For July 4: Why I love America

I remember it clearly: an unremarkable afternoon in the early 1980s. I was standing in my sister's bedroom in Freiburg, deep in provincial Baden. It was raining outside. The sky was leaden gray. Someone had brought us an old American magazine. The back cover showed an ad: a yellow New York cab on the move, an American flag waving in the background, behind it the glittering Manhattan skyline. I stared at the picture, spellbound. And something inside me knew: that's where I belong.

I was six years old. I lived in a sheltered but narrow Germany. My father was a well-read man with clear convictions. A German conservative of the old school, devoutly Catholic, anti-communist to the core. In our family, America was more than a country. It was hope. The answer. The West in its purest form.

A framed photo of the Pope hung in the hallway. And in a drawer lay yellowed newspaper clippings about Ronald Reagan. My father revered them both. To him, the world was clearly divided: over there were the good guys, and we were their cultural outpost.

He even had a real chance to move to the US: a job he'd been offered. We kids begged him to take it. We didn't know much, but we knew this: over there it's vast, it's colorful, people live differently. But as so often in life, the dream was stronger than the courage. So we stayed. In Freiburg. In comfortable, middle-class narrowness. In a world defined by security, but not by greatness.

And yet America never let go of me.

Karl May, a German Western hero, and my first steps toward the West

I devoured Karl May. For many Germans his Westerns were just childhood reading; for me they were an inner atlas. Yes, I knew he had never been to the US. But I didn't care. He had understood something. These stories of Old Shatterhand (the quiet, principled German in the wilderness who earns respect, makes friends and builds bridges) struck a nerve. They gave me the feeling: we can belong too.

A strange coincidence: Karl May's first major publisher, Friedrich Ernst Fehsenfeld, had founded his publishing house in Freiburg. The famous "Freiburg edition" of May's collected travel novels was published right where, decades later, I walked past as a schoolboy on my way to high school. I often stopped, looked at the old publishing building and thought: this is a sign.

And I followed it. Not straight to America, that was still too early. But out of Germany. I started my first "real" job at PwC in Zurich. It was my entry into the world of international business. Later I moved to London, for a position at Allianz, right in the heart of European finance. I learned, grew wiser, saw further.

Five years later I pulled the plug. I left corporate life and started my own company: a decision that gave me real freedom for the first time. And with that freedom, finally, came this: the chance to go where I'd wanted to go since I was a child.

My ranch in Texas and the feeling of finally being home

Miami was my first stop. Heat, palm trees, sweat. The hum of air conditioners, the screeching gulls at the harbor, the police sirens, the pastel Art Deco houses. I was there. And I was ready.

But it was only in Texas that I truly arrived.

I bought a ranch. Yes, really. Land. Fences. Tools. A pickup truck. It sounds like a cliché, but it was my life. I got up before sunrise, pulled on my boots, grabbed my coffee in a travel mug and headed out to check the fences. The air was cool, the hills green, the light golden. Crickets chirped, somewhere a dog barked.

And as I tramped through the grass, I thought: I'm home. It wasn't rational. It was a feeling. A feeling of connection: with the land, with history, with myself.

I was on my own. I was a father. I was an entrepreneur. And I was a man on his own piece of land: something almost unthinkable in Europe.

Where it all began: among oaks, legends and ruins

On one of those early mornings, as the sun was just beginning to bathe the gentle green hills east of Austin in warm light, I walked with my coffee across the neighboring ranch, not my own land, but as familiar as if it were. The air was fresh, the oaks stood still, a bird called somewhere, the day was still young. And then I saw them: the stone remains of an old dwelling, half overgrown but clearly visible. Nothing official, no sign. Just a quiet place that reveals itself only to those who walk slowly and look closely.

My neighbor had told me what used to be here. One of the first German settlements in the area, probably built around 1846, even before the church in Rockne. The families were called Lehman, Wolf, Goertz. They had brought their whole lives here, and some lost them too. A Comanche raid is said to have killed the people living in this house. Not a legend, but history handed down. Not a heroic saga, but the harsh, merciless life of the frontier.

I stood there, hand around my mug, looking at what was left. No gravestones, but you could feel the death. And the life before it. I imagined how they lived here. Fetching water, bringing children into the world, praying, working, hoping, and then, suddenly, gone.

And I, more than a hundred years later, another German, was walking on the same ground. I hadn't gone looking for history. And yet it had found me.

In that moment it was clear to me: I wasn't the first. And I wasn't alone.

What remains when you've lived it all?

Then there were the hunting weekends with the guys. The BBQ evenings on the porch. The music. Country. Willie Nelson. Johnny Cash. The talks about trucks and God. The laughter of my best friend David, who is no longer with us. But I still hear it. Shiner Bock in hand. A sky full of stars above us.

I raised my kids on the ranch. After I split from their mother, those were hard years. But real, honest ones too. I remember campfires with marshmallows. The laughter. Scrapes and hugs. Texas shaped me as a father. And America held me up at a time when I often wavered myself.

As soon as I arrived in the US, I founded Mount Bonnell Advisors as an offshoot of the London firm. I hadn't come to ease in slowly, but to get going. I got to know the American business climate: fast, direct, relentless, but full of opportunity. No whining. No endless weighing up. Just do it. I helped other Europeans find their way in this country, and I still do today.

Today I still live in Austin, even though I now spend a lot of time in the UK, because my new partner is British. But my heart? Part of it is still on my old ranch, which I no longer own but will never forget. One day, when I can afford it again, I want to buy a new one.

When I close my eyes, I see the long Texas highways. I smell the BBQ. I hear the buzz of the cicadas. I feel the dust on my boots. I see my old pickup parked under the oaks. I hear David laughing, somewhere in the distance. I see my kids by the campfire. And I see myself walking across my land: with pride, with gratitude, with humility.

America isn't perfect. Of course not. It's raw. It's loud. It's full of contradictions. But it's real. And above all: it gives you the freedom to be yourself.

And while everyone today talks about Dubai or Thailand (tax optimization and digital nomads), I often think:

There are still people who dream of America. Who sense there's more there than sunshine and dollars. Who sense: this is a place that makes you grow, not despite the hardship, but because of it.

If you're one of those people, if you haven't given up on the American dream, get in touch. I've lived it. I know the way. And I'd be glad to help you find your own.

You'll find more stories like this and new posts all the time under News, such as my walk through Austin on foot.

Because:
I love America. Not because it's sensible. But because it feels right!

And maybe that is exactly what July 4 means to me. Not just fireworks, flags and anthems, but the deep, unshakable belief that people have the right to be free. To go their own way. To dream, to fail, to get back up. In this country, with all its contradictions, I have felt that spirit: on my ranch, in the cities, in friendship, in work. That is why I celebrate this day, not as an American on paper, but as someone who lost his heart here.