Rejection with a side of regret

NO. Such a minuscule word, such rigorous emotion.
Most of us fear it; rejection;
Will I get the job?
Will he call?
Will he stay?
Simply: Do I get what I want?

Rejection very seldom comes alone. It seems to always be accompanied by a side dish or a sugary coating, all to make it easier for us to swallow and digest this hard lump of a word.

Sometimes rejection comes with regret. ‘You seem very competent, but other people are more qualified, you lack certain experience. I am sorry, You don’t get the job’. Fair enough. I can take that, it’s a valid comment, and actually it does not reject me as a person but rather points to the holes in my professional agenda. I am aware. I can accept. Swallow and digest.

At other times regret comes with obligation. ‘I can’t come tonight I promised my mother I would eat with her this evening’ or ‘I promised my boss I would stay until six today so I can’t make it to yoga-class’. Ok, obligations, they make it all a bit rougher to take in. After all, what about your obligation to me? Why am I not being prioritized? Do I not mean as much? They take just a bit longer. But we can manage, when we manage to understand the nature of this urgent obligation. Afer all...it happens to most of us.

This is when sugar coating, a rejection with icing, is imperative. Just a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down! And so it goes; with ‘I’m sorry’, ‘I’ll make it up to you’, ‘I know we decided…please don’t be sad’. Even the ‘It was a pleasure to meet you’, ‘we were very impressed’ or ‘we will keep your CV on for the future’, helps, irrespective of whether it is true or not.

Rejection with icing is, in the end, not only a way for the person rejecting to soften the fact that they are saying no, but also a way to show that you have taken into consideration the feelings of their fellow person ad show some measure of Regret. Perceived consideration can work miracles (genuine consideration works even better), really! And regret will probably work even better!

But what about when there is no plea or reference to your emotion? What about when there is no logic, regret or obligation? When there is no remorse or empathy? What do you do then? How do you defend yourself against it?

Raw rejection, a NO with no coatings or sides, gives you nothing to hold on to make you feel better, nothing to help you digest and move on. When you see neither remorse nor consideration can you forgive? Can you actually accept rejection without regret?

I know I can’t. I take my rejection with a side of regret.

Quality and convention

Applications…don’t even get me started.

For one of my applications I had to write a 150 word essay on what I did to maintain the quality of my output. It made me formulate two sentences essential to my concept of excellence;

Quality is a process, not an instantaneous occurrence.

A great result is most often the result of time, perseverance and continuous alterations and improvements. Don’t get me wrong, I would love to have a strike of genius without any kind of premeditation. But most good ideas require thought, research and dialogue. Most good ideas require internal; self criticism and external; feedback and input.

Never sacrifice quality for conventionality.

No, conventional and qualitative are not mutually exclusive; some ‘products’ even become qualitative because they fit certain standards. However, when the choice stands between mainstream and magnificent, it is not a hard one to make. I’m not saying bend the rules or not even wiggle the framework. Just that only doing what you are supposed to do is often less than all that you can do.

I might not be a creative whiz, and I might even like to play it safe, but sometimes when I can present regular with a twist, routine and convention seem all that less interesting.

The essay landed on exactly 150 words, making use of every opportunity I was given to shed light on myself…it’s tough to know quality when you don’t know convention…cross your fingers x

Paris je t'aime??

I used to be sold on Paris; Fan, Super-Fan, Fanatic. Used to. This weekend I had a long awaited reunion with my beloved city. But for some reason it wasn’t as I thought it would be. Walking across a rainy Paris I felt like a stranger, and although the views continually swept me off my feet (as they always do), I was reminded, again and again, of why Paris is not a city where I want to live anymore.

Listing the things that I love….would take a long time; the smell of a bakery, the slow pace of a Saturday…the even slower pace of a Sunday, the space to live, the time to enjoy, the creative liberty, the appreciation of good things; beauty, food, art; love of that which embellishes life, the quality, the thoroughness, the choice (especially in the market and supermarket), the pride, the splendor…all the splendor…and still…I was confounded.

Maybe it was the lack of habit, the loss of edge that only a few months in Paris give you, but I was shaken by the arrogance and the sense of not belonging. I certainly hadn’t missed being walked into 1000 times on a crowded street without as much as a pardon. There I was, in the stronghold of politesse, yet it was nowhere to be seen?

Maybe it was the rain, that swallowed the pace and the brilliance and beauty which otherwise stings my eyes.

Maybe it was the short moment that didn’t allow me to digest and profit.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…I just felt that Paris was a chapter passed…but an eternal love. When we landed back in London it was neither melancholy nor relief, just…acceptance, just normal.

Paris je ne t’aime plus, mais je t’aimerai toujours

"Daddy, I want another pony"

Looking around it seems that people are never satisfied, quite frankly I am even occasionally disgusted by my own hungry materialism.

While a simple gaze can trigger the most profound fulfillment, most of us seem to want to believe that the very same feeling can be purchased with an item, or just purchased, period. Now I am no hypocrite, I walk in the same trap, although I see myself doing it; “Oh, if I had that top, I’d feel pretty… and content”. I can be really daft sometimes.

Friends with money…I have them. Granted, they don’t have to ask themselves how they are going to pay for food or rent, or think twice before they buy a sweater (on sale), but they are neither happier nor unhappier than me, just… facilitated in life.

Realistically, I don’t lack anything; I don’t need, another book, another film, or another pair of shoes, yet I crave it from time to time. That’s when I feel corrupted; I have it all, but I still want more? Like Veruca Salt (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) who upon getting her golden ticket – allegedly, everything she ever wanted – looks coldly at it and exclaims: “Daddy, I want another pony” (in addition to the two rabbits, six parrots, one hamster…). I would hate myself. Because there is, nevertheless, one element that makes the fundamental difference between blind greed á la Veruca Salt and the occasional yearning middle-class miss: appreciation.

Call me simple, but I like the concept of ‘no pain, no gain’. I like the thought of working, trying and achieving something. I love the process of making myself deserving of my own successes. That makes me smile from the inside. That makes me truly satisfied. And of course, there is nothing like giving yourself the pleasure of a prize, when you’re the one who’s made the effort. But to be greedy on somebody else’s expense? No.

Greed starts becoming dangerous, when you forget the value of what you already have, when you diminish it to irrelevancies, and give in to the desire for that next watch, shirt or pair of jeans to add to the collection. When you let arrogance take the overhand of humility, hubris in one single word. And you keep wanting more and more and more. Perhaps when you forget, or misjudge your own self value, it’s easier to attempt to gain it back by accessorizing your life and wardrobe, rather than your spirit?

Yet I want exactly that; to adorn my inner self, if you will; I want to love, laugh, give, contribute, dream, achieve, experience. I want to make something of myself, and for myself, something worthy and valuable. Like Veruca sings (which is hopefully where our common denominators end): “I want the world, I want the whole world…I want today, I want tomorrow…”…but just to experience, not to have.

- Sharing is caring ;-) -

PS. Just a small parenthesis: Above clip is from Willy Wonka: original Roald Dahl feature from the 70ties, Tim Burton remake is also recommended.

A day wasted is a week won

I think Tracy Chapman sung the line of the millennium when she said a woman’s work is never done… I say an adult’s work is never done, the list just never ends OR once you’ve gotten to the end of it, it is time to start from the beginning again.

Buy food, clean bathroom, wash towels, put in a dark wash, hang dark wash, put in light wash, pay the phone bill, bake a cake, make lunch, clean the kitchen, change the sheets, e-mail twenty odd people, take care of all correspondence, look for a job, look more for jobs, read the novel (but only 30 pages…because…there are other things to do in life), work, correct…by this time food will have run out, and the bathroom will need cleaning again. And there I go, running up and down that list, ad on bronchitis, two colds, the flu and a few other infections, and there is not much left of a person.

So at the end of the summer, it all started to get to me, and I was feeling pretty exhausted. But who has time to rest, right? The show must go on.

Nevertheless, at some point I started to get the sneaking suspicion that some rest would be good…you know, a few of those days where you wake up, but you stay in bed, wear your PJs all day, watch crappy movies, read and think about absolutely NOTHING useful. You need those days to make the good days function. But when your list reaches across the Atlantic…where do you find the time to waste a day? An ENTIRE day??

However, when the energy-account was on minus, there was no escaping the fact, that wasting a day would win me some energy. And so, I decided (because every rule calls for an exception… and my rule would be; rest when you’re done), that wasting time was not actually a bad idea, why not deviate from lists and routines? A day wasted is a week won, and I have plenty of weeks to go on living. Viva vacation (if only for another few hours)!

Home is where the heart is?

If home is where the heart is, I am fundamentally confused.

My heart is scattered… if that is even possible. But…How does it work out then; home is where a majority of the heart is? So how do I know who has the greater part? Or can I even know that?

The absurdity of these questions boils down to the eternal dilemma of figuring out where one belongs (which to be honest, tends to plague me with regular intervals).

There is more than one place in the world, where the sight of the natural scenery makes my eyes tear with profound emotion, and where my heart can come to rest. I have no one home with exclusivity. Then again, might there be a difference between feeling comfortable, familiar, and not a stranger, and the feeling of being at home?

Some people make you feel at home, where ever you might be; in the deepest of jungles or in the roaring city, you will still feel safe and content; as if you are where you are supposed to be. And I ask myself; is home really a place or a person?

When do I actually feel at home? Home, has for me, a sense of personal identification. Home is family. Where home is, or who home is, in one way or another, has to appeal to the essentials of my personality. I have to be able to see how I could fit into the various contexts; cultural, social, practical, and also how I could have been shaped by these very same contexts. It is not only a question of finding a ‘common denominator’; most places will offer you that option, it is about finding yourself in large parts of the contextual frameworks which constitute what you call home. It is about seeing your history and your future in their very evolution.

If this is fairly straight forward, why am I still confused then? Because; in addition to the one or two places in the world where I feel profoundly at home, there is the home that I build for myself; education, career, apartment…the list goes on. Everything that is mine is here, in London. When I go to my house, this is where I find it.

However, as much as love London, this is not home to me, in the sense that my heart tells me differently; the views do not speak to me. This is home…for now. I feel comfortable, I don’t feel a stranger, I can navigate. I’ve created myself a history here, and I might even be building a future, but truth be told; I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. I am not 'at home'.

On the other hand, I am with someone (in London) who makes me feel loved, happy and content, in whose presence the importance of the physical location tends to diminish (but not vanish). I am exactly where I’m supposed to be…

…So…if home is where the heart is; where is home for me?

Verbally positive is practically optimistic…?

A week or so ago I was walking with my loving other along the southern banks of the Thames. At a specific passage there were a lot of street performers; bronze-painted, gold-painted, and even lizard-painted (?). However there was one specific performer, who, sadly, attracted more of my pity than my attention; through a plastic ‘transport-cage’ for dogs, this man had stuck his head, painted like a Dalmatian with floppy ears, while hiding his body underneath the table where the cage was posed. To ‘add some spice’ he had attached a wagging tail to the back of the ‘canine container’, thus spending his days barking through the small opening of the cage to make a living for himself.

This being a situation which could obviously not go un-commented by my standards, I turn to my boyfriend and say (in French):
That’s what I call desperation (using the very same word in French).
Whereby he says to me (also in French):
It’s not desperation it’s désespoir
And then he smiles and says:
…but it’s no surprise you don’t know that word, you don’t ever use those kinds of words (referring to what I would entitle ‘negative vocabulary’)

All of this goes back to a discussion we had earlier that day where he confessed that words such as enthusiastic or practical had so far been words ‘of mine’ to invade his active vocabulary.

This simple fact makes me smile for a number of reasons:

One, there is truth to the Swedish saying: ‘Man blir som man umgås’ equivalent to you become like the people you spend your time with.

Two… I really don’t use a lot of negatively ringing words. I tend to go with possible, energy, solution, enthusiasm, belief, goodness, positivity. Still I don’t think I come across as naïve, I am a realist, but an optimistic one.

Three… The vocabulary you use in many ways reflects your world view. If you are positive you will perhaps believe in helpful people, in sincere caring and in true friends. This of course doesn’t mean that you are not careful or aware of risk, but rather that you see the glass half full and not half empty.

If you, on the other hand, are a negative person, maybe you use words such as horrible, idiot or problem a lot, and you tend to use your words to draw up disastrous scenarios, full of betrayal, forgetfulness and unaccommodating attitudes.

So the words paint your world. In what color? It’s up to you. Language and attitude is ultimately merely a self-fulfilling prophesy. What you believe is what you create. Similarly your perspective guides your choices and helps you rebuild the verbal and concrete world wherein you feel comfortable, be it a dark or a light one.

Your words are used to describe what you see, and so accordingly if your concept world is positive, the verbal structures describing it are much along the same lines and vice versa.

Hence your vocabulary use greatly mirrors your practical world perspective, it does not shape your actions, your attitude and belief does, but it describes them. The words you use in that sense become a reflection of who you are.

Of course, a lot comes into language; intonation, gestures and meaningful gazes. But only from the actual words used, irrespective of what accompanies them, a lot could be told. So I, who am verbally positive…am I inevitably practically optimistic?

What words do you use?

Stray luggage

Travelling is this happy yet melancholic event; rainy walks to the bus-stop, waiting at cold train-stations, tearful good-byes at the airport. And then, the joyous arrivals, the warm welcomes, the comfort and the love.

Nonetheless, voyages in all their glory, they still have that one element of unavoidable impatience; waiting.

Checking in, you will always get in the 'wrong' line; the one which, as per chance, takes the most time. So, despite being sleep-deprived and in general having difficulties upholding your posture and perky disposition, there is still that moment of leaning gently on your suitcase, and at the same time observing all lines next to you move in express pace, while your's is seemingly advancing in slow motion.

Security, lets not even start; put your liquids in a bag, take your belt and jacket off, remove your laptop from your bag, take your shoes off (?), go throught the detector, get body searched if you are unlucky (three times if its not your day, none otherwise). The fun part comes after that; put everything on fast enough not to block the flow of people coming after you.

God, by the time you get to the tax free, you feel like you've come to paradise. Here there are two scenarios; one: you rush through the stores, and after 40 minutes you realise there is a final call for your gate. Two: you have ridiculous amounts of time to spend at the airport, and after your second tour of all the stores you start to feel slightly irritated that your gate hasn't even been announced yet.

Eventually on the plane, there are a few ways to go; none ideal, all possible. Either you fall asleep before the plane has even pulled out, or it feels like an eternity before it actually does. When you are going to your destination time can pass fairly quickly; it's exciting and thrilling and you can't wait to get there. However, going home is either a necessary evil or conversely; something you really desire (either way you are in for, what feels like a very long jurney).

Finally, the moment is there, when the cellphones start ringing again; halfway out of the aircraft and everyone is already on a par with your every step. But, not to forget is that little appendix, that you always bring along, your luggage, for which... you have to wait.

Without exception, you will see that strand of stray luggage; one bag which is shining new, not even a scratch to it, the trendy version of traveling, then another bag which you can understand someone might not want to claim; torn, old or other, it's one that doesn't look valid for travelling. A third one is the well travelled suitcase, the one with a few old stickers and some bumps and scratches (that looks like it has a life apart from it's owner). Occationally there is the odd large hard samsonite with one of those belts around, or that has been aggressively wrapped in plastic (that looks impossible to open). And sometimes, just sometimes, a part of a trolley or a toy rotates around and around, all the while some poor baby will be missing their means of transportation.

I am not the one waiting anymore, my silver titan slides up infront of me. Yet someone somewhere, is still waiting; stray people, lost from their luggage, stray luggage waiting for their owner. Someone will have to journey without their luggage, continue without their extention... and continue to wait while the stray find their way home... because they always do, no?.

Phenomenally fair and fantastically unbelievable

When you study for a degree, everywhere you go you’re being judged and measured. Your efficiency level is being worked out and your capacity is being calculated. It’s a fairly tiresome thing.

But, you can always comfort yourself with the fact that at least people don’t relate to you with ambivalence, or shrug their shoulders in ignorance when you pass by.

I don’t know, today I would have preferred not to know, and stayed blissfully ignorant and motivated; because this semester, every teacher on the program seems to have it in for us. Hard work and devotion can fly out the window, it hardly matters what you do; the good grades appear to be lagging behind.

Today came the point where he limit was reached. Not only me, but a fair share of people felt cheated by the system. I know, fair doesn’t exist, in this life you have to fight for what you want (hence the vast negotiation of grades throughout the semester). A reasonable reward for a strong effort is apparently not to be taken for granted.

I can accept that teachers critique the extent of my work or point out the insufficiency of my analysis, but when I get evaluated by my peers only to get downgraded by the system, there is no way I am keeping quiet.

An absurd amount of exercises in university promote competitiveness; that is one thing, another is to punish team-work. Many will not be estranged to the scenario of carrying somebody else’s workload when working in a team, nor will they be unfamiliar with the feeling that this effort goes un-noticed. Well in this evaluation it didn’t, great! However what happened to the balanced groups? When you pulled your weight in a strong group, what you got was ZERO!

Now, this girl is not one to stay quiet, I don’t expect anyone to drop justice in my lap. Module leader got a civilized mouthful….is how I would describe it: it’s disappointing really that an institution that is supposed to prepare you for a successful professional path will create a situation where elitism is preferred over team-work and where consistency and coordination is ignored. Why would they want people to take on a manipulative attitude to group-creation? Choosing groups which will make you shine and get you ahead, due to their insufficiencies, rather than choose to combine fantastic resources to learn, evolve and advance.

An idealist to the marrow, I know….I know… But I like to think, I was the first of many e-mails that will be flowing in… Maybe now that I have gotten this of my chest…I will be able to continue to study

It’s phenomenal really how much you can do and how little you can get for it… unbelievable….fantastically unfair

Cross your fingers x

Plague Prevention

Pandemic prevention? Or plague prescription?
So, this is apparently what is supposed to protect us from the escaped swine flu virus strands, and save us from mass-death. Somehow, I really doubt that... The whole elastic band around the neck, makes it a bit difficult to digest. Quite a disastrous scenario actually; a crammed train car in the London tube, and everyone is wearing a plastic bag on their heads? Probably more people would get sick from the plastic bags, not to mention the environment. How about that sustainability? Sustainable health problems...would probably be more like it.

Same day, BBC writes, there is no scientific evidence that the virus can be air transferred... hmm?

Tadaaaa! Pest medicine #1: Hand Sanitizer. Even when you enter the hospital now days, they will tell all people, visitors and employees alike, to carefully clean their hands. The reason why I know that is another (not very dramatic) story. Preventive medicine is really just common sense, come on (!) any routined Londonian has owned, or at least contemplated buying, hand sanitizer, public transport is like a bacteria culture in itself.

So for now rest assured, hands are clean, with a 51p sanitizer from Tesco (of all places). Is sustainable cleanliness really plague prevention? Let's hope so.

Death by Jesus (last year nostalgia)

Semana Santa, the holy week, brings a lot of questions to the surface. Especially when spent in the south of Spain. Andalucíans take pride in celebrating this week in the most grandiose manner possible; with processions, worship and packed streets they seem to be searching for penance for the lazy year passed. Andalucía, and Cádiz in particular, is known for its lethargic and laid back attitude. Why work when you can enjoy life? Unemployment rates are the highest in all of Spain here, yet no one seems to mind. This is Cádiz, the city that smiles, the city that makes you smile.

As a sceptic Protestant Jew with a fascination for eastern religions, a procession can at first be slightly difficult to digest. Correction; is at first a frightening experience. Why? Because you don’t know what to react to first; the over exposure of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, or the fanatic behaviour surrounding it. Is it not just all a way to show off the assets of the church in the end?

As a gesture of remembrance and identification with the sufferance of Jesus, large processions take place in all of Andalucía throughout the week prior to Easter. It is nowhere near Easter bunnies and sweet eggs hidden in the garden. Instead people mobilise themselves to find the processions that lie them closest to heart, all through the week. Granted, sweets exist, but it is more similar to buying popcorn before going to the cinema. While awaiting a procession you will find people sitting on a chair (brought from home) on the side of the streets nibbling on sunflower seeds and overly sweet lollypops. As the procession comes closer the tension rises and the crowd grows. Some will have been waiting long. Maybe to get a closer glimpse of Jesus, I don’t know. I’m just wondering how all this fuss makes anyone feel closer to God.

Then finally, comes the procession, first the men (women or children as well, but frankly one can’t tell) with the hats and covered faces, who look like they belong with the KKK (but we try to say that quietly not to offend anyone). Some carry wax candles others signs or crosses that are symbols of the fraternity of the church, somewhere in there is always a sign that says SPQR (the ancient roman designation of a king) which was in fact put on top of Jesus’ cross as he was crucified, to mock him, a friend tells me. Then come the men with the embellished candlesticks who lead way for the grand platform, or what not; an enormous piece of wood often embellished with gold or silver and fresh flowers. On it stands some kind of image of Jesus, embodying part of the story of his last 12 days alive. Under it; forty to fifty men who gladly and even voluntarily carry this beast around for the duration of the passing, which can last up to ten hours, if not more. After this comes the band and then….another procession or, better, another part of it, which is in the honour of the Virgin Mary. Men with candles and incense escort her through the streets. And again; a band. In between we find the people walking for penance; those who carry a cross or wear chains around their ankles, or simply the quiet crowd of followers crying for the pain and sufferance of Christ their saviour. And where was he to save me from this? I keep thinking to myself.

But I don’t know. Walking through the streets, where the atmosphere is filled with vacation and exited expectations, there in some way a sense of belonging, a grander purpose. I find myself respecting it. Still I don’t really know how to relate. There are far too many questions and far too much critique for me to swallow this pill whole.

A friend and I walk down the street and turn a corner. In front of us: the KKK dressed in purple and black. The streets are narrow and full. I grab her hand, because yes, truthfully, it frightens me. Through the holes in the cap I can see the eyes of the first person in the procession following every individual crossing his path. Although I can’t see his regard I can apprehend the pride in his posture. I know I don’t want to make them angry or in any way disrespect their tradition. We try to find a place along the street. Ironically we get told off at first, by and elderly woman rambling on about how she has been waiting for an hour. I look in front of me: Procession, behind me: a wall. Where exactly does she want us to go? We gather all our courage and cross the procession as it is standing still, to finally find a place on the over populated street. When the scent of incense reaches us, we know he is getting closer; Jesus is about to make his entrance. The heightened platform just barely fits the narrow street, to the point where older men on both sides of us, spectators, push it to help the carriers reach equilibrium. Looking up at the impressive spectacle of a platform passing, who is looking down at us if not the man himself? Jesus. We look at each other. He will fall, the screws will come loose and he will drop on our heads, and that will be the end of us; death by Jesus and the end of this marvel of a thing we call life. Despite all of this we are laughing. True, that fear often calls for laughter, but also, what other way to welcome something new than with a smile?

Towards the end of the week someone asks me: Have you taken this week to reflect on your sins? My sins? I keep thinking. In today’s terms a lot of things considered pleasure can be regarded as sin. So, am I a sinner? Or am I not enough of a sinner?

Although conclusions are still ripening, this is what I’ve learnt so far: Approach religiosity (and probably life in general) with a smiling caution and curiosity. And, be as big a sinner as you like. Because whether you die by Jesus or any other, in the end the only one who needs to forgive you is yourself. (And I can only speak for myself, but I’d rather forgive myself for a step mistaken, than a wish unfulfilled).

A midnight runner?

I’ll try to paint the picture. Knee long, thin coat tied at the waist, large trousers, weighty boots and a hat with earflaps. Quite a tall, well built man running up the street and rounding a lamp-post and then continuing running down the street again. It looked heavy, like a child in oversize shoes. I really wonder what in the world he was doing, but I guess that’s just your average, normal midnight runner…

This is just a different carnival

I am in London, back in academia. In Cádiz there is a carnival. And here I am, breathing literature, eating words and dreaming news-headlines. I already have a crooked middle finger on my right hand, because I write so much. Achievement is the goal; focus is the mean, ambition the fuel. My bookshelf is a fiesta of information, in my head it’s still mostly chaos.

Carnival is a celebration, before the harsh reality sets in, before joys are sacrificed. Cádiz was my carnival even without a grand, collective dress-up party. But I am feasting on knowledge… so for me this is just a different kind of carnival.

When you go... you know

I had to pay for the overweight for my suitcases today. I had to pay a lot.

The funny thing is all the other times I've left, I always knew: "I'll be coming back, this is still home". This time it was different. This time I really felt I am setting out to find a home, I'm really leaving. It's ironic, all the 'rehearsed' moving, all the times I've slid past the baggage drop without paying, it was just practice, just not to scare me off.

Now, it's the real thing, and the real thing hurts, in your heart, in your mind(which struggles to keep together all the pieces of the moving puzzle) and even in your wallet.

When it's the real thing there is no cheating or escaping. When you go... you know.

On the move

Yesterday was a great day. Apart from a raw cold digging into my bones it was…special. I started off the day with my father, we had breakfast, a talk, went to look at furniture for him and then he dropped me off in Malmö, where the work began. I hitched a ride with a couple of friends (or two friends who are actually a couple) and went back to Lund (my hometown) with them. This is where the actual moving started. They rented a truck and five of us filled it all up in a little bit less than an hour (WOW). And back we went to Malmö again…to unload the truck, because we all really love carrying sofas and deconstructing and reconstructing beds.

We were a good team, correction, we were a wonderful team; efficient, encouraging and we had fun. I am yet to see three girls carrying a huge dinner table across a street laughing hysterically; still I was one of them. After redressing couches, making beds and placing drawers in their place it was finally time for dinner. In the middle of mess and boxes we sat down and had the remains of an immense Lebanese buffet, delicious! For desert cheese and crackers, and juicy pears, and what was left of red wine from their summer wedding, but most of all there was laughter, smiles and conversations.

Although exhausted, I think all of us, surely I, still looked at the boxes in envy (and joy). It was a real home, a place to be and to stay. It left space for a real life, without the stingy demands of a poor student. It was the future, far away for some, closer for others. Still, we were happy, we got to take part, we got to visit for a second, to imagine ourselves there…it has to be enough to last me a few years, I sucked it all in and left it there.

Today I took out my suitcase, again. And I’m packing it to live this time, not just to visit.

A bad rerun

It’s that day again, the day of waiting and travelling, the day of goodbyes and tears. It’s different every time, yet it is a day that seems to be coming as a bad rerun of itself, more frequently than one would desire.

Departures provoke a lot of emotion. Thus pre-departure can take three different shapes in action.

The first is of course; ignoring. The person leaving or people in their surroundings sick to the normal and ‘pretend’ that the upcoming separation is either very far away, or literally inexistent. It’s a quite detached way to go about things, but also easier. What’s positive about it is that there is no discrimination or favouritism towards anyone, everyone continues just as usual.

Then there is the second kind; withdrawing. This person fears the upcoming separation and pulls away. Often he or she becomes distant and almost cold, as if trying to untie some of the bonds created to avoid the pain.

And finally there is preparing. Where you know you are leaving and put effort into your remaining time. Rather than withdrawing you intensify your relations and tie the bonds stronger in order to avoid loss, despite distance.

As for the mind-set, it can go two ways. Either you don’t realise you’re leaving until you are gone, which then means major crisis, or you mourn your departure well ahead, during and also after. However then you are hopefully slightly more calm and rational about it….although you can never really know.

Today my departure has brought forward both ambivalence and ambiguity.
Ambiguity, because it is the end of a chapter, the end of the Spain chapter, nevertheless there are so many things which will hopefully continue into my next episode, and the ones that follow. London is the only variable that is secured or even guaranteed.

Ambivalence because I said goodbye to my love (luckily he is not far behind, as he is coming to see me in Sweden on Friday), it meant the end of our daily life in our small Spanish city, it means things are changing. Really, he is part of the ambiguity. Not to forget are other sad adieus, those of friends and acquaintances, of places and views.

Then, on the other hand, I am leaving for home, for family and for Christmas… all of which I love. And I am returning to London where my heart beats stronger and my brain thinks faster (I sincerely have the impression it does).

So it is new this day, because I never felt it this way, yet it is a repetition of itself…of those previous weeks of preparing, of tying and of trying to apprehend. I am kind of obliged to ambivalence…because I hate goodbyes, I struggle with them and at the same time I love a new challenge, I thrive on diversification.
Again I have done those days of washing and packing, cleaning, emptying and throwing away…to leave place for what is to come.

This time I have made a lot of space, I am hoping for greatness and joy, but I am expecting nothing at all. I believe it will be good, and I will work for it, yet I am prepared to take on the bad…at least so I hope. Today might be a rerun, but what is coming is freshly baked and yet to be revealed…So really at the end of this day I will have to find myself optimistic towards the ambiguity rather than ambivalent, because forward is the only way…and I prepared myself for goodbye…but goodbye just for now.

I love it, I love it not

Today I chose my courses for next year. It was exciting, because it was all lined up, right there in front of me; my future. The outlines of my year to come; international business to the height, length and breadth of 2009, my last year. And it was sad. Why? Because it reminded me of the fact that this dreamy state of love, bliss and relaxation will soon come to an end. Soon…but not too soon?

There is no denying; London is progress, London is challenge, ambition and responsibility, and I miss it. I miss the pace, I miss the goals and I miss the adrenaline of deadlines and the gratification of achievement. I thrive on it, yet I know it kills me. That’s why I love it. Today I walked through Cádiz, Coldplay playing in my ears, a steady rapid rhythm and I walked quickly not to be late. It made me remember the feeling of being on your way, seeing ahead and knowing where you’re going. It’s empowering. I love it.

And then, I realised; what about all these quiet moments, what about time to cook, time to watch a movie or to simply take a nap on a Wednesday afternoon? What about the spontaneous coffees and the large, long dinners with friends? What about going out three nights a week and then having the time to sleep in? What about all these things that make life worthwhile? Where do they squeeze in between MGT305 and ECO301? I love it not. I truly don’t.

I’m ambivalent…I want it all. It’s unfair. It seems that for many of us, at this point in life, it’s either or: Love/Life or Studies/Career. I don’t want to choose and I don’t have to, I chose already. My next year is all career, all books, highlighters and sleepless nights, all studies and stimulus. I have to learn, to take with me some elements of human contact, interaction with affectionate value into that deep ocean of work which is ahead. And I love it I really do yet I love it not…I truly don’t.

From salt of the earth to crème de la crème

In one week this summer I went from salt of the earth to crème de la crème; from service provider to, practically, service abuser.

I went from an environment where a friend can very well grab your behind and lovingly tell you that your ass has a remarkable resemblance to that of a pig’s, to a world where ‘hello’ can feel worse than a slap in the face and a mere sideway look is an insult.

Starting from the bottom, or perhaps the beginning, there are a few questions awakened in this, rather traumatic, transit. What sets these worlds apart? What do they require for acceptance? And how does one really fit in?

One could say value is the most significant difference between these worlds, monetary as well as moral. At the “bottom” what you do and how you do it carries most weight, whereas, taking a few steps up the class ladder, its who you do, or rather who you know, and how much you spend upholding this relation that is more relevant.

In order to be accepted (anywhere) you need to have the right accessories; mental or material. Granted, the battle of status through material attributes exists everywhere, but in the riches as opposed to in the rags it defines and validates their existence. I own therefore I exist. And without the right accessories you can kiss initial respect goodbye.
In the ‘underworld’ the best thing you can do is sharpen your elbows, because there you need to deserve your position, playing a completely different social game. There the attributes you need to have play more at the qualities you own. Nevertheless, a sharp tongue, a sarcastic sense of humour or whatever may be required, might gain you respect in one place and be unfavourable in another, it’s all about picking up the tone.

Getting in the context and fitting in can be more complicated still. It requires some measure of likeness and sense of equality between the individuals. When it all boils down, we all search to identify ourselves, at least slightly, with our fellowmen and especially with those we aspire to have as friends. We look to feel at ease in our surroundings; we search for shared values, to be accepted without having to adapt excessively and to fit in and feel comfortable.

Between rags and riches there is a large grey-zone, where you are free to navigate. And often there is no evident choice. When you don’t lack anything nor live in abundance, when physical, mental and spiritual pathways seem padded and protected and your survival is unthreatened; you appear to be moving eternally between the worlds, searching for those spots in the grey-zone where your social survival is guaranteed.

The paradox, and the advantage, is often that the more you move, the more you learn to adapt and find yourself in every location and feel secure. Because when you are in the habit of moving from salt of the earth and crème de la crème and back again, all you really need to pack… is your comfort.

Cadiz: A Killer (?)

Here I am; a shadow of my old self. Yes. Those of you who know me as an overly organised, always on top of things, always on the move, kind of person, might actually go into cardiac arrest when looking at my current state. And this is no joke…

Vanja and I have made countless efforts to revitalize it; the pumping rhythm of the city, that chain of goals and objectives succeeding one another, even that frustrating feeling of never having enough time (even though your plan is close to immaculate). Shock-a-shock we’ve actually been looking for this state of mind… even slightly missing it.

I know. In a few months from now I will be eating my words up. I will be calling home in tears saying: “I can’t take it, I just need one full night of sleep…and another 12 hours to the day”. Time will, again, be in short supply.

But it’s dead, the stress, and Cádiz has ‘killed’ it. It took us a while to wrap our heads around it, even longer to join in and another good while to actually understand it; the Cádiz effect.
At first we were thrilled about the stress-less atmosphere, and accordingly we took our time to slow down and kick back in the sand. That was the time when we could still fish for London in our blood, and we didn’t have to look that deep. Now days we are searching, and are yet to be lucky. Instead we keep finding one example after another of how a city can seemingly swallow your ambition, simply by ridding the purpose for its existence. You don’t need to dream big here, it’s the small that counts. You don’t need to be quick here, because rest dominates.

And it doesn’t seem to bother a soul that students retake, and retake and retake courses in all eternity, some day, he will become a doctor, or an engineer or an economist. Life is too short to waste on obsessive studying is what Cádiz seems to be saying, just live a little and a little bit more…and the rest will be ok in due time. It makes a good point, this city, to all of us hyped up ciudadanos (city-people). About not forgetting to stop and see, not neglecting to listen and enjoy.

Yet we miss the city because it gives us purpose, it stimulates us and challenges us to evolve… Cádiz poses another challenge, that of how to enjoy while keeping alive your ambition. But as sure as Cádiz is a killer…we can revive London again.

What's in a word?

In the true spirit of globalization a lot of us choose to travel, not only for fun, but also to try to achieve exchange and integration into cultures different than ours. While routines can often be adapted, language is one challenge that is often tough to tackle.

It can be tiring, that search for the right words; finding the precise expression that will convey not only, the practical message, but also the underlying sentiment. I sometimes ask myself; how much of the meaning of what I say gets lost in the banality of the words I’m using?

Still, most of the time I manage to make myself understood, without really knowing how I finally got my point across. After seemingly endless minutes of fishing for words, associating across languages and attempting chance-creation of new linguistic constellations we finally arrive at the crucial point: the answer; the main teller of whether you’ve made any sense what so ever. So I wonder, if I manage to make myself understood with an insufficiency in both vocabulary and verbal skills: What’s in a word?

First I think about the components of communication; individuals and language; where each constitutes complexity within itself. Considering the fact that every one uses language differently, or even uses different languages, and most of us listen from our own perspective, thus we hear what we want to hear. Honestly, it’s a wonder we ever understand each other at all.

One can only admit it; we hear things in a way that suits our world image and help support it. In the end, everyone wants to be rubbed the right way, whether there is truth to the word or not.

Second one must reflect on whether people actually really apprehend the impact (or insignificance) of what they say. I mean do you really fully understand everything you say? Being accustomed to using foreign languages, many of which I do not fully master, I know it can be difficult to estimate the weight of a word. That is, to understand the feelings it can potentially provoke in whoever is listening.

More easily put, assumingly there is a gap between what you say and what you understand that you are saying, which brings us to another component essential to contemporary, cross-cultural, communication; tact. Collins dictionary defines it as a sense of the best and most considerate way to deal with people so as not to upset them. I would call it an ability to know how and when to say things, or quite simply; what is vulgar and when to shut up.

Now this is not an evident thing (as you would say in French). Tact takes a different shape when applied to different languages. What is apprehended as offensive in Swedish would in another language just be taken on the chin. Words even though translated are frequently used in varied ways.

An example close to heart would be the Spanish verb Querer which can be translated into to Love as well as to Want. Now, in a German stemming language these are wisely not mixed (unless in bed, where they belong together?). In Spanish, on the other hand (depending on how you say it) it can be completely asexual (obviously if you were to pull someone forcefully towards you and whisper it in their ear with desire it could easily be the equivalent of: let’s go to bed immediately).

Finally, putting this together, vocabulary, knowledge and tact, I’m still thinking, which one of us has not heard a speaker with plenty of authority and pride and still felt as though his words were empty? And accordingly stopped listening to this person within five minutes even though he (or she) was incredibly correct? On the other side of the equation there would be this whirlwind of a person, who would accidently step on a few toes, but wholeheartedly grab everyone’s attention. Because the way they spoke appealed to people’s emotions.

So is it precision that gets the message across or is it effort, patience and sincerity? In the end, the word is really just a tool, as any other. The word itself carries little significance, it is how you build with it and support it. What is in a word is finally not a lot theoretically speaking. What is in a word is really just the sentiment you wrap it with and the emotion you put into it….And still we can only ever hope to understand and to be understood.