Grüß Gott
- Ruby in Roam
- Sep 14
- 22 min read
Updated: Sep 14
Note from the editor: I did it again, y’all. I've went MONTHS in between updates, and its so hard because there is SO much I want to share with you! 8+ months in Italy - I have so many pictures and stories and funny moments, but due to the way my brain operates, I must write these entries in sequence. I simply could not go on without sharing the life changing adventure we had in Germany and Austria. So, as I attempt to make good on catching folks up, know that I probably won’t and I’ll be talking to you several months from now. Ciao!
All kidding aside, we’ve moved into a fantastic rental house by the sea, have discovered some amazing hangouts where we’re quickly becoming those quirky American regulars and have already hosted a bevy of visitors (and have thrown a pool party or two). Life has not slowed down one bit, hence why I’m writing a post set in April after Labor Day. To satiate those wanting more of Italy, less of other places, here are a few photos of our first 8 months in Sicilia before we get started on the grand Bavarian adventure below:
Shocks? Where we’re going, we don’t need…shocks.
When E got orders to spend a month in Germany for training, we had two options: let him disappear into Bavaria alone – his days filled with snacking on schnitzel, chugging good beer, and inhaling soul-cleansing alpine air while I took my changes in Sicily by my lonesome – stuck in swampland base housing with harsh florescent lighting and sciatic-nerve-punishing loaner furniture. Or we could pack up our busted Ford Escape, the dog who sheds like it’s his job, and my half-working knee and turn it into a road trip of questionable sanity. Since I can work from anywhere (a blessing and a curse), the choice was obvious. Why waste a month apart when we could gamble on a 2008 Escape with faulty power steering, load it with luggage, and see if we can make it alive across the better part of Europe?
I wasn’t learning Italian any faster than I wanted to, so why not throw in a whole different language to try and master? (side note: at the writing of this entry, I have in fact, mastered 0 new languages. But I do get by, one “buona giornata” and “auf wiedersehen” at a time). Thank God for Google Translate, a girl’s best friend.
Elton, (aka the bougiest rescue dog there ever was), has more stamps on his passport than most Americans. And yes, he has a passport (another WTF Italian process we had to endure just to make sure he could cross European borders). We barreled out of Sicily in our Escape held together with prayer, questionable pre-owned upholstery stains and the faintest memory of shocks. The ferry from Messina to the mainland was the first checkpoint of madness; E and I now have a greasy ritual of splitting an arancini, because what’s tradition if not fried rice balls before a “take your life into your own hands” aquatic shuttle across the Ionian Sea?
I was sick. Of course. Some bug, the European variety that latches onto your insides like
a barnacle and laughs while you weep. I probably did weep a time or two, pissed at myself for falling ill before our journey to (literally) greener pastures. Elton panted happily in the back seat while I cursed my immune system and questioned my existence – why, oh why, did I have to go so hard in the gym on base? I had finally gotten back into strength training (and the gym, in general) after the dust from our epic move had settled. And it was somewhere between a Bulgarian Split Squat and a simple Pigeon Pose that it happened. I tore my meniscus. Right on the cusp of my 40th birthday. I refused to become a cliché and have my body start breaking down at true middle age. But in this instance, during my Passenger Princess Introspection™, I started to believe it. My knee throbbed like a reminder from God: you are mortal and not as young as you used to be.
E is the real hero, for putting up with all of me and for battling a 60 lb. mutt who kept trying to sit in his lap as he drove across the boot.
Resurrection by rosé
First stop: we crawled into an agriturismo near Salerno, where I prepared to die in bed. (side note, if you ever have the chance to stay in an agriturismo, do it. It’s like a hybrid mix of a small hotel/Airbnb, but it’s usually on a working farm of sorts and they will prepare meals for you. 10/10 highly recommend). But then the family insisted: “Come, taste our wine.” Well, damnit. Who can say no to that? I staggered through their vines and barrels like Nosferatu in yoga pants. Then, the first sip of their homemade rosé, and hallelujah, the sickness retreated like it knew it had lost. Alcohol must be the original antibiotic.
The same thing happened in Belgium during our honeymoon last year. Forget penicillin - give me a Belgian Tripel and I’ll scale a mountain. Perhaps I’m just allergic to sobriety. Or maybe it’s the magic of being in a new country and tasting the fruits and harvests of their lands. All I know is, by the hands of Bacchus himself, I snapped out of whatever 21st century plague tried to doom me.
Elton, meanwhile, had his first visit to a winery like a true canine sommelier. It still cracks me up that this lil’ rescue guy from middle-of-nowhere Utah is out here living a life most of us can only dream of. And obviously, he deserves it because he’s the bestest, goodest boy there ever was. He’s now officially been on his first winery tour, boldly going where many of his shelter dog cellmates have never been before.
Maybe I’ll run a dog shelter sanctuary on a vineyard someday, so all of the good pups get to experience this sort of lifestyle *adds business idea to ever-growing list in Notes app on phone.*
Naked diplomacy
Outside Bologna, in the land where food makes gods weep, the madness peaked. We lodged in an upscale farmhouse hotel overlooking olive groves. After too much wine (that was purchased from the last stop because, it’s medicinal, duh), I staggered out of the shower and in a moment of patriotic lunacy threw open the balcony window and hollered: “How do you like these American boobies?!” to the valley of olive groves. Not a soul in sight. A spiritual act. A declaration of independence. I can’t explain the feelings that the Italian landscape evokes in a person. Plus, no one was around to hear or see this spectacle. Or so I thought. E shook his head like a man who’d made a series of poor life choices.
Moments later, I realized there were indeed, balcony neighbors, but assumed they
spoke Italian and didn’t understand my rant of insanity. Nothing like international diplomacy through topless shouting, amirte? We descended the stairs to the dining room for dinner. It started well, until we had an additional guest join our table – Elton. After barking too much upstairs, the staff asked that we just bring him down into the fancy dining room with us, white tablecloths and all. All I know is that he behaved better than I did that day.
The next day comes, and we run into that awkward moment where you meet your hotel neighbors leaving their rooms at the same time as you. We exchange greetings in Italian and wearily head in the same direction to the dining room downstairs. I’m piling my plate with basically an entire pig’s worth of mortadella when I hear the couple speaking quietly at their table – IN PERFECT ENGLISH. They were either British or American. Which means they understood everything that was proclaimed from the balcony next to them the evening prior.
RIP to my soul, April thirteenth in the year of our lord and savior two thousand and twenty-five.
Fairytales & broken nails
The closer we inched towards the Austrian border, the higher the mountains jutted towards the sky. There were also more rules. And the driving seemed to miraculously improve as we saw less Italian license plates. When one glances upon that area of Europe for the first time, it is indeed an experience that can only be lived, not properly described in words. The sunshine peaked through the tops of the Alps onto rolling green pastures, small red roofed villages with puffs of chimney smoke rising into the clear blue sky. We wound through the Dolomites and the overall vibe began to shift. It is nothing short of magical and I hope that you, my friends, get to experience life altering landscape like this at least once in your life.
As we hit the German border, it wasn’t long until we reached our final destination. Oberammergau, a small Bavarian village that we would be calling home for the next month, appeared like a Brother’s Grimm storybook, painted in alpine hues, smelling of wood smoke and butter dreams. It’s like the place where Santa Claus spends his summers. The cobblestone streets were lined with half-timber, or Bundwerk, houses, some with intricate paintings and murals of biblical stories. I couldn’t believe how beautifully quaint this special locale was – seemingly untouched or unbothered by anyone or anything attempting to force it into modernity.
I’m floating on clouds of childhood dreams, feeling the immediate nostalgic power that a tiny German village nestled in the Alps has on a person - especially an (unfortunately) jaded American late-30s-something who is more than used to the ever draining shitshow of modern life, societal pressures, unthinkable violence, politics, injustices and worlds crumbling down around every turn in a post-2001 world. (We all really are just doing the best we can with what we’ve been given, so leave us Millennials alone and let us wear our no-show socks and cry in peace, damnit!)
I can’t put my finger on any one thing, but for some reason, in this region of Germany amongst the trees and mountains and fresh air, I felt more at home than I have in a very long time. E and I have already discussed that if we could get a follow-on assignment in Europe, this would be the place. It’s a strange gravitational pull it has on me and now that I’ve left it, I only yearn to want to return as soon as I can. I do have German ancestors on my mom’s side, so a little piece of me wondered if that’s the tie to this region that I so possibly felt. Or it could just be the breathtaking scenery and the German people’s affinity to solving most problems with a large, frosty libation.
First order of business upon arriving was to get a proper German beer and a wiener schnitzel. We stopped by the first place we came across, a beautiful wooden hotel with an attached tavern. The staff, welcoming and immediately switching to English once they saw us ascending the stairs, sat us outside on a beautiful afternoon in April. It was there I had my first true German dining experience. And I will tell you, even looking back now, it still doesn’t seem real that I’m getting this life, this opportunity. Mix that with one of the best Hefeweizens I’ve ever had, and a schnitzel cooked to absolute crispy perfection, and it’s enough to make you weep. I most likely did shed a tear upon first bite, because HOW IS THIS REAL LIFE??
Later that month, I would have tried some of the most amazing foods I’d ever had – Käsespätzle (cheesy dumplings with tasty fried onions piled on top), liver dumpling soup (I swear, you just have to try it to believe it) and the best salad dressing I’ve ever had in my life (it’s like if “runny ranch” added a few more seasonings and dill to it). E and I got to know the wait staff at most of the restaurants, as we would visit them multiple times a week. We found one Biergarten on a wooded trail in between villages, and took refuge during a cold rainstorm and returned multiple times. We visited the monastery where the beer we loved so much, was brewed (monks know how to party or at least know how to make really good beer). Needless to say, we did not go hungry, and we may have earned a few belt notches on this trip. Worth it.
Back to check-in: as E and I are riding a fairytale high upon checking in to the studio basement apartment we’d be staying in for a week, Elton promptly shattered the illusion by ripping off a toenail on the metal stairs - a bloodbath across a crisp, clean white duvet - a scene that would make Tarantino proud (I did, and was able to, get the blood out of the duvet – thank goodness this place had a washing machine!) I rushed him to the local vet (the only vet in town), a man with a little command of the English language (thankfully). He stood at the door, donning Birkenstocks with crisp, white socks, shrugged and said, “best thing for him to do is just run in the wet grass.”
But wait – no antibiotics? No surgery to remove the toenail? In my pure-Western medicine mind, I all but thought Elton was destined to perish among the Edelweiss and neatly stacked wood piles. Back in America, they would have rushed him back to the operating room and slapped a $800 bill in my hand before I had a chance to hand them his leash.
However, this German animal physician gave me such a valuable lesson that day. And as kind as he was, in so many broken English words, he basically told me that we Americans are absolutely neurotic when it comes to our pets. “We don’t do that froo froo stuff like cut their toenails,” he laughed in his booming German voice. “They don’t need that, because in the wild, there are no nail clippers. You Americans just need to let your dogs be dogs.” Well, damn. Practical and straight to the point. His way of saying, “just rub some dirt in it.” And so, that is exactly what we did. And Elton healed almost immediately.
I appreciate that man, for sharing his German wisdom and for helping my neurotic American elder Millennial-self become just a little less, neurotic.
The hills are alive
We had been in beautiful Bavaria for a week when E got a break from school. We decided to invite my sister, brother-in-law and twin nephews over to our neck of the woods for Easter. We checked into a more spacious rental home above a butcher shop in the center of the village. We had a blast over the Easter weekend, exploring Oberammergau, coasting down the mountain in an alpine death-slide, cooking dinner bought from the butcher’s shop below, playing endless rounds of cards and consuming copious amounts of beer and wine. Oh, and this is completely my fault, but my nephews are super interested in making movies now. So, we even got to continue filming a sequel to the horror movie we created a year or so before. No real plot. All I know is there are a lot of fight scenes. And they do all of their own stunts.
On the other hand, it was also an exhausting week. If anyone knows my sister, she is amazing. She’s beautiful, smart, the best mom and honestly my very best friend in this whole wide world. She and I, however, have very different viewpoints on what it is to hike.
MY kind of hike would be one where yes, you have some uphill climbing but you also have some windy, forest-lined paths near some babbling brooks with plenty of flowers and wildlife and birds singing above to help you along your leisurely way as you reconnect and become one with nature. My sister? She’s a hiking sadist. If you’re not going 90 degrees for at least three quarters of the hike, did you really even hike at all? I love this for her, I really do. But the first hike we went on to the alpine slide – it was a ski run that they open up for hikers during the summer. A ski run. Like, meaning, it’s sloped at a downward angle for a reason. So, people can ski down it in the snow. Not walk up it. Oh, but we did. And I was told, “Oh, this is an easy hike for people in Germany.”
Apparently, she’s right. My sea-level lungs and busted meniscus trudged up the mountain, me falling far behind the rest of the crew. My 10-year-old nephews, walking backwards and skipping along the path in heavy sweatshirts and the assistance of their youth. E also did much better than I – a man who can run one mile before a fitness test and that’s all he needs to do get in shape enough to pass. While I on the other hand, work out every single day, yet still gain 10 pounds even at the slightest sniff of a cookie. But I digress.
I made it. And when we changed our location to Austria for a few days, I heard the Austrian Alps whisper to the German Alps, “hold my beer.” So, I have two alpine hikes under my belt, both with a torn meniscus and a limited will to live. But I did it. And I tried to keep complaining to a minimum (keyword: tried). But there is nothing quite like coming back to your chalet in the Austrian Alps at the end of the day, proud of yourself for defeating nature and making it to the top of that damn mountain. You take off your hiking boots and socks (instant relief) and crack open a cold beer.
Even Elton got into the spirit – he was obsessed with the grass and hills in Austria (although he did quickly learn the definition of terminal velocity in that just because you run up a hill really fast, you probably shouldn’t run down it at equal speed). He’s ok, no Elton was harmed in the making of this blog post. He just got to experience “tuck and roll.” But I keep telling E that Elton is constantly trying to fall apart on this European adventure of ours and all I need to do is try to keep him in somewhat, one piece. However, I don’t think he minded his big tumble down the hill. Even if the horses in the stable next door laughed at him. He is, I genuinely believe, meant to be an alpine doggy.
Some other highlights of our family Easter weekend getaway: the Escape decided it had had enough of this mountain driving and decided to crack one of the valve stems on a tire we had just purchased a couple of weeks prior. A nice, slow leak brought us to an Austrian mechanic one rainy day. We also toured Innsbruck, a beautiful university town on a crystal-clear river. After we realized we were not in the correct location for our Swarovski Crystal museum tour (no comment), we grew hungry and tried to find a spot to grab lunch. Long story short, after 14 different attempts to find seating and the perfect spot to enjoy a true Austrian lunch (my brother-in-law, whom I love dearly, is very particular about where he eats in terms of seating arrangements, whether it has white tablecloths - which in his case, should never have white table cloths because it’s too fancy - is in direct sunlight, is too Vegan, is too crowded, isn’t crowded enough, only offers counter service, I could go on) we settled on a Chinese buffet. In Austria.
However, it was glorious and although the food in Italy is unmatched, sometimes you just crave something that reminds you of back “home.” Our American melting pot of cuisine home, where I so badly miss the tastes and smells of good Mexican, Chinese, Thai, Japanese and Indian food. Available at any hour of the day. Vegas really spoiled me.
Houseguests
One the eve of E’s next class, we trudged back to Oberammergau, a repaired valve stem and excitement to spend the next couple of weeks back in this magical little corner of Bavaria. The next place we rented was owned by a very sweet gentleman who had lived in the area his entire life. In fact, the house that we were renting was his childhood home. And his father’s childhood home. And his father’s father’s childhood home. You get the picture.
As I’ve mentioned in another post, renting a house in Europe is very different from the US. In America, everything is contactless, keyless, conversation-less. Self check-in? Yes, please. However, in Europe, the owners of the homes usually want to meet (and assess) who is staying in their property. I mean, you can’t really blame them. But, for tired, weary travelers that usually means gathering enough umph to get you through one more conversation and in-depth tutorial on how to turn on the dishwasher when all you really want to do is take a hot shower and pass out.
This place was no different, but we did learn that the owner, probably in his 70s, lived upstairs with his elderly brother who he took care of. His sister was also in town visiting, and he explained that she had suffered an injury when they were children and “was impaired” (his words). She loved to play the organ, so he urged us to not mind if we heard very clumsily versions of classical favorites wafting from the floor above. I thought this was awesome and said that I welcomed hearing the impromptu concerts. His sister was also very welcoming – every time we would enter or exit the door below, she would reach over the upstairs railing and yell, “Grüß Gott!” Her smile beaming. I would always say it back, with a big smile and wave. (Grüß Gott, pronounced like, Gruss Gott” is a German/Bavarian greeting, meaning “Greet God” or “May God Bless You. It’s used everywhere in Oberammergau and southern Germany in general, and I quite liked catching onto its use).
Another thing about European homes, especially ones that are as old as this one was, is that the ventilation in the kitchen is not what we’re used to in the states. This leads to my aspiring chef ass attempting to brown sausages and onions in a pan – mind you, nothing was in any fear of catching fire or burning. However, the smoke alarm was sensitive enough to summon ghosts, and it went on blaring for 10 minutes as E and I hurriedly attempted to open all of the windows – all which seem to have been shut tight since the 16th century.
The demon-like screech of the alarm alarmed the proprietors upstairs (rightly so) and the owner swiftly came in and just unplugged the smoke alarm. I apologized profusely, so embarrassed by causing such a stir and for my seemingly lack of culinary skills (I am a DAMN good cook, I was just having an off night, ok??) The owner didn’t seem fazed and assured me that everything was ok. He just said to leave the windows open to let the smoke dissipate, and then we could reattach the smoke alarm from Hell. He opened the door to leave, and his sister was standing in the doorway. She smiled big and yelled, “Grüß Gott!”
Later that evening, it started to rain. E and I decided on a cozy night in, playing puzzles by candlelight, the smell of near-charred bratwurst still hanging in the air. While rifling through a drawer for cards, E and I found a wedding photo of the owner’s father. It was a typical photo of back in those days - black and white, the groom and bride exiting the arched doorways of a church, flanked by wedding guests dressed in typical attire you’d see in 1940s Germany, SS uniforms, wait…what? Are those…swastikas?
The air in the room thickened. E and I looked at each other. Could we be sitting, eating, sleeping, LIVING in a house that once cheered (and fought for) ahem, the other team? And I’m not talking about an Eagles/Giants matchup.
Here we were, in a house that only 80 some years ago, my wonderful Jewish husband would not be welcomed into (and me neither for that matter). It was a turning point in the evening, but it energized us to know that goodness had prevailed over evil and here we were - living, breathing examples of the great sacrifices of our families and the Greatest Generation before us – sitting peacefully in the same house which just decades before would have not been so welcoming. And while I pray that history does not find a way to repeat itself, it is unfortunate that it so often does. Bavaria forces you to look history dead in the eye and scream that something had better change in this world so we can ensure that this never happens again.
Munich & parallel universes
For his birthday, I bought E tickets to a Mozart concert in a chapel where Mozart himself once played. It ended up being a solo flutist concert, which at first glance I was worried would be lame, but it ended up being such an amazing experience. This was our first adventure to Munich together, a charming, beautiful city with a troubled past. The music was delicate, transcendent, and chilling when you consider what else echoed through those streets eighty years ago.
The hustle and bustle of students and tourists seemed to drown out the past. Families in strollers whizzed through the Odeonsplatz, tired tourists taking a seat in the shadows of Feldherrnhalle, seemingly oblivious to the amount of hate that existed on these very cobblestone streets just decades prior. It is honestly like living in a parallel universe.
However, I realize that my inner history minor nerd self also needs to chill every once in a while and find the present joy in a city. If I were to focus on the terrible things that have happened in every corner of every city I visit across the globe, well that’s just depressing. Munich, all in all, is a gorgeous city. Baroque buildings and ornate details highlight its beauty, culture, art, music and people. The food was fantastic. The beer was amazing. The buzz of a larger city on a small scale was refreshing. It was a wonderful day trip and I’m very grateful we got to experience it together. And the glow up from 30s/40s Munich is everything.
O-Town
Back in Oberammergau, I attempted to blend in and live everyday life just like a local. We moved into our final accommodation of the trip – a partly renovated hotel, half of the rooms so new that electrical wires were still hanging from the ceiling; the other dark, dusty and made of aging wood. We ended up getting the renovated side and it was beautiful. They moved us into a nice little apartment for our two week stay, and they delivered fresh bread to our room every morning (due to lack of a dining room, most likely due to the renovations, they stocked our fridge with meats, cheeses, jams and all other sorts of German delicacies to enjoy each day for breakfast). It was a perfect stay and even came with its own entertainment. The entertainment being: watching the owner of the hotel, his apprentice and the man who ran the backhoe completely tear up the parking lot in front of us, creating new obstacles for the guests to maneuver their way through each day. I’m sure they received many complaints from any guests staying during that time, but for us, it was a comedy of errors that we viewed from our balcony, beer in hand.
Trying to fit in with the locals, I shopped at the local market (and had probably the best carrots of my life), shopped at the local stores (had to get a working pair of hiking boots after my two Alps trips left my feet sore and blistered from a pair that I’ve had hanging around in the back of my closet since junior year of college) and even started Christmas shopping for family and friends (in Bavaria, it’s basically Christmas year-round with the amount of Christmas-themed stores and shops. My inner child went crazy looking through all the handmade ornaments and wood carved nutcrackers).
One of our most prized purchases of all came from a small little woodworking shop on the edge of town. We saw a small billow of smoke rising from the rooftop and assumed that it must be open. We entered and received the familiar greeting, “Grüß Gott,” and searched for the gruff voice that just welcomed us in. It was Santa in the off season – an older man with a long, white beard, red suspenders and tiny spectacles, retreating his attention back to the wooden carved figure in his hand. At that moment, a joyful and bubbly older woman appeared from a curtain and welcomed us in. She screamed and laughed as her grandson snuck in from the back and caused her a fright, a ritual you can tell he does often on his way home from school. After a few hugs and kisses, the boy settled on the steps and started reading his book, fully content with hanging out and getting his homework done in Oma and Opa’s shop after school. This warmed our hearts, and we stumbled across two wooden carved figures, an old man and an old woman, that we just had to have.
One weekend, once we were tired of the growing pile of laundry shoved in the corner of the apartment, E and I had a romantic laundromat date at a town called Füssen. It was literally the only town with a laundromat, and it was an hour and a half drive. Nice place, though! Made me want to open up a laundromat/bar/bookstore/lounge one day *adds another business idea to Notes app.* After sharing the warm, small space with a group of Eastern European men in dark sunglasses and fanny packs, we grabbed lunch and head back to Oberammergau, the smell of fresh linen filling the crusty Escape.
As we pulled into town, I saw a flyer with a large, illustrated pretzel and stein of beer. It was advertising the annual Maypole Festival. Ahh! I was going to be IN Bavaria for a traditional May Day, a holiday celebrated in this region to welcome the coming spring. I absolutely had to go. Unfortunately, E had class, so I went on this adventure solo. The town square was full of locals surrounding lederhosen men straining to erect a giant pole. Oompah music filled the air and adorable girls in braids and dirndls twirled in their skirts just to watch them twirl (something I did all too often when I was their age).
This maypole thing was taking FOREVER though. Seemed as if there were just as many “cooks in the kitchen” as there is on an executive leadership Zoom call. I stayed as long as I could, watching these grown men hoist up a giant pole with seemingly no one real plan. When the pole would get going again, I cheered them on like it was a prizefight. However, I had a solo hike to get to. So, I bid my Bavarian friends adieu and figured I’d just catch the pole once it has been fully installed deep into the southern Germany earth.
The last hike of my 30s
On my final day, I set out solo. I wanted, no NEEDED, one last hike despite my busted knee, before E and I headed back on the dusty trail back to Sicily. I needed some time to meditate, talk to God, the Alm-Uncle and reflect on this German journey and just how much this trip had meant to me. Some self-reflection would be good after battling sickness, the Alps, meniscus woes, history slapping me in the face and all the damn beer and fried food I’d been consuming. And quite possibly the largest looming thought: I turned 40 in just a few months. Was I officially…dare I say it…old?
I refused to think that. I was excited. I was so excited, I didn’t realize the trail I chose was actually seven miles. Seven miles through meadows, bees, and cowbells. My knee screamed, but I pushed through, alone in the green cathedral of Bavaria. And somewhere on that trail, it hit me: I could surrender to the fear of aging - become another aging woman obsessed with death and ailments - or I could howl into my forties like a madwoman, knee brace and all, doing the damn thing anyway. And you know what? I did it.
Turning 40 really can’t be that bad. I’ve had many chances to not even make it this far, but here I am. Standing on the top of a fucking mountain in the Bavarian Alps. A good middle finger to those who may have tried to thwart my plan of living my best life. A nice F-U to society and anyone who thinks that women who cross the threshold of 30 should just be put out to pasture. I mean, if that pasture is in the hills of the Bavarian Alps, sign me up!
I would much rather hang out with my 40-year-old self now, than the 20-year-old version of me. She kind of sucked, honestly. I'm way cooler now.
40-year-old me has the best husband, best family, best friends and best outlook on life that 20-year-old me couldn’t even fathom would exist for her. Even 30-year-old me had no idea this kind of life was in the cards. Life has unexpectedly turned out messier, more chaotic and absolutely more wonderful than I ever could have dreamed of.
Germany broke me, healed me, and reminded me that sometimes you just need a busted car, a bleeding dog, living history lessons and a mountain full of cows to remember you’re alive.
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