Natalie Wübbolt is 23 years old, studies Ethnology in Munich and works on the side as a freelance journalist, songwriter and writer. Her home is usually nowhere and therefore quickly anywhere: travelling, underwater, in stories
I am in Indonesia and my dress is too short. Only by a few centimetres. Just so that the warm wind dries the sea water lines between my legs faster, more easily sweeps away the road dust. I stand before a warung and stretch out my arms: towards a soft, curly cord growing downward from the leaves above me. I throw my short board into the roaring waves of the fishermen.
Am I too free?
I am in Turkey and my hair is flying in the night. Only a few meters. Only up to the roof of the next nargile bar, it wafts further up to the singing of the muezzin, higher probably. I drink the burning liquor and dance without reservation: to popping, rattling music, such as I have never felt before. I throw my short laughter in the hard eyes of the waiter.
Am I too free?
I am in Germany, naked, and I dry my wet head at the open window. Just a few kilometres. I can only see for a few kilometres through the slow, dense fog. I sometimes change direction, if one is forbidden. But not the way: I throw my short life into all the folded arms that cross my path.
Am I too free?
And if so, where?
