Image source: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1d/Stolperstein_Flughafenstr_41_%28Neuk%C3%B6%29_Rosalie_Drucker.jpg

11:30 pm, Berlin, Wednesday night.
Daniel is in town from Jerusalem.
After a saddening discussion about world politics we leave the house.
For a few moments we remain silent. Rain soaks through my jacket. I wrap my arms around myself. The sidewalks are empty. Where is everyone? The only people we pass are an old lady with her dog and a couple making out in a corner. No cars either. For today Neukölln has fallen quiet.
We make our way on to Flughafenstraße. My mind zooms out. The aftertaste of our conversation is bitter and scary. Threats, stabbings, bombs. World War III? I swallow and search my head for happier thoughts. 
Daniel's voice brings me back to the moment. He has started to sing. Quietly, softly. I am surprised at the sound of his voice. He must be trained. His singing is gentle yet clear.
Once he notices my listening he interrupts himself, “This is a Shabbat song”.
Then he continues, louder than before. His expression while forming the syllables looks like he is stroking his favorite pet, or tasting his favorite dish. His smile narrows his eyes and deepens his laughter lines. I ask him to stand still for a moment. I want to listen, only listen. I close my eyes. My arms release their wrapping. I rest my hands in my pockets. They feel warm. 
Daniel’s singing style, the words, the feeling he puts into it take me back to the calm of the Old City in Jerusalem. Lightness. Wideness. Silence. I remember the way the sun shone on my face while strolling through the narrow alleys. Then another image pops up in my head: My confirmation, the moment when the minister laid his hands on my head and said a prayer. It is like Daniel’s song is blessing me. I get goosebumps on my arms. My collarbones tickle.
When I open my eyes I see someone passing behind Daniel. The person wears a long, black coat and a headscarf. It is a Muslim woman. She pauses and looks at us. For a moment she listens. There is a smile on her face.
A thought strikes me: Three houses down the road there is a Stolperstein, reminding passers by that a Jewish person lived in the building before being killed in a concentration camp. 
75 years ago this would have been impossible. A Jew singing a Shabbat song on the street in Berlin would have resembled his death sentence. Today he enchants a Christian and a Muslim with his song. For a few bars the three of us are connected. I swallow again, this time choked up. 
Daniel takes my hand. We dance in the rain. 
Maybe peace is not so difficult.



Read about our initial encounter here.

Who? 
Yoni and Micki
Where? 
Berlin, Germany
What? 
To Yoni: "Your eyes continually say, I am with you. I see you. when you listen. It's like they provide a warm, gentle ground for me to walk on with the words I share with you. " and "I love your presence and your ability to communicate your perspective." 
To Micki: "Your energy level is exceptional. You have an overall drive that I have not encountered in anyone else so far." and: "Your sense of humor is great. Edgy, provocative. It brings friction. That's awesome."
How did they react? 
They said thanks- and complimented me in return! (Read below)
How did I feel? 
They were each other's antitheses. Together they made for a summer storm, with Micki representing the lightning and Yoni the warm raindrops. They were Schubert's death and a maiden quartet, in which Micki covered parts of the fourth movement and Yoni parts of the second. Micki was shimmering metal, Yoni smooth wood; Micki spicy vodka and Yoni mellow red wine; Micki a roaring waterfall and Yoni the moss and soil around it; They were this painting and this one.

Complementary couples are a classic. John Lennon and Paul McCartney, Calvin and Hobbes, Laurel and Hardy -- they all shared big love. At first Yoni and Micki seemed like a mere add to that collection and I did not wonder at the bromance vibes from their table at a Berlin restaurant where I sat next to them. They were both casually relaxing on their bench, sometimes speaking, sometimes silently enjoying their food. I could tell by their postures that they were comfortable around each other. However when I started talking to them they surprised me, for blond and light-eyed Micki was more than just dark-haired, brown-eyed Yoni's brotha from anotha motha. He was, well, his brotha from the same motha. The two of them were siblings. Now I am not saying being related means looking alike. I, too, have seen families with different hair colors before. But Micki and Yoni's outer disparity transcended their features. Their body languages differed, and even their English accents sounded like they had been raised in two families far away from each other (they did not as I learned that night. But that's a different story). Soon I realized that their distinctness in looks and sounds applied to their ways of being, too. Calm Yoni, the younger one, did a great job listening to energetic spokesman Micki. Micki's voice was clear and plainly audible. He referred to at least three artists, thinkers and historians per sentence, and there was always something left for him to say. His eyes radiated with vigor. Yoni's speaking on the other hand was fine. There were pauses in his statements, and multiple "I feel"s and "I'm noticing"s. His eyes said, you are welcome and I am listening at all times.  For a few moments I wondered if Yoni got knocked down by Micki's share of conversation. But as our chat carried on I started to believe the answer to that was no, as I began to notice their subtle cues, declaring their love for each other between the lines. There were several occasions in which Yoni did raise his voice- and Micki listened instantly, respect and interest written all over his face. While Micki talked Yoni's eyes did not hold hidden hard feelings. They reflected love. The way they functioned as a team impressed me. I saw fondness in their expressions when facing their own antipole in their brother's body. Mutual appreciation appeared to be their common territory. Neither of them seemed inferior. They were just -- different. And they let each other be. I figured that they probably loved each other enough, plus they were mature enough, to realize that an antithesis can be a great point of reference and growth, especially when it is a personified one. 
While initially I had sat down at their table because they had told me they had both studied at UC Berkeley (my personal number one school) and both spent their days writing (my personal number one activity) in our in-passing-small talk, I ended up staying all night because their quality of acceptance, their broad smiles, Micki's never ending stream of ideas and references and Yoni's intellect and heartfelt presence added up to be a perfect breeding ground for a conversation. I probably said, "I'll go in a second, I just need to tell you one last thing/ask one last question/share one last impression.", at least ten times. Our topics went from the question as to whether Berkeley equals J. Butler's bubble, through controversies in branding of Yoga styles, through writing techniques and experiences, through porn paradoxes, through traveling stories and takeaways, through praising the peace and quiet of Sabbath, through beer tasting, all the way to family history. 

When three hours into our encounter they brought up their parents I took up my observations from the beginning concerning the contrast between them. I wondered what they had been like as kids and thought about whether their differences in character had grown through their togetherness (because it is said that siblings always pick niches to dissociate themselves from each other) or if they had started growing apart in their ways of being once Micki had left the US 11 years ago. I assumed that there had had to be a time, years back, when they had had fights. When maybe Micki had been one shutting up Yoni- or the other way around. Nothing crazy, just the way siblings are. My own baby sister Clara came to mind. I remembered our week long wars, and how we still sometimes get on each other's nerves. I sure had been the one to shut Clara up back in the days. In return she had found her ways to terrorize me. However as I contemplated on Clara and my relationship I realized there has been a sort of growth into a mutual appreciation similar to Yoni's and Micki's vibe. Nowadays we get along. We are not each other's anti poles the way Yoni and Micki seemed to me that night, but we sure are different enough. Without a doubt our bond has developed, as back in the days I would call her names on a regular basis while today I miss her every day that I don't see her, and I am capable of expressing that. But there is a difference between the way I treat Clara and what I observed between Yoni and Micki. My sister and I meet in our similarities. We put our differences aside for the time we spend together. We let each other be, sure, but there is times when we deliberately ignore the parts of ourselves we know the other one cannot relate to. Contrary to that Micki and Yoni seemed to immerse in their differences. I felt like they cherished their contrasts, even those that did not just complement each other but with any other couple would have triggered conflict. They embraced friction. That way the friction turned into a source for invigorating moments, interesting chats and inspiring chains of thought for me. Watching Micki and Yoni and comparing their togetherness with Clara's and mine motivated my setting an intention: I want to treasure the contrasts between Clara and me more, and I want to show her more of the parts of me which I believe drive us away from each other. I can't wait to see where this will lead us to.
Micki and Yoni are seven years older than Clara and I. If in 2022 my sister and I manage to display and celebrate our differences as much as Micki and Yoni do I will pat both of us on the back. Thanks, Yoni and Micki, for inspiring this! And thanks for recklessly living your unique qualities. Sharing your company I had a blast. 
Anthing else?
Yeah! The most beautiful moment that night was the compliment-round we finished our encounter with. I complimented the two of them separate from each other (read above) and they paid me compliments in return. Yoni said, "You are always present when interacting with someone. You're one hundred percent there. There is never wasted time with you." My jaw sagged when I heard that. It was one of the most wonderful statements about me I had ever received.  Micki's equally beautiful compliment was, "There is a positive strength in you which I like a lot. Just the fact that you are going through with this compliment-project even when you don't feel like it, that you stick with it, already proves that you have this affirmative spirit which does not just exist but which you deliberately decide for." 
Two moving gifts in words which I took home with me. i have been replaying them in my head several times ever since that night. 
Even more?
The next day I had a wonderful press encounter with Sven Preger in which I talked about Yoni and Micki, too. You can listen to it online here.

Who? 
Stephan
Where? 
Berlin, Germany
What? 
"You are the most inspiring person I know. And that's just one of the beauties you are to me."
How did he react?
He has not yet. 
How did I feel? 
He hates when I call him dad by choice. He says it makes him feel old. No, he is not young. Last week he even turned another year older. It must have been his least favorite day of 2105. Now he is sixty. 
I don't care. He could be 45 or 86, to me it would not make a difference. Stephan represents everything but a number of years to me. Anyways, happy birthday, Stephan. No worries, I'll shut up about how many summers your body has seen from here. Promise.
Instead I shall focus on everything else. I want to seize this opportunity to share what you are to me.

Did you know you have a fan club? You do. A big one. No, not your readership. Not your colleagues, nor your students. All those people admire you, too, but I'm talking about a different group. There are about fifty of them who have never met you but are dying to do so. They live in different parts of the world. They speak different languages and are of different age. At the end of the day they only share one thing: Me. I am either their friend or family. I have talked to them about you. They have seen the way my eyes glow and my gestures grow when I describe you. If you ask them about Stephan, they will say, "That guy Rosa told me about? Yeah, he sounded like one amazing person! She's so lucky to have him in her life." And they are right, I absolutely am. Why? 

Because you bring back life. A few months back I was going through a rough time. Spirals of thoughts blocked my view of people's hearts and life's ease. One night I went to a talk of yours, it was a lecture about education innovation. For two hours you proclaimed change. Change in teaching, change in learning, change in the system. I did not agree with everything you said -- But that did not matter. It was not the content, at least not for me, that took my breath away. It was your vibe. The endless joy, hope and motivation you stirred. The continuous "We can (make this happen)!" in your eyes, even though you had heard "This is impossible." from countless people before. Your enthusiasm and your certainty. You spread so much zest for life that evening so that when I left the intense look on my face before had made way for a smile. It was like you had been beating the drums whose rhythm said "Let's arouse education!" for two hours. Their sound had not only made critics of yours stop shake their head and instead get up and dance to your music, it had even blown away my overall doubts in life and made space for delight. This brings me to the next: 

Here you see fireworks of joy. That is what it feels like when you bring back life.
Because you are the most inspiring person I have ever met. The lecture-night uplift was not a one time experience. In fact the moment I entered the hall I saw it coming for it had happened countless times before. Words can't live up to the feeling you trigger but I'll give it a shot nonetheless:
When you talk to me, or we merely share each other's presence, it feels like you release a monster wave that catches me and absorbs me for a moment. That wave consists of light bulbs. A light bulb eagre. While I am surrounded by the bulbs everything inside of me is shaken thoroughly, every thought, every memory, every limitation. At the same time thousands of volt are pumped through my pores as the light bulbs' fluorescent brightness diffuses through my skin. Once our conversation is over and we part the light bulbs move on. And I am left with a crazy amount of volt vibrating inside me and my patterns of thinking mixed up. I remember the first time this happened I spent the next six hours after talking to you cleaning my apartment, running 20 kilometers, and biking another 20. I was bursting with energy and kept looking for a way to channel it. Until finally, that same night at 3 am, I sat down and started writing. It helped. I entered the same flow writing that consumes most of my time today and without which I could not live anymore. Afterwards I felt relieved. The amount of volt in my body had decreased to its average. By now I have understood: In order to release the light bulb energy you trigger I have to do something creative. In other words, you are my creativity gas station. 
Because you manifest the impossible. You do not only trigger creativity, you live it yourself. And you dare to go through with your brain storms: While other people have insane ideas and forget about them again you have insane ideas and spark their manifestation. One of your favorite sayings is, "Everyone said, it is impossible. Until someone came along who didn't know. And he just did that which the others considered impossible." That person is you, almost. The only difference: You do know what everyone else says. And you go for the seemingly impossible anyway. You kick off a bad ass NGO, a high end internet page that makes peoples' lives easier, a tool that organizes one's brainpower- and those are just a few examples. Because your ideas do work. In fact you are probably the most successful person I know, holding chairs at two universities next to everything else you do. The sum of your activities and the fact that it is just one person doing all of those already is a way of manifesting the impossible to me. 
Because you believe. In order to stand up for new ideas, you do the crawl through seas of resistance and stick out phases in which your ideas do not take off for whatever reason you have to have the strongest belief. You prove that every day, just by doing what you are doing. I admire how you neither take those down phases nor criticism, even when it is destructive, personally. You just keep believing and march on. 
Because of who you see in me. At school I always speak my mind. I am not afraid to fire away questions, doubts, ideas, or associations, no matter if I am listening to a student presentation or a guest lecture of an academic star. The reason for that: You. Ever since I started studying at university I have never been afraid to raise my hand. Although only years before I would not have said out loud what I was not sure the teacher wanted to hear. Self doubt used to shut me up. You taught me that I have got something to say. All it took for me to realize that was one moment. 
Three years ago, I was 20, I sat in on a meeting you held. I had just started working for you as an online researcher, straight out of high school I had been lucky to get the job in your office. The day of the meeting you discussed a matter you were going to advise German chancellor Merkel in, together with well known scientists, professors and other specialists. When you told me I was invited to sit in I burst with excitement. I had never experienced people like the ones present live before. I entered the room, grabbed a chair and hid in the back. Shortly after you and your guests sat down around the table. You looked at me and said, "Please, Rosa, come sit with us." For a moment I was not sure you had meant me. But since there was no one else in the room I got up and tiptoed to a free seat. Then you started. For the next hour I soaked in every word. The atmosphere was positive, each person's contributions were considered and appreciated. At some point, during a monologue of yours, I was so hooked by the discussion that I forgot about the context and my position. For a split second my hand went up. As soon as I realized I put it back down. But you had noticed the movement, interrupted your speech, turned to me and said, "Please, Rosa, share your mind with us." Your eyes were an invitation. Please, Rosa, share your mind with us. I will never forget that. You, my boss who I admired immensely, considered me worthy of speaking up in front of these people. You did not care that I was not even an undergraduate student yet. You provided space for me to unfold whatever thought construct I held inside, and you trusted that there was enough to hand over to me.
Following that day, when there were times in which I found it hard to trust my intuition because big names shut me up, your image has risen in my mind and reminded me, "Please, Rosa, share you mind." Even if it meant ignoring hierarchies and openly expressing doubts towards authorities present. Because of that statement of yours in the back of my head I am never alone speaking up, no matter how big the room. You are there, somewhere, reassuring me. So I contribute. 
Over the years you have insinuated over and over again that there is potential in me. Little of what I have the confidence to do today, and maybe nothing of the way that I am doing it in, would exist without you. 

Because of your generosity. You did not just support me in spirit, you also shared with me so many material things. I don't know what to say except for: Thank you so much, for making things easier and endowing me with unforgettable experiences in Berlin and elsewhere. 
Because of your selflessness. Being generous is one thing, being selfless is another. Whatever you offered me you always made it clear that there is no potential disappointment from your side attached. Pointing me in a direction you would stress every time that it was my decision to take that road or leave it; That supporting me was about me, not you. I consider that an outstanding trait of yours. 
Because you are there. Staying in touch with you is a challenge. Months can go by without hearing from you. You are a busy man. But if worst comes to worst you are there. Instantly. There have been international calls, emails and messages during emergencies or life changing decision moments of mine. No matter where you are, you find the time to talk if necessary. Again, it is hard to find the right words for my gratitude other than: Thank you. 
Because of your love for your kids. I was not there when they were little, neither am I around when I am not there (crazy, right?). But I know the look in your eyes when you talk about one of your children. Gentle, deep, endless love. And pride. Every word you hear from them echos in your heart. That's what I sense. If I ever will be able to display and communicate the love for my kids the way you do I will pat myself on the back. Big time. 
Because you have the coolest family ever. Being father to an amazing family is an achievement. So congratulations not only on loving your kids - who by the way are two wonderful, talented, open-hearted people - but also being married to the strongest, smartest and most impressive woman. Most of all though, and this goes to all four of you, hats off for the vibe you guys spread when in the same room: Clarity, a down-to-earth sense of humor, openness, curiosity and honesty. 

Because your spirit feels like home. Consciousness + Abstract thinking + Creativity + Progressiveness + Pragmatism + Clarity + Love + Playfulness / Social and environmental problems = Your realm. When I first encountered that formula in your work I was speechless. You unfolded the most sophisticated structures, simplified them again, then applied them solving problems in the world. During our very first conversation -- my job interview --, as I slowly understood your focus, I felt my shoulders release and my forehead soften. I was equally calm and bursting with excitement. And I knew: I had found an intellectual home. 
Because you stick around. It has been four years since that first time we met. You are still there. Spreading your greatness, inspiring me, helping me out, showing me new parts of you and me every time we meet. 
It is easy to take a revolving door in and out of someone's life, especially in our age. A moment of mutual inspiration, impressing each other, being your best self. I love momentary encounters, obviously. Look at this project. However I believe that staying and making a difference over time is the real deal. There might be nothing I value more highly. 
Because of the journey that lies behind you. Sixty years are quite some time. I don’t know much about where you started back in 1955. However I do know enough to figure that your journey has been anything but struggle free, and a long one. No one starts out where they are at sixty years later, but there is only a few people who evolve as continually and rapidly as you do. Thank you for keeping going. Not just for your own sake but also because the work you do with yourself is a gift to the world; As are you. 
Because you connect me with eternity. We don’t do it often but when we meditate together you ground me. I give in to processes and pain I don’t have access to when I sit and close my eyes alone. Your presence is the phone I pick up to have a juicy chat with the universe. 

Who? 
Anne
Where? 
Istanbul, Turkey
What? 
"This was a wonderful statement right there."
How did she react? 
"Thanks. It's just what I observed."
How did I feel? 
Two girls, four hours of strolling through Istanbul, seven hills to climb to the sea, and hundreds of waves coming in at the shore. Totaled up this equals: A conversation about everything. Everything. From life to death. From love to hate. From women to men -- and everything in between. In the case of the latter, literally: 
Anne studies art in Istanbul for one semester. At one point in our chat she told me about a life drawing course in which the current model is a transsexual. The person has (female) breasts and a penis. She has been posing for the class repeatedly. I asked her, "What is it like drawing her or him? For you, I mean?" She remained silent for a moment. Then she said, "It changed over time. I remember when she - I think she considers herself a she - first posed I kept analyzing her body as I was drawing. I would look at her from different angles, thinking "Huh, this is a male feature." Or, "This, right there, looks pretty female." But now, a few sessions later, these thoughts don't come up anymore. I just look at her and go like, "This is a beautiful body." "
This is a beautiful body. No more, no less. I smiled and nodded. Anne's words came honestly and spontaneously. They were no planned speech nor politically correct rambling. She merely shared her experience. At the same time those three sentences were some of the wisest I had ever heard.
We have all been there: Put us in a new situation and we will start labeling. Female or male, big or small, beautiful or ugly, black or white, Jewish or Muslim, single or married, West Coast or East Coast, John Lennon or Paul McCartney. Right or wrong. 
Now I am not saying this is a bad thing in itself. Labeling things structures our environment. It helps us orientate in complex surroundings, decreases our feeling overwhelmed, even saves our lives sometimes: If you label the flames from your car as "dangerous" that might be helpful right there. Labeling is a means to survival. I believe it belongs in the same wonderful toolbox that contains fear, aggression, hate, anger, stubbornness and insecurity. The box with its instruments helps us realize our boundaries and stay within them. It reminds us who we are and teaches us about where we come from. But if we blindly use those instruments all the time we miss out. When and how to use which tool from the life savior box, and when not to use one at all, is maybe the most valuable lesson to learn.
To me Anne's story sounded like she had been bringing tools to her class. A ruler, maybe the triangle, too. Measuring and categorizing the model she had not only gauged her proportions, but also the quality of her features. One of her rulers' scales had divided "male" and "female". For a few weeks she had spent the class classifying the body in front of her. Until one day, without Anne noticing, she had left the male/female ruler inside the toolbox. It had become superfluous. At this point she had labeled the model often enough. That day, because she was not busy measuring anymore, she had started enjoying the view. "Now I just look at her and think, what a beautiful body."

My favorite part about Anne's words: She was not giving me shit. Anyone can say "It don't matter if you're black or white." or "Transsexual? Why not?" without ever having been in touch with a transsexual or someone facing similar problems in society- just through understanding that it is logical to support Black Lives Matter or LGBT rights. And sure, having an open mindset is a good thing to start with. But a pluralistic attitude is not the same as personal experience. Being in touch with someone or something new, going through irritation, resistance, measuring, fear of the unknown and being honest about that will lead to a different way of embarking on the person or the surrounding. There is a different depth to a statement like "What a beautiful body" after a process that includes being weirded out. Anne's story illustrated that rather than proclaiming tolerance and openness admitting irritation and judgement to oneself and others can open up a whole different dimension of insight and growth- if there is time and space to encounter that which is new and overwhelming. Be it a look, a person, a place, a feeling or a state. Oftentimes admitting these sensations requires trust. Not just trust in the process but also trust in yourself and your interlocutor. Again, because of a label: Being irritated is not cool. For who likes to admit they are weirded out at the sight of a penis that comes with a pair of boobs dangling above it, in 2015? Saying that out loud will cause at least one disgusted look, one "Go back to the fifties!" or one "You are an ignorant asshole!". But you are not. Admitting and walking through irritation, making use of the tools in your box like the male/female ruler, allowing yourself to do that, reminds me of WIttgenstein's ladder. The one you throw away after you have climbed it. Eventually you let the ladder go but you can't move upwards without the ladder. And you can't put the "male"/"female" ruler back into the toolbox unless you have picked it up before. Applying it does not mean claiming that its measurements, or any other of the toolbox's realities, equal the absolute truth. It does not mean going around and saying, "See, here she is female. Here she is male. And this part, aw well, hard to say. It kinda does not look human at all. Right?" But it means experiencing those thoughts awarely and allowing the thoughts to be (part of) your momentary truth. The same way that every new segment of a ladder you are climbing is your momentary truth. It means giving in to the process the way Anne did. Even if what you are experiencing seems wrong, bad, or evil. Be it thoughts, emotions, or ideas. And finally, it means trusting in that process even though you don't know what waits for you at the end.
I used to work for a professor who made a huge deal of being a feminist. At the same time he loved himself his hierarchies and made sure none of us female assistants questioned any of his claims and attitudes. But in theory he was a full on feminist. He would call in male staff to serve coffee at conferences so his guests would not assume he let women do the low skilled tasks (although all the secretaries and assistants at the institute were women while the people of high positions were men, without exception). That night, sipping bitter-sweet black tea by the sea with Anne, I thought of that former professor of mine. And I realized: I had learned more about feminism from Anne's life-drawing story about being real, even if that means going through "incorrect" stages, than from 1.5 years of working for the man with the polished feminist arguments.
I admire the way Anne gave in, allowed, trusted, and shared her experience with me. Her curiosity, acceptance and overall perspective were gifts to me. In the two weeks since we have met I have thought of her each time I felt irritated, and while I tried to immerse in the irritation it did not translate to my face because the memory of Anne occupied my mouth, causing my broadest smile.





The next morning, as I headed to the airport, I took pictures of the hills Anne and I had climbed on our way to the sea: 

Who? 
Michal 
Where? 
Istanbul, Turkey
What? 
"You are a great chef! This is plain delicious."
How did she react? 
She grinned, said, "Thanks!", and added "Yeah, cooking is my new way of restoring." 
How did I feel? 
Facebook rocks. Not for stealing your time, snooping into your data or letting acquaintances you haven't seen in ages dump nationalist articles on your News Feed. Not for being a scarily rich and thus powerful enterprise either. No. I find it amazing because it connects. Now that's old. I know. Everyone finds, stalks and connects with people. Be they from the past, present and potential future. However in the case of this story it was different. I made friends with a friend of a Facebook friend I had never met before. Here is what happened: 
Two months ago I used the social network to post a call for help, asking if anyone knew people in Istanbul. I had just booked my flights to Israel and my ticket said I was facing an overnight layover in Turkey. "Perfect", I thought, "This is a chance to inhale Istanbul again; If I find a host." So I quickly wrote a note that I did not want to sleep at the airport and pressed "Post". 
Two minutes after publishing my request the notifications sound went off. There was a comment under the post with a name tagged: Michal. I texted her. Next I went to the kitchen, fixed myself a snack and came back, about twenty minutes later. When I opened the browser the little blue globe on the right corner of the page had turned white. There was a red nine attached to it. Nine people had commented under my post. In less than thirty minutes. Nine names of friends' friends in Istanbul. I was blown away. Plus Michal had sent me a warmhearted message inviting me into her home. 
Fast forward to six weeks later: Arriving in Istanbul I read Michal's most recent message. She had sent me the most precise directions from the gate to the bus, including bus number, ticket price and destination. Once I had arrived in downtown Istanbul Michal picked me up and walked me to her building. In walking my Facebook contact turned into an energetic and humorous lady with warm eyes. Virtual vibes came to life. She gave me an introduction to her neighborhood and Istanbul in general, compared the city with Tel Aviv (not only my place of departure but also Michal's home town) and pointed out major cultural differences to me. Once we had reached her home she unlocked the door and said, "So, I hope you are hungry."  I nodded unsuspecting.
Half an hour later my taste buds found themselves on cloud nine. Sitting on pile of pillows I was enjoying the most delicious vegan meal. There was vegan chicken, oriental rice, fresh vegetables, and water with lemon and mint. Every ingredient had been draped in the most dedicated way. The look of the table translated into love: For food, for cooking, for eating, for Michal herself and her company. I was overwhelmed. Michal topped off her culinary culmination with a vegan cheesecake. While I was chewing in ecstasy I listened to her thoughts on music, living as an artist and busking. They were wise. Michal sings for a living, she and her band Light In Babylon play world music all around the globe. They started out on the streets and they continue to busk still. Because they believe art should happen in the midst of people's every day life. Lure people into dropping their stress, listening for a moment, and finding their smiles again. While Michal talked I nodded passionately. I, too, love busking. For the same reason: Encounters mean everything to me. In my relationships, in complimenting, in busking, but also in playing music in general, among the band members. That was what Michal and I agreed on next. Our craving for mutual support and acceptance in the professional music scene. Again, we both stressed the importance of encounters over judgement and ignorance. "When I play with someone else I want to explore potential instead of living up to expectations. Those moments in which you establish a sphere of trust and, yeah, love within the band and then everyone starts listening and expressing themselves in a whole different way -- these are plain magical.", I said. "Yeah", she answered, "I hear you." We smiled at each other. After a while Michal said, "You know what else I really learned to appreciate through establishing myself as a musician? Social media. The internet. I could never have gained the amount of attention and reached as many people as I have without Facebook. I think it is great that we don't depend on the  traditional ways of broadcasting anymore." I nodded. And grinned. Of course, Facebook. The frame for Michal and I's encounter. The get together in itself was anything but distant and tech-y. Social media set the course for an inspiring chat, a vegan feast, me being showered in Michal's hospitality and spontaneity; In short, a true encounter. So yes, thanks, Facebook, for making that possible- but all the more thanks, Michal. For everything else.

I did not take Raz' picture. Instead there are shots from Tel Aviv the day after I met Raz here and below the text. 
Who? 
Raz
Where? 
Between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, Israel
What? 
"I love your curiosity and helpfulness! Meeting you has been a treat."
How did he react? 
He nodded and said, "Thank you."
How did I feel? 
I met Raz on a bus. It was a late night towards the end of my time in Israel. While the driver steered the rattletrap through the streets of Jerusalem my head, heavy with tons of impressions, kept butting against the side window. Its thudding sounded like a base drum next to the car's clattering. Together my body and the vehicle made for a marching band with the street's knolls serving as a score. I craved sleep. Five minutes into the ride I decided against a steady lump on my forehead, left the little percussion group and gave up on the idea of resting. Fourteen year old Raz, who sat next to me, noticed me lift my head and open my eyes. He asked me, "Are you visiting?". Smothering a yawn I nodded. 
Raz' question initiated what was to become a one hour chat. With me being too tired to keep our dialog going Raz broke the silence each time we ran out of fodder for conversation. Candidly he found new topics to ask me about for two hours straight. His curiosity astonished me: I know boys who are his age, and not a single one of them would be down to twist their tongue looking for the correct English words to interrogate a random woman on a bus on what she studies, what her country is like and how her experience traveling his country has been. Neither would they reveal their dreams, hobbies and belief system to her. Raz did. He translated his daily prayers to me, explained how being religious did not rule out having a girlfriend, and that his friends and him had agreed on the rule "it is okay as long as no one sees it.". His eyes twinkled for the latter statement. When I asked him what he wanted to be when he is a grown up his answer came before I had finished my question, "A Capoeirist. I love Capoeira." I smiled, "Cool! Do you do it regularly?" "Yeah,", he said, "I go to class five times per week." "Five times!", I cried, "That is a lot! I am impressed." After a pause I added,"I think it is amazing how committed you are." He nodded, "Yeah. I believe sticking with things is the key to everything in life." For a moment I stared at him. Then I asked, "How old are you again!?" 
Though I disagreed with Raz' attitude on the Israel and Palestine conflict I was grateful he shared his standpoint with me. This way I learned about one Israeli teenager's political view. (No, I am not calling one person a significant number. And if there is one thing I learned in Israel it is that this country is unimaginably deeply divided on its political future. However one teenager's position is more than no teenager's position.) While Raz himself may not be significant for all of Israel's adolescents there was certainly something significant about him, even in our disagreement: His openness. Talking about Palestinians his voice sounded confident and his choice of words was absolute. "Never", "Impossible", "They" and "Us" were voiced several times. At first I was sure firmness had taken over the boy's curiosity now. But once I started raising critical questions he listened intently and engaged with my disagreement. 
I admired that. To me his candor, both in speaking and listening, was the leitmotif of our conversation. It lighted up when he told me about his favorite show, The Vampire Diaries, his dream destination, Brazil, and his family story. When we reached our destination Tel Aviv Raz openness reached its peak. He had asked me where I had to go and had found my connecting bus on his phone. As we got off the bus together he grabbed my bag for me and carried it down two blocks to the next bus stop. On the way we stopped at a red light. Raz pointed at it and said, "So I am not sure if they have this in Germany or the US. Here's how it works: If the light shines red you need to stop because then the cars cross. Once it switches to green you are good to go." For the second time that night I stared at Raz and remained silent. This kid, who had never left Israel in his entire life, was farsighted and empathetic enough to investigate his surrounding and warn a stranger like me about functions I might not be familiar with. A couple of moments later, when I had found my language again, I told him, "You are the sweetest and most considerate guy ever.". He shrugged, "I just don't want you to get hit by a car." 

Anything else?
Yup. A little realization: 
I took two weeks off from the blog. On purpose. Before the end of the year I decided to throw in a break which I did not plan to interrupt until I felt the urge to write again. Not from a sense of duty but from an authentic impulse. I wanted to seize the opportunity to liberate from the pressure to write which I had felt at times. A blurry mix of my own set of rules, a tight agenda, reader's expectations or my idea of them, excitement for the project and writing itself etc had been my companion at times while the sun had rose outside and I had been sitting in the kitchen, googling synonyms for a complimentee's uniqueness.
Today, after 14 days, I opened weebly again. Unexpectedly it did not happen because I suddenly died to write, at least not consciously. Instead I felt a sense of anger. I was upset, not because I missed sitting in the kitchen at night, or realizing that rather than sketching an encounter for a few minutes composing my impressions of someone had taken me five hours. It was because I craved going back to my commitment. 
Over the course of this year I have developed a relationship. Not just to the sole act of writing but to this specific format, to the way reliving the compliment encounters makes me connect with the world and last but not least to you, dear reader. To doing something I love. Writing this blog has become a part of me. I feel more me with it. Its routine has taught me tons not just about writing, complimenting and approaching people. I have learned about myself, my way of relating and my patterns as well. Through the interactions, yes, but also through the way I deal with my blog task.
A year-long project is an amazing teacher. That I know now. It sets a frame and provides stability. In times of change and uncertainty it is something to rely on. Simultaneously, at other times, it provides the sense of obligation discussed above- and the option to liberate from that. By taking this break I went from I have to (blog) back to I want to. I took a step towards adopting my world as my own. For me that was a major takeaway. I could not have gained that without my blog practice existing in the first place. I am glad that I picked blogging up again. If you happen to be thinking about starting this one thing, be it a blog, a band, a spiritual practice- anything that consists of regularity over a longer period of time and an activity you like here is my advice: Do it. It's worth it. 

Who? 
Dolev and Dvir
Where? 
A sweet little soup restaurant in Jerusalem, Israel 
What? 
"You guys are personified cuteness. Each time I looked at you from across the room I went like aaawwwh! At first I was reluctant to disturb the two of you but eventually the urge to meet you and share my mind was stronger..." 
How did they react? 
"Oh thank you! It is rare for someone to come and compliment you randomly. Really nice! Thanks." We chatted for a bit. I learned that Dolev (on the right) studies philosophy and economics and that Dvir is about to embark on a journey to the US. A few minutes into our conversation Dolev said, "Hey Rosa, do you know what hamud means?" "No.", I answered. Dolev grinned, "Hamud means cute. That word is you!" "Aaawwh!", I laughed, "Now you made me go like that again. Thank you! That's a great word. I'll add it to my Hebrew vocab. One more question: May I take your picture?" "If you are on it, too- sure!" 
How did I feel? 
It started with their eyes. They burst with affection. Lots of affection. For a long time Dolev's and Dvir's glances were the only parts of their bodies to meet. Their looks mirrored more warmth and fondness than Romeo and Juliet's most tender monologues. I tried not to stare at them yet I was unable to resist looking back every now and then. For each time I turned my gaze towards them I was reminded of heavenly hours I had spent on cloud seven myself. 
When one of them talked the other hung on to his every word. When one of them smiled the other seemed to sink into the look of that mouth as if its lifted corners were holding him gently. And when, finally, after what seemed like hours, one of them brought his foot to touch the other's I caught myself letting out a sigh. I realized I had been waiting for that touch as though I had been sitting on one of their chairs myself. Finally, another eternity later, their hands found each other. The whole process was like a snail's progress. Tracking the movements is impossible. They are too smooth and slow. But if you stick around you will notice a relocation over time. 
No, I am not a stalker. At least I hope so. And no, neither were they the kind of couple whose public smooch smacks and dirty talk makes you want to say, "Get a room." 
All they were was exceptionally cute. That's it. Sweetening the space around them their infatuation was a gift. Both of their calm, respectful gentleness shone through their movements when eating dinner, drinking wine and playing back gammon afterwards. 
That picture, the two of them dwelling in their little paradise, has a page in my inner picture book called "Beautiful Moments" now. It sounds like this:

Who? 
Efrat
Where? 
Jerusalem, Israel 
What? 
"When you speak about things that move you your feelings are all over your eyes. It is super beautiful to see." 
How did she react? 
"Yeah, I have heard that before... That my eyes display my feelings, I mean. Thank you!", she smiled. 
How did I feel? 
The eyes are a window to the soul. No, this statement is not a corny proverb. Not in this case. When it comes to Efrat the eyes are a window to the soul comes as an on point description. I have only seen the brisk lady twice in my life, but I know one thing for sure: The look in Efrat's eyes can shower you with a feeling on the spot. The night I met her in Jerusalem I experienced it twice. Once when she shared how someone dear to her had gotten injured in the army (it was like she hit a switch: Coming from her eyes I felt pain approach me, enter my body and spread with split seconds. Just because she was not afraid to wear hers all over her expression.) And once when my friend Theresa said, "You should just come to Berlin." This time around, instead of bursting with pain, her eyes fired a round of excitement, like a little girl who has just been granted a castle to live in, a zoo full of her favorite animals and unlimited television watching. Too good to be true. Again, her emotions jumped over instantly. I felt my heart beat faster and a grin occupy my face. Receiving that insight from Efrat meant getting a full course of aliveness. It was dreamy. Thanks, Efrat, for sharing your mind and heart as freely! 
Anything else?
Yes! The night I met Efrat was a big one for her. She had just won the casting for a post-graduate training as an opera singer in Tel Aviv that day. If you happen to be in Israel you should keep your ears and eyes open, and go see her if you are into opera. She sings marvelously. Congrats again, Efrat!

I challenge you: Find the red cat in the last picture. 

Who? 
Daniel* 
Where? 
Jerusalem, Israel 
What? 
"Thank you for your honesty. I really appreciate it." 
How did he react? 
"Thank you for your questions! I like them." 
How did I feel? 
I met Daniel in a gay club. The dance floor was 7 square meters. Drops of water came dripping off the ceiling. Song by song they became more until they turned into a full on rain. For hours we danced our lives away to hits like Womanizer, I Kissed A Girl And I Liked It, and Oops I Did It Again. The topless men’s sweaty abs around us looked just like the photos of oiled bodies that decorated the walls. In Germany dancing with someone means moving in the same direction and sincerely touching each other’s outer limbs. In many cases at least. In Jerusalem dancing together means sex on the dance floor. To a German like me at least. There was a lot of Jerusalem dancing that night. However moving with Daniel was different. Very physical, too, but more careful. Yet not the least bit less ecstatic: While he clapped his hands and swayed his hips his expression looked like a little boy's who has just been granted a truckload of his favorite candy. Total bliss. 

At some point we left the bundle of bodies. Daniel offered me a cigarette from his tobacco. I sat down next to him. He wore a sweater, jeans and sneakers. On top of his head there was nothing but his hair. No hat or Kippah. However when I asked him what he was doing in life I figured he was religious. His job was closely related to Judaism*. He explained his work to me and showed me pictures of it on his phone. Excitement glowed in his eyes and his voice pitched higher as he said, “And look, here, this is what I am working on right now-...” While I watched his pointer stroke the display of his phone I suddenly realized this was the first time I was having a conversation with a religious Jew. Ever.** I looked at him, “Daniel, you are religious, no?” “Yeah. I am.”, he answered. “But where is your Kippah?” He grinned, “I left it at home. I don’t always wear it. I believe in adjusting the rules, you know…”  “I see. But do you pray?” He nodded, “Sure! We do that three times a day.” “Yeah, I know. That’s so impressive.”, I paused, then added, “Hey, can I ask you something?” He shrugged, “Of course!”. “What is it about Judaism that makes you feel at home? As in, what makes you go like, this is the right thing for me. I am in the right place.” Daniel perked his eyebrows up. “Phew, that’s a tough one. I mean especially since I have no idea where this is coming from in you. Do you believe in something?”, I smiled, “I’ll tell you afterwards. I think it’s more interesting if you don’t know about my beliefs. Just know that I don’t judge.” I looked at him. He remained silent. I added, “And, obviously, that you don’t have to answer. I understand if you feel it is too personal.” Daniel shook his head, “No, it’s fine. Just a second. I’m thinking.” For a few breaths we sat and watched three guys in leather jackets pass a joint in front of us. Then Daniel said, “Okay. Basically it is two things. First, the community. The way Jewish people help each other. There are very strong bonds among us, no matter the grade of religiousness. Having a network like that makes me feel safe. I know I’ll never be lonely with all these people bolstering me up.” I nodded. “I get that, yeah. Community is the most important thing ever…” Daniel smiled. Then he said, “And second: Shabbat. I keep Shabbat. That means for instance, I don’t use electricity, I go to the synagogue, all that. But my favorite part of Shabbat is Shabbat dinner. No one is on their own for that. Being alone for Shabbat dinner is the saddest thing. You always spend Friday night with your family, friends or whoever- someone you like to be around.” “Totally. That is a wonderful idea.”, I added, “I am convinced a place like Berlin could use a Shabbat. You know, a Berlin weekend consists of 70 hours of dancing and drinking on drugs. That’s what many people finish off their crazy work week with. Not everyone and not always. But it is what the city is famous for. I don’t think that should be forbidden but I do long for something that slows everyone down every now and then. Like Shabbat. To me it sounds like a reset for a computer. You take a break from all distractions and reconnect with what and who you actually care about in life. That’s what I imagine it to be like.” Daniel agreed, “That’s what it is.” I smiled, “Thank you for your honesty and openness! I really appreciate it.” He smiled back and answered, “You are welcome! Thank you for your questions. I like them.” Then he asked me, “Are you religious?” I slowly shook my head, then nodded, then laughed. Eventually I said, “It’s complicated. I was not raised religious. But my mom is a musician and when I was a kid there were all these baroque pieces playing from her room all day. They have Christian lyrics. That’s how I connected with Christianity. Later on I went to a Christian school and volunteered in the church later on, so yeah, I did consider myself Christian for a while there. I still feel something when I enter a church. However I feel something, too, in a synagogue and other holy places. I like Buddhist and Hinduist ideas, and I am currently fascinated by a Sufi poet. This guys’ words really move me. In short: I do believe divinity exists, but I wouldn’t limit it to one single religion. I believe that god exists in people. In everyone. I think we all have god inside. There is moments when I am more connected to that feeling and moments when I sense it less. For example I connect when I teach Yoga. Or, you know, when you are deeply in love and you look into the other person’s eyes. That’s one of these moments when you just know god exists.” Daniel grinned, “Alright… And do you have a practice, like praying?” I answered, “Yeah. Kind of. Yoga. And meditation.” “You do Yoga?” “Yes!”, I said, “It’s my job, I teach Yoga, and it’s my favorite thing in the world.” now I was the one to speak with a high-pitched voice. Daniel said, “Wait a second, I learned something once, a breathing exercise. Can you tell me what it is good for? I have been wondering about that forever.” “I can try, sure.” “So you breath into the count of five. You hold your breath, same, counting to five, then you exhale, counting again. Then you repeat. Three things, inhale, hold, exhale, all for five counts.” “That’s a cool one”, I said, “Here’s what I learned about it: Apart from the physical and psychological benefits of slowing down the breath the spiritual idea behind that kind of breathing is this: In- and exhaling you experience life in its mortal form. Duality, movement, time, you know, like black and white, right and wrong, up and down, becoming and passing away. Differences, variety. All that. The breathing moves through your body, like everything moves and changes through time. That’s one side of it. The other side appears when you hold your breath. In Yoga that is called Kumbhaka. In Kumbhaka you experience stillness. Emptiness. Maybe oneness. Nothing moves. The opposite, or other side, of diversity. Oneness. Eternity. That’s the idea behind it put in a very simple way.” Daniel, who had been listening closely, nodded, “Thank you! That’s really interesting. So do you practice Yoga every day?” “I try to. But if I honestly don’t feel like it I don’t.” “For how long?” “Most times, 60 to 90 minutes. Sometimes less.” “Woah”, Daniel cried, “That’s a lot!” I shrugged, “I always feel better afterwards. And you know, it’s up to me. If I don’t want to do it, I don’t. Sometimes there is 3, 4 days in which I don’t practice. But at some point I’ll miss it.” He grinned, “Yeah, I can relate.” Suddenly I heard a shout, “Hey, guys!”, Daniel’s friend was standing in the club’s door. He approached us. “You should come inside! They are playing Rihanna! It’s awesome in there!” He had reached us and took my hand. “Come! Now! You’ve been out here way too long.” I laughed, “Alright…” Daniel said, “I will finish this cigarette.” Daniel’s friend pulled me up and dragged me towards the door. Daniel told me, “It’s fine, I’ll see you inside.” I asked, “Are you sure?” “Yeah!”. I looked at him. Before I turned around I took in the expression in his eyes. I saw warmth, lightness and humor. And I realized: I had just received another moment for my collection of encounters in which I feel connected to divinity. Spending time with Daniel fell into that category. The way we had listened, really listened, and talked to each had flipped a switch inside of me. I had left the club feeling like I needed oxygen and a break from everyone. After hanging out with Daniel I felt connected, peaceful and happy. Grateful for that experience I turned around. As I passed two tattooed guys who almost fell over making out I prepared myself for the sound of Rihanna’s voice, thirty sweaty bodies and countless crazy dance moves inside.

*Real name and personal information withheld **The reason, I guess, is I was born and raised in and near Berlin. Despite the fact that a lot of Israelis are currently moving to my hometown there is still a minus of 348 000 Jewish people in Germany today compared to 1933. Back then there were 503 000, today there are 119 000. Those 119 000 are definitely not visible in the same way they are in Jerusalem. In Berlin I see a kippah on the street once every couple of months, sometimes even years. Not a single time have I seen a hat and payot (side curls) there. Although I do have Jewish friends in the US (most of who define being Jewish merely as having an awesome party called bar mizwa when they are young) I don’t have a single Jewish friend in Berlin. And I have never in my life spoken with a religious Jew. Figuring how much of an impact the holocaust still has in that way gives me the creeps.

Who?
Inbar
Where?
Jerusalem, Israel
What?
"I love your dress. It's super pretty. Look at that blue! And the color just goes on and on with those leggings underneath the dress. Really nice."
How did she react?
"Oh, thank you! That's so sweet! I love your project!" She got up and gave me a hug. 
How did I feel?
Inbar treated my eyes, my belly and my heart. My eyes because she was a feast for those with her sweet smile and her pretty dress. My belly because this one sighed once I filled it with Inbar's dreamy coffee. And my heart because I could not have hoped for a warmer welcome to Jerusalem than her friendliness. Her hug felt like a little showerleft the caffeine oasis she works at and strolled around the neighborhood for a while. If you happen to be in Jerusalem this is where you can find Inbar and her coffee creations and sit in the sun: 

Anything else?
When I started this project I promised to turn this page into a travel blog at times. So here you go: My impressions of Jerusalem day number one.

Tomatoes taste sweeter than chocolate. In front of my window there is a palm tree. Ads and posters trigger curiosity: Hebrew looks like a maze from the quiz page to me. The language sounds like people are softly stroking their throats. Humus is paradise. The soldier's guns are the biggest I have ever seen in real life. Rays of sunlight throw the spotlight on street art. The synagogue, located in a corner store, fits twelve men. Their ever nodding heads make for a choreography. Cats scavenge in dumpsters. The smells at the market are more appetizing than a look on a five star restaurant's menu. I overhear teenagers on Birthright fighting over secret imports back to the US. Fresh herbs or Halva? One suggests the "awesome falafel sandwich we had yesterday!". Their tour guide explains his vision of a unified Israel to us. Each time he laughs his freckles smile along. An orthodox lady begs for money. A clerk praises his pastries. I close my eyes. There is a honking fest going on on the street. "S'leexa, s'leexa!", someone touches my shoulder. A girl sings. 


More pictures to come! Laila tov.