**imprints** No matter what, I can't bring myself to pour hot liquid in a plastic container. The first time I attempted this sacrilegious temptation, my mom immediately rapid-fired Mandarin around how this subservient action would do nothing but inflict disease, toxin, and misfortune onto my fragile eight-year-old body.[^1] Ten years later, nothing hot touches a plastic container if I can control it, because one person told me to. The same holds true of a bunch of little things semi-permanently imprinted onto my character, closer in size to a painting's fingerprints, oil smudges, or artist signature — the slight imperfections that serve to humanise the broad — than its subject. A Youtube video that I watched in the winter of 2013 still ties my shoelaces; Savar's constant stream of peanut M&Ms continue to feed my travel time. **debating** I used to debate a lot; I don't debate a lot anymore. The more I separate from the activity, the more I miss the time when I did debate (not debate itself; just the era). Debating — despite it being a dense web of jargon, arcane rules, and complex social dynamics — presents a simple set of goals, many of which involve just getting better at debating. Do a drill to help your practices, do a practice to prep for tournaments, do smaller tournaments to have a better chance at bigger tournaments. While debating does have some externalities, both positive and negative, [^2] I still think I spent a lot of time in debating with the sole goal — and result — of getting marginally better at debating. ~ **amsterdam** Savar (high school friend; [[reims]] roommate; prolific M&M enthusiast) convinced me to do a debate tournament with him. Even though these five rounds would double the number of rounds he had done in his lifetime, he was already quite persuasive. And so, despite my best intentions, I booked a train ticket, bought some peanut M&Ms for us to share, and found myself at yet another debate tournament. Whenever we kept our heads above water (which happened in 3 out of the 5 debates; debating unfortunately requires a higher consistency rate to reach later elimination rounds) Savar would grow more and more confused with why I intended to quit debating. At the time, the best answer I could give was that I hadn't personally — at least for the past year — gotten a great deal out of it, other than marginally better debate skills and a full paper recycling bin. After the tournament, I was talking to Tarun (a German native) about my upcoming trip to Berlin, who recommended us eat doner. I remembered that the last time I had doner was also due to debate: at a tournament in Halifax, Nova Scotia, I ate very little that was not doner for a few days. While the timeline remains unclear — an extended purgatory of sea, Zoom, and doner does not create much mental lucidity — I remember eating enough variations of doner kebab, doner pizza, and doner pita to kill a horse of overconsumption. I remember biking around between doner pizzas with Arsalan, hoping it would help with the doner. I remember stopping so that Arsalan could introduce me to something called Ayran, a yogurt drink popular in West Asia, with the hope it would also help with the doner. Most of all, I remember how the storeowner seemed bemused — happy even — at my awareness of what Ayran was and its unique relationship with doner (not knowing it was just Arsalan's recommendation). **berlin, doner** The best doner in Berlin is a tiny, queen-bed-sized cart that is covered in stickers. Their payment regulations are strict (they only take cash), their definition of sticker is loose (I saw a few snus wrappers plastered on), and their portions are extremely generous (twenty euros could feed a family of five). After lining up for 45 minutes in the Berlin snow — the locals behind me were rejoicing at the relative *brevity* of the wait, which is wild — I noticed the line moving faster as locals started grumbling. Based on what I understood of the German of those around me, I had no idea what was going on. Thankfully, many speak English here. From what I understood of the English of the kind man in front of me, the cart had begun to reduce their hefty portions (from family of five to family of four) to keep the line moving. I'm not sure if that was true, for the man scooping my pita didn't seem miserly with the portions. Still, more out of curiosity than anything, I asked if he had any Ayran in the back right before he began to wrap it. A small, knowing smile grew on his face. His hands lifted from sealing the tinfoil, from confirming my order like all the others. They moved to lift a large carton of Aryans hidden at the bottom of the fridge, to grab the euro I was holding, to hand an Ayran over in exchange. They then nearly doubled the size of my pita, as the man explained to me that this was "an extra touch of love". ~ I'm still fairly sure I've moved on from debating, but I'm now sure I got a lot more out of debating than a few trophies and trips. What I got — what I perhaps didn't see in the moment —was the opportunity to glean little imprints from some of the most intelligent, diverse, and interesting people I'll ever be lucky enough to spend time with. And so, while I might change my conclusions on Henry Kissinger, on Nozick's nightwatchman state, on the merits of investment banking, I'm confident, extremely confident, whatever pivots I do will be made with a touch of love. I suppose that's what debate has given me; what Amsterdam, Berlin, and backpacking have revealed to me. Confidence, and the many imprints of love that course throughout life. [^1]: Is this apocryphal? Or scientific? Would love an answer. Can't promise I'll change the habit though. [^2]: Author's note: my conversational insufferability likely predates my debating career. My habitual use of the word comparative does not.