tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35870517562876563842024-02-21T01:02:08.944-08:00The Bittersweet CityUp and down, in many a town.The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-6276220181523407332018-07-09T21:06:00.004-07:002018-07-09T21:10:45.145-07:00A Whole New World...The Start of a New Zealand Road TripIt seems funny to think that this most epic of road trips began with some donburi and teriyaki bento in a little suburb outside Glen Eden, West Auckland. We were hangry and a little hungover and had already argued a little about map-reading techniques within the first ten minutes of the journey, but that's how it began.<br />
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We had spent most of the previous Saturday (this was Monday) drinking on a mini wine tour, then beers in the <a href="http://www.hallertau.co.nz/" target="_blank">Hallertau</a> brewery, followed by a couple of cans of Woodstock (a sickly sweet bourbon and coke mixture from A's adolescence), finishing off the night with a mix of different drinks - more beers, wine, and finally - ouch -whisky sours. The Woodstocks, I was told, had to be drunk outside, on the beach at Muriwai, and it was explained that this was West Auckland tradition: you couldn't have grown up as a "Westie" without having done that, so I chugged down the sweet alcopoppy thing, whilst realising I was on one of the most incredibly beautiful beaches I'd ever had the pleasure of watching a sunset upon. We started out full of chatter and laughter, but as the bright sun waned and we watched a million colours in the sky illuminated in the many rockpools on the ground, it seemed to quieten us, as if we had to pay reverent heed to what we were witnessing.<br />
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Actually, that was the second impressive beach I'd seen already in my first week in New Zealand. We had taken one of our first drives out a few days prior to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piha" target="_blank">Piha</a>, a spectacular surfing beach on the Tasman Sea, with a permanent town population of 600. It's incredibly rugged, famous for a giant formation known as Lion Rock and the first ever NZ board-riding competition in 1958, and is surrounded by subtropical forest and various impressive hills and rock formations. It's one of the beaches where <i>The Piano</i> was filmed, and it lends itself well to melancholy art: a song, a poem, a piece of prose, a painting all might suggest themselves to someone so inclined, were they to have visited on a day like we did; overcast, windy, and brooding.<br />
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Driving through the countryside towards our first stop in Rotorua, I was reminded of Scotland's green peaks and burns shimmering in the low sunlight, but also of the great American landscapes I have only seen in films: the flat, wide roads, the tall pine forests, and the seemingly endless shapes of mountains forming on the horizon. We started out listening to Maori radio, and I felt inspired by the newness of this place, moved by its exoticness, its duality, its storytelling in two languages.<br />
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It was the same feeling I'd felt the evening before, as we had walked out of the house for the first time that hungover day just in time to see the sunset. We had walked to A's old primary school up the road, set on the side of a hill with a huge <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cupressus_macrocarpa" target="_blank">Macrocarpa </a>tree, and looked out to views of the Waitekere ranges and prehistoric-looking forest. We noticed a Sunday church service taking place in the small school chapel, and the attendees were Pacific islanders, either Tongan or Samoans, speaking in a language we could not understand. Soon, however, as we started ascending the small footpath, we heard the strains of a haunting song sung by a choir of strong voices. It hung around us like the scent of flowers at dusk, and clung to us, silencing our chatter as we reached a magical little waterfall above the path, itself enclosed in a hushed cathedral of green.<br />
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I've spent much of the last three weeks feeling awed like that. Maybe the photos below will help to begin to explain it.<br />
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<br />The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-5487107310804282572017-11-18T12:51:00.001-08:002017-11-21T06:13:38.968-08:00The World Sleeps Until You Wake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-7ewvmQWE_h3vFK1q0UGa040RV1xWUZkSzymF9LyJvsJiqCIF42V7ejb8F-wylznq6eOgoKXVQYV6vmDTX2ZPiE3e3tjS6oru1iWuFIEu-_xd0CpSa-97gvMBn4nS6redVrgSeZlBkg/s1600/IMG_3253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-7ewvmQWE_h3vFK1q0UGa040RV1xWUZkSzymF9LyJvsJiqCIF42V7ejb8F-wylznq6eOgoKXVQYV6vmDTX2ZPiE3e3tjS6oru1iWuFIEu-_xd0CpSa-97gvMBn4nS6redVrgSeZlBkg/s320/IMG_3253.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">You once
wrote to me, “the world sleeps until you wake up,” as we lived our separate,
parallel, lives, but we were somehow already joined by that gossamer thread
that unites every couple. I’m a romantic, yes, but I know that what I feel
about you is more than just some whizzing endorphins doing their thing when I feel
your touch on my skin last thing at night and your eyes on me first thing in
the morning even when we’re 10,000km apart. You’re a part of my consciousness,
someone I think of involuntarily now throughout my day. Wondering about how you
are is like taking a breath. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And then,
the clock chimes 7, or 8pm, and it’s my turn to be without you. You’re usually
going to sleep first, unless I’m awake into the wee hours of the next morning.
So in my evenings I get to luxuriate in you. I get to wonder about you, and I’m
well aware that in these spaces between seeing one another, touching one
another and talking, we could be inventing false narratives, but then I look
back at the words we’ve written to one another, and I think about the feeling I
get when I listen to your voice, how my feet feel more solid on the earth, how
I feel like I’m more inside my body and how my shoulders drop into their
correct posture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I feel warm
when I think about you. And I’m usually a person with cold hands and feet, who
needs an extra layer with her just in case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: inherit;">***</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: inherit;">As I read this back I know I have been GIDDY and drunk on
you all summer, and I realise that I still am, but that it’s maturing into
something deeper than “oh look how compatible the internet says we are”. I
think of all of the combined hours we have now spent talking on the phone, each
wrapped up in the thoughts of the other, and I find myself wondering if this
time spent living thousands upon thousands of kilometres apart will be the
thing that we look back on as the making and cementing of our bond. I wonder if
it’s a blessing, because most other couples living in the same place might get
lots more physical time together, but I wonder if they know one another's brains in the
same way as we do after four months.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I suppose it’s not the comparison, anyway, that is
important. What is important is that the world still sleeps until you wake,
that as I write this I’m fully conscious of how much I desire you, and that
although sometimes frustrating to not be able to reach out and touch your arm,
lace my fingers with yours, look into your eyes, or stroke your head, noticing
how much those moments are missed is as crucial to understanding what this – us
– we – means to me. I’m very much enjoying letting that flow over me, and
through me, today as I write at my kitchen table, waiting for you to wake up in
the tomorrow that you’re already in.</span><span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-74564010835124279912017-06-27T06:51:00.003-07:002017-06-27T06:51:42.464-07:00Manifest Your Destiny.These were three words that came to me as I sat down to write at a busy Barcelona café last night.<br />
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I have decided to embrace that spirit, as I feel the strong pull of returning to this place that truly feels like home, but of course in recent months I have been anxiously analysing the details, like not yet having a job lined up, or the ridiculous Brexit deal being floated that treats EU citizens as lesser people, and I worry about the repercussions for UK citizens settling in the EU.<br />
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But the new model (cobbled together from plenty of thinking, and listening to others I trust, but little reading on the subject) is thus: <i>Don't worry about what might happen. That's such a waste of energy. Instead, focus on the goal. Envisage it as clearly as you can. Drive all your energy towards it. Imagine how it will feel when it is achieved. What you can imagine, pretty much, can happen. </i><br />
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I wrote down those words. They were somehow already familiar to me. Googling them quickly I realised they are a best-selling book on spirituality by the late <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wayne_Dyer" target="_blank">Wayne Dyer</a>, one of the most widely-read self-help gurus, and a former high school guidance counselor. That's the job I do right now, by the way; some weird synchronicity there.<br />
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I'm trying hard to live those three words. I'm trying to both live in and embrace the present, as well as envision the future I would like. I think it's important to do both, but mostly to be grateful for what you already have. In the past few days, meeting up with friends I made whilst living here in Barcelona, I have verbalised the plans I have had for a few months now, to leave Costa Rica at the end of my work contract there in 2018 and come back to the city I love, the one I miss when I am away from her.<br />
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Of course all of this is accelerated by Brexit in 2019. If I'm going to stay here, I figure, I may as well get here and settle as soon as I can, before my passport makes that more difficult. In the last few days, I have mentioned to my friends the ideal school I would like to work at: The British School of Barcelona, which is not in the city itself but in a small neighbouring town right by the sea. I could spend less in rent there, meaning I might be able to afford a flat with a balcony or some outside space, get a small dog, and come to central Barcelona at weekends. I thought about it first because they have always been a supportive and welcoming school, one which I have had contact with now for several years as I used to visit them for my old job.<br />
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So imagine my surprise when I was crossing the street coming from the supermarket this morning in my friend's neighbourhood - a place I just happen to be staying, to look after her cat - and I see, two steps in front of me, my contact from the British School of Barcelona, who was the Head of the Secondary school. I greet her, and she clearly remembers me. We exchange updates, and it transpires that she is now the school's Headmistress. I tell her about my tentative plans to have sent her an email in the coming days and my eventual plan to relocate back to the area. She encourages me to send the email, and we exchange warm goodbyes. I am left stunned, smiling at my good luck and at the universe seemingly throwing me a line.<br />
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Maybe it's possible. Maybe it's happening. Maybe that balcony, and that dog, and those walks by the sea, are in my future. I walk along, thanking whatever universal force there is, and I can already smell the salty sea air.<br />
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<br />The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-6508215575857778242017-06-05T02:41:00.002-07:002017-06-05T02:41:45.901-07:00To You, From RecoveryI guess I'm finally ready to write to you.<br />
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It's been two years since you let me know that you had cut me out of your life. Thinking about it now, I don't really know how my heart coped with that searing pain. I think of it as if it that raw flesh had an encounter with a branding iron. "SINGLE AFTER 6 YEARS", or "DAMAGED GOODS" are what come to mind as what I was marked with, but I'm probably being overly dramatic.<br />
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Everyone gets their heart broken at least once, right? Everyone grieves, and has those days when they can't get up and they can't go to work and they can't eat and they lie there, in whiteness, in soundlessness, and wonder how their heart will ever recover. And you, in your grief, after losing your father, no doubt experienced the same. And then your heart disappeared, and burrowed itself away. And mine? Well, it went into hibernation.<br />
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You see, our hearts had shared a beat once, and mine, without yours, hurt in my chest. Sometimes that chest-ache is felt right at the beginning, when you know you're falling for someone. Maybe you also felt the ache when you ended us. Maybe you didn't. I don't know. You were very far away, and even when you came on a plane to see me, I still didn't know what you felt.<br />
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These days, my heartbeat has had to self-regulate. It beats with no-one else's, stronger and more stable (strong and stable leadership is a thing these days, apparently), with a regular rhythm. It's not been won over, nor damaged, since it beat with yours, but instead I've been working on making that most important of all muscles more resilient; running, singing, surfing, driving in Central America. I've done so many things that scared me, to build up that heart until it felt Ox-like. It feels like it could take a beating, because, well, it did.<br />
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My heartbeat is stronger because of, and in spite of you. And all I have to say for that is: thank you.The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-63137589642423486512017-03-30T14:09:00.000-07:002017-03-30T14:09:12.096-07:00Morning Mass<i>I worship at your 7am mass</i><br />
<i>We are missionaries, </i><br />
<i>Whispering prayers to one another’s backs</i><br />
<i>Feeling the morning’s light </i><br />
<i>Caress us in its urgency</i>The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-7885934393309083222017-03-11T11:04:00.001-08:002017-11-18T12:54:06.576-08:00The other side of Pura Vida<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ZFHcL_gz0rrtPidXNEXawSOqRCTqFes7mPzj8uhPOJ0itGFdihW8yh22E3vYmfRoVE1tbRkkBJ2RNhErAt_zdyEf7BiFFA_tsj4m9FyP6y-aBtchXwDWvTzdZgzc5rgB73s8lOIo2Jg/s1600/IMG_5646.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ZFHcL_gz0rrtPidXNEXawSOqRCTqFes7mPzj8uhPOJ0itGFdihW8yh22E3vYmfRoVE1tbRkkBJ2RNhErAt_zdyEf7BiFFA_tsj4m9FyP6y-aBtchXwDWvTzdZgzc5rgB73s8lOIo2Jg/s320/IMG_5646.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, that’s the preventative pill, right?
You don’t have something for a mistake with contraception that happened
yesterday?” I asked at the counter of my small local Costa Rican pharmacy.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The junior pharmacist smiled sweetly at
me. He must have been little older than 22 years old.</span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“You mean la píldora del día después? Oh,
no that doesn’t exist here. <i>Está prohibido</i>,” he shared, looking
kindly at me with something akin to camaraderie.</span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">I did a double-take. We had experienced a
fairly good pharmacist-client rapport until then. I tried again, certain that
somewhere my Spanish had let me down.</span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br />
“So what does a woman do here, in the case that her usual contraception has
failed, as is the case for me?”</span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">“Well,” he said, looking sweetly at me,
“if your usual method of contraception fails, and you fall pregnant, then <i>hay
que tener un chiquitito</i>.” He beamed, as if this was the greatest gift
anyone could hope for. Abortion is illegal in Costa Rica.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "pmingliu"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: PMingLiU;"><br />
<br />
</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">I stared at him, not quite believing what I had heard. This whippersnapper
was telling me, a 34 –year old woman new to his country, that if I fell
pregnant, now, single, and living and teaching here, 6 months into a 2-year
work contract; that if the unimaginable had happened and a split condom meant
that I was now pregnant by a man I had known for three weeks, I was going to
have to GIVE BIRTH TO A HUMAN BEING.</span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">This kind-faced young man, still with
traces of post-pubescent acne on his jawline, had laid eyes on me all of 2
minutes ago, and yet, here he was, telling me in no uncertain terms what I was
to do with my body. The decision was made. Costa Rica said so. It was possibly
the most powerful “computer says no” moment I have ever experienced in my life.
And I’ve been to the DMV in New York City, where they have a lot of <i>computer
says no</i> moments.</span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Before you judge me as some kind of
promiscuous <i>gringa</i>; someone whose knicker elastic is as loose as
her morals, some harlot who goes out corrupting young Costa
Rican men with her worldly European charms and her tales of travel and the
Theory of Knowledge (the subject I teach), let me make something clear. I’ve
had three long relationships since the age of 16. My first lasted 6 years, and
we stayed together all through high school and university. I slept with precisely
no-one else aged 16-22. Then, upon that
relationship ending, I fell in love with an older guy, and we were together
for 2 years. He proposed. I accepted. We realised we had made a
mistake. I moved out to a shared house and slept with again, precisely no-one,
until a few months later, when I met the guy who I thought was the love of my
life. We were together 6 years, and we lived together for 5 of those, moving
our lives and work from London to Barcelona. When that relationship ended in
2015, I had a few partners, but you could count them on one hand. I think I
was fairly restrained, after a lifetime of sexual restraint. I <i>like </i>being
choosy. Not that it should matter, choosing to be choosy is just that: a
choice. An equally valid choice would have been to tear up society's rule book
and go to wild sex parties, but I'm basically too much of a germaphobe.</span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br />
In my life therefore I have taken the morning after pill exactly twice. Once
after a very young and very stupid experience with my very first partner, a
manipulative older guy, aged 15 ¾, and once again last year, after a night with
a close friend, a guy my age (we should have both known better – but – mojitos
– and we trusted one another a lot. A pregnancy wouldn’t have been the end of
the world, but he was moving to Colombia and I to Costa Rica.)</span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">What I had taken for granted in my EU
liberal bubble, I suppose, is how easily available that option had been to me. Even so, in my very first experience at a sexual health clinic, I was terrified. I was
technically under the age of consent, by a month or two, and a nurse had to
give me an extra assessment to ascertain if I was mentally able to make the
decision to receive the morning-after pill without them informing my parent.
They also had to check that I wasn’t asking for it as a result of abuse, or
something untoward. I had to go with my high-school best friend, whose older
sister knew where the clinic was, and assured us it would be confidential. I
trembled throughout the assessment, feeling like I’d been sent to the school
principal’s office. All of the nurse’s questions seemed designed to make me
feel slutty and wrong.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "pmingliu"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: PMingLiU;"><br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<!--[endif]--></span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">My second experience was much more
straightforward. I walked into a Barcelona pharmacy, asked for the pill, paid,
and gulped it down. I sent a text to my friend to let him know. He treated me
to an ice-cream and a hug, and we resolved to be more responsible.<br />
<br />
In a different country, with a different prevailing set of beliefs, with a
different partner, I too feel different. It was clear that my values and
judgements about what was correct were not totally aligned with the law in
Costa Rica. I'd noticed snippets of machismo in daily life here - catcalls,
being called <i>muchacha</i>, or girl, by older men, enduring plenty of
ogling - but I hadn't imagined that my right to a safe, legal way to control my
fertility would have been questioned. After some heavy googling and plenty of
frantic whatsapps on the subject, it became evident that Costa Rican women do
of course have another method. The <b><i>Yuzpe</i></b> regimen, as
explained by the <a href="http://who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/fs244/en/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">World Health Organization</span></a>,
is an equally effective post-coital method of emergency contraception alongside
the copper IUD and the morning-after pill. It's sightly more fiddly, requiring
two megadoses of the combined ordinary pill taken 12 hours apart, but it
exists. And boy, was I glad it did. But I had to question what I would have
done had I found myself in the same situation aged 15 </span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">¾. Or were I not an educated woman with access
to information from trusted sources and not just the final word from a spotty pharmacist. I asked myself what the outcome might have
been for a young Costa Rican girl living in a rural part of the country, or in a very
strict Catholic household. I asked myself what many women must have to do in
other parts of the world. And even as a committed feminist, a liberal, a
teacher - I myself was shocked by how little time I had spent reflecting on
what the reality of access to contraception and choice must be for many women
worldwide.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">For this, and so
many other reasons, I marched on International Women's Day, March 8, <a href="http://www.nacion.com/nacional/Marcha-Mujeres-sobraron-motivos_0_1621037896.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">here in San José, amongst thousands of
other women and men</span></a>, protesting femicide, domestic abuse,
inequality, lack of access to legal and safe abortions, and the right for women
living here to make their own decisions about their bodies' destinies, as well
as their ability to work, live, love and exist without fear of judgement, harassment or
comment. As I walked alongside people of all ages, holding placards with
slogans like "Keep your rosaries off my ovaries", or "Ni una menos!" (a call to action on the number of femicides, several this year
already shaking the bedrock of Costa Rican life to its core), I thought about a
time when this won't be necessary. I hope I might live to see it. I also tried
to think of my sweet junior pharmacist ever having someone tell him in no
uncertain terms that he would have to be a father. (Maybe he already is.)
That's the thing about this blinkered approach to birth control. It's offensive
to men and women alike, robbing both sides of their sovereignty. It no
doubt makes both genders feel trapped, and less trusting of the other. I
wondered what the correlation is between countries with legal abortions and
widespread access to birth control and equality of opportunity in terms of
education, pay and opportunity. <a href="http://scholarship.law.georgetown.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1191&context=facpub" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">This paper</span></a> from
Georgetown University's Law Center helped answer my query.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Don't get me wrong,
Costa Rica is a stunning place, with so much to recommend. Its people and way
of life are often embodied by the phrase "¡Pura Vida!", which
generally means, "no worries, no fuss, no stress, life is good", but
I now see: there's still a little way to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footer"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of figures"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope return"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="line number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="page number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of authorities"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="macro"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="toa heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
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<br />The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-49753115072080613022017-02-25T13:56:00.003-08:002017-03-11T12:20:44.897-08:00Dinosaur BonesWe found<br />
swatches of sea glass -<br />
glitteringly littered near a half-broken, salt-eaten<br />
backbone of a whale<br />
or a dinosaur<br />
large, antique, resilient bones<br />
hugging the rocks<br />
on a coastline<br />
proudly facing a daily battle<br />
with the ever-changing, ever-eroding, ever-exposing surf.The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-9442038915129145172016-11-15T20:23:00.000-08:002016-11-15T20:48:04.854-08:00Too Much Tomato Soup, or Cognitive Bias & Curvy Edges<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfq2cF0ddb1vKLpdoUL8xYhlAQbboU388JyEurubvTNMsiGznwAFLmga5N0AGyPX1Su44NBhCcF16H3yuQjoM6bK0VcXOuyaif5_llArkuOBGIlTtjLcvvyitY-b3knkZjfhE5L_rPtA/s1600/heinz-cream-tomato-soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfq2cF0ddb1vKLpdoUL8xYhlAQbboU388JyEurubvTNMsiGznwAFLmga5N0AGyPX1Su44NBhCcF16H3yuQjoM6bK0VcXOuyaif5_llArkuOBGIlTtjLcvvyitY-b3knkZjfhE5L_rPtA/s1600/heinz-cream-tomato-soup.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Have you heard of the More Exposure Effect? It's one of our best-loved biases as humans. It's the tendency to express undue liking for things merely because of familiarity with them. It explains why you (probably) love Heinz tomato soup, and would actively choose it over another generic supermarket brand. You've probably had more Heinz tomato soup in your life overall then other generic brands, and now you associate Heinz with what canned tomato soup <i>actually is</i>.<br />
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So, of course, this got me thinking about relationships. Tenuous allegorical link incoming.</div>
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What if you've only had quite a lot of one kind of tomato soup, and you get stuck thinking that's the only kind of soup out there? (I watched the soup nazi episode of <i>Seinfeld</i> recently, that must be where all these soup metaphors are coming from. I'll stop with that now.)</div>
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This past year and a half I've had to re-evaluate so hard, with so much effort, what kind of relationship I'd like, or need. I've been a newly single woman, after being in successive relationships basically since the age of 15, heading towards her mid-30s. Just writing that line makes me feel neurotic. And yet I'm not. This year (well, now 18 months of self-discovery and singular alone-ness) has been some of the most life affirming time I've spent. Of course much of it has been in the company of others, but really, mostly in my own company. And I've lived a lot of life-affirming moments. But usually as part of a couple.</div>
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I know that I have an innate desire to be paired up with someone - my own bias, I admit. I like time on my own, and I value my independence fiercely, but there's something in me that <i>needs</i> to be tactile, needs to hear the breathing of another, needs to look into someone's eyes before the lights go out. I'm someone who finds joy in making breakfast for two, who likes to think about what the other would like to do, or see, or watch, who lives for planning unplanned road trips and weekend breaks, who wants to touch, and smell, and taste the other person in their life, living moments with their hands in my hair, and our legs intertwined on the sofa, and cooking soup, or singing, or dancing together. I actually quite <i>like</i> having private jokes, knowing looks and winks shared only between us. I would hate to be one of the "smug marrieds" but I think I'd make a pretty excellent matching jigsaw piece for someone. You know, with the weird curvy edges.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYmG9fk5KPQtywDb1l-Ime5IZCvaos3x8MRJgoOWo9GIZj7c7EDD_YaZ06DzqOttgXfHESAaAErevba2s8IckCIEYDgEOHheOnzgynqxOsrd6ignice6MliqW0MghsNb14jiyKT5uI-A/s1600/deadpool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYmG9fk5KPQtywDb1l-Ime5IZCvaos3x8MRJgoOWo9GIZj7c7EDD_YaZ06DzqOttgXfHESAaAErevba2s8IckCIEYDgEOHheOnzgynqxOsrd6ignice6MliqW0MghsNb14jiyKT5uI-A/s1600/deadpool.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
However, I'm fairly sure that this bias for the familiar, for the neatly sewn-up, for the happily ever after, has caused me to outstay many a welcome in less-than-healthy relationships. Sure, I've learned something from every guy I've been with, and I hope I've taught them things too. But my former need to be <i>paired</i> - like my less-than-reliable cheap bluetooth speaker - has meant that maybe I've missed facing the music. (Another terrible analogy. I can only apologise). What I'm trying to articulate is that I finally feel like I can be alone, and I can be OK with that. It doesn't make me a failure, even as a woman of 34 years old who has many, many paired-up friends. And although my lovers might come and go, I'm not going to try to "catch" one or hold on to him to meet some kind of former standard, or some societal norm. No, he shall remain out of my road trip plans, and out of my bed, unless his crazy matches my crazy, big time. And right now, I feel more likely to be able to spot a true kindred spirit, by knowing myself better than I might ever have done, at a hundred paces.<br />
<br />
And that feels like growth, and it feels as good as making someone soup. But not tomato soup.</div>
The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-75278030708223404302016-10-22T18:40:00.003-07:002016-10-22T18:40:25.160-07:00Three New Fledgling PoemsThey're just tryouts, you understand. Feel free to give me feedback, I can take it. I think.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHxQvtA_GLKa3iNpUdnMPX-aRv_PXTTsxi1o8IgKd_mIQfQnpT1V9zl0ciVu7HvA6XCO3kLA-VmxGo3KNrKul7XPdw8VRJk1v8lr3z0fSmiP2PiTYmq8Bg_3itMvG8mONSRcNhWBbcHwo/s1600/IMG_4189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHxQvtA_GLKa3iNpUdnMPX-aRv_PXTTsxi1o8IgKd_mIQfQnpT1V9zl0ciVu7HvA6XCO3kLA-VmxGo3KNrKul7XPdw8VRJk1v8lr3z0fSmiP2PiTYmq8Bg_3itMvG8mONSRcNhWBbcHwo/s320/IMG_4189.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>Concordance</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Sky and Sea meet, </i><br />
<i>in a concordance of colour</i><br />
<i>a string of understanding connecting them.</i><br />
<i>They know one another's needs and they move together,</i><br />
<i>finding in one another</i><br />
<i>a perfect lovers' kind of peace.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4T6zDCUmFzxd-l3iaIkWn-k8fnjhUhOw8fYyvKTuSDFdzAlBYb_QSmn090O-8I6xwGUybtBjY2muN-DVnj0T6rJDlLEoa0shReqESz2eUOCmy1ILImscwGp_0PoVJmacqWdSN2wyJzQE/s1600/IMG_4203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4T6zDCUmFzxd-l3iaIkWn-k8fnjhUhOw8fYyvKTuSDFdzAlBYb_QSmn090O-8I6xwGUybtBjY2muN-DVnj0T6rJDlLEoa0shReqESz2eUOCmy1ILImscwGp_0PoVJmacqWdSN2wyJzQE/s320/IMG_4203.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Wave-Walker</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I watched her walk into the waves</i><br />
<i>slowly heading for the horizon</i><br />
<i>her back was straight, her hair</i><br />
<i>long and untamed,</i><br />
<i>her eyes fixed on everything </i><br />
<i>and nothing.</i><br />
<i>She walked until her feet </i><br />
<i>were lifted from the earth</i><br />
<i>and the waves took her</i><br />
<i>back to the place where she</i><br />
<i>was born.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWtwheXXDwdEIf-lUct3yFm8LRwxGUIq1g2CD6H9s9F9EgvOuV_3XLVYzKXaT3VjJRq7-rETrx4OUYWtHUyCCyjxmvnFhcXzZEHBT5vq4ARbnEQ57GVc0LDyIwNc-6PpyphSr9MnmH3ZA/s1600/IMG_4184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWtwheXXDwdEIf-lUct3yFm8LRwxGUIq1g2CD6H9s9F9EgvOuV_3XLVYzKXaT3VjJRq7-rETrx4OUYWtHUyCCyjxmvnFhcXzZEHBT5vq4ARbnEQ57GVc0LDyIwNc-6PpyphSr9MnmH3ZA/s320/IMG_4184.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<i>Whittle</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Whittle Me Away; just try!</i><br />
<i>Like driftwood, </i><br />
<i>I'll often move with the tide</i><br />
<i>But I'll always have</i><br />
<i>My Own Form.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-70121829892656458332016-10-08T18:58:00.000-07:002016-10-08T19:00:00.732-07:00Om Shantia sound we make<br />
to make us whole;<br />
a terrifying prospect.<br />
that all of us are merely halves<br />
and shadows of our former selves<br />
<br />
we twist this way and that<br />
hold poses strong and fast<br />
breathe deep, look in, not out<br />
and let it go, they say<br />
<br />
but only one half of me believes<br />
in the wholeness of the self<br />
without shadows of you.The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-77738829269713413792016-09-18T21:03:00.000-07:002016-09-18T21:07:57.616-07:00Harvest Moon + Lunar Eclipse = Songwriting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXHIpYqzskoNvBh9Xm_08jytY35ps317TEDUwYrGgEYfqKetsHQJMuObJG11NaSqK6epM8X1K7fYcxIIuwLtLZj1G4pFng7D29IqX2r4pnTAw9Xs71Yp5_OZS8pkBs_jRN50uiEJOnNk/s1600/lunareclipse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXHIpYqzskoNvBh9Xm_08jytY35ps317TEDUwYrGgEYfqKetsHQJMuObJG11NaSqK6epM8X1K7fYcxIIuwLtLZj1G4pFng7D29IqX2r4pnTAw9Xs71Yp5_OZS8pkBs_jRN50uiEJOnNk/s1600/lunareclipse.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I woke up this morning from a dream crying, and had to catch my breath upon waking.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have one or two of these a year. Usually they're anxiety dreams about not having spoken to my mum enough, and I dream something has happened to her, and it makes me pick up the phone immediately. to check on her. They're my brain's way of telling me that I've been too self-absorbed and that I need to connect with the people that matter most to me. Because my mum and I only have one another, I think this is mild only-child-of-a-single-parent woe. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This dream was different. It was about my ex, and it told me very clearly that the door to our connection was closing, and that my mind and body are re-assessing his influence in my life. I've been inside that process for nearly a year and a half, more "officially" for a year, but after seeing a photo I hadn't meant to see, making it very clear that he had moved on and is in another relationship, my brain started doing calculations in the background about what that meant for me. Maybe this weekend's full moon just made sure I'd caught myself up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The truth is that I've also moved on, and moved very far away from our life together. I've dated others this year, sure, but mostly I've been working on making personal choices I know my older self will look back on and be proud of, after a heartbreaking rupture last spring made me question so many of the choices I had made over the past six years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Apparently we're all feeling the effects this weekend of a giant harvest moon timed, unusually, with a lunar eclipse. Our watery bodies are supposedly affected by the push and pull of the moon and this is a time of re-setting the emotional dial. Here's the forecast for all of us from f<span style="background-color: white; white-space: nowrap;">oreverconscious.com</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #333333;"><i>This Eclipse may stir up some painful moments or some fears, but know that this is all so you can grow and flourish in the direction that you need to.</i></span> </span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="color: #333333;"><span class="s1" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">While this Eclipse is helping to release the truth, it may also release any angers or frustrations that have been simmering beneath the surface. </span><span class="s1" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Emotions will be very high around this Eclipse and it may be difficult to see clearly at first.</span></i> </span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>Know that the best way to channel this energy is into something creative. Writing, art and music are all excellent ways to channel any anger, frustration or heightened emotions that appear. </i></span></span></blockquote>
<br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">So I wrote a song about it (It's pretty terrible, but it'll be good to sing, in a somewhat PJ Harvey sermonising-style). My co-band member even wrote music for it already. Here goes.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Harvest Moon</span></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">You got me looking like a fool</span></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Harvest Moon</span></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wake crying salty tears</span></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Big rushing tidal fears</span></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">All alone in a stolid room</span></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Emotion pushing through the gloom</span></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">All out of sorts, in my bed</span></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't seem to find my head</span></i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">My soul as heavy as deadened lead</span></i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">I miss all the things you never said</span></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #323333; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, Harvest Moon, you got me looking like a fool</span></i></span></div>
</div>
</blockquote>
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<br />The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-25965810695751992852016-06-08T09:41:00.000-07:002016-06-08T09:43:41.715-07:00The Bad Poetry Club For a moment,<br />
<br />
when I thought I'd lost my bag in a London cafe,<br />
I got that dropped-stomach feeling.<br />
<br />
That familiar lurch,<br />
which all of us know.<br />
The panic.<br />
<br />
Where did it go? It was just there.<br />
<br />
It's the same feeling as when I saw you, in April,<br />
and you told me -<br />
I don't feel the same<br />
I don't see the same future for us.<br />
<br />
I've had that feeling many times before,<br />
But never as much<br />
as<br />
that day<br />
on a Barcelona beach in April.<br />
<br />
Where did it go? It was just there.<br />
<br />
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The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-108099075635732052016-04-16T12:55:00.000-07:002016-04-17T02:36:18.966-07:00Findings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On a recent, fleeting trip to the US (to Idaho, no less, a place of which I had zero expectations, and left more than pleasantly surprised), I honoured what has now become a travelling-through-the-US-custom, and bought myself some <a href="http://www.hersheys.com/twizzlers/"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(4, 46, 238); color: #042eee;">twizzlers</span></a> and a copy of <i>New York </i>magazine. During the 50-odd hour roundtrip journey from Barcelona to Boise, I devoured both, along with a book gifted to me by my friend Lo-Sal called <i>Findings</i>, by Kathleen Jamie.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Jamie is first and foremost a poet, who writes about observations in the natural world; in this case the collected essays published are all about Scotland. Her poetic prose is easy to read, loose-fitting, casual, comforting - but no less affecting for it. She said in an interview once that <i>Findings </i>was notoriously difficult to classify - both for her publisher to take it on, and for bookstores to try to decide which section to put it in, but that her readers don’t seem to mind. And I didn’t. It’s like someone pulling a big chunky cable-knit woollen blanket over you and while you’re starting to fall asleep, telling you stories about what they can see from the window. Whilst stroking your hair.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Her style is so natural - of course, for someone who chooses to write about the natural world, this is essential - but her ease with words also makes for comfortable reading.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Fancy - day after day of summer sunshine, in April. The house grows dusty and neglected because we all spend so much time outdoors. It’s unseasonal, but all weather is unseasonal nowadays. The plum blossom is coming and next door’s old pear tree is a perfect triangle of greenish-white froth. They do this like a conjuring trick, the old trees. They’re brittle and cronish all winter, then blossom issues out of them and fills the tree slowly, like a dancehall filling on a Saturday night.” Peregrines, Ospreys, Cranes, [Jamie, K. <i>Findings</i>: (Penguin, 2005) p.32 ]</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Findings</i> is all about looking for things, and what I’ve been looking for is a way to focus my writing, and find the time and dedication needed to finish things. I think that’s why Lo-Sal chose this book to gift to me. He said that my writing reminded him of Jamie's, a huge compliment, but of course my style doesn’t hold a candle to hers, all unbalanced and gawky and newborn as it is. However, immersing myself in someone else’s writing style inevitably gets me thinking about my own, if indeed such a voice exists.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;">Happily for me, and my fledgling written voice, an article in </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;">New York</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;"> magazine, my other long-haul reading material, introduced me to </span><a href="http://juliacameronlive.com/" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(85, 26, 139); color: #551a8b;">Julia Cameron</span></a><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;">, author of </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;">The Artist’s Way. </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;">Cameron is a screenwriter, poet, playwright and general all-round creativity guru whose seminal aforementioned work has helped to “unblock” the creativity of countless artists around the world. (She was also briefly married to Martin Scorsese in the late 70s, a factoid which to this day seems to define the poor woman; not that in our fair, equal society a woman is the sum of whoever she happens to have been married to, but it does seem to captivate her audiences).</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s billed as a self-help book, which does make me shudder a little, and the full title : <i>The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity</i> may support some of its detractors’ claims, which is namely that there is a little bit too much God in it. Having said all of that, two main ideas have caught my interest: Morning Pages (every morning without fail, upon waking, writing three pages of stream-of-consciousness-flow by hand) and the Artist’s Date: a once-per week time set aside, and guarded fiercely, to do something that gives you inspiration, not necessarily an artistic pursuit <i>per se</i>, but perhaps time in a food market, a library, a bookstore or the cinema, the idea being that it’s a safe space for creative thoughts to come to you with a relaxed brain. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Both of these ideas, I like. And with the next two months of relative freedom from work constraints rolling out ahead of me, and a close friend’s insistence that I really ought to try and finish some proper fiction, and set myself some solid writing goals (quite right, MF, you’ve always been a super editor), I’m very tempted to skip reading the book, take on these two main tenets as experiments in upping my creative output, and set the timer on myself (t-minus 2.5 months) to see what comes forth. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></span></div>
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The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-86539229087388909592016-03-24T09:19:00.001-07:002016-04-07T03:06:07.508-07:00Beauty in the Details<br />
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Since leaving the UK, I am able to find more things beautiful than when I was living here. The distance makes me nostalgic, and prone to romanticism. I'm still predisposed to expat moaning about the weather, about the hideously disorganised train station at Gatwick, and about the cost of living (the price of a glass of wine in a London pub is nothing short of scandalous), but each time I return I am reminded of the intrinsically strange and wondrous things that make this green, rain-soaked little island such a uniquely wonderful place.<br />
<br />
Two things in particular have struck me on this visit.<br />
<br />
1. We have an almost unparalleled university system. One I feel proud to have studied in, and one which encourages the nerdy, the geeky, the obsessive, and the introverted; those whose interests may have been their only friends through school and their adolescence. We welcome that obsesssiveness, if not demand it. This made the Americans I was recently touring universities in the Midlands with a little uncomfortable. They have students who they would consider on the "autistic spectrum" if they threw themselves wholeheartedly and unabashedly into one narrow field of study. It's almost unheard of in the USA until doctorate level, and yet we require this stringently of our 18 year olds. If being able to focus an entire university application and a series of up-to-twenty-minute interviews throughout a day waxing lyrical about one's interest in Roman coins or pre-Raphaelite paintings, toxicology or the films of Truffaut means that you're on the autistic spectrum, then I suppose most of Oxford and Cambridge's students must be damaged goods.<br />
<br />
This kind of focus and drive is what creates the idea of great British eccentricity we are all so familiar with. And guess who loves the idea the most? You only have to watch how British academics are represented in American film to understand just how enamoured they are of the idea of this fiercely geeky, weird but ultimately brilliant intelligence : Eddie Redmayne as Stephen Hawking in <i>The Theory of Everything</i>? Benedict Cumberbatch as Alan Turing in <i>The Imitation Game</i>? Emma Thompson as Sybill Trelawny in <i>Harry Potter</i>?!<br />
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Where else could we have watched a lecture on entertainment in early modern times - entitled <i>Stage, Stake and Scaffold</i>, all about theatre, bear-baiting, and hangings in Elizabethan London?<br />
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2. People here are dead funny. There was a chipperness to people in the Midlands, despite the weather and the buildings (at times) being uniquely grey. Actually, I think this is pretty widespread. The British can laugh at themselves, and often do. We admit freely to needing to have a drink to function in large social situations. We know we can't dance, yet we have zero hesitation about yowling discordantly in large groups to karaoke hits. It initially takes more of us to strike up a conversation, but a couple of pints in our veins and we'll chat until the cows come home.<br />
<br />
I'm back in Scotland again, having last been here in November. It's a glorious evening to arrive, with a sweet dusky pink sunset kissing the treetops. Every burn, brook and stretch of water glistens in the light, and there's a lot of water in Scotland. A friendly Glaswegian woman waiting for the loo on the train sizes me up in the queue and immediately starts chatting to me about her journey from Bournemouth. It's taken her 9 hours, but she tells me she would happily rather take the train than fly. "You can have your book, and your coffee, and your sandwich, and watch the world go by, and there's none of that..." - she motions brusquely to her feet, making a grimace - "take off your shoes, take off your belt, take out your water rubbish". (The Scots have a deserved reputation for being some of the friendliest and chattiest Britons).<br />
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And that is the British idea of pure pleasure, a hot drink, a sandwich, a good book and a journey.<br />
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I think that's the meaning of beauty in the details. Details - whether they be found in a subject you love, an eccentric leaning towards something that others might find odd, or or just knowing what little fripperies will make you happy. Generally speaking, we Brits don't need big and showy. A simple well-made cup of tea will draw contented sighs and a sense of inner peace.<br />
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It's the little things, isn't it?<br />
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<br />The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-86255445233991455162015-10-14T11:19:00.002-07:002017-03-11T12:18:48.038-08:00Show us your Manuelas, Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There’s an ad on Spanish telly currently that I feel compelled to tell you about. I want you to see it for yourselves. It’s for underwear from the Italian lingerie company Intimissimi, a brand that until now had passed me by, in a sort of “oh yes they’re everywhere but I never really bought anything there, because they’re sort of everywhere and they’re sort of blandly overpriced” way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Until <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpxZ7sl1UHc">this advert</a> found its way into my living room.</span></div>
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Seriously, you have to watch it.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In said ad, we are introduced to a dashing young brunette in her bra and knickers, who appears to be trying to read and make notes in a chilly-looking industrial warehouse space full of books. Ostensibly, she is studying, because soon, flashing onscreen is <i>Maria: Student, Madrid</i>, accompanied by her voiceover - “I’m a student. I’m curious. I’m determined. I am the warmth of my laughter. This is my story.” (Ok, I admit this is badly, roughly translated from the Spanish, which is in turn translated from the original Italian ad. But I think you get the idea).The hashtag #imastory was all over the screen first, on a book that opened up for us like an enormous disclaimer. It might as well have said #iamcompletelymadeup or #iamtheficticiouswetdreamofanadvertisingexec. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I nearly spat out my wine as I guffawed at the screen. But then I realised this wasn’t some kind of <i>Rude Tube</i> rundown of the most laughable adverts of the Hispanophone world, it was really an advert trying to sell bras. It was a woman who REALLY was supposed to be a current student, showing us her push-up <i>Manuelas</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">¿<i>En Serio</i>? You might well ask. But this advertising concept is too old, and this material too hackneyed, to get all angry young woman about it. It’s just white noise to my generation. We all know we live in a world where Italian lingerie companies don’t have to give a toss about the messaging they send out to young women, or to young men for that matter. What? They’re just #stories, y’all. Students wear lingerie, and yes, they might study for their finals in said lingerie, and yes they might damn well study in large warehouse spaces filled with books in their bras and knickers, and they would be PERFECTLY within their rights to do so, and without judgement. Haters gonna hate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The main problem I have with this advert, really, is its ludicrousness. But hey, we’ve all seen worse. So maybe, if we just treat it with the same amount of respect that we’d allow a perfume advert with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oF8NAyqxGfk">Brad Pitt spouting some nonsense about things being inevitable</a>, or Keira Knightley showing us it is possible to pout intensely whilst driving a gondola or whatever it is she does in those Chanel ads, it’ll make young women who actually <i>are</i> students, and are <i>really</i> thinking, and <i>actually</i> reading, and might already know all about the male gaze, mainstream media’s scopophiliac, voyeuristic and narcissicistic tendencies, treat this ad like the ad execs’ fantasy it really is, and not go rushing out to buy overpriced bland lingerie at the expense of their next couple of jägerbombs, or their books, for that matter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In fact, why not let’s all go braless in retaliation and squish a few pennies off Intimissimi’s end of year sales figures, in the meantime? You could choose to flounce around an abandoned warehouse space in your drawers, hashtagging it #nobraday as part of America’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month, or take <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/no-bra-day-backlash-twitter_561d2919e4b028dd7ea531a0?utm_hp_ref=women&ir=Women&section=women&ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000046">@augustadt_iris’s great advice and schedule a mammogram instead</a>. </span></div>
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The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-27630650297807708742015-09-26T05:35:00.001-07:002015-09-27T12:41:43.055-07:00Independence Day? Or: Why Catalonia Might Not Be Spain<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica;">
“You still have this…bullshit?”</div>
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That was the reaction of my Spanish housemate as we were sitting at the table discussing our respective political systems, and I’d gotten to the part about the House of Lords. </div>
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“Ok, we still have these things in Spain, too: an unelected monarchy, and aristocratic people like the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cayetana_Fitz-James_Stuart,_18th_Duchess_of_Alba">Duquesa de Alba</a>. She had more titles than your Queen,” she smiled.<br />
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Our conversation had come about because whilst crossing the street last weekend, I had been stopped by a kind-faced older Catalan woman who had taken great pains to follow me across the street; speaking with complicit urgency, she pushed this leaflet into my hand:</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>7 Respostes Sobre La Independència (7 Answers About Independence) </i>was all written in Catalan: a language of which I still have limited command after two relatively short bursts of living in Barcelona (this is another subject that could take a whole other column to explore, but we’ll leave it there for now), and so I’d asked my obliging, intelligent <i>compañera de piso, </i>who is from a small town near the border between Catalonia and Aragon, to help me translate it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The seven questions inside, ranging from <i>Why an Independent Catalonia?</i> to <i>Will It be Economically Viable?</i> <i>Will we stay in the EU?</i> are all answered in equally assured tones. </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, independence is the only opportunity to create a better and more just state for everyone!<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">If Catalonia wants to form part of the European Union, it will.<br />
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Yes, economically, the Catalan Republic is totally viable.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They’re pretty simplistic responses to very complicated questions. Examples are given throughout of how independence is the only opportunity to create a new state, changing outdated structures, re-establishing democracy and rejecting the current administration. There’s a lot of talk of creating a more just society and maintaining a sense of dual identities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Living in Catalonia right now must be a bit like how living in Scotland felt just a little over a year ago. Although Barcelona is by far not the most pro-indpendista city in the region (try ordering a <i>café con leche </i>in Girona, and see how they take great pains to reply in Catalan or English), there’s a real buzz at the moment around the forthcoming Catalan parliamentary elections this Sunday. In these local elections, a host of separatist parties from across the political spectrum are placing their hopes in a consensus from the people in forging ahead with secession from Spain. The Catalan President, Artur Mas, has declared the outcome to be a proxy referendum after patently ignoring Prime Minster Rajoy’s insistence that this would be unconstitutional (The Spanish Constitutional Court voted to suspend a Catalan referendum last September, although a non-binding poll was still held, to the tune of 80% voting yes to independence). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even so, it probably wasn’t the brightest idea <i>not </i>to allow 16-odd percent of your country to feel they had a say in their own future, and thus the fervent spectre of independence has raised its head again. Even as Spain’s economy supposedly ‘bounces back’ after announcing its strongest quarterly growth in 8 years, on the ground here there’s still a long way to go. Tackling unemployment rates of 18% is still going to take some doing. And in a region of the country that contributes more than 18% of domestic GDP, hard line austerity measures - savage cuts in public spending on health and education, doled out from Madrid - are about as popular as suckling pig would be on David Cameron’s next dinner menu.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Despite my immediate circle here not including any strong pro-independentistas, there are some strange similarities between the type of political conversations we have here, and those I have with friends in the UK. The overarching themes are usually the same - a widespread sense of alienation with the current choice of leading parties and/or the feeling that the parties whose policies you might agree with have little sway in your constituency (Spanish general elections follow a first-past-the-post format, too.) A sense of widespread corruption built into the existing systems, a sense of inbuilt privilege being the surest route into politics and a real distrust of carefully stage-managed communications in the mainstream media. All of the things that led me to write this for <i><a href="http://www.themalcontent.rocks/">The Malcontent</a></i>, in fact.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Independence might not be the immediate way forward for the people of Catalonia to change or combat all of these things, but hoping for change from the status quo and sticking two fingers up at the establishment might be powerful enough to create waves that bleed into other parts of Europe. Just as the Scottish referendum result was watched here with huge interest, so might the Catalan elections be watched in the Basque country, in Galicia, in Wales, and in Scotland again, in return.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What’s evident is that a leaflet like this could be produced in most regions of Europe, even the UK right now and it would gain readership. Is that a dangerous thing, or a sign of so much disillusion with our current political elite that, if harnessed by the right candidate, could be used as a truly unifying force?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My flatmate and I certainly don’t have all, or even any of the answers. But I at least now understand a bit more of the current situation here, and she’s all up to date on #piggate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We put on Pulp’s <i>Common People</i> and had a little dance around the living room.</span>The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-77023148246489350212015-08-06T08:15:00.001-07:002015-09-27T12:08:26.179-07:00Flutter (A Short Story, Not At All Autobiographical)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The days were long in June, and the evenings barely blushed and fluttered their eyelids, with a sunset of a little over two hours. He felt that day had lasted forever, as he waited for her to arrive. He idled. The long glass corridors made him uneasy: the ringing out of his heels on the polished wooden floors troubled him somehow, as if he were pacing a hospital corridor. Here he was, in the site chosen to mark the occasion of their long overdue meeting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The idea had come to her in a Williamsburg bookshop. She had picked up a series of travel essays about Iceland, and she’d fallen in love with the photos; her glacial eyes gleaming at finding such serene blues on the book jacket. They had picked the Harpa concert hall as their meeting point. “We can pick up our own symphony where we left off,” she had said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Their lives had been abruptly separated when she had accepted a new job in a New York publishing house. He had remained in London, unwilling to give up the work he loved as an editor, but also the townhouse, the dog, and his usual weekend stroll to collect the paper, followed with precise regularity by a flat white and some Ottolenghi sourdough toast. It wasn’t that he was stuck in his ways. Just comfortable. It had been four months since their last physical meeting, and an intercontinental ache had set in. He despised the digital. He couldn’t get used to their instant messaging – it just seemed so banal, the information they would exchange: the photos of their lunches, their desks, their walks to work. In the early days, he thought, they might have met at the museum of penises instead. They would have snickered in complicit unison, as they had on their first trip to Amsterdam. The sex museum had hardly been highbrow, but they had wandered about in a dazed glow, giggling as they took in exhibits of Monroe and Mata Hari. That first year had seemed like one long Sunday morning spent entangled in his high threadcount sheets. Now? They whatsapped their salads to one another. <br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He sighed, his heartbeat quickening. He missed her nape, her scent, her often-fuzzy legs. He fought his impending erection, scandalous in the airy confines of a concert hall with endless windows. He strode, then slowed, then sat, then stood and dialled. A robotic voice asked for his message, but he found he had none.The sun was dipping, lazily, like a cat stretching. There was no sign of her. He tried her phone again, fruitlessly. An icy thought gripped him: panic that her plane hadn’t arrived. As he arrived at the next possible conclusion, he felt nauseous. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She hadn’t boarded in the first place. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Light danced on the glass panels, honeycomb glittering in the soft evening sunshine. Final flurries of activity at the concert hall doors were taking place. Attendants collected wayward tickets, wives snapped their handbags shut and husbands downed the last of their drinks. He put his dinner jacket over his shoulder, and hurried down the glossy hallway, towards the briefest of dusks.</span></div>
The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-78447446504884864942015-02-24T20:19:00.000-08:002015-02-24T20:19:34.983-08:00Wildnerness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US">I recently saw <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wild</i>. It’s not often I’m driven to write about a film, but I feel
very moved by this one. It’s going to stay with me for a while.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I wasn’t expecting to even see it. I’d seen
the trailer and thought that it was one of those trailers where you knew
everything there was to know about the film before you’d seen it. I also
thought it looked a bit worthy and a bit like Oscar-bait for Reese Witherspoon,
who has been funny in other films but who I’d never considered much of a
serious actress, except for her turn as June Carter in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Walk the Line</i>. I think it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Legally
Blonde</i> that did the damage. I liked her in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Four Christmases</i>, though. Mistletoe.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">But that day it poured all day long, and it was a long weekend here as we had the day off for Martin Luther King day on the Monday.
The weekend started out with plenty of activity; a Friday drink, dinner on
Saturday with a lovely group of women I work with who are also now all my
neighbours, and that day I met some of them again for a sweet little brunch at a
nearby French restaurant. But after we all went our separate ways, and after
I’d written some emails and thought about what E was doing, and I realised it
was a bit too late to call my mum, I temporarily cheered myself up by buying a
radio online, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but ye ole faithful
– loneliness – set in. (The radio, I’m hoping, will assist with the loneliness
but won’t kill all the brain cells that a TV would). </span>Having seen all of the
films at my closest cinema – save <i>American
Sniper</i>, which I don’t really want to see, after reading all about what a
hardened killer the guy was – I looked up the next nearest small cinema, which
has only one screen and was showing two films – <i>Wild</i> and <i>Birdman</i>. I loved
Birdman, so I took that as a good sign that whoever chooses whatever they show
there had good taste. Turned out, that was correct.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I put on my waterproofs and my big boots
and braved the rain to catch the bus down to the <a href="http://www.scoutingny.com/the-filming-locations-of-annie-hall-part-1-new-york-youve-changed/">Beekman theatre</a>. It’s a
subterranean cinema in a concrete building (supposedly a location in <i>Annie Hall</i>, too) that looks like a 70s architect’s
idea of a lively centre for the arts which has now become just an ugly concrete
box. But still, the staff were very friendly. I took my seat in the dark, and
realised just in time before falling over in the aisle that there was yellow
‘caution – do not cross’ tape in the first five rows. I couldn’t work out why,
until I heard a persistent dripping noise during the quieter first moments of
the film. I looked up, and in the half light I made out big patches on the
ceiling where tiles were missing. It was leaking at a rate of knots, but once I
got more involved in the film, it ceased to matter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wild</i>
heroine, Cheryl Strayer, is a character we can all identify with. Not that I
can identify with being a heroin addict, or someone who cheats repeatedly on
her husband, but there were some niggly little aspects of her character that I
think many of us would grudgingly admit to, although we’d like to be better.
Like being a bit sulky and mean to her mum, even as an adult. Or being
susceptible to temptation, whether that’s sex or alcohol, or the call of
something great that we know will challenge us but compels us anyway. The
moment when Cheryl finds the book about the Pacific Coast Trail is a
game-changer for her. She knows she must walk it. She’s reached her lowest ebb
and it’s a chance at salvation.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Reese Witherspoon is fantastically normal and
yet remarkable in this. She’s playing a feminist who quotes Emily Dickinson and
is a brave, formidable woman who keeps walking despite all kinds of hardships
and setbacks that would make any city-slicker throw in the towel. I was acutely
aware of that, watching in a New York cinema, hearing popcorn being chomped
behind me as we watched Cheryl run out of drinking water and have to purify
liquid from a sludgy green stagnant pond just to survive. It made me think
about how cosseted we all are. Especially in NYC, where you can dial some nice
obliging person in a restaurant and have food delivered to your apartment door
every day, if you want. Where some other nice obliging person will take your
dirty laundry and smile, and give it back to you folded up all nice and
sweet-smelling. What GOOD it would do us, you, me, all of us, to pare back our
lives for a bit and live on our own wits, depending on no-one, at the mercy of
the elements, of the wilderness, as we were built to do and as our ancestors
did. And not even so many generations ago either. My great-grandparents had to
work farmland and raise livestock to survive. Chances are, yours did
too.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Cheryl’s journey touched me in a number of
ways, and there were several moments of the film where I found myself with
tears unexpectedly rolling down my cheeks. The most poignant moments were with
her mum, with many telling flashbacks that painted a picture of the most normal
and yet the most loving relationship they had, with of course the usual
mother-daughter conflicts, and the small sparks that flew from a daughter who
says it took time for her “to become the woman her mother raised her to be”,
but who ultimately strives for true, lasting self-improvement, and who grieves her
lost mother with such rawness and such true anguish that it makes anyone
watching who still has their mother flinch and wonder if our love would also
drive us to such despair. And in a way, minus the drugs and the cheating and
the anger and depression, you would hope that you would feel that same anguish,
because at its source would be a true, wholehearted love. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There’s a scene where Cheryl meets a
little boy walking in the woods with his grandmother (and their pet llama,
randomly enough), and he and Cheryl have an innocent interchange that becomes
life changing for her. He tells her he has problems he isn’t supposed to
discuss with strangers, and she admits to him that she has problems too, and in
his innocent way he asks her all the right questions that she hasn’t been able
to voice the answers too, not even to her therapist. She admits to him that she
doesn’t know her father, and that her mother has died, and he sings her an
adorable little version of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red River
Valley</i>, which is so pure and sweet and lyrically perfect that after they
part ways she breaks down and cries for all of her woes, in a way she hasn’t
been able to for much of the journey. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.24; margin-bottom: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">From this valley they say you are leaving</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">We shall miss your bright eyes and sweet smile</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">For you take with you all of the sunshine</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">That has brightened our pathway a while<br /><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">Then come sit by my side if you love me</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">Do not hasten to bid me adieu</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">Just remember the Red River Valley</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">And the cowboy that's loved you so true<br /><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">For a long time, my darlin', I've waited</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">For the sweet words you never would say</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">Now at last all my fond hopes have vanished</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">For they say that you're going away<br /><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">Then come sit by my side if you love me</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">Do not hasten to bid me adieu</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 1.24;">Just remember the Red River Valley</span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="line-height: 1.24;">And the cowboy that's loved you so true</span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.24;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After that moment, there’s a realization that
dawns anew on her, and urges her to complete the hike and re-start her life
again in the way she hoped she would be able to after the purge.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The film ends with Cheryl standing on the
Bridge of the Gods, her final stop, and narrating as her future self her achievements,
that she could never have seen at that point in time, but which all happened
because of that moment, it seems. She tells us that she was married not far
from that spot, and had two children not long after, and we know that somewhere
in the future we can’t yet see, Cheryl has healed herself and come out of her
experience a better person. The film faded out, and there I was, left feeling
I’d walked the same epic journey with Cheryl, and that I’d grieved with her,
and learned with her. I thought about my own situation, alone in a city I don’t
care for much, that oozes selfishness and stress and skewed life priorities,
but I stepped out into the night and noticed that the rain had finally stopped.
The overall sensation I was left with was one of lightness, and of learning
gratefulness and courage in the face of adversity – even self-imposed
adversity. <br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I write tonight with a renewed sense of
purpose. We owe it to the universe to know our place. As humans, in the general
scheme of things, we come and go – and the wilderness, which no longer defines
our existence but could still mean the demise of any of us – is something we
must respect and defer to. Ultimately though, the beauty of being here, on this
incredible planet, and of being able to feel love and form relationships and
discover kindness in others, as well as learning the art of self-reliance, is
what it’s all about. Cheryl learned the hard way that sometimes being alone,
truly alone, is the only way to learn the value of togetherness. That’s
something that has been brought into sharp focus these past months, and I
intend to cling tightly to all the love in my life.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Here’s to the wilderness.</span></div>
The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-87157237305491970242014-12-15T20:06:00.001-08:002014-12-15T20:10:27.176-08:00Alone in New York<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHTqR29hXkd6Ws6JUeGjdhAp15Ei2TlPxzgEjamg4nic0gzp7q1575ChLepTFyhryJDLlTkYB41diMC9i9hKBJZSaSTO0gkpHimn0MCcU-veWjANIjG4FJ8qHQPsORDPBrCEnKxghLJs/s1600/banksy_balloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHTqR29hXkd6Ws6JUeGjdhAp15Ei2TlPxzgEjamg4nic0gzp7q1575ChLepTFyhryJDLlTkYB41diMC9i9hKBJZSaSTO0gkpHimn0MCcU-veWjANIjG4FJ8qHQPsORDPBrCEnKxghLJs/s1600/banksy_balloon.jpg" height="220" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">Back in mid-October, I was sitting in a southeast Asian restaurant, eating tom yum soup, waiting for a callback from the super, as the recent cold spell had sent the new flat's heating into hissy, obnoxiously loud overdrive. I was missing E acutely. There were other couples everywhere, and those uncoupled ones were at the bar watching a noisy game of football - the NFL kind with helmets, that's the most detail I could absorb. Coldplay's Yellow was the jaundiced soundtrack. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">I was reading about love; the pure and unconditional love of a mother for her child aged six, and suddenly I felt older and emptier. My life felt so comparatively narcissistic. Suddenly I wanted to grasp a small hand, more than anything. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">It was all rather sad.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;" /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">It was so often in those early days that I caught myself sitting alone, eating some kind of soup-based noodle dish or another, thinking of the people I loved that were far away from me. Often at that time of the day it was long after my mother's bedtime in London, and E's in Spain, and I hadn't had any internet installed in the apartment yet, and I got to thinking, "I ought to write things down more often". Only from this kind of no-man's land of semi- boredom does creativity come for me. It's a place where the Internet, and cats playing banjos, and halfhearted instagram-posting cannot place its cold dread hand on my shoulder. So I usually found myself outside of the apartment, trying to pass the evening amongst others, but not really <i>with </i>anyone. Just watching and listening, making mental notes and trying to stave off the certain loneliness that came from arriving home to nothing and to no-one. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">My flat was missing furniture, life. It was missing E.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;" /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">It's getting dark at around 4.30 now, and light at 7, and it's much harder to wake up. The window in the tiny corridor that passes for a bedroom in my New York apartment faces a brick wall, and as I'm on the 4th floor of a 6th floor walk up building, the sun must be far overhead to begin to reach the crevice between window and wall. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">Waking up alone makes my movements mechanical, automated. There's something so forlorn about not being able to turn, reach out and touch the warm body next to you in the bed, and to re-enter consciousness next to another human doing the same thing.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13px;">And then before I know it, the day has whooshed past in a flurry of activity - of work - and it's become time for bed again, and I sort of guiltily enjoy the luxury of getting ready in my own time. I idle in the shower, using lavish products I've treated myself to. Then I feel deep woe, thinking about all the people I've seen sleeping rough; those haunted, lined faces that New Yorkers hurry past every day; those forgotten children who wake up every day cold and hungry, and lost. And I think: this city is making me selfish. And lonely. And there is the state of being in this Big Apple - it looks lustrous and inviting, but when you take a bite, it's occasionally floury and maggoted. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">So what's the remedy? Time with family and friends, when they visit, as mine did for Thanksgiving last month. Regular calls, texts, sending photos of things you know would tickle them. Planning ahead for the next break. <a href="http://www.meetup.com/cities/us/ny/new_york/">Joining things.</a> Trying to do good, spending my time unselfishly. <a href="https://www.newyorkcares.org/coat-drive">Donating a coat, clothes</a>, or <a href="http://www.feedingnyc.org/donate.php">money for hot meals</a>, and <a href="http://volunteer.foodbanknyc.org/">signing up to volunteer.</a> And realising that I have things to be thankful for, in that I'm holding the maggoty apple in the first place.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-25572357293055782352014-08-25T20:36:00.001-07:002014-08-25T20:36:09.596-07:0032Today is my birthday.<br />
<br />
I arrived in New York 13 days ago, and I'm missing my family acutely. The Mister is still in Barcelona, working hard, and working on a plan to visit me here, as am I planning a half-term break to return to my beloved Barna. Today was also the first day at the new school with returning staff coming back (last week I was oriented amongst other brand-new staff only).<br />
<br />
I am sleeping on a (very comfortable) friend's sofa until tomorrow, when I will move into a studio of my own, but it's one of the most uncertain birthdays I can remember. I really have no idea what to do with myself. I'm another year older, and far away from those I love.<br />
<br />
The past few birthdays have been something of a celebration of self; maybe that's your late twenties for you; maybe that's the large dash of Leo in my character. I've allowed myself to be fêted, and have revelled in the attention. At my 30th, I remember telling a good friend, "I haven't had a wedding, nor a baby shower, nor an engagement party - and that's all fine with me, but I'll be damned if I won't have a big celebration for this."<br />
<br />
Being alone and in a foreign place has brought home just how egocentric the past few celebrations have been. There's now a shift in how I'm seeing the function of this day, namely that without my nearest and dearest here, I don't feel much like celebrating myself, because I'm not nearly as much <i>me</i> without <i>them</i>.<br />
<br />
Today's indulgences? An Italian ice cream eaten in the sunshine, and some facetime calls to my loved ones. A more selfless birthday than those past; perhaps that means I'm finally all grown up.The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-87232513364437521662014-07-14T07:29:00.001-07:002014-07-14T11:32:45.042-07:00Thoughts From a Londoner Twice Removed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYGDM8rIuNOdlESJqrYLblkVW6mpMmojiFXV8ZRe3TtfRJBjsU6LNZAbZtIr7eISWRIYJJTKAMtBufAlrT-4HKRTRV3DWphwqBgkjnUeGObutVwpglGKiURmUXp5YS68IpKfR2OpKaLIE/s1600/IMG_3185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYGDM8rIuNOdlESJqrYLblkVW6mpMmojiFXV8ZRe3TtfRJBjsU6LNZAbZtIr7eISWRIYJJTKAMtBufAlrT-4HKRTRV3DWphwqBgkjnUeGObutVwpglGKiURmUXp5YS68IpKfR2OpKaLIE/s1600/IMG_3185.JPG" height="318" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Last week, a good friend of mine (a Madrileño living in London for some years now) emailed and referred in to me, in a very kindly way, as an ex-Londoner. I surprised myself by how forcefully I wanted to dispute this, given that I can't see myself living in the UK again for any significant amount of time, and that I'm about to undertake another mammoth move even further away to the US, a whole timezone away from London's beat. But something about being cut off from London frightened me, like I was going to be cast into social oblivion. London's ex, who didn't get to keep any of the mutual friends.<br />
<br />
"I'll always be a Londoner, though, won't I?" came my needy cry.<br />
<br />
In his best discursive Spanish style (I mean that in the nicest possible way) he asked me several questions back. "Let's see, what's a Londoner?" he wrote. "A fairly open and heterogenous state of mind? Caring about the best hamburger in town? Complaining about the Tube? Not being able to afford your first house? Having your mind as open as Cicciolina's legs?"<br />
<br />
I had to google who <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ilona_Staller">Cicciolina</a> was. I don't think my mind is <i>that</i> open.<br />
<br />
Then I thought about all of the other questions. Here's what I came up with, after much pondering.<br />
<br />
<i>I think I'll always be a Londoner, because I'll always feel I have a claim of sorts on the city. I won't feel lost in the centre of it. I'll understand why people moan about the tube, or grumble that they can't afford houses. There will always be places with memories that I will gravitate towards; places I would either cross the street to seek out or to avoid. And there will always be a funny sort of pang of recognition in some key places where big things happened. I can't cross Waterloo bridge without feeling something profound. You can't spend your twenties somewhere and not feel that, I think.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpLBLQJV-Ay9GIkY9_wu0svjRMPjIhXbOIx1Yh0cj6ON61-7p68CcaMxkJPpcB9uyawVIe_zwSL5N4dNMORW4WXGmUXLzY88oetMWhCBwDEj8hnjfR69m9OQub_FeQZneo4QVPhcAyko/s1600/IMG_0272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpLBLQJV-Ay9GIkY9_wu0svjRMPjIhXbOIx1Yh0cj6ON61-7p68CcaMxkJPpcB9uyawVIe_zwSL5N4dNMORW4WXGmUXLzY88oetMWhCBwDEj8hnjfR69m9OQub_FeQZneo4QVPhcAyko/s1600/IMG_0272.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />On average I have returned to London once every three months this past year, and things have changed even in that short time - new skyscrapers, new restaurants, new overground stops, new cycle lanes. But the sense of homecoming, although it isn't home any longer, is still strong. It that because so much of my family is there, or because I can step easily from the Gatwick train, pull out my oyster card and know my whereabouts, or because I don't have to struggle with the language?<br />
<br />
Or is it deeper and more self-absorbed than that? Is it because I see myself in others there, I know who my tribe are just by looking at their newspaper and I have memories and emotions deeply rooted in the familiarity of those train platforms, those journeys, in the increasingly green places I pass on the way to my mother's train stop in Chelsfield?<br />
<br />
Marx wrote: <span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><i>Men can see nothing around them that is not their own image; everything speaks to them of themselves. Their very landscape is alive.</i> </span><br />
<br />
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I'd be interested to know what you think. Do places have a hold over us because we see ourselves in them? Because they contain our memories? Because of the people within them? And once we leave a place, do we still retain any claim on it, even if we do not return?<br />
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I don't have any hard answers. I was just enjoying the question. Cup of tea, anyone?<br />
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<br />The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-4312445850015370792014-06-10T01:23:00.000-07:002014-06-10T01:24:50.578-07:00Ahora Caigo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDI8dUCZNJZBsJ8MPZCOG13bCDveJOhI0zqVsIZD0OSjy48SmS5kYhV-LzWkxNJ8OfR7WR7md4_5UHVRk7kp1DYIjfwiJwtzUhlEMklDnPvQTNYyVgAPIsPnX0tgpI8QjpSZb0vElWGDQ/s1600/playa-tamarit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDI8dUCZNJZBsJ8MPZCOG13bCDveJOhI0zqVsIZD0OSjy48SmS5kYhV-LzWkxNJ8OfR7WR7md4_5UHVRk7kp1DYIjfwiJwtzUhlEMklDnPvQTNYyVgAPIsPnX0tgpI8QjpSZb0vElWGDQ/s1600/playa-tamarit.jpg" /></a></div>
HOLIDAY! CELEBRATE! And other words that end in an A sound...<br />
<br />
We recently returned from a week in a teeny, weeny, holiday bungalini. It's been the making of this month. I calculated before we went that we hadn't been away on a holiday, just the two of us, without any computers, wifi coverage, nor much in the way of mobile phone reception, for the best part of 16 months. We didn't even....shhh... take any conditioner. (Straggly, unruly hair is a small price to pay for inner peace.)<br />
<br />
The truth is we've not had much time, or many euros to spare. Oh, eff off, you live in a sunny place, I hear you protest. You can walk to a beach, you lucky biscuit. <i>¡Callate, puedes caminar a la playa, eres afortunada! </i>OK, I admit, we can see palm trees from the living room, but we have chirruping emails to answer, rooms to clean, laundry to dry, ironing to do and several weekly food shops just like everyone else. Add some recent life/family/health/job insecurities to the mix and well, Little House on the Prairie it ain't.<br />
<br />
So that's why ditching the city for this place for a bit was much needed. See how it makes the Mister look positively catalogue-model winsome?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvNJM_N7HKE6MuRos65PmGnSiI5EssuC7Itd8Ap9WybIDsoXOa6U0a5jfcGk68whOFWvZkuVpperZUVjk5xIYeS6vPRtpfFYRX-Vl2flVd_mxWkZstvCO5B_9WW8Vlrf4ikVUT5IPrcI/s1600/bungalow_tamarit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvNJM_N7HKE6MuRos65PmGnSiI5EssuC7Itd8Ap9WybIDsoXOa6U0a5jfcGk68whOFWvZkuVpperZUVjk5xIYeS6vPRtpfFYRX-Vl2flVd_mxWkZstvCO5B_9WW8Vlrf4ikVUT5IPrcI/s1600/bungalow_tamarit.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The best bit was that there were two best bits: we could walk to a choice of two unspolit beaches along a rocky coastal path pretending to be mountain goats, and also - we had a barbacoa to put chicken on, something that took us right back to gnawing on jerk chicken with blackened fingers in our beloved Brixton. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Oh, and a bonus thing. We learned loads more colloquial Spanish from the truly alien pleasure of watching telly in our little bungalow. We haven't owned a telly in more than a year. </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Ahora Caigo</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (quite literally, Now I Fall, or Now I Get It! - a game show where competitors fall through a hole in the floor at breakneck speed if they answer incorrectly - and </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"><i>Millonario Anónimo</i> (you know the format, but did you know it would be even more tear-jerking in Spanish? It's<i> la crisis</i>, you see) - were our favourites. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"><br />I tell you what, we needed that holiday. Because the real work starts here. You remember that New York job I went for <a href="http://thebittersweetcity.blogspot.com.es/2014/04/earplugs-for-soul.html">two posts ago</a>? <br /><br />They only went and gave it to me. <br /><br />That's right, we're moving to NEW YORK FFS OMG ETC ETC.<br /><br />I'll go first in August, and the Mister will follow in a few months, so now we are on EMOTIONAL HIGH ALERT and are bobbing wildly up and down like crazed trampolinists, veering between elation and woe at the thought of separating our lives - the ones we've just spent 11 months soldering together in this live/work space that has been our business and our home and our adventure and our comfort blanket all in one.<br /><br />This is pretty big, yo.</span></span>The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-23676783880016480992014-05-19T08:50:00.001-07:002014-05-19T08:50:08.684-07:00An Open Letter to Nigel Farage<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Barcelona, 19 May,
2014<br />
<br />
Dear Mr. Farage,<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am following your
party’s rise in popularity with some disdain, because from what I see and read
here (I’m living abroad as one of the millions of British citizens who do so,
but we’ll come to that later), I am finding it difficult to associate UKIP
policies with a fair and open minded society – in fact I am finding it nigh
impossible to understand the function UKIP serves in modern Britain.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let me explain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It must be really liberating, fantastical even, for you and your
supporters to live in a world where they suppose that crime did not exist in
Britain before mass immigration. Immigration from the European Union and other
countries around the world has been <a href="http://www.cream-migration.org/publ_uploads/CDP_22_13.pdf">proven in no
uncertain terms to bring massive benefits to Britain</a>, and to its citizens. With
many family members and friends who work in the NHS, it is evident everyday that
<a href="http://www.historyandpolicy.org/policy-papers/papers/immigration-and-the-national-health-service-putting-history-to-the-forefron">the
service could simply not run without workers from outside of our country</a>
who dedicate themselves to keeping one of our finest institutions afloat.<br />
<br />
As someone born in the USA to an immigrant father from the Commonwealth, and a
mother from Kent, who met in London, I am a proud product of a multi-cultural
Britain. As well as being a British Citizen, I have been an immigrant myself,
moving to the UK aged 11 and residing there for 20 years. The Britain I arrived
to in 1993 was very different from the Britain we have now, and I have seen
many positive changes as our society has grown, been enriched and been
influenced by the movement and exchange of people, ideas, foods, cultures and
customs. Sure, there’s tension sometimes. But having lived in one of London’s
most diverse boroughs, Lambeth, for nearly 10 years (and during the riots in August
2011), I have witnessed first hand that it is the startling inequality that
persists in plaguing people’s lives, and a sense of working increasingly hard
for increasingly little gain, that leads to unrest, not someone’s nationality.
As if that matters to the people of London, who have and make friends and
family from all corners of the globe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />
Let’s move on to your assertion that we should leave the EU in order to be able
to control our borders. Last year I moved to Spain to live and work. Even as an
EU citizen, I was asked to provide evidence that I could support myself
financially and that I had a healthcare package, so as not to immediately use
or abuse public services intended for locals. Given the state of the Spanish
economy, and the fact that I am still a visitor here, I feel those are fair
requests. But I am still delighted that I am able to live and work here, and
furthermore that local services benefit me, such as community centres providing
subsidised classes (so I can study the language, for example, or exercise, or
learn a new skill). When I go back and forth to the UK, my EU citizen status
allows me freedom of movement, and I am reassured that if I were travelling
more widely in Europe and I fell ill, I would be able to take out my European
Health Insurance card, and be cared for, from France to Romania. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Restricting movement for Europeans coming to the UK would go both ways.
There is no picking and choosing, particularly if you decide to leave the
negotiating table in Brussels altogether. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How on earth would you ensure that the millions of British
citizens, who are living, working or retiring in Europe, would retain their
benefits and their freedom of movement, rights to own properties, claim
pensions, vote, or have a say in their communities? Under your proposals they
would cease being citizens of Europe, and for the 1.8 million Britons living in
Europe, I suspect this idea will be as hated as it is misinformed.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I<span lang="EN-US">n
your open letter published in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Telegraph</i> today you said of Romania: "When I visited the country I was
truly shocked by the living conditions and social exclusion of a large Roma
minority. It is difficult to believe that such discrimination still exists in
Europe today.” Indeed it does, as you have so aptly shown us by singling out
Romanians as your target. There is nothing inclusionary about your ideas,
despite being married to a European.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US">You
go on to say that “The other huge problem in Romania has been the growth of
organised criminal gangs for whom EU memberships has meant greater
opportunities. Under free movement rules there is absolutely nothing the UK
authorities can do to stop such people from entering our country. We should not
be in a political union with Romania, with an open door to all of their
citizens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We must take back the
power to stop criminals from entering our country by taking back control of our
borders. The only way to do that is to leave the EU." <br /></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ncreasingly as I
look at what is happening in UK politics I feel a divide, not just between people
within the UK (Scotland won’t agree with you, that’s for certain) but also
between the UK and Europe that is in danger of becoming ever more pronounced.
One day, if your ideals hold water with the people of Britain, I am afraid I
will see a small island, floating away from trade, commerce and cultural growth
on its own in the North Sea, flanked by neighbours who want nothing to do with
its small-mindness and petty crowing about feeling hard-done by. I am afraid I
will see a place where people have hardened against those unlike them and
meanwhile whilst they were trying to find someone to pin the blame on for their
social ills, their society degenerated to a point of no return. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I see dark hearts,
and anger, and no real answers in your policies, Mr. Farage. I see a return to
rhetoric to match Powell’s rivers of blood speech, and no hope in the way you
view the world, let alone Europe. If the day comes that I won’t be able to move
freely in Europe because my UK passport won’t allow it, I’ll see that as the
final nail in the coffin for Britain. If, under your watch in a brave new UKIP
world, places then became limited to live and work in the UK, I’d withdraw,
and someone else could have my spot. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In fact, I’d gladly give my place to a
hardworking Romanian.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Burning Up in Barcelona</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-22150178119626457722014-04-19T05:39:00.000-07:002014-04-19T05:39:48.175-07:00Earplugs for the Soul<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyxbCf5osalM4MdLzSQH6-00TuNfIsRZLoRLcqKSz_35k6vTMDQEB7hz-N8mu7tVgUuYcLq0GXK7IDFLm8t3YbLexTf-g7BL_labW87t053-hSkUZBi-mT0oWbZS2xJ8IahwkNJS2RrA/s1600/ear-plugs1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyxbCf5osalM4MdLzSQH6-00TuNfIsRZLoRLcqKSz_35k6vTMDQEB7hz-N8mu7tVgUuYcLq0GXK7IDFLm8t3YbLexTf-g7BL_labW87t053-hSkUZBi-mT0oWbZS2xJ8IahwkNJS2RrA/s1600/ear-plugs1.jpeg" height="208" width="320" /></a></div>
This week was one of the first in a long time where I had one of those cold-sweat early hours awakenings, the kind where a nameless dread has you all aquiver before you even know why. Then your sleepy brain-fug clears and the things you'd worried about a little during the day rush back into your field of vision, only in the wee hours they loom large, much bigger than they did during the day. Why IS that?<br /><br />A few nights later, our young and carefree (read: twattish) Spanish upstairs neighbours held a gathering on the roof terrace, which now that the nights are warmer means that with the benefit of a coating of alcohol one could conceivably spend most of the small hours outside. The party started around 4am - pretty standard as far as Spanish yoots are concerned - and I was awoken from a deep slumber by some rhythmic bleeping. Because it was two floors up, on the roof, and not in their flat directly above us, I was able to put aside my marginal hatred for their uncluttered brains and weed-infused revelry, fumble around in the dark for some earplugs and return to fitful, dark and detailed dreams.<br /><br />It's the first time in 9 months that I've started to feel the expat blues; not for a longing for ye olde Englandshire or anything like that, god no, but more from a sense of responsibility being dodged somehow, as there's suddenly lots of crapula going on back in the UK that we're not able to be there for as quickly as we would like. Namely, family illness. More than ever we're feeling the ageing of our parents - something I'm sure has brought many back to Blighty prematurely. It's a timely and devastating reminder that we're not as young and carefree as we thought we were a year ago. Perhaps that serves to feed my dislike of the neighbours, living out a very present existence with not a thought for anything or anyone around them. But then I suppose that's the privilege of youth. Who gives a flying fuck at that age?<br />
<br />
There's also been a drive here to broaden our income streams, not relying solely on the B&B but also on using the skills we had before, and there's always a creeping worry that my brain will go soft, or that I'll be left behind within my sector, which has this week seen me throw my hat into the ring for a job in New York. (I know, pretty wacky, hey? Not any closer to family, but perhaps with a sufficiently large enough paycheque that trips back to the UK could be more regular, or I could contribute more to the family purse in times of difficulty). Our life abroad has just begun, but the first relatively carefree 9 months have morphed into something different. Something to test individual mettle. "What is it you really want?" the universe seems to ask. "Because if it's selfish responsibility-abandonment and sunshine, you've had enough now."<br />
<br />
Back to facing the music. I don't know how long I can keep the earplugs in for.The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3587051756287656384.post-33355675966806541612014-02-28T16:36:00.004-08:002014-04-19T05:42:25.150-07:00The Short MonthJust a short one, this month. The month and the post. Short because I'm aware that I've already broken my new year's resolution to post once per month, if you count that I'm an hour and 18 minutes into March already. (OK, for you in the UK it's only 18 - wait, no, 19 minutes in.<br />
<br />
Well, what is there to say about February? It came and went, as February is wont to do. I had a week back in London for work. It was more than a little stormy that week, as roof tiles and garden gnomes went flying, and the news was full of politicians wearing waders and wellies and looking pointedly at huge expanses of dirty water. It was the UK's wettest January in more than 100 years, they said. It made me quite glad that we weren't spending another biblical winter in a small, damp basement flat in Vauxhall this year, with the Thames barrier being deployed and the river threatening us a few metres away. I felt quite guilty for our relatively painless winter here. But the nice thing is, we're also a haven for our friends and family now. And boy, do we know it. The mums are booking trips over in March quicker than you can say 'easyjet'. Long-lost family members are suddenly looking us up, they've heard we have a guest house in Barcelona, what's availability like, over the spring?<br />
<br />
The truth is we're booked up well into May and June - something we never expected, at under six months of being open. But we're enjoying what we do. We're getting good reviews, so we aren't bad at it. And we genuinely enjoy making people feel at home, comfortable, cared for. We enjoy making someone's holiday - that precious time we know all too well from working long hours ourselves in London -better.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow (well, later today), we have a couple arriving who have been referred to us by a friend, and they will be celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary here. We've booked them into the best restaurant in town, will have flowers and cava awaiting them, and will enjoy watching them stroll out each day with some foolproof recommendations under their arms. A year ago, I was packing up our flat. I just mentioned this to the Mister, and he reminded me that we put everything in boxes and held our last dinner parties this time last year. And here we are, a year on, entertaining again. And it makes me happy.The Bittersweet Cityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10621537971203712137noreply@blogger.com0