It was a long hike..

I thought that perhaps today is a good time to update. It's Sunday, the end of the week and it usually provides a quiet opportunity to withdraw and write a few lines to summarise the week's events.

Monday kicked off in a dreary fashion. Motivation was at a low and the skies were pissing on me, telling me things were not going to improve for a while. So I trudged on in the wet for another two days. Then came Thursday, or Thanksgiving as it happened to be in America. That night, a bunch of American girls were feeling nostalgic and had cooked a whole buffet of delicious food! Save for myself and an Austrian girl, all the others were accustomed to the tradition that for some is an even bigger day than Christmas (I found this very hard to fathom...). We had a culture clash. The Austrian girl and myself argued that butter came with the bread. It was natural. Be it peanutbutter or cheese, the bread would always be spread with butter. The Americans thought otherwise, and neither of us would budge. Ah, the problems we face... It turned into a very cosy dinner and it was great to meet some others!

Friday passed quickly and to be honest I can't remember what I did... I really can't.

Saturday, or yesterday, was hike day with Colette and Jessica. The girls arrived in the afternoon to my place and we set out on a walk that later found us trailing the main road in the pitch black. We walked to a tiny village and climbed atop a hill where the roaring sounds of the cars below were hardly audible. Not so far from us were the surrounding mountains with the remains of last week's snow. It was very peaceful and we gulped up our fruit and bread to quench our hunger. Realising that it was starting to get dark we decided to walk to the nearlying town Divonne to catch a bus back. Within fifteen minutes it really was pitch black and the three of us walked in a line next to the busy main road in order to reach the town in time for the bus. All in all, quite the walk and now my legs are in pain...

But Saturday doesn't end there. Arriving back in my room, all limbs completely chilled from the cool air, I take a hot shower. Dinner with the family and their relatives. The older half brother is staying over together with his aunt and her daughters. We decide to go to the local bar for a drink. It's great. Our talk revolves around a multitude of subjects, but usually with the theme of human nature, life... When we've finished our juice we take a walk and find a bench up on the hill and chat for a while.

Hopefully today will find me in Divonne again (although this time I probably won't venture the long walk...) for the Sunday market, which is supposedly something very special in itself. I may even allow myself the luxury of trying the Turkish baths, but only if my friend Colette comes along...

A hat incident

Merde. I've been caught in a little bit of a fiddle. Losing my favourite hat and trying to muster against the chill winds, I ran into one of the shops and bought myself a new one. Not a great deal to fret about one might think. But this is a hat with fur lining. Surely nobody sells real fur anymore, I naively thought to myself. Or perhaps the problem was that I didn't consider it at all. The next day, clad in my new very warm hat, someone (who's vegetarian...) asks me if it's real. With a nervous laugh I reply that naturally it's synthetic, I would never wear it if it were real. Up in my room I tear off the hat and tug at the tags inside only to discover that in large print it says "RABBIT FUR". There it was. The symbol of my hypocrisy staring me right in the face, only a few days after considering a second attempt at eating much less meat. Now I'm in a dilemma. I should really discard the hat (not sell it obviously because this would only mean a personal gain and a toss of morality) and buy myself a new one. Right? More research will have to be done...


Though it produced quite the sweat on Monday, afterwards I can laugh at it. To determine my level of French I went to the language school to take a test. Writing an essay on my aspirations, why I was learning French, what I'd done during the vacation etc. The other one was a grammar test. The lady said if it was too easy I should call her and she'd give me another one. Haha, I said I hardly thought that would be the issue... Half an hour later and quite satisfied with my attempt, considering it was about five or six years ago since studying French I present the papers to one of the teachers. She smiles at me and starts looking through my work. Soon it turns into a frown with the question, "You say you've studied French? At school?" Uh-oh. Also, I had to explain my situation in French. Hum hum. Eventually I managed to convince her that my understanding was far better than my ability to express myself (which I believe she had already gathered...) but that I was willing to work hard in order to catch up. Thus my first French class was yesterday morning and I found that among the students I really wasn't very far behind. "Phew", what a relief. But there's much to do. Afterwards I had over an hour to spare before my bus would arrive to I settled into a little local bar for a coffee. Once in my place, a man in his sixties and the older barman started a little chat. When I had to leave they promised that next time I returned they'd check through my homework and help me along by speaking French to me. I've taken quite a fancy to these spontaneous little chats and am considering coming back every week for my coffee and extra lesson.

Bonjour!

There was England and soon to follow, there was France. The former proved a delightful plate with just the right portion of everything. A long weekend of dinners, visits to London, sausages and mash, pub crawls and what not passed by far too quickly, as these blissful moments do. Clichés are what they are for a reason; most people have experienced them. Parts of it were a blur, I am sad to admit, for the promise was to soak up every moment and not let too many drops of alcohol poison the nights. But when emotions are at its peak, sometimes it's difficult to steer in the right direction and not trail off - be it emotions of joy or sadness.

Then, of course, there was France. Sunday afternoon I arrive, slightly more rested from my weekend; in Genève. J meets me with a big smile, and though my nerves have been slightly unsettled all morning, I already feel her warmth and start to calm down. Soon we've crossed the border into France; the impressive mountain range is a pretty backdrop to the villages we pass by before arriving in the village that for the next few months will be my home. Although I've repeatedly said that "I don't know what to expect", the village was very similar to what my mind had pictured. Steep hills where rustic apartment buildings line the streets. A patisserie here. Further down a butchers with a stereotypically dressed butcher clad in a white apron tightly fit over the round belly and bearing a thick, dark moustache. I was surprised by how much I had already anticipated in terms of the town's countenance and its inhabitants. On Saturdays a local market is held in the centre, with cheese being sold in masses, and fresh vegetables and fruits well over the tables.

After two weeks here, much has happened and it's been intense. Although it can be difficult not to always be understood I'm being forced to utilise the French I know and it is coming along much better thankfully. Next week lessons should hopefully be up and running, thus I will begin my task of being fluent by next year. Tonight I watched a Spanish movie with French subtitles at the local cinema, and though it most of what I did was read the subtitles and try to translate as quick as I could I got the main story. Hrmn, perhaps I was only deluding myself though... I don't know.

The only downside at the moment is the lack of much contact with other au pairs. It's proven slightly difficult to be part of the nightlife in Genève since my last buses leave at around 8pm. However, once in French class I'm bound to meet more people in my area so... there are many prospects.

Too many humans are stubborn in their conviction that the objects they cannot obtain will assure them the happiness they have so long been trying to grasp. I cannot rid myself of this anger toward the materialist sickness that seems to linger like a virus. How do we find a cure, or a sensible way of living with it, without letting it pester our daily lives and the future that lies so frail and vulnerable at the tip of our fingers? I'm torn. Torn between the longing for another pair of sunglasses, or a cream that will eradicate the mishaps on my skin, and the release of these silly 'necessities'. But it's not so simple, to resist the objects that whet our senses and bring a hunger that cannot be quenched. We strive to develop, consider ourselves far advanced from the civilisations a few hundred years ago. Or the peoples in the third world. We are not so different. Our ways of communicating are constantly becoming more efficient and the pressure on us to constantly evolve, digress from our past is forcing us into a lonely corner where we fend off any competition and believe we can hide away in the luxurious apartment with the wide screen TV. In our nature, we're all the same. Our drives vary to some extent, but stripped of our 'treasures' not much sets us apart as human beings. We should learn, in the West to sometimes sit back, realise that not everything is about efficiency, try to spend valuable time with elders, the younger. It's not about laziness, but about QUALITY. The word and its concept seems to have disappeared from our lives and instead taken the superficial form in objects that we pay hefty fees for to convince ourselves that it is quality. I do not speak for a return to a society where there was lack of food, or where we give up the ambition to achieve anything. For after all, technology in itself is not such a bad idea. But seeing mothers on maternal leave, strolling with their prams, profusely shouting into the phone, makes you think... what about the baby in the pram, with its wide-open eyes curious to learn about the world. Does his mother ever give enough time to speak to him?

I need to vent...

Let's reminisce, because times are still what they were

There was another blog, a little while before. I read it again, today and remembered sitting in Maison de Bertaux, the French coffeehouse in Soho. And cigarettes. It was a while since I inhaled the smoke... So here are two old entries. For you.
..........................................................................................................................................................................................


Observations

"The clock has just passed one in the afternoon. In the corner of the French cafe she sits snuggled up with her book. At the bottom of her cup is a small pool of cold coffee.

A young woman and her, presumably gay male friend, discuss their potential future. Their conversation is a low murmur; plans of a Yale scholarshpi, applications to university in America dominate their talk. While the man speaks, the woman draws a deep drag of her cigarette. She shuts her eyes, shifts her head upwards and clearly enjoys the thick cloud that escapes her lips.

Nina Smone plays at a low volume, barely audible.

Private lives, dreams intermingle in the quiet of the cafe spreading through the room like the slow lingering smoke. It touches the other guests if rarely noticed. It is about the quiet seclusion of friends, strangers who participate in other's lives unnoticed, if only for an hour.

The friend leave. All that remain is the dying cigarette haphazardly tossed into the dirty ashtray. Nina Simone continues her singing without interruption; "Try a Little Tenderness".

Another couple to her right speak in an unknown language, probably Japanese. She cannot be certain. All they allow for interpretation is their body language and tone of voice. They engage in the same quiet murmur as the departed strangers.
This is what Maison de Bertaux creates, the quiet whispers, sometimes intense discussions with an artistic edge.

To provide an escape from the masses, the standardisation of society. If only for an hour or two, the guests find solace in the place that rflects another era, a different dimension where discontent with the state translated into passionate discussions of uproar. The cafe digs into the corners of a person's thoughts, places ideas into a different light. Desire for life, for quality, and wisdome is at its peak. Books, paintings, music are the foods that satisfy the hungry appetites."
-- Written today in Maison de Bertaux.

..........................................................................................................................................................................................

"It's about knowing you'll die" [The Guardian]

I thought I'd share some comments from the Guardian on smoking:

"While I was smoking I often pictured my lungs, just to torture myself; in my mind's eye, years of steady puffing had transformed them from cheery pink wet breathing baubles into a brittle pair of crackling, desicated paper bags, dangling side by side like twin toasted whilemeal pitta breads filled with tar and tumours. Little wonder I wanted to quit."

"Yes, if there is going to be a winner in all this smoking ban hoo-ha, surely it will be them, the little children, safe in the knowledge that their lungs will now be tar-free and gleaming as they galabant from meadow to meadow. Too bad that they will be too obese to walk."

"Smoking in art is an emblem of mortality... just because something kills you doesn't mean it isn't beautiful or at least "sublime"."

And so, I console myself with the illusion that by smoking my cigarette I am somehow connecting to the creative world. If someone dares smoke next to me on the street however, I will glare at them in the haughty manner of a non-smoker.

[Focus to the Music]

"I listen to the keys strike, the piano is rarely audible. It's my fault, I'm distracted. The mind wanders astray too swiftly. The faint chords create a dreamy softness, contours begin to fade and mix with neigbours. Soon the music is many distances away, it blurs. It happens, often, a certain illusionary presence. "Focus, focus", and I stray off again. Afterward, I don't distinctly remember the exact course of my thoughts. Where they began on the map, what their goal was. But the music is pleasing, it works as a chaotic guide. It decides the stops on the way, the jolts."

Listening to: Paolo Conte, Russ Columbo, Amelie soundtrack.

So There It Is...

A few weeks left - provided all papers get sorted and the family doesn't suddenly decide that I'm probably some very odd character - until I should be leaving for France. Dates haven't been specified yet, but such are the news. We had a long phone call last week, after which we decided that yes, this seems perfect! I'll be staying in a small village just 30 minutes from Geneva (but still in France). French lessons every week, oui oui... :)

Ah, but I forget! Saturday night Clara and I have a cosy pre party with shisha and Amarula (Kenyan equivalent of Baileys) at hers, then make our way to the official doctors party!! Nono, not dress up, but for Stockholm's med students. We managed to get invited by our old class mate. I was all pumped up (yes, you were as well Clara) for the prospect of meeting these very handsome future doctors. However, despite the quite good turnout of attractive will-be doctors, I did not manage to be swept off my feet by a single one of them. Imagine my disappointment :O It's just as well that I'm off to France...

SO, Sunday night (without my doctor), I manage to drag my brother off to the movie theatre to see "Ensemble, C'est Tout!", a French, cosy, romantic, little bit dark movie starring Audrey Tatou. It brought me back into the large-scarves-old-French-apartment-mode. Another must-see movie.

I must be off to skype Janie - think she might be pissed off I was writing this entry instead of speaking to her on msn... ;)