One of the interesting parts of this journey through Berlin has been how tangible each day feels. In my life in America, it’s easy to be caught up in what I’m doing and miss the uniqueness of what is.

For these last two weeks, I am regaled each day by the new. The conversations are less and less about where we’re from or where we live and more and more about what we express and embody.

Last night, Frederika was a journalist. She spoke of the internet’s memory, of interviewing philosophers for their grounded experiences (opposed to questions of philosophy), and implored me to watch The Act of Killing. She also has one of the most soothing voices I’ve heard.

On the same couch was an old friend who spoke of commemorating the dead in Baghdad by planting palm trees. Functional in that they hold the sand in place and prevent dust-storms, these markers would grow to such heights and no one will ask them to come down. It’s enough to break bread with a friend, but it’s sweeter to watch the candor lift from their mouth to their eyes and express a deep desire born of high amplitude (in this case, grief).

We met, we laughed, we drank wine and tea, we stayed past the metro’s end, and then we parted and we all wanted more. To think of it, that’s happiness isn’t it? It’s the moment before we wanted more of this. So for that night, I was happy.