A Familiar Voice

Beginning with my second day in Germany, I started taking one or two walks per day through our small town. I figured if I went straight in one direction for twenty minutes, then turned around and headed back the way I came there would be no way I could get lost. As luck would have it, my twenty minute walk took me through the main part of our town where the outdoor market was, right by all the shops and amongst people going about their errands. My turning-around point was the train station at the end of the street where I could either go right, left or turn around and head back home.

For days this was my walking route because I knew I could walk, explore and get out of the house without getting lost. I walked down our street, took a right and walked straight through town past the butcher, the confectioner's shop, the church, the bakeries and the school, then I crossed the street and headed back home. Everyday, I listened to the people talking and watched as they went about their way. Though I probably appeared to have only been walking, I was also soaking it all in. Our town was small, but it was a big, new world for me. As I became more comfortable with my round-trip walk to the train station and back, I began to expand my horizons and walk in different directions.

One morning, almost two months into my stay in Germany I was walking back from the train station, daydreaming and not really paying attention to my surroundings when I heard a familiar voice. Not that it was familiar because it was the voice of someone I knew...rather, the voice had a familiar sound to it. Now, first of all, I had heard plenty of English-speaking Americans and British people during my walks through town. I had also heard people speaking Turkish, Japanese and Polish...and, obviously, German. Dusseldorf and the nearby small town in which we live are somewhat of a melting pot. Maybe not to the degree of larger cities, but the presence of people from other countries is definitely there.

On this particular day, as I approached one of the cafes in town, the voice I heard was an American voice but what made it stand out from the others was the fact that it was distinctly midwestern. My first thought as I heard her speak was "Wow, she sounds just like me!" Hearing another midwesterner speak when you're in the midwest is no more exciting then seeing yet another McDonald's, but when you're somewhere around 5000 miles away from the midwest hearing a familiar sound is almost as exciting as walking into a surprise birthday party.

The woman was in the midst of a spirited discussion with her equally spirited little girl who was a petite little thing of about four years old with wispy, wild blonde hair that reminded me of spun cotton candy. Without missing a beat, I marched straight over to the woman and declared that I'd just had to meet her because she was speaking English and I just wanted to say hello. In the course of our conversation, which lasted all of a few minutes, I learned she was indeed from the midwest and, as luck would have it, was involved with other women who had relocated to Germany from the United States with whom she had coffee on a regular basis. She informed me of the next coffee meet-up for the group of women, we exchanged contact information and then I was on my way and she and her little sprite were on their way, too.

I walked home with a smile on my face. It was special to speak to people from America but typically, after the conversation ended, I knew I would likely never see or speak to them again. But this time there was an opportunity to go out and socialize. Not just with other women, but with other women who also came from America and who, no matter how long they'd been here, were doing their best to adjust to their new home and the different culture.

I've since wondered how many times I must have walked right past this woman as she made her way though town at the same time in which I was taking a walk. Fate certainly played a part that particular morning because not only did I get to hear a familiar-sounding voice, I also ended up making my first friend in Germany. And she came along just when I was beginning to wonder if I might ever meet someone that maybe, just maybe, might end up being my friend.

Three Months and Staying...

It's been nearly two months since I last blogged. I can hardly believe it. So much has happened since the middle of September and I could have easily written dozens of blog entries. My reasons for not writing were never a case of "Oh, there's nothing to write about." Not writing in my blog became a case of my life becoming intertwined with someone else's life and figuring out how to tell a story while also respecting someone else's privacy. It was a matter of figuring out how to transform a story about two people falling in love and coming together into a story of an American woman living in Germany which is, ironically, the title of this blog. It became a battle of "do I give up the writing I love because it's not quite turning out the way I planned?" or "do I give up the plan because I want to continue the writing I love?"

Though it took me nearly two months to work through the inner turmoil and mental tug-of-war, my conclusion has been that sometimes you have to let go of "The Plan" and go with the flow. Each one of us has a story to tell. Like "The Plan", our stories change as our lives move full-speed ahead, screech to a grinding halt or suddenly take a sharp turn when we intended to just keep going straight. The blog I write may not turn out to be what I had mapped out in my mind this past July before I came to Germany, but it will continue to be my story with all it's twists, turns, ups and downs.

In five more days, I will be here for three months. It is hard for me to imagine my life without Mario in it. Sometimes I have a bad day and sometimes he has a bad day. Sometimes we have bad days together. Mostly, we have a lot of good days. But all the days, even the difficult ones, are days where I know he loves me and he knows I love him. We laugh together and we value the time we have together. We are learning how to live with one another and how to be better people because of each other. Regardless of how perfect or imperfect the week has been, at the end of the week Mario always asks "Do you want to stay for one week more?" and I smile and pause like I'm thinking about it, then I say "Okay, yes...one more week."

And, from here, my story continues...

Germany From the Back of a Motorbike

The year before high school graduation, a classmate I barely knew was killed while riding on the back of her boyfriend's motorcycle. Her tragic and untimely death had such an impact on me that I never got on another motorcycle again.

Fast forward thirty years and entering stage left comes a man who has swept me off my feet and caused me to consider trying new and different things because I want to share in his excitement and joy the same way he wants to share in my interests. When Mario and I first began talking on the phone and he mentioned his love for motorbiking, I told him I thought that was great for him but I didn't ride on motorcycles. He never pressured me but when he spoke excitedly about motorbiking he would occasionally say "I hope someday we can do this together. I would really love to go motorbiking with you."

Eventually, love won out. I wanted the two of us to share in each other's interests and when I thought about it, motorbiking combined Mario's love of being out on the bike with my loves of the outdoors, travel and photography. I consented to ride on the bike with him but made it clear that I didn't want to go too fast and I didn't want to be scared. If either of those occurred, it would likely be my last ride.

My second day in Germany we decided to go for a test ride to see how I liked it and, if I liked it, we would commence to buy all the motorbiking gear I would need in order to ride safely. In Germany, it is the law that you wear a helmet. It's also highly recommended that you have a motorcycle jacket with padding, motorcycle pants with padding, gloves and special boots. The first ride was a little bit scary. Not because Mario went too fast or anything bad happened, but because I needed to let go of my fears. Despite those fears, I could tell that this was something I could really learn to love if I just allowed myself to do so.

As of my third week here, I've had all my motorbiking gear. When I put it all on I feel like a Storm Trooper or Ralphie's kid brother from the movie "A Christmas Story", in the scene where the little brother falls down in the snow and his snowsuit is so huge and thick he can't get up. I've learned to move and manuever better in my gear and I know it makes me safer. I've also learned to always wear my hair in a ponytail before putting my helmet on because it's not fun trying to brush all the windblown knots out of my hair after being on the bike all day. Another tip, it's wise to sacrifice a little bit of beauty and vanity...earrings really hurt when my helmet is smashing the posts into the sides of my head like the screws on the sides of Frankenstein's neck.

What I thought I might love about being on the motorbike has turned out to be true: I enjoy being outdoors, I enjoy traveling around even if it's local and I love taking all the photographs of places, buildings and people. I'm happy that Mario and I have something we enjoy doing together. Surprisingly, the thing I love most about riding on the back of the motorbike is something I never considered: the feeling of freedom.

When I'm on the back of the bike there are no worries. There's no stress about work or money and day-to-day pressures disappear. If I woke up that morning and my mood wasn't what I would have liked it to be, being out on the motorbike lifts my spirits as if lifting my mood higher and higher with each passing kilometer. On the back of the bike Mario and I are one entity. There is nothing to disturb or distract us and our only companions are the wind, the road and the scenery.

In the past month, I've seen and experienced many areas of Germany on the back of the bike. If you asked me, on a sunny day with decent temperatures, if I'd rather travel by car or bike I'd most likely say "Motorbike, please." The view is different, the peace undeniable and how else can I travel and see the land with my arms wrapped tight around the waist of the man I love?

From the back of Mario's motorbike I've seen magnificent fields of flowers, old castles, a brown charcoal mine, various parts of the Rhine River, quaint little villages, and people going through the motions of everyday life. Somehow or another, it's all a bit more meaningful and magical on the back of the bike.

Mario says that one day I need to have my own motorbike and my adamant reply is always "no thank you!" Aside from the fact that I simply don't want one, why would I want to sacrifice the magic that occurs when we ride together? And why would I want to foresake the peace and contentment that awaits me in my spot on the back of the bike?

One Month in Germany

After a brief writing hiatus, I am back in the saddle again. I have been in my new home now for one month and six days. Everyday is an adjustment, for both of us, and change is my constant companion. But life is full of change no matter where you are. We can choose to change along with life or stubbornly stand in the same place as the rest of the world moves forward. By moving to Germany to be with the love of my life, I brought all this change on myself and, with that in mind, I don't complain much. Yes, change brings obstacles and frustrations...it forces you to step outside your comfort zone and puts you in the position of having to learn and try new things. But, more importantly than that, having the courage to change brings many new and wonderful experiences, people, emotions and opportunities and it is on these positive things that I choose to focus.

Communication is often a challenge. I learn more German words everyday and can understand much, much more than I speak. But there are instances everyday where I don't understand what someone is saying or I understand them but don't have the words to respond. Often, I think of the proper response two or three hours later, long after the conversation is over. This doesn't help much with the earlier conversation but it gives me words for the next time.

I have also found that many people here are eager to speak English with me. As soon as they hear my American accent or I slip and say one word in English, they say "Oh, English!" and begin to respond as best they can in English that ranges from very broken to well-spoken. At home, we speak primarily English. German words are sprinkled here and there and I am trying to make more of an effort to use more German words. Habits form fast, though, and the English words spill forth from my mouth before I even stop to think about how to say what I want to say in German. But I have to try. I feel that my inability to communicate for myself sometimes gives the impression that I'm not intelligent and that is an impression I don't want to leave with people. As a writer, words are very important to me and I consider myself well-spoken. So I must now learn so I can communicate intelligently here, as well.

Learning to and making the effort to communicate will help me meet people, too, which is vital to me having a happy life in Germany. Similar to women in America, it's difficult to make friends here. Not impossible, just difficult. Women in the middle of their lives, no matter what country they live in, have families to take care of, houses to keep and jobs to do. Friendship often falls by the wayside in an effort to balance everything else. I cannot rely on my sweetheart for all the companionship I need and want. That's not healthy for him, me or us. So I go out, by myself, everyday to walk, ride my bike or take the train to go shopping. I speak to other people every chance I get and continue to put myself out there because I know that's the only way to meet people. By doing this I know the day will come when I meet a new friend and the wait will have been worth it. Girlfriends are an important, and often overlooked, part of our lives as women. I treasure my girlfriends in America and miss them dearly and I am excited as I anticipate making my first friend in my new home. Some things take time.

The process of extending my Residence Permit from three months to one year continues. Doctor's appointments and insurance papers are the priority now as I must have health insurance in order to stay. It is the law. As a woman who has always been independent and able to do things for herself, it is a new and sometimes frustrating experience to need to have someone with you to translate at the doctor's office or any other office for that matter. I am grateful for Mario's help. It would be near impossible for me to do all these things myself. I could do it, other immigrants do. But the level of frustration and stress would be enormous and I can clearly envision the confusion and mistakes that would be made due to the language barrier. When we are exhausted from going to appointments or I am frustrated with the cost, the process and the hoops that have to be jumped through, we look at each other and say "This is for us" and that makes it all worthwhile.

Now that the newness of being here is over and I know the local streets pretty well, can find the stores I need and am able to venture out to the city by myself, it is time for me to find my way in Germany. Mario and I value our time together but the most healthy relationships consist of two people who also have their own lives. Now it's time for me to make my own life in Germany. It's scary sometimes. Sometimes I feel isolated. Other times it's very exciting and I see so many opportunities. Despite the gamut of emotions I often feel throughout the course of the day, there is one feeling that remains consistent and constant: I am home. This is my home. I am with the man I love and this is where I belong. I will always be an American and I'm proud of that. I look forward to many holidays visiting my children in America and having them come here to visit me. But this is my home. Not just in Germany, not just in this quaint little village I love so much, not only in the white house in the middle of the street, but in Mario's arms. I have found my home in the arms of the man I love.

Becoming Legal

Waking up at 6am is not the thing for me, but it's what you do when you have to see the officials about obtaining a permit to stay in the country. Most days, these offices are crowded with people and the time spent waiting is very long. Mario said it was best if we arrived early to the office, at 8am when they opened, and he was right.

By the time we arrived at the immigration office, my nerves were frazzled to bits. Given the opportunity, I would have gone back home and stayed there. But avoidance would only serve me for so long. Mario was calm and, as usual, my rock. He is the reason I came here and he is also the reason my first week in Germany has been so wonderful.

Mario and I were the only people at the office when they opened. We were called into the immigration office by a heavy-set German woman within a few minutes of arriving. Mario spoke with her and what I didn't understand, he translated for me. Thank god! I am learning my way through everyday conversation but would never had made it through an official conversation like that without help. We could have gotten stuck with a cranky official who had no concern for the person sitting on the other side of the desk, but instead we were fortunate enough to meet with a kind and compassionate woman who made an effort to understand how difficult it must be to be sitting in my place.

I was such a nervous-wreck that it was hard to allow myself to feel happy about any of the positive signs that occurred during our three hours there. The fact that I had a job with an American company and the fact that I had come from America were both huge positives in my favor. The kind woman behind the desk was reassuring throughout. Though she never gave any guarantees, she often said she thought everything would work out. Not everyone, from every country is given a permit to stay in Germany and it was my worst fear that I would be one of those people.

When all was said and done, three hours later at 11am, Mario and I walked out of the office with a three-month permit for me to stay in Germany. In three weeks we will return with proof of my health insurance and some papers from work and, hopefully, my three-month permit will be extended to one year.

Sitting in the car, outside the office, Mario asked me why I wasn't cheering with happiness. After all,  I was legal now; I could stay and live in Germany. In my heart, I was so happy but the rest of me was overwhelmingly relieved. I think when my permit is extended to one year, I will be ready to celebrate. I will feel as if it's more "official". I am thankful and happy for the three-month permit. But three months is long enough for Mario and I to build an incredibly strong bond and it would hurt in more ways than I care to think of if, after three months, I had to leave.

I feel at home here in Germany. I feel at home with Mario. Though we were apart for thirty years, it doesn't feel that way. It feels as if I was gone on vacation....a very long vacation, in which so many things happened it's impossible to catch up on them all. But we are happy to be back together after this "vacation"...we are thankful for the second chance...and I hope there is never another "vacation" like that, again.

And now I can say...I am legal. :)

The Immigrant

Immigration is a hot topic in America and has been for many years. People immigrate to America for many reasons, often including the possibility of freedom and the opportunity to make lifelong dreams come true. Many come to America through the immigration system and these are the people we do not hear much about. It's those who have found it so impossible to realize their dream that they've resorted to illegal action that are heard about the most. But just because an immigrant has made the effort to do things the right way and follow the laws of the country to which they have immigrated, doesn't mean there are any guarantees they will be allowed to stay.

Tomorrow Mario brings me to the office to apply for my Residence Permit to stay in Germany. The people we see have the power to give me permission to stay here for the next two to five years as long as I adhere to the rules and restrictions set before me. Or they have the option to say I must go back to America. They can choose the latter decision due to insufficient paperwork on my part, due to a loss of paperwork on their part, and a million other reasons. Though I am told not to worry, I now understand the fear and trepidation immigrants to the United States must go through, even after following legal procedures.

More than likely, everything will work out and my worrying will be for nothing. But, on the slim chance that something falls through the cracks of the immigration system, I can be asked to leave the country where my dreams lie...the country that is now my home...and, most difficult of all, the man whom I love with all my heart. I can be told I must pack my bags and be out of here within a few days' notice and there is nothing anyone can do, if that happens.

I chose to come to Germany for love; because it was the perfect time in my life to transition to a new phase and take the steps to make my dream come true....the dream of being here with Mario. I didn't leave America because of war or hardship or for religious sanction. I didn't leave because I was desperate for a better life for my family. Many who immigrate to America and other countries leave for these reasons and now I understand the fears and feelings they must experience. I understand them to a small extent.

I'm not afraid to be returned to a country that will kill me or put me in jail or allow me and my family to starve to death. I have nothing more than the normal complaints about America. I have respect and love for the country that was my home for many, many years.

I am afraid that, after finding the love of my life after thirty years, I will be torn away from him again, the way I was in 1980. I am afraid we could be apart for an undetermined amount of time and that any amount of time apart will be unbearable for us both. And though I know we have the ability to find our way back to each other now, unlike 1980, the irrational fear that we will be separated for years again or forever sits in the forefront of my mind. I am afraid to go to the office tomorrow. I would rather stay here, at home, where no one can tell me "stay" or "go".

The fear that other immigrants feel must be unbearable at times. The knowledge that they can be returned to a hostile country or a life of doom at a moment's notice must be difficult to live with. How can you live on the cusp of realizing a dream, yet have the stress and fear that it can be ripped away from you at any time?

"Everything will be fine...everything will be fine." Those are the words that reverberate in my head. But until my appointment at the office tomorrow is over and until I have my Residence Permit in my hand, I am grossly aware that I am the immigrant and whether this dream that is my life continues or ends rests solely in the hands of people who will see me one time, for a few minutes, and nothing more.

A Walk Through Town

One of the things I've always enjoyed about watching movies that take place in Europe is seeing the small towns and the people walking and bicycling along cobblestone streets and sidewalks. It seemed the towns in the movies are always lined with streets full of small specialty shops offering everything from freshly butchered meat to flowers and fruits picked earlier the same day. In the movies, the European buildings are decorated with windows that have windowboxes with flowers of all colors spilling out of them and the sounds of words spoken in another language drift out of the windows and through the air.

When you watch a movie and imagine yourself there, in that space and time, it can be a great escape. The imagination is a wonderful gift that takes us to times and places we may never have visited otherwise. When you can actually walk through a real European town, smelling the fresh bread, hearing the language and music of the country and seeing the sights that are such an integral part of that country's everyday life, it is like stepping onto the set of a movie. Only the movie is your life.

Since arriving in Dusseldorf, Germany on August 9th, it has become my morning routine to wake up, get dressed, grab an apple to eat as I walk and walk into town. Sometimes I have a purpose for going into town...to get fresh bread for Mario and I to have for breakfast, to get medicine at the Apotheke (ah-poh-tek-a) or pharmacy or to see if the Fresh Market is there. Sometimes I walk just to explore a new part of town, enjoy the sights and watch everyone else begin their day. The older men often stand at the painted, wrought iron gate of their yard and observe the world go by while enjoying their morning smoke. Women of all ages, pass me by on bicycles with baskets on the front that are filled with fresh flowers or other goods needed for the day.

The downtown area of the town in which we live is an easy five minute walk from our home. As I leave our street and walk the cobblestone sidewalk leading into town, I first approach a school for very young children. This, of course, is near and dear to my heart since I was a teacher for many years. Once I pass the large Montessori Kinderhaus I know I'm only a couple blocks away from town. Around 9 o'clock in the morning, the sounds of childrens' songs sung in German can be heard  from the second story windows.

Morning is the best time to walk through town as mouth-watering smells meet me at every turn and on every block. The aromas greet me before I can determine where they're coming from and encircle me, dancing around my senses like schoolchildren playing Ring-Around-the-Rosie.

The first aroma to find its way to me as I enter downtown comes from the butcher shop. For those who love sausage, nothing makes your mouth water and beg for more than the smell and taste of freshly made sausage. Olezynski's Butcher Shop always has customers waiting inside and the door is wide open, allowing the smells of various meats, sausages and lunchmeats to waft out onto the sidewalk.

At the time I walk, it's what would be considered rush hour in America yet the streets are not crazy and hectic as one would expect in a busy downtown area, early in the morning. People are out and about and are clearly heading to a destination known only to them but the atmosphere of rushing does not exist. Everyone moves along at a normal pace and when I smile and say "Guten Morgen" (good morning), they smile and return the greeting.

When I approach the streetlight, I'm directed to stop by the universal "no-walking" sign...a red man, standing still with his arms by his sides. As I wait for it to change to the green man who appears to be mid-stride, I find myself staring in awe at the beautiful church occupying the corner across the street. I am not a church person; I find spirituality all around. But this tall, majestic red brick church commands respect and attention and I give it its due each time I pass.

In the busier parts of town, the sidewalks are split in two with the gray cobblestone areas designated for people on foot and the red cobblestone areas for people on bicycles. On the way to my favorite bakery, I step over a sign that directs the bicyclists to "Bitte Schieben" or "Please Push" and I take this to mean that it's preferred there be no loitering around on the bicycle on a busy sidewalk and it's better to keep pushing the peddles to move forward.

My favorite bakery, the Backerei Steh-Cafe, is across the street from the official building where I filed my residence with the city on my second day in Germany. Walking into the bakery is unlike any trip to the store for a loaf of bread. The smell of fresh bread beckons me in and, as I approach the counter, I am overwhelmed by the selection of individual-sized loafs of breads, pretzels, pastries, rolls and other bread products. There are dark breads and light breads, breads with seeds and nuts on the outside, breads twisted and turned into all sorts of shapes. Many of the breads are crusty on the outside but reveal an oh-so-soft center that's perfect for spreading marmalade or butter on when the bread is cut in half.  For someone like me, who is overwhelmed with more than two choices, the Backerei Steh-Cafe makes me feel both ecstatic and stressed-out at the same time. I have vowed to try something new each time I go and believe I will have tasted every bread in the store within ten years' time.

    

Outside the bakery is a crosswalk, leading to a parking area across the street where the Fresh Market sets up camp once a week. Across from the parking area is the Eiscafe (ice cream shop) that Mario took me to on my first afternoon in Germany. I had tiramasu ice in a sugar cone and experienced heaven on earth for the few minutes it lasted. The freshly made ice cream at the Eiscafe is similar to the gelato served at true Italian ice shops in America. The smooth, creamy texture of freshly made German ice cream is a cross between regular ice cream and the more icy texture of Italian ice. I had told Mario that tiramasu was my favorite dessert and he had been telling me, over the phone, for months that he wanted to take me for tiramasu ice. It was a treat worth waiting months for and I look forward to our next trip to the Eiscafe.

When I pass the Eiscafe, it usually means I'm heading back toward home. I walk past clothing stores, window shopping and dreaming of the sweaters and shirts I want and the necklaces I'd love to have. Before I reach the streetlit intersection again, I pass by Adam's Confiserie, or the sweet shop where the sign on the window let's everyone know they specialize in cakes and tortes. I have yet to go into Adam's Confiserie. From the window, I can see the trays of fudge, candy, small cakes and other treats and they send me into the sort of tailspin known only by those with a voracious sweet tooth. I am afraid of what might happen if I go into Adam's unaccompanied so I am saving that excursion for a trip into town with Mario so he can reign me in when my eyes glaze over and roll back into their sockets as I ask the woman behind the counter for one of everything in the shop. My plan is to buy one piece of to-die-for chocolate and enjoy it like it's the last piece of chocolate that will ever pass through my lips and this is a plan I know I can never stick to on a solitary trip.

The street becomes busier as the streetlight draws near and cars, trucks and motorcycles of all kinds pass me by.  When it's my turn to cross, I pass the Apotheke that made me a lifetime customer on my first visit when I had one of those irritating female infections on my fifth day in Germany. The pharmacies in Germany are unlike the ones in America.  In America, you walk up and down the aisles, select what you want, put it in your cart and move along to the cash register. The only time you speak to the pharmacist is when you need to pick up or drop off a prescription.  At the Apotheke, everything is behind the counter so imagine my fright when I walked in and knew I would have to ask for medicine for a yeast infection with my limited German. I prayed that whomever came out from the back to help me not be a man and thankfully, it was a wonderfully kind, slow-speaking woman about my age. We spoke for ten minutes in German, determining what I needed and talked about me coming to Germany just five days earlier. When you are learning a new language it's exciting to be able to understand what others say to you and the sense of pride is huge when you can converse back. In five days I had gone from being able to say "danke schon" (thank you) and "tschuss" (goodbye) to carrying on a simple conversation for ten or more minutes. It was a step toward being able to meet and speak to more people, which will hopefully lead to making my first friend in Germany.  The road curves to the left and the red cobblestone bike path ends, signaling that I've left the downtown area. My street is lined with homes and apartments decorated with windowboxes and rooftop gardens and I'm happy to be back home. In a very short amount of time, I've grown to love the town in which I live and it calls to me every morning to come join it in saying "Guten Morgen" to the world. But home truly is where the heart is and, as I walk up the steps to unlock the front door, I'm happy to return home to be with Mario.

The Scary Stairs

Let me begin by saying that I have had a fear of heights since I was four years old. I first realized this fear at Woodfield Shopping Mall in Schaumburg, Illinois when my mother wanted me to walk down the stairs with her from the second floor to the first floor. I was so terrified, I proceeded to make my way down the staircase by sitting on my bottom and slowly sliding and bopping my butt down, one step at a time.

As a young teen and later as an adult, I was afraid to walk near any railing or half-wall that overlooked the floors below. Whether it was at a shopping mall, museum or library, if there was an area where you could look down over the lower floors, I walked as far away from that railing as possible.


Open staircases, stairways without railings and spiral staircases were always a no-no for me. The minute I stepped on them, I felt dizzy and woozy and couldn't wait to get off. I was so afraid to drive over bridges that my car would suddenly morph into The White Knuckle Express as I gripped the steering wheel to the point where the blood drained from my hands. With invisible blinders on, I would stare straight ahead and do the best I could to block out the drop that existed on either side of the bridge.

When I reached my early thirties, I decided it was time to conquer my fear of heights. My strategy for accomplishing this feat was to go rock climbing with friends. On the day of the climb, I was nervous but excited. The rock we were climbing was 60 feet in height, or about five to six stories high. Once I reached the plateau I would rappel 120 feet down the other side. As I slowly made my way up the cliff, grabbing for footholds and handholds, I focused only on the next step instead of the entire climb ahead of me. After rock climbing I was able to walk near the railings at the shopping malls and tackle most staircases.

When I arrived in Germany, Mario and I entered the house together for the first time and walked up the stairs to our levels of the house. The first thing I noticed was the open stairway that came down in the middle of the hallway and lead to a hatch-like door in the ceiling. I knew right away, from previous phone conversations, this must be the staircase leading up to the bedroom. I didn't say anything to Mario but I immediately thought "Oh god, I'm never going to make it up to the bedroom."


The stairs were terrifying. After Mario showed me around the first level, he asked if I wanted to see the upstairs. What was I supposed to say? "No, I'm too scared to climb the stairs." I quietly gulped a deep breath and prayed to god he would take the initiative and lead the way. Thankfully, he did.


Mario made his way up the stairs as if he was skipping along the sidewalk without a care in the world. As he ascended the stairs, my brain was rapidly calculating how many steps I had to get up before I would have something to hold onto for dear life. For a split second, I wondered if I would look like a moron if I climbed the stairs like a ladder, holding onto the step above me as I worked my way up. Deciding the answer to that question would be "yes", I stepped up onto the first step and continued to ascend the staircase. At the top of the stairs, I prayed that my lack of grace wouldn't overtake me, causing me to fall through the hatch because I knew if I tumbled down the stairs I would have to hide in the closet for the rest of my life in Germany.


In addition to the large bedroom at the top of the stairs, Mario had created private office space for me to use for work. I was so appreciative of the office space with it's L-shaped desk, room for my computer, family pictures and a nice-sized window for fresh air that I knew I had to come up and down the stairs. In addition to wanting to be able to sleep in the bed, the upstairs office was another reason to climb the Scary Stairs.


We turned from the office to go back downstairs and I was confronted with the fact that I would have to step through a hole in the ceiling with nothing to hang onto while trying to establish my footing on the steps.

"How do you go down the stairs?" I asked Mario. Again, he stepped onto the top step, without holding onto anything, and walked down as if he was stepping off a short curb onto the street. I knew, without a doubt, Mario's method of walking down the stairs was never going to work for me and I had to quickly figure out a way to get downstairs since the only bathroom in the house was on our first level.


For a split second, I considered going down the entire staircase on my rear end, just like I did at Woodfield Shopping Mall when I was four years old. Imagine how impressive and graceful it would look to see a grown woman in a dress bopping down the stairs on her butt? I couldn't embarrass and shame myself like that so I made a compromise. I sat down at the top of the hatch-style door so my feet touched the third step down. Then I gripped the sides of the hatch and walked down far enough until I reached the point where I didn't have to hold onto anything anymore. Luckily, Mario had gone on ahead of me, rather than standing there to witness the entire embarrassing episode.


On my fourth day I was still apprehensive about the stairs but the only other option available, besides climbing them, was to stay on the first floor for the rest of my life or stay upstairs forever and be forced to wear adult diapers.That afternoon, Mario was showing me something in the office upstairs and when he was finished, we proceeded to head toward the stairs. Usually, he keeps going once he reaches the first floor, but this time he turned around, saw me sitting at the stop of the steps and said to me in a puzzled voice "What are you doing?"

"This is how I always do it." I replied, matter-of-factly. Mario is too much of a gentleman to say anything but I'm certain he thinks I'm crazy...if not for my unique way of descending the Scary Stairs, then for another reason...and he's probably right.

Arriving in Germany

The flight from New York, New York to Dusseldorf, Germany on August 9th, 2010 was relaxing and surprisingly fast for a seven hour flight. As soon as I stepped onto the huge Air Berlin aircraft I was taken back to the beginning of August 1980 and the day my fellow classmates and I boarded the Lufthansa airplane to fly to Germany. Air Berlin's aircraft was similar in size with a wide middle seating section that had five seats in each row. The middle section was flanked by two smaller seating sections on each side with two seats in each row. I walked toward seat 25K, on the left side of the airplane, and could see in my mind's eye exactly where I had sat in 1980 with the other foreign exchange students around me.

I took my window seat and a man sat down next to me. I would find out later he was traveling to Turkey and had a three hour layover in Dusseldorf. I'm proud to say that I spoke only German to the flight attendant during meals and when asking questions. The only word I used in English was "chicken" because I had no idea how to say "chicken" in German. After a surprisingly delicious airline meal of chicken, potatoes, fresh bread, green beans, lemon cake and white wine, I closed my eyes and dozed on and off for 3 1/2 of the remaining six hours of the flight.

At 7:15am, Germany time, the plane landed and I was back in Germany for the first time in thirty years. The entire summer that Mario and I had spoke on the phone and made our plans I was never nervous but, now as I waited to exit the plane, butterflies flew frantically around inside my stomach.

Mario waited for me to the left of this area.

Because I was entering Germany from another country, I had to first go through customs and collect my luggage before I could see Mario. A large milk glass partition was all that separated me, standing in the baggage claim area, from Mario who was waiting for me behind the glass. Separated only by a glass partition and a distance of thirty feet, I knew he was there but couldn't see him. Anxiousness, excitement and an enormous sense of relief the day had finally arrived welled up inside me.

Suitcases of all sizes slowly came out onto the baggage claim conveyor belt. I watched, hoping my two suitcases would be amongst the first to show up. Minutes later, I was standing there still waiting for my luggage to come out when I heard the doors open behind me. At that moment, I knew if I turned around I would be able to see Mario but I also knew how difficult it would be for me to stay in the luggage area and continue to wait for my suitcases when I could so easily leave them behind and walk through the milk glass doors. Hard as it was, I kept my back turned and watched for my luggage until both suitcases were firmly in my hands and I could walk toward the doors.

My right hand grasped the handle on my large suitcase and my left hand curled around the handle of the medium-sized suitcase. I tilted the suitcases forward, onto their wheels, and simultaneously took my first step toward the waiting area while looking up and in that direction for the first time. Immediately, I caught Mario's wide smile and beautiful eyes. He waved at me and called my name and I couldn't believe I was finally there in person....not on the phone and not on the computer, but in Germany.

Mario stood there looking as handsome and wonderful as he did the day I left Germany thirty years ago. He wore a navy blue dress jacket and light blue button-down shirt with jeans and black dress shoes. But the thing that looked best about him was his beautiful smile. Finally, the gap of 5000 miles between us closed to ten feet, then eight feet, then six, then four and then he stepped forward, leaned down to hug me and in a heartbeat I was wrapped up in his arms. Mario and I were so giddy from finally being together and finally seeing each other that we kept looking at each other and laughing and smiling. The phrase "I can't believe it!" must have been repeated by one or the other of us several times between our first embrace and the moment we exited the airport.

I sat in Mario's car, holding the beautiful red roses he had given me and we chatted and held hands as he made his way out of Dusseldorf toward the small town where we would live together. From the highway, we weaved through the winding streets of the small town until, at last, we turned down the street to arrive home. Together, finally, we were home.

Leaving America

Lost Five Pounds at Ohare Airport

No, unfortunately not five physical pounds. I wish it were that easy because an instant loss of five pounds would really make my day.

My family and I arrived at the airport at 5am, Sunday, August 8th. I checked in at the ticket counter and was promptly informed my largest suitcase was five pounds over the weight limit. Ugh! After the packing woes I'd faced and conquered, everything was squeezed into the suitcase in a meticulous and precisely planned order. What the heck could I get rid of or send back home with my kids to drop the excess five pounds? Feeling pressured by the huge line forming behind me (at 5am on a Sunday morning?!), I found two things that would solve my dilemma: a stack of magazines or a large ziploc bag full of bottles of perfume. Ultimately, I chose to keep the magazines because I love to read and already had two bottles of perfume stashed elsewhere in my luggage. The reading material won out, in a heartbeat, over smelling good.

Ahhh...the Smells of Air Travel

I have an acute sense of smell. Most of the time, I have a great appreciation for this. I love the smell of lilacs in May, the scent of coconut-anything transports me to the beach instantly and fresh food smells allow me to enjoy the food without eating it.  Morning isn't morning without the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and who doesn't love the smell of a tiny, newborn baby as you gently kiss their skin? But there are times when I would love to be able to turn off my acute sense of smell since unpleasant aromas are just as strong to my sensitive nose as the smells I enjoy.

All was fine in the terminal as I waited for my flight. Coffee shops and restaurants were all around and the smell of breakfast and coffee wafted through the air. After a short delay, I finally boarded the plane and was immediately struck by the "smallness" of the cabin. At that point, I was only thinking of my physical comfort but, shortly thereafter, I"d be thinking of my olfactory comfort, too.

The first class section was decked out with individual pillows and blankets on each seat along with a small bottle of water. "Nice touch," I thought. Then I entered the coach section where my seat was located and was immediately assaulted by The Bad Breath Brigade. Oh lordy! Bad breath at any time of the day is not a good thing but, for some reason, my sense of smell is heightened even more in the morning and the onslaught of sinus breath, garlic breath, Everything Bagel breath and coffee breath just about knocked me back to the gate. I discretely tried not to breathe as I made my way to the back of the plane toward seat 19A. Thankfully, not many people were in the back of the cabin and my seatmate was a pleasant girl with equally pleasant breath. To ensure that I did not inadvertently become a member of The Bad Breathe Brigade I made sure to have an Altoid in my mouth the entire flight. Life is to precious to have to die a slow and agonizing death from suffocation at the hands of The Bad Breath Brigade. Word of advice to travelers: Carry mints, lifesavers, lollipops or even cough drops in case of a breath-related emergency. It happens to the best of us, but please don't let it happen in a small airplane! The flight crew won't allow me to hang my head out the little window in an effort to find some fresh air.

John F. Kennedy Airport

JFK Inernational Airport

It was my first time, ever, in New York City. Or New York, for that matter. Or even on the East Coast. Unfortunately, there wasn't much of a view outside the windows of the airport but the airport itself was huge with eight different terminals, more shops than you can imagine and plenty to keep a person busy. Since my layover at JFK was seven hours, I was thankful for so much to see and do.

After walking around for awhile with a 25 pound carry-on duffle bag slung over my shoulder, I was ready to find a seat and escape to the relaxation of my laptop computer. An eclectic group of people busied themselves around me as they wait for their flights, speaking in more accents and languages than I could count.  In one corner, a couple kissed for minutes on end...not a young couple, just a couple enjoying only each other despite the crowd around them. A large group of ten French-speaking people gathered around twice as many suitcases piled in a mound that closely resembled one of the Great Pyramids of Egypt. Alone stood a man, holding a bouquet of red roses. He wandered around the area, alternately looking for someone and texting. I was curious to see with whom he connected.

I had found a seat in a small grouping of about ten chairs, pushed closely together. When I sat down there, I was the only one sitting in the area...which is why I chose the location. A bit of peace and quiet and maybe some time to focus and write for awhile. Within five minutes a family of nine descended on the remainder of the area, speaking what sounded like Nigerian or Ethiopian. They were very animated with their hands as they spoke and I could tell this because I could see, from the corner of my eye, appendages flying about every which way. The group included five children who alternately ran around the seats in a make-shift game of tag, then sat down quickly when one of the adults took notice and hollered at them to sit. One little girl of about four years old, sat next to me once in awhile, peaking over at my computer.

I'd been at JFK for three hours before I was finally able to check in at the Air Berlin ticket counter at 2pm. From a seating area on the first floor, I made my way up to the third floor of Terminal 8 to check in at the Air Berlin ticket counter. Despite the fact that I'd arrived at the ticket counter fifteen minutes before it was open, the queue leading up to the ticket agents was completely full and then some. I joined the end of the line and began to people-watch as I inched my way forward. Right away, I noticed the Americans and Germans were dressed very similarly except for one man who, I never was able to determine as either German or American, was dressed in a madras plaid sport coat reminiscent of the used-car-salesman look of the 70s.

The people in line spoke a mix of German and English and, once in awhile, another language such as Italian and French would pop in. Reality struck me in the middle of the queue as it sunk in that soon, I would be surrounded by the German language more than any other language, including my native language of English. Though I had certainly considered all the changes and differences I would encounter once I moved to Germany, nothing makes those changes more real than experiencing them. Standing in the line to the Air Berlin ticket counter was a glimpse of things to come. For a second I was nervous, then I chose to let that nervousness go in favor of looking forward to all the new experiences I was about to encounter.

People have asked me frequently if I was nervous about going to Germany, especially as the day of departure drew closer. I kept saying "no." Even Mario had a hard time understanding how I could be "cool as a cucumber." But I was and I believe it's because I only get nervous about stupid, inconsequential things not worth getting nervous over or things that give me a bad feeling in my gut. Moving to Germany to be with Mario has neither been viewed by me as stupid or bad. In my heart of hearts and deep down in my soul, I know this for sure. When you are so sure of something, so sure of someone, there is no reason to be nervous.

ETA: Germany, Monday, August 9, 2010

The Summer of 2010 has both sped by like a NASCAR driver in the final lap and inched slowly along like molasses in January. Days have been filled with my work as a freelance writer, spending time with my family and preparing to move to Germany.

Daughter, Rachel & her boyfriend, John

In July, my family and I began what I refer to as "The Changing of the Guard." My daughter Rachel and her wonderful boyfriend, John, moved into the house to prepare to take over the home and become the new parents to my menagerie of furry friends. My son, Ethan, lives with them in what used to be my room. With important loose ends tied up, I was able to feel like the plans Mario and I were making were meant to be.

I started counting down the days left until I moved at Day 120. The week before I was to leave finally arrived and with it came all kinds of craziness and chaos. Four days before my flight departed, I came down with the stomach flu or had a case of food poisoning. As I lied in bed with pains worse than any of the three childbirth labors I'd ever experienced, I envisioned myself doubled over and writhing in pain in the airplane bathroom. If you've ever flown long enough to have to make a visit to the bathroom, you know an airplane is not the ideal place for you (or the other travelers) to have stomach issues. My trip, from start to finish, would last eighteen hours and I hoped, prayed and all but offered up a sacrifice to ensure I wouldn't be sick by the time the weekend arrived. Two days later, I was fine. While I'm sure stomach issues during travel would have made for hilarious blogging material (after the fact, not during!), I'm very thankful not to have had to deal with that!

When it comes to detail work, such as packing, I tend to find every excuse to stall and put it off. Not because I'm not good at detail work; but because I'm too thorough for my own good. Though I thought for a brief moment about packing the night before I left, I decided that might not be the best idea since, in effect, I was packing my whole life (or what I could take of it) for a very big move.

The Thursday before departing for Germany, my daughter stayed home from work to help me pack. "Let me try on all my clothes," I said to her, "and you tell me what looks good and what doesn't. Be brutally honest, please."

God forbid, I didn't want to arrive in Germany and have my boyfriend see me looking so horrific that he ran and hid behind the nearest ticket counter. Four and a half hours later, I had tried on every article of clothing I'd owned and gotten rid of two large trash bags full of unwanted clothing. I was so proud of myself for paring down like that and I was sure I'd have no problem putting what was left in my two small suitcases and one carry-on bag.

Brooklyn Bridge

If you believe I was able to fit everything into my luggage than I'd like to know if you're interested in buying the Brooklyn Bridge. I'm selling it for a rather reasonable price due to the economy. My suitcases were stuffed to the gills and half my clothing still sat in neat stacks all over my bed, awaiting its turn to be placed into the suitcases. I still hadn't even begun to pack toiletries or other non-clothing items. Begrudgingly, I went through everything I'd packed, weeded out even more clothing and stashed it away to be sent over later. In the end, I was able to procure a couple larger suitcases from my daughter's wonderful boyfriend. Some of my clothing still sits high on the shelf in the laundry room waiting to be brought or sent over at a later date. Fortunately, I have had two days to come to terms with that and make the decision that I will be able to go forth in life without a few shirts, pants and my favorite pair of fleecy, fluffy socks with the gray and white horizontal stripes.

Despite my still-overstuffed suitcases, I managed to pack a few things that are pretty ridiculous, no matter where you're going or what your length of stay. If I wracked my brain for hours to come up with logical explanations for this stuff, I don't know that I could be successful, so I'm just going to be honest and tell you sometimes I get an idea in my head and I have to stick with it or I get stressed out. With that in mind, here are some of the crazy things I've managed to find room for or squeeze into my suitcases and my logic for why I need them:

• Twenty or so different American magazines I haven't had time to read in the past six to eight months. I'm figuring I'll have more time there and American magazines will be hard to find in Germany.
• My "Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits" CD even though I haven't listened to it in years. I have no reason for this, logical or otherwise. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
• A small tub of wheatgrass juice powder. I'm concerned I will have a hard time finding health food stores in Germany even though my boyfriend assures me they have stores and streets in Germany and eat with a knife and fork, just like we do in America.

• An ice cube tray. Just one. It's blue. Mario doesn't have any ice cube trays and while I'm sure they sell them in Germany, if I want or need to make ice right away, I will be prepared. As a former girl scout leader I know and understand the importance of always being prepared.

It is the night before my flight and I can hardly believe I am leaving for Germany early tomorrow morning. The next couple days mark the beginning of the next leg of this fantastic journey I'm on, called Life. Rather than saying good bye to family and friends, I've chosen to say "I'll see you soon."

"Yes"

There are times in life when it's a good idea to be practical and think in logical terms. Then there are other times when practicalities and logic place limitations upon us. This was one time that fell into the latter category. So, Mario and I spoke different languages...so we lived 5000 miles apart...so we hadn't seen each other in awhile. These three factors could serve as valid reasons for not pursuing a relationship with each other or they could prove to limit us and prevent us both from experiencing some of the greatest love and happiness of our lives. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered why I had ever limited myself with such beliefs in the first place. Yes, the obstacles Mario and I would face were a bit bigger than other couples, but an obstacle is an obstacle and you choose to either work through it or let it take control of you.

When I emailed Mario and told him I had regretted the decision I'd made the summer before and wondered if he would still be interested in trying again, he didn't hesitate to say "yes." A flurry of emails lead to our first phone call ever, where I heard Mario's voice for the first time in almost thirty years and heard him tell me the words we had been too shy to say to one another in August 1980, "I love you." We made plans for me to visit Mario in Germany in August 2010. After awhile, it became clear that for me to come visit him for a week or two, then leave all over again would be next to unbearable for the both of us. So the plans for me to visit evolved, too.

Is it possible that the love you feel for someone can lie dormant for years; a lifetime even, waiting to be awakened? Or had we fallen in love for a second time? Can two people be destined to be together to such a degree that they don't need years to figure it out? I believe the answer to all of these questions is "yes."

Social protocol would have had us corresponding through email, talking on the phone and traveling back and forth to visit each other for a year or so, then spending another year deciding if our relationship was going to make it and what logistics would give us the best chance. But when you feel that you've already lost thirty years, social protocol flies out the window, along with anything else falling into the category of "What Other People Think." Sure, my children's thoughts on the situation were important and they asked intelligent, valid questions and I gave them honest answers. Without hesitation, my children told me they wanted me to be happy and if this was what I wanted then I had their full support. That was all that mattered to me.

In May 2010, after discussing the possibility of Mario moving to the United States and me moving to Germany, we decided we would give Germany a try first. The days since then have been filled with talking about important details and discussing the inconsequential little things that made us who we are. Mario and I have laughed together, he's listened to me cry, we've argued and through it all our love has grown. Every once in awhile one of us will get a reality check and say to the other, "We'll be together in X amount of days...after thirty years! It's a crazy story!" And, yes, it is a crazy story. But it's our story and we wake up each day and say "yes" to continuing this crazy story of ours.

Mary, 1980

Mary, 2010

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Mario, 1980

Mario, 2010

Facebook Friend Request

"Mario Linssen has requested to add you as a friend on Facebook." Oh my god. I hadn't seen or heard from Mario in twenty-nine years. I still had our picture from 1980 and would take it out, along with other pictures, and look at it once in awhile and think about him. But I never expected to hear from the guy who I'd decided, back in 1980, had never loved me. Now, here I was going through my email only to get the shock of my life to see Mario's name there.

Without hesitation I confirmed Mario as a friend on Facebook and shortly thereafter he sent me an email. His English was much better than in 1980, which was good because my German was non-existent. In his first email, he mentioned to me that he had looked for me throughout the years, by way of the internet and through friends that lived in America. Though he never had success in finding me, every once in awhile he would look again.

A few days later, Mario sent me a second email and, again, I was blown away by his words and feelings. He reiterated that he had looked for me throughout the years and had never forgotten about me. In one fell swoop, he stated that he remembered our feelings from twenty-nine years ago and wondered if we could try again.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. In my wildest dreams I never would have imagined Mario ever thought of me at all in the past twenty-nine years. Nor would I have believed that he remembered or even cared about our feelings for each other in 1980. He never wrote me back in 1980. To me, that pretty much said it all.

I was flabbergasted by Mario's admission of feelings and the question of whether or not we could try our relationship again. Despite my initial reaction, I decided to think about it for a couple days before I replied.

A few days later, I emailed Mario and told him that I felt it had been so many years since we were together that we were two different people now. We didn't know each other anymore, we spoke different languages and we were thousands of miles away from each other. In my mind, I could see no logical or rational way for us to have anything more than a friendship and that was what I told Mario: "I think it would be best if we were just friends."

Mario and I commented on each other's Facebook status occasionally, but other than that we didn't exchange many emails. I felt he might be disappointed with my decision not to want to try a relationship again but I was busy starting a new business and moving to another state and didn't have a lot of time think about it. Despite that, I found myself always checking to see what he had to say on Facebook and was always very happy when he commented on something I had said.

The excitement of all the positive changes going on in my life came to a screeching crash, literally and figuratively, when in late October 2009 I was in a bad car accident. It is amazing to what degree your life can change in a matter of seconds. Even though the outside world saw only my physical injuries, the emotional scars and the thoughts and dreams of the car accident turned my world upside down. And as if that wasn't enough, the downward spiral that began when my car was T-boned continued as I lost my business, my home and all my money.

By Christmas time I was so distraught and hopeless, I was finding it difficult to make it through each day. My family was over 1000 miles away and I had no support system. Christmas night I went to sleep and prayed that I would not wake up.

When I next opened my eyes, I could tell it was morning and I was still in my home in Florida. I got out of bed, fixed my coffee and sat down to turn on the computer. In the darkness of the computer screen I caught a glimpse of a reflection. The face that stared back at me was lifeless, empty, and sad...a shell of her former self. For what felt like an eternity, I stared back at my reflection and wondered how I had gotten become that person and wondered where was the real me. How had I gone from being a young, energetic, happy and successful woman to this empty tomb with the lifeless, sunken-in eyes? In that moment, I had an revelation. I knew I could not continue like that for one more day...muddling through each day, trying to muster up the will to live. I had to find that positive, optimistic, energetic, caring and vibrant person who had moved to Florida five short months earlier.

One month later, I packed a few things in my car and left to go back to my family in Illinois with nothing more to my name than the $160 gas money I'd scraped together. I wasn't sure if I could stay in Illinois permanently because I was still seeing doctors and therapists for my accident injuries, but I knew being surrounded by people who loved and cared for me would help me turn myself around.

Never under estimate the ability of love and sincere kindness to heal, both physically and emotionally. From the moment I came back home to Illinois, spent time with my kids and made the effort to surround myself with positive, loving people I slowly began to transform back into the person I knew I was. As my inner strength grew, I became physically stronger, too. As I regained my confidence and sense of self, I came to realize that I could handle my situation in one of two ways:

• I could allow myself to succumb to the circumstances that had become my life: no money, no job, physical injuries and emotional scars, or
• I could look at the situation as an opportunity to start fresh, with a completely clean and empty slate, open to the possibilities of whatever lied ahead of me and with the assurance that it could only be good. 

Without a moment's hesitation, I chose the latter and began to slowly rebuild my life. Each day I reached out to connect with people who would inspire me and encourage me. Each morning, I woke up and looked for work. Slowly, the pieces of my life began to fall into place. Though I was far from recovering, physically or financially, I was stronger emotionally and finally felt a strong sense of direction...as if I had somehow gotten off-track for several months, but was finally back on.

Each evening, I would sit down at my computer and wind down by checking Facebook. In recent weeks, I had found myself checking Mario's statuses more and more and, eventually, caught myself checking to see if his relationship status had changed from "single." This continued for almost a month when I finally said to myself "One of these days, his relationship status is going to change to 'In a Relationship' and you're going to be devastated."

For months, the regret of telling Mario we should just be friends had been building and it was time to either do something about it or let go of it altogether. After thinking about it for a few days, I sat down and wrote Mario an email.