streams, tiny rabbits and baaing sheep. 

We also learned that a person playing a bagpipe is never far from wherever you are. And if you want the full experience of Scottish traditions you should not miss the Highland Games. Watch the muscly Hamish throw the caber, listen to marching bagpipe and drum bands, enjoy a lovely Angus beef burger with a pint of beer and sign up for the Scottish Independence campaign. (Or not.) 

Scottish breakfast, before

Scottish Breakfast, after

Yes, I’ve indulged in Scottish food for four days and have now been forced to go on a diet. The sugary shortbread was way too crumbly and the deliciously fat juices of haggis and black pudding have occupied the hardest stomachs of meat eaters. Not even baked beans are a relief for this kind of indigestion. 

Edinburgh, and please pronounce it Edinbura!

It’s useful to rent a car to see all the amazing places but make sure you balance the long drives with walks or runs (this also helps with the aforementioned stomach problem). Loch Ness is, of course, overrated but why would they not use the old tale of Nessie to attract families with kids to visit the great Nessieland? The story was a stroke of genius, in my opinion, a bit like The Sound of Music in Salzburg. They almost tricked me into buying one of those cute little Nessie cuddly toys. Bear in mind that Scotland offers not only beautiful landscapes but also great historical places such as the old city of Edinburgh, the battlefield of Stirling and countless castles throughout the country. The choice is yours!

In a nutshell, it is definitely worth walking 500 miles just to be in this fantastic natural reproduction of Tolkien’s Middle Earth; you don’t have to be a whisky fan nor like Mel Gibson in order to fall in love with this place. It is enough to suck in the beautiful scenery, breath in the fresh air and order a full Scottish breakfast. All there is left to say now is: A’ll be reit back!

Poppies

XIV

"Ich nahm mir vor, das Rapsfeld mit den Mohnblumen zu fotografieren, bevor ich wieder nach London aufbrach. Während das intensive Neongelb mit seinem ebenso durchdringenden Aroma schon seit zwei Monaten verblüht war, sprossen nun überall zarte rote Blumen hervor. Ich erinnerte mich an das Mädchen, das vor langer Zeit durch das Feld gestürmt war und sich Mohn ins Haar gesteckt hatte."

***

Juni war immer schon mein Lieblingsmonat gewesen – was vor allem an den Gerüchen, die in der Luft umherschwirren und den durchaus angenehmen Attributen wie dem makellos blauen Himmel lag. Schwüle Tage sind erfüllt mit erdrückend-reifenden Weizenfeldern, zart duftender Pfingstrose und Liguster, beruhigender Lindenblüte und süßlicher Akazie; dem leicht modernden Mief von Seewasser und langsam austrocknendem Gras; als Krönung des Tages wandert der höhlenmenschliche Rauch von brutzelndem Fleisch in unsere Nasenhöhlen, den wir fortschrittlichen homo sapiens sapiens beinahe zwanghaft reproduzieren, um uns doch noch ein Stückchen Wildnis zu erhalten.

Warme Sonnenstrahlen legen sich auf die Haut, die man mit einer wohlriechenden Sonnenlotion einreibt – was einen schlagartig in den Süden versetzt. Unmenschlich süßer Saft tropft aus abgebissenen Erdbeeren und Kirschen auf mein T-Shirt. Meine Füße dürfen wieder Luft schnappen und die trockene Härte der Erde fühlen. Der Wind bringt weitere Aromen von unbekannter Herkunft, deren Komplexität unser Gehirn gar nicht verarbeiten kann. Gegen Abend erdrückt uns plötzlich eine Masse an heißer Luft, die uns den Schweiß aus den Poren treibt und unweigerlich gen Himmel blicken lässt. Ein Grollen bestätigt uns das herannahende Gewitter, das mit einer furchterregenden Stille aufwartet, bevor es den erlösenden Schwall entlässt und wir die vermeintlich gesäuberte, doch regenbehaftete weinende Luft in uns aufsaugen dürfen.

Diese Erinnerungen kommen in mir hoch, als ich aus dem Flugzeug steige. Ich lasse mich nur zu gerne einlullen in diesen besoffenen Schleier aus Gerüchen; kann nicht widerstehen, als sie mich bezirzen und umgarnen; viel mehr noch will ich in ihnen ertränkt werden.

Wie der Mohn, der bald seine hauchdünnen Blüten verlieren wird, ist auch der Juni nur von kurzer Dauer, und mit ihm der Sommer, welcher unvermeidlich sterben muss. Mein Besuch ist von derselben Natur – ich öffne einen Sack mit vertrauten Gerüchen und Stimmen aus der Vergangenheit und bevor ich vollends darin versinken kann, wird mir der Sack weggeschnappt und fest verschlossen.

Ich höre, wie die Stimmen lachen und sich am Leben erfreuen und obwohl ich während meines Besuchs von Freunden und Familie vollständig integriert werde rutscht der Gedanke sie zu verlassen wie ein Stein in meinen Magen. Es ist, als ob ich eine neue Identität angenommen hätte; als ob ich plötzlich ein Doppelleben führte. Was hat mich wann denn innerlich so zerrissen? London ist mir mit ungeahnter Intensität ans Herz gewachsen; doch berühren meine Füße österreichischen Boden, will ich erneut ein Teil davon sein. Ich habe nie verstanden, wie manche Menschen zwei oder mehrere Heimaten haben können (wobei das Wort Heimat ja eigentlich singular ist). Nun habe ich für mich selbst den Beweis erbracht, dass es eigentlich nichts mit dem Grund und Boden zu tun hat, auf dem man wandert. Es geht viel mehr um die uns umgebenden Menschen, um Lebensumstände und um Erinnerungen, die wir gemacht haben und machen werden: Deshalb kontrastiert das Konzept der alten Heimat, in welcher langjährige gute Freunde, vertraute Orte, Gerüche und längst vergessene Gedanken auf mich warten, so krass mit dem Konzept der neuen Heimat. Auch dort möchte ich meine neuen Freunde und die Großstadt mit den unendlichen Möglichkeiten um keinen Preis missen. 

Auch wenn es nun so klingt, als wäre diese Zerrissenheit eine erdrückende Bürde, die mich irgendwann in die Knie zwingen wird, empfinde ich es doch als unendliches Privileg, das Beste aus beiden Säcken wählen zu dürfen.

***

Nebenbei verdient noch ein anderer erheitender Aspekt Erwähnung. Im Ausland zu leben bedeutet auch, in die Rolle des Wolfs im Schafpelz schlüpfen zu können. Es ist mir nämlich ein besonderer Spaß, die alte Heimat bei einem Besuch als Außenstehende zu analysieren. Ich fühle mich beinahe wie eine Antropologin auf Feldstudie, welche die Einheimischen und ihre Gebräuche erforscht. Ich ertappte mich ständig dabei, wie ich Vergleiche anstellte und Dinge hinterfragte, die mir zuvor normal erschienen.

Dieses Mal fiel mir vor allem auf, dass sich viele meiner Freunde inzwischen ins Arbeitsleben eingefügt haben. Diese Entwicklung kam ja nicht gerade überraschend. Wir sind älter geworden, haben die studentenhafte Sorgenlosigkeit abgestreift und müssen alle früh raus zur Arbeit. Wenn hier auch ein bisschen Sentimentalität mitschwingt, denke ich, dass uns der Einzug der realen Welt gut getan hat. Die hart arbeitende Generation unserer Eltern ermöglichte es uns, die Kindheit durch das Studium zu verlängern. So sind wir zwar noch am Anfang unserer Karrieren, dafür haben wir aber umso mehr vor: wir wollen nicht nur einen sicheren, sondern vor allem einen erfüllten Job; wir wollen die Welt verändern und einflussreich sein. 

Möge uns unser aufgeblasenes Ego nicht im Wege stehen, wenn wir Enttäuschungen erleben; mögen wir durch Fehler und Verluste noch viel höher aufsteigen und lernen, dass alle anderen vor den gleichen Schwierigkeiten stehen – egal welchen Euphemismus Facebook an den Tag legt.