Friday, 4:41 p.m. It’s a strange time of the day.

Any weekday at 4:41 p.m. is a time that the average person doesn’t get to consciously, thoroughly experience unless he’s ill, injured, on holiday or self employed, calling his own shots and blissfully time-card-and-crunch free. Cozily installed in our temporary apartment in Mitte, I watch the darkness bag and cinch in upon pale, sherbet-y hues of apricot and lavender. These are the last signs of a German sunset. I am all but one of the things that privilege a person to watch sunsets from her window in the much-too-early-for-sunlessness afternoon. I’m waiting on my work permit to start in at Zalando and spending a lot of time on the couch.

The past three days have been an exercise in patience and one of my least favorite things: sitting. The sitting’s further complicated by the fact that I also have very little patience for patience itself. Though my body is unwell, my most poignant corporeal fear is that my ass has experienced a tectonic spread from all of this damn sitting.

I have never been by nature a sitter. In fact, because I am an alpha do-er–a person who burns the candles frequently at both ends, who exercises most days a week, who historically has thrown to the wind doctors’ orders to “stay on crutches post surgery for at least five days!”–I’m forced now to recline, shuttling around a pack of Brussels sprouts to cool various regions of my left foot and lower leg at twenty-minute intervals. There’s been a lot of anti-inflammatory nomming and lots of whining to the saintly-patient Niels, plus a thereapeutic warming salve so burny and hot that I’ve rechristened it Devil Cream. There’s no reason I should have been running, but those ten kilometers felt like heaven mixed with a dash of badassity and absolute freedom. I ran. I ran for days on end, when, after last year’s spinal incident, I never thought I’d do so again.

This is totally the part where I’m supposed to say that it was silly, that I’ll never return to pounding the pavement or don my sexy running tights… but I’ve never been any good at lying. Give me a few more days to recuperate and I’ll probably be once more ajog. Or at least creakily stationary biking upstairs. My love of The Illicit and Unadvisable (and also the patented Caitlin Schiller slowjog) is too strong to keep me indoors.

As much as it pains me to admit it and for all the resisting I’ve done, I confess that this whole sitting thing has been sort of kind of agreeable a little. I guess. Although I’m no sitter, I’ve been voraciously cruising the internet, scouring the webz for inspiring home design blogs like this one, this one, and perhaps my all-time favorite, here. I’ve been reading in German and learning new words. I’ve been reading in English and falling in love with Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections (holy God, have you read this man’s prose? the verbal imagery is so fresh, so brain-bustingly new and tantalizing and addicting that I’m already scared for the novel to be over!). I’ve drunk perhaps half my body weight in Vanilla Green Tea (which I’ve never found to exist in the U.S. but really should). I’ve discovered new music in the form of Dear Reader and Lucy Rose, purchased concert tickets to see her and Bombay Bicycle club the weekend after next, tiled up an entire Pinterest board of home elements I hope to someday make my own through the steady amassing of paychecks, and  grown progressively more excited about the prospect of snagging the keys to Niels’ and my first ever home next Tuesday. Also, I really, really want candy. Any kind’ll do, but if it comes with chocolate, peanut butter or some sort of salty caramelized element, I’ll be all the more jazzed.

In addition to Olympic, XXL-style liquid consumption and sky-gazing, I’ve also been tapping away at the beginnings of a freelance project for a client about whom I’m really, really excited. An organic dairy farm in Vermont, Kimball Brook Farm has the sort of people behind it who call to mind the terms, “salt of the earth” and “American Dream” in the most profound and meaningful way imaginable. I’m honored to be working alongside my friends John and Kat of fourfivesix, writing copy for the new Kimball Brook Farms’ webspace that they’ll design. It feels good to have a project that I feel so good about and to work with people I love.

I’m not sure how much house arrest this weekend will involve, but I’m hoping to the gods of healthy ankles everywhere that it’ll allow me to get out and into this beautiful, wide, chilly and vibrant city into which I’ve been happily plunked. Brunch at Dashka in Friedrichshain is that point of light, camembert, and glorious German rolls toward which I’ll concentrate my energies, and in the meantime, there will be more posts on house hunting and home-finding, plus a little introduction to the Madan/Schiller ‘stead.

Enjoy the links and happy weekend, y’all. Bis super gleich.


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