Well, folks. Well, well. Matt and I have been finishing up our last few days here in Berlin, seeing the sights that remained on our list, trying the supposedly best cakes and Vietnamese food the city has to offer. We leave on Wednesday. In the morning, but not too early. It is predicted to be cold and rainy.

We sold our bikes earlier this week for even more money than we had anticipated (thanks Craig's List). Without wheels we have been bound to the limits of Kreuzberg. Today was absolutely beautiful. The sky beamed a bright blue and the air was warm. Matt explored photo ops around Köpenicker while I dozed on a bench near Künstlerhaus Bethanien. Then we went for ice cream and watched from the grassy meadows of Hasenheide the sun fall behind yellowed trees.

My job search has been active but so far without great success. It surprises me how many new listings pop up each day. I have quite a few bookmarked, though at this point I'm only applying for the positions that really excite me. I suppose in a couple of weeks -- if I don't find something good by then -- I'll alter my expectations. For now, I stay hopeful.

Still working on the new site. If all goes according to plan, I will have entirely transformed the set-up. Last week I finalized a site and started on the design. I will have to wait to pick up on it until I get back state-side.

Fall Clean-up: I updated the visual theme of The Pit of Babel only this past spring. Still, I'm looking forward to putting my new skills to use and designing a new template. Not sure if I'll try to create something from the ground-up, or if I will merely tweak a theme someone else has already made. Stay tuned to find out!

Just came back from the camping trip, where even isolated in a national park we ate delicious, real food (except for the marshmallows -- forgive me!). Due to some confusion over the placement of the bus stop, we missed the connecting bus to the campground. We were stranded; only pastures and fields surrounded us. We tried hitching with no luck. So we started walking. Not far up the road we came upon wild apple and pear trees. The fruit was still young, but crisp and juicy enough to make for a delicious snack. We filled my purse and nibbled on them for the next couple of days.

The first thing I did coming back to the apartment was jump online and watch the second class of my six-month Photoshop course put on by CreativeTechs. The second thing I did was redirect to NYT.com.

And just what did I find? A new op-ed piece by Michael Pollan. I know there are some mixed opinions on Pollan (in case I didn't post it before, please read the article The Omnivore's Delusion), but I find it impossible to find any wrongdoing in stating the facts that America, condemned to eat itself sick and spend itself bankrupt, pays ridiculously low attention to nutrition, fitness and and preventative care in general. We are famous the world over for producing the largest and strongest athletes, but the average citizen seems to have no idea how many calories he is meant to consume in a day or how many hours of exercise he needs to log in order to make a significant fight against heart disease. For many, especially us Midwesterners, corn and potatoes count as vegetables. Seeing sugar as the enemy of good health, we turn instead to sugar substitutes so that we can still drink our daily Coke.

In Obama's recent speech on healthcare reform, he says that everybody needs to take responsibility to do his own part. This means that every citizen needs to have insurance, regardless of who is providing the policy, but it also means that we need to our part to not strain or exploit the healthcare system.

Please click "Read More" below to, you know, read more!

I just finished reading the speech on healthcare reform that Obama gave earlier this week. Good work, Team Obama, at calling out the talking heads, the politicians, all those responsible for spreading the seeds of misinformation. Congratulations on figuring out a promising solution that can appease the majority, and most of all, thank you for not giving up. For the past couple of years, I have been one of those risk-taking youngsters who didn't have the money (or didn't want to shell it out) for health insurance. When given the option to register for vision and dental coverage, I took it. I know the value of preventative medicine. For general health coverage, I paid out-of-pocket for routine examinations and tests, finding the health services at my alma mater to be the cheapest option. There was no way I was going to pay $32 a week for the health insurance offered by my employer. I'm young, athletic, a non-smoker, a relatively good driver. I take vitamins. But at the same time, there was always the fear that something big could happen. A car accident, a skiing accident, a bookshelf or a mannequin that takes a tumble onto my foot. (Why else do you think I wear thick, leather cowboy boots?) I learned from someone -- a friend, a fellow blogger, I don't remember -- that it was possible to lie at the emergency room, that they were required to treat me even without insurance, and that I could give a false name and address to avoid ever receiving the bill. I prayed this wouldn't happen for my physical well-being as well as my ethical and emotional well-being. That's reckless, but what else can be done when one is earning $8 an hour and faces an $8,000 medical bill?

Last night, just before falling asleep, I started a post on yet another side of the healthcare debate, that of Michael Pollan. Stay tuned for more to come.

And while you're waiting, you should also read this short column, "Summer's End," by Judith Warner. Really, I do things besides reading the Times online!

I'm a little worried about my computer. I know that it's young (just a baby, really) and could fall from a tree branch 10 feet high only to spring up onto its feet and take off for the neighbor's slip 'n slide. But I haven't shut it down in days, maybe even weeks. I've been so intrigued by what I'm finding on the internet that I keep each new blog, interview and Etsy shop in its own tab, sometimes even a private window. It's really getting out of control.

Last night around 8:00 Matt took off to attend some sort of ambient, experimental concert in Friedrichshain. It was chilly and wet outside so I chose to stay in. I remembered that earlier that day, on our daily walk around the kiez, I stopped in front of a newspaper shop to read some of the magazine covers. Remembering how much I liked reading Monopol in the past, I made a mental note to go to their website. So there I was reading the homepage article on Monopol covering this weekend's Miss Read, an art book exhibition with related discussions going on at Kunst-Werke. I took a short trip to KW, where I found a list of other art-book and independent publishing events going on this weekend, one of which was a 12-hour self-publishing event at Motto near Schlesisches Tor. To Motto I went. There I learned about a presentation and conversation with critical graphic designer and theorist Zak Kyes at the art bookshop Pro qm in Mitte, starting in just five minutes. Yowza. So I threw on about four layers of clothing, jumped on my bike and started pedaling.

One of the most basic points discussed, but that I found the most relevant, concerned the politicization of graphic design. Apparently Daniel Birnbaum, the director of this year's Venice Biennale, described national flags as capable of “being broken down to basic visual shapes that display unexpected painterly qualities." National flags -- purely graphic interpretations of a country's culture, history, politics and identity -- as painterly? So the question that was posed to Kyes was approximately whether or not graphic design was losing its political power in the face of (excessive) formalism.

Kyes answered No, of course not. Certainly I agree with him. The meaning behind any given design is malleable, constantly evolving to fit its context and (previous and present) associations, of which new ones can also develop. For an example we can choose any iconic image. Consider how it was viewed when it was designed, first presented, when a generation changes favor, when a government changes favor, after being reworked by other artists. After being maneuvered through post-modernist dialogue like pulled taffy, an image only gains meaning. That most laden with allusion wins friends and influences people. Isn't that how any art essentially works?

If the government knew how happy we are eating chocolate fudge, they would make it illegal.


But seriously, what's the deal with Murdick's fudge? Why can't they keep one name and franchise it to all their nieces and nephews?

Murdick's Fudge has two locations: one on Mackinac Island and the other on Martha's Vineyard.
Doug Murdick's Fudge is located only in Traverse City and Acme.
Doug Murdick's son, Dale, owns Murdick's Fudge Shoppe in Leland and Suttons Bay.
Fran Murdick's Fudge is in Mackinac City.

Then there's Murdick's Fudge of Petoskey.

The difference between Ponys, Bangs and Fringe (and other things I've learned over the past 12 months)

I don't want to live in New York City. According to Facebook, approximately 85% of my social circle has made a break for it. It's a fascinating city. It's huge, a mammoth metropolis pulsating with creativity and cheap ethnic food. And it has Central Park and the Met. But it is an expensive city to inhabit, and I have no intention of overexerting myself so that I can afford a small apartment an hour's commute away from my workplace and then struggle to make time for my personal projects. I love cities, but what is about them that I love? I expect a good city to have a large selection of restaurants. Dining out is perhaps my favorite pastime. I want cheap food, fresh food, foreign food and the option of elaborate 5-course dinners. I want bakeries, specialty coffee shops and at least one hip bar with a dance floor. I need nature, whether it be found in a nearby ocean, mountain range or hidden arboretum. I like public transport, and I like being able to ride my bicycle wherever I go. Fair weather and flat landscapes don't hurt. I can't live in a city that clogs my skin and soils my shoes with pollution. I need personal space; studio apartments don't cut it, and I should be able to sunbathe in public parks without being harassed. Sure, I could find both an apartment and a job in one neighborhood, Brooklyn, for example. But if I don't leave my neighborhood, then why don't I just live in a smaller city? Having made more professional contacts over the internet than at bars, gallery openings or conferences, I don't buy into the argument that NYC is where it all happens.

When my back was turned, Technology excused itself and slipped out the bathroom window. For someone who went straight from dabbling in fingerpaint to pulling all-nighters tapping the keys on her family's PC, it's painfully embarrassing to admit. But that just goes to prove it could happen to anyone (and will happen to everyone, at some point). While I was plucking vegetables from the ground, my peers were becoming new media specialists and information designers. I'm sorry, what? Gone are the days when a firm understanding of Microsoft Office, Adobe Photoshop and Pagemaker, and a basic knowledge of HTML make the cut. In an effort to catch up, I have enrolled in a couple of online courses that start later this month. (Sign up for the free online courses put on by CreativeTechs in Seattle!) And over the next month or two, I will be working to develop a website and online portfolio for some of my creative work.

More of a reminder than a new revelation, but the world is constructed to crush hope. I hate to sound cynical, but the truth is that many people enjoy preventing others from achieving their aspirations. Insecurity coaxes them out of pursuing their own dreams and selfishness persuades them to interfere with yours. To put it less negatively, most people are naturally risk-aversive. And what sounds fun to you sounds to them like a terrible risk that they (and you, likewise) cannot afford to take. Compromising your desires for the sake of others is an open invitation for regret.

Setting aside all the information I absorbed during those two unforgettable months farming in France (like how to milk a goat), I have learned much in the realm of practical skills necessary for everyday living. I have learned to patch and replace the tubes on a bicycle. I have learned to successfully operate an old-fashioned, all-metal can opener (it's much more difficult for lefties). Out of fear of early arthritis and osteoporosis, I have overcome the terrible habit of cracking my neck excessively. It probably helps that I have a desk to work at, compared with my old routine of curling up on my bed against the wall with my computer set on my thighs.

I am through with working in retail.

If left to my own devices, I am susceptible to shopping addictions. Fortunately, my anti-capitalist boyfriend, tiny bank account and love of Berlin's aesthetic anarchy keep me in check. That said, when I shop for clothes, I dress to impress. But the sole target of my efforts, the object of my affection, couldn't care less how I dress (so long as it doesn't bring him unwanted attention). I should be falling to my knees in gratitude. He doesn't want me in heels! He doesn't like make-up! I can use the money on things that matter, on things I really care about -- on food! But it doesn't work that way. Instead I try twice as hard, committed to changing his perception of fashion and to show him all a woman can be.

Though I care only for his opinion, it's a grand shame that no one else was there to witness the farmer version of myself. Bearing a golden farmer's tan and a body overworked by manual labor suits me well. I discovered a new muscle in my arms (perhaps an appendage of the triceps), which unfortunately develops only after hours of lifting hoes and swinging sieves. I suspect it to be that muscle that forces bodybuilders to walk with their arms lifted from their sides. The sensation is akin to putting a little pillow underneath your armpit.

For myself, I have always been fond of one-length, blunt haircuts, short or long. Layers are associated with Jennifer Aniston and teenagers at the mall. But after being pestered for having just so much hair, I decided to give them a try. As it turns out, layers create movement, add volume and free my curls. Who knew. I went to a salon in Prenzlauerberg (Schlumilu), negotiated with the stylist and in the end lost more hair than I originally wanted. But when I walked out of the salon, I felt fantastic, young and sexy. I didn't take a picture and most likely won't be able to style it that well on my own. But I felt more chic then than I have in a long, long time, and that feeling will stick with me for awhile.

My second beauty discovery was another surprise. The secret to shiny, healthy hair is to not shampoo it. I tried the "no 'poo" method before with mixed results. Now I realize that I have to sweat. On the farms, I would sweat through most of the afternoon and couldn't shower every day (one must conserve the resources most precious to us, fudge excepted). I wash my hair with both shampoo and conditioner approximately once a week. I can't brush my hair much in the morning, otherwise it will fall flat. But if I brush it after I'm done sweating (either from yardwork or exercise) and before I go to bed, it keeps its body and most of the waves. In the past my hair was too fine and oily for this method to work. Now that I have more texture (and more hair), there seems to be no problem. The only downside is that it sometimes starts to smell like bedhead.

Moving in with a boyfriend is not as difficult as they make it out to be. When Matt and I first began thinking about WWOOFing and moving abroad, we discussed what it meant in terms of sharing a living space. It was proposed that we could either stay in the States and try living together, or to move abroad -- but that we shouldn't try living together while taking our first international trip together, that the strain it would put on our relationship would likely be much too great. But as it turns out, we are good friends and compatible living partners. We have not been separated (defined by a distance of 30 feet or more) for more than a total of 15 hours since the end of April. That is a lot of together-time. There are times we both get moody, but the experience has absolutely brought us closer together. Within our experience as a couple is an entire treasure trove gleaming with gems of self-discovery.

Once again, this is not a lesson recently learned, but of which I have been gently reminded. And that is just how much my family means to me.

Yestuhday was muh birthday. Like those of recent years past, it went more or less as expected and not at all wild and unruly. As my friend Susi wrote to me in a birthday-SMS, I got my present: Beautiful weather. It was perhaps the last hot day of summer, with blue skies straight out of a first-grader's painting.

I started my morning with a walk up to the Turkish market to grab a melon and some vegetables. Matt and I had our usual breakfast of oatmeal and fruit, then went off to Matilda on Graefestrasse for tea and coffee. Cake wasn't necessary; my mom mailed me three slices of Doug Murdick's fudge, straight off the slab in northern Michigan. In the early afternoon I rode my bike up to Mitte, where I helped to hang the upcoming exhibition at Komet. Denise surprised me with an impromptu gift of sparkling wine and several tubes of Crystal Balls -- a toy that creates colored, saran-wrap balls that are light and sticky, kind of like soap bubbles that don't pop when you touch them. After we were satisfied with the show we went to Arkonaplatz for cola and schnitzel. Matt met me there and we left the group to wine and dine at Belluno, an Italian restaurant with candlelit outdoor seating in Prenzlauerberg. By 11:30 we were back in the apartment, and I had finished the day without any angsty, tear-filled breakdowns about turning 25.

I was happy.