Ungefiltert
This Monday morning, I woke up at Romy’s place in Mannheim. Fabian had already left, so I finally got to sleep in a proper bed. I slept much better, and I also went to bed way earlier.
When we finally managed to leave the apartment on Sunday morning, around 1 p.m., we headed towards the Wasserturm, which is Mannheim’s water tower. It’s basically the city’s main landmark, just like the Eiffel Tower is for Paris. I suggested we stop at the Starbucks in front of it, but Romy insisted there was a better café on the other side, called Dolce Amaro. We ordered two Americanos, and I pulled out my journal to start writing, realizing it was high time I got back to it this week.
Lately, I’ve been focusing a lot on writing for my website, sometimes at the expense of my actual work and other habits. I like to see this as a “phase.” I’ve had my piano phase, my gym phase, my Instagram phase, so why not a writing phase? The fact that I call it a phase is because I know, or at least assume, it won’t last forever. It’s almost discouraging sometimes to start something with the idea that it has to be permanent. Better to just give up than to impose that on yourself, right?
For me, I usually start something to try something new. Then, I’ll figure out whether it’s worth continuing, knowing full well that it’s often when you keep going, while others quit, that you get different results.
Romy and I were actually talking about this the other day. She’s been wanting to start a podcast for a while now. Same here, actually, but the difference is, she recorded her first episode yesterday—with me as the guest. The podcast is going to be called “Ungefiltert,” which is German for “unfiltered.” It’s a podcast with no editing or prep, just pure natural conversations. I can confirm it lacked structure, which is what I told Romy when I shared some examples of the podcasts I listen to. We’ll see if she takes that feedback on board. In any case, I didn’t think I came off too bad in the recording, and the vibe was good enough that the first episode should be usable.
The recording lasted 38 minutes. Romy was happy with the result. Of course, I had some notes, but honestly, my mind was more on the Korean restaurant we’d booked a table at after we left Dolce Amaro. As we were walking there, Romy explained that the podcast would just be a hobby, nothing too serious. I pointed out that if she approached it like that, it would definitely stay that way—a hobby that never really takes off.
She was probably trying to lower the stakes so she’d feel more comfortable. It’s scary starting something new, especially when you’re not sure if you’ll be any good at it. But does that mean you shouldn’t have ambitious goals?
I’m not sure if she particularly likes it when I challenge her like this. She often says, “I can only do this kind of stuff with you!”—referring to the photos, videos, crazy plans, parties, and now podcasts that we do together. I think she sees it as a positive thing, that I try to push her out of her comfort zone. From my side, I just don’t hold back from sharing my frustrations with her, hoping she’ll change a bit.
What’s nice, though, is that she’s pretty open to my suggestions. As we were leaving to go to the restaurant, I proposed:
“How about we leave our phones here? We’ll bring two books, and after dinner, we’ll find a café and just read for an hour. It’s only an hour, right?”
She said yes. I have to say, phones really annoy me. I’m not sure if it’s because I spend too much time on mine, and I see my own flaw in her, or if it’s because I’m afraid that seeing her on hers will make me want to hide behind a screen too.
What’s funny is that she’s aware of it herself. During the podcast recording, she mentioned how much time we waste on our phones. I chimed in, saying the best way to gain more time is to ask yourself: what’s the one activity that eats up most of my time that I really should cut back on? “Ungefiltert” turned into a self-help podcast, probably because I wanted to add my two cents.
As I’m writing this on Monday morning, Romy is sitting next to me, going over the podcast clips she’s editing on CapCut.
Anyway, we went to the restaurant without our phones, no pictures of our food, no responding to messages that could wait. Since we’d made an “early-bird” reservation at 6 p.m. (very German), we were staring at our empty plates by 7 p.m. I announced it was time for part two of my plan: reading.
At the Starbucks across from the Wasserturm, I went to the counter to order while telling Romy to stay put in the prime seating with the best view of the water tower. I would’ve been really annoyed if I had to sit somewhere less nice to read. I ordered the only hot drink available without caffeine—mint tea—which the barista served in the usual paper cups. I asked for real mugs for a bit more class, then hurried back to make sure our seats were still free.
We settled into the comfiest low chairs Starbucks had to offer, though I still had this persistent back pain. Since I started taking Imraldi injections every three weeks for my ankylosing spondylitis, I’ve probably lost track of the schedule. I’m pretty sure I’m overdue for a shot, and I told Romy that’s probably why my stomach and back were hurting all Sunday. Then I declared it was time to read, and Romy got to it. She pulled out the German book she’d recommended to me from her shelf, while she herself grabbed a feminist book that she couldn’t quite get into—due to both a lack of interest and the clattering of cups around us. After an hour, as we were leaving Starbucks, she told me she couldn’t handle the noise anymore from the cleaning and tidying up before closing. For once, she was the one who was irritated.
I’d finished “L’impossible retour”, the latest Amélie Nothomb book, on my way to Munich. Romy had suggested “Das Café am Rande der Welt” by John Strelecky as we packed up to head out a few hours earlier. It’s originally an English book called “The Why Café”.
Maybe it’s not always the case, but in my experience, English books tend to be written more simply. There are rarely long, complicated sentences. The translation into German made it even easier to read. My best experience with this was reading « The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck » by Mark Manson. Reading it in French was so refreshing. No French author writes like that—with humor, a bit of slang, self-deprecation. Anyway, as I got into my hour of reading, much to Romy’s despair because she couldn’t focus, I rediscovered the simplicity of American writing—this time through German.
48 pages later, Romy pointed out for the third time that it was almost 8 p.m. I told her, firmly, that we’d leave when it was exactly 8. She kept staring into space until we finally left. Under the streetlights and the setting sun at the end of Planken street, we headed home to get to bed early and start the week right.
