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.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
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.
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."
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.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
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?
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.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
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.Friday, August 20, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, August 9, 2010
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