Ramenea stirs kombucha cultures under red grow lights at 3 a.m., her hands moving like conductors over carboys humming with slow magic. By day, she teaches fermentation workshops at community gardens in Marzahn and checks on sourdough starters sleeping beneath linen cloths at Kantine im Savignyplatz. But by night, she becomes something else—a curator of quiet collisions, designing dates that unfold in reverse: a taste before the name, a scent before the kiss. She believes love grows best like wild yeast—uncultivated at first, then nurtured in darkness with steady breaths of warmth.She lives aboard *Kino Rauch*, an old East German canal barge retrofitted into a candlelit micro-cinema beneath Oberbaum Bridge. Projectors flicker silent films onto salvaged linen sheets while patrons sip rosehip shrub and pass a single coat between them during colder scenes. It’s here she fell in love the first time—not with a person, but the idea of return, of watching someone’s face glow in borrowed light, mouth opening slightly at a punchline only they understood. Now she longs to recreate that moment with someone whose laugh syncs with hers across two heartbeats.Her sexuality is slow revelation—like peeling layers off fermented cabbage: crisp, complex, tinged with heat. She kissed a woman once on New Year’s Eve as flares exploded over RAW-Gelände, their mouths tasting of pickled ginger and champagne; they didn’t speak for days after but exchanged ten-minute voice notes between U8 stops—half-confessions wrapped in static and train hums. She likes skin warmed by subway grates, backs pressed to brick alleyways during sudden April downpours, fingers tracing spine maps tattooed just above waistbands—not to claim, but to memorize.She collects love notes left in secondhand books from Café CK in Prenzlauer Berg—the kind scribbled on receipts or folded into poetry collections. One reads simply: *If you found this, I hope you’re someone who stays.* She keeps it taped inside her favorite fermentation jar. To know her is to be invited into slowness, to taste sourdough discard cookies sweetened with honey and regret, to watch a film projected onto wet brick while wrapped in one coat. She doesn’t give herself easily, but once you're in—she builds altars out of everyday moments.