Rhymes with freedom, doesn't it?

Dear future hubster,

when the Saturday night is a little chillier, and we don't leave all the windows open, and as a result, on Sunday morning we don't wake up neither to the church bells ringing from 7 on, nor to the neighbour's dog's sun salutations, but lazy around in bed because it's Sunday, because I gave myself the morning off from dissertation misery and you can't work in the garden in this heat anyway - those mornings be prepared to me rolling over, with a mild kick to your shin, because my spatial awareness is not very well developed, and expect me to tickle your collarbone and mumble to your shoulders. Probably not in English, but that doesn't matter, you would know that I'm mumbling something about breakfast and coffee, but you would also know that I don't want you to go downstairs and make it, nor do I want to go downstairs and make it, it's but an acknowledgement that mornings, breakfast and coffee somehow go together. 

Those are the rare occasions when something takes priority over coffee. Enjoying a morning of not having to do anything until we decide to do it. 

Some clichés ditched, some kept

Dear future hubster,

during our latest future viewing session with my Senior Talent Acquisition Advisor we concluded that you probably have an engineering background, sport a tattoo or two, and would enjoy taking care of the aubergines in our little vegetable garden when you're working from your home office. You are predicted to appreciate my Kakaoschnecke and give killer back massages. And would join us on the beach for a play of any logic or strategy game.

There was no mention of guitar skills or curliness of hair.

Ithaca, continental edition

Dear future hubster,

those long solo drives (you know, the ones where you sing along to Adele and cry over Harry Styles and even give some credit to Ed Sheeran) can be an analogy to life, almost too obvious.

Because what is happening when your cross half the continent? You are somewhere and want to get somewhere else. You know what you have to do, and confident you can do it. You also know that some parts of it are going to be ugly, or hard, or upsetting, occasionally even dangerous. You're also aware, especially if you've had similar experiences before, that you may not always enjoy it. You know that there may be events that you can't predict or prevent, and that they may change the course of your entire journey. 

And if you're doing it right, there comes a moment when you realise that you're going through lovely landscapes, and although you may be sweaty and stinky and slightly dehydrated and over-caffeinated, that moment is all that matters. You know where you started, you know where you're going, you also know why you're on that road, but after about 800 kilometres you simply appreciate the blue skies over the Bavarian Alps, on-the-fence curiously listen to the German hits of the day, and most of all, you're grateful for the journey.

The actual one, but also the big one. Life, that is.