If someone told me two years ago that I would write a memoir with the word ouzo in the title, I would’ve told them to, “Fuck off, and stop making up words.” Above all, I certainly wouldn’t have listened. When I first became a writer, talking about my life was not on the agenda. After all, memoirs are only for celebrities and political figures, right? I don’t look back on my life and consider it anything spectacular.
Snobby private school education. Check.
Ballet class. Check.
Brothers in boy scouts. Check.
Middle-class family. Check.
Middle-class debt. Check.
Middle-class house. Check.
Middle-class neighborhood. Check.
In other words—boring.
Then, I moved overseas. Here, I started telling more stories about all sorts of things—former friends, old jobs, past travels. Since I hadn’t spoken much about these things in the States, it stood to reason that I would accept them as average. However, as I began sharing more, all that changed.
Speaking of change, COVID-19 changed a lot of our lives. For some, it was a horrendous tragedy. For others, an inconvenience. For me, COVID opened doors. The pandemic helped me realize that life is short, happens fast, and none of us are guaranteed a tomorrow. My company sent us to work from home, which was the setup I’d always wanted. But for the first time I realized my extreme level of exhaustion. What had the working world done to me?
I would rather live in a forest and trade acorns with squirrels than return to an office at this point in my life. I knew from a young age that I wasn’t cut-out for a “normal” day job. And who knows? Maybe none of us really are. Despite my defiance, the world repeatedly told me to, “Suck it up and deal with it. That’s just the way things are.” Yet, the rapid changes during COVID helped me understand that if I really wanted to live life on my terms, I had to take action, regardless of what the world told me. I couldn’t live my life based on what others expected I should be doing.
Ever since I can remember, I wanted to leave America. It’s difficult to explain, and even comprehend, that as a child I knew I was meant to be somewhere else. Like most children, I was arrogant about my knowledge of the world. However, I also understood myself better than people gave me credit for. Basically, I knew exactly who I was at the start. But I allowed the world to beat it out of me, starting with my mother.
I spent decades fighting her tooth and nail because in her opinion, I was not my own person, but an extension of her, and consequently her property. What I wanted, needed, or knew about myself didn’t matter if it didn’t align with her version of me. Her strange mix of overbearing and neglectful attitudes mirrored the personality shifts of Jekyll and Hyde. Her control fell over our entire household. I felt like I couldn’t be myself with my own family or in my own home. Even my own brothers—the Smart-Ass, the Professor, and the Golden Child—could be difficult to handle.
My ancestral roots beckoned me toward Europe. Interested in learning more about my heritage and intimidated by language barriers, my eyes were set on the United Kingdom for decades. Fate had other plans. I fell in love with a German.
Thanks to the pandemic, we were stuck apart for one and a half years. The amount of paperwork and general bureaucracy that stood in our way, on top of the growing fears and uncertainties across the globe, became too much. We texted daily and held Zoom dates twice a week. We shared and celebrated important milestones through those video calls: birthdays, raises, and even the publication of my first full-length novel, In Articulo Mortis. To our surprise, Germany opened their borders to the United States before the United States opened to Europeans. At that point, we knew that I would eventually move to Europe. We just didn’t know when.
When I relocated to Germany, there were many firsts and new discoveries. Ancient castle ruins stood before me for the first time. New foods and flavors leapt from every menu—Aperol spritz, schaufele, weißer spargel, knödel, and ouzo, a Greek liquor. When dining out for Greek cuisine, two shots of ice-cold ouzo accompanied our meals for free. I developed a fondness for the drink, relishing those occasional indulgences whenever we dined at Greek restaurants.
However, not everything about European life was an easy adjustment, such as the lack of air-conditioning. Imagine 40°C (104°F) and no air-conditioning. Growing up with the humidity of southeastern Virginia in my blood, I thought I wouldn’t have an issue. I was wrong.
Luckily, the unbearably hot days here don’t last for very long. But I wasn’t a fan of going to sleep every night with a bag of ice on my chest in an attempt to be comfortable. There were days I didn’t want to move because it was so hot. One of the ways we fended off the heat was by sticking a bottle of ouzo in the freezer. After work, my husband and I would convene in the kitchen and have a shot of ouzo to cool down, and then another shot, and maybe another. Admittedly, it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, and it definitely didn’t help us stay cool in the long run. Yet, there were lots of stories told over those ouzos. I’m not going to lie, some of the stories in this book were told over mead, beer (because it’s Germany), or wine (because it’s Franconia), but for the most part, they were told over ouzo during sweltering summer evenings.
Part of me is afraid that one day as I lie on my deathbed all of these stories—these pieces of who I am—will be lost just like the stories my grandparents told me as a child. Those pieces of their lives are gone—nothing more than memories lost to time. I decided to write some of my stories down before they slip away into the same haze; though I wish I didn’t have some of them at all. One of the hardest parts was deciding what to leave in and what to take out in order to form a coherent book.
I’ve read that one of the biggest obstacles to success is the inability to let go of the past. By sharing these memories, I’m letting go, moving forward, healing traumas, and creating new experiences while no longer being weighed down by former times.
When I first received the idea to write a memoir, I ran it by my husband, Dirk. He kindly provided me with two pieces of feedback: first, that I have more stories to tell than most; and second, that this is the second book with alcohol in the title.
Fair point.
And if you’re concerned about our health, we no longer keep a bottle of ouzo in the freezer. Instead, we enjoy the complimentary shots from the restaurants when we go.
In the end, 2023 has been a whirlwind of emotions and illness. So, for me 2024 is about health. These stories are a collection of the chapters in my life that have ended. At times, they feel like someone else’s life. Some parts wounded me. Others helped me grow. Overall, they helped shape the person I am today. These are my tales told over ouzo.
–Eliza Fabricius, 2023
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