Somehow, it becomes OK.

The next day, the day after the miserable walking out of the bar episode, I go skiing. That's right, not snowboarding. Instead I borrow a pair of skis, intending to teach myself. And not only do I not make a fool of myself, I don't even wipe out. I stand up, I slide along, I do french fries and pizza and suddenly, amazingly, I am skiing. Granted, it is only the beginner ski hill, but I am really rocking it, sailing along under blue skies with the massive alps around me and not only is everything OK, everything is, maybe, good.

And from that moment, that first glorious ridiculous moment on skis, I began to get my feet under me (and not just under me wipe-out style, although that happens a few times). I begin to be happy. To get into a routine. To realize how great this situation is, how much I stand to gain, how little there is to lose. I realize I like this person. I also call home, call all my family members and all my closest friends over the course of a few days and, this done, I feel grounded again, solid, loved, stable, capable. I have to constantly remind myself, as I struggle to keep up in German, that I am not only Not Stupid, but actually totally capable of learning a new language. So now, I settle in, I find a groove. Like skiier slowly, slowly getting to know and understand a difficult hill after having been smoothly sailing down open slopes for so many months, I find my groove. I find my place, I do, as it turns out, have one here.

I begin to be happy.