The One

When I think of my favourite accessory, a few things come to my mind: The silver payals I was given in India and that I haven't taken off since then (pretty uncomfortable in boots though). The purple pashmina stole that has saved me from freezing several times but whose best quality is that it was chosen by you. My iPhone that is my camera to go and my connection to the world everywhere I roam.

Yes, these might be valid options but they are not the one. To make you understand which one it actually is, I have to back up a bit, almost 15 years to be precise.

It was the summer of 1998. My semester in Geneva had reached its peak; with the visit of my friend, I had finally met some locals, and now these locals invited me to a Celtic festival in the bordering France. Of course I went, expecting a fun day but not much more. Upon arrival, the music, the atmosphere, the information about the Celtic culture and origin spoke to me immediately. I felt the music inside me, resonating and vibrating in me as I described here before.

In retrospect, I wonder why I was so surprised about this. All the signs pointed towards it. First of all, I'm from Thuringia, and Thuringians are the epitomic children of Thor, the Norse god. Consequently, I am a legal descendant of these Thor worshippers, the Celts. 
And then my name! If you know my full name or even the name I would have gotten if I were a boy, you know that they couldn't be any more Nordic if they tried.

Anyway, as the night advanced, so did the magic. The sounds moved me, I even joined a Celtic dance without hurting myself or others! In this summer, we went to another festival of this kind and as a memory, my friend from Geneva bought me a pewter necklace with a Celtic cross pendant. Is that it, you may wonder, the mysterious favourite accessory? Breathe easy, it is not.

For this, we have to jump closer to the present time, to the year 2002. At the time of the 'millenium flood' in Germany and Poland, my friend and I spent a sunny vacation in Brittany, Northern France. Now this area, Brittany, Normandy and around, is the heart of the Celtic culture. You can tell from the architecture and jewellery, the monuments and cemeteries as well as the language, Breton, one of the Celtic languages like Gaelic or Welsh.

At a small town market that we visited, I finally saw it: a pair of small silver triskele ear studs. Triskeles are one symbol of the Celtic art and so they practically called out to me. Initially, I wore the ear studs as a pair but since I have an uneven number of ear piercings, wearing just one was simply more practicable on the long run. 

Since that day about 11 years ago, not a day has passed when I wasn't wearing at least one of these earrings. It is my good luck charm, a remembrance of my heritage and yes, a pretty piece of jewellery:

Must love dogs*

The first dog in my life was Danny, aunt I.'s and uncle H.'s giant collie. He was a huge jumpy fur ball that was obviously not aware of his size. Full of energy and excitedly curious about every visitor, he fascinated as well as scared little me, no more than 4 years old at the time. So after some high-speed patting and cuddling each time we visited, I became overwhelmed and aunt or uncle would put Danny back into his den.

Different village, different dogs: My mum's cousin and her husband, also known as aunt and uncle M. - coincidentally, both their first names began with the same letter -  had Daisy and her son Blacky. Daisy was an adorable white spitz, Blacky (no points for guessing here) her black fuzzy-furred son. They both lived in aunt's and uncle's large yard and garden, without permission to enter the house at any point. The closest they ventured were the few steps that led up to the entrance door where they used to settle down peacefully.
Believe it or not but in the first years of visits there that I remember, I haven't been  - just like the dogs - inside the house even once. We used to visit for no more than an hour or two, a time span not remotely long enough to get enough of these two creatures who, while announcing every visitor with menacing barks, turned into the sweetest pooches on earth as soon as the door opened and they were patted hello.
I was so taken with them that I begged to take one home with me. 'Okay, if you manage to carry him to the car, you can take Blacky home.' Never underestimate the willpower of a 5-year-old who really wants a dog: I picked up the 20 kilo canine and half carried, half dragged him to our Dacia. To my major disappointment, my parents had only been joking and I had to leave him behind again.

Somehow, there was never a right time for me to have a dog of my own. Not when we lived in the village because we all were out of the house for a big part of the day. Not when I was a university student because I always lived in shared apartments and spent a year studying abroad. Not now that I'm renting a place by myself because it is on the fourth floor (nope, no elevator, it's an older house) and tiny and the dog I envisage to get is at least knee high (my knee). And not even in India where there is no dearth of dogs in all shapes and sizes - not colours though: four out of five Indian street dogs are biscuit coloured, probably to be camouflaged in the dust where they spend their days. If I bring back a dog after my stay there, it would have to go into quarantine for four (!) weeks .. and I could never do that to a dog. Of course, I can't leave it behind either, so no dog for me in the foreseeable future.

My parents on the other hand never showed any particular interest in owning a dog. So when one day during my semester in Geneva, I received a letter, containing a piece of half-melted candy that had a bit of light brown and grey fluff stuck to it and the words 'we have a surprise for you', I was not sure what to make of it. Turns out the surprise was my parents' brand-new puppy, a cuddly little Havanese by the ferocious name of Zorro.
Cute thing but somehow, our relationship never evolved beyond friendly-polite with a dose of respect from his side and a pinch of indifference from mine. There are probably two reasons for that: the fact that I wasn't 'home' very often and so couldn't spend a lot of time with him. And then I blame my mum. Ok, 'blame' is a bit of a strong word but the problem is that she sees dogs as humans. Free will and freedom of choice included. However, if you don't train a dog and show him who's the boss, he takes this role, and so Zorro more or less ruled the house. But not with me, mutt! I will not let a dog walk all over me, as dinky as he may be.

Since then, a good number of four-legged ones crossed my path .. students' dogs, friends' pets, strays. The latest addition to the canine parade is my parents' new pup, Miro, formerly known as Eduard:

*PS: The title of this post was borrowed from the movie by the same name.