A House by the Grove

Unlike my last post, I need to take a little time for this one. No, I do not have to. I get to. I have been working on it again and again for a few days now, because this text will be deeper, more honest, more emotional and more reflective than most of my recent posts. When I look back on the past eighteen months, what I feel most of all is gratitude and humility. I was able to experience things that many people do not have the time, opportunity, money or energy for. I met places and people, had good and bad experiences. And when I was standing in Australia, wondering what to do next, it took exactly one phone call. The answer was: “Sure, no problem. Just come by whenever it works. We have a place for you, here at the house by the grove.”

And that, dear attentive readers, is more support and help than I have received from anyone in the past thirty-five years, perhaps even longer.* And it is not about material things. It is about emotional support, about having someone behind you. No questions, no complaints, no conditions. A simple: yes, of course. So thank you, my dear Daniela and my dear Thomas, for doing that for me and simply taking me in. Thank you for that trust.

When I think back to secondary school, to that class community forty years ago, I realise how far away that time now seems and how close it still feels. We spent six years sitting together in one classroom. Colour photography, music cassettes, the first PCs, computer games on the C64. We probably belong to the last generation that grew up entirely analogue. And it shows. In some ways, we are different.

For me, those school years were the one thing that kept me from breaking completely. At home there was mostly fighting, shouting, provocation, manipulation, escalation and withdrawal. Everything was unpredictable, chaotic and too much for a child. I withdrew into my room, shut the door and wanted to know nothing about much of it, because I could not deal with it anyway. As soon as I heard a car pull into the driveway, the tension returned. There was nobody to help. Two frustrated people trapped in a deadlocked situation, and the spiral kept turning.

Then there was school. A place where I did not have to be afraid. A place where I was not shouted at, used as a pawn or subjected to physical violence. A place where I did not have to stand protectively in front of my mother when she caused another situation to escalate. School meant normality and peace. A place where Daniela was, a place where Thomas was, and many others. And now, so many years later, they are still there. That is more than I ever had the right to expect.

My Australian adventure really gathered momentum in their kitchen. In January 2025, many former classmates and I were sitting there together, and I listened to their stories. I think that is the blog post most people have read. It is about how I will probably always be restless because nobody says: “Why don’t you stay?” A simple sentence, and yet worth so much. Now someone has said it, in a way. Or at least: sure, you can come.

Australia was hard. Not impossible, but hard. No real connection, a foreign culture and, somehow, the other end of the world, where there was not much going on for me. I have written enough about the things that bothered me there: the self-importance, the superficiality, the bad jokes, the cultivated racism and that sometimes almost demonstrative attitude that, as an Aussie, you are fundamentally something special. Swastikas tattooed in rainbow colours on pale skin. As an open-minded European used to a different way of dealing with other cultures, that can be lonely. And yes, I admit it: at some point I no longer wanted to integrate either. Not into that artificial friendliness, the bad tattoos, the mullets and the constant “Aussie, oi, oi, oi”. Maybe I thought I was better than them. I probably did. I have reflected on that often enough by now. So: what do you do?

The plan to return to Europe was, ironically, made in Europe. Last September and October, somewhere between Rome, Berlin and a stopover in Barcelona. I was sitting on my favourite hill in Rome, a place that is at worst two hundred euros and three hours away, and at best sixty euros and one hour away, and I was thinking. Throughout the whole trip along the Mediterranean coast towards Barcelona, I was planning my departure. I thought about how best to leave and what still needed to be done.

Back in Germany, I looked for prospects, returned to old places and met many people. A little preparation for what was to come. I sat with my father in his care home and looked him in the face. I looked at my old university, the crumbling building and the even more broken facilities. The final push came when I returned to Australia and was hit by the melancholy that came over me during those first days. It was not depression, but it was heavy. Physically, I had been doing wonderfully well in Europe, in my own time zone. I had energy and strength and was not permanently tired. Back in Australia, there it was again: that leaden fatigue, the early sunset and the humidity. When the news came that my father would have to stay in hospital longer, the plan became bitter reality. I knew what had to be done, which questions I had to ask, whom I had to speak to and how, what I had to do and what I had to leave alone. And what can I say? The plan worked perfectly, probably almost too perfectly.

All I had to do was give up my flat, send back things that had only just arrived and were still packed away in the garage, and I was a free man. Homeless, but free. Of course, I already had a room at the house by the grove. And when my old man’s condition had stabilised again and he was discharged from hospital, I took the opportunity and travelled through Zealandia and Oceania with nothing but my backpack. Having that support behind me was incredibly calming.

It had not actually been planned in such detail. The plan had been to return at the beginning of May. But the rest is history. When I came back from the four-day Greenstone Hike, I found an email in my inbox. New Zealand, especially the South Island, needs no discussion. What a piece of earth. Then came the childhood dream of New Caledonia and three weeks in enchanting Nouméa, where I really felt at home. Europe in the Pacific, France included, complete with terrible coffee in the original. Then Vanuatu, Fiji, Tonga and Samoa. In part, islands I had never even heard of in my life, countries that were so wonderfully different. Unfortunately, only a few days in each place, unfortunately always only one location. But that is how it goes sometimes. Those people, their culture, the way they live. What a time. What a trip.

Then came the return. The homecoming to the Ostalb, to the Frickenhofer Höhe, to the place I had left after fifteen years of growing up there and then concealed for a long time, even partly denied. To the house by the grove. I had barely been there for a week when my heart opened up. I grabbed my bike and set off. The first rides were not pleasant. Oh my God, I had put on one hundred and twelve kilos and had not been active for quite a while. Sometimes I had to get off and push. I had to do a Willi. Me! That was terrible for me, also because I knew how fit I had still been the year before.

But I did not give up and kept making my rounds. First up on the plateau, then, because there was no other way, across to the Rems Valley and later the Kocher Valley. And what can I say? It was by far the best feeling to be home again. I enjoyed the views of my youth, the unobstructed view of the Kaiserberge, that panorama from the Frickenhofer Höhe where all you see is what lies nearest and the horizon. How much I had missed it. I rode all over the region: Leinursprung, Gaildorf, Gschwend, Lauterstein, Bartholomä, Himmelsreich and, again and again, the Frickenhofer Höhe. What healing days and weeks. What a beautiful region. Hohenstadt. Welzheim. Schlechtbachtal. Leintal.

Then came the final test: the hills I had not managed at the beginning because I ran out of breath and had to get off and push. Suddenly, I could ride them again. Not like I used to, not yet. But I could ride them again. What an uplifting feeling. And every day I returned to the house by the grove. Every day, I was happy to do so. Also because I knew that this time would soon come to an end.

Then came my birthday and the decision to go to Rome. For a moment, I considered New York. The flight was exceptionally cheap and the hotel costs were reasonable. But the United States for the final? Besides, to close the circle: what had I missed most in Australia? Exactly. Italy. And what can I say? My birthday was quiet and completely in harmony with myself. Cappuccino at Castel Sant’Angelo. A day on the Palatine. That endless peace that came over me at the Hippodrome. The contentment that came over me, the smile, the awareness, a state of being I do not know.

Of course, it was clear that life would not leave me in harmony with myself for too long. An angel arrived, and the further journey through Puglia and the return to Rome are a story of their own. I am damn glad I made that journey. It showed me a great deal about myself and even more than that: I was able to study a character at leisure. I was amused, perhaps for reasons I should not have been, but it was interesting. From now on, though, I am looking forward to travelling solo again. By bike. And today I return, very gladly, to the house by the grove.

And now? Stay at the house by the grove forever? Certainly not, my dear ladies and gentlemen, certainly not. Willi was the first to recognise the untapped potential in me, immediately and without hesitation. You have to give him credit for wanting to claim for himself the energy and experience that had happily stepped off the plane. I felt honoured, gladly visited him at his place of work and talked with him about possibilities.

Word of my arrival got around. There were a few nervous looks among the academic middle ranks; after all, some of them still knew me. They knew that I have little patience for ivory towers or self-congratulation and that I like to call things by their name. My impression was, and remains, and I say this openly and without reservation: part of academia has moved too far away from the needs and challenges of the future. And openly and honestly voicing that opinion was never popular everywhere.

There has never been a time when I would have admired application-free work on triply capped, octagonal-trigonal distorted, anhydrously stacked spheres. I always understood the pointlessness of such work. It is not even art and can really go. Oops. Sorry. Love you all too. And you are doing a fantastic job training young academics, women and men alike. I promise.

After my return, I wrote one, no, actually two applications. One went to an old professor of mine who had advertised a position. It was not entirely serious, more of a: look what became of me. The second application was for the job I genuinely wanted. And I got it. At a time when many of my fellow students and acquaintances had to reorient themselves professionally because of restructuring, AI and economic necessity, I was given a new beginning.

I had financed my own studies and had come a long way. Tired and battered after graduating, I had sometimes stumbled on: from subject to subject, from fixed-term contract to fixed-term contract, from institute to institute, from job to job. Rarely truly outside crisis mode, rarely knowing what the next year would bring. Perhaps that was why I learned to realign myself again and again when something no longer held. A certain self-reliance and resilience, whose foundations reach back into my childhood. The path was neither straight nor easy, but it was mine, and I kept walking it, before university, during it and afterwards. And now it led to a new beginning. Perhaps all that stumbling had been an advantage in the end: I had long since learned to redefine myself when the straight road suddenly came to an end.

And now? The final stop? If it were up to me, I would really like to arrive somewhere at last. I think I am going to try something I have never tried before: staying. Willi is already laughing and saying: maybe two years. I think I can surprise him. I doubt I will end up at his young, dynamically growing company that quickly.

The time when I could walk around in shorts and a T-shirt is definitely over now. The constraint of regular trousers is about to begin, and somehow I am looking forward to it. Do not get me wrong: travelling the world and experiencing the things I was able to experience at the age I am now was, and is, a gift. But it is also a gift to return to a structured life. With a home of my own, a daily routine, a kitchen and a gym.

That also means that I will not update this website as often, because my life is changing again. Instead, I will return to an old hobby and process my life through art. The plan is to rebuild this website in that direction. And there is one book, no, ten books, that still need their final polish.

I am looking forward to it. It still makes me melancholy to leave the house by the grove. But who knows. Maybe I will be back soon.

In that spirit.

*There is one exception: my beloved grandmother, who supported me regardless of what I did and only ever made me understand that I should pay attention to what “the neighbours” might think. I love her, I miss her, and I was her favourite grandchild. But she told each of her seven grandchildren that. Only in my case do I know it was true.