I’ve recently caught myself thinking something I never used to think. When an idea comes up that would take several years, I sometimes find myself thinking: I’m too old for that. I’m not going to start that now. Not with things that can be done next week. I mean the bigger undertakings. Building something. Starting a long-term project. Learning something that won’t be mastered in three months. In the past, I would first have asked whether the idea interested me, whether it ma

For weeks now we've been on the road, meeting travelers, farmers, gas station attendants, other overland-vehicle owners. Almost no one asks what we used to do for a living, or who we were before. More often, people here ask about our vehicle. How many horsepower. How much diesel it needs. And then, how long we've been on the road and where we're headed next. Back home, a conversation with a stranger almost always starts with the same question: And what do you do for a living?

Kenny owns two Hot Wheels cars. One of them is broken. He still plays with them for hours. One day, Rachel Naomi Remen and her practice team give him a whole box with every Hot Wheels car available at the time. A few days later, Kenny stops playing. When she asks why, he answers: “I don't know how to love that many cars, Rachel.” I came across this story in Rachel Naomi Remen's book Kitchen Table Wisdom. With two cars, Kenny could give each one his attention. With a whole box

We're currently staying overnight on a farm in Namibia. About 1,000 hectares of bushveld, roughly 160 kilometers from Etosha National Park. From the terrace, you look out over a waterhole and into the distance. The farm is run by a couple in its fifth generation. Both are now in their seventies. After checking in, we sit together for a while. They tell us about the farm. And about the fact that they want to sell. One million euros. Buildings, vehicles, and equipment included.

What would it be like to own a farm like this? The thought comes automatically. We're currently staying overnight on farms in Namibia — some over 20,000 hectares, with granite massifs and valleys that have existed for more than 130 million years. I'm a Swabian. “Work hard, build your house” isn't just a folk saying to me — it's part of how I was raised. A few years ago, I probably would have asked about the price first. Today I first ask myself how often I would even be here.

Our vehicle has arrived in Namibia. We haven't, yet. A few days ago, the shipping company called. During transport, our overland expedition vehicle was broken into. We're sitting in Germany. Thousands of kilometers away. And we don't know what's actually missing. So far, only one thing is certain: most of our clothes were stolen. The hangers are still neatly in the closet. The clothes are gone. Photo: Our shipping agent in Namibia We'll only find out what else is missing once

What really makes a life successful? There are moments that seem unremarkable — and still set something in motion. At dinner, the child excitedly tells you about their day. You nod, ask questions — and notice at the same time that part of you is still in the afternoon's meeting. Your partner tells you about something important, and during the conversation your eyes already drift to the next message on your phone. An old friend gets in touch. The conversation is short, warm —