Who?
Allegra and Doug 
Where?
Hanover, Germany
What?
"You guys look amazing together!" 
How did they react?
"Thank you, thanks! Appreciate it!"
How did I feel?
Those two stuck out. Walking with the masses through a Hanover shopping street their jackets glowed from a hundred meters away: Neon green and full on red. Their gait looked relaxed and their faces open. They were holding hands. There was no sign they noticed the hundreds of people in front of them, the family fight to their right or the high pitched voice of the lady rattling numbers into her smartphone to their left. They just strolled on and on. When I approached and complimented I was ready for a nice chat. I got that. And more: In fact their words blew me away. It was not in what they said but in how they said it. Their "Sorry, we don't speak German!" came in the greatest accent - a deep southern one. I had not expected that in Hanover. "Where are you from!?", I said, a smile on my face. "The US.", answered. We ended up chatting about Euro-trips (they were about to fly out to Paris) and the US for a few minutes. It was sweet. When we said goodbye I was happy I had spotted a beautiful couple and enjoyed their presence and heard that accent again which sounded like music to my ears. One more round of amazing compliment-surprise-gift-bags!

Who?
Steffen 
Where?
Hanover, Germany
What?
"I have passed you three times today. Each time I thought "There is something special to this guy." I can't say what it is exactly. I think it transcends a single characteristic of yours. But here is what I feel: You are beautiful. And you remind me of a wolf." 
How did he react?
"Can I give you a hug?" 
"Sure!"
He opened his arms and gave me one of those hugs that come with a sigh and remind me of San Francisco.
How did I feel?
Some people strike. Its not in what they do but in how they do what they do. The way they walk, stand, or gesture stands out. Steffen was that person to me. Something about his appearance fascinated me. His presence maybe, or his body control, or the way he moved in the center of attention. He seemed like he was in the right place at the right time, enjoying himself and his surrounding. Today, a few days later, I still cannot phrase what it was. But I know it was there. And I am glad I went up to him and told him about it.

For two days now I have been looking for my phone. All the pictures of my recent compliment candidates are on there. Tomorrow morning I will go and see whether I left it at a shop on Friday. Until then compliments will be delayed. Thanks for your patience! See you tomorrow, hopefully.

Who?
The baker 
Where?
Cologne, Germany
What?
"Your lipstick looks stunning. It suits you perfectly well!"
How did she react?
"Aw, thank you! This has been my color since I was fourteen! Can you believe it?" 
How did I feel?
I adore make up. My vanity bag is not just a plastic container full of colors. It is much more: I call it my toolbox for liberation, exploration and re-identification. Its content kicks off endless fun. As a kid I would apply make up to my sister's face for hours, investigating all the angles and characteristics of her visage, unfolding the countless possibilities her face contained. I celebrated her looks. However she did not quite agree and remained critical about it. Reluctantly she let me do as I liked for a while for I managed to convince her that being her older sister was equal to being the coolest and wisest person on the planet (unfortunately she stopped buying that at some point). Until one day - I think it was when I painted wrinkles and grey stubbles on her eight years old skin, frolicking "Check this out! I am turning you into an old geezer! I'll find a pillow to squeeze under your shirt in a second so we can make you look fat, too. Isn't this awesome?" - she declined my requests for playing her make up artist. For good. My beautician's career ended cold-turkey. I still believe that was as close as I have ever gotten to being a visual artist. 
Living in Berlin I see at least one drag queen, body paint model, or face painted rocker per day. Unlike in other places in the world people make use of a full range of make up accessories in their every day lives here. I love that. Some of them use pens and brushes to make a statement. Coloring their skin they tell everyone who lives beneath those pores of theirs. Others sweep away their sadness and seriousness with glitter every Friday night. I bet you have seen it even if you don't reside in Berlin. Think about the carnival, your favorite festival or the last theme party you went to. During those times the colors of make up work like tunes of a musical instrument tickling peoples' feet and shaking their hips, inspiring everyone to dive into a realm away from suit and tie and reinvent themselves in the moment. Make up does not just re-frame bodies, it donates new contexts to whole situations. Triggering fascination, imagination and helping you let go it invites you to become whoever you want: A tiger, a leather fetishist, a hippie. An abstract piece of art; Or, maybe (if you ask my past self: Definitely!) an old geezer. 
One of the million characters make up is capable of turning someone into is the classic dame. A lady with long lashes, rose cheeks and fine eyebrows. In this case, rather than pasting every inch of the person's skin, it can be sufficient if the maquillage underlines only one characteristic of the person's face: Maybe eye shadow tastefully repeats the color of her eyes, a beauty spot points out the lines of her face or a pair of earrings stresses her head's shape almost unnoticed. This particular use of make up sparks less of a firework of colors as it does for masquerades and crazy parties, and instead makes whoever wears it radiate with a certain kind of femininity. It is its own art form. Charming me when I see it it triggers a brainstorm on divas and charisma inside of me. Last week I was lucky to experience one of those diva-moments in Cologne. It happened at a place I least expected it to: A bakery at Venloer Straße.  In the middle of the day I opened the door, ready to treat myself to a coffee. Closing the door behind me I heard a woman's voice cry, "Hello!" in honeyed tones from the back. I answered, "Hi!". While I was busy checking out the pastries she entered the space behind the counter. I looked up. And was blown away. There it was: A lipstick's red that made a madame's lips stick out perfectly. They were personified womanhood. I did not spot any make up in her face on top of that, just those two red lines. She looked amazing. The color contrasted her black, full hair, and made the lively expression of her eyes stick out. She was so pretty I was a bit intimidated. While she served me I kept secretly glimpsing at her just like, well, yeah- the geezer from across the street who stares at his cute neighbor all day, drool dripping down on his slippers. Suddenly I was representing who my sister had denied to embody years ago. Now that I call karma. Finally, after I had paid and she had handed me my cup I gave myself a push and said, "I love your lipstick. It suits you amazingly well." Within a second a broad smile occupied her face. She said, "Oh, thank you! This has been my color ever since I was fourteen. Guess what, they don't even sell it in Germany anymore. Every time my mom visits from Italy I am making her bring a whole range of it." We laughed. Then she pointed at my mouth and said, "Yours is pretty cool, too!" "Thanks", I said, and grinned. Then I asked her, "So are you from Italy?" And she said, "Yeah!". I told her my ancestors came from Naples and she shook her head, her curls swaying from side to side, and shouted to the back "Did you hear that, boss? I told you, all the pretty girls come from Italy!". Together we laughed. I took a sip from my coffee, said, "Grazie e buona giornata!" and waved at her. "Grazie a te!", she answered. We exchanged one last smile, then I left. 
Anything else?
I feel like I should clarify one thing:
Praising make up I am not turning a blind eye to the giant make up industry there is. I am aware of their ads and how they brainwash girls, pelting them with photo shopped pictures that dictate the meaning of beauty. No, I am no fan of that. And no, I am not saying make up is a must wear. The most beautiful girl I know lives in Northern California and I have not seen make up on her face a single time. However her prettiness is everywhere as soon as she enters the room. Pulchritude is not a result of applying concealers, eyeliners or lipsticks. To me those things are means to exploring, having fun and independently choosing an identity and I appreciate them for that, no more, no less. The general definition of beauty is a whole different chapter which shall be opened some other time. And now excuse me, I am off to dye my hair in all the colors of the rainbow, paint some butterflies on my ankles and apply zebra stripes on my face.

Who?
The man with a Greek name
Where?
Hanover, Germany
What?
"Watching you feed the pigeons is the most beautiful thing I have seen all day."
How did he react?
He nodded and said something I could not understand. He gave me a warm look.
How did I feel?
I love words. They are my favorite toys and my number one tool for expression, my hide away when I feel lonely. Mediators use words to resolve conflicts. Poets plant the beauty of the world into combinations of letters. Did you know philosophers say we cannot even think without them? No doubt: Words rock. However occasionally they are superfluous. Think about that moment right before you kiss someone for the first time. Or the silence you share with your best friend. Or meditation. Words? Needless there.
That same feeling, the "Don't speak now or you might ruin the moment." grabbed hold of me today when I saw an old man, standing in an open space in Hanover, feeding the pigeons.
It is that feeling which fills me now as I am looking for phrases to describe the moment. Everything that comes to mind feels insufficient. I wish I could just take you there and make you see his long, white beard, and his hands, their rhythmic plucking of breadcrumbs. How he would throw them away, his arm spreading wide. To his feet the pigeons' movement, like a choreography danced by toddlers who kept falling out of their routine and somehow still managed to find their way back on stage. All over the place and at the same time unspeakably aesthetic. 
It was in the way the man continued moving in the same fashion for minutes. Crumb after crumb after crumb. Or was it in his expression? That peaceful, quiet, introverted look? Was it the soft wind maybe? Or the clicking of the pigeons' beaks? I can't say. There is no phrase I can pin it to. However I do know it was there: The magic that unfolds away from words. Stillness. 

















Anything else?
Eventually I decided to talk to him, why, I don't know. Maybe so I could feel into the difference: Giving in to the "be still"-impulse versus approaching and complimenting him. Maybe because I was with a camera team and they were expecting me to. Or maybe because I was so fascinated by the beauty this person radiated with, I was too curious not to make contact. Either way I ended up walking up to him. Turned out he was sick, to me it seemed like dementia: I repeated most questions several times, in some cases he would react, in others he would not. Once he pointed at his head, then shook it and said, "Sickness." But he smiled and seemed fine with me speaking with him. He even told me his name, but it was hard to understand him. However I got that it was Greek. So even while chatting with him this experience was not about the words at all, for a different reason than before--now it was his sickness-- but still, or again, I just enjoyed his company. After we said goodbye he walked to the bus station. And suddenly, watching him, one word came to mind after all: Besonnenheit. It is a German expression I can't seem to find a proper translation for. But if you speak German you know what he was like. Completely besonnen.
Even more?
My lesson of the day: If I am too insecure to approach someone and compliment them but would secretly love to I am all for the words. They are this project's purpose- go compliments! However there are moments, like the one today, in which rather than complimenting a person in words I want to compliment them in silence. If the person and I feel the depth of what is going on and enjoy it the moment might be stronger when words are not made. I realized I can have the first-kiss-moment with a stranger, whatever that looks like in particular: an old man feeding pigeons, a lady smiling at me on the train with softness in her eyes, a musician pouring their heart out busking while I sit down to immerse in it for minutes. In those cases remaining silent can be the bigger compliment, sometimes even once the moment has passed. Everyone involved already knows. They feel.

Who?
Sarah
Where?
Düsseldorf, Germany
What?
"You are one of the most beautiful people I know!"
How did she react?
"Oh my god..."
How did I feel?
“If Sarah ran for German chancellor I would vote for her.”, I will never forget my English teacher say that seven years ago. Neither will I forget me thinking, “Yeah. Me, too.” Not because Sarah was my year’s political party activist, in fact I don’t think she has ever been a member of a political party. Neither did she remind anyone of Angela Merkel. It was because Sarah is who she is: One of the most beautiful people I know. Sarah is the kind of girl you can party all night with and have profound conversations the day after. Philosophy, politics, economics- pick your subject. Sarah will engage in the chat offering her smart perspective and listening carefully, continually checking in with her heart. She manages to stay true to her ideals, her experience and her gut, all at the same time. Simultaneously she senses her opposite more precisely than most people would be capable of even if their hearing was turned up 100 db, their eyes were looking through microscopes and their hearts were widenend with molly. Sarah is personified sensitivity. Naturally perceiving the space between the lines she makes the moments you share with her feel like feathers floating through the air. After hanging out with her I always feel warm and light. That is not just a result of her ultimate awareness. It comes through my loving her, too. Obviously: I have known the lady for eight years. I liked her instantly when I first met her towards the end of high school. Today my affection has grown into love. I consider that normal. When someone has been in your life this long there is a sense of caring for each other no matter what, and if you stay in touch with that person it is likely to increase. Countless moments connect you. But there is a second sensation whose growth, or recurrence, is unique to me: Platonically falling in love with her. Do you know someone you have been friends with forever but you are not sure whether you would still have a friend crush on them if you met them now? Maybe everything you once shared has changed? Maybe the two of you have been walking into different directions? Maybe you secretly look at them sometimes and wonder whether you would like them at all if you were introduced to them today? With Sarah it is the opposite. Yes, we don't go to school together anymore. And yes, her major in college- she is going to business school- is about the last thing I would want to study. Yes, she has always been into hip hop dancing which I have no clue about. But: Sarah's awesomeness makes up for it all. Screw that, her awesomeness turns it all around! She makes me see the fascinating parts of economics. Her passion for her studies consumes all the space around her when she talks about it. Listening to her I sit breathless, a drop of drool dripping off my chin, thinking, "Woah, managing money rocks!". There she is, the lady my high school teacher and I would vote for, explaining to me how business plans can make the world a better place while in her eyes there are two suns that shine bright. So no, it is not that I am merely accepting that our paths parted and she is going to business school while I am majoring in philosophy. Instead I love it! Because I get to learn from her, because she and I can brainstorm opposite ends of the same thing together and because drowning in someone else's passion is the greatest feeling. The same principle applies to her Hiphop dancing and all the other realms she moves in which I have no access to. Instead of leaving me outside Sarah opens the door for me to get a glimpse at what is going on. Not by excessively explaining but by living what she is doing. Whatever Sarah starts she is present in it, immersing and enjoying herself. Sparkling in her activities she inspires me over and over to check out things outside of my horizon. And, yes, she makes me fall in love with her. Again and again. When she comments on an insight I share she always sheds light, adding a perspective or example that stress the good in what I put forward. Even if Sarah finds herself in a situation she does not favor she is at ease. Like back in high school: Sure I saw the girl sick and tired but never unable to laugh. Her smile is always just a sentence away and the joy she spreads is capable of spontaneously sparking a party more vibrant than a Sunday at Berghain. I believe her fire on the one hand and her ease on the other are part of why Sarah is successful in what seems like an endless number of things; Modeling, writing, working a PR job at a bad ass company, studying, dancing, cooking. Those are only a few examples. I am glad that her talents and overall greatness is recognized and celebrated by her bosses, professors and friends! Seeing how well received the light Sarah puts out into the world is makes me burst with pride of her and restores my belief in humanity.
Being friends with Sarah is a blessing. Not just because she is such a radiant, successful person. She has got tons to give on another level, too. There is a part of her I have not praised yet, it is the one care about most. Sarah's heart. This one is bigger than our whole planet, no, bigger than the universe. One of the most loving people I know Sarah strokes any pain away with her warm glance and her rad back scratching skills. She is there when I need her and ready to celebrate highs and hold hands over lows with me. Receiving her love is one of the most incredible gifts I have ever gotten. Thank you so much for that, Sarah. 

Who?
Erol
Where?
Cologne, Germany
What?
"Your Kebap is paradise. And you are amazing!"
How did he react?
He shook his head, laughed and said, "Aww, Rosa! Rosa!"
How did I feel?
Erol reigns a country. It is not the land of milk and honey (because Erol does not like sweets). It is not the country of Ehrenfeld raw food either (because Erol is in love with his grill). It is kebap land. Meat. Its smell, its taste, its texture- that and only that is what Erol's kingdom lives off and for. Meat in a sandwich, meat in a tortilla, meat with rice, meat with potatoes. Meat with salad or without. Meat makes his neighbors complain they are constantly hungry and thirsty from the smells Erol's building blows in the air, so hungry they find themselves unable to concentrate on their work and file a law suit. Meat turns vegetarians into full on barbecue enthusiasts: It happens to me each time I am there. If I had twenty four hours to live they would involve lunch at Erol's. And dinner. And breakfast. 
Last year I lived 100 meters away from Erol's. I went there every day. We made friends. Initially the food had allured me to return day by day. However I quickly learned that it is not just the kingdom's goods that turn Kebapland into an every day vacation destination. It is their monarch, too. A few days into my kebab phase I made friends with Erol. Apparently so does the whole neighborhood: He asked me to give him violin lessons and I suggested to take them to the park. "No way!", Erol answered, "Everyone here knows me. It'd be embarrassing." Looking around I realized he was right about his local prominence. Each day different people came, greeted him, enjoyed a kebab and gave Erol updates on their lives. In return he listened, sympathized or joked around. His country was a retreat to everyone. No exceptions. Male, female, black, white, punks, professors, shiny babes, hipsters: They all came together at Erol's. And they all loved him. While the administrative language of Kebapland was Kurdish Erol would adjust to his visitors' needs. He spoke Turkish, French or German. And a few words of Spanish. A kurd born in Turkey Erol had lived in Paris and Southern Germany before ending up in Cologne. Every now and then he would sit down with me and entertain me with a story from back in the days in Paris, or Kurdish traditions, or his passion for collecting musical instruments. Never for longer than five minutes though. Then he would have to return to his throne behind the grill and serve his goods to masses who had come to nourish their hearts and souls in Kebapland. His country's economy prospered. And rightly so! King Erol managed to bring people together peacefully and make them happy on various levels. It was a delight for me to see that that paid off.
Anything else?
Yeah! This post deals with what happened half a year ago. Why share it now? 
Because I just visited Cologne and stopped by to see Erol and immerse in his kitchen's taste. I am a Berliner. We like to think we know what a good kebab tastes like: Our city is the capital of kebab sandwiches. Now here is a confession. Living in Berlin again since last October I have not found a single kebab that tastes as delicious a Erol's. Nowhere near! Back in Cologne I realized this post has been due for six months. After all it is time to hand over the Berlin kebab crown to Cologne. Long live King Erol! 

What you can't see in this picture: Underneath her cap Gabi is wearing a headband with a blue flower pattern. Under her sweater she is wearing a scarf with a red flower pattern. Her cap says "Powerfrau" (Power woman).
Who?
Gabi
Where?
Andernach, Germany
What?
"I love all our colors! Each time I see you I fall in love with what you wear. Your clothes, your appearance, your whole mode of being  reminds me of the young Maude."
How did they react?
She smiled, nodded and said, "Thanks! Yeah, I definitely don't plan on growing up..."
How did I feel?
I have seen her before. Many times: Gabi works out at the gym I taught Yoga at for two years. Every Wednesday morning she would come in with her hair all red and her gear standing out. She mixed different patterns, colors and shapes, always. Her clothing lightened my day, no matter the weather, the moment or my mood. But it was not just what she wore. It was more.
My favorite movie of all times is Harold and Maude. Watching it for the gazillionth time it still makes me happy on the spot. Don't know it? Watch it. You won't be disappointed. I promise. Here is the trailer: 

Every time I see Gabi I think of Maude. The two of them share one expression: Wisdom mixed with waggishness. Their eyes add a wink to everything they do. Gabi's greeting comes with the singsong of her light and friendly voice. When I told her she reminded me of the young Maude her face turned from slightly smiling to full on sunshine and she said, "Harold and Maude! Aawh, that is my favorite movie of all times! Whenever I watch it it makes me happy on the spot!" I laughed and said, "Join the club." She swayed her head from side to side for a moment, then said, "Yeah, I could see the similarities. I definitely don't plan on growing up either. Ever." I nodded and answered, "Right on."

Who?
Harrison and Mitchell 
Where?
Bonn, Germany
What?
"You guys make a good team! And I love your honesty. Thank you for that."
How did they react?
They laughed and said, "Thanks!"
How did I feel?
When I was little my mother used to say "Don't ever open when the sects knock at our door. They are dangerous." One day I was home alone when a Jehova's witness rang the bell. The sound caught me on my way out to meet a friend. Instead of leaving the house I hid behind the door for thirty minutes. That's how long the guy waited in front of our apartment. I didn't move. Not an inch. I was scared that he might hear someone was there and stay for the entire ten hours my mother was going to be gone for. Today I assume that the guy probably did hear something and was worried if the person behind the door - me - was okay. Back then I was unable to think that far. Busy battling with the blurry ball of fear inside of me I waited it out. All I heard was my mom's voice: They are dangerous. He could have been a serial killer running a knife into our door, screaming at me from outside. I would have felt the same way; danger was danger. He was the wolf, I was one of the three little pigs.
Today I don't hide behind the door anymore. When they ring I open and say, no, thanks. But a small piece of the past still clings to my mind: I always think, "Jesus. You guys are so lost." I feel pity. A few hours back I got a chance to question that. Finally! In the city of Bonn Harrison and Mitchell approached me. They both wore a Mormon tag. They waved at me. Before they even said anything I was already three sentences into my explanation on how I am into Buddhism and won't find my way to the LDS Church. Their answer: "That's cool." That's cool? Alright then, I thought, waiting for their but. It did not come; Instead we entered conversation. They asked me about how I got hooked on Buddhism. I told them. They walked with me to my destination. I was okay with that. In fact I realized a few minutes into our chat that this was an amazing opportunity to gain a new perspective. So I started asking questions. How they first encountered the LDS Church (They both grew up in the community, lost track of religion and later on had moments in college that defined their lives and lead them back to the Church, looking for a purpose in life. I am not sure how comfortable they would be with me sharing those moments so I am going to leave them out). How many times they had told that story (twice or three times). How they ended up in Germany (They chose to go on mission and paid for it themselves). So far, so good. I nodded to their statements and tried to ignore the little skeptic in the back of my head. He was throwing his hands up in despair and asking me, "How do you know they are not just giving you some crap they have been taught to say?" I didn't. All I knew was I wanted to meet Harrison and Mitchell, the people behind those black name tags. Two boys who spent day by day walking through town, talking to people. Suddenly I realized: The three of us had more in common then I had thought at first. I, too, spend my days walking up to people. In the German culture that can be a challenge. The next question slipped out of my mouth, "What does it feel like approaching people every day?". Harrison said, "We get rejected a lot. But I totally understand! See, if I put myself in those people's shoes, on my way to work there is this guy who wants to talk me out of nowhere I would be weirded out, too..." "Yeah", I answered, "I hear you. But you didn't answer my question. You just told me about how you understand people. Not about how you feel." Harrison grinned, then the corners of his mouth went down. "You're right. How do I feel? Honestly: It hurts. It just hurts. I don't feel like they are rejecting the church, I feel like they are rejecting me. And that hurts." There was a moment of silence. Then I said, "Thank you for being honest, I really appreciate that. I was totally sure you were going to give me some jive about how God turns all this into a lot of fun and you love it but you didn't tell me that. I think your being real is awesome." "Sure", Harrison said, "And you know what? On the plus side, every now and then, we get to have an awesome conversation like this one." We all grinned. I asked them about their lives back home. They told me they had both been in college in Colorado, Harrison was passionate about wrestling and Mitchell had studied engineering. They had taken a break to come here but were going to go back to college once their mission was over. I heard stories about wrestling coaches, scholarships, transferring to other schools. About drinking, driving and cops. And about wondering what to live for and returning to church. To me they sounded like to normal kids experiencing the years after high school. Their Church was present in every other sentence, yes, but I didn't mind. I saw two guys trying to figure life out. Losing their way and looking for stable paths to walk on. Both of them mentioned an emptiness inside that had ultimately inspired them to go to church again. I wondered: Don't we all try to fill that emptiness? They asked me what it is that drives me. I gave them my answer, "I don't know. I like to not be sure and let things flow. To learn from others and myself and let myself come to different conclusions every day. But there is one thing I have been coming back to again and again: Love. Like, unconditional and maybe even universal love." I spoke carefully at first because I was not sure about how they would react. Looking into their eyes I found openness. They were interested. I continued, "It is the strongest drive I have ever felt. If I let it overwhelm me I lose control and at the same time I feel more powerful then ever. It allows me to give without expecting something return. Not just because I appreciate the thought of that on an intellectual or moralistic level, but because it then feels like the most natural thing to do. I like to assume this love is my drive. I lose it every once in a while, for there is fears and what not covering it and they grab hold of me every now and then. But when I  find it again I am absolutely certain: This what I am here for. This is who I am when I am my best self. I am love." We talked about making the world a better place. Again they listened to my ideas. They did not say much except for a "This is awesome" here and there. Between two sentences we reached my destination. They had been walking with me for half an hour, our conversation flowing. We had not been two Mormons actively trying to persuade a stranger. Neither were we one Yoga girl attempting at challenging two guys. We were three people listening to each other. Taking in stranger's perspectives and appreciating the reality we saw in them, each of us for ourselves. We let each other be. When I gave them a hug it was heartfelt. I don't see myself converting to the LDS Church for I am comfortable living in the midst of my childhood-Christianity-Buddhism-free-thinker-Yoga-mysticism-new-age-whatever-you-want-to-call-it. But I am not afraid of Mormons anymore, neither do I pity them. On top of that I am very grateful to have met two honest boys who had the guts to move to a foreign country for two years, challenging themselves to walk up to strangers every day. Thank you, Mitchell and Harrison.
Anything else?
During our walk and talk I failed to mention one thing: Look at those names! Mitchell and Harrison. Two of the greatest musicians this planet has ever seen. Could there be a better team? Maybe you guys should record a song together. 
Even more?
In this post I wrote about Mormons. I started the piece with my experience with a Jehova's witness. Obviously those two are different as are other churches and religious communities. I am not bracketing them all together. Not today at least; When I was younger they were "the sects". I didn't know differentiate between them. Today I still lack a lot of knowledge about churches but I am aware they are not all the same. And I was not trying to say that in this piece.

Hey there!
I just returned from my trip to several German cities. Beautiful encounters happened all along the way. I collected 8 stories in five towns and I'm going to share them within the next few days. There were a young Maude, a punk, two Mormons and more. Can't wait to add them to my compliment diary!
Thanks for checking this page, I hope to see you back here soon,
best,
Rosa