Canada | #04 | Time

15hth of May 2026 to 16th of June 2026

Approximate reading time: 45-60 minutes

Small reading tip before we dive in:
This one is a bit of a monster post. Not in a bad way — just in a “life decided to pack a lot of events into a short time” kind of way. You can read it chapter by chapter, or sit down with a coffee (or three and a huge pack of cookies) and go all in. I’d estimate up to an hour reading time if you do the full journey in one go. Either works. No pressure. No questions asked. But you might want to go for a long walk afterwards to process.

Lets get it started

It’s Monday morning, June 16th 2026. I have just been to the breakfast room of my hotel in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. And it is exactly as Americanized as you might imagine. The air conditioning is running at full blast. You would be wise to walk in wearing a winter jacket if you want to avoid catching a cold before your first coffee. The buffet is the classic setup: sausages, eggs, plastic plates, plastic cutlery, single-use cups. And everything that can possibly be individually packaged comes individually packaged. Butter? Packaged. Jam? Packaged. Probably the air as well, if they could figure out how.

If you are hoping to recycle, you might want to recycle your thoughts about recycling instead. Not here.

And while I was enjoying my surprisingly good breakfast, I tried my best to ignore the enormous television mounted in the middle of the room. It seemed to be entertaining a group of people who were simultaneously staring at their phones anyway. Meanwhile, I sat there looking out of the window, still tired from my journey and grateful to be sitting in a hotel in Calgary rather than travelling back from Vancouver to Calgary.

When I booked my flight back from Europe to Canada, I had absolutely no idea where I would work, what I would do, or whether I would even make it back to Canada at all. At the time, British Columbia seemed like the most likely destination, so I booked a flight to Vancouver. The route was simple enough: London to Calgary, then Calgary to Vancouver.

While I was in Germany, however, I received a job offer to work with a local brewery in Canmore, Alberta, just outside Calgary. Done and dusted. Smart me had booked a flexible ticket, so I thought: perfect, let’s make use of that.

I contacted WestJet and explained the situation. To be honest, I wasn’t even asking to change my destination. I simply wanted my luggage in Calgary rather than having it continue to Vancouver. After a lengthy conversation and enough typing to qualify as an office job, the agent came back with a solution.

An additional charge of 400 euros. Four hundred euros. For less service. For not taking the final flight. For not flying to Vancouver.

I genuinely thought he was joking.

I refused and immediately started looking for alternatives. Flights from Vancouver back to Calgary. Bus routes that would only take a casual thirteen hours. Car-sharing options. Divine intervention. Anything. I was stuck somewhere between disappointment, frustration, and reluctant acceptance.

At Heathrow, I tried again. The agent at the counter told me there was nothing he could do. So I gave in to my fate. The plan now looked ridiculous: fly to Calgary, wait four hours, fly to Vancouver, wait again, collect my luggage, and somehow make my way back to Calgary afterwards. Roughly eighteen extra hours of travel. Fantastic.

When I arrived in Calgary, however, I decided to keep trying. I spoke to security staff. I spoke to WestJet agents. I spoke to immigration officers. At this point, I was basically networking my way through the entire airport.

And finally, I found a WestJet agent who told me that technically I could cancel my Vancouver flight over the phone. After politely but persistently insisting that speaking to a real human being might be the better option, she decided to help. She cancelled the Vancouver flight. She arranged for my luggage to be retrieved. And suddenly there was hope.

A short while later, I found myself standing at the oversized luggage department. The staff member disappeared behind a large curtain. A few moments passed.

And then the curtain opened. There it was. My backpack. My entire life for the next few months.

I am not even exaggerating when I say I started crying. Pure relief. Pure gratitude. Pure exhaustion.

I thanked the staff about ten million times, collected my luggage, and walked out of the airport feeling like I had just won a major legal battle against the aviation industry.

The next steps were obvious. Book a hotel. Buy a beerski. Order a pizza. And fall asleep in my wonderfully Americanized hotel room, accompanied by an air conditioner loud enough to cool an entire shopping mall and a medium-quality pool area conveniently located right beside reception.

A perfect ending to a perfectly unnecessary travel adventure.

Corsica – coming in hot

Back to the past. Later, back to the future.

There I was, back in good old Germany in the middle of May, getting picked up in Frankfurt by my brother — the one who was about to get married. In Corsica.

And what can I say? The start was rough for me.

Speaking German again felt weird. My mouth muscles felt weird. Hearing myself speak German sounded weird. It sounded less soft, less like the version of Felix I had become used to. It sounded… not quite like me. And I am not even kidding when I say that I actually had sore muscles around my mouth for a couple of days. On top of that, I occasionally struggled to find the German word for things. Welcome back to your roots.

So we drove to my brother’s place and immediately started preparing for the bachelor party in Nürnberg. Sixteen guys. A big Airbnb. A stroll through town with plenty of stops at pubs and restaurants. A couple of beerskis. Some liqueurs. Plenty of questionable conversations. A BBQ. Some more drinks back at the house until midnight and well beyond.

And while all of that was happening, I found myself simply enjoying the sight of my brother being surrounded by friends from all over Germany who had come together to celebrate him and his wedding.

Meanwhile, I was still running on travel exhaustion and jetlag. So while everyone else was playing Hitster until four in the morning — a game where you guess songs and artists and somehow everybody magically knows every single track ever produced — I decided to go for the less exciting option: sleep and some much-needed me-time.

The weekend came and went. Then came Monday.

My brother and I made our way to Karlsruhe to pick up Sammy. After not having seen each other for ten weeks, I was surprisingly nervous. Excited. Happy. Slightly awkward. The full package.

I had even brought along a small gift: a pair of handmade earrings I had made together with Gayle in Canada a few weeks earlier.

And then Sammy stepped off the Flixbus.

And somehow, it felt as if we had never been apart at all.

Warm. Familiar. Special. Exciting.

At the same time, we both knew that our time together would be limited. Ten days. A lot of people. A lot of driving. A lot going on.

Soon enough, all of us were heading south towards Corsica. Three cars. Karlsruhe to Livorno. Then the ferry.

The adventure started shortly after midnight. We were tired but fully equipped with homemade sandwiches, vegetables, meatballs, and enough snacks to survive a minor apocalypse. Nine hours of driving through different countries. Stops to pee. Stops to eat. Stops to stretch. Stops to rescue our backsides from slowly turning into permanent car-seat shapes.

As the sun came up, Switzerland revealed itself in all its beauty. Mountains, lakes, little villages. The kind of scenery that almost makes you forgive the existence of traffic.

A few hours later, I found myself driving a company car through Milan during rush hour. On the right side of the road. Stressed. Tired. Extremely cautious not to drive too fast, too slow, too close, or accidentally start an international incident.

Life on the edge in the middle of Europe.

Eventually, we reached Livorno and boarded the ferry to Corsica. While we were wandering around the different decks, I suddenly heard somebody calling us from above.

My mum.

Someone I had not seen in years.

Explaining the depth and complexity of that story would probably require another blog, another therapy session, and at least a couple of drinks by the ocean. Or, in my case, somewhere on top of a mountain surrounded by trees and birds.

But to make a very long story short: I genuinely did not know how to react.

How do you greet somebody after years?

Do you hug them?

Shake hands?

Wave awkwardly?

Pretend you suddenly need to inspect the lifeboats?

My brain went through approximately one million scenarios within a few seconds.

And while everyone else was greeting her and giving her a hug, including my brother, I eventually told myself:

„Well, fuck it then. Life is too short to be grumpy, petty, and let the egos do all the talking.“

So I walked over.

I gave my mum a hug.

I said hello.

And then I saw tears running down her cheeks.

The ghosts that follow us are always faster than we are. No matter where you run. No matter how fast you run.

Eventually, they catch up.

Corsica itself was incredible. We had two huge Airbnb villas with pools, massive kitchens, amazing views, and enough space for everyone to have their own room, bathroom, and a little bit of privacy.

While everybody settled in, I somehow ended up spending hours in the pool with the daughter of family friends. We became seals. Penguins. Mermaids. Lifeguards. Victims. Heroes. Basically whatever the storyline of the moment required.

And honestly? We had the time of our lives.

The days quickly settled into a rhythm. Cooking dinner for eighteen people. Getting up early to make pancakes. Bacon covered in maple syrup. Homemade raspberry-mint-lemon sauce. Coffee. Conversations. Sunshine. Laughter.

The wedding day itself turned out even more special than originally planned.

The first idea had been to get married on the beach. Instead, the ceremony took place at the villa. Underneath a tree. A simple bench. Rows of chairs. The pool nearby. The mountains in the distance. My brother standing there in his suit, waiting for his future wife to arrive.

And me walking the pride down the aisle.

Once my part was done, I sat down next to Sammy. She looked absolutely stunning in a beautiful red jumpsuit. And while the ceremony unfolded, I realised there was absolutely no chance of holding back the tears.

There was my brother, trying to put on his own ring before realising that wasn’t how weddings usually work. Then struggling to put the ring on his wife’s finger while everybody laughed. Since he chose the wrong finger.

Laughs. Landscape. Love.

Perfect weather. Hugs. Drinks. Family. Friends.

And somewhere in between all of it, there was me standing directly in front of the air conditioner, desperately trying to cool down from the heat of the day, the heat of the emotions, and the heat of knowing that I would soon have to give a speech in front of the whole crowd. No pressure.

The hard part was done. She said yes. He said yes. Everybody was happy. The rings were on the correct fingers. No further instructions needed.

Then it was time for the bridal bouquet.

And guess what happened. Nobody moved. Well, almost nobody.

While all the other ladies seemed perfectly happy to stand around and let destiny do its thing, Sammy was apparently the only person willing to participate. Standing right in the middle of the crowd, she casually caught the bouquet. Perfect catch. No competition. No struggle. No dramatic dive. Just Sammy and a bouquet finding its natural habitat.

Maybe because she likes plants. Maybe because she is a landscape designer. Or maybe because somebody told her to catch it. Who knows.

Meanwhile, I found myself considering several options. Running away. Taking a flight overseas. Changing my identity. Starting a new life somewhere in the mountains. Or simply sitting back and enjoying the show. A bit like watching a child trip over its own feet. At some point, there is nothing you can do anymore. You just observe what happens next.

“Just because she caught the flowers doesn’t necessarily mean she has to marry you.”

Somebody actually said that. Thank you, Sherlock. Why don’t you go and change some tyres or solve another mystery while you’re at it?

On our way to the restaurant, we received the first surprise of the evening: the place was not ready yet. Despite us having a reservation.

Whatever.

So we made our way down to the beach, hoping to grab a drink at the beach bar while we waited. On the way, we somehow found ourselves being applauded by around a hundred people. Just another wedding happening nearby and us accidentally walking right through the middle of it.

No drinks for us there, though.

So I wandered off to another beach restaurant and attempted a wild combination of French, English, and German to ask whether our group could stay for a drink. Miraculously, it worked. Thumbs up. Tables ready. Crowd happy.

And my heartbeat slowly climbing higher and higher.

While everyone was enjoying their drinks, chatting, laughing, and cooling down after the wedding, I could feel myself becoming more and more nervous. Not because of the wedding. Not because of the family.

Because of the speech.

Eventually, the best man and I stood up and asked for everyone’s attention.

While he spoke about my brother’s loyalty, friendship, and always being there when it mattered most, I was mentally running through my own words one final time.

The words I wanted to say to my brother.

To his wife.

To my family.

And because Sammy would not be able to understand everything in German, I had translated the speech for her beforehand. So she could follow along. Listen. Laugh. Cry. And share that moment with me, even if it wasn’t in her native language.

And so there I was. Standing in front of a crowd of family, friends, and people I had not seen in years. Heart racing. Hands slightly shaking.

And these were the words I shared with my brother, his wife, and my family.

The wedding speech – I’m not crying, you are!

When I started thinking about the person I’ve spent the most time with in my life, a few names naturally came to mind.
Ex-girlfriends. Friends. Coworkers. Huskies.

But purely in terms of years, the clear winner is still my brother.

At 36 years old, that means more than 18 years of living together.

18 years full of laughing, fighting, crying, doing stupid things, and occasionally driving each other insane.
We may not have gone through “thick and thin” in the traditional sense — but we definitely went through highs, lows, heaven, and hell together.

And honestly, sometimes it felt more like riding a roller coaster… without safety bars.

And I also have to say this:

Legally speaking, I was probably his most official life partner for a very long time.

Because Philipp is only allowed to take people in his company car who qualify as a spouse or life partner.

And mathematically speaking, I held that title longer than Jessy.

So I believe I should still receive certain special privileges after the wedding.

At the very least, permanent rights to the passenger seat.

I mean, I spent years being the main character in Philipp’s life — including bonus points for loyalty, pranks, and chewing gum acquisition… more on that later.

Together, we explored the world: Tunisia, Turkey, Denmark, the Netherlands, Corsica, and many more places.

Although, to be fair, “exploring the world” sometimes meant sitting in a hotel room for days, turning on the Game Boy, and playing Pokémon nonstop.

We completely drained the batteries and then spent hours walking around hotel rooms searching for new ones so we could get our next “fix.”

Our parents were understandably less enthusiastic about this.
After all, they paid for us to experience beaches, culture, and famous landmarks… not tiny pixel monsters fighting each other on a grey screen.

We also share a slightly criminal past.

And depending on the statute of limitations, tonight may technically count as a confession.

When I was eight and Philipp was ten, there was a candy store in our hometown called “Schokoladen.”

It had everything children could dream of — and everything parents feared.

Including a giant bowl of chewing gum candies for 10 Pfennig each.

And because Philipp already showed strategic leadership skills at a very young age, our plan was simple:

I distracted the shop assistant while he filled his pockets with candy.

To this day, I hope we were not responsible for that store closing down.

Although… the store actually doesn’t exist anymore.
Coincidence? I don’t think so.

Then there was our glorious career in gastronomy.

Together, we ran a beer stand during our town festival until midnight.

Pouring beer. Washing glasses. Sorting empties.

And trying to keep grumpy adults at a distance who kept telling us children should already be in bed by 9 PM.

We still received tips though — probably out of pity… or because we smiled politely while handing over beer.

And as far as I remember, we invested that money very responsibly:

in Pokémon cards.

At some point, our collection contained more than 1,000 cards.

Looking at today’s prices, that wasn’t a childhood hobby — that was retirement planning.

And then came THE moment.

We walked into the toy store with our last 10 Euros, bought another booster pack, and walked outside full of hope.

And I said to Philipp:

“I know it. This time we’ll get Charizard.”

For those unfamiliar with Pokémon:

Back then, Charizard was basically what owning an apartment in Munich is today — nearly impossible and absurdly valuable.

So Philipp tears open the pack.

We go through the cards one by one.

And then, at the very back: Charizard.

Red. Shiny. Perfect.

We stood outside celebrating and dancing… until a random passerby started looking at us strangely.

But in that moment, we felt like kings.

Unfortunately, the story has a tragic ending.

Because a few years later — while Philipp wasn’t home — I suddenly realized how much money we had spent… or wasted… on those cards.

So I took the entire collection… and threw it in the trash.

Yeah.

I know.

The retirement fund is gone.

But the memory of those two grinning little boys remains.

And while we’re talking about games:

We spent countless hours playing Settlers of Catan as kids.

Looking back, that was probably the beginning of Philipp’s future career as a game tester — and definitely a better investment than Pokémon cards.

Mostly because nowadays he can actually keep them away from me.

And while playing Settlers, some of Philipp’s defining character traits already became very obvious.

First of all:

his absolute obsession with winning.

No matter the cost.

Then there was his… let’s call it “creative” way of explaining rules.

Which regularly resulted in new rules suddenly appearing halfway through the game — rules that had apparently “always existed.”

Strangely enough, those rules usually benefited him.

He also has the incredible ability to question absolutely everything and everyone the moment it looks like he might lose.

And of course, there’s his legendary patience while taking his turn.

Philipp can comfortably spend half a century thinking about one move — but becomes nervous the second someone else takes more than ten seconds.

A squirrel on ecstasy and caffeine pills.

That probably describes him best.

But even a squirrel like that can occasionally be lovable.

Jessy probably knows that better than anyone by now.

And what remains beyond all those stories is something much more important: pride.

I am proud of my brother.

Proud of the way he handles life.

Proud of the friends surrounding him here today — friends who would follow him all the way to Corsica and far beyond.

I’m proud that he truly understands family and loyalty — and actually lives by those values.

And I’m especially proud that he achieved something nobody had managed in decades:

He brought the family back together through this wedding.

That hasn’t happened in a very long time.

And despite all the years, all the distance, and all the periods without contact, Philipp welcomed me back without hesitation.

When he called and invited me to his wedding, he honestly expected me to decline.

Because New Zealand — or now Canada — is ridiculously far away, and traveling there costs not only money, but nerves, time, and a lot of patience.

Back in 2022, he supported me when I left for New Zealand and always made me feel that family stays family.

And that’s exactly who he is.

He’s there when you need him.

He’s loyal, direct, and sometimes actually a pretty good guy with a big heart and an even bigger mouth.

Dear Jessy, dear Philipp,

thank you for allowing us to celebrate with you today.

Thank you for endless late-night discussions about Schlager music versus rock music.

Thank you for exhausted arguments at European rest stops where we yelled at each other first — and hugged five minutes later.

Thank you for pool days with amazing people, great food, lots of wine, sunshine, and that feeling of being home together no matter where we are.

And thank you for allowing us not only to celebrate your wedding today — but also both of you as people, and Corsica as a beautiful island.

I wish you a life full of love, loyalty, patience, many tiles, and a uniquely renovated barn with a waterproof roof — and hopefully significantly better financial decisions than our Pokémon card investments.

To both of you. 🍷

Adventures – the french style

The wedding celebrations continued long into the evening. Dancing. Drinking. Talking. Laughing. But while most people were focused on enjoying the moment, some of us were already looking ahead to the next adventures.

The first one was a hike through the Corsican mountains to a waterfall called Piscia di Gallu. Roughly translated, the name means “the cock’s pee,” which somehow sounds significantly less majestic than the actual waterfall. The final section of the official trail was closed, but I already knew that the viewpoint was still accessible if you were willing to scramble a little.

So off we went. Sammy. My mum. And me. And it turned out to be one of the best days of the whole trip. Beautiful scenery. Good conversations. Some light adventure. And a refreshing drink afterwards.

Somewhere during and after that hike, I found myself telling my mum large parts of my story. The struggles with immigration. The lawyers. The Camino. Publishing a book. Depression. Even the darker moments and the suicidal thoughts that sometimes came with it all. I gave her the full package and I did not hold back.

And for the first time in years, I found myself sitting across from my mum later and watching her simply be… worried. Concerned. Interested. Listening. Like a mum.

Which sounds like a strange thing to write.

But for many years, I had built a story in my own head that maybe I did not have a mum who worried about me. Maybe I did not have a mum who cared. Maybe I did not have a mum who genuinely wanted the best for her children.

And yet there she was.

The universe started rearranging itself a little. Something inside me shifted. Old assumptions loosened their grip. It felt as if parts of my internal operating system were undergoing maintenance. A restoration. Maybe even a major software update. As Peter Fox used to sing „Alles Neu“. Climb that mountain of dirt – the air is fresh up there!

What surprised me most was not what happened around me, but what happened inside me.

I could observe myself staying calm. Listening. Understanding. Setting boundaries when needed. Acknowledging different perspectives. Responding instead of reacting. Not trying to win. Not trying to fix. Not trying to prove a point. Simply being present.

And somehow, I was able to spend genuine quality time with both my mum and Sammy at the same time. Which felt like a miracle in itself.

Naturally, we decided to take things one step further the next day.

Because apparently hiking together, talking about life, family history, depression, immigration, failed assumptions, and emotional software updates was not enough. Naturally, we went canyoning.

Now, for most people, canyoning is an exciting outdoor activity. For me, it is a little different. I have worked as a canyoning guide for seven years in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and New Zealand. I have spent countless days guiding people through canyons, teaching techniques, managing risks, solving problems, and making sure people return home with big smiles and all their body parts still attached. So whenever I join a commercial canyoning trip as a customer, I inevitably see things through two different lenses. One lens is the excited participant. The other one is the professional guide. Sometimes that is a blessing. Sometimes it is not.

The canyon itself was spectacular. Corsica is ridiculously beautiful. Crystal-clear water. Steep rock walls. Natural pools. The kind of place that makes you stop every now and then just to look around and appreciate where you are. Unfortunately, while the landscape impressed me, the overall experience left me with a very different feeling.

The day had already started with confusion. Communication beforehand had been difficult, and when we arrived at the meeting point, things did not become much clearer. There was uncertainty about timing, organisation, and where exactly we were supposed to be. Before even reaching the canyon, we spent roughly one and a half hours hiking uphill through steep forest terrain, climbing more than 300 metres in elevation (which can be a normal approach for canyoning but needs to be clearly communicated).

And while most people were probably focused on the hike itself, I had another concern on my mind. Sammy and my mom.

Sammy had already been struggling with a painful UTI for several days. Every step uphill looked uncomfortable. Every climb seemed to take extra effort. Parts of me wondered whether she should even continue. But she did. And she absolutely smashed it. Despite being afraid of heights, she worked her way through abseil after abseil. Some of them close to 45 metres high.

No tears (well, at the beginning since we needed a waterfall to descend).
No panic (probably on the inside screaming like she is loosing it).
No dramatic moments (and that actually is true).

Just one step at a time. One rope length at a time. And while I could see the discomfort, I could also see something else. Confidence. With every descent, she became calmer. More trusting. More capable. Of course, spending several hours in a wetsuit probably was not exactly what any doctor would prescribe for a UTI. But I suspect a healthy combination of adrenaline, determination, and pure stubbornness carried her through the day. And I observed myself observing very Sammy with painful UTI being a scared yet confident canyoning person – and I was and still am so very proud!

And then there was my mum. For her, this was a completely new world. No canyoning experience. No experience hanging on ropes above waterfalls. No experience squeezing through narrow sections of canyon and jumping into crystal-clear pools. Yet there she was. Trusting me. Not just as her son. But also as a canyoning guide.

As the day progressed, I found myself increasingly slipping back into guide mode. Not because I wanted to. Because I simply could not switch it off and since our official guide was rushing, not explaining and just pushing people without any sense of empathy or understanding their needs.

I found myself observing group management. Watching pacing. Looking at safety systems. Noticing how information was delivered. Listening to questions. Watching nervous participants. Watching how people were being guided through obstacles. And somewhere during the day, I realised that several participants seemed to be feeling exactly what I was feeling.

Rushed. Uncertain. Not fully comfortable.

A few people openly mentioned feeling stressed by the pace. Others seemed hesitant but continued anyway. Some later thanked me personally for helping them through sections or simply reassuring them when things felt overwhelming. And that was probably the strangest part for me. I had signed up as a customer. Yet somehow, I occasionally felt more like a guide again.

Throughout the day, I naturally slipped back into professional habits. Double-checking systems. Watching descents. Looking ahead to the next obstacle. Making sure my mum understood what she was doing. Whenever she was on rope (and this also applies for all the other participants and of course for Sammy as well), I found myself standing below, bottom-belaying her descent. Acting as a backup and knowing that if she accidentally let go of the rope, I could stop her from sliding through uncontrolled. Seeing her trust me in those moments felt surprisingly meaningful. After all the conversations we had shared during the previous days, after years of distance and complicated family history, there we were. Hanging from ropes in a canyon in Corsica. Life comes up with some strange ways of reconnecting people.

The canyon itself remained beautiful. The adventure was still exciting. We laughed. We jumped. We swam. We enjoyed the scenery. But throughout the day, I could not shake the feeling that things could have been done differently. Not necessarily bigger. Not necessarily slower. Just more professionally.

Back home, I decided to do something I rarely do. I wrote honest feedback. Not because I wanted to attack anyone. Not because I wanted to damage a business. But because I genuinely believe feedback is one of the most valuable tools we have for improving what we do. Especially in industries where safety matters.

The response surprised me. Rather than discussing the concerns I had raised, the conversation quickly shifted towards questioning my qualifications, my professional experience, and even my credibility. Which felt oddly familiar. Because sometimes in life, people do not hear criticism as information. They hear it as an attack. And when that happens, learning becomes difficult.

The whole experience left me thinking about something much bigger than canyoning. How often do we actually listen when somebody gives us feedback? Not the easy feedback. Not the compliments. The uncomfortable stuff. The things we do not want to hear. The things that challenge our version of reality. Sometimes those conversations reveal more about us than any compliment ever could.

And while the canyon was full of waterfalls, jumps, ropes, adrenaline, and adventure, that might have been the biggest lesson I took away from the entire experience. Because despite all the concerns I had regarding the organisation, communication, and safety culture of the trip itself, Sammy and my mum still had an incredible day. Not because everything was perfectly guided. But because they challenged themselves. Because they faced fears. Because they trusted themselves. And because, whenever things felt uncertain, I was able to be there and help make sure they felt safe enough to enjoy the adventure. And honestly, seeing both of them walk out of that canyon smiling was probably worth more to me than any perfect guiding operation could ever have been.

Our final day in Corsica was supposed to be a Sammy-and-Felix day. And since we also wanted to experience a bit of culture and some proper couple time, we decided to rent two scooters and make our way from Porto-Vecchio all the way down to Bonifacio.

Scooters. Highway. And us.

Now, Sammy had never ridden a scooter before. Maximum speed: 45 km/h. On a highway.

Well.I can tell you that this adventure probably deserved its own chapter.

Not quite as dangerous as we had imagined, but definitely something I would put into the category of „Do not try this at home — this has been performed by highly questionable professionals.“

Even now, I am still shaking my head a little. But it was fun.

And considering that Sammy was riding her own scooter for the very first time, I was seriously impressed and proud of her.

Eventually, we arrived in Bonifacio and upgraded from scooters to one of those little Tschu-Tschu tourist trains that seem to exist in every European holiday destination. The train carried us up to the famous citadel and into the maze of narrow alleys where you can browse, shop, drink coffee, and watch tourists enthusiastically do tourist things.

While we were enjoying a delicious homemade crêpe from a local fella, Sammy suddenly looked at me with her eyes wide open and said:

„And I thought Auckland and New Zealand were touristy.“

I could not help but laugh. „Welcome to Europe, my love.“ And honestly, she was not wrong.

We spent the afternoon wandering through old buildings, exploring a historic cemetery, and hiding from the midday heat with a cold beverage in hand while the thick stone walls and narrow alleyways provided some much-appreciated shade.

The funny thing was that it was not even peak season yet.

And the place was already absolutely packed.

I genuinely do not want to imagine what Bonifacio looks like in the middle of summer. I suspect you would need a traffic management plan just to buy an ice cream.

Eventually, we jumped back onto our scooters and made our way towards the villa. The warm Mediterranean wind felt considerably less refreshing than I had hoped for, and by the time we arrived back home, there was really only one logical solution.

The pool. Again.

So we spent the evening cooling off, chatting for a little too long, and enjoying our final hours together in Corsica.

Which, in hindsight, was perhaps not the smartest decision considering that our alarm clock was set for 4 a.m. the following morning.

The rest of the story is easy to tell, but it was not easy to live.

We had to make our way back to the mainland. Again via car, ferry, and car. Endless hours on the highway, some sleepy moments whenever I was not driving, and me constantly checking my phone for an email I had been waiting for, working towards, hoping for. Maybe even praying for. Not in a religious kind of way, more in a „If you don’t make me puke this time, I swear I will never drink that much again“ kind of way.

And then, around midnight, with just one hour left of the journey, there it was. The email. From Canmore, Canada. With a job offer from a brewery I had been in contact with for the previous four weeks.

In Canada, I had no idea whether I would actually return after the wedding or stay in Europe for a while. I did not know where I would work or what I would work. Just staying in Canada for the sake of staying there felt wrong. Staying in Squamish felt wrong too. I simply did not feel the energy of the place. And that’s okay.

The funny thing is that I had built up huge expectations of Squamish. I kept comparing it to Wanaka in New Zealand, which is about as useful as comparing apples to mountain bikes. Spoiler alert: every place is unique. Every place comes with its own beauty, challenges, and community. And sometimes you just don’t feel it. You don’t have to force it. You don’t have to punish yourself. Just go with your goddamn guts.

While applying for random jobs all over the place, kombucha somehow popped back into my mind. Something I genuinely enjoy brewing. Something so simple, yet so beautiful and natural. So yum. Something that is just waiting to be shared and explored. The problem? Most kombucha breweries are either tiny or simply do not advertise jobs.

So I changed strategy and applied to around thirty small breweries instead. Family businesses. Small-scale operations. Places where I could actually see everything, learn everything, touch everything, and understand how it all works. And guess how many replied? One. One single brewery. The very next day.

They told me they were looking for seasonal staff and that my resume had caught their attention. Not because I had brewery experience, but because I seemed genuinely interested in learning rather than simply earning.

We organised a video interview. And I was late. Very late.

Apparently, my German ancestors are haunting me selectively since.

The interview was scheduled for 1 p.m. Alberta time. I was in British Columbia. While casually enjoying a coffee at a café, I thought it might be a brilliant idea to double-check the time difference. At 12:05 p.m. British Columbia time.

I nearly spat out my coffee. It was already 1:05 p.m. in Alberta.

After spending another ten minutes setting up my phone, Zoom, and my rapidly increasing panic levels, I finally joined the call about fifteen minutes behind schedule. The couple interviewing me simply laughed. I apologised repeatedly, and then we talked for an hour. Somewhere during that conversation, I already had the feeling that this was it – in a positive way.

A second interview followed a few weeks later while I was sitting on a beach in Corsica, talking to the entire team with the Mediterranean Sea in front of me. Not exactly your standard job interview setup. The conversations went well and the gut feeling was there, but I was still worried that my complete lack of brewery experience would ultimately be the deciding factor.

Turns out, it wasn’t.

While we were driving back towards Karlsruhe, my phone beeped. The brewery offered me a job as a brewery assistant for the summer season. Their reasoning surprised me. Yes, I lacked brewery experience, but I was passionate, energetic, curious, and genuinely interested in learning, improving, and supporting the team. At least that is what they told me.

And somehow, that was enough.

Canmore, here I come. Although finding accommodation would become an entirely different story.

And while we dropped Sammy off in Munich the following day—with fewer tears than in New Zealand, but still with our hearts cracking open a little bit again—I continued my journey east. Towards another adventure. This time by myself.

Back to the roots

While being back in Germany, I decided to slow things down a little this time. Compared to my last visit, where I spent three weeks rushing across the country, putting more than 3,000 kilometres on the odometer, joining a bachelor party, being best man for a wedding in Poland and ending up socially and emotionally exhausted, I wanted this trip to feel different.

I started in Chemnitz, spending some time with my good friend Madeleine from my school days. We sat on the balcony drinking tea, explored the nearby area, wandered through the town centre during a hat festival, and shared a surprisingly good store-bought kombucha while talking about everything that had happened over the past few years.

Later, I returned to my hometown and found myself wandering through the old streets (and even had a look into my old school house) alone, admiring the buildings, the culture, and the history surrounding them. Things I had somehow never really noticed before. Spoiler alert: New Zealand does not offer many rock buildings from the 14th century. And while I immersed myself in all this history, I also caught up with family and friends.

I found myself walking up a hill with friends and their daughter, who initially decided that I was absolutely not welcome inside the house. So I spent what felt like hours sitting outside before she eventually changed her mind. We became friends later on and she even fed me fruit, which I consider a major diplomatic success.

I spent an afternoon with my cousin and enjoyed coffee and cake together with my mum and my granddad. He is 92 years old, can barely see, can barely hear, but still walks like an absolute champion. At one point I suggested we sign up for a marathon together. He said he just needed a bit more preparation. What a champion he is!

I also found myself on a bike trip with my stepmum through the beautiful Ore Mountains, the region where I grew up. And for the first time, I truly appreciated the beauty of East Germany. Sometimes you have to leave a place in order to come back and actually see it.

But while being back home, I also found myself struggling with the reality of time.

And age.

Whenever I returned home in the past, my grandparents always seemed the same. Not twenty years old, obviously. But active. Social. Present.

This time felt different.

Because my grandma was different.

Quieter. More tired. More absent at times. Hiding her face occasionally.

And for the first time in my life, I could see her struggling.

Dementia hits differently when it is no longer a story about somebody else’s family.

And while I tried to stay strong, to keep conversations going, to comfort her, hold her hand and give her hugs, it hit me hard after saying goodbye.

Really hard.

My grandma hugged me, cried, and told me that she loves me.

I don’t know about you, but one’s grandma is just this very special person. The one who keeps feeding you even when you are clearly full. The one who insists on having „just one more sip“ of champagne. The one who secretly hands you some cash as if she were involved in organised crime and whispers that you should use it for something nice. Maybe some beerskis. Maybe some chocolate.

Nana is simply one of the most beautiful souls on this planet.

And seeing her struggle broke my heart.

Because I realised that things are different now.

Most of our time together has already been spent.

Most hugs have already been given.

Most coffees have already been shared.

And from now on, time is ticking. Quietly. Somewhere in the background. Always there.

And yet there is nothing we can do about it.

Except accept it. Live it. Enjoy it. Move with it. Love. Laugh. Cry. Share.

Embrace the little moments, the little joys, the ordinary things we usually overlook.

Because sometimes, that is the hardest part of life.

Not the big moments.

But realising that the little ones won’t last forever.

From my hometown, I made my way to the town where I studied: Jena.

It was time to catch up with friends from sports, friends from university, and friends I had met somewhere along the journey while working, struggling, learning, and making life-changing decisions.

I ended up staying with my very good friend Bettina and her family just outside of Jena. She even picked me up from the train station and handed me a stack of public transport tickets so I could get in and out of town without having to worry about a thing. A proper local VIP package from a very special person – a very kind soul, a true friend, fan and supporter. I am truly a Bettina fan!

The very first evening, we found ourselves having dinner with sixteen people after doing what we used to do best back in the day: meeting every Thursday for BoxFit. A wonderful combination of bodyweight training and boxing technique sessions without intentionally punching each other in the face. Occasionally, accidents happened. Purely by accident, of course.

While catching up with old university mates and spending most of my days walking through Jena, I once again found myself admiring old buildings, familiar streets, and places that had played a role in shaping my life. I tried to absorb as much of it as possible while also staying calm and resisting the temptation to plan every minute of every day.

The schedule was already full enough.

In fact, I even had to say no to a few catch-ups because I knew it would simply become too much otherwise. A lesson I had learned from my last trip back to Germany three years ago, when I tried to squeeze every possible meeting into a few short weeks and ended up emotionally and socially exhausted.

This time, I wanted to do things differently.

While sitting in the garden of my good friend and former coach Uli, I realised that telling my entire New Zealand story now takes roughly ninety minutes. And that’s the shortened version. The immigration struggles. The lawyers. The visa battles. The deportation anxiety. The moments of „fuck this shit“ and wanting to give up. And the moments of somehow finding a way forward anyway.

Ninety minutes.

Turns out life gets surprisingly complicated when you leave home for a few years.

Not long after, I found myself back on a train heading to another friend’s place, catching up over a barbecue and getting to know their lovely little daughter. Unlike some other children I had met recently, she warmed up to me almost immediately and soon handed me a set of colouring pens so we could draw together.

A true honour.

After a rather short night—those beers and ginger liqueurs were simply too good—we shared breakfast together before I continued on my way.

And somewhere along a small creek, while catching up with a good friend and dentist whom I had originally met during my canyoning guide course years ago, I had one of those moments of quiet gratitude.

Because I realised how incredibly lucky I am.

Lucky to have so many people to visit.

So many people to miss.

So many people to hug.

So many people who also put a lot of effort into seeing me, offering me a space to stay.

Even if it sometimes means accepting that there is not enough time for everyone. That some conversations have to wait. That some catch-ups would feel rushed and incomplete if squeezed into an already packed schedule.

And maybe that is okay too.

Because not every connection needs to happen right now.

Sometimes the greatest sign of friendship is knowing that there will be another coffee, another walk, another conversation somewhere down the road.

And that when the time comes, you simply pick up where you left off.

Cardiff – the Wales tales

The final chapter of this year’s Europe trip took me to Cardiff.

And yes, I still consider the UK part of Europe. I mean, just look at a map. Get over it Brexit!

This time, the motivation was culture and music. One of my favourite shows, Ibiza Classics, was coming to Cardiff Castle. A live orchestra, a live DJ, live singers, and some of the biggest dance tracks ever written transformed into something much bigger than just music. Familiar songs suddenly had depth, energy, and enough vibrations to shake your ribcage.

So we made our way to the island.

Before that, I had spent a few days with friends in Berlin—the same friends I had met in Corsica, including the little mermaid daughter who had to rescue me from drowning in the pool several times because apparently I am incapable of surviving in waist-deep water.

At the airport, I met up with an old friend from the days when we used to spend our weekends crawling through mud and suffering voluntarily during obstacle course races. She is basically my equivalent, just much shorter and with significantly more energy. Imagine a squirrel—or Hemmi from Over the Hedge—after consuming far too many cookies and somehow still getting a full night’s sleep.

Together, we flew like true superstars in economy class to London and immediately did what any sensible travellers would do.

We went to the pub.

To settle important matters over a pint.

Or three.

The following day, we made our way to Cardiff together with Thorsten, a friend of my friend, and settled into a beautiful Airbnb that also happened to be an art studio. Sammy arrived later, fully loaded with luggage and after winning a small battle against the Welsh rain.

By the evening, we found ourselves standing inside Cardiff Castle, surrounded by massive stone walls, thousands of people, and speakers vibrating perhaps slightly beyond their legal limits.

And it was brilliant.

We danced. We laughed. We enjoyed the strange but wonderful combination of orchestra, electronic music, and live performers becoming one giant celebration. Dressed in enough colours to resemble a travelling rainbow, we blended perfectly into the crowd while the occasional drizzle helped cool everyone down.

The next few days were exactly what good city trips should be.

Local breakfasts.

Local beers.

A bit of culture.

Old watchtowers.

Windy countryside walks.

And regular emergency stops for cake, fish and chips, or another pint.

Purely for cultural reasons, of course.

What surprised me most, though, was how incredibly kind the Welsh people seemed to be. Everywhere we went, people were welcoming, helpful, and genuinely interested in making sure visitors had a good time. Combined with the old history, the enormous stone buildings, and the rugged landscape of green hills and dramatic coastlines, it felt like a place that was very easy to enjoy.

On our final day, we even got lucky with sunshine and blue skies—a rare and beautiful gift.

At one point, we had already bought tickets for Stonehenge and were preparing to squeeze one more attraction into the trip before heading home. But after looking at the clock and realising we would spend most of the day rushing around, we changed plans.

We requested a refund—there was a thirty-minute cancellation window, so the pressure was real—and decided to do something much more enjoyable instead.

Nothing.

Well, almost nothing.

We found a small farm café, ordered coffee, sat down, and enjoyed our final hours together without (almost) any schedule, without (almost) any rush, and without trying to maximise the experience.

Sometimes that turns out to be the better adventure anyway.

And before long, I found myself back at the airport, saying goodbye to Sammy once again (with lots of tears and my heart being ripped apart once more – how often can you actually do this to yourself without becoming insane and emotionally available like a bag of potatoes?) and mentally preparing for the next challenge: flying all the way to Vancouver… only to turn around and come straight back to Alberta.

A story that, as usual, turned out to be far more complicated in my mind than it actually would turn out. It might be probalby time for another therapy – lets wait for the poll results.

Behind the curtains

Let’s change the tone a little and talk real.

Let’s talk travelling.

Let’s talk long-distance relationships.

Let’s talk about maintaining friendships while living in different countries—or sometimes on entirely different continents.

Because it is a tough one.

A challenging one.

A very real one.

Since being back in Europe—and honestly even before arriving—I realised that maintaining friendships, looking after your mental health, nurturing a healthy relationship (and honestly, „maintaining“ would feel like the completely wrong word here), and constantly planning ahead is much more than just joy, adventure, and „living the life.“

It is about balance.

It is about deciding where your energy goes.

It is about realising that investing more and more time into friendships that already feel like they are drifting apart and you are feeling like the only leftover thriving force can sometimes be more painful than allowing them to change naturally. Not disappear. Not fail. Just change.

And maybe accepting that some relationships take a different direction, while the space they leave behind can be filled with something else.

With Silence. With Rest. With Quality time for and with yourself.

I also realised that constantly rushing around, chasing the next catch-up, staying busy every single day, and always planning the next step without truly being present is more exhausting than running a marathon.

A marathon is physically exhausting.

And then it is over.

Four or five hours later, you get your medal, your banana, and your sore legs.

Being mentally exhausted is different.

Being constantly drained, constantly running on low battery, constantly going deeper into emotional overdraft just to keep up with your own expectations—and the expectations you think everyone else has of you—is much harder to recover from.

And this time, I could feel it even more than three years ago.

I was less patient.

Sometimes less present.

Sometimes already thinking about tomorrow while today was still happening.

Sometimes missing moments with friends.

Sometimes missing moments with Sammy.

Not because I didn’t care, but because my mind was already busy planning the next day, the next week, trying to sort out the flight situation, trying to organise accommodation, trying to figure out what comes next.

And then there was Canmore.

The flight situation somehow solved itself through proper communication and a bit of persistence.

Housing, however, is a different beast.

The area has less than one percent available housing. Rooms cost a fortune. More than four million visitors come through the region every year, and securing a room sometimes feels more valuable than winning the lottery.

And while trying to deal with all those practical realities, I was also processing something much bigger.

The catch-ups.

The conversations.

The changing relationship with my mum.

The reality of my grandparents getting older.

And the realisation that some friendships slowly—but very obviously—change over time.

„Fall apart“ is probably not the right wording.

They still exist.

They simply become something different.

And sometimes that change is no longer in your hands.

No matter how much effort you put in.

No matter how much you care.

This trip back to Europe taught me something important.

To slow down.

Much more than I think I need to.

To embrace the moments instead of constantly planning the next ones.

To observe.

To be present.

To pay attention to the small things.

A dance in the kitchen. A cuddle on the couch. A long hug after years apart.

A cup of tea with a friend.

A movie night with homemade food.

A walk through grassy fields.

A good book and a good coffee.

Observing the clouds changing shapes and talking about what they could be.

Or simply the realisation that you do not need to see and experience everything just because it is available.

Because life is not a competition for experiences.

It is not about collecting as many moments as possible.

It is about actually being there when they happen.

What else to say?

Right now, life has shown me once again that things can and often do work out.

With a bit of faith.

With some proactive action.

And with being open to the possibility that things might not work out exactly the way we planned.

While I was overthinking the whole flight situation between Vancouver and Calgary, I missed a lot of precious little moments along the way. Quality time. Conversations. Presence. I missed out a lot on Sammy-Felix time.

Instead, I got stuck in problem-solving mode.

„What if this happens?“

„What if that goes wrong?“

„What if I need a backup plan for my backup plan?“

I was trying to prepare for every possible scenario, just in case one of them would happen. Mentally building lists of solutions and ticking off options like a mechanic working through a checklist.

But here is the catch.

Life cannot be ticked off.

You can spend hours, days, or weeks thinking about a thousand different scenarios while life quietly happens around you.

And then life will throw a completely different scenario at you anyway.

One you never even considered.

At that point, you might as well have enjoyed yourself a little more and done just enough research to know the general direction.

So here is my personal learning from this trip:

Be prepared to be unprepared.

Allow the universe to challenge you.

Allow the universe to help you.

Allow yourself some space.

Some time.

And occasionally an empty mind.

Because I missed a lot of moments by not allowing myself that.

I missed moments because I was stuck in problem-solving mode.

For myself.

For other people.

For situations that did not even exist yet.

And I justified all of it by telling myself that I was creating more time, more freedom, or more certainty for the future.

Looking back, it feels a bit like sitting at a poker table while already being heavily in debt.

Instead of stepping away, I kept playing.

I kept investing more energy.

More thoughts.

More planning.

Convincing myself that the next hand would make it all worthwhile.

Not realising that sometimes the smartest move is not to keep playing.

Sometimes the smartest move is to leave the table.

To stop planning.

To stop overthinking.

To stop trying to control every possible outcome.

And simply return to the present moment.

Maybe this is not quite the happy ending I imagined for my trip back to Europe.

But it is an important lesson.

And perhaps those are the endings that stay with us the longest. Because finally, there is one question left:

„How much of life do we miss because we’re busy preparing for life?“

Your DingyInternational
Felix