Christian_Hicks

Driving Through the Self: An Autobiography by Christian Hicks Hey. I’m Christian. I’m originally from Eugene, Oregon, but I’ve been living in Losheim am See, in the beautiful Saarland, for the better part of a decade now. I’m a researcher—or, well, I *was*—by training a sexologist, though these days you’re more likely to find me writing about the intersection of car culture, connection, and human desire for a project called theautosDating. It’s a strange mix, I know. But so is life. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why we connect with some people and not others. About the mechanics of attraction, sure, but also the messy, unpredictable chemistry that textbooks can’t capture. I’ve had my heart broken so thoroughly I thought the floor would give way. I’ve also felt a connection so pure, so *right*, that it felt like a perfect downshift into a corner—everything in alignment, no resistance. It’s that feeling I’m chasing, both personally and professionally. I think that’s what makes me trustworthy: I’ve been in the trenches. I’ve done the research, dated the people, made the mistakes, and learned that no algorithm, no matter how sophisticated, can predict a spark. Losheim isn’t just where I live; it’s become the lens through which I see the world. The way the light hits the reservoir in the evening, the sound of tires on the cobblestones near the old church, the quiet, unspoken camaraderie at a local car meet—it’s all data. Beautiful, living data. When you live here, you start to understand that geography shapes psychology. The gentle hills of the Hochwald forest aren’t just a backdrop; they’re a state of mind. They encourage patience. They reward those who take the scenic route. I came into this world on April 4th, 1991, at the old Sacred Heart Medical Center in Eugene. It was raining—it’s always raining in Eugene—that soft, persistent Oregon drizzle that doesn’t so much fall as simply *exist* in the air. My parents had this faded blue Ford Bronco, and the story goes that my dad drove my mom through the wet streets, past the University of Oregon campus, with the wipers slapping a frantic rhythm against the windshield. The smell of wet pine and coffee from a nearby Dutch Bros was in the air. I was born during a grunge radio marathon, which my dad found hilarious and my mom just found loud. It was a time of flannel shirts and a certain kind of hopeful, rainy-day melancholy. I think that atmosphere—that sense of quiet, intense interiority—is baked into me. Growing up, we moved around a bit, but my formative years, the ones that really shaped me, were split between the Pacific Northwest and, later, here in the Saarland. I was in my early twenties when I first landed in Losheim, and it felt like stepping into a different century. I’d drive my beat-up Volkswagen Golf down the Bahnhofstraße, past the old train station, and think about the sheer weight of history. There was this one summer where I worked a short stint at a garage off Trierer Straße—just sweeping floors and listening to the mechanics argue in that melodic, guttural Saarländisch dialect. I couldn’t understand half of it, but I understood the passion. They’d finish a rebuild on an old BMW, take it for a test drive through the winding roads toward the Stausee, and the sound of that engine echoing off the valley walls was pure, unfiltered joy. It was there I learned that a car isn’t just a machine. It’s a statement. A shield. A confessional booth. You see, a lot of my understanding of human behavior came from watching people in those spaces—the way a person treats their car, the way they talk about it, tells you more about their capacity for love and commitment than any dating profile ever could. I ended up studying psychology at the Universität des Saarlandes, commuting from Losheim. The drive gave me time to think. I specialized in sexology because, honestly, it was the one subject that everyone had an opinion on and almost no one truly understood. I wanted to cut through the noise. I got my certification, worked in a counseling capacity for a bit—some pro bono work through a local health initiative near the Cloef-Atrium, believe it or not. But the clinical setting, the sterile rooms, the clock-watching… it felt reductive. Human desire doesn’t happen on a schedule. It happens at 2 a.m. on a back road when the person next to you finally lets their guard down. It happens in the silence of a shared hobby. That’s when I started writing. I began contributing to theautosight.com, specifically for a new vertical they were launching called “theautosDating.” The idea was simple: explore how car culture, the love of driving, the shared obsession with engineering, creates a unique landscape for relationships. It was a way to merge my academic past with my lived experience. Now, I spend my days exploring the local scene—from the classic car meetups in the market square by the Losheim Rathaus to the more spontaneous gatherings in the industrial park near the Losheim-Viadukt. I write about what I see, the connections I witness, the arguments about carburetors that double as flirting. It’s not what I imagined doing ten years ago, but it’s infinitely more real. This city, Losheim am See… it gets under your skin. It’s not a place that shouts for your attention. It whispers. The Stausee is the heart of it. I’ve spent countless mornings running along its perimeter, watching the mist lift off the water. I know the precise spot on the path, near the sailing school, where the view of the dam is best. I know the backstreets—the quiet ones behind the church, the narrow alleys that lead to hidden courtyards. My life is woven into its geography. I know the baker on Merziger Straße who saves a loaf of the dark rye bread for me on Saturdays. I’ve had arguments and reconciliations in the parking lot of the Globus Baumarkt. This is where I feel most myself—not as a researcher from America, but as a guy who finally found a place that matches his own internal rhythm. It’s a city that understands the value of a long, thoughtful drive. And that, I suppose, is what I’m trying to give back in my writing: a map, not just of the roads, but of the emotional territory you might find yourself in when you’re traveling them. It’s not a guidebook. It’s more like a conversation with a friend who’s been there. And I’m hoping you’ll join it.