Keeping the focus on food that makes me happy

It's hard to believe that it's been just over two years since I heard that bombshell news - 'You have celiac disease' - a diagnosis that left me both elated that there was an answer to my persistent health problems and gutted at how my food-loving life would have to change. Two years felt like the magic bullet back then, the estimated time for a gut long-ravaged by unknown celiac to heal itself. Now that I'm here, I feel like I'm still wading in uncertain waters rather than crossing some imaginary finish line of recovery.

In all fairness, I am leaps and bounds better than I was then, no longer needing to receive my nutrition intravenously or requiring 12 hours of sleep a night. But my journey to better health is just that - a journey.

The realization in the last few years that my disease was not one with just one easy solution - 'eat gluten-free' - but that wellness is more evolving and fluctuating has been a helpful one in dealing with the frustrations of living with celiac. Often, I must keep my intake of inflammatories in check, like coffee, alcohol and sugar, as overdoing it sends my body and mind into a complete downward spiral. And I don't mean daily-hangovers-kind-of-overdoing, simply anything more than a couple times of week. This probably holds true for most people as well, but my autoimmune-ravaged body is pretty sensitive to anything that doesn't directly contribute to its strength.

Then there are the non-physical frustrations. Knowing I could never eat 100% at home - how would I travel? how would I eat out with friends? - means accepting that there is always the possibility of being glutened, even by the kindest of friends and restaurant workers who believe they have taken every precaution. And when I do get glutened, as I was back in August, there are emotional, as well as the physical fallouts: digestive issues, exhaustion, foggy brain, a bipolar-like roller coaster of emotions. It's infuriating to feel like something as simple as eating requires this constant tiptoeing around landmines, but such is the life of a celiac.

Sometimes wish I could walk around with this emblazoned on a t-shirt because Berlin. Doesn't. Get it.
(infographic via glutenfree.com)

Aside from accepting this ebb and flow of feeling good (which I'm not gonna lie, is still a challenge), perhaps the greatest progress for me was made when I jumped into athletics for the first time in my life. Sure, I joined a gym at the behest of my doctor over a year ago, but it wasn't until I started training for roller derby that I really began to feel fulfilled, physically and emotionally. When I discovered that one of my leaguemates-to-be, the one I had watched at the first scrimmages I attended, mouth agape at her abilities, also had celiac, it gave me even more hope. While she is clearly a more natural athlete than I, it meant a lot to see someone who struggles with many of the same things succeed at such a physical endeavor and showed me the path I am on is the right one. I am not about to let this silly disease get the better of me.

Mia Missile, fellow celiac and total derby inspiration (photo by Preflash Gordon)

That said... the struggle still gets me down sometimes, leaving my psyche to feel as if it's barely treading water, threatening to slip under at any moment. Our week in Barcelona showed me how good it could be in another European city, from the vast eating options to the superb awareness about cross-contamination - things that are practically non-existent in Berlin. To add further insult to injury, Barcelona was the other city we considered when moving almost three years ago - and ironically we chose the one that is more difficult to navigate with celiac.

Returning from skating in the sunshine and indulging at not just one, but two incredible gluten-free bakeries, I slipped into a bit of a funk. The self-indulgent pity parties started again, pouting any time a great event showed up in my Facebook feed, only to realize that I'm better off staying home because I won't be able to enjoy anything there. The voice in my head that whines: WHY can't it be as good here for gluten-free as it is in Portland? Or even Barcelona? Well, life isn't always fair and there is only one way to go: Forward.

This is what gluten-free eating looks like in Barcelona - and I ate it ALL

Back at derby training after a league break and our Mediterranean holiday, I'm working to regain not only that physical strength I acquired thus far in my newbie class, but also the mental wellness that came with it. Chronic illness or not, we all have good days and bad days, I just need rise above pointing my finger only at my celiac on the bad days and letting it overshadow all the progress I have made.

Next up is my biennial endoscopy, the first since my recovery began, to ensure the damage has indeed repaired itself and I haven't gotten the lovely cancer that we celiacs are more prone to developing. With that, cutting back on the inflammatories (buh-bye, beloved coffee and alcohol), getting my ass back to the gym (so, so hard on top of my derby training schedule) and keeping my head clear of all those nagging negatives about living gluten-free in Berlin, I know I can keep moving forward in a way that is positive for my overall well-being. Ultimately, I have to listen to my body, something that I can thank celiac for teaching me to do.


I wrote specifically about my road to roller derby for the new online magazine Do It Well Co. Read it here and be sure to check out the rest of the great contributors to the issue!

Sigh. Celiac, it seems, is a constant dance with my well-being. I ease up on the reigns of food enjoyment - and I pay the consequences. I mean, we moved to Berlin in large part for the food! We got a taste of all the culinary greatness here, and then - boom! - I'm just supposed to give all that up? Am I just supposed to stay at home every evening with raw veggies, ignoring the sounds of summer - the satisfied slurp of an ice cream cone, the celebratory clink of wine glasses - on the street below us? Granted, with the arrival of summer weather and all the glorious food fests Berlin has to offer, my strict eat-bio-and-grain-free-at-home-only has seen me slip back into less vigilant eating practices. So much so, my body is pulling back on the reins.

Admittedly, I'm a little raw after a recent realization about food I'd eaten that it turned out was not gluten-free. As soon as I read the message from my friend Adam, that his more thorough inquisition turned up soy sauce as an ingredient in the meal I'd had twice in one week, my heart fell. All at once, I understood that my distended belly and foggy brain had not been a result of too much sugar, as I had thought (read: hoped). More importantly, it hit my eating-out confidence hard and I had a mini-breakdown right there in the park. I pouted and realized I'm better off boarding myself up inside and eating only home-cooked meals. What can I say? I still get really emotional about food.

As other celiacs can attest, even when being vigilant, eating out is a minefield. Like my glutenings from the last couple of weekend food fests made clear once again, too many people are unaware of what gluten really is and the serious implications it can have on someone like me. So why eat out at all? I mean, it's my food issue and why should I impart that on folks just trying to provide people with some good food? Believe me, I used to be one of those eye-rollers every time someone began the laundry-list Starbucks order or launched into a soliloquy of why said menu item must be altered to meet their lengthy requirements. No one realizes what a pain in the ass I am, culinarily-speaking, more than me.

But this all begs the question: Is a food allergy sufferer just never supposed to eat out? And more importantly, how is travel possible? It's one thing to inflict one's dietary needs on a well-meaning chef when managing at home is often the better, and safer, answer, but what if that isn't an option? Will people in food service ever truly understand the importance of knowing all their ingredients and their allergy ramifications? Don't even get me started on the emotional fallout around celebrations and time out with friends.

"There are few things more isolating and disheartening than being unable to freely join with loved ones to celebrate significant times in life." 

- Jenni Hulet (The Urban Poser) from My Paleo Patisserie, An Artisan Approach to Grain Free Baking

I don't mean to rant, but I thought that after 10 months of healing from my initial diagnosis and the start of living a gluten-free life, I wouldn't still be dealing with such lows where my health is concerned. All these frustrations have been bouncing around in my foggy brain, yet I never seem to have the clarity to come to terms with it 100%. Speaking with a friend one day about her husband's diabetes and its constant need for surveillance, it hit me that celiac was much the same, at least where recovery is concerned. Not even the middle of an estimated 2-year recovery time, I must still pay close attention to what my body is telling me each time I put food into it. Some days I might feel strong enough for grains or a glass of wine, others might require upping the gelatin and coconut to soothe my ailing gut. It's rather frustrating to feel like there isn't a clear-cut answer for good health and well-being every day, but I've spent much of my life not listening to what my body really needs and now we're playing catch-up from years of miscommunication.

In a very lucky turn of events, the visit this last weekend from my Wiesbaden-based friend Christie, a fellow foodie who's body also takes serious issue with gluten, meant eating out was a necessary indulgence, yet a carefully thought-out affair. After two and a half days of what was essentially a gluten-free food tour of Berlin, I managed to remain free from the clutches of usually inevitable, albeit unintentional glutening. From street food to the Michelin-starred Tim Raue (more on that later, to be sure) to the gluten- and grain-free paradise that is Sauvage, I ended the weekend rather tired, but with my belly in mostly good spirits. For all the times I am glutened and left feeling vulnerable and weak - physically and emotionally - there are shining beacons of light on the Berlin food landscape that give me hope for eating out. This weekend was definitely one of those.

And so I proceed with more caution, but also more optimism as we dive into this currently grey, rainy season that Berlin calls summer. I will stick mostly to places I know are safe, but I will also feed myself healing, nutritious food at home so I am more fortified to go out into the big world of uncertain ingredients. As I refine my diet, I hope to bring you more the successful recipes here soon!

Eating at home: Tom Kha Gai with plantain chips... and a spinach quiche with bacon & cassava flour crust

Greens, greens, and more greens: My new eating mantra

In all my life, I've never really examined my eating habits until now. I scoffed at dieters, rolled my eyes at health-food nuts and sent a virtual stink-eye out to everyone who went gluten-free because it was the cool thing to do (seemingly discrediting the strict eating my disease required). Years of anemia didn't mean ingesting more iron-filled foods, it meant popping iron supplements and going on my way. Even after my celiac diagnosis, I was still in it for whatever satisfied my need to not feel deprived - gluten-free pizza, doughnuts, cakes, cookies. Food was about satisfying cravings, yet it's become something too often indulged in more for its enjoyment factor, its Instagramworthiness, than it's nutritional value. Hashtag-donuts, anyone?

All food porn aside, food luxuries are ones we should be able to enjoy. Yes, it's a first-world problem, this abundance of food choice, but one so inherently tied to our psyche and well-being. Your favorite restaurant, holiday cookies made every year with your mom, that weekend brunch spot where you know the menu by heart. Not to mention travel. How can one possibly immerse oneself in a new culture without also enjoying the local food? But the truth is, these things are more than just food - they are warm memories and fulfilment. Time spent with loved ones, or even on our own, relishing in something delicious and creating a new life experience. It's hard to separate that from eating purely as a means to refuel. So what happens when we these sentiments control what we eat more than what our bodies actually need?

This disconnect has been my struggle. I grew up begrudgingly swallowing rubbery green beans from a can solely to get to the dessert, a constant at the finish line that was dinner. Salad was eaten only to be drowned in ranch dressing. I'm hard-pressed to remember anything nutritious or savory that I have strong memories of, aside from weekly steak dinners at Black Angus, complete with fried zucchini (pretty much the only kind of veg I would eat proactively) and the ever-present, sugary Shirley Temple. Sweets were what my world revolved around. Sunny days at Baskin Robbins, that green party punch that I reveled in watching kids turn their noses up at the color only to try a sip and greedily pour themselves more, weekly pilgrimages to 7-11 to spend a disgusting chunk of allowance on all manner of candy bars, sugary popcorn and slurpees for weekend sleepovers spent watching movies and obsessing over our latest crushes. It was always about getting to that sweetness at the end of the meal, that sugar-binge at the end of the week.

Savory foods did join my regular eating-for-enjoyment routine, though this appreciation dawned much later than for most. I enjoyed my foray into adulthood cooking when we moved to Germany, where I had the time to dedicate to preparing delicious meals in the absence of great restaurants and learned fresh, from-scratch recipes where the oft-used American shortcut staples did not exist. I learned fresh green beans are crisp and delicious, not the overly-salted little pieces that used to squeak between my teeth as a child. I enjoyed it, I even got pretty good at it. Sure, I still baked and indulged in sweets regularly, but now I looked forward to Sunday dinners of meat braised for hours and spicy curries chock-full of fresh vegetables. Delicious food finally went beyond ice cream and cake.

These food priorities, government-endorsed food pyramids and hippie naturalists be damned, is why my world came crashing down when gluten became my greatest enemy. No pizza, burgers, pasta, waffles?! How would I survive? Never again, Burgermeister? No more Sunday brunches? Well, I did survive. I re-learned how to cook in a way that was safe for my autoimmune disease-ridden body, and I hardly felt deprived at all, all social situations aside. I thought I had my demons under control. But just as things were starting to get good again, just when I had a way to channel my love of good food and satisfy a frustrating food intolerance into something positive, my body shouted 'no' and raised the white flag. All those pre-diagnosis symptoms were back, this time, enemy unknown. Back to gasping for breath after coming up the stairs to our apartment, waking from 10 hours of sleep still exhausted and regularly struggling to pull basic information caught somewhere in the fogginess of my brain. Perhaps the most upsetting? The gut that would protrude to six-month-pregnant proportions in a matter of hours and the elasticated pants that were increasingly necessary. I realized there must be something more than the now-non-existent gluten that was bringing me down.

I spent countless days falling down the rabbit hole that is medical symptoms on the internet and making very interesting discoveries. The studies that suggest sugar is more addictive than crack. The fact that there's added sugar in my canned tomatoes. The belief many have that the gut controls so much about the body's health, and when it is out of whack, the whole body follows suit. So I decided to make some more drastic changes to the way I ate. First, I cut out all sugar, including most fruit, but also grains and starches as well. I began eating only organic in a quest for simpler, chemical-free food easier on my ravaged gut. I added things in like bone broth, gelatin and lots of coconut (oil, milk, dried) and cinnamon, that are also supposed to heal and help with inflammation. While I've taken a lot of notes from diets like GAPS and Autoimmune Paleo, I've always been cautious of anything described as a 'diet' while using it as a platform to sell something. When these sites hawking cookbooks and supplements gave way to incredible stories, like Dr. Terry Wahls, who essentially reversed her MS symptoms through her diet, I started to really listen. Besides, my journey wasn't about losing weight or jumping on a trendy eating bandwagon, it was about my health, at a basic functioning level.

The more I read about healing through food and how it can help symptoms of autoimmune conditions - from which both my husband and I suffer - it seemed to be a smart path to follow. For the second time in one year, I began a new food journey... In the first week or so, I had some major emotional crashes, sobbing uncontrollably and swearing if I ate roasted chicken and vegetables again, I'd scream. But just like cutting out gluten, cutting out refined sugar, all grains and most dairy (and coffee and alcohol) has been a learning curve, though not as scary and depriving as one might think. There have been some clear losers in the quest for good recipes (I've determined paleo pancakes just taste like a sweet omelette - ugh) and some surprising winners (cauliflower rice?! but I hate cauliflower! *mind blown*), but the good news is I'm finally getting the hang of cooking this way and more importantly, feeling better. The coffee and alcohol though, I miss those terribly. Well, and corn chips, if I'm honest.

I understand these are not great realizations, that most healthy adults eat a well-balanced diet and don't fall to pieces when they can't patronize their local ice cream shop or catch up with friends over a cup of coffee. But I am a product of all my years of unbalanced eating and over-indulgence, convinced decades of choosing enjoyment over nourishment has left me with a body that is finally fighting back and a mind that's trying desperately to catch up to what is good for me. My outlook is still uncertain as I spend all hours of the day either researching, shopping for or preparing all of our from-scratch meals and try not dwell on the prospect that eating out and travel feels even more impossible than it was before. My doctor seems to be searching for a more concrete answer, one with the word 'disease' attached that requires more rounds of invasive tests, but I'm not entirely convinced. I don't know if this 'diet' is the course I will stay on indefinitely or if I will ease up once my body heals, but I'm going with my gut, quite literally. For now, it's nourishment for the win (with enjoyment thrown in every now and then).

Grain-free, dairy-free, no-sugar-added apple cinnamon roll via Grazed and Enthused

As anxious as I've been for 2014 to be over - a hospital stint, a celiac diagnosis, cancelled vacations and money stress - see ya! - I'm embarrassed to admit 2015 has gotten off to a slow start for me. Call it perpetual jet lag, the persistent effects of accidental glutenings or just general malaise, but I've felt a bit like a recent university grad, excited yet overwhelmed by everything that lay before her. Don't count me defeated just yet, though.

The new year dawned for me back in the US, where I was basking not only in years-overdue family time and the ease of daily interactions in English, but in some eye-openingly delicious food. Be it the ubiquitous allergy-friendly menus, plethora of 100% gluten-free establishments or just the fact that I could find a safe-for-me version of just about everything in a standard grocery store, but I was in heaven. The Berliner eye-roll/huffy response to requesting special food preparation was replaced with the knowing Portlander smile and nod. The weight that lifted off my shoulders was immense and warmed my food-loving soul more than I ever though possible post-celiac diagnosis. But the easy road isn't what life is really about... is it?

So I returned to Berlin a bit perplexed and conflicted. For the first time in years, I felt a pull from the US again, and I wasn't sure what to make of it. Did I really want to go back to the States? Was I done living the expat life? Was I just letting all this past year's frustrations build up and taking it out on my adopted home? Sure, it would be nice to be able to walk in anywhere without rehearsing conversation possibilities in my head first and not having to plan outings carefully around when I can be home for something safe to eat. But are German's lack of culinary diversity/allergy understanding and my own ineptitude at foreign language enough to make me want to throw in the towel? After this last year, I admit it's tempting.

Portland Rite-Aid's (like CVS) gluten-free section: more options than just about any German grocery

When my intense jet lag finally let up enough for my husband and energetic dog to drag me all around the neighborhood, I realized what I had lost sight of. As much I let myself fall a little in love with Portland, my heart still belongs to Berlin. Berlin, with it's crazy-gorgeous old architecture, abundant trees and parks, clean streets, art and creativity everywhere. Even with the oppressive grey and rather gruff people, the latest El Bocho to go up and filling up bags of my favorite sweets are just a few of the things that still brighten my day, no matter how many days we've been without sun. Norwegians are consistently rated some of the happiest people on earth and they live in near-darkness for months. Clearly, their outlook is something worth practicing.

The answer doesn't lie in the crippling paradox of choice offered everywhere in the US, it's about the right things being offered. And right now, Berlin still feels right. The ease of European travel, the ease of walking everywhere, great health care (have I mentioned my €75 week-long hospital stay?), six weeks of vacation. Though I wouldn't complain about more quality gluten-free choices and some Talenti gelato in our grocery...

My morning coffee in Portland with this as my creamer *swoon*

And so I begin this year as so many others do: with resolutions of improvement. With many of my health issues answered, I am (slowly but surely) regaining my strength and focus, something that had been greatly holding me back before. First and foremost is the language. I know I'll never be one of those linguistics pros I so admire, but I can do better than I have been. I can study more, practice more, try harder. German is hard, but it's not impossible.

It's also time I stopped feeling sorry for my limited eating situation and dove headfirst into the kitchen again. One of the greatest things to come out of my years in Germany was discovering the time and passion for cooking. I went from not knowing how to cook basics like eggs or bacon to making meals my mother demands recipes for, hosting Thanksgiving dinners and baking treats that resulted in wide eyes and marriage proposals. If I can manage that, I know I can get to the same level without any gluten. Portland's amazing gluten-free bakeries and restaurants proved that to me (more on that next week!).

So while my love of the written word still remains strong, I will rebuild that slowly, out from under the foggy haze of a long-starved celiac brain. While I plan to post here a bit less, I hope to do so with more intent. I want to mull over my words more carefully, take the time to think about what I want to put out there and focus on the things that will make me whole again in real, everyday life. Food, which for a time became an uncertain enemy, is something I need to reclaim. And not just any food, great, amazing, mouth-watering soul-nourishing food. This is my challenge for the new year, for myself and hopefully, to share with others.

I was struck by the Martin Luther King Jr. quote making the rounds last week, the one that starts: "If you can't fly then run, if you can't run then walk...". The last few years, I was definitely crawling. While I might not be flying, or even running, anytime soon, moving forward is imperative. It might sound overly simplistic, but it's a message I could stand to be reminded of at this time in my life. I know I will still have bad days with this stupid disease, days where I get sick from accidentally ingesting gluten or where I break down in the grocery because I can't even find all the safe ingredients to make dinner, but I'm determined to meet this challenge head-on. As Dr. King also said: "The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy." Bring it, 2015.

Two new hair colors down - pink and then purple. This year is already off to an ambitious start!

Iron to be taken via infusion, the last resort for those who can't absorb it for themselves

Oh 2014, you've really been kicking my ass. This was supposed to be one of the best years of my life: moving to one of the greatest cities in the world, exploring amazing restaurants and creating a new life in an exciting new place. But instead, almost every aspect of our move was disastrous, not to mention the construction crew continually trying to extort all this money we didn't owe (we rent, by the way). Then there was the whole tax mix-up where we were left to live on a fraction of what we were used to for months while it got sorted out. Then, there's been my health. While my overall well-being has felt rather lacking for a while, it was this year that it really kicked me to the curb. It put on gloves and smacked me straight in the kisser. Repeatedly.

Where I last left off, publicly-speaking, was that after my stint in the hospital a few months ago, my health seemed to be improving and I appeared to be getting stronger. Gastritis was the answer and I was on medication to help this condition. Only, it seems when I finally got confident that I was well down the road to recovery, I unexpectedly got booted back to start. Do not pass 'Go'. Do not collect $200. I just steadily started to decline again into fatigue, constant hunger and a strange haze in my brain that made it hard to think clearly. All this despite my medication and twice-a-day iron supplements. When I got scarily close to being sick and passing out immediately after having a burger, a beer and my favorite ice-cream-cookie sandwich (gluten, gluten, and hmm, more gluten), I knew something was still seriously wrong. After another trip for tests with my regular doctor and a last ditch HIV-test on her part to explain my puzzling declining health - which was, unsurprisingly, negative - I was sent to see yet another specialist. In the waiting room, I remained skeptical. I had already been looked over by no less than five doctors since this all began and each one ticked their boxes of questions to ask, always ending with the same quizzical look and a head shake. No idea. If one more doctor should ask if I like meat again, as if I was some secret burgeoning vegetarian, I might just scream.

But as soon as we sat down in his office and started going over my symptoms, I saw that he thought differently than other doctors. Instead of merely going down a checklist, asking all the same questions I had already been asked a dozen times before, he started linking all my symptoms together to offer an explanation: the persistent anemia, the elevated liver levels, the continued fatigue and stomach distress. He thought I had celiac disease. I sort of nodded in understanding, but really, all I knew was that it was some 'wheat allergy'. I was rather surprised since I never noticed any correlation between feeling bad and consuming gluten before, but listened when he went over the signs of celiac and how it pointed to this conclusion. So I had my blood drawn and went home to wait for an answer.

In the meantime, I did research. As I started pouring over celiac websites, my jaw dropped: my symptoms were right on for the disease. Everything from the more tangible headaches, bloating, unexplained liver problems and anemia to the less concrete inability to concentrate, depression and fatigue. I knew in my gut, pun intended, that this is what I had. I had thought this was merely an eat-bread-and-get-a-tummy-ache thing, but my relief at finally finding the answer to all my health problems quickly dissipated as the reality of it set in: this was serious. The Celiac Disease Foundation defines it as "an autoimmune disorder that can occur in genetically predisposed people where the ingestion of gluten leads to damage in the small intestine," but it goes deeper than that. That damage it does to the small intestine? Yeah, that means your body can't absorb nutrients, which essentially means that no matter how much nutritious food a celiac consumes, if gluten is still in the mix, those nutrients just pass right through, leaving your body - and your mind - deprived of the necessary vitamins and minerals it needs to function. If this deprivation continues unchecked, it can lead to things like osteoporosis, cancer and even MS. Scary stuff. Way scarier than the prospect of never eating another doughnut.

Since the tests had already been done*, I also spent the week cutting out the gluten to see how I felt without it. I read all these accounts from people who swore that they immediately felt better after making the change, but it seems I was to feel worse before I started to improve. The second full day without gluten, my body reacted in a most unfavourable way, beating me down with food-poisoning-like symptoms. Apparently, when gluten breaks down in one's damaged digestive system, the resulting peptides enter the bloodstream and bind with receptors in the brain that mimic opiates like heroin and morphine, so when you take that abruptly out of your system... well, a drug withdrawal-like experience can be what you get. At least when I got the test results confirming I did in fact have celiac, I was at least thankful I already had a head start in de-glutening my life.

Being the food-lover that I am and realizing the extent to which this would affect my life, this diagnosis came as quite a blow. All those burgers I chowed down on, the weekend brunch spots we had yet to discover, my beloved Krispy Kreme I planned to consume every time I would visit the US, I would have to say farewell to, for good. I admit, I cried over this a lot while waiting for the test results, then had myself a big sob session once the diagnosis was confirmed. Retail therapy as means of distraction has also played a big part. It seems silly, I know. It's just food. Food that was making me terribly, unknowingly sick. Perhaps it's a sentiment of the privileged, but food is a luxury of choice, not to mention a powerful tie to memories. There's a huge emotionality behind it. Thanksgiving at Grandma's, Mom's Christmas cookies, your favorite cake on your birthday. Hungry? Feel like fill-in-the-blank-here? It used to be I could go out and get it. Now, if I'm out and I get hungry, I'd better damn well hope I remembered to stash a gluten-free bar or piece of fruit in my bag or I'm S.O.L. Friends invite you over or out for dinner? That's where that purse stash comes in. Again. It's a complete and total game-changer for what was our usual way of life.

While my heart is still heavy with its recent adieu to gluten, I'm trying to stay thankful that this disease is totally manageable. My focus for now is being kind to my body. Not wanting to risk any possible cross-contamination, eating out is off the table, so to speak, for the time being. Alcohol, coffee and milk are also on hiatus in an attempt to be as gentle and non-irritating on my digestion as possible. You see, once the gluten has been cut out, the body still needs another one-two years to get back to normal. Normal takes time for such a damaged system. So while my gut slowly repairs itself, I am still desperately in need of nutrition and am being hooked up to an IV once a week for iron infusions, since like even the most nutritious food, my iron pills remain mostly unabsorbed. It's been a real test to my aversion to needles, the first session resulting in me passed out cold within the first two minutes of starting the infusion. Thankfully, the second week I managed to stay conscious, with the nurse continually popping her head in with a worried expression, undoubtedly anxious to find me slumped over in the chair. Two weeks down, three more to go. As a good friend said to me, I am facing my fears head on and expect to be a pro with needles by the end of this. Perhaps this warrants another tattoo to celebrate...



So I am doing all I can to move forward. I'm reading (and translating) labels with a fine-tooth comb, researching, cooking three meals a day, searching for hard-to-find ingredients/GF products online. Needless to say, it's been exhausting on my already taxed system and I still have a bit of an uphill battle ahead. I still have much to learn and even more to understand about where gluten is still hiding in our home. I still have days where my mind seems unable to handle much more than zoning out to a television series and my body can't quite handle the trek to the grocery store. But I have good days too. Days when I realize one of my favorite meals to cook is naturally gluten-free or when I find a recipe for baked goods that has a plethora of comments about how it's just as good as 'the real thing'. I am so thankful for the online resources and community that have already been a lifesaver during this period of adjusting to living with celiac and all its required day-to-day changes.

My hope is that I can share some equally useful information that might help someone who has just been diagnosed feel not so alone, not to mention delicious recipes that are gluten-free - and restores a deep enjoyment of food without any inkling of deprivation. It is my new road, one that I know I will stumble on and perhaps take a wrong turn here and there, but one that I am committed to for the health and well-being of my body and mind. It will get better.



*Changing one's gluten intake before a celiac test can alter the results and provide a false negative. If you think you might have celiac disease, talk to your doctor about what you need to do to be tested.

I swore when I started my new blog last year, that I would never let it 'get away from me'. I viewed it as a job, kept an editorial calendar and enjoyed the constant pursuit of finding things to share here. I didn't want to become a fair-weather blogger who would just let weeks slip by without finding the inspiration to post. But as so often happens with life, it gets in the way. Not so much the I-fell-in-a-Game-of-Thrones-watching-hole-for-four-seasons kind of distraction, but more of the serious, life-threatening kind of getting in the way.

If you follow me on Instagram or know me personally, you may already know a bit about where I have been for the last few weeks, but I thought I'd take the time to fill you in here (assuming you wanted to know). Well, when what started as a seemingly routine bout of fever/flu stretched past the one week mark, the grown-up in me recognized that something more serious was going on and I had better see the doctor. Of course, the child in me would have preferred to just stay in bed and avoid all possible interactions with needles and tests, as I've had more than my fill in my lifetime. So after a plethora of questions and some physical examination, it was thought that I had a sinus infection and was sent home with all kinds of prescriptions to provide my pounding head some relief while we waited for the blood test results to rule out anything else. When I received the phone call first thing the next morning informing me to come directly to the doctor's office, my heart stopped. After a relatively short lifetime of emergency surgeries in foreign countries, persistent illnesses and oh yeah, that time I went temporarily blind, I knew luck was never on my side where my health was concerned. I had breakdown number one of this whole experience that morning, sobbing into my husband's shoulder, terrified of what they had to tell me and bracing myself for the worst.

What she ended up saying couldn't have stunned me more: I had half the amount of blood I was supposed to and was directed to go straight to the emergency room for a blood transfusion. I think I was so stunned, I didn't even get scared about it at first. I had been relatively tired, rather forgetful and somewhat down for quite awhile, but I had been dismissing it a result of my stress and lack of sleep. So we drove straight to the recommended hospital and since I was not losing blood in a means that messed up their floor, we waited, and waited, and waited... until I was finally whisked in, outfitted with a port for an IV and underwent more examinations and more of the same questions and perplexed looks at my responses, clearly baffled at my symptoms and where the hell all my blood went. With so much left unanswered, they admitted me to a more permanent spot in the hospital and set up a rigorous schedule of invasive tests over the next few days to find out what the problem was.

Between the constant taking of blood, the preparation and putting me under two days in a row to snake cameras through my system, only one meal in three days, it was no surprise that I kept going downhill in those first few days. Once they finally identified the cause of some of issues (namely gastritis, from which it appeared I'd been slowly bleeding out my stomach for possibly years), they could at long last start pumping me full of iron and give me the blood transfusion I had originally come for days before - not to mention being able to eat for the first time in days - my strength immediately started to improve. When the worst was over, it became absolute torture to stay in the hospital, waiting to make sure the transfusion took before they could start taking blood again to continue the tests. After insisting on random x-rays in the middle of the night and scaring me with proclamations that they would transfer me to another hospital at the start of the week (that was breakdown number two), I started to think I was going to be stuck there forever.

Once they determined the cause of my continued fevers - a viral infection likely contracted as a result of my weakened state - a doctor finally came to tell me that they would let me go home. Actually, she said they would let me go home the following day but after I immediately started to tear up (almost-breakdown number three), she was visibly taken aback by my emotion and then asked if I wanted to go home that day instead. It was all I could do to not scream 'of course I want to go home!'. It had been seven days, my longest hospital stay since birth (that's a whole other story...). Waiting to get my release papers and prescriptions written up later that afternoon felt like the longest hours of my life. When I walked out those doors, it was like being released from prison, endless freedom stretched out before me.

But complete freedom isn't mine just yet. Recovery - not just from the hospital procedures and the more recent flu-like symptoms, but from years of having this problem without knowing it - takes time. With only a few fevers in the days after returning from home, the virus I had seems to be leaving my body and my strength continues to return more with each day. I'm also improving in ways I hadn't even realized was connected any sort of ongoing illness: my brittle, paper-thin nails, which I attributed to our move to a much drier, colder climate than California, are now growing rampantly and are as strong as they used to be; my pants, which were are all falling off my hips, are getting a bit snugger again (ok, this one I'm not as thrilled with, but hey, I'll take health over skinniness any day). I still have days when getting up the three flights of stairs to our apartment requires a stop or two, but I have others where I manage to walk around a little bit with my husband and not feel weak from exertion. It's hard to feel so helpless, and as someone who absolutely hates being forced to still still and relax, but hates getting stuck in the hospital even more, it's clear that my focus needs to be solely on improving my health. The rest can wait.

It is with a rather heavy heart that I admit this pause, this little hiccup of life and setback in my health, is going to last a little bit longer. If history is any indication, my desire to jump right back into things is often misguided and overly ambitious. From the time in grade school when I was first diagnosed with asthma and suffered from boderline pneumonia for weeks, only to return to school, overexert myself, and wind up right back in bed, to my impatience to just be back at work after foot surgery only to fall down a flight of stairs with my crutches while visiting, I somehow never learned my lesson. Well, after 34 years, I am old enough to know better. Perhaps overly cautious, that week of being stuck in one room, constantly poked and prodded, is still fresh enough in my memory to convince me to take it easy. So it is time to focus on getting my strength up, returning to a more self-sustainable place with day-to-day activities (which I'm being thrown back into this week, with my husband in the U.S. on business) and finding ways to increase my calm and decrease the stress that most likely caused all of this in the first place. Perhaps it is finally time to find that pilates class I've been contemplating.

If you've managed all the way through this short novel of a post, I thank you. And if you are one of the many who sent well-wishes, messages of concern, or that photo of a sweet, toothy grin that made my heart burst with gratitude and happiness, I thank you even more. In this crazy day of virtual everything, those emails, Instagram messages and the like received in my lonely hospital room, cut off from the rest of real life, were what got me through those incredibly tough days. I can't tell you how much that meant to me. I look forward to returning to all my grand blogging plans, but in the meantime, you can see what I'm up to on Instagram and Twitter. Barring any revelatory news from the specialist I'm to see this week, you can bet that I will be back to blogging in no time!

I don't know what has brought it on, but I've been hit with a major case of nostalgia lately. I have experienced a downright painful longing to see my mother (it's been a year and a half), a persistent want to visit the US (it's been nearly three years) and most recently, an explicable desire to go back to being a blonde (that has been over four years). So after months of feeling bored and frustrated with my hair color and a fruitless at-home attempt to get to my desired shade, I decided it was time to enlist professional help and take a more pronounced step back towards the blonde I used to be.

Admittedly, I have enjoyed having darker hair for the last several years. I originally made the change to satiate my life-long desire to have red hair. My auburn locks that I grew long over a few years, at one point dying the ends a rich cobalt to fulfill my need for change, were glossier than any hair I'd ever had. Blond has the unfortunate side effect of dullness, especially when the color isn't natural. So I reveled in the shininess and only in the last year started to tire of the red, to which I then dabbled in various shades of brown, very warm dark blond and even a self-made foray into the world of ombré. When even indulging in my Garance-inspired haircut - my first-ever short hair - didn't quell my need for change, I knew I had to go a step further.

There is a reason blond hair is often associated with wealth - it's damned expensive. Since it's not something you can really do yourself and have it look good, budget-friendly options are few and far between. Lucky for me, I now live in Berlin, where this blond dye job was a fraction of the $200 a month I used to spend at the height of my blondness in California. After I clarified with my stylist that this endeavor wouldn't have us eating ramen for the next month, I felt ready to take the plunge. She carefully painted on the bleach for a more natural, faded effect and after sitting for only about 20 minutes - plus another 10 or so at the sink for toning - my desired effect was achieved: a soft, medium-dark warm blond. The old me was back.



I'm not sure I've reached my desired level of blond for the long haul, but the immediate change is a refreshing one. The color softens my rather harsh haircut and I no longer feel like I need get more tattoos (which will probably happen anyway) or pack heat (never gonna happen) to live up to the edginess of my hair. It also makes me feel, four and a half years later and 5,000 miles from where I started, a bit like the person I used to be. I admit I've spent a bit of time feeling a little lost here in Germany, be it from career shifts, stumbling daily though a new language or just a plain old early mid-life crisis, but in some strange way, being blond again almost makes that person I hope to be here that much clearer in my mind. It marks a return to the person I always was, at least as far as my mirror is concerned, and that is reassuring. My husband, who married a bobbed, nearly platinum wife, and my mom, who waxes poetic about the little tow-headed girl she raised, are also pleased with my return to my roots. So to speak.

It's funny, in the first few years we lived in Germany, we traveled like crazy. Living in such a central location in Europe meant we could hop in the car and be in any number of different countries in a matter of hours. When we made the decision to move to Berlin, we knew ease of travel would be one of the compromises, no longer being so well located nor next to the largest, most-traveled airport in the EU - not to mention all the funds that moving would require. And with all Berlin has to offer, it's not as if I can complain for lack of new experiences.

Looking at all the amazing places I have been already - NYC, Barcelona, Mallorca, Cinque Terre, Florence, Innsbruck, Amsterdam, Spetses and Rome, just to name a few from above - I feel guilty for being so greedy with my wanderlust. There are people who will never add half these destinations to their passports. And for that, I know I am extremely lucky. But for me, that deep-seated restlessness, that internal flame that burns and yearns for a change of scenery, isn't satiated only by where I've been, but more by where I'm headed next. There are just so many amazing things to see in the world and only one life in which to experience them. I'm positively aching to get back to some of my favorite spots in Paris, to finally check seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland off my bucket list and make a plan to get to more far-off, exotic locales like South Africa and Southeast Asia. The other day, I was even hit with a most surprising feeling of nostalgia when I realized looking around San Francisco-inspired eatery Dolores at the maps and old photographs while I waited to order, I actually had a lump in my throat in thinking about how many years it has been since I'd been back to California.

But still... We have chosen to stay in Europe for the lifestyle it provides, namely the generous time off and access to European travel. Whenever we have encountered visiting Americans, often here on their One Big European Trip for barely a week before they head back to settle into a mortgage and having children, never to return, we exchange knowing glances that our aspirations for our lives could not be more different. I don't want to just dream about travel, I want to be able to pick up and go. I don't want to think back to that one time I went to Paris, I want to go once a year. Sure, I want a comfortable, settled home life as well, but I never want to start pouring over my travel photos from years and years (and years...) ago, lamenting over when I will finally get my toes back in the sand, get lost in a sea of a new language or experience a piece of world-renowned art or architecture that elicits a profound emotional response.

So with that, my husband is on forced vacation this week, as he has accrued so much due to our home-bound state and we are going to do something, go somewhere. It won't be extravagant and it won't be far, but we plan to spend some time exploring our new city and perhaps taking a few day trips, just taking a much-needed breather from the day-to-day and persistent moving stresses. But in the back of our minds, we will still be thinking, plotting, planning: "what's next...?"

Isn't it funny how when things start to take off in one area of your life - for example, those writing and creative opportunities you have been looking for finally materialize - the other areas that have been stagnating - say, a problem-ridden new apartment - start to come together, therefore demanding more of that precious attention you want to be dedicating to the former thing? Perhaps it's just me and my mediocre time management skills, but lately I have felt distracted from my personal projects in light of progress on the home front that has been begging for my attention. Not that I should be complaining, mind you, it's hard sometimes to drum up the necessary creative juices after focusing on cleaning, installing, organizing and the general business of settling into a new home that has been so slow to move forward in recent weeks. Just the natural ebb and flow of life, I suppose.

While the apartment issues have not all been solved (workers are coming on Monday to start work on some of the basics, you know, like re-cutting baseboards to actually accommodate the swing of a door and attaching the hardware on windows so that they can actually be opened), some notable wins have meant cause for celebration. First, we finally got our deposit back from our old apartment (well, the first big chunk of it anyway), allowing us to make another big dent in our to-buy list for the new place. Upon hanging our first mirror and finally having color-coordinating rugs in the bedroom, something shifted for me. It was as if the dark cloud of pessimism I had been feeling from the state of our new apartment finally started to lift. I'm pretty sure I will never be enamored of this place as much as I was for our amazing apartment in Wiesbaden, but I know now that with the patience to see my design visions through, I will love the home that we create within these walls. I also think that my new shoe storage, or more importantly, display, has done wonders for my happiness level (a 39€ Ikea Billy bookcase floor model score). The organizing freak and shoe lover in me have blissfully come together, not to mention that more of my beloved footwear gets consideration when planning my daily outfit. Now they all get the love and attention they deserve.

The other monumental happening was finally getting someone to come out and look at our un-operating cooktop. My poor husband, who had tried countless times to get the thing working was vindicated when the guy explained it wasn't the cooktop at all, but that there weren't enough live wires in the wall for the hook-up. Nice, huh? So he jury rigged some new wiring, cautioned us against having all burners and the oven on at the same time (thinking it might be time to finally invest in that fire extinguisher...) and now we can cook. My poor pots and pans have sat untouched for so long, not to mention my cooking mojo that has all but gone into hibernation, I only hope I can muster the desire to jump back into the kitchen as if I haven't been on this two month hiatus from preparing real, regular meals. I have two unread issues of Bon Appetit waiting to get me inspired, so get ready kitchen, 'cause I'm comin' back to you. Spaghetti night was just the beginning...

You know the old adage 'if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all'? Well, this way of thinking has kept me off blogging and just trying to get through the day-to-day with minimal meltdowns since our move to Berlin. Not really the ideal time of year to be fighting depression, but life doesn't always get you down at the most convenient times, does it?

The move to Berlin has been, to put it mildly, a disaster. Every step of the way - from the movers not showing up to every single shipment of new apartment items on order not being delivered to the 'finished' product of our new apartment, recently renovated with promises of high quality details to the standards of the rent they are charging, proving to be a complete letdown in everything from a paint job that looked like a five-year-old did it to leaky pipes to windows that can't be opened because they have no knobs - has been an uphill battle. Then of course, there are the cigarette butts littering the whole place and the constant smell of a gas leak... Not exactly the Christmas welcome to our new home we had such high hopes for. Add to that my persistent stomach bug for the better part of a week, and it's easy to see why staying positive has been such a challenge.

But! We are in Berlin. Every time we leave our box-filled, disappointment of an apartment, we are pointing into restaurant and shop windows every three steps, ooing and ahhing, making mental notes of where to come back to. I have discovered what I now affectionately refer to as 'our' coffee shop, complete with amazing cakes, an engraved silver cash register hailing from another century and perhaps the best coffee I've had here yet. Dogs and their owners have been some of the nicest and friendliest we've ever encountered, one even pulling out her cell phone to show us a photos of her other dog that looked just like Bailey. Even taking the train next to men that smell as if they've taken a bath in their beer holds a certain charm. Every time we get out, I am reminded: You are in Berlin, and it will only get better.



How could I forget the explosive New Years in the neighborhood, in which our apartment miraculously avoided going up in flames from rockets whizzing by so close we could have reached out and grabbed them.



So here's to things looking up in the merry new year! (and to finally celebrating Christmas, complete with filled stockings, wrapped presents and the turkey in our freezer anxiously waiting to be cooked, at some point...)

It's hard to believe the time has finally come. Four years, almost to the day, after packing up our lives for a new country, we once again set out on a new adventure, this time to Berlin. Our move to Germany happened so fast, we hardly had time to think about what we would be missing. Again, we have been so focused on getting to Berlin for such a long time, I was only looking ahead and not at what we would be leaving behind: an amazing apartment, a town full of incredible architecture and friends that have become like family in the absence of our own. For all the excitement for our new city, the sadness of what we will miss has also stepped to the forefront of my thoughts.

But Berlin has beckoned and we are answering her call. Today marks the start of our next adventure...

We decided to make the move to Berlin exactly one year ago, and the wait to have that move materialize has been excruciating. Now that things are finally happening, they are happening fast. Too fast, in fact. I had already started to think that maybe we had jumped on our apartment too quickly, second-guessing the high cost, the small space and the lack of windows, but we had already waited so long and were dying to be in Berlin, After months of looking, it was the best thing we had come across, by far.

Our apprehension about the bare walls and subfloor, along with not knowing exactly what our finished apartment would look like was met with reassurances that we would be able to choose the professionally-finished tiles and wall colors, as well taking our advice on putting in a small pantry in the kitchen for that coveted Berlin apartment storage space. Waiting anxiously for photos, and more importantly, an update to know when to schedule our next trip up to make decisions and take final measurements to order our kitchen with, we finally saw the progress... and my heart dropped. All those concessions we had made in exchange for the opportunity to really make this place our own were were now just negatives in an apartment that was looking less and less like what were expecting with each photo we saw.



Instead of allowing us to choose the tiles as promised, the wall ones had already gone up - and are the cheapest-looking tiles I've ever seen and are clearly meant for a floor, not a kitchen backsplash. They are perhaps even uglier than the old ones in our current dilapidated apartment that I painstakingly stripped and painted. Even worse, the tiles before - especially in the bathroom - were much nicer. Instead of these new massive, bargain-bin-looking tiles, they were carefully chosen and of better quality. There were nice details, like a tile border and the tub even had a mosaic tile front. What were they thinking of with these changes other than budget? We were told that for a Prenzlauer Berg apartment, everything would have to be top-notch quality. My personal aesthetic is all for simple, but this is kind of a joke. Well so far, I think it's looking more like a cramped, cheap hotel than a new apartment undergoing a 50.000€ renovation in one of the nicest parts of town. Maybe I'm just not seeing the whole picture yet...



Poor aesthetics aside, there's also the issue of how the actual space has worked out. Yeah, that pantry we were so excited that they were on board with putting in? It's so big, it could qualify as a fourth room! Great for storage, but it has eaten up so much of the space in our third room, that having overnight guests has gone from cramped to impossible. The bare minimum of furniture we had planned to bring with us for the room will now not even fit.

And while this was to be expected, I'm somewhat hyperventilating at just how narrow and dark the main rooms look after filling in the half-wall that used to partially separate them. It just didn't make sense for our bedroom to be connected to the living room by a massive opening and a door (and the hall door...), and of course, the extra wall space this frees up is ideal. But looking at these photos makes me completely second guess all my paint colors, not to mention worry that months holed up in these narrow, claustrophobic rooms in the winter time will make me want to take a flying leap off the balcony. Well, at least we have a balcony.

I realize that considering my interior design background and very particular feelings around my home, as well as the bias of coming from an incredibly spacious, Altbau apartment with all the nice architectural details, I might be overreacting a wee bit. I mean, we have a Berlin apartment that is being extensively renovated and is available at the perfect time. The neighborhood is ideal. And I realize that without very specific, in-writing accounts of all these things that were promised to us, not to mention the whole potato/potahto issue of two totally different cultures' take on the same thing, we are in no position to call the whole thing off. I should just be happy to have somewhere to move in Berlin, right? Right...?

So I sit here, the majority of my hopes and expectations for this apartment fading fast, and try to decide what to do next. Do we push back and insist they take down those horrible kitchen tiles? Do we just ignore that we were mislead and pay to have them re-done upon moving in? And how are we expected to make flooring and paint color decisions in the next couple days, with minimal notice and no time to travel up there to see the choices in the space and convey our wishes in person? My head is spinning around all these issues I thought were sure things I had already checked off my 'stress list', but it appears they are back with a vengeance and requiring immediate attention. While it's far from a disaster, I'm currently experiencing some major renter's remorse at choosing this apartment.

While we try to sort all this out, I'm trying to breathe deep and focus on the positives... like that sunny, gorgeous balcony view that made me fall in love with the apartment in the first place.

When I was walking through town the other day to go to my doctor's and poke my head in a few shops (just to look, I swear...), I passed by massive trucks unloading what looked to be construction materials. Then I saw them: the booths for the Christmas market. It was already that time again. But my recognition of the appallingly early start to Christmas was quickly surpassed by an unexpected sting in my eyes. This was it. This was our last Wiesbaden Christmas market before we move to Berlin. And it hit me like a ton of bricks.

The Wiesbaden Sternschnuppenmarkt, or twinkling star market, was one of our first introductions to life in Germany. We had just arrived in the country as a family a week before Christmas - long before all our furniture was to arrive - living in a cavernous, empty apartment, with no presents, no tree and no idea the impact the life decision we had just made would have. We spent the days leading up to Christmas at the Markt, comforting the loneliness with mugs of hot Glühwein and sausages awkwardly tucked into small round bread, as we took in what was now our life.

Four years later, the magic of these markets has not faded, but perhaps we have started to take them a bit for granted with our focus on getting to Berlin. I have been lost in recent weeks to visions of more abundant restaurants, plans for the kitchen we must buy and slowly acknowledging just how much stuff I am going to have to pack, I nearly forgot the long holiday season before us and our final days at our Weihnachtsmarkt with the dear friends we have made here.

This holiday market has been a savior to us in the dark, cold, lonely days of the German Christmas season, when sometimes all you wish for is that family recipe you've enjoyed every holiday since childhood or simply to kiss your mother goodnight on Christmas Eve. It is hard to compete with that nostalgia and tradition and with family, but the German markets are perhaps the best antidote to this sadness. The crazed, stressed feeling of the holidays in the States has been replaced with happy excitement, making us anxious to see that first strand of Christmas lights go up and have that first mug of Glühwein for the season warming our hands. It is not about everything we need to buy or any self-imposed to-do lists filled with things that aren't really important. It's about those days spent under the sprawling lights, getting warm and perhaps a little tipsy on hot alcohol and a sugar high from sticky sweet Schaumküsse and sugared nuts, huddling with friends in the freezing rain and snow and just feeling completely content.

We have toured around Germany and found more spectacular Märkte and even better Glühwein, but Wiesbaden's Christmas market will always be a symbol of our decision to become expats. I'm sure we will be back to visit friends over the holidays in years to come, but it will no longer be ours. We will just be visitors. But until then, we will take in this last market with fervor, alternately throwing our lives into boxes and stuffing our faces with the spoils of the season. Here's to you Wiesbaden - it's been amazing journey. I will raise my last mug of Glühwein this year in your honor.


The 2009 Wiesbaden Sternschnuppenmarkt

I don't know if it's the recent worry and resulting sleep-deprivation, or if it's a deep desire to feel more hip for our move to super-hip Berlin, but when Garance posted her recent hair cut, it was like a light suddenly went on in my brain. I so quickly tired of the clavicut - and the ombre - I did several months back, but I am also tired of this, just, hair, as my mother used to say. Longer hair is so often just hair, with no real style or anything. Sure, it's decently shiny and healthy, and I've managed to find a box color that manages to look pretty good, most of the time. But frankly, I'm bored. I want a change.*

I found it funny when Garance worried about this kind of cut feeling too 'soccer mom', as I think it doesn't get more boring-I've-given-up-mom-hair than the look I'd been rocking for the last few months - that medium-long length that's been neglected, rarely styled and just sort of sits there there unceremoniously on my head. I think this hair says edgy, cool and a little bit tough. In short, perfect Berlin hair. As if Garance wasn't enough to convince me, Michelle William's latest campaign had me pining to chop it all off the instant I opened that spread in my InStyle. The trifecta was complete when I saw that H&M's latest campaign boasts a model sporting the same short-but-longer-on-the-top cut. I think it's a sign. Or at least a bandwagon.

Although, maybe I'm just looking for a decisive move in light of our apartment situation still being a little bit up in the air. Maybe after we settle things this weekend, and maybe after I start getting some worry-free, good night's sleeps, I'll realize how totally out there this is. I mean, my initial research has already informed me that platinum might be one of the most expensive, high-maintenance hair colors there is (and I thought red was a pain!), not to mention that a cut that short would also require frequent professional upkeep. Or maybe, like our decision to move to Berlin - or even more crazy, our decision to up and move to Germany in the first place - it's better to just jump in and sort it all out later. After all, it is just hair...


*As I was writing this yesterday, the ennui around my hair became so strong, that I took matters into my own hands. Not the whole shebang I'm still considering above, but a decently good amount that I literally feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Just the mindset I want to head off to Berlin with this weekend!

Hair by Jean Marc Joubert for Estetica, image via ukhairdressers.com

So I know this video has been making the rounds already for a good month, but I couldn't help but think of it today in light of all the chatter around the Louis C.K. clip from Conan on cell phones and my general exhaustion from stressing about our (likely, hopefully) Berlin apartment - not to mention the need to focus on purging and organizing everything we own in preparation for the undoubtedly-ridiculously-priced movers' quote later this week upon evaluating the effort required to haul all our junk up and down stairs and across the country. After getting rid of about half of what we owned before our move over here, I'm rather ashamed to admit that we still have so much, we're going to have to half all our stuff once again. I guess it only makes sense: half the square meters = half the space for all our crap. Oh, how I wish I was one of those minimalists, but I'm just not. I have some tough decision ahead, especially where my shoes are concerned...

And so I am unplugging myself for the next few days in order to tackle everything that is in front of me right now, taunting blog editorial calendar be damned. Hell, I might not even post again until next week. My problem where unplugging is concerned is not only around missing all the amazing, life-changing updates from friends and strangers, but the fear that if I disappear for awhile, I will cease to exist, virtually-speaking. I suppose there's a big difference between falling off the blogosphere for months at at a time and taking a week to focus, and you know - Get. Shit. Done. But you never know, people can be surprisingly fickle, and I think social media only exacerbates this.

What are your thoughts about unplugging? Are you one of those who has a hard time putting the phone down (me, here, guilty!), or do you not even (gasp!) own a smart phone? Do you fear all the things you will miss, or more so, that perhaps people won't actually miss you? Furthermore, do you think there's something to this idea of fearing feeling alone and sad without the comfort social networking provides? Or that we really are all alone, regardless of how many Facebook friends we have?


Update: Apparently the backlash against being constantly plugged in is becoming mainstream. Who knew? Admittedly, I wouldn't have, had I not been plugged in when I said I wouldn't be. Ahh, the tangled web we weave...

Fresh off our latest Berlin apartment-hunting trip, I am full of angst as we wait to hear from the apartment we applied to, as well as finishing up the application to the second one we liked. What if the first responds and demands a signed contract before we hear back from the second, more affordable one? What if accepting the more expensive apartment means giving up too much, including the spending money with which to enjoy our new city and probably half our belongings? Or worse yet, what if we don't get accepted by either and have to start the whole process - including trekking all the way across the country - all over again?

Then I have to remind myself to breathe... and know that all these things are out of my control. Worrying will not solve anything. It will not make these people respond any faster, nor will it somehow make them realize how desperately we want to live there and accept us out of pity. Waiting is the worst, isn't it? The best I can do for now is to try to get back into my regular routine and know that whatever happens, happens. It will all work out in the end, and we will make it to Berlin.

Although, there's no harm in crossing fingers - or for Germans, pressing thumbs - in the meantime (you know, just in case)...


image via sweet-southern-charm.tumblr.com

Coming from the land of crazy-inflated SF/Silicon Valley rent prices, I know I should be nothing but grateful for the opportunity to live in Berlin, where rent - while rising rapidly - is still incredibly affordable when compared with other great cities around the world. Whenever I start to get down on trying to find an apartment here, my friend (who has lived in London and Paris) reigns in my expectations and says "but you get to live in Berlin". She is so right, it's true. But I can't help but lament sometimes. Finding a good flat in Berlin is hard.

We began this apartment trip with a long list of prospects. By the time we got here, the lack of response from our inquiries became clear when we checked the listings again, only to find that they had already been pulled. The good places go fast. And in typical German customer service fashion, the people showing the apartments act as though they are doing you a favor. For example, if there are showings scheduled during the week and we say we just drove nearly 600km to spend the weekend looking at apartments, do you think they would be willing to show it to us during the days that we are here? Of course not. Finding a good flat in Berlin from all the way across the country is even harder.

I admit, I fall prey to the glass-half-empty mentality at times, which can make this process especially trying. Add to that a failed birthday on Saturday (not for any lack of trying - I just got viciously ill), and I've been feeling a bit down about the whole thing this trip. It seems like we are thwarted at every turn. An apartment directly above a giant kid's playground? OK, maybe it wouldn't be too loud... until we hear the neighbors scream down to their children playing from their balconies. Discovering a new Kiez that we really like, only to find out the listings there overlook a giant, dingy abandoned lot or is on the fifth floor, no elevator (I swear we're not that lazy, but we do have an aging dog to consider). Finding a new home in a massive city that you are just barely getting to know - really difficult.

When I've asked other Berliners how hard it is to find an apartment here, the consensus seems to come down to where you want to live and how picky you are. Well, we want to live in what many consider to be the most 'desirable' neighborhoods and as far as picky, yes, I want to love my home. We are no longer capricious young people who want to bounce around with no care as to where we land. We're a small family that wants to find a place to call home. An apartment that makes us smile whenever we walk in the door. A neighborhood that we can relax in and enjoy, maybe even a regular coffee shop where they come to know our order before we even say it. We already did the depressing little apartments we could barely stand - that was called being in our 20s. I think we've passed that stage in our lives and whatever place we decide to call home next needs to reflect that.

Not to be all doom and gloom, we have found one place that we absolutely love. It's got everything going for it: the perfect neighborhood, close enough to major public transport yet on a smaller, quieter street, my husband would get a home office and extra exciting for the interior designer in me, it is being renovated (not the German 'renovated', like painted and refinished floors kind of thing, but like knocking out walls and gutting rooms) and they are willing to work with the next tenants to make the place what they want it to be. While there are really minor things to gripe about - like wishing the bathroom was bigger or that there would be a kitchen included when they're finished - the only real downside is that it is at the very top of our budget. I suppose when you get everything you are asking for, that's the price you pay.

After spending the weekend (and months online, and a previous scouting trip) looking at countless places, we're ready to jump on any apartment that we can get that excited about. It will be the first application we will have put in for a Berlin apartment, so actually getting it would be a miracle. But who knows? Maybe the glass will be looking more half-full for us very soon.

You know how when you're running running running and when you finally slow down, then that's precisely when you get sick? Like your body knows it needs to hold out just long enough to get you through whatever is on your plate, then bam! It hits you like a ton of bricks. Unfortunately, that has been my week, with the flu kicking me into submission and forcing me to subsist on bland crackers and toast for days, not to mention a constant stream of Princess Bride and My So-Called Life (the latter of which I'm not really complaining about). I had grand plans for a couple other posts this week, but as it so often happens for all of us, life got in the way.

So now that I'm finally up to being vertical, I can sit here at my desk, taking in the blue skies and the lovely sunflower my husband bought to celebrate my blog launch and be reminded of our days meandering through the French countryside last month. I only hope I am up for our plans this weekend to explore more of our little part of the German countryside. As we tuck away more savings and make plans for another apartment-hunting trip - so hard to find a good apartment from all the way across a country, let me tell you - the reality of not being in this beautiful part of Germany much longer has really started to set in. And so we set out on more excursions to hungrily take in and store all the memories of the natural beauty that will no longer be just down the autobahn once we make our new home in the north.

How about you? What are your plans this weekend? With September mere days away, that unspoken urgency to go out and enjoy what is left of summer has crept into the air. I hope you enjoy whatever is in store. Happy weekend to all!