I have never ever uploaded the photos of me from my old apartment in Hamburg. They were shot by my friend and photographer Stefan a.k.a. Stimmungsfänger (“mood catcher”). We basically just had coffee and sometimes decided to take a photo. I’d say, he caught my mood quite well. (I did not upload the ones being hangry.) Here they are:
Yup I’m moving to Berlin. I’m already writing this blog post from the capital. Apartment hunt here is literally a hunt. You’d be more successful with a gun. After 30 viewings, I had five new friendships, a pen friend, 15 fake accounts asking for money, two job offers – but not a new flat. I thought, before finding a home I would have a new stand-up act. Several tenants wrote me that they have given their flat already to someone else but my application was the funniest:
But now I found an apartment. It was pure luck, zero guns. I haven’t fully moved yet. But I have relocated some of my stuff already, first of all my shoes. Due to that, even my next door neighbor in Hamburg has felt my recent absence. Back when I moved in, I might have even introduced myself with “I’m the one with all that trash by the door”. Now she sent me a message asking “it’s so tidy in front of you door, did you leave me already?”
If you’ve followed my old, infamous blog, you know I’m not the queen of interior design. The only furnishing concept I have is “art instead of furniture”. And “I don’t own things”. Will it be different with the new apartment? Updates will follow soon (or occasionally on my snapchat @ingridwenz). Btw, everything that is too ugly for Instagram goes on my snapchat. This was yesterday’s update, showing the most recent condition of my new domicile:
The only annoying thing right now is commuting between Hamburg and Berlin. Some people say “the best part about Berlin is the ICE to Hamburg”. It’s less than two hours – but 60 Euro one way. I downloaded the flixbus app the day my BahnCard expired. Flixbus is 10-15 Eur and takes three to four hours. It was social relegation at the touch of a button. I did bring the Bahn Magazine from my last ICE ride to read on my first Flixbus ride, looking like a snob, that once had money. Hitchhiking will never be an option, though this might be one of my most favorite cartoons of the last months:
Unrelated to apartments but related to Berlin: I’m playing at a show in Berlin this Saturday called “Comedy auf Deuglish”.
„I was at the gym today“, I told my friend proudly. He replied „did you have a gig there?“.
Wow. Was it that out-of-the-way of me to be at a gym? Guess so. I haven’t seen the inside of a gym in years. And that one time doesn’t count, when I was just handing out flyers for my close-by comedy show. (No one came).
A few weeks ago, I ran to an open mic to get a spot. That’s when it hit me. When the only work out I get is sprinting to an open mic, there’s clearly something wrong with my fitness. And career, because I didn’t even get the spot.
I used to be athletic, though. I mean, I was on a Bundesliga team. (Granted, it was Rugby. There are so few players, when you start, you’re automatically Bundesliga. In Germany, Rugby has the same development index as Comedy. Okay, who am I kidding, I never actually played a Bundesliga match, but I saw one, from the bench, park bench). But Rugby wasn’t my only exotic sport, I also played Headis regularly. So regular, I even modeled for it (was accidentally at practice when a curious photo team showed up):
So, I need to work out again. But I would never sign up for a gym deliberately. I hate gyms. Hanging onto some work out device while I think everyone stares at me because I probably use it wrong? Is there an anxiety-gym? At the entry of any gym’s atmosphere, my motivation burns up in a split second. And it’s too cold to be running outside. And no group sport, since my ankle is broken from when I once tried high heels. And no yoga, because I always fall asleep. Yes, I have many excuses. I have more, need one? So what now?
So one day, on my way to getting my daily dose of cake, I saw a little raffle next to a bakery. I could win something. How exciting!Oh, just a personal training. You almost got me!
I participated in this raffle. It was my way of effort to work out: Now it was in their hands. Leave fitness up to fate. I did draw a big smiley on my raffle card, awkwardly waving it into the personal trainers’ faces. Heyyy pick me right. I really like winning.
Guess what. I did win. Or they did pick me, having seen my untrained body. (They probably marked my card “Winner! She needs it the most!!!”). Or they let everyone win, cuz that’s marketing right? Anyway.
Sooo, I went to my first class on Monday morning. I was out of shape and nervous. What should I wear? How close will I be standing next to the personal trainer? I took a shower before my training, applied body lotion, did my nails, even flossed. The last time I did all that, I got myself a new boyfriend.
My prize wasn’t a normal, awful gym. It was a gym where you get black, skin tight suits and electric shots (EMS)! What?! What have I gotten myself into? But the trainer calmed me down by saying “you would be the first person to pass out this week”. The first one this week? It was just Monday morning! He hooked my functional sausage-skin to the power. Bzzzzz.
Here’s what it looked like. Also, I think this is the best self-portrait I’ve ever drawn:
This electric shock work out lasts only 20 minutes. I can do that. It tickled, I didn’t go out of my way. Wasn’t even sweating. (I only took a shower afterwards because the suit smells of other people’s sweat.) I even enjoyed it (not the sweat). I must have looked like someone, who chills while being electrocuted. Back at home, I felt accomplished and had more cake.
The backlash awaited me the next day: a surprise muscle ache in places, I didn’t even know I had muscles. I will do it again. Bring it on! Turns out, EMS is not only super efficient, it’s also expensive. Looking at my fellow gym partners, I’m never sure if they’re rich or lazy. Good small talk topic for my next workout. Make Ingrid’s body great again.
Some people say “jokes are just words”. I don’t think so. Words are powerful. It’s all we have. They can lift us up, make us laugh, and destroy. Writing stand-up, and not my half finished language degree, made me appreciate words. Is this word necessary for the joke? Is there a funnier sounding one? Does this word evoke negative emotions? What does it really mean?
I often stumble upon words I find enthralling. Like enthralling. Or curmudgeon. Or flabbergasted. I write them on a special list. My Ingrid encyclopedia of odd words. And I’m adding to it almost every day. Whenever I have free time I skim through it. And when I have more time, I illustrate them.
Even though I write in English most of my favorite words are in German. English I use, but German I own. My funny bone speaks English, but my heart German. And I’m in love with compounds with odd literal meanings. Like the German word for a tender stroke: Streicheleinheit. It literally means “caress unit”. Because stroking in Germany has to be regulated!
So now here are some doodles of my Lieblingswörter, Lieblingsworte, Favorite Words: