Saturday, 25 December 2010

25/12

I wish I was on a desert island.
I wish I was sitting at the sunshine on a white sand beach.
I wish I could hear no sound or voice but the calm and soothing ripple of the ocean.
I wish a light breeze could tickle my soul.
I wish I could smile without faking happiness or joy.

Saturday, 27 November 2010

11.11.2010 - Arriving

Stepping quickly out of the airport, waiting for the bus and looking at the sky. Keeping on smiling.
Getting on the bus and starting a hiccuped journey to London. Spending one hour in a massive traffic jam chatting with an Italian mother who came to visit her daughter. “She been living in London for 8 eight years now.. She likes it, she is happy here”
(you have no idea madam, how much I share your daughter’s feelings..)
Once in London, the bus first stooped at Liverpool Tube station. Then it drove through the City, past the river banks and a red London Eye. Past the Parliament, the Big Ben, the Westminster Abbey. I spotted St.Paul’s Cathedral behind nineteenth century buildings. Weak beams of light came from the pub windows.
("Nothing will ever be as beautiful as London by night..")
That night London was to me the most romantic place on earth. I was being given the most colourful, calm, fulfilling embrace of all.
What a welcome back – I thought.

One final bus drive and then I will be in a city that I know far too well. No hidden corners there for me.
I have so longed for this moment.. I can’t stop smiling..

11.11.2010 - Leaving

(An overwhelming light-hearted feeling as soon as I enter the airport).
A reflection of myself on a window shows a young woman with a smile on her face. A liberating smile.
I did not realise it until I did not notice it on that mirrored image.
I feel happy. I am happy. It has been so long..
The plane takes off and in few minutes I am up in the sky. I have just left on the ground all my worries, my misery, my wrecked summer months, my dissatisfaction.
Their place is soon filled by a constant and slow flow of confidence, strength, determination.
I feel positive, just, active. It is me. I am back.
It feels so good..

10.11.2010

I feel excited, restless, uneasy, almost anxious.
Once more, once again, I am leaving. It will be tomorrow. I can’t wait.
I am not going anywhere far: it will only be a two-hour flight. I will leave from and I will land in familiar airports. The place I am heading.. that’s familiar too. It is my second home, it is where my heart lies, where -I know, I will be fine at last.

Monday, 27 September 2010

dreaming: mirroring life

I was travelling on a train, my lugguage was next to me. I wasn't carrying much: a bag and a suitcase. I was reading a book, I had quite lot of time before getting off at the arrival station. The carriage was cozy and almost empty. I was sitting next to the window, I like feeling the sunshine on my face.
I was looking outside and relaxing at the view of the countryside, when I suddenly recognised two friends of mine, sitting close to the railways. To my surprise the train stopped and I decided to go and greet them. So i got off the train. We did not not chat long, we did not go beyond the usual "how are you" and " long time, isnt it" when the train departed. As soon as I realised what was happening, I shouted at the driver and started to run to catch the train. It was a pointless effort, no one could hear me. When I turned to my friends to ask them for help, they were not there, they seemed to have disappeared.
There was only a railway worker left. Both his appearance and -as I dicovered later on, his personality were filthy.
I struggled to reach the next station: it was far, I was on foot, I had no money. Everything I had was on that train. I was hoping to get to the station before the train would have departed again.
Bad luck was on my side though. When I arrived at the station, the train had already left.
I was desperate, i just wanted to get on that train again, I was determined to do so and felt so hopeless though.
At the station no one was willing to help. They were looking at me as if I deserved it, as if nothing
worth mentioning happened. They were looking at me as you would look at a downside up beetle.

My alarm clock went on and I woke up feeling anger and anxiety.
I have to catch that train. Sooner or later I must to.

PS: I shouldnt have come back (again)

Tuesday, 17 August 2010

Wise words

"When you touch the bottom, the only way left is upwards!"

Thanks Kia x

Tuesday, 10 August 2010

Four months later

Restlessness and uneasiness haven’t abandoned me completely, but I can hold them down.
Do I feel better? Kind of.
I know where the solution lies: I MUST take a decision.
So I followed an advice I’ve read few days ago on a magazine: “you should examine all the elements, information and facts that are available to you and take out meticulously whatever is superfluous or pointless. It will not suffice to you to be able to select. You will need to be relaxed and very patient.”

So I tried to relax and started selecting .
The feeling was that most of what I had was pure, useless rubbish. A shapeless and cumbersome mass of thoughts and words which had no use at all.
I couldn’t move, think, see, reason.

Have I taken a decision? I am not sure yet. Sometime I believe so, other times I still stagger confused.

Saturday, 24 July 2010

Three months later...

Nothing has changed.
It has actually worsened.
As I wrote in a letter from the continent “my life is still”.
My brain is still.
I have become silent, lacking appetite and motivation, needing to break a routine that is diluting my motionless days.

I can’t fake anymore.
I need myself back, but I can’t find it anywhere.

Sunday, 13 June 2010

TWO MONTHS LATER..

Feeling like I’ve spent the last 7 weeks of my life standing still, staring at what was happening around me, without having the chance of intervening and changing the course of things.
Sometimes I am feeling like I’m living in a sort of golden cage, I am an animal in captivity who longs for freedom and only wants to run far away so to be able to live again.

Coming back was a wrong decision.
I believed those who advised me to come back and I trusted them.
What a fool I’ve been.
I don’t belong here, not anymore. I never did actually.
Nothing has changed, nothing has improved. People got older, kids have grown up and the whole social system has worsened (a lot).
There is nothing for me here, nothing that can really satisfy me.
I have never felt so lonely, not even in my worst days in UK. There at least I has some kind of “survival instinct” that kept me going and pushed through the bad times.
Back home and it seems that this “instinct” has fallen asleep.
My brain instead is switching off slowly, day after day.
I will not last long here.

Wednesday, 5 May 2010

Brainstorming: Oxford

Foxes crossing the streets in the dead of night while walking back home.
Fascinating churchyards, where gravestones seem to be swallowed down by the ground.
Iffley and the Fir Tree – open mic!, Cowley Rd and second hand shops.
St Clements and the Half Moon. The Isis – or Thames, Southpark: a sunset made of spires and domes enriched with the colours of autumn.
Old Speckled Hen, Newcastle, Abbot Ale, Cornish ales. White wine and lemonade, a can of Red Star. The “Dodgy Deli” and Cowley Carnival.
Deep fried Mars bars, fish and chips, a luxurious fish pie eaten at candlelight, the pleasure of mint tea. The discovery of spices and five years spent trying to master them. In the kitchen the colours and smells of Indian, Mexican, Japanese, British, Spanish, French, Arabic food. Learning – a bit at time, to love them.
Waiting for a friend by the Lamb and the flag, staring at the Bodleian Library and at gargoils.
Being asked my ID at the supermarket every time I wanted to buy a bottle of alcohol, never thought I could look that young.
The Milkman, flipflops and BBQ at the first warm, sunny weekend. Cycling everywhere.
Walking alone, looking around, smiling at times, feeling at home knowing it wont be “forever”.
Getting used to the fact that everything comes, goes, changes. Learning to be grateful, to thank and to be happy just with a book in my hands.

Wednesday, 21 April 2010

&till next time. . . x

Witty and clever eyes, black as pitch.
I have never managed to look in to them properly – you never let me.
Always smartly dressed, very stylish for a British. Wondering whether black is your favourite colour – or the easiest one to wear?
Spending time with you, discovering bits of you, few at time.
You feeding me with your thoughts and your sweet care.
Spoiling me although I never thought I deserved it (but I know you believe so) – who is right?
Loose laces have tied us together over the past years.
A light pull from either side and back there we were, as a tight knot.

"if you get the chance look outside - eclipse"
(you have always been able to suprise me)

I will never forget.

Sunday, 18 April 2010

Bits on Eire

Green are the fields, green is the shamrock and green are the letter boxes!
Haven’t quite worked out why all clocks on the buildings both in Dublin and Limerick were not working..
The only two thing I’ve learnt in Irish: HOWARYA(hello) and SLAINTE (you are welcome)

Saturday, 17 April 2010

Surprising Limerick

Limerick is a nice little place. Very quite, clean, not much to do, not very exciting. Walkable, crossed by the Shannon River, some how similar to Dublin , but of course everything was on a smaller scale. Very similar architecture – colourful building with square roofs, a beautiful Cathedral dedicated to St. Mary, Guinness signs and pubs everywhere. An imposing castle was looking out over the river.
Limerick was some kind of “obliged” stop before going back home from Shannon. One thing surprised me about the city of Limerick: it has an ANTI war memorial.
Every single city I have been visiting so far always had monuments commemorating war, somehow praising the bravery and daring of its soldiers.
For the first time I stood in front of a monument which condemned violence and fightings.
It was made of two busts facing each other. One was of a commander, his chest decorated with medals. Each medal had a skull carved in it. The second bust represented a soldier with a wounded head, half of it was covered in a bandage.
I believe it is worth going to Limerick just for that.
Limerick actually surprised me twice.
I had a stroll around the castle and was walking along the river, following its right bank.
Then I bumped into these colourful houses surrounded but a pointed iron fence. I stopped and thought they were very curious and funny. Their walls were painted with such stark colours. The houses had wooden doors and windows with followers on the windowsill. The curtains were drawn to let the light it. But then I had a better look at them and realized that what I was seeing wasn’t actually what it was.
Whatever my eyes were seeing wasn’t real: everything had been painted on walled up doors and windows.
The first reaction was a smile and somehow a laugh too. It reminded me of Magritte “Ceci n’est pas une pipe”. Afterwards though I thought I was a bit scary.

Friday, 16 April 2010

Cliffs of Moher: sunshine Ireland!!

We got there eventually. After driving through the Burren National Park, along the bay that goes from Galway to Cape Loop and after spending our lunchtime in Doolin (the smallest village I’ve ever visited) we arrived at the Cliffs of Moher. Such was the sunshine that it was difficult to look at the sea and the cliffs!
The sun followed us all day. When we got to the cliffs it was shining at its best, not a cloud in the sky. Its light reflected in the ocean almost blinded me.
The cliffs standing in front of the sun were like a black drawing outstretched towards the horizon. I ventured off the tourist path, trespassing the board ‘Danger: do not go beyond this point’. Behind it no fences or warnings, just me walking free of restrictions and thoughts.”
PS: do not go there if you suffer from vertigo!!

The trip on the bus – getting there and coming back, was all about driving through the Irish countryside, passing by villages and lakes. The land seemed dotted with ruins of medieval castles and towers, walls of churches still standing after centuries and still surrounded by their cemeteries made of abandoned bones and souls.

Monday, 12 April 2010

FYI: for your information

Being a day trip and having to spend quite some time on the bus, our bus driver made sure he had enough information to entertain us. I have to admit that wasn’t always listening to him, but here what I managed to understand.
County Clare was once the land of the O’Brien clan. They fought for and defended this region, they built castles and towers and they also used combined weddings as a diplomatic weapon to increase their wealth (as it has been done in the rest of Europe, possibly the world).
While driving past Shannon, going towards Ennis, Richard (that is the name of the driver) told us the story of when and how Irish Coffee was invented.
Late 1930’s – early 1940’s, International Airport of Foynes, County Clare, Eire.
At that time the airport at Foynes, was quite busy sending and receiving tourists and customers from the rest of the world. Ireland was already well known for its unpredictable and rainy cold weather. In those times the airport of Foynes was well known instead for its planes coming back after an hour or so after leaving the airport. Bad weather conditions plus lack of fuel forced pilots to change course and go back to the starting point.
That was what happened on one night. Once again, one of the planes who took off from Foynes justa couple of hour before, had to go back to the stating point. Really bad weather on its way! The passengers had to get off the plane, they were wet, cold and grumpy. A chef, willing to give them some comfort, prepared a coffee, added a shot of whiskey and topped it with cream. An American asked “ What is this? Is it Brazilian coffee?” and the chef replied “No, this is Irish Coffee”.
And they all lived happily ever after.

NOTE: a young boy playing with a rugby ball by the ruins of a castle overlooking a lake
.

County Clare

I got off the train and half an hour later I got on a bus for a day trip around country Clare.
The Burren or “the great rock” – a landascape made of limestone, a witness of the ice age. We drove through it for most of the day. Hills and land covered in limestone. Grey all over. Mother nature worked on it for thousands of years, a unique and fragile landscape where only goats (and tourists on restricted areas) are admitted.
A bare view, so simple and so enchanting.
We drove by the coast of the Galway bay, having a first taste of Irish cliffs. Around us, nothing but nature. The road was just a line, challenged by the shape of the coast.
We hardly met another car on our way to the cliffs. You could spot a house of the side of the hill but no real urban areas. A village made of few houses was all you could find there. And goats and sheep, of course. They seemed to be the real and only owner of the land. Their guardians weren’t shepherds, but ancient towers and castles, still standing at strategic points after centuries of battles and wars.

Monday, 5 April 2010

A young man from Chicago - goodbye Dublin

He entered the dormitory in the afternoon. He was carrying a huge suitcase and a shoulder-bag. He dropped his bags and dropped himself too on the bed. A smile of relief came up to his face together with a “HI” when he saw me sitting on my bed right in front of his.
Few minutes and questions later, I discovered that his suitcase held his all life and Dublin was just another stop in Europe. London and Florence were places for his near future.
I apologized “ I am leaving Dublin tomorrow and my alarm clock will go on at 6am, I am sorry”.
I went to bed early, 10.30pm.
Right after I pulled the duvet up to my shoulders, the door opened and the light went on. And off straight away.
It was that young – and kind, man from Chicago.
The orange urban streetlights were mixing with the darkness of the room. There was enough light for me to follow his movements. He took off his jacket and put it on the side of the bed. He used the light coming from his mobile to search for his toothbrush in his suitcase.
When he came out of the bathroom, he undressed, leaving the jumper next to the coat. In that half light I could see the lines of a well built body.
I found it hard to fall asleep, my mind went off to a path that had nothing to do with the one Morpheus was trying to address me to.
I managed to find some peace of mind when he laid on the bed and covered his body with the quilt.
Having nothing to look at, I rolled on the side and eventually fell asleep.

20.03: leaving Dublin, discovering Ireland

So I left Dublin on a wet Saturday morning, getting on a completely empty over-ground tram that crossed a dark and sleepy city. Once at the train station, I printed my ticket and found my pre booked seat in the carriage number 9.
Leaving Dublin meant passing by the industrial area, blocks of council houses where “everything looks so regular, tidy, clean, depersonalized..”(everything looked exactly the same: paths, front doors, parking spaces, colours and architecture of the houses, the way they set up those little green zones/parks.. it seemed you were looking at something reflected on a mirror.. ).
Half an hour later, only fields and farms were populating the countryside. Few cows, some sheep, a horse or a donkey here and there, a tractor forgotten in the middle of the field, waiting for someone to rescue it.
“.. fields and farms, farms and fields. Flat land, still somnolent under a morning light dimmed by a cloudy sky”.
The train seemed to follow the sun, and kept that path when I had to change train at Limerick junction. Where the sun was, there the train was going. Later that day, the bus I took followed the same philosophy: where the sun was, there it was heading.
PS: a woman sat next to me spent the first hour working with exceptional patience and attention on her makeup. She used all sorts of products: hydrant cream, some coloured cream to cover her eyebags, face powder, eyeshadow, eyeliner.. at every new stroke of her little powder-puff, she would carefully inspect the result on the mirror she was holding with her left hand, her eyes moving swiftly form one corner to the other of her face.
Somehow I admired the effort she put in improving her look. Not much of a change between “before” and “after”. Once, long ago, I have been told that that is exactly how a good make up should be: it is there but you cannot actually notice it.
She might have been pretty in her 20’s but time and age did not forget about her. And make up- whatever good it may be, could not hide it.

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

"The tart with a cart"

I have been told that’s the way Dubliners call the statue of Molly Malone.
Molly was a fishmonger’s daughter, very pretty and very young when she died. It seems she was only seventeen when she died of un incurable fever.
According to the legend, she was a very hardworking woman: selling cockles and mussels during the day, pushing her cart along the main streets in Dublin. She had a second job though: prostitute at night.
Lots of girls like Molly quite likely populated the streets of Dublin in the past centuries. So I believe that that is the reason why there is a statue of her in front of the Trinity College. She represents part of what Ireland and the Dubliners were in the past.
There is also a song telling the story of Molly and that is considered the unofficial anthem of Dublin city.

Here is a link to youtube



19.03 Dublin

I spent my day walking up and down Dublin: starting from Christ Church cathedral, the Castle (that seemed to me an unusual combination of medieval and modern – both in terms of colours and architecture), down Dame street til Trinity College, Merrion Square, back along the city quays to Temple Bar and - last but not least, St. Parick's Cathedral. Again, I avoided the map unless it was strictly necessary.
“My feet started aching again. Changing shoes was a good thing to do, but they probably need flip-flops rather than trainers. And less walking. I am resting them at the O’Donoghue's..” – I remember reading on the guide that this is one of the singing pubs of Dublin..not that I wanted to stop here, it just happened – “It is quite dark inside, low lights and heavy wooden stools. Along the walls, framed black and white pictures brings you to a time of simplicity and happiness made of no possessions. Behind the counter of one the Irish prides is showing off its shiny beauty: bottles of whiskey are lined up upside down, ready to entertain customers to their liking.”
Few people started gathering in the backroom. Half an hour later I could hear Irish music being played. A violin, a flute an accordion, a banjo and pints of Guinnes: no need for anything else.

Thursday, 25 March 2010

19.03 morning

It was a good night of sleep, considering that the hostel was pretty central and I was in a 10-bed mixed dormitory. Wearing earplugs before falling asleep was a wise decision. When I woke up though I had a headache.. could not really understand why. Few minutes later headache changed into “hangover”.. that’s what it was..
Before leaving Howth I stopped at the “Bloody stream” (a very nice pub close to the Dart station) looking for some good food. I took my time reading the menu on the wall and some men started chatting with me. A first laugh and a first Irish coffee. And the another one. And another one again. So I ended up spending my night with these three Irish men, still trying to recover from St. Patrick’s day, who kept on feeding me with Irish whiskey. I have been asked if I can cook and – having the feeling that there was a joke/hidden meaning lying somewhere, I said that I am a great cook. Here is what one of them asked me next “ So.. would you like to cook me breakfast then tomorrow morning??” If he only were 15 years younger…!!!!

After breakfast and before exploring Dublin – the city – I stopped at a supermarket and bought some paracetamol and water. A hour later I was ready to go. The sun played hide and seek with the clouds but it did not rain nor it was cold or windy.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

Second stop: Howth

Not even the time to stop at the next station, that the weather had already changed: spitting pestering rain and cold wind gave room to warm, clear sunlight (it kept me company for the rest of the day!).
It took me half an hour and a snooze on the train before getting off at Howth station.
“What a beautiful place to live! So relaxing! I walked all the way up an down the pier, along the coast, discovering and photographing details and breathtaking views. No rooms for worries here!”
“At sunset my feet started aching. It has been a long day of walks for them! On the way back from my random wander along the cliffs, I stopped right at the edge of one of them. I sat down, took off my shoes and socks and let my feet be healed by the sea breeze. My eyes enjoyed the spectacular view of a bay and its harbour dotted with artificial orange street lights. The sunset was lingering over them.”

First stop: Sandycove, Joyce's Tower, Dalkey

When I first saw the sea, far out there is the distance, I felt I was under a spell. It always happens and I have never understood why. Could it be because I am longing all year long to rest my eyes, my ears and my sense of smell on its colours, sounds and scents? Quite plausible.
I started walking from the train station down to the coast and kept following its figure for the rest of the day. It was quite wet and windy, cant say though that it was cold.
From Sandycove down to the Joyce’s Tower. To be truthful- and according to my research, this imposing and stout tower was first built as a “defence device” from Napoleonic invasions. Later on, Joyce decided to live there for a brief time and got inspired to write the “Ulysses”. So the tower changed its name from “Martello tower” to “ Joyce’s Tower” and changed its purpose too: from war to culture (it is in fact a museum now).
I kept on walking along the Dubliner coast, taking pictures of seagulls standing perfectly in a queue, fishermen’ boats and nests, laughing in wonder at the sight of seals by the little harbour – I was so surprised!!, cleaning the lense of my camera every other minute cos it kept on spitting.
Eventually and somehow by chance – as I did not have a look at the map since I bought it, I reached Dalkey, a pretty and picturesque village. It took me less than 10 minutes to walk around it. Was really small! Better that way: I had only few hours left before darkness and I got back on the Dart, this time heading for the northern littoral.

Dublin: the DART

The weather was as I expected it: grey clouds, quite cold. I spent 8 euros on a map of “Greater Dublin” that I hardly ever used, checked in at the hostel and left it straight after in search of a Dart station.
I was not going to stay in Dublin: good friends of mine advised me to explore the coast on the Dart.
I was trying to figure out my way on the map, I knew I was in the right place but I could not spot any Dart stations. Having given the gift of speech, I asked a passer- by for directions and he walked me there, he had to take the train too.
Bought a day pass: I was not going to stop until the ed of the day!
"Here I am on the DART, getting closer and closer to the coast".

18.03 Thursday

An Irish friend told me “you are going to Ireland after St. Patrick’s day! Everyone will be hangover!!” Fair enough, I thought, I am sure I’ll find something to do anyways.
I left Oxford at quarter to six am. I fell asleep on the bus to the airport. The early morning, light blue light with its pink shades (dawn in sight!) relaxed me a bit too much.
Well, once I got off the bus I realized that I had to wait at least two hours before boarding. The airport was quite small and I got bored quickly. So I bought a newspaper. There was not a single encouraging or positive news within the first ten pages: “..soldiers killed in bomb blast..” , “.. more that 1 in 4 adults are not working..”, “..cut of fundings for universities..” , “ legal drug mephedrone kills teenagers..” : what a picture of the UK now! I decided not to read further.. quite depressing!
Eventually “my time came” and got on the plane.
MY JOURNAL : impressions from a plane
“Ireland: a patchwork of fields. Trees are the sewing thread. Few minutes before landing currents of air teased the plane and tickled it making it move roughly from left to right, up and down. Unsteady staggering, leaving empty spaces in my stomach. Will I land safely?”
It remembered me of my flight to Brisbane. It happened the same.

EIRE: early birthday present

At the time when I booked the flights, I did not even know if I was going to have the money for this trip. I had the feeling I would but I was not 100% sure.
But I have dreamed of Ireland for such a long time, so close and I never able to put my feet on its soil. The deal on the flights was really good, so there I was happy and still incredulous.
It took me weeks to plan the rest of my “early birthday present to myself”.. I wanted to fit in, in those 4-5 days as much as I could. I may not have another chance to go there!
I packed more clothes than those needed – as usual, I forgot some essentials – paracetamol, and made sure a pen and a booklet were in my bag. I also made sure I had and extra set of rechargeable batteries: my new camera may need them.
I have been asked with some kind of worry and questioning look “Why are you going there on your own?” like if it were somehow unnatural to travel by yourself. “Why not?” has been my reply.
I like traveling alone, it is time I take just for myself, I only follow my needs and my curiosity.
I spend everyday of my life worrying for the others or doing things for others. At least on holiday I want to look after and to take care of myself.

Monday, 8 March 2010

My baby...

I love her. She is everything I need.
The perfect companion on solitary walks and travels. Never tired, never a complain.
She only asks for little care and a soft touch.
She is the prettiest thing I could ever have. I smile at her and I kiss her. She can give me so much joy! Tonight she amazed me.. she is unbelievably skilled and clever.
I was so happy I started singing!
I’ve seen her around a few times, but I never felt brave enough to approach her directly.
I asked a friend for advice, we spent an afternoon discussing on what was best choice.
And then I made the first step.
I met her – finally! On a Tuesday morning, I was so impatient!
And there she was, still unknown but beautiful..

24x optical zoom, 12 megapixel, full manual (P A S M) and automatic controls, 16 different scene settings, control and choice of white balance, five colour modes, ISO sensitivity ranging to 1600 at full resolution, RAW file shooting option, 720pHD video with sound, 26mm wide angle lens, 3.0 inch LCD monitor with 201,000 dot composition…
And a lot more! It isn’t a compact and it is not a DSLR. It is something in between, it is in fact called “bridge camera”. After this one I’ll be ready for a proper DSLR.

My old camera stopped working properly few months ago and I have been waiting and waiting for a good camera to be on the market and replace the one that gave me a lot of satisfaction and never let me down.. not even after having fallen off from the bed or the table..
It was worth waiting! J

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

Another dip into the British culture: Pancake day!

Or simply put: another way of indulging yourself before remorse take over and you force yourself into another – highly likely, failing diet.
I have been here 5 years and Pancake Day always happened as a surprise: waking up in the morning and finding your British flatmates busy in the kitchen preparing a thicker and sometimes fatter version of the French crepe. I always knew that at some point in February Pancake Day was bound to happen, but never on a fixed date. I couldn’t understand why. The almighty power and knowledge of Google search, with a click I had my answer from Wikipedia: Pancake day or Shrove Tuesday – the last day before lent starts. The Catholic calendar does not have a set date for Easter: following calculations that I have never completely understood, Easter can happen anytime between March and April. The beginning of the Lent changes accordingly and so the Pancake day.
This year, for the first time, I made pancakes on Pancake Day. My flatmate Theresa prepared a few in the afternoon; I gave a try to a recipe I found on a friend’s book later that evening.
As you can tell by the picture, the result wasn’t too bad! :)
They have quite of plain flavour so you can eat them with whatever choice of ingredients, savoury or sweet –it is entirely up to you. I had them with Cheddar, spinach and black pepper, with cranberries and set honey and with honey, powdered ginger and drops of lemon juice. An episode of Shameless on TV completed the scene.
Pancakes and Shameless: a perfect combination when you want to feel British.

Wednesday, 27 January 2010

The worst is over - part 2

So the snow is gone now, after lingering for days and days.
What are actually to report are the reactions and consequences of such weather.
Everything froze. Public transports, services. The BBC announced that Great Britain had to ask Germany for help and salt to scatter on the main roads. That salt had even to be rationed.
I did wonder how a country situated up in the northern hemisphere and surrounded by the seas, could not have the means to face such a situation. I mean, considering the location, it is quite likely that heavy snow will come during winter months.
Supermarkets did not see deliveries of goods for days, so shelves were empty. No one cleaned the streets from the snow, not even the main ones! Schools stayed closed for days.
All transports (road, railway, air) were blocked.

I wonder how few cm of snow could stop human activities.. We are talking of 25cm, maybe 50 cm of snow, but not meters!! Maybe the British government should have a meeting with the Russian one and understand how they face meters and meters of snow and still manage to run the country!!

PS: it has been so cold that me and my flatmates one morning, realized that we had no running water.. The water pipes had frozen!! For two days we were back to the Middle ages.. Rationing water for cooking, cleaning and drinking, melting water to flush toilets..
I noticed though how much water we use every day.. A lot, really a lot.

The worst is over..

There was a satellite picture of the UK showing it as a single-colored country. That colour was white.
Right after New Year’s Eve weather warnings were daily announced due to a sequence of low pressures zones which seemed to very much like stopping by the British territory, bringing snow, ice and more snow.
I was not in the country during those freezing days. Unfortunately (much loved word by the British), my return flight had been booked right for the day when a snow storm decided to stop by the UK. I was going to experience a 10-hour odyssey.
But let’s start from the beginning.

My flight had an hour delay. The company apologized for the delay without giving an explanation for it. It is not the first time that the crew and the company keep such behavior. If it happens again than I’ll consider it as “standard operating procedure”.
Anyway, once landed at Stansted and after the usual passport control, I waited for my luggage. “It shouldn’t take long, plus I have a bus to take in 20 minutes..” That was a hopeful me, at 11.30pm local time.
Two and one half hours later my luggage eventually appeared on the conveyor belt number 2.
I had a nervous breakdown in the meantime with tears and overwhelming sadness (consequences of weariness and despair). While waiting I found myself shivering and insulting this ‘useless” country and its impassive inhabitants. No one seemed too worried there at the airport. Out of the 4 London airports, only Stansted was open. So all flights were redirected there. Plus after midnight, the staff at Stansted is reduced to a fifth or even less than that. Which means that “I am sorry Madam, our staff is doing what they can, you have to understand that.” or “No Madam, I do not know when you luggage will be downloaded from the plane…” And then he added “With which company did you flight?” Once I told him he said “Oh, they have their own personnel for such things, you should go and ask them” I knew it was going to be waste of time but I gave it a try.
At the reception desk there was a ridiculous scene: at least 50 passengers, all angry and tired claiming their luggage and asking for compensation and one ******* (cant write the name) employee with fear painted on his face, trying to get out of there. “How long will we have to wait for out luggage?” “I do not know, some people have been waiting for more than three hours..” That was not at all what I wanted to hear. At that point resignation sent my brain to sleep. And so I waited and waited and waited.
At quarter to 3 am I had a bus ticket to London. Once there I waited another hour for the bus to Oxford, at the London Victoria bus station. Sleepless, cold, tired (not yet exhausted), angry, wishing to be somewhere else, hoping to put an end to this endless and troublesome night.
When the bus reached Oxford and I woke up, there were 15cm of dry floury snow on the streets, trees, roofs of houses, cars, vans, bins, benches, gardens. All white, all quiet, all silent. Pure flawless snow.
And useless trolleys. With so much snow I had no chances of making use of those two little wheels that make trolleys such a great piece of luggage. I had to carry my luggage home.
I was too tired for despair, I just wanted to go home. So I started walking home, carrying 25 kilos, trying to balance myself. Every 10 steps I had to stop and rest.
And there an angel came.. A man in his 30’s, well built, starting his working shift in half an hour. He had compassion of me and helped me carrying the heavier luggage. He carried it all the way home!!! I was so happy and relieved! I will be forever grateful to that stranger!
It was half past seven am when I laid down on my bed, my luggage in the living room and a note for my flatmates on the fridge: “7.30 am: I just got back after a night trying to reach Oxford. Please be quiet: I need rest! PS: happy new year..!”