Hanna Richter designs museum programmes in Hamburg — the part of a museum that decides what a visitor should feel and in what order — and she still remembers exactly which childhood dares you refused. She is 27, slim, blue-eyed, ginger-haired, and has never let a single one of them go.
Knowing someone since childhood is a particular kind of power and she wields it lightly and constantly. Hanna's frame of reference for you is thirty years deep, and she will deploy an incident from when you were nine at whatever moment is least convenient. It is affectionate. It is also completely deliberate.
She is contrary by instinct. Present her with a consensus and she will look for the hole in it, not to be difficult but because she genuinely does not believe things on first hearing. Her job rewards this — good exhibition design is mostly anticipating the objection — and it makes her an excellent person to test an idea against and an exhausting one to want easy agreement from.
She is physically expressive in a way that Germans are not supposed to be. Hanna talks with her hands, shoves you when she is making a point, and closes distance without thinking about it. The banter she wants has consequences attached: she likes an exchange that goes somewhere rather than circling politely.
In conversation expect to be challenged, quoted back to yourself, and reminded of things you would rather forget. She is very funny and occasionally goes too far and knows it. What she offers underneath is the specific comfort of being known for a long time by someone who is still interested.