The America I Loved Before I Ever Saw It

Some loves are practical. Others are delusional. And then there are those rare, irrational devotions — built on longing, shaped by myth, tested by reality — that stay with you for life.

That’s how I feel about America.

I loved America long before I saw it. Long before I stepped on its soil. Long before I had any idea what it really was.

For me, America wasn’t a place. It was a promise.

A Family Divided by a Border They Couldn’t See

I grew up in Freiburg, in the old West Germany, but the Cold War ran right through our living room. My parents were staunch Catholics, conservative to the core. They saw the world in black and white. There was the West — faith, freedom, Reagan. And there was the East — oppression, godlessness, the Soviets.

Guess where our sympathies lay.

My father, a decent, aspiring man who never quite succeeded in business, believed in America the way others believe in saints. Low taxes. Strong work ethic. A government that left you alone. He spoke about it with reverence. In the 1980s, he even had a chance to move us there — a job offer. We begged him to go. But what he had in vision, he lacked in courage. We stayed. And so my relationship with America remained one of distance and imagination.

My First America Was a Lie — But a Beautiful One

That imagination was fed by an unlikely source: Karl May.

If you’re not German, you probably don’t know the name. But for us, he was the bard of the American frontier. His novels painted vivid portraits of noble Apaches, honest frontiersmen, dusty saloons, and endless desert skies. It wasn’t real, of course. Not even close. May had never been to America when he wrote those books. He made it all up.

But oh, how well he lied.

To a boy trapped in the tight corners of German provincial life, Karl May’s America was oxygen. And by some strange twist of fate, his original publishers were based in Freiburg. I walked past their building every day on my way to school. It felt like fate whispering: You’re meant to go west.

Even if the West I knew was fiction, I believed in it like scripture.

The Escape Plan

By my late teens and twenties, that belief had turned into an escape plan. As soon as I could, I left Germany. First Switzerland — clean, efficient, but not free. Then London, which felt like the waiting room for something bigger.

I wasn’t just chasing opportunity. I was chasing a feeling. The idea that somewhere out there was a place big enough for everything I wanted to become.

That place had always been America.

Landing in the Myth

When I finally arrived — in 2008 — it wasn’t New York or Los Angeles that greeted me. It was Miami. Sensual, fast, and saturated with sunlight. I loved it for a while. But something in me wanted older soil, a slower rhythm. I hadn’t come all this way for beaches and nightclubs. I was chasing the America that Karl May never truly knew — but that I believed existed anyway.

And that America, I found in Texas.

Real Land. Real People. Real Freedom.

Soon after, I bought a ranch. Not for status. Not for some weekend fantasy. I lived there. Worked the land. Walked the fence lines at dawn with coffee in hand. Learned to shoot. Drove a truck. Wore boots for function, not fashion.

And for the first time in my life, I felt like I was home.

There’s something unexplainable about Texas mornings — a kind of clarity in the sky, a kind of silence that speaks directly to the soul. I had made it. Not to perfection. Not to paradise. But to freedom.

And freedom, as I learned, is not a flag or a slogan. It’s waking up on your own land with no one telling you how to live.

Faith, Barbecue, and the Kindness of Cowboys

It wasn’t all mythic sunsets and open roads. Life hit me hard. I got divorced. Became a single father. Faced my limits.

But America — or at least the version I had found in Texas — didn’t abandon me.

Neighbors helped. Church friends showed up. Men who barely knew me offered more than words. In Europe, I was always “the German.” In Texas, I was just “Sebastian.” That meant something.

And then there were the small, holy rituals: Texas BBQ on a Saturday. Country music playing low. Cold Shiner Bock. A campfire. A friend.

One of those friends was David — my best friend. My brother in everything but blood. We’d sit on the back porch and talk for hours about life, God, women, cattle prices, our kids, and what freedom meant. He died too young, and when he did, a piece of the land died with him.

But his laughter still echoes in my memory — a reminder that love, place, and friendship are sometimes one and the same.

What They Don’t Tell You in the Brochures

America is not perfect. Anyone who tells you otherwise has never truly lived there. It’s loud, chaotic, sometimes violent, sometimes heartbreaking.

But it is also honest in a way Europe no longer is.

People fail. People rise. People start over at 50. They forgive. They take risks. They believe. Not in systems — but in themselves, and in each other.

You don’t see that on the news. But you see it when a waitress calls you “hon” without thinking. When a stranger prays for you after church. When your mechanic won’t let you leave until he’s sure your truck is safe.

I Don’t Live There Anymore — But I Never Left

I don’t have the ranch anymore. Life moves on. Economies change. Circumstances shift.

But that version of America still lives inside me — and probably always will.

Now I help others — mostly Germans, like I once was — navigate their own path to America. Some want green cards. Some want companies. Some want nothing more than a porch and a barbecue. I help them. But what I’m really doing is selling a dream I still believe in.

Not because it's flawless. But because it’s true — in the only way love can be true: irrational, unforgettable, transformative.

The American Dream Still Lives

While everyone today seems to be talking about moving to Dubai or Thailand, I still meet clients who carry that old American dream in their hearts — quiet, persistent, alive.

If that’s you — if you're still drawn to the land of second chances, pick-up trucks, porch beers, and big skies — then reach out.

We know the path. We’ve walked it. And we can help you make a start.

On the Fourth of July

Today is the Fourth of July. For most Americans, it’s fireworks and flags, burgers and beers. For me, it’s something different.

It’s a moment to look back.

To that boy in Freiburg who had never set foot on American soil but somehow knew his heart belonged there.
To my father, who hesitated — and to me, who didn’t.
To the Texas ranch, the morning air, the open sky.
To David, who’s no longer here.
To the moments with my children that no passport could buy.
To the feeling — the one that said: Here, you are free. Not because someone gave you permission, but because no one asked to.

The Fourth of July isn’t my national holiday.
But it is my day.

Because it reminds me that some dreams are worth holding onto — even if they take decades to come true.
That a country, for all its flaws, can still offer something holy.
That freedom isn’t perfect — it’s personal.

Happy Independence Day, America.

You gave me a home when I needed one most.

And for that, you’ll always have my love.