I went to Berlin to meet with old friends. One of my goals was to find books for another friend from China, who's studying my language and teaching me his with infinite patience. The weather was cold and I unprepared. People looked at me, my ego mistook it for interests but in reality it was the unbelieving stare of well versed Berliners shocked by some guy who didn't get the message: late autumn here is windy and brutally cold. Get a hat, you moron! Before I figured that out, the plan was to hop from coffee shop to coffee shop until I'd meet my friend at Hackescher Markt, only that even here, the streets are not covered by purveyors of hot beverages in an even fashion and I had to branch out to shops as well. That turned out to be a case of two birds and one stone, because one of these emporia was an old book shop by the name of *Mutabor* and the books they had on display were exactly the kind my eastern friend would appreciate. I browsed a bit and noticed the neat and aesthetic arrangement of tomes. The owner came, asked if I needed help, "I'm just browsing, thank you". But he insisted and I told him my story, that I was here for the heating, that my ears were freezing off and I had that friend who was studying German so diligently that he had by now already surpassed me and needed some classics to study. Before I knew it the owner had shown me to a book about the "Deutsche Seele", which was surprisingly funny, imagine a Hermann Hesse naked in the mountains as a protest against the political climate at the time. A good start but way too heavy to send. Then we discussed the Zweigs and Kleists, the Welsers and Kafkas, the Roths and Manns and hours went by while both of our brains just picked references of readings past to offer the other like fruits on a coridial visit. He gave me a new interpretation of Dostoevsky's idiot: that he is actually a heroically strong person, persisting in his good nature despite the world taking advantage of him. A story of conviction and defiance, of proud individuality in the face of an imperfect world. I had goosebumps. How often do you meet another person with an opinion, let alone a well formulated one, about an old classic they have absorbed and integrated into their current persona? How often does that opinion resonate with you to the point to actually be useful and memorable for you? I wanted to return the favor so while discussing the increasingly isolated youth, extreme opinions nesting in lonely hearts, I shared what I had just understood: we don't read to be smart, cultured, part of a social class. We read to be ready for an encounter like this, to have something to say, to have the patience for someone else's point of view. To be able to make use of different perspectives to better understand outselves and the world. I have to admit that I didn't know the meaning of *Mutabor*. It means "I will (inevitably) change" and has been used by Willhelm Hauff in "Kalif Storch", where it is a magic spell to transform the protagonist from human to animal and back. That this is a concept I'm currently writing about myself is a coincidence, one of those strong ones that create meaning. I found my books, the friend from Berlin is helping me to bring them to the friend in Shanghai, three people connecting over two different common hobbies. The one likes exploring food and culture in the capital of Germany, the other one likes the German language to the point of studying it daily for years while also sharing his own. The very fact of being in Berlin prompted another friend to pour out her heart weighed down by unhappy love because of memories she associates with the city, myself I once came here to sort out matters of that sort - to understand how to rebuild myself and become something entirely different and better, like the city. A mere three years ago I didn't know anybody and felt like a failure and now I'm part of an informal network of living amidst various dreams and ambitions. I call this a five star day, memorable and simple at the same time and while it could happen anywhere, at any moment, they tend to occur in specific circumstances. Back at home, about a week has passed, I struggle to find back into my routine because we're writing mid November with swirls of gray humidity. That thought from earlier lingers however, that of any prolonged effort preparing for extraordinary moments with other people. Years of Chinese or Japanese, calisthenics or acrobatics are building up the potential of meeting certain people and communicating mutual interest. My life here is punctured by visits to coffee shops, where you enter a separate dimension, rediscover strangers and family alike, just long enough to emerge vitalized and have time for your own works. My favorite place used to be a fancy little shop whose existence in my little town is almost a miracle. It could be in any capital of the world, but here, it's an exception and will likely face difficulties. For now, they're consistently serving the best coffee I've ever tasted. Recently however, the couple running it seems to go through a rough patch. They quarrel and treat eachother with a certain degree of hostility, which in a place of sharing moments is a severe blemish on the overall atmosphere and makes one actually feel uneasy. But then today, another regular enters in a particularly good mood, "bonjour, comment ca va? Bien et vous? Tres bien, merci". One of the owners makes a joke about her humor being better in another language. "For me it's the same, I'm smarter in Arabic", says the other patron. I nod. "Same here. I'm funny in english", and turning to my french gf, "and a pain in the ass in french, am I right?". Of course she would nod... What follows then is a conversation that could lift your spirits even if you were dead. We talk about international trade and politics, how certain countries grow by investing in education and abolishing class differences where others try to preserve hierarchy by introducing artificial complexity into their own language. About how his country once offered the equivalent of a 50 000 Eur aid to china, which was considered significant given the regions poverty, that today is probably the most stable pillar of science and technology. How the world is goverened by dishonesty and intrigue and an individual can only persevere by progressively carving out a self-image that stands against it while also doing what needs to be done to advance and make a living. He doesn't use a single platitude, no thoughtless quote from the news, but offers the perspective of a businessman and father in a multi-ethnic family just making sense of it all without losing himself. He is one of those humble people, "I'm not a learned man", "You guys are reading so you certainly know", but everything he says is clearly thought out and on point. About an hour in he is on fire. "I was once in a situation where I had a business to run but it was ugly, lots of bad vibes. I couldn't do it. I feared I'd lose myself, become like them. My friend with whom I was working back then told me this. The world is a swamp. Once you're in it you have to get through, no matter what. That doesn't mean you become the swamp. On the contrary, by surviving you make sure that you don't sink and dissolve, you stay yourself, stronger, the path in front of you ever more important, your convictions clearer. You'll get to the other side more yourself than you were" "You must have a pretty strong grasp of reality and yourself", I say quite surprised that a simple guy whom I had seen often in passing, can hold so much wisdom without ever boasting. By that point, the owner was serving a cup of cream to a dog whose owner she knows, a woman had entered with a kid who was running around like crazy, the IT specialist was discussing something important for the shop while we continued our conversation shouting across the room, shifting in our seats to maintain line of sight among all of it. And then? The self described uncultured man cites two poems, one by Rudyard Kipling: "*If* you can fill the unforgiving minute, with sixty seconds' worth of distance run, yours is the earth and everything that's in it, and - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son" The other one has become famous not least because Nelson Mandela recited it for himself and his fellow prisoners, William Henley's *Invictus*. I knew it like you know many trivial things, in passing, but he was living these lines right in front of me, today at 1120 am: "It matters not how strait the gate How charged with punishments the scroll I am the master of my fate I am the captain of my soul" People say ideas are modular, they connect with eath other and resonate to become ever denser networks of knowledge. But ideas do not connect. People do. People who know, appreciate and share and sometimes envision. I want to be ready for these moments for as long as I live.