The lowdown on Italy aka A recap on defying death

Apart from almost dying in Cinque Terre, Italy is underwhelming me.

Yes, UNDERwhelming me.

I don't really know what else to ask for; brilliant weather, 3 days of sea views in the cutest little apartment in Corniglia, local tips on where to eat creating some of the most lipsmacking memories I'll ever have, and a double cone of gelati every day, sublime friends to share these experiences with, and now, my own studio apartment in Florence for the night (at a bargain basement price) before I head to Hamburg.

How could this be? What's wrong with me?

Could it have something to do with the fact that the second day I started my holiday, I caught a cold? Or that I almost drowned in Manarola on Sunday?

After hiking from Corniglia to Manarola, then to Riomaggiore, then back to Manarola, Tim, Lauren, Sarah and I peered from over the edge of the cliff face into the little boat harbour/rock pool swimming area.

"It's a bit of a washing machine out there?" Sarah mused as we watched waves crash in and out from every direction.

"I don't think I'm strong enough to swim in that, but I'll sit by the edge with someone." I said.

We headed down the ramp.

10 minutes later, I'm bikini-clad by the edge, and I sit on a wet part of the boat ramp, 30 cms infront of Lauren. Sarah comes to join me. I squeal as some waves crash onto us, and chat with Sarah as some don't even make it near us.

Next thing I know, a wave comes in and I am laughing, and then the next nanosecond, I am being D-R-A-G-G-E-D out to some rocks by the force of the tide going out. Apparently everyone at the dock and on the rocks stood up and gasped and pointed at me.
I got pulled under. I tried to swim back to Lauren and Sarah, meanwhile they are screaming out to me to swim back out. Waves are crashing. My head gets pulled under. And it bobs back up. And goes under again. I have no idea how, but I somehow manage to make it out to a safe patch and a guy is swimming towards me, motioning for me to follow him, so I do.

I climb out of the water via the ladder, and sit on the rocks for a minute, trying to process what just happened. Little children are staring at me. In fact, everyone is staring at me. I'm shaking, but laughing at the same time. This lasts for about an hour. Then we make our way back home to Corniglia and I fall asleep pretty much straight after dinner.

My wrist hurts. And I have cuts on my feet and my hips. But my head and bones are still in tact.

Something out there is looking out for me.

Or, I've found my purpose in life - to serve as a constant warning to others.

A little bit of history repeating

Some people have a criminal history. Others have a medical history. I have a history of missing planes.

I woke up this morning to torrential drizzle, and grey skies. Half my mattress was wet because my window was open overnight. My tennis bag was still empty as i spent last night lamenting over a couple of personal matters that were troubling me.

I had some chit chat with Lawrence, my flat mate, and he watched me packing with disbelief on his face, as I had about 2 hours to go before my flight. ' I always do this', I reassured him.

I caught the tram in the rain to the nearest rail station and panicked as i realised i had just missed a train and the next one was not going to get me to the airport in time. It was eleven thirty. My flight was going to start boarding in half an hour. I lugged my tennis bag around looking for a taxi stand, and just as I saw it, I saw the only passenger get in the only taxi.

"Are you going to schipol?" - it came out as more of a plead than a question.
She shook her head. 'I have a flight to catch in twenty minutes,' I told the driver as he helped the lady into the car.

"Can you please call me another cab?" he looked at me, then looked at her and started talking in dutch. She agreed on something and he put my bag in the car.
"There are no cabs around today", he said, gesturing for me to get in quickly. I turned to the lady in the back seat gratefully. "i'm going to a funeral" she said. "oh. I'm sorry." I replied. When it was time for her to get out, I told her I would pay for the cab. She was grateful in return.

Against the odds of facing a traffic jam, check in being closed when I arrived, a forty minute line at security, I was, eventually, the last person to board the flight to Pisa, and the flight left on time.

It's now twenty eight degrees, and cloudless in Pisa.

Postcard Perfect

The day before I go on holidays.


A to-do list akin to the length of Tiger Wood's marital indiscretions.


A motivation level as low as BP's recent attempts to salvage their reputation.


A mood as manic as a hypnotist's pendulum.


I depart the office at 19:54pm, barely able to contain my relief at escaping the glow of flourescent lights, aftertaste of cheap coffee and heinous train schedules. I am giddy from tiredness. Surprisingly nervous about finally ticking another box in my life's Dream List. (Italy, oh Italy. Cinque Terre - I can smell the salt in my hair, and the chianti on my breath, and the feel the beating heat on my arms now.)


Made the last train to Amsterdam. Caught the connecting tram home. Stopped at the Supermarket to pick up a salad for dinner.


And then - the final cherry on the sweet sweet cake of anticipation: A postcard in my mailbox.


It doesn't ever really matter what's written on the postcard - it's the sentiment of receiving one.


In my world, it could be blank, full of drunken ramblings, or sober stories of disaster and it would always say the same thing - "I thought of you while I was away."

And that's enough to turn my day from mediocre at best at 19.58pm, to one of the best days of the year at 20.54pm.

Automatic reply

I am currently out of the office. Kindly give your outrageous, irritating and dispicable requests to some other sucker for the next two weeks.

If you are what you say you are - perhaps, a supa star?

Artwork by Kevin Francis Grey

Being a blogger and an avid facebook user, makes me a content creator and also contributor to the dialogue that forms culture.

As soon as I press "publish", I am sending forth a wave of thought, theory, emotion into what I think is a black hole, technically not really aware* of who is reading what I write, googling who I am, and even.... yes, even, showing this screen to their friends over a glass of wine, sending this link on in an email, tweeting about stuff I might have posted . I'm not saying this happens with this blog, all I am saying is that I live life unawares of who knows, recites, or carries my thoughts and ramblings in their conciousness or subconciousness. (*Google Analytics makes me slightly aware of who reads this, and where you are, but I can only guess who is specifically reading this.)

Essentially, I am projecting a version of myself into the world. I almost typed "virtual world", but that's not true. I live a lot of my life in front of a computer, in front of networks of chips and data and wires that talk to other computers, and as soon as I type "www" into that little address bar, and I choose to upload or update, the distinction between what is physical and what is virtual is somewhat blurred. The difference between a book and a blog? You're probably just holding a laptop while you read, instead of a hard cover. "Friend" is such a loose term these days, being called such a thing online means that I'm no longer subjected to a code of loyalty or honour that would apply to me after building years of rapport with you in the flesh because, hey, we just met and exchanged banter over the weather at the bus stop. Difference is, I can't touch you through the screen, but I can certainly hurt you if I choose to. ("Rani really wishes harry high pants would wear deoderant before he starts his daily commute.")

But, is my public persona in pixelated black and white the same as who I really am? I can honestly say that I have a better idea of who I am in since I've moved overseas, and it can sometimes take a retrospective look at my photos and what I have written on here in the past to really make all my adventures and achievements to date sink in to keep gathering these little modules of self, and process them into a clearer picture of me. But do other people know?

My facebook persona is, admittedly, a slightly manicured version of me. Primped a little, polished a tad, and shaped and filed just so. This blog is, partially, an introspective insight into me. (Hardly anybody reads it, so I don't concern myself too much with topics, or get too selective about what I write.) These platforms are just like CV's - with the right key points, layout, and buzz words, I can create myself into a much more desirable candidate. Candidate for what? Friendship? Book deal? Life partner?

Who knows. Not "who knows" as in "I don't know who" but as in "Anything could freaking happen as a consequence of this shit, so best be prepared by putting my best foot forward. Now, smile goddamit."

Aren't all social networking (blah, hate that term) contributors just waiting for a peeping tom (or jane)/SN consumer/ stealth stalker to snap to attention at some explicit detail in their latest witty status update/trail of wall post conversations/hipster photo of latest big night out/self indulgent blog article?

Hah... in short, yes. ( Don't think I don't get the irony in this whole rant.)

It's like posting something is the non-thinking person's equivalent command of "Discuss" as ordered by a lecturer in an end of a semester exam essay question.

"Did I look uber cool or like a douche last night? View photos. Discuss."

We have literally turned into the generation living by the mantra; If there's nothing worse than being talked about, it's not being talked about (on Flicker forum or Facebook/Skype/Hotmail chat, complete with LOL and OMFG-did-you-see-his-hair-I'd-tap-that-Insert-winking-emoticon-here.)

So, in meeting new people, and getting access to their digital facade, how much am I really learning about them? Probably not a lot. And too much at the same time. Can I judge someone by their electronic cover? Yes (like they judge me). They obviously want me to. So when I meet them again, do I not have every right to assess if their public persona matches the person put in front of me, and test them on their actual knowledge of whatever the fuq they claim to be soooooooooooo into at the moment? "Woah girl, y'all haven't lived until you've seen the Fuck Buttons live. Looove them! But their last tour was so much better than this latest tour. So commercial." Cue photo of them in their fake librarian glasses, and adidas originals high tops.

That's funny. Because I just googled you and found your flicker account, and apparently 3 months ago, you were ranting on about the picture you took of the front cover of the latest Taylor Swift album claiming her to be "like, my hero." Bet you forgot the password to THAT account a little while ago.

Harsh? Step back and reflect. Ok. Now admit it. You do this shit too.

So - people I exchange business emails with/dude I just met/ lady I interacted with once and am at liberty to accept friendship request from/ bartender I hear about from friends that have just stared at you all night and we just drank wine and googled you - I ask;

Who are you? Because my recollection of you in comparison with your profile picture leaves me terribly confused.

Retrospective 4: Instant Pix

Amsterdam, December 2009: The old weighing house in Nieuwemarkt becomes fairytale material.

Amsterdam, April 2010: A last walk on the dock of my old neighborhood.

London, 12th June 2010: Borough Markets treat - Melted Swiss cheese on new potatoes, gherkins and pickled onions. I categorically disagree with anyone that says money can't buy happiness.

London, 11th June 2010: Filming the first ever commercial I (co-)wrote. I can only hope my best is yet to come.

Ghent, 22nd August 2010: Hanging my high tops out to dry.

Ghent, 22nd August 2010: Ghent University facade.

Miss Communication

I've been having this really odd week, where people are talking to me - in english - and I have no idea what they are trying to say to me.

It seems everyone is trying to tell me something. Colleagues, bosses, boys, shopkeepers; Critical information is flowing and I am on receiving end. But I'm just not getting it.

I'm watching their body language, listening to the words coming out of their mouths, asking them to repeat themselves- everything to try and understand what the mercury is going on, but it's like the antenna's broken and I can't seem to unscramble the white noise and process it into intelligible meaning.

What do you people want? What am I supposed to do? How do you want me to react?

For someone who is a born communicator, this is highly frustrating.

"Aan de Kosmos geven"

"I'm leaving it to the Universe."

Sani on a Sunny day!

My cousin, Sani, works on the Holland America cruiseliners, as a waiter.

Like me, he has a passion for food, and is a trained chef. I haven't seen him since my sister got married, about 5 years ago for about an hour, at best. The time before that was about 10 years before that, or maybe even 15 years before that. But I've seen his wife and son more recently (who are both lovely! I have a soft spot for his son, who's about 7 and going on 25!), last time I went back to Indonesia, for Christmas. Sani and I used to hang out a bit together when he was a teenager, and I was kid. He cooked me Spaghetti Bolognese once when he was in chef school, and I remember he struggled to find the right ingredients when he went shopping, since in this province/village where 42,000 people live, Western ingredients like spaghetti and tomato paste were quite hard to find.

"Does it taste good?" he peered at me, earnestly. "Like, you know, Italian?"

"It's great! Really, really, good Sani!" I declared, slurping the tubes of pasta and knodding.

He rang me today, out of the blue, his ship was docked in Amsterdam for the weekend, so I quickly cycled to meet him at the Amsterdam Passenger terminal, where we agreed if I wasn't there in half an hour, he should call me again.

Running late (as I do), I took a shortcut through Centraal Station's tram area, and peddled at breakneck speed to meet him, since he had such a short window of time to meet. He had to start work at 12.30pm.

Police often patrol Centraal station for renegade cyclists that think they can take on trams and pedestrian traffic, giving stern warnings about getting caught in tram tracks and bowling over pedestrians. Dodging through people hauling suitcases, and weaving between the masses, I was praying I wouldn't get caught, and I suddenly hear someone calling out my name.

I stop and do a U-turn, and it was him! The chances of me taking that shortcut, and him seeing me were really not that high, especially since we agreed that he would wait at the Passenger Terminal for me. I couldn't believe it.

"How did you recognise me? I was going so fast." I asked in disbelief, after I gave him a big hug.

He grinned. "I don't know. You just look just like your mother, I guess."

I took him somewhere close for breakfast. I decided on pancakes, and he decided the same.

"You know, this reminds me of the time you and your sister taught me how to make pancakes. In the village, when you were visiting once."

I vaguely recalled the instance. I must have been about 8 or 9.

I look at him and see the essence of the shy teenage kid that I used to hang out with with a wiser face, but the same kind smile. He must look at me and see the marginally taller version of the same loud mouth little girl that used to terrorise his street when I came to visit. It was a really beautiful moment to be there with him today.

Only the universe would have known that almost 20 years later, we would still be laughing over pancakes, but on the other side of the world.

"Full frontal Flower Shower". Peas included.

Yes, a full frontal flower shower. This was the name of the cocktail I had tonight.

We didn't make it to visit 'The Man who cuts the meat'. Damn.

Good news? Went to a funky, innovative restaurant in the West called Proef, the brainchild of an amazing experimental food artist type person Marije Vogelzang.

I went with Bex, a new friend from New Zealand. She literally lives down the road from me. We met and cycled to the Westergasfabriek complex, and stopped at Marnixbowl skate park en route, because it was deliciously sunny, and there were some good little grommets hanging out having fling with their skateboards. The girls were great, and inspired me to get my Lomo out and take some shots. Will post them when I get them developed.

I'm going to have to write a review about Proef for this writing gig I am doing, it was definitely an interesting experience. One dish was literally a half a head of cos lettuce, with some caramelised onion, sunflower seeds and croutons on it. All the drinks, except the cocktails, were served in jars. They keep their own chickens out front, and grow their flowers and some of their produce out back. My cocktail had peas floating around in it. I had panna cotta for dessert with edible flowers, and fresh red currants, blue berries drifting in tea syrup.

Visually exciting food!

Behold the eye candy that is... dinner at Proef!

(NB. The Blackberry finally came to some sort of use. Shout out to the office for providing the means to take the below photos.)

Mr Bunny with my bike.

Panna Cotta with edible flowers, alongside red currants & blueberries in tea syrup.

Home spun fairy floss with chocolate mousse and icecream.

Crispy radishes, beans and snow peas with a goats cheese and honey dip.

But that's not what I asked?

Me: So the guy upstairs said I need to buy a new battery down here.

Mac Sales dude: Sure, that's 139 Euros.

Me: Fine. By the way, I don't know if this is an appropriate question, but do you know how I can get Utorrents to work on my computer?

Mac Sales dude: (Pause) Yeah, well, errrr.......(voice turns barely audible) Utorrents isn't very good. Try a program called Transmission.... You know it's illegal right?

Me: Yeah. Um. Right. Thanks

The man who cuts the meat

I am going to eat dinner on Sunday at a bar/cafe called Brandstof.

What makes this dinner so unique you ask?

A gentleman called " The man who cuts the meat" will be cooking my meal.

He does so every Sunday, popping up in this Kitchen on Sundays only.

Except now, he is moving to Siberia. I need to eat his creations before he leaves Amsterdam.

The rejection website

Thursday, 5th August 2010, 2.45am, Dam Square

Me: So, did I hear correctly, and that guy asked you for your number?

Friend: Yes.

Random American guy we have just befriended: And did you give it to him?

Friend: No, I have a boyfriend.

Me: So what did you do?

Friend: I gave him my website address.

Me: What? What's he supposed to do with that? Do you do this often?

Friend: If he doesn't get the message that I wasn't interested enough to give him my phone number, and he bothers going on the site, he'll possibly find my email address and send me an email and I'll ignore it.

Me: Why didn't you just give him your number and ignore him anyway? Unless you create a page on the site that says "If I wouldn't give you my phone number click here." and it takes people to a page that says "Couldn't take the hint the first time? Let me spell it out for you -Fuck off, I'm not interested."

RAG: A rejection website! Excellent idea!

Me (to RAG): Wanna share a rejection website? Basically it will be a landing page with a our pictures on either side.

RAG:If Rani gave you this URL, please click here. If (RAG's name) gave you this URL, please click here.

Me: This has potential. Trust me.

A New Lustre

I wonder if a relationship with a city is the same as any other relationship? Does it require work, and a little bit of effort from both parties to keep the spark alive?

Exchanges of meaningful dialogue, mixed with a lot of fun, a bit of alone time together, some honest moments, and some sensual seduction?

Amsterdam and I went through a bit of a rough patch a little while ago, but since last weekend, I have some renewed faith in our partnership.

I long thought my cries for tenderness and an opportunity to "let me in" were being met with a cold stillness - a vague mutter of a response here and there, met with a lot of resistance and aloofness.

But upon reflection, Amsterdam needed some time to adjust to my presence. I sort of landed, and demanded (as I usually do) undivided attention.

"Hello, I'm here. Praise me for the wonderful human being that I am and for gracing your city with my vivacious presence."

But a new world, means a new cultural perception. I think Amsterdam just wanted to take it slow, and inch by (cycled) inch, it allowed me to get to know it a bit better.

You're an intriguing and enigmatic city Amsterdam, and it is at both my detriment and to my best interest, that I fell for you, and persist with our relationship.

This Saturday is my one year Anniversary of landing in Amsterdam, and also the annual Gay Pride parade, a celebration to take place down the central Prinsengracht canal. I missed it last year by a day or so.

Since I got back from Switzerland, I feel like I entered a new era here.

I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now.

Cash only, I'm afraid.

Colleague Kim: What are you doing?

Me: Millionaire shopping on the Quote500 website.

CK: Ah yes. Looking for a husband?

Me: Potentially, yes.

CK:(peering over my shoulder, knodding seriously in acknowledgement.) Ahhh, yes. Wie zal betalen voor mijn tassen en schoenen?

Me: Precies. Wie, Kim, Wie?

CK: Als hij kan niet betalen, hij moet ga op de weg.

Me: Learn it, live it.

Retrospective 3: Getting Fresh @ Appelsap

Victor Crezee - What say you and me get married?
(image by Dennis Branko)

1st August 2010


Ain't no party like a hip hop party, and a 10 year anniversary at that.


"Appelsap" ("Apple juice"), Amsterdam's annual, open air, free hip hop festival in the Oost celebrated 10 years of rhymes, breaks, and beats on Sunday afternoon/evening.

This city just continues to spread musical love - the second full day free open air concert I've been to this summer: cue the mention of the Roots Festival, a whole day World music festival which was also free in June this year.

A categorically different strategy on bringng families and communities together, I have observed. The thing is, the whole mentality on what sorts of events bring the community together is 180 degrees different to Australia.

With there being nearly 5000 people at Appelsap, it was strange to observethe amount of community love. I felt like an event like this in my hometown would have brought out the pre pubescent wannabes in combination with the general dregs of society from the Outer suburbs, and been a huge arena for dickhead-like behaviour.

The audience here consisted of some very hip Daddy O's, families, and mostly insanely street chic twenty and thirty somethings. Sure, there was a bit of ego around the place, but nothing that spilled over into acts of aggression or power. It was serious love for the music and the hip hop community all around.

Speaking of ego, I know I said I felt really safe and comfortable, but there was a very peculiar and strange, isolated incident which occured, which relates to me saying I wish I had some photos to show you on here, but I almost got beaten up by an aggressive festival punter for pulling out my Fisheye camera. ( And did not have any ill effects on my love for this festival whatsoever.)

There I was, sitting innocently after an hour or two of burning up the (asphalt) dancefloor , by the cupcake stand. I wanted to take a photo of the very atmospheric outdoor decorations, so I pulled out the camera, and my supa brite Lomo flash caught the attention of one paranoid, possibly schizophrenic little lady.

From 5 metres away from me, her eyes make contact with me, with a glare that could burn a hole through Titanium.

I was initially confused. Then scared. Very, very scared.

She then proceeded to march over to me to interrogate me about my intentions with heresaid photo. In dutch, I might add.

"Errr, engels?" I said, almost cowering in terror under the picnic table. (Please don't hit me. I don't have any health insurance yet.)

"Why you gotta take photos?"

"I wasn't aiming at you..." (...Ms Paranoid. Are you a F grade MC celebrity or something? Is your entourage hiding behind the giant bassline speaker over there?)

"Don't be taking no photos around here." ( Did I miss something? Is there a flourescent light screaming "Amateur photographers will be shot. B-Boys with cameras only"?)

"Delete it," she ordered.

"Er. I can't. "

"Why not?" she bellowed.

"It's not digital."

She looked at me, shook her head and waved her finger in my face.

"Don't let me catch you takin' no more photos around here."

It is with a bit of relief (to be alive) and a bit of regret that I can only present to you with a few photos from Appelsap from talented polished photographers Dennis Branko, and Dennis de Groot.


God daaaaaaaamn:

what a good looking city.

Oosterpark Massive

(image from Appelsap Official website)

What up Appelsap?????

(images from Dennis Branko)

La Melodia - A Fierce MC. I thoroughly enjoyed your energy. Applause.
(image by Dennis De Groot)

Vic Crezee - You had me from "Double Up". A little note: You look good from a dancefloor.
(image by Dennis de Groot)

Mr Wix
(image by Dennis de Groot)

DJ Abstract
(image by Dennis de Groot)