Winter in Germany has the gentleness of a proctologist. It looks at you, evaluates you, and then shoves five months of cold, dim light, and that absurd feeling that the world suddenly turned grey. One morning you wake up with chest pressure, anxiety attacks, the urge to cry over nonsense… and wonder what on earth just happened.
Germans handle it with an almost zen-like calm. All they need is a Christmas market, two candles, and a cup of Glühwein to convince their spirit that living in Mordor isn’t so bad. But for migrants, the game of life is set on expert mode. Far from family, dealing with the Foreigners’ Office —a bureaucratic labyrinth where even Theseus would have applied for asylum— and living with the constant suspicion that the sun might actually be a conspiracy theory.
When I arrived, I figured it out quickly. Either I created my rituals or I’d end up hugging a space heater and naming it Wilson. So I came up with my own winter survival plans. Going to the pool to dive and hide from the world underwater, remembering the last time I saw a beach. Losing myself in salsa parties where humanity regains its natural temperature and where Latin joy shows up without any integration courses. And most importantly, those nights with friends cooking, talking, and finishing the evening playing UNO as if a +4 also meant four extra degrees and a few rays of sun so we could go outside and photosynthesize like plants.
On lonely winter nights I even dared to play the guitar, performing private concerts where I applauded and booed myself depending on the note. And just like my mother and grandmother, I’ve become a collector of herbal teas: muña, valerian, hibiscus, eucalyptus, chamomile. Fun fact, for those who don’t know: valerian smells like rotten cheese, yet cats fall madly in love with it.
All of this has helped me survive these years of ice and those days that last fifteen minutes—five if the weather feels dramatic.
Now, in a burst of maturity no one saw coming, I’m trying meditation. I don’t know if it calms me or just stresses me out with the idea that I should calm down, but there I go. Breathing like a Tibetan monk in Bavaria, imagining a vast calm sea, watching my thoughts jump into the water until they get bored and leave. Although, to be fair, they don’t always leave.
And you —how do you survive the German winter without losing your sanity, your humor, or the desire to stay here?
