I went to Prague for the first time in my life.
The sun shone bleakly on the famous astronomical clock, where a crowd of chattering tourists waited for the hourly chime. The cool April air shimmered with spring promise. I stood underneath the fifteenth-century clock and waited for a friend I had not seen for twelve years, the girl who taught me to play chess in Cambridge. I was nervous. Seeing a close friend for the first time in twelve years is scary. Would I even recognize her?
She suddenly stood before me. I recognized her immediately and hugged her tight as the clock chimed the hour and all the apostles looked down on us. We went to an obscure pub where nobody spoke a word of English but where they set cheap, delicious potato cakes and dark beer in front of us with typical Czech matter-of-factnesss. We discussed life for hours. Then we parted ways again. Not knowing if the next time we see each other is in twelve years or never.
The following evening, I crammed myself into an overcrowded tram in lashing rain and tried to interpret the tram map while not falling into a stranger's arms. In a dark restaurant by the river I was greeted by a man with wild, greying hair and beard. Another friend not seen for fifteen years, the last time in an Irish pub where he mocked me relentlessly and forced me to grow intellectually in order to keep up with him.
He told me his dark secrets and then showed me the secrets of Prague. As he kissed me goodbye, he looked as sad as I felt. Fifteen years or how long? Or never again?
April shimmers with promise of new adventures and is a good time to travel. To find long-lost friends. To lose them again.
Showing posts with label the English interlude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the English interlude. Show all posts
Thursday, May 02, 2019
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
a year in Her Majesty's service
From my diaries: the year 2004 ...
* The year arrived for me in the Irish
mountains, on a 12-hour shift in a busy little hotel. The night
included a gigantic pavlova that took 45 minutes to eat, giggling on
command into somebody's phone, hard work, frustration and happiness,
and exchanging a handshake and a kiss (the Irish new year greeting)
with an entire village. In the small hours, I withdrew to my drafty
attic room to drink some illegal alcohol in peace.
* These were the last few weeks of a long
Irish adventure – intrigues and sing-alongs, a Spanish best friend
with blue hair, candle-lit dinners, pub nights with strange friends
and strangers, roaring fires, and betting on horses with a rich man's
money.
* Spent a night drinking champagne with
celebrities in the VIP room of Dublin's hottest club.
* Impressed the Irish, but not the
Romanian immigrants, with my ice-skating skills.
* Said farewell to Ireland with a week of
parties, a dawn walk and a mountain tour. There was cake, slivovitsa
and striptease, as well as a snowdrop brought down from a mountain
just for me.
* Moved to England, without a clue, one
February day. Within 24 hours I found a receptionist job in a quiet
Cotswolds village, where I had a hidden room in a labyrinthic old
inn. Fought boredom and loneliness, read novels in cosy tea rooms and
13th century pubs, became the resident computer genius and
performed whistling duets with a parrot.
* Had more than one incident at the hotel
involving celebrities and dirty laundry (literally).
* Found a church where I cried every
Sunday.
* Celebrated my birthday with a picnic in
the Duke of Marlborough's own park, together with a pheasant and a
black swan. Saw the not very feel-good movie The Passion of the
Christ and ended the day at an alcohol-fueled party that my new
friends threw in my honour. Very hung-over, I was tenderly awakened
by the fire alarm the next morning.
* Moved to the city of Cambridge and
explored everything from suburban cricket grounds to college courts.
Stayed in a hell-hole of a house where the only comforts were
blood-red sheets and a poster of a calla lily, then moved to share a
tiny house and an apple tree with a male stranger.
* Found a job in a luxury hotel
reception – with stress, arrogant celebrities and a psychotic boss,
but also hilarious workmates and champagne celebrations.
* Tried to learn professional bed-making
skills and slept in the hotel's junior suites.
* Had a nervous breakdown but recovered
after three days in the healing embrace of London.
* Soaked up sun and life during endless summer days by the
river, drinking iced frappuccinos and punting with beautiful people.
* Lived my Cambridge life with one friend
only, my Czech mate. I helped her find a job, she taught me chess, we
discussed lost love in many a pub and danced in the winter's only
snowfall.
* Found a self-defence course, volleyball
with a real coach, a lively church and a magical night at the circus.
Explored every corner of the city, encountering man-eating horses as
well as strangers wanting to discuss the meaning of life.
* Flirted on Guy Fawkes' Night with a boy
in a mohawk, who later sent me a dozen roses.
* Experienced evensong in King's College
Chapel and a date spent swigging African sugarcane liquor out of a
Coke bottle.
* Celebrated Christmas in London, an
out-of-the-world experience: Christmas dinner in a dirty Libanese
falafel joint, pub life in Putney and sincere prayer in a chilly Hyde
Park. And the absolute impossibility of finding a cup of coffee on
Christmas Day.
* Partied with strangers who all loved me
(but then most of them were on drugs).
* Had a New Year's Eve that I've
completely forgotten.
Extracurricular trips taken:
* Bournemouth: lovely seabass dinner,
beach-walking in the rain
* Bath: sitting by the steaming water
where the ancient Roman used to bathe, architecture and a river trip
* Wales: great company, romantic castle
ruins
* Ireland: old friends and a mountain
tour
* Cornwall: beach holiday with exploring
and lots of texting
* Various quirky towns in the Fens:
medieval cathedrals, great pub lunches and train rides across the
flattest country I've ever seen
* An afternoon in Grantchester's famous
orchard: reading The Times and thinking big thoughts among oaks and
apple trees, squirrels and a beautiful October light
* Several day trips to London: shows,
vodka mudshakes and a magical atmosphere
Weirdest question asked of me this
year: ”Where can I hang these two dead pheasants?”
Saturday, May 28, 2016
minimum stay three weeks
I have lived at least three weeks in these places:
A small house in the suburbs. Long winters buried in snow, lovely summers embedded in a lush garden.
A room in an old school with a beautiful Swede as roommate. The walls smelled like old stone, the attic was a treasure chamber of books and God was everywhere.
A motel room near a Thai beach - shared with history makers, world shakers and the occasional cockroach.
A tiny room filled to bursting with sleeping bags and friends with diarrhoea.
A large flat overlooking grey city streets and rooftops with flags. Full of file folders, languages and new friends.
A cold room in a Scottish attic and a bed with two eiderdown duvets.
A wooden Swiss chalet where I could hear wolves howl at night (maybe in my imagination).
A Hawaiian house with a slow-moving ceiling fan, shutters instead of windows and sometimes a friendly gecko.
A small flat high above the busy streets, where boys came to woo.
A house in France among endless open fields - with an orchard and boys who brought me tea and taught me ping pong.
A tiny flat hidden behind an elm tree in a quiet street. I slept alone and prepared for the world.
A worn-down attic in a worn-down Irish house, with plenty of people. Buzzed with illegal parties on boozy nights, while deer and sheep grazed outside on misty mornings.
Another attic room, above a bar and beside a mountain. A deep window, creaky floors, a yellow blanket, a beloved bathtub, a Canadian and a Frenchwoman.
The Window Sill room, hardly bigger than the window sill, where I contentedly contemplated my loneliness and my adventures and read English novels.
A terrible room in a suburb, where the only good things were red sheets, a poster of a calla lily and a view over barley fields.
The tiniest bedsit of all in a row house shared with a lawyer. The comfort of a tree outside the window and TV in bed during the small hours.
The House of the Thirteen Clocks. Disastrous, disastrous and dreary. I barely escaped with my sanity intact.
The flat of the eternal moonlight. Fairy lights and a kitchen table as protection against a cold winter. And it had a dance floor.
The Beach Hut - an ordinary flat with an extraordinary sea view. Beauty and weird neighbours.
An idyllic cottage in an idyllic village with idyllic people. Shared with an idyllic sheepdog.
And lastly, the paradise which has been there for me all through the years and which words cannot describe.
A small house in the suburbs. Long winters buried in snow, lovely summers embedded in a lush garden.
A room in an old school with a beautiful Swede as roommate. The walls smelled like old stone, the attic was a treasure chamber of books and God was everywhere.
A motel room near a Thai beach - shared with history makers, world shakers and the occasional cockroach.
A tiny room filled to bursting with sleeping bags and friends with diarrhoea.
A large flat overlooking grey city streets and rooftops with flags. Full of file folders, languages and new friends.
A cold room in a Scottish attic and a bed with two eiderdown duvets.
A wooden Swiss chalet where I could hear wolves howl at night (maybe in my imagination).
A Hawaiian house with a slow-moving ceiling fan, shutters instead of windows and sometimes a friendly gecko.
A small flat high above the busy streets, where boys came to woo.
A house in France among endless open fields - with an orchard and boys who brought me tea and taught me ping pong.
A tiny flat hidden behind an elm tree in a quiet street. I slept alone and prepared for the world.
A worn-down attic in a worn-down Irish house, with plenty of people. Buzzed with illegal parties on boozy nights, while deer and sheep grazed outside on misty mornings.
Another attic room, above a bar and beside a mountain. A deep window, creaky floors, a yellow blanket, a beloved bathtub, a Canadian and a Frenchwoman.
The Window Sill room, hardly bigger than the window sill, where I contentedly contemplated my loneliness and my adventures and read English novels.
A terrible room in a suburb, where the only good things were red sheets, a poster of a calla lily and a view over barley fields.
The tiniest bedsit of all in a row house shared with a lawyer. The comfort of a tree outside the window and TV in bed during the small hours.
The House of the Thirteen Clocks. Disastrous, disastrous and dreary. I barely escaped with my sanity intact.
The flat of the eternal moonlight. Fairy lights and a kitchen table as protection against a cold winter. And it had a dance floor.
The Beach Hut - an ordinary flat with an extraordinary sea view. Beauty and weird neighbours.
An idyllic cottage in an idyllic village with idyllic people. Shared with an idyllic sheepdog.
And lastly, the paradise which has been there for me all through the years and which words cannot describe.
Monday, May 09, 2016
aliens, upside-down ties and Marx's head
I spent five days in London, the wonderful city, and don't know what to write about it.
Cadbury's chocolate eggs spring to mind. Reading the Sunday Times in a hostel lounge. The underground trains, thundering out of ancient tunnels like prehistoric worms (or like Jeff in Men in Black II). The abomination of Karl Marx's huge head in the romantic cemetery of Highgate.
The thunder and lightning that surrounded Big Ben that day (and hail, and sun, and pissing rain, and some snow in the mix). The tame squirrels in the parks. The tourists. All the normal people on the Tube. The schoolboys, the suits, the dogs, the guy with his upside-down tie. The floating aliens in Trafalgar Square. The thief being chased through the back streets of Soho. The politeness and the offers of help. The sunny streets of Notting Hill where we couldn't agree on a lunch place. Brent Cross, the suburb made for entertainment but not for the crossing of streets. My hostel room-mate who brushed her teeth for half an hour at midnight.
The bus taking its sweet time winding through the streets towards Hampstead. The flowers. The red Lamborghini almost running me over on its way to the Gumball 3000. The flat white. Our hysterical giggling on the double-decker buses. The breakfast fry-up with an old friend not seen for twelve years. The barbed wire fence at the back of Buckingham Palace. The black-headed gull eggs sold in Harrods (why would anybody want them?). The Buddhist monk who wanted my donation in exchange for the chance to write "peace" in his little notebook. The fish and chips in Soho. The heated debate about customer service and minimum wage in the bustle of a bank holiday on Oxford Street. The lonely wine picnic outside Kensington Palace. The conference with twelve thousand women. The laughing bus driver.
Every time I come home from London, I'm a little bit more polite and accommodating to others. And a little more amazed.
Cadbury's chocolate eggs spring to mind. Reading the Sunday Times in a hostel lounge. The underground trains, thundering out of ancient tunnels like prehistoric worms (or like Jeff in Men in Black II). The abomination of Karl Marx's huge head in the romantic cemetery of Highgate.
 |
| Highgate cemetery |
The thunder and lightning that surrounded Big Ben that day (and hail, and sun, and pissing rain, and some snow in the mix). The tame squirrels in the parks. The tourists. All the normal people on the Tube. The schoolboys, the suits, the dogs, the guy with his upside-down tie. The floating aliens in Trafalgar Square. The thief being chased through the back streets of Soho. The politeness and the offers of help. The sunny streets of Notting Hill where we couldn't agree on a lunch place. Brent Cross, the suburb made for entertainment but not for the crossing of streets. My hostel room-mate who brushed her teeth for half an hour at midnight.
 |
| Floating alien |
The bus taking its sweet time winding through the streets towards Hampstead. The flowers. The red Lamborghini almost running me over on its way to the Gumball 3000. The flat white. Our hysterical giggling on the double-decker buses. The breakfast fry-up with an old friend not seen for twelve years. The barbed wire fence at the back of Buckingham Palace. The black-headed gull eggs sold in Harrods (why would anybody want them?). The Buddhist monk who wanted my donation in exchange for the chance to write "peace" in his little notebook. The fish and chips in Soho. The heated debate about customer service and minimum wage in the bustle of a bank holiday on Oxford Street. The lonely wine picnic outside Kensington Palace. The conference with twelve thousand women. The laughing bus driver.
 |
| Buckingham P. and the threatening skies |
Every time I come home from London, I'm a little bit more polite and accommodating to others. And a little more amazed.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
cup of kindness
I like my coffee in ...
* the café at the Cloister Hill open-air museum in Turku, Finland: When I was tired of the hustle and bustle of the city, the impossible demands of the university, even my life-loving friends, I cycled up the hill to the museum with its ancient cottages. The café had several small rooms with antique furniture and was always quiet in off-season. I drank my coffee out of a thin porcelain cup, ate a nice old-fashioned cinnamon bun or a pastry in an empty room and listened to the soft murmur of old ladies chatting in the next room or a clock ticking somewhere. There was a smell of coffee and ancient history. There was a deeply soothing silence, so far from the real world.
* the village pub near the Magic Valley, Ireland: On my day off I walked the forest path to the village. After a ritual consisting of breathing the soft air beneath ancient oaks along the path, saying hello to the horses in a nearby field, checking my email at the so-called IT Centre and stocking up on chocolate and yogurt in the village shop, I parked myself in the pub for the afternoon. Ordered the garlic mushrooms, with a Bailey's Coffee for dessert. Read the newspaper in detail. Idly watched whatever was on the TV in the corner - usually The Weakest Link with the matchless Anne Robinson (I had never seen such cold rudeness in my life). I loved the days when the air outside was soft and wintry and filled with the smell of turf smoke, when there was a fire roaring in the fireplace near me. I thought about the strange people I met every day, what to do about the boy I loved, the feeling of being exactly where I wanted to be in life.
* the Starbucks in an English city, inside a gigantic book store: I ordered a vanilla latte and perhaps some cake and sat there for hours. Read the Times or borrowed books, wrote my journal, studied people, talked to a friend.
Having coffee is more than just having coffee. In my current home town, there are plenty of cafés and pubs. But none that really welcomes and shelters my soul. So my coffee, be it of the strong Finnish kind, with Bailey's or with vanilla and milk, is currently homeless.
* the café at the Cloister Hill open-air museum in Turku, Finland: When I was tired of the hustle and bustle of the city, the impossible demands of the university, even my life-loving friends, I cycled up the hill to the museum with its ancient cottages. The café had several small rooms with antique furniture and was always quiet in off-season. I drank my coffee out of a thin porcelain cup, ate a nice old-fashioned cinnamon bun or a pastry in an empty room and listened to the soft murmur of old ladies chatting in the next room or a clock ticking somewhere. There was a smell of coffee and ancient history. There was a deeply soothing silence, so far from the real world.
* the village pub near the Magic Valley, Ireland: On my day off I walked the forest path to the village. After a ritual consisting of breathing the soft air beneath ancient oaks along the path, saying hello to the horses in a nearby field, checking my email at the so-called IT Centre and stocking up on chocolate and yogurt in the village shop, I parked myself in the pub for the afternoon. Ordered the garlic mushrooms, with a Bailey's Coffee for dessert. Read the newspaper in detail. Idly watched whatever was on the TV in the corner - usually The Weakest Link with the matchless Anne Robinson (I had never seen such cold rudeness in my life). I loved the days when the air outside was soft and wintry and filled with the smell of turf smoke, when there was a fire roaring in the fireplace near me. I thought about the strange people I met every day, what to do about the boy I loved, the feeling of being exactly where I wanted to be in life.
* the Starbucks in an English city, inside a gigantic book store: I ordered a vanilla latte and perhaps some cake and sat there for hours. Read the Times or borrowed books, wrote my journal, studied people, talked to a friend.
Having coffee is more than just having coffee. In my current home town, there are plenty of cafés and pubs. But none that really welcomes and shelters my soul. So my coffee, be it of the strong Finnish kind, with Bailey's or with vanilla and milk, is currently homeless.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
river summer and rosebud winter
What I did in Cambridge, England:
Lounged on the lovely green banks of the river Cam with picnic food, a coffee frappuccino and occasionally a friend. Long, sunny afternoons doing nothing much except reading a book and watching people having fun in the river punts. Composed ironic poems in honour of the puntsman I had a crush on.
Worked in a fancy hotel, confused over how well it was run and how psychotic the boss was. In fairness, I had at least one psychotic episode there myself. Hotels can do that to you.
Spent a cold evening in a garden shed with half the world. All of us drunk, stoned or Australian, i.e., a typical hotel staff party.
Moved in with a complete stranger: a lawyer with an extra room and a view of an apple tree.
Took my friends to a tiny corner pub I had discovered, for a live jazz evening. Was rewarded with a kiss from a gorgeous Frenchman.
Strolled and biked along the river, through Stourbridge Common where Isaac Newton once bought books and prisms and where cows and horses now graze. Met one particularly memorable pony that took a bite out of my arm when he couldn't get a bite out of my sandwich.
Sat down to read a novel in a beautiful cemetery and was questioned on the meaning of life by a stranger.
Fell in love with the city itself. Winding streets that changed names at random and always got me lost (and I never get lost), beautiful colleges that were worlds unto themselves, wide parks with strange names (Christ's Pieces, hello?), suburbs that weren't suburbs but rather quaint villages with leafy paths and a lush, summery feeling.
Took private chess lessons from a Czech woman (gives a whole new meaning to the expression "check mate") in pubs with names like The Slug and Lettuce and Fort St. George in England.
Whiled away an autumn afternoon in the enchanting orchard of Grantchester.
Spent hours at Starbucks, in dark pubs, by the river, in the computer room of the city library.
Cycled through suburbs and greens, on dark evenings to my self-defence class and on chilly Sunday mornings to church.
Joined a real volleyball club with a real coach, and was escorted home by a liver transplant surgeon.
Frequented the police station to look for my stolen Peugeot (bicycle).
Felt lonely, pressured to breaking point at work, exhausted from years among an endless stream of strangers. Felt excited, joyful, in love with the strangeness of the world.
Was serenaded on the street by four unknown young men in formal wear, some of them on bended knee.
Did a holiday in Cornwall, a few weird weekends in weird cities, and whirlwind day trips to the marvellous city of London. (And the train back to Cambridge from King's Cross station leaves from platform 9, next to that of the Hogwarts Express. So it doesn't really matter if you get on the wrong train. I did that once but only ended up in Ely.)
Flirted underneath the fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night and was sent a dozen roses to my workplace by a guy in a mohawk.
Checked too many celebrities into the hotel and soon hated their arrogant, whingy guts.
Curled up in a corner of the dark Eagle pub with the ghosts of Watson and Crick while a rare blizzard howled outside, then danced in the snow with my Czech mate.
Experienced the birdsong-and-rosebud winter of England's sunniest corner, as well as the strangest Christmas Day ever in a completely shut-down London. Christmas dinner under the blueish strip lights of a Libanese falafel joint, squeezed in at a plastic table between a fat Russian and a chatty French family and smiling joyfully at my best friend.
Went back to Finland, via New York and a hidden Irish valley (a.k.a. the long way), after an eventful year.
Lounged on the lovely green banks of the river Cam with picnic food, a coffee frappuccino and occasionally a friend. Long, sunny afternoons doing nothing much except reading a book and watching people having fun in the river punts. Composed ironic poems in honour of the puntsman I had a crush on.
Worked in a fancy hotel, confused over how well it was run and how psychotic the boss was. In fairness, I had at least one psychotic episode there myself. Hotels can do that to you.
Spent a cold evening in a garden shed with half the world. All of us drunk, stoned or Australian, i.e., a typical hotel staff party.
Moved in with a complete stranger: a lawyer with an extra room and a view of an apple tree.
Took my friends to a tiny corner pub I had discovered, for a live jazz evening. Was rewarded with a kiss from a gorgeous Frenchman.
Strolled and biked along the river, through Stourbridge Common where Isaac Newton once bought books and prisms and where cows and horses now graze. Met one particularly memorable pony that took a bite out of my arm when he couldn't get a bite out of my sandwich.
Sat down to read a novel in a beautiful cemetery and was questioned on the meaning of life by a stranger.
Fell in love with the city itself. Winding streets that changed names at random and always got me lost (and I never get lost), beautiful colleges that were worlds unto themselves, wide parks with strange names (Christ's Pieces, hello?), suburbs that weren't suburbs but rather quaint villages with leafy paths and a lush, summery feeling.
Took private chess lessons from a Czech woman (gives a whole new meaning to the expression "check mate") in pubs with names like The Slug and Lettuce and Fort St. George in England.
Whiled away an autumn afternoon in the enchanting orchard of Grantchester.
Spent hours at Starbucks, in dark pubs, by the river, in the computer room of the city library.
Cycled through suburbs and greens, on dark evenings to my self-defence class and on chilly Sunday mornings to church.
Joined a real volleyball club with a real coach, and was escorted home by a liver transplant surgeon.
Frequented the police station to look for my stolen Peugeot (bicycle).
Felt lonely, pressured to breaking point at work, exhausted from years among an endless stream of strangers. Felt excited, joyful, in love with the strangeness of the world.
Was serenaded on the street by four unknown young men in formal wear, some of them on bended knee.
Did a holiday in Cornwall, a few weird weekends in weird cities, and whirlwind day trips to the marvellous city of London. (And the train back to Cambridge from King's Cross station leaves from platform 9, next to that of the Hogwarts Express. So it doesn't really matter if you get on the wrong train. I did that once but only ended up in Ely.)
Flirted underneath the fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night and was sent a dozen roses to my workplace by a guy in a mohawk.
Checked too many celebrities into the hotel and soon hated their arrogant, whingy guts.
Curled up in a corner of the dark Eagle pub with the ghosts of Watson and Crick while a rare blizzard howled outside, then danced in the snow with my Czech mate.
Experienced the birdsong-and-rosebud winter of England's sunniest corner, as well as the strangest Christmas Day ever in a completely shut-down London. Christmas dinner under the blueish strip lights of a Libanese falafel joint, squeezed in at a plastic table between a fat Russian and a chatty French family and smiling joyfully at my best friend.
Went back to Finland, via New York and a hidden Irish valley (a.k.a. the long way), after an eventful year.
Monday, February 08, 2016
a Cornish holiday of missing
September, but Cornwall is hot and sunny like summer ...
I arrive shaken up by the novel I read on the long, long train ride from London.
I scratch my name absently on a pebble on the beach and wonder who will find it and ask themselves who I am.
I walk, when the tide is out, to St. Michael's Mount, which is like a smaller déjà-vu of Mont Saint-Michel in France. Wrap my head in a bright orange scarf and miss my friends.
I buy fresh seafood from a fast-food stall and watch people remove a dead seal from the beach.
I have coffee and walnut cake in one of the romantic "tea rooms" that abound in English towns and talk to my parents on the phone. Miss them.
I note that I love to wander aimlessly in foreign landscapes, for hours on end, but when the sun sets I'm struck by an anxious longing for safety and home.
I take a day trip to the amazing little town of St. Ives. Buy a flattering skirt and write my journal on a sunny rooftop terrace overlooking the bay.
I marvel at the tides, endlessly fascinating for someone who's grown up by a smaller sea unaffected by the moon.
I wander around Penzance for days and have an ongoing text conversation with a friend who, like me, is having a lonely holiday but somewhere far away. We tell each other we're strong and independent, and feel better.
I want to go into a church but don't dare. Instead end up in a club across the street, drinking wine and listening to good music. Talking to God and texting another friend who makes me laugh across a distance of two thousand miles.
I sleep in a B&B with flowery wallpaper and have breakfast made by a motherly old lady. Read a novel that makes me miss God.
I take the train home while thinking how strange it is to leave a place like Penzance and know that you will probably never see it again. Miss it already.
I arrive shaken up by the novel I read on the long, long train ride from London.
I scratch my name absently on a pebble on the beach and wonder who will find it and ask themselves who I am.
I walk, when the tide is out, to St. Michael's Mount, which is like a smaller déjà-vu of Mont Saint-Michel in France. Wrap my head in a bright orange scarf and miss my friends.
I buy fresh seafood from a fast-food stall and watch people remove a dead seal from the beach.
I have coffee and walnut cake in one of the romantic "tea rooms" that abound in English towns and talk to my parents on the phone. Miss them.
I note that I love to wander aimlessly in foreign landscapes, for hours on end, but when the sun sets I'm struck by an anxious longing for safety and home.
I take a day trip to the amazing little town of St. Ives. Buy a flattering skirt and write my journal on a sunny rooftop terrace overlooking the bay.
I marvel at the tides, endlessly fascinating for someone who's grown up by a smaller sea unaffected by the moon.
I wander around Penzance for days and have an ongoing text conversation with a friend who, like me, is having a lonely holiday but somewhere far away. We tell each other we're strong and independent, and feel better.
I want to go into a church but don't dare. Instead end up in a club across the street, drinking wine and listening to good music. Talking to God and texting another friend who makes me laugh across a distance of two thousand miles.
I sleep in a B&B with flowery wallpaper and have breakfast made by a motherly old lady. Read a novel that makes me miss God.
I take the train home while thinking how strange it is to leave a place like Penzance and know that you will probably never see it again. Miss it already.
Monday, February 01, 2016
dry müsli and the order of the phoenix
During my year in England, I spent a considerable amount of time discovering Cornish castles, driving down country lanes and walking on rainy, endless beaches, mending a crushed spirit on the streets of London, and sneaking into every hidden courtyard in Cambridge. Not to mention loving life on the banks of an idyllic river on many a lazy summer afternoon.
But I particularly remember one week when I did none of these things. I spent it reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in my unmade bed, in a tiny room in a sleepy suburb. Didn't go out, only occasionally and reluctantly rolled out of bed to go work an evening shift in the hotel. Didn't tidy up my room, do my laundry or even go grocery shopping - only ate dry müsli straight out of the box and, in the evenings, drank cheap white wine out of an unwashed mug.
I finally finished the book, got out of bed, cleaned up myself and my room and bought some milk to go with the müsli. Got on with my life. Looking back, however, it was a strangely poetic week.
But I particularly remember one week when I did none of these things. I spent it reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in my unmade bed, in a tiny room in a sleepy suburb. Didn't go out, only occasionally and reluctantly rolled out of bed to go work an evening shift in the hotel. Didn't tidy up my room, do my laundry or even go grocery shopping - only ate dry müsli straight out of the box and, in the evenings, drank cheap white wine out of an unwashed mug.
I finally finished the book, got out of bed, cleaned up myself and my room and bought some milk to go with the müsli. Got on with my life. Looking back, however, it was a strangely poetic week.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
run with the wild horses
Unexpected encounters with horses:
I'm sunning myself by a quiet brook in the mountains. Four gigantic horses, of the draught horse kind, trot into view. Not another human being in sight. The horses wander down to the brook to drink and splash. I stare. A few minutes later, their owner and his friend show up, panting: "We've been chasing them for hours!"
The man who drives tourists in his horse-drawn carriage hands me the gelding's reins: "Could you look after him for me while I run inside for a minute?" The horse is rather old and lethargic and I expect no problems. Until another carriage passes by and the gelding is suddenly gripped with an urge to follow the herd. We spend a tense few minutes playing tug-of-war until the man comes back.
I stroll around one of the "commons", public green areas in the city of Cambridge. It is a pleasant place on the banks of the river Cam. Lots of people out for a stroll or bike trip, and on the river, every kind of boat. There are also horses and cows mingling calmly with the people since this common is part of their pasture. When I sit down on a bench to eat a sandwich, a horse approaches and makes it clear that he fancies a snack too. When I refuse him a bite of my sandwich, he takes a bite out of my arm instead. For days afterwards, people stare at the impressive mark on my arm and worriedly ask if my boyfriend is abusing me.
I'm sunning myself by a quiet brook in the mountains. Four gigantic horses, of the draught horse kind, trot into view. Not another human being in sight. The horses wander down to the brook to drink and splash. I stare. A few minutes later, their owner and his friend show up, panting: "We've been chasing them for hours!"
The man who drives tourists in his horse-drawn carriage hands me the gelding's reins: "Could you look after him for me while I run inside for a minute?" The horse is rather old and lethargic and I expect no problems. Until another carriage passes by and the gelding is suddenly gripped with an urge to follow the herd. We spend a tense few minutes playing tug-of-war until the man comes back.
I stroll around one of the "commons", public green areas in the city of Cambridge. It is a pleasant place on the banks of the river Cam. Lots of people out for a stroll or bike trip, and on the river, every kind of boat. There are also horses and cows mingling calmly with the people since this common is part of their pasture. When I sit down on a bench to eat a sandwich, a horse approaches and makes it clear that he fancies a snack too. When I refuse him a bite of my sandwich, he takes a bite out of my arm instead. For days afterwards, people stare at the impressive mark on my arm and worriedly ask if my boyfriend is abusing me.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
in-love-fallings, part three
When I first fell in love with...
* kind and intelligent men: Coming to a new school after finally leaving the one where all the boys were evil-eyed bullies with acne, hurtful words and really scary stalking techniques. In the new classroom, the boys said things like "I think you're electrical" and "Then the evil witch took out her chainsaw". Instead of frozen with terror, I was warm with laughter.
* Finland: When I moved to another country. Not until then did I realise that in Finland, things are done well and on time, people are honest, the coffee is strong, equality is not just a word, and when winter arrives you find out if you are a real Viking or not. Finland is EXOTIC.
* autumn: At university, cycling around a beautiful city filled with autumn leaves and rowdy students. I sipped my coffee at a sidewalk café and scribbled in a new notebook, made excursions to the far ends of the city and discovered beautiful, empty beaches, felt in love with all the new things I was going to learn ( this was before the reality of studying crept in ) and tricked a foreign student into eating rowan berries.
* crosswords: In a foreign country, when my Australian boyfriend convinced me that my English was good enough to attempt the ( easier ) crossword in The Times.
* animals: At age 1, when my parents bought a fluffy poodle puppy. All through my childhood, watching my mother rescue wounded birds, lost cats and trapped spiders. When my older sister took me horse riding, mostly to annoy our parents. And at age 11, when I befriended a tiny girl in my class who took me on a spree in the neighbourhood, knocking on doors and asking strangers if we could walk their dogs.
* learning new things: Long after I left university. Probably when things stopped happening to me and I realised I needed to make things happen. Or when I discovered the powerful feeling of knowledge and the joy of not having to downplay my intelligence in order to fit it.
* short skirts: That crazy summer when I felt constantly intoxicated - my friend lent me a green and white skirt, much shorter than any I had previously ever worn, for a party night. Men fell at my feet, figuratively. Or a balmy summer evening in Cambridge, England, when I walked home after a night alone at the cinema - in a dreamy mood and wearing a short denim skirt. Six gorgeous, impressively dressed student boys fell at my feet, literally this time, in the middle of the street and sang me a song. I can't swear that it was the skirt that did it, but I have a weakness for denim skirts ever since.
* cafés: As a teenager, on frequent trips to visit my big sister in the city. We used to "go shopping" but always ended up doing our favourite thing, spending a lazy hour in some place with good coffee, sweet pastries and a good view of interesting people. Hanging out at cafés became my main pastime when I was at university and was supposed to be studying.
* the English language: Probably the first time I heard the word "mesmerized".
* kind and intelligent men: Coming to a new school after finally leaving the one where all the boys were evil-eyed bullies with acne, hurtful words and really scary stalking techniques. In the new classroom, the boys said things like "I think you're electrical" and "Then the evil witch took out her chainsaw". Instead of frozen with terror, I was warm with laughter.
* Finland: When I moved to another country. Not until then did I realise that in Finland, things are done well and on time, people are honest, the coffee is strong, equality is not just a word, and when winter arrives you find out if you are a real Viking or not. Finland is EXOTIC.
* autumn: At university, cycling around a beautiful city filled with autumn leaves and rowdy students. I sipped my coffee at a sidewalk café and scribbled in a new notebook, made excursions to the far ends of the city and discovered beautiful, empty beaches, felt in love with all the new things I was going to learn ( this was before the reality of studying crept in ) and tricked a foreign student into eating rowan berries.
* crosswords: In a foreign country, when my Australian boyfriend convinced me that my English was good enough to attempt the ( easier ) crossword in The Times.
* animals: At age 1, when my parents bought a fluffy poodle puppy. All through my childhood, watching my mother rescue wounded birds, lost cats and trapped spiders. When my older sister took me horse riding, mostly to annoy our parents. And at age 11, when I befriended a tiny girl in my class who took me on a spree in the neighbourhood, knocking on doors and asking strangers if we could walk their dogs.
* learning new things: Long after I left university. Probably when things stopped happening to me and I realised I needed to make things happen. Or when I discovered the powerful feeling of knowledge and the joy of not having to downplay my intelligence in order to fit it.
* short skirts: That crazy summer when I felt constantly intoxicated - my friend lent me a green and white skirt, much shorter than any I had previously ever worn, for a party night. Men fell at my feet, figuratively. Or a balmy summer evening in Cambridge, England, when I walked home after a night alone at the cinema - in a dreamy mood and wearing a short denim skirt. Six gorgeous, impressively dressed student boys fell at my feet, literally this time, in the middle of the street and sang me a song. I can't swear that it was the skirt that did it, but I have a weakness for denim skirts ever since.
* cafés: As a teenager, on frequent trips to visit my big sister in the city. We used to "go shopping" but always ended up doing our favourite thing, spending a lazy hour in some place with good coffee, sweet pastries and a good view of interesting people. Hanging out at cafés became my main pastime when I was at university and was supposed to be studying.
* the English language: Probably the first time I heard the word "mesmerized".
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
a kick-ass lesson
The evening class at the community college was called Self-Defence for Women.
The teacher was a female expert on martial arts, a tough chick with a lovely manner. We were a group of regular women gathering in a run-down school gym once a week. She taught us practical techniques for getting out of almost every kind of violent or threatening situation but also often gathered us around her for discussions on how to avoid these situations in the first place.
We had a lot of laughs - it happens when you try to strangle each other, break kneecaps, crush windpipes and find painful pressure points. It turns out trying to kick a potential rapist's groin is not always the most effective defence.
These were dark winter evenings in Cambridge, England. I had to cycle home along the rather dangerous streets of the poorer neighbourhoods and the deserted fields of Coldham's Common. Before, like many women and for good reason, I was scared of the dark and felt weak and useless. After, I was confident. I knew that I still wasn't a martial arts expert who could tear the innards out of a potential aggressor, but I knew I was able to spot dangerous situations, avoid them and if necessary fight enough to escape them. Strong, no longer useless in a crisis.
And it's strange, the way that confidence from a few simple practical classes in that dark gym has followed me since - no longer scared of the dark, but also stronger in mind and spirit.
The teacher was a female expert on martial arts, a tough chick with a lovely manner. We were a group of regular women gathering in a run-down school gym once a week. She taught us practical techniques for getting out of almost every kind of violent or threatening situation but also often gathered us around her for discussions on how to avoid these situations in the first place.
We had a lot of laughs - it happens when you try to strangle each other, break kneecaps, crush windpipes and find painful pressure points. It turns out trying to kick a potential rapist's groin is not always the most effective defence.
These were dark winter evenings in Cambridge, England. I had to cycle home along the rather dangerous streets of the poorer neighbourhoods and the deserted fields of Coldham's Common. Before, like many women and for good reason, I was scared of the dark and felt weak and useless. After, I was confident. I knew that I still wasn't a martial arts expert who could tear the innards out of a potential aggressor, but I knew I was able to spot dangerous situations, avoid them and if necessary fight enough to escape them. Strong, no longer useless in a crisis.
And it's strange, the way that confidence from a few simple practical classes in that dark gym has followed me since - no longer scared of the dark, but also stronger in mind and spirit.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
it's a class thing
I like evening classes, the kind you take at adult education centres or community colleges.
Every now and then I join one. I'm doing one right now. I gravitate towards computer classes since they are so useful and so quickly forgotten. ( I have taken a beginner's course in Microsoft Excel about three times. I still don't know how to use it. )
The teacher is invariably some middle-aged or elderly man who is used to teaching computer skills to middle-aged and elderly women. He takes us through things slowly, carefully answers also rather irrelevant questions by the more talkative students, while I drum my fingers against the keyboard impatiently. Usually the course content is spread out over maybe five lessons when it could be easily condensed into two.
But the atmosphere is always so gentle and warm. There is no pressure to actually learn anything unless you want to, since there is never an exam. The students are mature, uncompetitive and friendly - attending out of a genuine interest towards the subject.
And the best part, there is usually a coffee break. Even an introvert like myself finds it strangely enjoyable to sip bad coffee ( when you know you shouldn't, because it's evening ) and chat with complete strangers. Because the evening class type of stranger is always so nice.
I also do language courses sometimes, French or Finnish ( my mother tongue is Swedish ). Although this kind of course requires you to actually study between lessons. They are also more unpleasant since you are often asked to make conversation in the foreign language. I employ my usual tactics for these situations, attack is the best form of defence, and take the lead so I can monopolise the easiest phrases.
Then there are sports classes of course. I took one in zumba because I had no idea what it was and was scared to try it at a regular fitness club - it was less frightening to try it out in the company of grannies. A badminton class became my salvation one winter in a very remote village when I suffered from cabin fever - it would never have occurred to me to take up that particular sport, but the only alternative was soccer so it was a question of the lesser of two evils. Turned out badminton is a lot of fun.
Once I also tried wirework, where my proudest achievement was a rather horrible basket that I lugged unfinished through city streets one late night after the last class. ( Too embarrassed to take it on the bus so had to call my dad to come and pick me up. )
My most memorable evening class was in self-defence, taught by a female expert on martial arts. It was awesome. We got to sit on each other and try to gouge each other's eyes out.
Mostly I like my evening classes because of the feeling I get on dark winter evenings when I make my way through cold streets to get there and spread out my notebooks on the desk. It's a very rare feeling of community. Of belonging.
( If you are still not convinced to try this feeling of community, read Maeve Binchy's Evening Class. )
Every now and then I join one. I'm doing one right now. I gravitate towards computer classes since they are so useful and so quickly forgotten. ( I have taken a beginner's course in Microsoft Excel about three times. I still don't know how to use it. )
But the atmosphere is always so gentle and warm. There is no pressure to actually learn anything unless you want to, since there is never an exam. The students are mature, uncompetitive and friendly - attending out of a genuine interest towards the subject.
And the best part, there is usually a coffee break. Even an introvert like myself finds it strangely enjoyable to sip bad coffee ( when you know you shouldn't, because it's evening ) and chat with complete strangers. Because the evening class type of stranger is always so nice.
I also do language courses sometimes, French or Finnish ( my mother tongue is Swedish ). Although this kind of course requires you to actually study between lessons. They are also more unpleasant since you are often asked to make conversation in the foreign language. I employ my usual tactics for these situations, attack is the best form of defence, and take the lead so I can monopolise the easiest phrases.
Then there are sports classes of course. I took one in zumba because I had no idea what it was and was scared to try it at a regular fitness club - it was less frightening to try it out in the company of grannies. A badminton class became my salvation one winter in a very remote village when I suffered from cabin fever - it would never have occurred to me to take up that particular sport, but the only alternative was soccer so it was a question of the lesser of two evils. Turned out badminton is a lot of fun.
Once I also tried wirework, where my proudest achievement was a rather horrible basket that I lugged unfinished through city streets one late night after the last class. ( Too embarrassed to take it on the bus so had to call my dad to come and pick me up. )
Mostly I like my evening classes because of the feeling I get on dark winter evenings when I make my way through cold streets to get there and spread out my notebooks on the desk. It's a very rare feeling of community. Of belonging.
( If you are still not convinced to try this feeling of community, read Maeve Binchy's Evening Class. )
Thursday, August 01, 2013
after all that, I became English
( Another lost tale from my wasted youth coming up. If you can't bear it, go away. But be advised that there may be a mention of Johnny Depp in there somewhere. )
Finally, the relative quiet of a B & B room in Oxford city centre after a very, very long day. A day when I moved from one life into another.
The morning had involved a quiet, chilly walk in the most peaceful of places, the magic valley between the mountains, and saying goodbye - maybe forever - to some of my dearest friends. Two of them took me to the airport and chose the scenic route across the mountains to entice me to come back soon. The rest of the day consisted of sobbing on an awful flight, being nasty to a screaming toddler in the next seat, feeling lost and confused in airports and bus terminals, and lugging around a suitcase as heavy as my heart.
I moved to a foreign country that day ( for the second time ). With no job and nowhere to stay, only the ghost of a promise of a job interview. I got off the bus in the beautiful city of Oxford and dragged myself to the nearest guesthouse I could find.
Later that mild February evening, a slow walk through the city centre and the lively but intimate atmosphere of a university town - birds singing, a bright evening sky, students cycling past along cobbled streets, normal people shopping at Sainsbury's. Yes, there were some of those "dreaming spires" I had fantasised about, but at this particular moment I was more cheered by the sight of a real Starbucks. Compared to the previous two countries I had lived in, England seemed filled to bursting with cities, roads and people - of so many races and looks and accents.
Buying a few groceries in the nearest store, I was struck by a moment of fear again: What had I done? What if there were no jobs? Shouldn't I really buy a cheaper loaf of bread than the one I had just picked out?
Still, to be HERE. In Oxford, in a new country. In a new life. Texting a few friends from the privacy of my room later, I felt comforted.
The next day I breakfasted on cheese and the cheap bread and went out to buy a British SIM card for my phone. My first call a few minutes later, made in the relative quiet of a back alley near the Sheldonian Theatre, went to a local hotel that I had emailed a couple of weeks earlier and which had tentatively offered me a job interview if I ever came to Oxford.
"Well, sure, come and see me", said the assistant manager on the phone. OK, that was vaguely promising at least. When he heard that I was staying at a B & B he offered me a room in staff accommodation for the next night, as his hotel was outside the city, in the picturesque Cotswolds area. So I took my suitcase to a storage facility, packed a smaller bag and headed to the bus stop. The logistics of setting up a new life are very complicated. At the hotel I expected to get my interview but was just shown to a room, and the next day the manager drifted past once and only asked me one question: "Can you start tomorrow?"
Well, the strange and wonderful world of hotel work has never been much bothered with things like employment contracts, salary negotiations or compliance with regulations on working conditions. The general rule is: start working, and you'll find out. ( Sometimes even things like your salary, or your boss' last name. )
So that was the beginning of my stay in a cute Cotswolds town. A place where I used walkie-talkies, was bit by a parrot, took long walks in spooky palace gardens and had the worst ( and almost only ) hangover of my life ( which also unfortunately happened to coincide with a fire drill ). It was also the place where I felt very lonely and spent many, admittedly cosy, evenings in bed in my tiny room with thick English novels and trying out various English delicacies. Haunted all the old-fashioned tea houses in town ( one of them had been an inn ever since the 12th century ). And then finally made many lovely and weird friends.
I lived in an attic room in the hotel - a gorgeous labyrinth of hidden rooms, creaking narrow stairs and forgotten passageways. I became an unlikely expert at beating the receptionists' computer back to life, having whistling competitions with the resident parrot and avoiding the weird manager. I also roamed around Oxford and became an authority on its history and where to find its cutest pubs and most bountiful second-hand bookshops.
My workplace also turned out to be a good place to meet celebrities - if by meeting you mean sorting John Malkovich's laundry or accidentally snarling at Johnny Depp for getting in your way in the hotel lobby. ( And yes, he apologised very politely. After that, I was the envy of every woman in town. )
That turbulent and wonderful spring in a medieval English village ended three months later when I got on a bus again, irresistibly drawn to another new life in another new city. I cried all the way there.
* * *
( PS. For all the weirdoes out there who believe in serendipity - I count myself among them: Much later, reading through old diaries, I surprisingly discovered two earlier mentions of this same little Cotswolds town. On my first and only trip to England, thirteen years before, I had travelled through it and even made a brief stop. And forgotten all about it. And about four years before, when I first started applying for hotel jobs all over Ireland and the UK, I had received three job offers - one was at the Irish hotel where I ended up staying for four years, and one of the others was in the Cotswolds town. I forgot all about that too, but by complete chance I ended up there anyway. Coincidence? )
( Maybe my destiny was to settle down there with the parrot and Johnny Depp? Huh. I blew it. Is it too late now? )
Finally, the relative quiet of a B & B room in Oxford city centre after a very, very long day. A day when I moved from one life into another.
The morning had involved a quiet, chilly walk in the most peaceful of places, the magic valley between the mountains, and saying goodbye - maybe forever - to some of my dearest friends. Two of them took me to the airport and chose the scenic route across the mountains to entice me to come back soon. The rest of the day consisted of sobbing on an awful flight, being nasty to a screaming toddler in the next seat, feeling lost and confused in airports and bus terminals, and lugging around a suitcase as heavy as my heart.
I moved to a foreign country that day ( for the second time ). With no job and nowhere to stay, only the ghost of a promise of a job interview. I got off the bus in the beautiful city of Oxford and dragged myself to the nearest guesthouse I could find.
Later that mild February evening, a slow walk through the city centre and the lively but intimate atmosphere of a university town - birds singing, a bright evening sky, students cycling past along cobbled streets, normal people shopping at Sainsbury's. Yes, there were some of those "dreaming spires" I had fantasised about, but at this particular moment I was more cheered by the sight of a real Starbucks. Compared to the previous two countries I had lived in, England seemed filled to bursting with cities, roads and people - of so many races and looks and accents.
Buying a few groceries in the nearest store, I was struck by a moment of fear again: What had I done? What if there were no jobs? Shouldn't I really buy a cheaper loaf of bread than the one I had just picked out?
Still, to be HERE. In Oxford, in a new country. In a new life. Texting a few friends from the privacy of my room later, I felt comforted.
The next day I breakfasted on cheese and the cheap bread and went out to buy a British SIM card for my phone. My first call a few minutes later, made in the relative quiet of a back alley near the Sheldonian Theatre, went to a local hotel that I had emailed a couple of weeks earlier and which had tentatively offered me a job interview if I ever came to Oxford.
"Well, sure, come and see me", said the assistant manager on the phone. OK, that was vaguely promising at least. When he heard that I was staying at a B & B he offered me a room in staff accommodation for the next night, as his hotel was outside the city, in the picturesque Cotswolds area. So I took my suitcase to a storage facility, packed a smaller bag and headed to the bus stop. The logistics of setting up a new life are very complicated. At the hotel I expected to get my interview but was just shown to a room, and the next day the manager drifted past once and only asked me one question: "Can you start tomorrow?"
Well, the strange and wonderful world of hotel work has never been much bothered with things like employment contracts, salary negotiations or compliance with regulations on working conditions. The general rule is: start working, and you'll find out. ( Sometimes even things like your salary, or your boss' last name. )
So that was the beginning of my stay in a cute Cotswolds town. A place where I used walkie-talkies, was bit by a parrot, took long walks in spooky palace gardens and had the worst ( and almost only ) hangover of my life ( which also unfortunately happened to coincide with a fire drill ). It was also the place where I felt very lonely and spent many, admittedly cosy, evenings in bed in my tiny room with thick English novels and trying out various English delicacies. Haunted all the old-fashioned tea houses in town ( one of them had been an inn ever since the 12th century ). And then finally made many lovely and weird friends.
I lived in an attic room in the hotel - a gorgeous labyrinth of hidden rooms, creaking narrow stairs and forgotten passageways. I became an unlikely expert at beating the receptionists' computer back to life, having whistling competitions with the resident parrot and avoiding the weird manager. I also roamed around Oxford and became an authority on its history and where to find its cutest pubs and most bountiful second-hand bookshops.
My workplace also turned out to be a good place to meet celebrities - if by meeting you mean sorting John Malkovich's laundry or accidentally snarling at Johnny Depp for getting in your way in the hotel lobby. ( And yes, he apologised very politely. After that, I was the envy of every woman in town. )
That turbulent and wonderful spring in a medieval English village ended three months later when I got on a bus again, irresistibly drawn to another new life in another new city. I cried all the way there.
* * *
( PS. For all the weirdoes out there who believe in serendipity - I count myself among them: Much later, reading through old diaries, I surprisingly discovered two earlier mentions of this same little Cotswolds town. On my first and only trip to England, thirteen years before, I had travelled through it and even made a brief stop. And forgotten all about it. And about four years before, when I first started applying for hotel jobs all over Ireland and the UK, I had received three job offers - one was at the Irish hotel where I ended up staying for four years, and one of the others was in the Cotswolds town. I forgot all about that too, but by complete chance I ended up there anyway. Coincidence? )
( Maybe my destiny was to settle down there with the parrot and Johnny Depp? Huh. I blew it. Is it too late now? )
Saturday, March 17, 2012
lion kings, a P45 and talent in the tavern
Random excerpts from correspondence from the Western civilisation...
"Can you cook? I doubt it though ..."
"Me and my lion king are fine."
"Your P45 and a cheque will be on the way according to Ms. R"
"May I just say that she put on a lot of weight too ..."
"This girl is ok but there is an abyss between me and her."
"I am the new Rita!!!!"
"One day my mother just took a little bit of money and escape to Europe because 'they' wanted to kill her. 'They' are the same that wanted to kill my brother and me ... no comments!!!"
"You are young, European and clever so you have too many choices."
"She and her girlfriend are very nice and friendly. For me is a very strange situation."
"Irish people don't talk about that ... all is 'grand'."
"I'm sure that after countless hours of talking we would have been ... no wiser."
"I think Patrick has gone quiet altogether. God love him."
"You may find me crazy but in my imagination I associate you with the image of a novelist. Did you ever consider writing?"
"Already had about 55 marriage proposals!"
"I'm shocked you even know a word like 'nipples' but mine are still very much intact."
"I'm not fleeing from the family to have them follow me!"
"The girls thought there was no talent in the tavern and wanted to go home."
"There is something going on that I can only call an exodus."
"How could we EVER fancy him??"
"He looks blurry and talks absolute blabla."
"We have 60 Irish priests staying in the house. I still try to make up a confession I'd like to do but it's hard being perfect me."
"Can you cook? I doubt it though ..."
"Me and my lion king are fine."
"Your P45 and a cheque will be on the way according to Ms. R"
"May I just say that she put on a lot of weight too ..."
"This girl is ok but there is an abyss between me and her."
"I am the new Rita!!!!"
"One day my mother just took a little bit of money and escape to Europe because 'they' wanted to kill her. 'They' are the same that wanted to kill my brother and me ... no comments!!!"
"You are young, European and clever so you have too many choices."
"She and her girlfriend are very nice and friendly. For me is a very strange situation."
"Irish people don't talk about that ... all is 'grand'."
"I'm sure that after countless hours of talking we would have been ... no wiser."
"I think Patrick has gone quiet altogether. God love him."
"You may find me crazy but in my imagination I associate you with the image of a novelist. Did you ever consider writing?"
"Already had about 55 marriage proposals!"
"I'm shocked you even know a word like 'nipples' but mine are still very much intact."
"I'm not fleeing from the family to have them follow me!"
"The girls thought there was no talent in the tavern and wanted to go home."
"There is something going on that I can only call an exodus."
"How could we EVER fancy him??"
"He looks blurry and talks absolute blabla."
"We have 60 Irish priests staying in the house. I still try to make up a confession I'd like to do but it's hard being perfect me."
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
take me to Camelot or the river Cam
This is horrible treason to my wannabe Irish soul.
I'm suddenly in love with everything British. Have I watched too much Merlin, Hotel Babylon, Hustle, Spooks, QI (and Lie To Me with Tim Roth's gorgeous accent), even Torchwood? Is reading The Observer once every three months too addictive? Was allowing myself to dream of Cadbury Creme Eggs the other day a terrible mistake?
All I want is to be back there, struggling to get my National Insurance Number, hearing the word "cheers" twice in every conversation, swearing at the snobbish upper middle class, wondering what's all the fuss with the horse races, getting rained on unexpectedly, never finding a bus that runs on time, being spoken to in the street by strangers, eating chocolate chip cookies, loving the pubs and everything ancient, longing for a real forest, sneering at the tabloids, wondering if everyone is a foreigner, having a picnic where King Arthur once gathered his brave knights, never being alone anywhere, wrinkling my nose at greasy food, attending free concerts in the park, being called "love" by matronly shop keepers, reading novels set in the same town I'm in, realising what is meant by a "stiff upper lip", always finding something to gawp at, often suspecting someone is taking the piss.
I'm suddenly in love with everything British. Have I watched too much Merlin, Hotel Babylon, Hustle, Spooks, QI (and Lie To Me with Tim Roth's gorgeous accent), even Torchwood? Is reading The Observer once every three months too addictive? Was allowing myself to dream of Cadbury Creme Eggs the other day a terrible mistake?
All I want is to be back there, struggling to get my National Insurance Number, hearing the word "cheers" twice in every conversation, swearing at the snobbish upper middle class, wondering what's all the fuss with the horse races, getting rained on unexpectedly, never finding a bus that runs on time, being spoken to in the street by strangers, eating chocolate chip cookies, loving the pubs and everything ancient, longing for a real forest, sneering at the tabloids, wondering if everyone is a foreigner, having a picnic where King Arthur once gathered his brave knights, never being alone anywhere, wrinkling my nose at greasy food, attending free concerts in the park, being called "love" by matronly shop keepers, reading novels set in the same town I'm in, realising what is meant by a "stiff upper lip", always finding something to gawp at, often suspecting someone is taking the piss.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
God is in Oxford
I had been in many good churches before. It had also been many years since I last set foot in one. I was chased into this one by a torrential rainfall that suddenly tried to drown me in the grey streets of Oxford.
I was a jaded sinner who wasn't sure I was even interested. And I was warmly welcomed. By the people, but most poignantly of all, by God himself. How many tears I shed during the few Sundays I managed to spend there, I don't know.
But ever since - inside churches and outside of them - whenever I need to be reminded that God exists and that he even has a personal interest in me, I think of this old church. The one that in words and action shouts: "God is love".
PS. If there is someone else who needs to find God, you can look him up in St. Aldate's, Oxford, England. Although it sometimes also works by reading the Bible.
I was a jaded sinner who wasn't sure I was even interested. And I was warmly welcomed. By the people, but most poignantly of all, by God himself. How many tears I shed during the few Sundays I managed to spend there, I don't know.
But ever since - inside churches and outside of them - whenever I need to be reminded that God exists and that he even has a personal interest in me, I think of this old church. The one that in words and action shouts: "God is love".
PS. If there is someone else who needs to find God, you can look him up in St. Aldate's, Oxford, England. Although it sometimes also works by reading the Bible.
Friday, March 19, 2010
that night of English heartbreak
Just knocked over a glass of sparkly white
My heart-breaking party all by myself
Smell of food in the Window Sill Room
Pool of light from lonely lamp
Chill of English spring night
I’m in the world and feeling the pull of home, real life, somewhere far down there
Tonight I’m crashing towards the earth
Crying on my knees, screaming for home
You who led me here, where are you now?
I followed you with a trembling heart, eager and proud
Life among strangers I thought I could handle but tonight
The weight of an empty universe all resting in the Window Sill Room
Thursday, May 03, 2007
i desire strawberries and a chef
Hotel kitchens are sexy.
It's a place where you step into a hot smell of spice and the even hotter stare from macho chefs. A real feminist would have a fit of righteous fury over the lewd remarks that chefs are experts at delivering to any unsuspecting female straying into their male-dominant territory.
But alas, I'm too in love with men to be a successful feminist. It's a game. I'm locked in a cage with a bunch of playful and handsome tigers and I have to be strong, smart and beautiful to survive. If I win the game, a chef will prepare a gorgeous feast just for me, with strawberries for dessert and a promise of more.
A strong, smart, beautiful man who can cook for you. It's enough to make even a feminist swoon.
To my eternal disappointment, this particular hotel kitchen is empty. A surly woman functions as a part-time cook and she is no fun at all.
I still hang out in the kitchen a lot. Listening for the echoes of happier times when food was hot, flirty, dangerous, exhilarating. Waiting and hoping for a genuine chef to arrive.
It's a place where you step into a hot smell of spice and the even hotter stare from macho chefs. A real feminist would have a fit of righteous fury over the lewd remarks that chefs are experts at delivering to any unsuspecting female straying into their male-dominant territory.
But alas, I'm too in love with men to be a successful feminist. It's a game. I'm locked in a cage with a bunch of playful and handsome tigers and I have to be strong, smart and beautiful to survive. If I win the game, a chef will prepare a gorgeous feast just for me, with strawberries for dessert and a promise of more.
A strong, smart, beautiful man who can cook for you. It's enough to make even a feminist swoon.
To my eternal disappointment, this particular hotel kitchen is empty. A surly woman functions as a part-time cook and she is no fun at all.
I still hang out in the kitchen a lot. Listening for the echoes of happier times when food was hot, flirty, dangerous, exhilarating. Waiting and hoping for a genuine chef to arrive.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
babylon world remembered
I want to be a hotel receptionist again. I want the chaos of a busy Sunday morning, the crazy staff, the coffee spilled over the desk, the alcohol-fumes, the malfunctioning computers, the excitement, the mad laughter.
I miss the feeling of having everything under control, knowing everything, having all the information at my fingertips and managing a thousand loose threads. I miss yawning together with the night manager at seven in the morning when I am barely awake enough to locate the coffee. I miss the tears of weariness and frustration long after midnight when the till won't balance. I miss chatting to exotic strangers, exchanging a knowing glance with a coworker, being flirted with by drunken guests.
I love the feeling of danger when entering a cavernous hotel kitchen where the mad, bad and dangerous chefs are ready to pounce on me from behind enormous simmering pots. The crystal glitter of the restaurant, and the smoky depths of the bar where magical stories are being told and smart cosmopolitans frown at red-nosed regulars. The nerve-centre which is the reception area, where everything happens at once and everything is known.
I remember the smile of a handsome waiter in a waistcoat and the broken English of a foreign kitchen porter in a stained apron. I remember cursing under my breath at a complaining guest while smiling sweetly. I remember hiding from the manager in the back office with a coworker and a stolen piece of chocolate cake, giggling hysterically. I remember being absolutely, explosively, uncompromisingly furious. I remember unexpected, strange gifts and feelings of complete betrayal.
I want all this again. I was alive.
I miss the feeling of having everything under control, knowing everything, having all the information at my fingertips and managing a thousand loose threads. I miss yawning together with the night manager at seven in the morning when I am barely awake enough to locate the coffee. I miss the tears of weariness and frustration long after midnight when the till won't balance. I miss chatting to exotic strangers, exchanging a knowing glance with a coworker, being flirted with by drunken guests.
I love the feeling of danger when entering a cavernous hotel kitchen where the mad, bad and dangerous chefs are ready to pounce on me from behind enormous simmering pots. The crystal glitter of the restaurant, and the smoky depths of the bar where magical stories are being told and smart cosmopolitans frown at red-nosed regulars. The nerve-centre which is the reception area, where everything happens at once and everything is known.
I remember the smile of a handsome waiter in a waistcoat and the broken English of a foreign kitchen porter in a stained apron. I remember cursing under my breath at a complaining guest while smiling sweetly. I remember hiding from the manager in the back office with a coworker and a stolen piece of chocolate cake, giggling hysterically. I remember being absolutely, explosively, uncompromisingly furious. I remember unexpected, strange gifts and feelings of complete betrayal.
I want all this again. I was alive.
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