It’s a sign!

Oh, trust me, I could have put a picture of ‘the bum’ here, but I thought I should perhaps stick to something slightly more conventional. I’ll use the picture of David’s bottom at some point. It’s too good not to… Christine – you know what I’m talking about!

Here’s the next instalment of my story. An explanation, of sorts. How I ended up in Scotland, of all places. And although all of this makes perfect sense to me, I do understand that it may sound odd to most other people.

Yesterday, in ‘Choices’, I left you hanging in the ladies’ toilet. Yes, the very spot where I had my epiphany. My moment of clarity. Not the most scenic of views, I kid you not, but when it comes to turning points in life, let’s just say, I’ve learned the hard way that we cannot always choose where and when wisdom and insight hit us. For me, it’ll forever be on the lavy. Facing a dying pot plant. Great!

Here’s the thing. Once you have your moment of ‘something’s got to be done’, you’re not exactly any wiser. I’ll take you back to the toilet. Here I am, and I now know that I’ve got to do something or I’ll be miserable for the rest of my life which is not a preferred outcome. So I start thinking. Grumbling. Ruminating. What, oh what could I do? Where, oh where should I go?

True to form, I start off completely on the wrong piste. I’ve spent most of my life perfecting my French and Italian, so I guess, it’s rather natural to believe that my future may lie there. In France or Italy. In early 2000, I’m more inclined to give Italy a try. I have a deep, deep love for all things Renaissance and have always felt right at home in Italy. Tuscany in particular. Also, I have an extremely deep love for Italian food. My stomach feels very much so at ease on the peninsula.

I do, what I consider to be the right thing. Since I’m working at the Romance Institute of Frankfurt University, I can go on study leave. Paid study leave. So in Spring 2000, I go to Florence for a month. Officially, to perfect my Italian. To look at art and architecture. And, last but definitely not least in my understanding, to eat, eat, eat. And have the occasional glass of Chianti.

All goes well. I live in a beautiful appartment right behind the Palazzo Vecchio, which means I pass David at least twice every day. This brightens my mood tremendously. Let me just say this much: a lot of things are very, very wrong when it comes to this particular sculpture, but in my opinion, all is forgiven, once you see the bum. Oh, what a bottomottomus! In my photo album, I have plenty of pictures of this sculpture. The copy situated in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, the bronze version on the Piazzale Michelangelo and of course the original in the Galleria dell’Accademia. Not many of my photographs show the entirety of the sculpture. Most of them – and I’m not ashamed to admit this – are detailed images of David’s posterior. Ya, I am indeed that shallow.

Anyway, I digress. So I’m in Florence in early 2000, thinking, hey, I could live here, couldn’t I?

My new plan looks like this: Return to Germany and start immediate preparations to leave the country once and for all, in order to settle in Italy. Preferably Florence. Doesn’t have to be quite so close to the sculpture of David, at least not if I’m planning on getting any work done, but hey ho, the city is beautiful, so why not make it my home.

Sounds good. Nobody is too surprised.

Then, things happen. Here’s the first thing. Perhaps the most important one. I turn 30. No, this is not the important thing but what happens next. I start writing in English. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I’ve always liked English. I’ve always written. Another bit of useful information: I’ve always known, that my mother tongue, German, would not be the language I write in creatively. It didn’t feel right.

So here’s me, in April 2000, planning on moving to Italy, and suddenly I start writing stories in English. Hm. This confuses me greatly. But I’m a stubborn sort of person. I keep thinking Italy, Italy, Italy. Let’s ignore the fact that I’m writing page after page in English. This is just a blip. It’ll pass. Go away. My dream is Italy. Pasta, pizza, gelato. Right?

Gosh. I knew once I started talking about ‘the bum’ I’d not get much further. I had hoped to take you all the way to Scotland today, but I guess, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, when – hopefully – I can shift my attention away from said behind and move the story on.

Happy Sunday to you all and I’ll see you here tomorrow, if you wish!