Odesa: The nameless emotion

First EU airport of my latest holiday touring. Generic café. Long layover on my way to Mostar, the pretty bridge. 

Last year I wrote about my impressions in the Korea that smiles you first and the enviably organised Japan. The many tastes of Kimchy and the anxious stroll from lessons not quite learned after Hiroshima. 

And connecting to the theme of lessons not quite learned, the urge to write starts with that emotion I cannot name but I am carrying with me as a refuge while I transit crowded airports again and passers-by speak languages I understand. For now, I cherish "the" emotion and I feel like I could have been in another life while I realise that I don't have enough with the one life I've been given to live all the lives I want to live. 

The short, high season holidays of the teacher have taken me this time to central Asia. After that I have lingered in Eastern Europe, as a transition to ease the pain of slowly saying goodbye to long days and time to let life sink in. I chose Moldavia as a strategic resting spot to see where to head next depending on how life would unfold. And life asked me to go to Odesa, because I have always loved the name and because I wanted to see her in her full beauty in case there is more fighting to do. And I promise to join the countrywide rave party if this absurd war ends soon. Word. 

Before heading there I contacted hosts online and I was positively surprised on how fast they responded. A girl caught my attention because she liked to paint words on walls, dance in abandoned places and she had a cat named Thomas. And she answered me and I knew I had to meet her. Off to Odesa it is! 

The journey: 

Instead of the touristic bus I chose to buy a ticket for one of the smaller vans. They were arriving earlier and I wanted to make the most of my weekend on the Ukranian coast. I made the journey with a few Ukranians, squished in the back by 3 very overweight people who reeked of cigarettes. You couldn't hardly see me and it was so bouncy I thought I was going to hit my head to the roof. Even they helped me stay on the seat, because the seat was also unscrewed and I was bouncing around like of those dashboard dolls. 

The border crossing: 

It went fast. The official took my passport, looked at it, looked at me and shrugged. Indeed. No words needed. 

The arrival: 

Upon arrival my mission was to get to the beach. I was meeting my host near the monument to the unknown sailor. 

Behind it was the sea and a bunch of bombed/abandoned maritime factories. One of them was a squatted house that accommodates people who need to use the space as an atelier. The beautiful part is that they come together in the summer months and do residency in the squat. The place is no luxury complex, but it has some charm and a life of its own. My host explained to me how the noise of the port and the cargo train soothed her. After spending the night I understood. 

The complex

The space

My host:

I will call her according to her insta account and invite anyone to see her art: Temple of Pain. A young tatoo artist/painter and lately jewel maker. She quotes herself as: "just so depressed" and with no sight into the future, something that stroke a string in me. It didn't surprise me, it didn't make me paternalistic sad, but this new no future has stayed ingrained in my brain. 

We started the day with some meat free Brosh soup and a walk around the city with a stopover in a private art gallery. 

The front yard of the gallery 

Despite the language barrier we were able to talk about life in general, a lot about the absurdity of this war, the war you see and the one that crawls slowly under the skin and gives you new habits you do unconsciously.

We also agreed in how hard it is to be a man in times of war, how war has dominated history and how trauma gets passed by because mental health doesn't seem to be as important as the physical one. 

We had time to talk of all things we agreed in: compassion, human greed and stupidity, the world we see change so fast, community (whanau) and cats! Ukranian cats are the most friendly I have seen. Street cats come to you if you call them and greet you so politely!, they come for a cuddle and then they get on with their lives in their cosy apartments on street level. 

The community: 

My host wanted to make sure that I was comfortable in the place because it is different to my cuqui-Dutchie-cutie life. Yes, it might look abandoned and not too preserved, but it feels peaceful and safe. Different is good, but maybe not better if you have a definition of better.

It is the people who make the place (and the weather, and the food). And I could feel that human warmth, the love and respect they had for each other. As someone who could have been their mum, and as a teacher who sometimes loses faith in humanity I was very proud to see young people living up to the values we should be living for.

The thing I liked, despite the absurdity of the current situation and the generation at play: there is no drug consumption, not in the way I am used to seeing in young people or alternative lifestyles. If that remains so, they can groew stronger in an ongoing present together. 

Dinner:

It is refreshing to be in an Eastern European country and know that there are a bunch of people who also  don't see meat as an edible. It makes life much more normal, it gives life much more sense. As a guest I took care of the groceries and Temple of Pain came up with the idea of fresh veggie, spicy rice and falafel wraps. Everybody gathered by the fire for dinner and young people kept coming in and out of the terrace. After dinner a happy tummy silence reigned and music took the space as the sun went down. We played some charades, frisbee and I was ready to go to bed by midnight.

The night: 

The room I stayed in faces the port. If you think further it can feel daunting. Not long ago the Russians were bombing that same area to disable activities. And you cannot not think about it. But the noise of the port activities is really soothing. It gives a sense of normalcy. The sirens of the cargo trucks, the trains and the whistles took over and became my lullaby. I slept nearly 12 hours on and off, and could have slept longer to that white noise. 

The bedroom with views to the port

The purpose:

My time to leave was nearing and I had asked my host to sell me one of the jewels she makes. I have a pact with my sister regarding presents and it reads: we don't look for presents for each other. If a present finds me, I buy it. And it found me. And it answered Temple of Pain's question to: Why are you coming to the Ukraine? My sister's birthday is nearing and a present was looking for me. And it has a story and it also has an emotion I can't name, but one I hope she will also feel. 

the purpose

I will miss so much hearing  languages I don't understand.

Adopt don't pop

 Happy pandiversary!  

The one that in which no matter the efforts we don't seem to be able to kill the invisible beast. 

The one in which we all have an opinion but nobody has a clue. The one that, yet again, has shown what humans are made of.

I've entered this year without Sílvia, I can't believe she is gone forever. Like in other occasions, she has inspired me to write again. When she knew she was going to die she made clear she wanted to have it over with quickly and painlessly. She was surprisingly ready.

In our sittings in the sun, close to her last breaths, she muttered:

- you live, you die and what have you done? Have a daughter, to leave her alone in the world. See? Another reason not to be a mother. This time she didn't burst out laughing and lit a cigarette instead.

She knew I am antinatalist, she was a regretful mum. I do consider giving birth a selfish act, as many others, but also an unethical one. I often hear women say: "I feel like it" or "we are looking for a baby", with no remorse, because it is socially accepted. But I don't understand why.

Yet humans are only entitled to be human to animals. 

We fix them to avoid overpopulation and disease in females that have given birth multiple times.

We have evolved to see the commercialisation of animals as unethical. "Adopt, don't shop" 

Shopping for animals is specicist, it supports an industry of unnecessary lucrative suffering when, despite the efforts to control their population there are enough puppies and kittens being born.

I am surprised that no more people apply that to our species. We still associate the idea of giving birth with joy, instead of suffering. Somebody once told me that birth is more traumatic than death, but we forget. We are born to die (So Lana del Rey, this), someone else decides on your life and some people celebrate it. And so, a new human is created where there is no need for it, while there are millions of them without a family or in dire need. 

We consider this more when it comes to pets, and we take more responsibility, it seems.

I have always wondered, as a woman: why is it I can spread my legs and bring a being to the world if I want to, with no regulation, but it is so arduous, hard and expensive to adopt?. I was ready to adopt at age 28. On a genetical point of view I was aware that with the choices I had I couldn't really give birth to a person to contribute to society in the way I saw appropriate. I did have a job, my own house and I was in a solid relationship. There was a sense of security, but I didn't see a positive contribution in reproducing. 

I did have the capacity to love and nurture and give the opportunity to another human with no opportunities. I didn't need to create a child as an accessory to my life. I thought it was my responsibility to be part of the change I envisioned to turn my contribution into a fairer and more diverse distribution in the world. 

The adoption associacions basically said that as a single, fertile woman I could create my own. I don't find ethical to put an extra burden on Earth and my rationale seems bigger than my reproductive desires. To my knowledge I don't think I even qualify as a foster mum, because my apartment has only got a room. 

Jonathan Franzen said in his novel Freedom, that we should be more ashamed of giving birth. I think we should be carbon taxed after the 2nd child and given the opportunity of a tax rebate in the case of adoption (fostering already comes with rebates, tricky subject). 

We are suffering our first pandemic in the 21st century because of our irresponsible handling with animal meat. Before that we have had a few animal-related epidemics. Yet, we still consume meat into our doom. That meat, by the way, was once a sentient being. I am not ging to get into detail on how that milk you make your kid drink for breakfast is the result of insemination, forced birth and baby murder. We have had enough on subject: "cognitive dissonance"

But the elefant in the room is that we are too many, too greedy and often too willing to fill a void by creating more humans, that just contribute to this vicious circle to throw us deeper in the capitalistic and judeochristian construct.  

People are popping pandemials. But we still sterilise our pets to spare them suffering.

MESSY _ MESS...NO

There has been a long, silent break since the adventure began. Until I reached this point of shudding away the lethargy and rearranged the procrastinated items of a to-do list of all those things the Covid situation has pushed up to the priority list. 

RANDOM PROCRASTINATED ITEM ON THE LIST #1

• Post before and after pictures of the months you've been working on your house (you ace!)

I find them. Some on one phone (FP2), some on the new one (FP3). 
But I don't put them all together in one file. I forgot again to ask Rob for his footage, so then I can complete the process. It's too late today. And, after all, I can't come out of the blue, drop him a text and ask for them. We all have other prioritites. I tried to record him a message referring to a once-lived conversatio and some thoughts I wanted to share with him, and then I listened to it and I realise I get lost in story telling mode and forget to ask him for the videos he made. Some of us also have more time. I don't have to claim it with stories, maybe they are not interesting, maybe I am interrupting. Damn, now I am thinking for others and being irrational at the same time. Let's move to the next item, then

RANDOM PROCRASTINATED ITEM OF THE LIST #2

• Review the insurance 

Then I need to review documents. And I remember I have to write per request, for an exciting job opportunity. I should be writing. And I freeze 81/2 Fellini style because I have to adjust to the format and because they'd love to see pictures in the article. Images, my kriptonite.
 I tell myself if I talk to my insecurity, it won't help, I have all the time in the world, I am a passionate writer, I am not new to it. I give myself strength and then I wish it was like as easy as going on a stage, grab the mike and sing. 

And in the mess of papers and writings I find the ongoing book I once started, it is called "progressive pink", or "progressive grey" or both or "greetings from Memory Lane" or "Down Down Under", but today I am going to call it after "Family Man's" dog, Brian. Because Brian the book has been sitting in my computer folders for a while waiting for a reorganising of chapters, a thread and a purpose. Brian stayed in the 'Books' folder, because all I needed to get it out of my chest has already been written. 

SUDDEN RANDOM ADDENDUM TO LIST OF TO-DO ITEMS CRAWLING UP THE PRIORITY LIST

• You won't find a thing if you have so many bags full of papers. Recycle

A bunch of folded papers inside an esky/chilly/cooler bag. Like a script. It's  Brian in hard copy but I don't know, yet. I start reading it with interest: "quite an interesting piece" I hear my mind saying to myself.
 And then I read on and the style is awfully familiar, descriptions like: that smell of Mango, the recurring theme of Pelargon, the somehow grainy softness while sliding my hand... and voilà, I know who wrote it and I know who inspired it. 

I go back to the place, to that moment in time, unable to remember any image of that scene but vividly remembering the rigid touch of the fabric with a neon printout in some acrylic paint, it smelled a bit like rubber. The smell of the human wearing it, bare faced, soft chest, rough legs, the taste of the mango juice, a breath of Toohey's and one nervous cigarrete. My lovely Sydney in the background, smelling like seasalt and frangipani, greeting me with its OZ(oh)ne sun. Steep road and a high building overlooking Darling Harbour. The moon that rises from the water. My Locus Amoenus.

And I move in time and understand. I understand the writer's block, the fear at once, because the situation re-enacts itself and you expect the outcome to follow the usual pattern. It is ok if you don't succeed, but it is hard to reassure yourself when it happens. 

 And then I wish again everything was as easy as going on a stage, grab the mike and sing. 
And then I realise I still haven't written the lyrics to the song. 

To be heard, to be read.
To be seen.

Approaching

With somehow French melancholy we departed chez Vasil and started packing after some strong melitta coffee, a German flashback. I could take some of the leftovers in my mug because Rob doesn't drink any and Yann was anyway still sleepy and had plans to go back to bed. 

Good vibes, we had had two days of absolute switching off in a charming, quiet place and in beautiful company.

To me it felt like a cultural transition to Southern European lifestyle, minus the rural ambiance. I am talking about the eating habits where meals are a big deal and quality prevails and a warmer personality in general. After all, we all kiss in France and in Catalonia when we see for the very first time. Temperament starts showing, but something happened after crossing the Pyrenees, where people become generally loud, gesticulate a lot and touch a bit more often. Being hipersensitive to smell and sound I dislike the loud Southern European decibels, however, although I don't participate as much as a regular one, I do very appreciate the proxemics. 
Next Mitfahrer- co-voiturante: Sofie, picked up in Lyon, as much as I wanted to avoid the city, grrr. A North Catalan raised in Perpignan. You could tell: we talked for hours about food and cortados (machiatto coffee).

The trip went by really quickly. Bonzai was well adapted to the van and he also stayed a while in the back, to have some leg space. I had built a higher floor for him, a plattform with his toilet, his sleeping basket and a travelling bag.  I did have to keep him locked in the travelling bag, because otherwise he'd stay between the things underneath and I was scared that if I had to hit the brakes the bike or boxes there would shift and it could have hurt him. 

He is so awesome that in the one toilet break, I let him out at his own leasure in the back of the van to snoop around and he went to the toilet at the same time as I. Can't be more of a proud crazy cat lady mummy. 

In Perpignan we dropped Sofie off and picked Eric up. 
He had been travelling solo in a camper "into the wild" and his camper broke down. As he had booked a room in a hostel in Barcelona right down my street, I drove him right to his door. In the short trip Perpignan-Barcelona, Rob and I adopted him because we found his accent, a rusty English with French words in a German background mixed with some Spanish incursions too adorable. I invited him to come live with us and help on my home project. He agreed. and that's how we added to the itinerant family an old souled teenager with whom I believe I have more in common than with some people double his age. 

That for the journey. Our days pre-renovation works were a slow progression to cold with mornings of yoga and meditation. I could sign up to that life. In fact, it's my place, so I can... and I will 
met veel plezier and groot gemak

Franchute stereotyped

Second leg. Bruxelles-Cuisery.

Bonzai was well rested, the one who slept best in Brussels and very relaxed on the road. We dropped Bego at the airport and picked Ibrahim up, our next trip companion for the following seven hours.
Ibrahim earned brownie points by helping me attach a side mirror. We brought Ibrahim to Dijon and made our way to Cuisery. Looking forward to seeing Yann again.

Arrival at Cuisery by sunset. Received by Yann, with whom I shared house and life episodes many (so many!) years ago in Germany. I am glad I can still visit him, grateful we get to see each other sporadically.

Kiki, a friend of Yann had made us a soup we ate with baguette, cheese avec cordon bleau for the meat eaters.

When the sun came up we were greeted by a beautiful early spring day. The evening before we had decided to stay one more day to get plenty of rest.
Plan of the day: some stretchings in the studio next door, go take the donkeys and the dogs for a walk and to continue the French stereotype programme by rocking to Frank (his name should have been René) to play some petanque before the Barcelona-Madrid match.

Petanque - jeu de boules

Dogs and donkeys for a walk

Bonzai in the meantime wasn't impressed with the "campagne" environment. While the sound of the river outside served us as the perfect white noise to sleep like babies, it seemed too foreign for him. Add dogs, donkeys, big chickens, a lot of people coming in and out and the shouting during the Barça-Madrid game and there's no kitty to be seen.
We drank wine, smoked gauloises tasted the most amazing cheeses and went early to bed after a 0-0 to wake up and be on our 3rd leg on our way to Barcelona.

It was great catching up with Yann, it is beautiful in Cuisery... Bald mal wieder!

Cat good, alles good!

Happy 2020!
 We have already crossed the threshold of the longest day of the year and light will come into us from now on. I have entered MY new year already and all the good change is underway, slowly rebuilding good habits adding new ones and working on modifying those that don't contribute. 
Before works in the house start, I don't want to leave any part out of the journey. The road trip was the very beginning of this new stage. 

Amsterdam-Brussels expedition

On our van trip from Amsterdam to Barcelona my main concern has been the cat to the point that I started going on stress mode shortly before departure. And he positively surprised me. I am so proud of him...

First leg:
Amsterdam-Brussels. 
Short trip and overnight stay at Antonio's, who lives in his lovely "cuchitril" right behind the Grand Place. Try finding a parking spot there. But I had worried enough. Rob used his gratefulness and positive energy to manifest a spot. 
So, luckily there was street works going on at the corner of Antonio's and we could park amply there. One fewer worry. Here we went on to unpack the many cat things (toilet, food set, travel bag) and climb the many stairs with furry in the carrier.

Bonzai was relaxed and supportive all through the trip. I think I was more stressed than him. Once at Antonio's he explored the space, played and climbed on the wooden beams and spent a while giving some attention to each of us,  he wasn't even taken aback from our coughing Bego.

Cat Paradise Attic, lots of climbing and scratching spots. They were very enjoyed by Bonzi.

Selvie takes a selfie of cat and legal pet 

Morning awakening candid picture. Coffee galore for the road

Next leg: Brussels - Cuisery

Welcome to chapter 5 (or end of chapter 4)

Every year before Christmas a deep downer takes over me coming from the pressure of "having to" so much. 

Once liberated of "having to give" some pre-Xmas presents have already arrived.

My sister always says: "volta, volta pel món que acabaràs al Born". A very Catalan saying that reminds me of the message in Siddharta. Go around the world to find all you need where it all started. 

I BOUGHT A HOUSE 

This is a major stepping stone since I would have never imagined me owning a house in Barcelona, my number #2 city, no less. And in my favourite area of the city. Quiet, surrounded by nature, a small community and such an interesting story and background of neighbour activism. So grateful to become part!

My work in progress, meet the sunroof :-)

And grateful of the gifts that are coming with it. Number one and most important one... (drum roll)...
Jay B, yes, the one and only, has surfaced and promised he'll rock by and give me a hand. He's been hiding for the last five years, so I am sure we have a lot of catching up to do. 
I am stoked. He is some sort of a wise man and life protector to me. Or to each other, I am sure I did save his life in a way when I saw his light when we were kids. He changed the course later in my life when I found out I had survived an accident, details: https://selveta.blogspot.com/2017/11/all-souls.html. 
And on this important stepping stone, I can do with his support. Exciting, no less!

The best things in life aren't things. 

Present number two: the universe has gifted me a companion for this journey, in the physical and spiritual sense of the word. Some months ago our paths crossed in a short retreat in Amsterdam (Amsterdammers, if you are in need of some connection and peace of mind,  I recommend you reach out to Erik, here is a link:
https://onehumanretreats.com/meet-the-founder/), Robbie, expressed his love for my city of birth. 
So I reached out to him and invited him to help build my little dream. He said a big "fuck yeah" and we are going to take this road trip together from the km0. Inspiring brave man, who is not going to conform to what they expect from him, finding his own truth.
Because we've already stripped down to vulnerability, we surely have a bit to learn from each other. Personally, I can't wait to learn what his enthusiasm and energy will bring. If you want to follow, he will probably offer more images to this journey than verbal me.
 Insta: @spiritual_robbie_nld

Since this means so much to me, I have decided to keep a record of this journey in my blog. 

Coming on: girlfriend landing, serious wellness session followed by the inevitable annoying packing up... 
I am so ready.

I'll live just turning pages

I see my last entry is NZ inspired. Interesting that NZ, or more accurately, the Southern Hemisphere inspires me to report, share, recreate. 

Six60. 

It has a lot of meaning to me, as it was my soundtrack during my days co-living on Snell's Beach aka "Heaven" in a time of needing an island of peace after the hardships of seeing your own will challenged when practising the vulnerable and noble art of living called teaching.

After my teaching week I would move to Heaven for the weekend near Warkworth to, like the song says: "only to be" with my homies, two Kiwi girls, the beach and the silence.

There we would indulge in super foods and endless walks and spotting oysters, even got to go to a concert of Avalanche City.
A special mention to some certain pyramid of energy that developed just there. The same one that created, ended and destroyed my year of Progressive Grey. Pure serendipity but first ever encounter with forces beyond myself. 

I do remember, too, sleeping in a guest room in this heavenly house by the beach on the foam mattress of my camper and waking up covered in sea dampness. 

HEAVEN, our view from the terrace, all I remember is talks about happiness. Best enjoyed with NZ white wine and Six60 sounding from the living room. Soundtrack: "Forever". Because some moments should play on loop for life. 

"Ain't it good to be alive"

So I recently attended my first concert of Six60 in Europe. I missed them when they played in Whangarei back in 2015, so I was almost in debt. I couldn't forgive myself that they played back then quite next to my place in Onerahi (another bit of heaven, but with a cat), so off I went. 

I seemed to be the only non-Kiwi among so many brews. And it went as it does in NZ. 
I must say, if you haven't lived in NZ, you have missed some life experience of humanity at its best side (most of the time and in contrast to some other places in the world).

I showed up alone, knowing the band is not a big thing in Europe. I was spotted by the Kiwis, at that point, lucky me. 
I was on the phone trying to send a some documents for a quotation (for my wee tiny bit of heaven to come).
I can't be grateful enough to the Kiwi who tapped my shoulder and said: "you seem busy, aye!", I explained I was trying to send some documents before the band came out as I didn't know anyone in the room. 
So, off he went and introduced me to all his brews and cuzzes. Then he added: "now you know somebody".
Lucky me and positively surprised to be accompanied for the night by a bunch of big Pasifika men, in my view, the highest expression of male beauty. So I had a tiny piece of heaven then and there. But aside of the greatness of a Polinesian bodybuild, they were, most importantly, beautiul inside. 

For a bit I really felt in NZ. The crowd gathered at the bar, sharing drinks in a vibe of community only comparable to the real Aotearoa. Laughs, but not the loud European ones, the melodic voice of Matiu and the feel of being with the whanau. 

Such a contrast to what I am used to, some sort of harmony reigned, a kind of "sweet as" feel. 
People came with kids, partners and lots of friends. Not a glass was thrown on the floor, no eyes met without a smile.

TUMEKE

AROHA
I sang along to Kia Mau Ki To Ukaipo, because, hell, I had been practising my Te Reo the whole week on the bike, at home and in the shower and wanted to pay my respects to the Maori culture.

 And cried. Because, as usual, I miss being on the right side of the world, down under, while on the wrong side, here, up above.

A post concert snapshot of what connection through music does to you.

I went through part of the soundtrack of my life Down Down Under and left silently after intruding for a short space of time into a piece of Kiwiana. 

If you haven't experienced New Zealand Roots music, your soul is missing a beat. Little is known about NZ and less about the musical abundance that have such a personal, distinctive flair.

And on my way back, on the ferry, still wiping tears, I had to accept I might not be trying hard enough, maybe "This wasn't meant for me". Am I right where I'm supposed to be?

I'll live just turning pages
well, I know it is worth the ride
Ain't it good to be alive.

Revelations from the Luminate tent

Winter 2017, Golden Bay. NZ. 

I had signed up to volunteer for a team of healers to find my call. As a healer myself I regret not really believing in less empirical or more spiritual forms of healing in order to make it an extra salary of something different and less physically demanding. 
 What I encountered there was the very face of my esceptic nature and a lot more vanity around than I could handle. 
If days were hard to ignore, nights were the worst. I'd sleep in a tent, and mind you, to have a bit of insulation I had bought an air mattress. I was sleeping in a second hand bag, old school made of wool, all my clothing on top, a blanket from a neighbour and the cape of the tarot reading witch who slept in a caravan. Still, the temperature would drop to under 5 degrees and I couldn't handle the cold, that was numbing my legs. I had pitched next to a bunch of Kiwis, who seemed nice enough. I had made friends with a guy in his 40s, with whom i could take walks in the woods instead of taking drugs, dancing to electro ear-raping noise or spending the night howling (must have been the drugs, people howled all night). During the day I would be, as usual, the responsible adult covering shifts for my "I'm so high this is awesome" co-volunteers, running around to make sure everyone had coffee and slowly dreading a vibe everyone loved but me. 
Moved from the Kiwis when a German pitched two days later in the middle of our tents with his car and his smelly joint smoking self. I had to go. 
I moved to the spot where the sun would hit last, to suffer the least during the night, when I would get muscle cramps and feel rusty, in pain, uneasy. I cried so many nights, while the vanity-ridden crowd howled and all I wanted was that it all ended.

Quan penses que el viatge ha valgut la pena, per aprendre,
la nit escup gel i  tremolor.

And when the noise, the smells and the sensations were unbearable, I would take my notebook and write mantras like:

What doesn't make you better doesn't serve you.
Aquest es llença, no es recicla.
Indiference will be your condemnation.

Damn! I really couldn't wait for it to end...

I was approached by many people daily, since I was there, arranging appointments for the healers, and the common question was: how are you enjoying this festival? My answer was: I can't wait for it to end. 
Nobody understood. 
In the meantime I attended a lot of workshops and made great contacts in the hopes to build an Earthship to raise a commune.  

Time went and possibilities dropped, contacts faded. 
I realise where I am now and how much distance you take from dreams, when you are struggling with reality. 

Sydney

Sydney, Sydney, Sydney, Sydney, Sydney, Sydney, Sydney, Sydney...
your name like a person, like it is alive.
And I feel for you like Neruda did in his poem 20. I don't love you any more, but when I loved you, my face searched every night the harbour sunset to tell you, each night, before the stars started to tremble above the harbour bridge, before the moon painted Diamond Bay silver, down the hill on Clairvaux road: this is the life I want.
I don't love you any more, true, but maybe I still love you. Love is so short, forgetting eternal.
Eternity. The word that shone on the bridge in 2000, at the change of millennial. I repeated that to myself: ETERNITY. This is where I want to be, each day, every day. Forever.

I landed in Australia in 1998, after a more than a 24 hour flight, sitting with eager people, checking facts, getting excited each mile.
I moved in Vicar Street, coackroach paradise, memory lane. My days were lazy, dragging on after alcohol abuse, party, lust in easy prays and poor sleep from loud roommates. I couldn't drag myself to uni, all I wanted was to go down the beach, feel the sand soft like flour. Run, drink pineaple with ginger, run some more. Swim. Love. Dance.
I found the love twice in Sydney, the life changing one. And I chose Sydney above them each time. But you are there, and I am here and I would choose you every time above anything, anyone.
I came back in 99, in 2000, in 2002 and in 2010 I had decided to stay. But I wasn't a good fit, you had better plans than me.
If I have been able to accept my life without you, everything else doesn't matter much.

Matrimoni

In the wake of a hope for a situation in my country of origin, any post of personal nature has been substituted by reflections on identity. 
I miss the emotional writer. I write constantly, and I don't seem to be able to publish one final cut. 

This post is per request. I started it one year ago and found it on the drafts. I hope I can convey the same that made my friend laugh about it. She asked me to write something about it.

This post is inspired by a friend of mine, Sílvia, who found hilarious a serious point of view I made about getting married.

Situation: I was hosting a heterosexual couple in the attic upstairs. The attic has a toilet attached, but the space is so little that you can really hear and smell what the other is doing there. I let them know that the door is only for decoration, but they will maybe have to tell each other to leave when it's time to do nr 2. 
They look understanding and with a broad smile tell me that they have known each other for ages. 
- "In fact, we are getting married next month!" they say, silly smile to each other, broad eyes towards me. I am all for enthusiasm for a new love, but marriage is an optional transaction to register it, an inexplicable excitement to sign a contract when the love has been there all along...

So I asked them out of curiosity if there were so long together why they had the need to get married. I understand gays doing it to make a statement on equality, but, isn't being happily together enough? What do they expect to change?

Their smile faded. They said: "guess it is an important stepping stone in our relationship" I said "I guess in the US you still do make a big deal out of proms, dating, the whole engagement stuff and marrying and it is has a social weight". Should be good to keep a consumers' economy going, it generates revenue. I didn't add the latter, but I thought so, I have always thought that the nuclear family is a Judeochristian invention with marriage as a pillar to create an economy based on blood ties instead of promoting a widen community, a whanau. 
I guess it works because it is easier to trust the people you create. 

I then had a time to ponder on it. And had Sílvia to be my interlocutor. I never understood forced commitment. My longest relationship was strongly based on individual freedom and communal sharing. And I am not talking about open relationships, here. I feel polyamory is the future of loving, balanced relationships and living arrangements. I am able to love two people with the same intensity, but only able to go to bed with one. Maybe catholic upbringing, but my good poly friend Mama J told me that I shouldn't be ashamed of being monogamous and heterosexual. It is an option like any other. 

I often wonder if marrying comes from a heteropatriarcal need of control and hence keeping the women as a possession rather than a companion or from a realistic need of control from the matriarchy to make sure the male doesn't sleep around as a warrant to the security of potential offsprings in the economy system or, a rational approach from a more biological drive that says out loud you want to perpetuate the species. Or a combination of all, or none. A statement for sure, nevertheless.

I don't criticise the contract, I just don't understand the hype. I would use the contract at any point for visa reasons, tax rebates or to make a close person your chaperon, to give legal powers on my patrimony (patrimony-matrimony???). But then it would have to be a right for all, and not only for couples, ceremony optional. What surprises me is that the Judeochristian background of exclusivity by right of sex has prevailed. 

However. And that was the silver lining of my reflection to Sílvia, maybe for some people it is a ceremony of leaving behind past sufferings, leaving a past behind and starting afresh with a (temporary or permanent) suitable partner, like a public "mise en scène" of a change of life, a public presentation of the 2.0 version. The ceremony is usually not of my taste, but I totally understand the intention. 

I sometimes hit myself in the head to try to understand what is that drives people to lock themselves in 4 walls to a coordinated co-living in Zweisamkeit. I did suffer a dip when trying to embrace it, because it seems a goal on itself for others, like the ultimate goal. Frustrated because I don't understand the dynamics and it turns into a big question mark in my head in loop until it makes no sense.

As an example, it comes to mind the very first time a guy asked me out, after 5 years of hanging out as friends, days after our first kiss. I didn't understand what he meant when he said: "do you want to go out with me?" "we are neighbours, we see each other everyday, we walk to class together, we play football together we can talk for hours and we've kissed, so if I say yes, what changes? Do I have to hold your hand? Go out only with you now and then to a stroll or to the cinema? pretend to be jealous if you look at other girls? Or make extra time to kiss some more?" 
We actually ended up having a physical fight. I kicked him in the balls, he hunched, I remember how he ran to his parents' house cursing at me. End of our affair. 
It took a while until we talked to each other again. 

I have been popped the  marriage question twice, and the one question that came right after, each time, was: 
What for?
I loved the honesty of one of them: "I want that it becomes illegal for you to sleep with other men", we were in a car, I was driving, and I almost cause an accident. Note he had been sleeping around, and I knew it, so hence the shock. The other, on his very knees, didn't come up with such a good answer to "what for?", he actually thought he was doing me a favour in a quite literal attempt to magically convert me into a breeder, his own agenda, not mine. 
There was a third time, historically and histrionically in love for 10 years and reunited, when the prospect of getting a resident visa became unclear, he said: "if you can't get one, we marry and that's it". 
-"cool", I said. 
Two weeks later I was running away with all my possessions, as I saw I was getting to the core of a rotten apple. But that is another chapter of the progressive grey/progressive pink book. I still don't know what title works better.

Last Christmas I had a deep conversation with my sister about the unquestionable nature of tradition. We question it, it is a convention that has no logical explanation, but people follow like gospel. We thought we maybe we were programmed in a different way. 

Día de la lengua materna en lengua co-materna

Querido/a monolingüe. 

No suelo escribir en castellano. Ni en mi blog ni, de momento, en mi territorio lingüístico. Lo uso por escrito en situaciones internacionales, cuando estoy en Latinoamérica o si tengo que escribir alguna cosa a alguna instancia en España, pero en general me alegro de poder usar mi lengua para expresarme.

Que vale, que quizás soy una de esas privilegiadas que habla varias lenguas con fluidez. Te voy a decir, en confidencia, que no gracias a la escuela. Y no porque no me enseñaran allí inglés o alemán. Si no porque factualmente es muy difícil asimilar una lengua si sólo la practicas 5 horas semanales y no está viva en la calle. Más si, en el caso de Europa, vives en un país grande que no tiene que adaptar su lengua a otros países, como España o Francia. Todavía peor si eres inglés. Tiene que ser difícil. 

Hasta aquí una reflexión sobre el aprendizaje de lenguas extranjeras. Por muchas que te pongan en el cole no vas a salir hablándolas y si lo tuyo no es la lingüística quizás ni llegues a entender su estructura. Te lo digo yo, que no sé ni hacer raíces cuadradas, divido con calculadora y sobrevivo sin apenas saber álgebra. Pero cualquier lengua te va a abrir la mente, te va a acercar a culturas, te va a estimular a querer conocerlas.

Dear monolingual, como catalana catalanoparlante, en el caso de la enseñanza o los servicios públicos no se trata de imponer ninguna lengua. Se trata de usarla con normalidad. Y aunque me parezca anacrónico (que nos pase esto a estas alturas en una España que en realidad debería ser plurilingüe) se trata de defenderla, sobre todo, de personas como tú. 

Catalunya ha luchado años por recuperar su lengua en ámbitos públicos. Yo, aún en los 80, en primaria, aprendía que en mi territorio lingüístico los catalanoparlantes éramos diglósicos. 
Usábamos el castellano para el ámbito público y el catalán para el privado. Cuántas veces he oídi a la señora catalana ir a la panadería y pedir en castellano. Resquicios...

En mis años de primaria quedaba rastro del Quico, las clases se daban mayoritariamente en castellano aunque algunas de mis profes tenían un acento catalán que tiraba p'atrás. Pero es que a ellas se lo prohibieron en la escuela, y les costaba escribirlo. Como a mis padres, o a mi abuela. Recuerdo cómo le enviaba postales a mi abuela de mis viajes por el mundo y ella me respondía cartas en castellano, disculpándose de que no pudo aprender a escribir catalán en la escuela. Mis padres se esfuerzan mucho en escribirlo, tampoco lo aprendieron. 
Como lingüista lo encuentro un robo a la cultura y a la identidad. Pero todas las regiones del Estado Español sufrieron las consecuencias post guerra civil. Cerremos capítulo. Pasemos página.

Liebe(r) Einsprachige. Desde su última prohibición se ha ido recuperando la lengua catalana en un proceso de normalización. Normalizar quiere decir "dejar ser", que forme parte de la vida pública también. A ver si ser competente en una lengua para atender a los hablantes de su territorio va a ser opcional. Hace poco me pidieron alemán para trabajar en el sector privado en Barcelona. Pero a mis compis de trabajo alemanes no les pidieron ni español (inglés sí). No trabajan cara al público. Impensable si tienen que atender a gente en un territorio donde se hablan otras lenguas aparte del alemán, ¿no? 'Pos' eso. 

Me acuerdo que hace unos años fui de vacaciones a las Canarias, al Sur, y entré a buscar postales en una tiendecilla de playa. La chica que me atendió sólo sabía inglés, no me entendía. Me quedé estupefacta y me fui. Que conste que hablo inglés perfectamente. Fue una cuestión de ética lingüística, porque patriotismo español, poco... 

Si me centro en Catalunya, en su ciudad más popular, Barcelona, ésta atrae a muchas personas por motivos laborales, pero también culturales; gente que se enamora de la ciudad, del Mediterráneo o de algun(a) residente y se aventura. Entiendo que haya personas que por proyecto, prioridades o trabajo estén de paso. Entiendo que si a algunos extranjeros ya les cuesta aprender castellano, el catalán les de bastante igual. Tema práctico. 
En Amsterdam, donde tengo la residencia base, sin ir más lejos, somos tantos los de fuera que no hace ni falta aprender neerlandés, con el inglés basta. Es más, por ser una ciudad internacional, los nativos se molestan poco en hablar holandés a los no nativos. Mucha gente como yo que se esfuerza en comunicarse en neerlandés lamentan el poco esfuerzo que hacen los nativos. A otros les parece fantástico. Los nativos me dicen que si hablan en inglés se ahorran tiempo y esfuerzo. Mira tú. El efecto Amsterdam. Pero la escuela pública es en neerlandés, en Amsterdam también, no te flipes.

Yo por esta razón siempre intento hablar a alguien de fuera en mi idioma: para darles la oportunidad. En Catalunya me dirijo a todo el mundo que trabaja cara al público en catalán. Si no me entienden lo explico. Ayudo. Si me lo piden cambio de lengua. He vivido en diferentes países. Sé que no hablar la lengua de un país te priva de oprtunidades. Sé que en Catalunya podrían pasar con castellano, pero les va a cerrar acceso a otras oportunidades y sobre todo, a conocer e integrarse a la cultura de otra región. Ahora viene lo de "¡es que estamos en España!", pues entonces, si ese es un argumento, no te extrañes que algunos queramos salir a crear uno nuevo donde el catalán (y algunas cositas más) tengan derechos por el hecho de ser "país"... 

Lieve eentalig(e), en general a los catalanoparlantes nos da igual si nos hablas en castellano. Te entendemos y como bilingües, te lo hablamos también. Pero si has traído a tus hijos, o los has concebido aquí, privarles del catalán en la escuela es privarles de riqueza cultural, de oportunidades, de que sus jóvenes cerebros aprendan a reproducir fonemas que no existen en castellano y sí en otras lenguas, a entender una gramática que no sólo les armará de capacidad lingüística si  no que les proporcionará apertura de cerebro, les abrirá la mente para aprender otras lenguas con más facilidad. Para muestra, un botón: cuando estudiaba en Barcelona, teníamos estudiantes que venían de regiones del Estado Español. Se les facilitaba el aprendizaje en catalán, uni pública. En el 95% de los casos acabábamos echándonos cañas en el bar con los estudiantes vascos, que al mes se animaban a participar en conversaciones en catalán. Parece que a los de otras regiones les costaba más. No era cuestión de aptitud, si no de mentalidad.

No se impone la enseñanza del catalán en las escuelas. Se usa con normalidad. El castellano ocupa el 80% del día a día de un catalanoparlante, de un castellanoparlante el 99%. No se va a perder nunca.
Cuando un padre quiere que un hijo estudie en una escuela con otro idioma no-vehicular (escuela inglesa, alemana, internacional), paga por el servicio. Lo paga porque es un "extra". Seguro que hay escuelas en Cataluña donde impartan en castellano si no te interesa la realidad o la inmersión lingüística. Con suerte hasta concertadas. Padres monolingües: estáis pidiendo un servicio privado en la escuela pública. La de los recortes... Profes de catalunya: es como si os dijeran que vuestras opos les importa un mojón.

Mon cher/ ma chère monolingue, give it up, nos ha costado demasiado recuperar una lengua para que ahora nos la arrebaten de la vida pública y nos la vengas a ningunear tú con tu lengua megamasiva internacional.
Sólo tengo que abrir Twitter para leer a personas que quieren privar a sus hijos de ese derecho. Me pregunto si somos dueños del destino de nuestros hijos. Si cuando decides vivir con ellos en otro país o territorio querrás que vivan conforme a la realidad que les quieres crear. No tengas miedo, la cultura no hace daño. Obre els ulls. El régimen ya acabó. Parece que vuelva con el 155. Est-ce que ce monde est sérieux? chacho, ¡ya! 

Estimat/Estimada monolingüe. A aquestes alçades de la civilització, si us plau, deixem ja la intolerància, obrim els ulls i respectem la realitat lingüística i cultural. Si no t'hi vols integrar, les teves raons tindràs. Però ja ha patit prou l'educació perquè encara la baixem més de nivell. Defenso tota llegua, minoritària o no. Resulta que en parlo una de minoritària i dia a dia veig com un govern monocultural la vol reduir a un nivell anecdòtic. Em toca d'aprop. Per a mi és un atac als drets humans.

I a tots aquells, parleu la que parleu, to all, whichever language you might speak: 

https://en.unesco.org/international-days/international-mother-language-day

Feliç dia de la llengua materna a tothom!