My greasy index finger betrayed me. This will teach me never to eat chunky chips AND use Tinder at the same time.
I accidentally swiped left.
My plan, however, was to swipe right at such speed that not even the fly in my background could suspect, for a second, that I fancied Steve. (real name)
As I lick my finger clean, tragedy strikes: me and Steve are a match.
Oh, God. Oh, well.
Quickly, it becomes apparent that me and Steve have something in common: we both like food.
I am very intuitive, I just need to look at someone's face to understand their likes or dislikes. I am gifted.
The fact that Steve's belly is desperately trying to escape a grease-smeared vest is a little give away.
The fact that, in his profile picture, he's savaging a kebab with the same intensity with which a shark slaughters a baby seal, is a slight confirmation.
My first impression is then totally confirmed by the sight of lamb juice dribbling down his chin (well, one of many, actually) and landing on a good pair of man boobs.
Steve loves his food. I'm on to a winner.
As I wonder what could possibly push a man with a healthy brain to believe that such image could turn any woman (who's not in the kebab industry) on, I receive a message. From him.
"Hey babes".
"Hey"
"Sup?"
"U mean soup?
"No, babes. Sup = what's up?"
"Ah"
"How are you babes? "
"After seeing your picture, hungry"
Steve unmatches me within seconds.
Oh, God. Oh, well.
I continue my "window shopping".
I swipe right, then right, then right.
Until I see Tom's face. (real name).
He's just my type! He's blonde, with blue eyes, reassuringly chubby. Swipe right.
In his profile picture, he's holding a puppy (95 points). In the background, a motorbike (85 points).
I am very intuitive. All I need to do is look at his face and know, just know that he's the one for me.
His eyes are kind, his face gentle, he's the kind of man who would never disappoint me and would always talk to me with the greatest of respect. I am gifted. I know these things.
Im thinking of how to introduce him to my mum during the next family holiday, and the miracle happens. Me and Tom are a match! See? I told you!
As I start sketching my wedding dress , he sends me a message.
"Hey, you. Fancy a fuck?"
Oh God. Oh, well.
Plenty of fish in the goddamn sea! I think cheerfully to myself.
And I am right.
Karim (real name) is 39 y.o. and he's just my type. He's dark, with dark brown eyes, very slim. Swipe right.
In his profile picture, he's holding a glass of champagne (75 points). His background, a fancy restaurant (67 points).
We are an immediate match. Future is looking bright!
"Ho, hon, prety girl"
"......"
"prety girl, why no answerr, whot you are doing? Plaing with yoursel?"
"......"
"prety girl, you spit o swallow?"
"At your face, Karim? Most definitely, spit".
Oh, God. Oh, well.
When I start thinking that there is nobody, out there for me, I come across Jack (real name).
He is just my type. He's bold. And black. We match !And within seconds, he sends me a message.
"10 inches"
Oh, God. Oh well.
I take a little break from Tinder. I need to rest my index finger and finish my chunky chips.
I Google important things: "learn how to knit in 24 hours"; "how to survive the old age by being alone and unloved"; "grow your own vegetables despite not having a fucking garden"; "why do men over 40 always lose their hair but gain a belly". Nah. Back on Tinder.
As I am coming to the conclusion that maybe (just maybe), I shall not find the man of my dreams on Tinder, I see Joshua (real name). And he's just my type. He's ginger and his face is covered with freckles. In his profile picture, he's holding the hand of a little ginger girl (oh, shit. That's -90 points. He's got baggage). His background, an enormous villa (ding! ding! 110 points).
Of course, we are a match. Yawn.
Of course, a message arrives within seconds. Zzzzz.
Here we go again.
"Hi,there, darling. How very refreshing to come across a lady like you, with such an open, smiley face. I love the way you look at the camera, like you own the world!
I'm sorry if I sound pushy, but I really would like to meet you.
I am around your area tomorrow night. may I invite you for dinner? You chose time and place. Obviously it's my treat :)"
"Hey, Josh, are you fucking high on acid?"
"......"
"Joshua?"
"......"
"Joshua?! Im free, FREE tomorrow!"
"......"
"Joshua"
Oh, God. Oh, well.
Sunday, 12 June 2016
Thursday, 8 October 2015
Turning 40. What now?
The time has arrived.
I turned 40.
What now?
Well, now it's time to realise that my older friends who, in the past, assured me that "40's are the new 20's", were, in fact, feeding me the the biggest bullshit in the history of human kind. Thanks for that.
40's are NOT the new 20's, I can now tell you that, dear friends.
To begin with, your boobs, when you are 20, look UP. They look like rose buds and they point towards the sky.... 20 years later, the roses turn into prunes. And they aim at the pavement more than they do at sky. Great.
When you're 20, buying bras is not a necessity. It's a hobby.
These days, more than a bra I need a scaffolding. And even with a scaffolding, my boobs could not look up. Sideways, with a little bit of luck, but certainly not up.
I'm not one to give up without a fight, I tried:
A) the so called chicken fillets, placed in the bra in the beginning of the evening and found on the dance floor, covered in beer and vomit, at the end of the night;
B) rubber bands strategically placed around your breasts and attached to your ears;
C) super glue, smeared on the nipples and then attached to a sexy top, hoping they stay put.
I am ever so sorry to announce: neither of the above did work. Scaffolding it is, then.
Here's what happens when you're forty: you realise that gravity is a bitch. A bigger bitch that I ever was in my twenties, if that's even possible.
When you're 20, you make heads turn.. At 40, heads still turn, but chances are, they turn to see the younger women behind you.The ones who buy bras as a hobby .The Sluts.
Not all is lost, however! Women in their 40's can still get a lot of attention. My advice is to wear bright red lipstick, a skimpy skirt and nonchalantly walk past a building site, possibly during the builders' lunch break.. I guarantee you, it works wonders for a quick ego boost.
Here's what happens when you turn 40: you realise you can still be choosy with friends you hang out with, with the food you eat and the booze you drink. But, (you guessed it), you can't be as choosy when it comes to fulfilling one night stands....
I mentioned booze...ah, the booze.When you are 20, you can handle alcohol. Boy, I certainly could! The beer would start flowing on Friday afternoon and would only stop by Sunday evening,
Only then, with my make up intact and walking carelessly with no shoes, I would dance my way home.
By Monday morning I would wake up full of energy ,with no hang over, rosy cheeks, and several new contact numbers in my phone.
At 40, (and I have tears in my eyes, as I type this) you can no longer drink as much as you used to. (sob). Doing a "pub crawl" means you will be crawling straight from the pub onto an ambulance.
If you drink more than two pints, you will end up spending more time in the toilet than with your friends,and people will think you are the toilet attendant and will demand lollipops and tampons from you. In fact, you'd better to always keep a stash in your handbag, just in case.
After my 40th birthday, I woke up in the morning and I was grey. Rosy cheeks? My ass.
The only color came form my eyes: deep red, courtesy of several veins burst, as I puked my own bile into the toilet.(That was when people realised I was NOT the toilet attendant, after all).
And how about waking up the morning after, feeling full of energy and with no hangover? Ha! A piece of dog shit squashed by an army of filthy pigs would have had more energy.....
I woke up in my bed (this also did not happen often when I was in my twenties), managed to open one single eye (the other was kept shut by the surviving fake eyelash) and reached for my phone...surely, I had at least one new exciting contact number from the night before, right?!
I might be 40, but I am still hot, right?! Even if I need a scaffolding to hold my prunes, I can still end up with exciting new contact numbers in my phone, after a night out, right?! Right?!
And sure enough, I did have. Under the letter "B". "Booze Brothers- Speedy Delivery".
Here's what you also learn at 40: time goes by, beauty fades, heads might not turn as often and gravity fucks with your life, but the ardent desire to enjoy life and cherish every moment of joy, never, ever ages.
I like this concept. I think I'll drink to that.
I turned 40.
What now?
Well, now it's time to realise that my older friends who, in the past, assured me that "40's are the new 20's", were, in fact, feeding me the the biggest bullshit in the history of human kind. Thanks for that.
40's are NOT the new 20's, I can now tell you that, dear friends.
To begin with, your boobs, when you are 20, look UP. They look like rose buds and they point towards the sky.... 20 years later, the roses turn into prunes. And they aim at the pavement more than they do at sky. Great.
When you're 20, buying bras is not a necessity. It's a hobby.
These days, more than a bra I need a scaffolding. And even with a scaffolding, my boobs could not look up. Sideways, with a little bit of luck, but certainly not up.
I'm not one to give up without a fight, I tried:
A) the so called chicken fillets, placed in the bra in the beginning of the evening and found on the dance floor, covered in beer and vomit, at the end of the night;
B) rubber bands strategically placed around your breasts and attached to your ears;
C) super glue, smeared on the nipples and then attached to a sexy top, hoping they stay put.
I am ever so sorry to announce: neither of the above did work. Scaffolding it is, then.
Here's what happens when you're forty: you realise that gravity is a bitch. A bigger bitch that I ever was in my twenties, if that's even possible.
When you're 20, you make heads turn.. At 40, heads still turn, but chances are, they turn to see the younger women behind you.The ones who buy bras as a hobby .The Sluts.
Not all is lost, however! Women in their 40's can still get a lot of attention. My advice is to wear bright red lipstick, a skimpy skirt and nonchalantly walk past a building site, possibly during the builders' lunch break.. I guarantee you, it works wonders for a quick ego boost.
Here's what happens when you turn 40: you realise you can still be choosy with friends you hang out with, with the food you eat and the booze you drink. But, (you guessed it), you can't be as choosy when it comes to fulfilling one night stands....
I mentioned booze...ah, the booze.When you are 20, you can handle alcohol. Boy, I certainly could! The beer would start flowing on Friday afternoon and would only stop by Sunday evening,
Only then, with my make up intact and walking carelessly with no shoes, I would dance my way home.
By Monday morning I would wake up full of energy ,with no hang over, rosy cheeks, and several new contact numbers in my phone.
At 40, (and I have tears in my eyes, as I type this) you can no longer drink as much as you used to. (sob). Doing a "pub crawl" means you will be crawling straight from the pub onto an ambulance.
If you drink more than two pints, you will end up spending more time in the toilet than with your friends,and people will think you are the toilet attendant and will demand lollipops and tampons from you. In fact, you'd better to always keep a stash in your handbag, just in case.
After my 40th birthday, I woke up in the morning and I was grey. Rosy cheeks? My ass.
The only color came form my eyes: deep red, courtesy of several veins burst, as I puked my own bile into the toilet.(That was when people realised I was NOT the toilet attendant, after all).
And how about waking up the morning after, feeling full of energy and with no hangover? Ha! A piece of dog shit squashed by an army of filthy pigs would have had more energy.....
I woke up in my bed (this also did not happen often when I was in my twenties), managed to open one single eye (the other was kept shut by the surviving fake eyelash) and reached for my phone...surely, I had at least one new exciting contact number from the night before, right?!
I might be 40, but I am still hot, right?! Even if I need a scaffolding to hold my prunes, I can still end up with exciting new contact numbers in my phone, after a night out, right?! Right?!
And sure enough, I did have. Under the letter "B". "Booze Brothers- Speedy Delivery".
Here's what you also learn at 40: time goes by, beauty fades, heads might not turn as often and gravity fucks with your life, but the ardent desire to enjoy life and cherish every moment of joy, never, ever ages.
I like this concept. I think I'll drink to that.
Monday, 9 March 2015
Knock knock....who's there?
I've had enough of cakes.
I.Have.Had. Enough. Of cakes.
I've never had a sweet tooth, you know. Not even when I was young. Sweets give me the shits. Sugar gets stuck in my dentures and it's very, very bad for my diabetes.
I love pies, I do! Steak and ale? Yes, please! Mushroom pie? Any time!
The little bugger knows that all that sugar might kill me, oh yes, she does! But what does she bring, every single fucking day? Cakes.
She crosses the woods, unaware of the perils, wearing that hideous, little red riding hood I would not wear at a fancy dress if they'd pay me.
With a silly smile printed on that cute, annoying little face, she turns up at my door step every single day. And it's always the same story.
knock -knock.
"who's there?"
"It's me, grandma. Little Red Riding Hood. I brought you a cake to make you feel better".
Oh, fuck. Not again.
Why not bring a trashy magazine, for once? Or a pie? She knows I love pies!
And where on earth does she find the time to pop by every day? Doesn't she go to school? Doesn't she have homework to do? Doesn't she know more annoying brats like her to hang out with?
She's an evil, crafty little bitch and I cannot believe I am the only one who understands her cunning plan! She's feeding me all these cakes because she knows all this sugar will eventually kill me.
I am diabetic, you know, sugar will kill me!
She's after the inheritance, that's what she's after! She thinks I will leave everything to her, since she's my only grandchild. As if!
She doesn't know I have already made a will. Once I'm gone, well, I have left everything I own to my lovely neighbour, Mr Wolf.
He's such a good hunter, you know. For months he's been giving me the most gorgeous fresh meat to fill my daily pies. Not ONCE has he brought me cakes.
He knows sugar might kill me. He also know that once I'm gone, he will receive a fortune. He is ever so grateful!
He keeps me company. He asks a lot of questions. Mainly about my will. He is so interested in me and I feel less alone....
Oh. Someone s knocking at the door.
That must be him.
I'd better go.
He is so thoughtful. He knows my granddaughter will be here any time soon. He's really looking forward to meet her.
He said he's got a surprise.
It must be a pie.
I.Have.Had. Enough. Of cakes.
I've never had a sweet tooth, you know. Not even when I was young. Sweets give me the shits. Sugar gets stuck in my dentures and it's very, very bad for my diabetes.
I love pies, I do! Steak and ale? Yes, please! Mushroom pie? Any time!
The little bugger knows that all that sugar might kill me, oh yes, she does! But what does she bring, every single fucking day? Cakes.
She crosses the woods, unaware of the perils, wearing that hideous, little red riding hood I would not wear at a fancy dress if they'd pay me.
With a silly smile printed on that cute, annoying little face, she turns up at my door step every single day. And it's always the same story.
knock -knock.
"who's there?"
"It's me, grandma. Little Red Riding Hood. I brought you a cake to make you feel better".
Oh, fuck. Not again.
Why not bring a trashy magazine, for once? Or a pie? She knows I love pies!
And where on earth does she find the time to pop by every day? Doesn't she go to school? Doesn't she have homework to do? Doesn't she know more annoying brats like her to hang out with?
She's an evil, crafty little bitch and I cannot believe I am the only one who understands her cunning plan! She's feeding me all these cakes because she knows all this sugar will eventually kill me.
I am diabetic, you know, sugar will kill me!
She's after the inheritance, that's what she's after! She thinks I will leave everything to her, since she's my only grandchild. As if!
She doesn't know I have already made a will. Once I'm gone, well, I have left everything I own to my lovely neighbour, Mr Wolf.
He's such a good hunter, you know. For months he's been giving me the most gorgeous fresh meat to fill my daily pies. Not ONCE has he brought me cakes.
He knows sugar might kill me. He also know that once I'm gone, he will receive a fortune. He is ever so grateful!
He keeps me company. He asks a lot of questions. Mainly about my will. He is so interested in me and I feel less alone....
Oh. Someone s knocking at the door.
That must be him.
I'd better go.
He is so thoughtful. He knows my granddaughter will be here any time soon. He's really looking forward to meet her.
He said he's got a surprise.
It must be a pie.
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
I'm not so hot Down Under
After my disastrous experience at the recent step classes, (see previous blog entry, "It's warm Down Under") I decided not to let my lack of coordination rule my life and shatter my confidence, so I gave a dance class another go.
What a success that was! I was by far the most coordinated, firmest and fittest of them all! All the other ladies could not stop staring at me! I stood out!
It did pop into my mind that choosing a "dance class for Senior" would be a little bit like cheating and I was bound to be noticed for being the only lady under 70 years old, but hey! I needed a confidence boost! And what better place to go than a dance class full of great-grandmothers?
No firm butts there, guaranteed. And not many coordinated dancers either, to be honest.
For once, I appeared to be the only one who still remembered the difference between turning right or left and the simple fact that my boobs didn't slap the laminate floor at each jump, filled me with utter joy.
In fact, I was so full of joy that I added some free style break dance moves to my dance routine. Just to show off the power of my young-ish ligaments.
These days I have a lot of time in my hands. A little too much. I try to fill those long boring hours by doing every thing I possibly can.
I took up gardening. For an entire day. Then I rememberd that Australia's back gardens are home of the deadliest spiders in the world, so I bought plastic plants and started looking after them, instead.
It was fun for a while, but then after watering them every night, they somehow started to rot and the fun stopped.
I stumbled upon the world of loyalty cards. That has been way more successful.
Every day I fill in forms, after forms, after forms.
And after several months spent in Australia, I have more loyalty cards than friends. In fact I discovered that those plastic cards are, indeed, more loyal than most friends.
I collect points when I buy cucumbers. I collect points when I make phone calls (not many points collected so far: I have no friends, therefore I have no one to call). I collect points when I recommend a friend (zero points so far, see above) , I collect points when I sleep, when I poo, when I breathe, I collect points for swearing! (millions of fucking points for that).
I even collect points when I buy fuel, which is not very rewarding because, since I don't drive, I don't buy fuel...but one day I might take up driving! And when that happens, I already have a loyalty card!
What I love the most about loyalty cards is that each of them includes a monthly statement.
I love receiving statements! Every morning I wait by the window and when I see the friendly-faced postman approaching, I run towards him and hug him. He has never, so far, returned my hugs, but that might just be because of the cultural barrier.
Strangely, I noticed that the postman no longer comes daily to my house. I know in my heart that this has got nothing to do with the fact that I force him to hug me, every time he delivers the mail.
I know it must be because of the Government cuts. They are cutting the salaries of those friendly postmen! So they only deliver half of the post and they only deliver to the houses located closer to their offices. I don't blame them. It's not their fault. It is MY fault for not living closer to the Post Office.
Since these days I receive my post just once every other month when I'm lucky, when I actually receive something, it is a great reason to celebrate and be jolly.
When I get to the the mail box and I find a statement addressed to me, I scream :"Someone looooooves me!". I say that very loud, so that my neighbours hear me and they believe I'm a very popular person and I have someone who loves me.
Actually, what am I saying? I do have someone who loves me. I was told just the other day.
Someone knocked at my door and I literally jumped out of bed to open it. I could not believe I could finally talk to a living creature who had no wings nor ariels, for once, ! I had to take this precious opportunity quickly!
It was a Jehovah Witness. He looked at me and said: "Jesus is your friend. Jesus loves you".
I was so happy. I knew there was someone out there who loved me!
I asked the man if Jesus was willing to keep me company. He said:" Jesus is always with you". I asked if Jesus was willing to fill forms with me. He gave me a bad look and left. I guess Jesus does not believe in reward schemes.Go figure.
What a success that was! I was by far the most coordinated, firmest and fittest of them all! All the other ladies could not stop staring at me! I stood out!
It did pop into my mind that choosing a "dance class for Senior" would be a little bit like cheating and I was bound to be noticed for being the only lady under 70 years old, but hey! I needed a confidence boost! And what better place to go than a dance class full of great-grandmothers?
No firm butts there, guaranteed. And not many coordinated dancers either, to be honest.
For once, I appeared to be the only one who still remembered the difference between turning right or left and the simple fact that my boobs didn't slap the laminate floor at each jump, filled me with utter joy.
In fact, I was so full of joy that I added some free style break dance moves to my dance routine. Just to show off the power of my young-ish ligaments.
These days I have a lot of time in my hands. A little too much. I try to fill those long boring hours by doing every thing I possibly can.
I took up gardening. For an entire day. Then I rememberd that Australia's back gardens are home of the deadliest spiders in the world, so I bought plastic plants and started looking after them, instead.
It was fun for a while, but then after watering them every night, they somehow started to rot and the fun stopped.
I stumbled upon the world of loyalty cards. That has been way more successful.
Every day I fill in forms, after forms, after forms.
And after several months spent in Australia, I have more loyalty cards than friends. In fact I discovered that those plastic cards are, indeed, more loyal than most friends.
I collect points when I buy cucumbers. I collect points when I make phone calls (not many points collected so far: I have no friends, therefore I have no one to call). I collect points when I recommend a friend (zero points so far, see above) , I collect points when I sleep, when I poo, when I breathe, I collect points for swearing! (millions of fucking points for that).
I even collect points when I buy fuel, which is not very rewarding because, since I don't drive, I don't buy fuel...but one day I might take up driving! And when that happens, I already have a loyalty card!
What I love the most about loyalty cards is that each of them includes a monthly statement.
I love receiving statements! Every morning I wait by the window and when I see the friendly-faced postman approaching, I run towards him and hug him. He has never, so far, returned my hugs, but that might just be because of the cultural barrier.
Strangely, I noticed that the postman no longer comes daily to my house. I know in my heart that this has got nothing to do with the fact that I force him to hug me, every time he delivers the mail.
I know it must be because of the Government cuts. They are cutting the salaries of those friendly postmen! So they only deliver half of the post and they only deliver to the houses located closer to their offices. I don't blame them. It's not their fault. It is MY fault for not living closer to the Post Office.
Since these days I receive my post just once every other month when I'm lucky, when I actually receive something, it is a great reason to celebrate and be jolly.
When I get to the the mail box and I find a statement addressed to me, I scream :"Someone looooooves me!". I say that very loud, so that my neighbours hear me and they believe I'm a very popular person and I have someone who loves me.
Actually, what am I saying? I do have someone who loves me. I was told just the other day.
Someone knocked at my door and I literally jumped out of bed to open it. I could not believe I could finally talk to a living creature who had no wings nor ariels, for once, ! I had to take this precious opportunity quickly!
It was a Jehovah Witness. He looked at me and said: "Jesus is your friend. Jesus loves you".
I was so happy. I knew there was someone out there who loved me!
I asked the man if Jesus was willing to keep me company. He said:" Jesus is always with you". I asked if Jesus was willing to fill forms with me. He gave me a bad look and left. I guess Jesus does not believe in reward schemes.Go figure.
Thursday, 31 October 2013
It's warm Down Under
Australians are tall. True, compared to me even Taiwanese seem tall, but Australians really are tall.
If you meet a short Australian man, chances are, he has Italian blood. Or Taiwanese.
Australian men shave their legs. First thing I did, after noticing their shiny, silky legs, was to buy a new razor. Under no circumstances I will accept any man around me whose legs are smoother than mine.
With or without hair, noticing legs is unavoidable, here. Virtually everyone walks around in shorts, including those women who, in my humble opinion, their huge sausage legs should chop off, not show off. I do love huge sausages, but not when they are attached to female bodies.
When they speak, Australians seem to put emphasis to the end of each sentence, so that every statement sounds like a question. I keep being confused about when and how to answer. When someone says: "it s a beautiful day, today?", I wonder : does he want me to answer that? Or is he telling me? And either way, of course it s a beautiful day, we are in Australia. Australia! Not England. People don't have grey skin here! People still have hope in the functionality of umbrellas, here! Look at those smooth male legs, so shiny that the sun reflects on them! (Yes, they have 'sun' here). We can only be in Australia.
This country is EXPENSIVE . In fact, it s so expensive that even after 2 months of me being here, I still say : "are you absolutely sure you re not mistaken?! Hand on heart?! Promise to God?!" to every single cashier who serves me in the shops.
And each time, I look at my purse, clinging onto it, with eyes filled with tears as I reluctantly hand over note after note....and I only bought a pint of milk, for God' s sake! Does my pint come with an entire cow attached to it? And is a horny young farmer (whose legs are unshaven) attached to the cow which is attached to my oh-so-expensive pint of milk?! But no. No cow is ever attached. And most certainly no horny farmer either. So I started drinking my coffee black.
Everything 'fun' is expensive. Cigarettes? Man, they re so pricey that these days I collect grass from my back yard, dry it in the sun (have I mentioned they have 'sun' here?), roll it in toilet paper and smoke it. And since toilet paper is so bloody expensive, I can only use it to make cigarettes but then I have to wipe my ass with my bare hands.
Drinking alcohol? You are having a laugh. These days I get tipsy by drinking glass cleaner. You need to drink quite a lot of it, to be honest, but you should see how shiny my teeth are! (My window are filthy, but you can't have it all).
So if you want to have fun in Australia by smoking or drinking excessively, quite frankly, you re fucked. The Government will punish you for wanting to get shit faced! I think they even have a tax here, called "the Shit faced tax", but I'm not so sure.
Bottom line is: in a Country where the sun shines bright every day (as you might know by now), where beautiful beaches are scattered everywhere, where the grass is always green (until I smoke it), who would want to have fun with the aid of harmful substances? Well, me.
Since I refuse to pay the "Shit faced tax", I'm trying to have fun in a healthy way. I have spent time in parks and beaches, but even this, per se, create problems: parks make me want to smoke joints and beaches make me want to drink beers.
Thank fuck it s sunny. (It really is).
Drinking copious amount of glass cleaner made me put on weight, so I joined a gym.
Yes! You guessed it! Gyms are expensive too, but very, very effective: after you pay the membership fees, you' re left with no money to spend on food and you lose weight. Effective!
Since I no longer have crazy Friday nights, I no longer wake up on Saturday mornings looking like Michael Jackson in Thriller, wondering where I left my phone/my head/my underwear.
These day I wake up and my phone is on the bed side table, my head is firmly attached to my shoulders and my underwear....well, that really depends, actually.
Anyhow, I wake up SOBER and I walk to my gym as early as 7 am.
If you walk at 7 am on a Saturday morning in England, you re likely to come across women who wear only one stiletto shoe, wearing glittery tops stained with their own vomit and a single, sad, oversize fake eyelash clinging on to a mascara smeared eyelid.
In my neighbourhood, all you see at 7 am on a Saturday, is happy people jogging. Tall, fit men with smooth legs, accompanied by skinny, fresh faced women with bouncing pony tails, all wearing high tech jogging gear and fluorescent Nike trainers.
Everyone looks so fit! And happy! And so full of energy! Fuckers.
Since I'm known all over the world for being a spectacular dancer, I confidently chose the "Step Class" as my first ever gym class. The concept is simple: you dance around a step. I am GREAT at dancing around steps. Steps have been my friends for as long as I remember!
I walked into the class room with the same confidence Beyonce shows when coming out on a stage. "Move your fluorescent trainers on the side, bitches! The stage is mine!".
The instructor was an Asian woman who looked a little on the heavy side.
I thought : "look at this chubby lady, she thinks she can shake it like me?"; then she announced she was due to give birth in less than a week and I felt like a twat.
Could she shake it? Oh yes, she could. Could I? Oh no, I bloody could not.
My friend the step betrayed me and 3 lousy minutes into the dance routine I couldn't, in the name of God, follow once single dance movement.
When everyone was going UP, I would be going LEFT. And when I finally understood that I was supposed to go LEFT, everyone was going RIGHT.
So I gave up, but instead of admitting defeat and leave the class (and keep some of my dignity), I stubbornly stood there, going up and down my bastard step, following my own personal dance routine, under the astonished look of several bitches with bouncy pony tails. "Don't mind me, bitches, I'm having the time of my life!".
After class I decided I'll start weight lifting, instead. After all, I'm known around the world for being a spectacular weight lifter. Nothing could ever go wrong. Could it?.
If you meet a short Australian man, chances are, he has Italian blood. Or Taiwanese.
Australian men shave their legs. First thing I did, after noticing their shiny, silky legs, was to buy a new razor. Under no circumstances I will accept any man around me whose legs are smoother than mine.
With or without hair, noticing legs is unavoidable, here. Virtually everyone walks around in shorts, including those women who, in my humble opinion, their huge sausage legs should chop off, not show off. I do love huge sausages, but not when they are attached to female bodies.
When they speak, Australians seem to put emphasis to the end of each sentence, so that every statement sounds like a question. I keep being confused about when and how to answer. When someone says: "it s a beautiful day, today?", I wonder : does he want me to answer that? Or is he telling me? And either way, of course it s a beautiful day, we are in Australia. Australia! Not England. People don't have grey skin here! People still have hope in the functionality of umbrellas, here! Look at those smooth male legs, so shiny that the sun reflects on them! (Yes, they have 'sun' here). We can only be in Australia.
This country is EXPENSIVE . In fact, it s so expensive that even after 2 months of me being here, I still say : "are you absolutely sure you re not mistaken?! Hand on heart?! Promise to God?!" to every single cashier who serves me in the shops.
And each time, I look at my purse, clinging onto it, with eyes filled with tears as I reluctantly hand over note after note....and I only bought a pint of milk, for God' s sake! Does my pint come with an entire cow attached to it? And is a horny young farmer (whose legs are unshaven) attached to the cow which is attached to my oh-so-expensive pint of milk?! But no. No cow is ever attached. And most certainly no horny farmer either. So I started drinking my coffee black.
Everything 'fun' is expensive. Cigarettes? Man, they re so pricey that these days I collect grass from my back yard, dry it in the sun (have I mentioned they have 'sun' here?), roll it in toilet paper and smoke it. And since toilet paper is so bloody expensive, I can only use it to make cigarettes but then I have to wipe my ass with my bare hands.
Drinking alcohol? You are having a laugh. These days I get tipsy by drinking glass cleaner. You need to drink quite a lot of it, to be honest, but you should see how shiny my teeth are! (My window are filthy, but you can't have it all).
So if you want to have fun in Australia by smoking or drinking excessively, quite frankly, you re fucked. The Government will punish you for wanting to get shit faced! I think they even have a tax here, called "the Shit faced tax", but I'm not so sure.
Bottom line is: in a Country where the sun shines bright every day (as you might know by now), where beautiful beaches are scattered everywhere, where the grass is always green (until I smoke it), who would want to have fun with the aid of harmful substances? Well, me.
Since I refuse to pay the "Shit faced tax", I'm trying to have fun in a healthy way. I have spent time in parks and beaches, but even this, per se, create problems: parks make me want to smoke joints and beaches make me want to drink beers.
Thank fuck it s sunny. (It really is).
Drinking copious amount of glass cleaner made me put on weight, so I joined a gym.
Yes! You guessed it! Gyms are expensive too, but very, very effective: after you pay the membership fees, you' re left with no money to spend on food and you lose weight. Effective!
Since I no longer have crazy Friday nights, I no longer wake up on Saturday mornings looking like Michael Jackson in Thriller, wondering where I left my phone/my head/my underwear.
These day I wake up and my phone is on the bed side table, my head is firmly attached to my shoulders and my underwear....well, that really depends, actually.
Anyhow, I wake up SOBER and I walk to my gym as early as 7 am.
If you walk at 7 am on a Saturday morning in England, you re likely to come across women who wear only one stiletto shoe, wearing glittery tops stained with their own vomit and a single, sad, oversize fake eyelash clinging on to a mascara smeared eyelid.
In my neighbourhood, all you see at 7 am on a Saturday, is happy people jogging. Tall, fit men with smooth legs, accompanied by skinny, fresh faced women with bouncing pony tails, all wearing high tech jogging gear and fluorescent Nike trainers.
Everyone looks so fit! And happy! And so full of energy! Fuckers.
Since I'm known all over the world for being a spectacular dancer, I confidently chose the "Step Class" as my first ever gym class. The concept is simple: you dance around a step. I am GREAT at dancing around steps. Steps have been my friends for as long as I remember!
I walked into the class room with the same confidence Beyonce shows when coming out on a stage. "Move your fluorescent trainers on the side, bitches! The stage is mine!".
The instructor was an Asian woman who looked a little on the heavy side.
I thought : "look at this chubby lady, she thinks she can shake it like me?"; then she announced she was due to give birth in less than a week and I felt like a twat.
Could she shake it? Oh yes, she could. Could I? Oh no, I bloody could not.
My friend the step betrayed me and 3 lousy minutes into the dance routine I couldn't, in the name of God, follow once single dance movement.
When everyone was going UP, I would be going LEFT. And when I finally understood that I was supposed to go LEFT, everyone was going RIGHT.
So I gave up, but instead of admitting defeat and leave the class (and keep some of my dignity), I stubbornly stood there, going up and down my bastard step, following my own personal dance routine, under the astonished look of several bitches with bouncy pony tails. "Don't mind me, bitches, I'm having the time of my life!".
After class I decided I'll start weight lifting, instead. After all, I'm known around the world for being a spectacular weight lifter. Nothing could ever go wrong. Could it?.
Saturday, 15 September 2012
The baby in the boot
I spent the last three days glued to a toilet, eliminating every single drop of fluid my body was ever able to produce (a lot).
As much as I feel like I have nothing left that can be painfully squeezed out of my body, I still feel quite unsettled, especially when I'm not in proximity of a toilet.
For the above reason, enduring a 12 hour bus ride from Sucre to Cochabamba was out of the question. Especially because buses have no toilets and I have no nappies.
I decided to travel in style and bought a plane ticket (yes, I know, it's terrible for the ozone, but good for my ass). The ride to the airport was quite an adventure and I'm grateful to Jorge, the taxi driver, for getting me there in one piece, eventually.
Despite being only 9.30 a.m., Jorge seemed extremely awake. He either drank 25 cups of super strong coffee at breakfast or he was high on cocaine.
I told him I had 3 hours before my flight was due to leave, but I guess he understood I had 3 minutes before my flight was due to leave as he started the engine and flew away whilst half of my backpack was still outside the door.
The taxi was nothing more than an old engine on wheels. There were no windows, no indicators (at each turn he would put his arm out, thinking he was on a bike) but there was the odd addition of a metal bar across the passengers´ seat. After speeding at 90kph I understood that the bar was there so that passengers could hold onto it without falling from the windows at each roundabout.
As I was hoding onto it with all the strength I had I managed to say: "So, Jorge, I take it you like Formula Uno?". He didn´t catch my sarcasm, instead he bombarded me with questions, thrown at me at incredible speed: "what's-your-name-where-are-you-from-aren´t-you-scared-to-travel-alone-beautiful-day-isn´t-it?!!". I took a big breath and replied with the same speed: "Federica-Italy-I´m-not-scared-unless-I-come-across-weird-taxi-drivers-yes-beautiful-day-where-do-YOU-buy-your-coke?!!"
Once I arrived at Sucre Airport I kissed the ground, thanked God for saving my life once again and boarded on the plane.
I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive to fly with a Bolivian Airline. This is, after all, a third world country. I was expecting a plane so old that, in order to start, had to be pushed by a bunch of farmers. I was also expecting to wear a parachute during the flight and would have to share the ride with pigs and donkeys. Well, I was wrong. The plane was brand new and even though the flight was only 25 minutes long, the smart stewardess offered me gracious smiles (which I appreciated) and a muffin with apple juice (which I appreciated even more).
The taxi ride from Cochabamba airport to my accomodation was surprising too. The taxi had windows! And a seat belt! The handsome driver opened the door for me as if I was Angelina Jolie arriving at a Hollywood Premier.
The biggest surprise of all, however, was my accomodation. I had booked a dirty cheap private room in a hostal, but when the taxi stopped outside, I thought there had been a mistake and stayed in the car. The driver, obviously blessed with good looks but not with the gift of patience (and probably realizing I was not Angelina Jolie after all), waved me off by saying "Aqui! Aqui"- which translates into "Here!Here! You stupid moron, now get out of my car".
At the hostal, a young man insisted on taking my luggage, showed me to my mini apartment, explained how the TV worked (let me guess....I push the ON button?); explained how the minibar opened (by pulling the door! Surprise!) and explained how the toilet worked (oh, man, I have plenty of experience). He reassured me that he'd be there for me, should I need anything, absolutely anything. Basically, his mission in life was to make my stay in Cochabamba as pleasant as possible.
I was tempted to ask whether he could provide me with a night of wild and fulfilling sex, but I asked for breakfast times instead.
Finally alone and excited for being in a new place, I got ready and smeared my face with make-up as if I was going to a New Year´s party.This turned out to be totally unnecessary and utterly unpractical. Unnecessary because it was a Monday and it was just lunch time; unpractical because the glitter on my eyelids melted in the scorching sun. I did not look good with my face covered in glitter and gigantic sweat patches under my arms.
I requested a map at reception. I don't know why I keep bothering as maps remain big unsolved mysteries to me. I guess I like to look at the cute pictures of churches and museums printed on them, plus they sometimes help me feel as if I know where I am heading to. Even when, in reality, I have no clue at all.
The efficient receptionist apologetically informed me that the map available looked indeed a little old. He failed to inform me, however, that it also measured 1.50x 1.00 cm; virtually as big as me.
I ventured out. I was finally in Cochabamba! The "city of eternal spring"! World, here I come!
And then I got lost.... As much as I did not want to draw much attention on myself (as if walking around with a glittery face was not enough), I had to squat in the street to open the ridiculously gigantic map.
Needless to stay, it was totally useless and I stayed lost for 5 hours.
Eventually, with the help of a gardner, a policeman and a street vendor, I found my way back to the hostal, to realize that for 5 hours I had practically gone around the same circle, over and over.
Once in my room, I kissed the carpet and thanked God for saving my life. Well, not literally, but I COULD have ended up walking in a loop for the rest of eternity, right?
For the first time in months I had a TV in my room. This was such an exciting event that I indulged in a "TV watching marathon". For 7 hours I watched animal programs in Spanish. Motionless; transfixed.
For 7 hours I dreamed of being in far away countries, until I realized I already WAS in a far away country! What was I doing watching TV?! Resting. That's what I was doing. Getting lost in a far away country on a daily basis is a tiring business. I needed plenty of rest so I'd have plenty of strength next time I'd get lost. Soon enough, no doubt about that.
I booked a two-day tour to Torotoro National Park, the "dream of every paleontologist".
The driver/guide, whose name was original and unique (Jose) picked me me at 6 a.m. so that I could joing the group of 3 Israeli girls.
In the car, the usual chit chat took place: where was I before Bolivia? Doing what? Blah blah blah.
Coincidentally, as soon as I said that I had been working with small children, Jose stopped the car and said: "I have a small problem". I didn't even have time to think what his small problem might have been (genital warts? Fear of national parks? Hate for Italian tourists?) that a young pretty Bolivian lady, holding a chubby child, approached our car, left the child with Jose and left.
The "small problem", it turned out, was the driver's 18 months old baby, Roy, who had to travel with us. It was already 5 people squeezed in the car, so the best place to sit for the screaming thing was obviously my lap.
I thought we were taking Roy to a nearby school, to some long lost relatives, to a ditch, but the baby's final destination was the village of Torotoro. 5 and 1/2 hours drive away.
I tried everything to calm Roy down. I stroked his big head; caressed his piglet face; sang him a heavy metal song; whispered soothing words in his ears :"shut up, you little shit, what have YOU got to cry for?! this is MY tour! I should be crying!".
No, no, I did not say that . Truth be told, I felt really sorry for Piglet. I mean, imagine being 18 months old, being stuck in a car with 4 strangers, whilst wearing the thickest wooly jumper and hat when it's 25 degrees in the shades AND being put in such a situation by your own mother. I would be distressed too.
One hour passed. There was silence. Jose, noticing that his son had fallen asleep and my arms had turned blue, said: "Oh, he's asleep. I can now put him in the boot". I laughed at his joke, except it was no joke. He stopped the car, took the baby from my arms and put him in the car boot, asleep on top of my backpack.
Let me be clear here: I am the last person on earth who could give parenting advice to anyone, but even Hitler would have found this scenario disturbing. Mmmm. Maybe not.
Me and the 3 Israelis looked at each other, utterly perplexed, and thought to make a small detour and report this child abuse to the nearest police station. We didn't. Our tour was too expensive to allow a detour. Sod it.
Two more hours passed. As I was massaging my blue arms, I suddenly remembered there was a child sleeping in the car boot. A child! I checked the damage and noticed that Roy and my backpack had swapped places: the backpack was now on the top and Roy underneath. I didn't want to create panic so in a cool, calm voice I told Jose. "Hey, amigo, when you get a second, no rush, would you mind stopping the car for a second? I think my luggage is suffocating your son". He did.
Once again, imagine you are 18 months old and you just woke up in a car boot. You have lost half of your body weight in sweat and the first image you see is not the one of you loving mother, but the one of 3 grumpy Israeli and 1 furious Italian. What would you do? Exactly. Roy reached the peak of his sadness and made a siren sound to express his utter outrage.
His father, wisely, considered what could have been the best place for his son to sit, in order to calm down. The answer? Squatting on the car floor in between my legs. At this point, the siren sound was coming from me as well and the only thing that consoled me was the knowledge that after 4 hours we had finally arrived to our destination.
I got out of the car, kissed the ground covered in donkey's shit and thanked God for saving the life of an innocent child.
The actual tour of the National Park was awesome. The purpose of this blog, however, is not to make anyone envious. For this reason I shall not mention the amazing waterfall I showered under, the majestic canyon I trekked, the million stars I slept under and the most breathtaking views I enjoyed. No, I shall not.
The tour came to an end. I dreaded the journey back, as Jose was not only a lousy father, he was a terrible driver too. 2 hours into our hell of a journey, the car broke down. It happened while we were in the middle of nowhere, high up in the mountains.
Jose´s approach to such tragedy was to just stand in the middle of the road, staring at the engine.
Let me be clear, here. I am the last person on earth who could give any advice on how to fix a car, but even an octopus would know that you don't fix a mechanical problem by staring at an engine.
"Jose?", I asked. "Do you believe in God?". "I don't". "Then why the hell are you waiting for a miracle?!".
Time passed. The car would run for 10 minutes and then stop for 15. Eventually we reached the town of Cochabamba and, as we stopped at the traffic lights at the busiest junction in town, the car stopped again. This, per se, was quite good for me because in 10 minutes I learned at least 45 different Spanish swear words and insults, all shouted at Jose by other drivers.
I felt sorry for him, but above all I felt sorry for myself so I got out of the car, opened the boot, got my backpack, wished Jose good luck and continued the journey on foot.
When I got back to my hostal I kissed the receptionist, the Israeli girls, the bathroom floor, the paintings on the wall and I thanked God for saving Jose´s life: another minute and I would have killed the fucker.
As much as I feel like I have nothing left that can be painfully squeezed out of my body, I still feel quite unsettled, especially when I'm not in proximity of a toilet.
For the above reason, enduring a 12 hour bus ride from Sucre to Cochabamba was out of the question. Especially because buses have no toilets and I have no nappies.
I decided to travel in style and bought a plane ticket (yes, I know, it's terrible for the ozone, but good for my ass). The ride to the airport was quite an adventure and I'm grateful to Jorge, the taxi driver, for getting me there in one piece, eventually.
Despite being only 9.30 a.m., Jorge seemed extremely awake. He either drank 25 cups of super strong coffee at breakfast or he was high on cocaine.
I told him I had 3 hours before my flight was due to leave, but I guess he understood I had 3 minutes before my flight was due to leave as he started the engine and flew away whilst half of my backpack was still outside the door.
The taxi was nothing more than an old engine on wheels. There were no windows, no indicators (at each turn he would put his arm out, thinking he was on a bike) but there was the odd addition of a metal bar across the passengers´ seat. After speeding at 90kph I understood that the bar was there so that passengers could hold onto it without falling from the windows at each roundabout.
As I was hoding onto it with all the strength I had I managed to say: "So, Jorge, I take it you like Formula Uno?". He didn´t catch my sarcasm, instead he bombarded me with questions, thrown at me at incredible speed: "what's-your-name-where-are-you-from-aren´t-you-scared-to-travel-alone-beautiful-day-isn´t-it?!!". I took a big breath and replied with the same speed: "Federica-Italy-I´m-not-scared-unless-I-come-across-weird-taxi-drivers-yes-beautiful-day-where-do-YOU-buy-your-coke?!!"
Once I arrived at Sucre Airport I kissed the ground, thanked God for saving my life once again and boarded on the plane.
I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive to fly with a Bolivian Airline. This is, after all, a third world country. I was expecting a plane so old that, in order to start, had to be pushed by a bunch of farmers. I was also expecting to wear a parachute during the flight and would have to share the ride with pigs and donkeys. Well, I was wrong. The plane was brand new and even though the flight was only 25 minutes long, the smart stewardess offered me gracious smiles (which I appreciated) and a muffin with apple juice (which I appreciated even more).
The taxi ride from Cochabamba airport to my accomodation was surprising too. The taxi had windows! And a seat belt! The handsome driver opened the door for me as if I was Angelina Jolie arriving at a Hollywood Premier.
The biggest surprise of all, however, was my accomodation. I had booked a dirty cheap private room in a hostal, but when the taxi stopped outside, I thought there had been a mistake and stayed in the car. The driver, obviously blessed with good looks but not with the gift of patience (and probably realizing I was not Angelina Jolie after all), waved me off by saying "Aqui! Aqui"- which translates into "Here!Here! You stupid moron, now get out of my car".
At the hostal, a young man insisted on taking my luggage, showed me to my mini apartment, explained how the TV worked (let me guess....I push the ON button?); explained how the minibar opened (by pulling the door! Surprise!) and explained how the toilet worked (oh, man, I have plenty of experience). He reassured me that he'd be there for me, should I need anything, absolutely anything. Basically, his mission in life was to make my stay in Cochabamba as pleasant as possible.
I was tempted to ask whether he could provide me with a night of wild and fulfilling sex, but I asked for breakfast times instead.
Finally alone and excited for being in a new place, I got ready and smeared my face with make-up as if I was going to a New Year´s party.This turned out to be totally unnecessary and utterly unpractical. Unnecessary because it was a Monday and it was just lunch time; unpractical because the glitter on my eyelids melted in the scorching sun. I did not look good with my face covered in glitter and gigantic sweat patches under my arms.
I requested a map at reception. I don't know why I keep bothering as maps remain big unsolved mysteries to me. I guess I like to look at the cute pictures of churches and museums printed on them, plus they sometimes help me feel as if I know where I am heading to. Even when, in reality, I have no clue at all.
The efficient receptionist apologetically informed me that the map available looked indeed a little old. He failed to inform me, however, that it also measured 1.50x 1.00 cm; virtually as big as me.
I ventured out. I was finally in Cochabamba! The "city of eternal spring"! World, here I come!
And then I got lost.... As much as I did not want to draw much attention on myself (as if walking around with a glittery face was not enough), I had to squat in the street to open the ridiculously gigantic map.
Needless to stay, it was totally useless and I stayed lost for 5 hours.
Eventually, with the help of a gardner, a policeman and a street vendor, I found my way back to the hostal, to realize that for 5 hours I had practically gone around the same circle, over and over.
Once in my room, I kissed the carpet and thanked God for saving my life. Well, not literally, but I COULD have ended up walking in a loop for the rest of eternity, right?
For the first time in months I had a TV in my room. This was such an exciting event that I indulged in a "TV watching marathon". For 7 hours I watched animal programs in Spanish. Motionless; transfixed.
For 7 hours I dreamed of being in far away countries, until I realized I already WAS in a far away country! What was I doing watching TV?! Resting. That's what I was doing. Getting lost in a far away country on a daily basis is a tiring business. I needed plenty of rest so I'd have plenty of strength next time I'd get lost. Soon enough, no doubt about that.
I booked a two-day tour to Torotoro National Park, the "dream of every paleontologist".
The driver/guide, whose name was original and unique (Jose) picked me me at 6 a.m. so that I could joing the group of 3 Israeli girls.
In the car, the usual chit chat took place: where was I before Bolivia? Doing what? Blah blah blah.
Coincidentally, as soon as I said that I had been working with small children, Jose stopped the car and said: "I have a small problem". I didn't even have time to think what his small problem might have been (genital warts? Fear of national parks? Hate for Italian tourists?) that a young pretty Bolivian lady, holding a chubby child, approached our car, left the child with Jose and left.
The "small problem", it turned out, was the driver's 18 months old baby, Roy, who had to travel with us. It was already 5 people squeezed in the car, so the best place to sit for the screaming thing was obviously my lap.
I thought we were taking Roy to a nearby school, to some long lost relatives, to a ditch, but the baby's final destination was the village of Torotoro. 5 and 1/2 hours drive away.
I tried everything to calm Roy down. I stroked his big head; caressed his piglet face; sang him a heavy metal song; whispered soothing words in his ears :"shut up, you little shit, what have YOU got to cry for?! this is MY tour! I should be crying!".
No, no, I did not say that . Truth be told, I felt really sorry for Piglet. I mean, imagine being 18 months old, being stuck in a car with 4 strangers, whilst wearing the thickest wooly jumper and hat when it's 25 degrees in the shades AND being put in such a situation by your own mother. I would be distressed too.
One hour passed. There was silence. Jose, noticing that his son had fallen asleep and my arms had turned blue, said: "Oh, he's asleep. I can now put him in the boot". I laughed at his joke, except it was no joke. He stopped the car, took the baby from my arms and put him in the car boot, asleep on top of my backpack.
Let me be clear here: I am the last person on earth who could give parenting advice to anyone, but even Hitler would have found this scenario disturbing. Mmmm. Maybe not.
Me and the 3 Israelis looked at each other, utterly perplexed, and thought to make a small detour and report this child abuse to the nearest police station. We didn't. Our tour was too expensive to allow a detour. Sod it.
Two more hours passed. As I was massaging my blue arms, I suddenly remembered there was a child sleeping in the car boot. A child! I checked the damage and noticed that Roy and my backpack had swapped places: the backpack was now on the top and Roy underneath. I didn't want to create panic so in a cool, calm voice I told Jose. "Hey, amigo, when you get a second, no rush, would you mind stopping the car for a second? I think my luggage is suffocating your son". He did.
Once again, imagine you are 18 months old and you just woke up in a car boot. You have lost half of your body weight in sweat and the first image you see is not the one of you loving mother, but the one of 3 grumpy Israeli and 1 furious Italian. What would you do? Exactly. Roy reached the peak of his sadness and made a siren sound to express his utter outrage.
His father, wisely, considered what could have been the best place for his son to sit, in order to calm down. The answer? Squatting on the car floor in between my legs. At this point, the siren sound was coming from me as well and the only thing that consoled me was the knowledge that after 4 hours we had finally arrived to our destination.
I got out of the car, kissed the ground covered in donkey's shit and thanked God for saving the life of an innocent child.
The actual tour of the National Park was awesome. The purpose of this blog, however, is not to make anyone envious. For this reason I shall not mention the amazing waterfall I showered under, the majestic canyon I trekked, the million stars I slept under and the most breathtaking views I enjoyed. No, I shall not.
The tour came to an end. I dreaded the journey back, as Jose was not only a lousy father, he was a terrible driver too. 2 hours into our hell of a journey, the car broke down. It happened while we were in the middle of nowhere, high up in the mountains.
Jose´s approach to such tragedy was to just stand in the middle of the road, staring at the engine.
Let me be clear, here. I am the last person on earth who could give any advice on how to fix a car, but even an octopus would know that you don't fix a mechanical problem by staring at an engine.
"Jose?", I asked. "Do you believe in God?". "I don't". "Then why the hell are you waiting for a miracle?!".
Time passed. The car would run for 10 minutes and then stop for 15. Eventually we reached the town of Cochabamba and, as we stopped at the traffic lights at the busiest junction in town, the car stopped again. This, per se, was quite good for me because in 10 minutes I learned at least 45 different Spanish swear words and insults, all shouted at Jose by other drivers.
I felt sorry for him, but above all I felt sorry for myself so I got out of the car, opened the boot, got my backpack, wished Jose good luck and continued the journey on foot.
When I got back to my hostal I kissed the receptionist, the Israeli girls, the bathroom floor, the paintings on the wall and I thanked God for saving Jose´s life: another minute and I would have killed the fucker.
Thursday, 2 August 2012
Bolivia & Coca leaves
I crossed the boarder Argentina/Bolivia, full of excitement and fear.
I got off the bus and was overwhelmed to see children covered in dust and with runny noses. Skeletal dogs who were desperately trying to get inside empty plastic bags which contained something edible, a long time ago, perhaps. Imposing women carrying the equivalent of their own body weight, wrapped in colorful fabric.
"So this is it". I thought. "I am in Bolivia".
I expected to see what I saw. I expected the man at Custom to be mean (why are Immigration Officers always so abrupt, anyway? It's not that I'm smuggling drugs,am I?), I expected to share my taxi ride with two local farmers and a couple from Ireland (no, actually this caught me slightly by surprise).
What I did not expect, however, was to be so utterly, desperately, shamefully sick because of the altitude.
And I did not expect to be one of the worse case the locals had ever seen, either.
Coca leaves help, they say. So I sneaked into a market, checking now and then if I had been followed by the Police and asked some stall holders, in a quiet voice, whether "they had coca". I know, I know, coca is legal , coca is not cocaine, but it still felt weird telling an old lady who looked like my grandma that I was looking for first quality Coca. "Does your mum know what you're up to?" I felt like asking her.
I'm happy to say that my mouth is way bigger than it looks from the outside. My mouth can accomodate thousands and thousand of juicy bitter leaves. I'm like a hamster, me!
I'm less happy to say that Coca leaves did not help me. But Ibuprofen did. All 13 packets of them.
I have arrived in Sucre 8 weeks behind schedule. Mind you, not that I had a schedule. Nor a plan. Nor a remote idea of what I wanted to see nor do, but I have arrived, everyone!!
I was expecting a warm welcome, balloons, confettis, a lot of hugs and kisses from locals. All I got, however, was a lousy dog's bite which send me straight to ER.
Maybe the dog was happy to see me! Maybe this is how Bolivian dogs greet their loved ones! By chewing their legs!
At ER, I expected a little sympathy, some level of understanding or at least some basic first aid. All I got, however, was a bill to pay and a patronizing look from a doctor who literally laughed at my face when I showed concern about the possibility of contracting rabies, then die.
The second doctor was no better. When I told him I feared I would die, he said :"we're all gonna die". I couldn't argue with that, could I? Dr Cheerful also advised me to find the bipolar dog who bit me and ask the locals whether they knew if he was vaccined. I'm sure this is the correct procedure indeed, but come on, Einstein, how the Hell was I supposed to find an average-looking dog in a Country where average-looking dogs are basically at every street corner?!
But I'm not one to give up without a try. Every single one of the 1.367 stray dogs in Sucre were carefully inspected by myself. Every moment of every day I inspected them. Until one day, at the market, I believed I found him.
He was with his owner, pretending to be an innocent, affectionate dog. He was even wagging his tail, to make his disguise more credible."YOU!" I shouted. "It's you!". The owner was proud that her beloved, lying dog got so much attention, until I asked her whether he was vaccined, as he bit me.
For some unknown reasons she did not appreciate that a foreign lady would accuse her pooch to be a criminal and put her under a spotlight, at a busy market, while surrounded by all her friends. How unreasonable.
The lady was confident I had mistaken dogs, her dog " is always with her", he's "never in the street" and all those bullshit that people always say to defend themselves when it is quite clear that they are GUILTY!
It never occurred to me that I might have been wrong: after all, the dog looked average-looking enough to be THE ONE.
I huffed and puffed (in Spanish) and left the crime scene believing I was right, like always.
Until, that is, a week later when I saw the unmistakable jaw of the unmistakable dog who left an unmistakable mark on my previously immaculate calf. I had found my dog after all. And when I did I was so petrified I couldn't even demand an apology for the distress he had caused.
My search for the mischevious creature came to an end. And the search for the innocent one has begun. I owe him a bone and I owe his owner a sincere apology.
As much as I have not felt much sympathy amongst the Bolivians who saw me hurt and crying (I guess it's my fault for having such juicy and attractive Gringo calves), I feel locals are extremely concerned for my body temperature.
It's winter here and people look shocked, almost worried, when they see me walking around wearing a summer vest, especially when they walk around wrapped in blankets.
I swear the tops I wear do not show an inch of my breasts (also because I have absolutely nothing to show off) so they cannot be offended by my attire. I also know they are not admiring my toned, boxer's arms, as the muscles I once had , have turned into Dumbo's wings. I'm sure they are worried I'll catch a cold! Bless them.
I wish to point out that the winter temperature at the moment is 25 degrees and if I was at home I'd probably be wearing nipple tassels, but it's winter, right? I should be cold, what's wrong with me?
My rabies jabs will continue, on and off throughout the month, so whether I like it or not (I don't) I cannot leave Bolivia and continue with my travels.
To put my time here to a good use, I enrolled to school. I thought going to school would be just like 20 years ago, so I turned up to class sporting a hangover, to then realise that NOTHING FEELS LIKE 20 YEARS AGO.
I replied with a German "Ja", when what I meant was "Si" and nearly puked all over my unfinished home work. Forgive me, Teacher, for I have sinned. "Can we just speak English today?", I begged.
Luckily, my teacher is cool. He has kindly agreed to teach me one abusive rude Spanish expression a day.
He also dosn't mind if, in the middle of class, I suddenly jump up and show him some dance moves. Nor he minds when I throw my books against the wall, moaning and cursing, because I don't know how to conjugate irregular verbs.
He's the ideal teacher for a grown up student who act like an annoying teenager. Me, basically.
I checked myself into a beautiful hotel. It's expensive, but I'm injured, so fuck it.
My neighbour for the week was Louis, from England. Louis and I became inseparable.
In a good old British fashion, we spent the entire week moaning. We moaned because it was too hot (whilst our friends back home would have sold an organ in return of a ray of sunshine). We moaned because the beers we were drinking in the gorgeous patio were just a little bit too refreshing. We moaned because the pizzas we were eating every day were just a little too delicious. We moaned and farted and laughed. A lot, especially the farting.
After my buddy left, I left the fancy hotel and moved to a hostel, where I'm hoping I will meet thousands of lovely people who every night will greet me with balloons, and confettis and hugs and kisses.
And if that doesn't happen, at least I'm saving a lot of money which will be spent buying delicious pizzas and cold, refreshing beers. And maybe, just maybe, a long sleeve top.
I got off the bus and was overwhelmed to see children covered in dust and with runny noses. Skeletal dogs who were desperately trying to get inside empty plastic bags which contained something edible, a long time ago, perhaps. Imposing women carrying the equivalent of their own body weight, wrapped in colorful fabric.
"So this is it". I thought. "I am in Bolivia".
I expected to see what I saw. I expected the man at Custom to be mean (why are Immigration Officers always so abrupt, anyway? It's not that I'm smuggling drugs,am I?), I expected to share my taxi ride with two local farmers and a couple from Ireland (no, actually this caught me slightly by surprise).
What I did not expect, however, was to be so utterly, desperately, shamefully sick because of the altitude.
And I did not expect to be one of the worse case the locals had ever seen, either.
Coca leaves help, they say. So I sneaked into a market, checking now and then if I had been followed by the Police and asked some stall holders, in a quiet voice, whether "they had coca". I know, I know, coca is legal , coca is not cocaine, but it still felt weird telling an old lady who looked like my grandma that I was looking for first quality Coca. "Does your mum know what you're up to?" I felt like asking her.
I'm happy to say that my mouth is way bigger than it looks from the outside. My mouth can accomodate thousands and thousand of juicy bitter leaves. I'm like a hamster, me!
I'm less happy to say that Coca leaves did not help me. But Ibuprofen did. All 13 packets of them.
I have arrived in Sucre 8 weeks behind schedule. Mind you, not that I had a schedule. Nor a plan. Nor a remote idea of what I wanted to see nor do, but I have arrived, everyone!!
I was expecting a warm welcome, balloons, confettis, a lot of hugs and kisses from locals. All I got, however, was a lousy dog's bite which send me straight to ER.
Maybe the dog was happy to see me! Maybe this is how Bolivian dogs greet their loved ones! By chewing their legs!
At ER, I expected a little sympathy, some level of understanding or at least some basic first aid. All I got, however, was a bill to pay and a patronizing look from a doctor who literally laughed at my face when I showed concern about the possibility of contracting rabies, then die.
The second doctor was no better. When I told him I feared I would die, he said :"we're all gonna die". I couldn't argue with that, could I? Dr Cheerful also advised me to find the bipolar dog who bit me and ask the locals whether they knew if he was vaccined. I'm sure this is the correct procedure indeed, but come on, Einstein, how the Hell was I supposed to find an average-looking dog in a Country where average-looking dogs are basically at every street corner?!
But I'm not one to give up without a try. Every single one of the 1.367 stray dogs in Sucre were carefully inspected by myself. Every moment of every day I inspected them. Until one day, at the market, I believed I found him.
He was with his owner, pretending to be an innocent, affectionate dog. He was even wagging his tail, to make his disguise more credible."YOU!" I shouted. "It's you!". The owner was proud that her beloved, lying dog got so much attention, until I asked her whether he was vaccined, as he bit me.
For some unknown reasons she did not appreciate that a foreign lady would accuse her pooch to be a criminal and put her under a spotlight, at a busy market, while surrounded by all her friends. How unreasonable.
The lady was confident I had mistaken dogs, her dog " is always with her", he's "never in the street" and all those bullshit that people always say to defend themselves when it is quite clear that they are GUILTY!
It never occurred to me that I might have been wrong: after all, the dog looked average-looking enough to be THE ONE.
I huffed and puffed (in Spanish) and left the crime scene believing I was right, like always.
Until, that is, a week later when I saw the unmistakable jaw of the unmistakable dog who left an unmistakable mark on my previously immaculate calf. I had found my dog after all. And when I did I was so petrified I couldn't even demand an apology for the distress he had caused.
My search for the mischevious creature came to an end. And the search for the innocent one has begun. I owe him a bone and I owe his owner a sincere apology.
As much as I have not felt much sympathy amongst the Bolivians who saw me hurt and crying (I guess it's my fault for having such juicy and attractive Gringo calves), I feel locals are extremely concerned for my body temperature.
It's winter here and people look shocked, almost worried, when they see me walking around wearing a summer vest, especially when they walk around wrapped in blankets.
I swear the tops I wear do not show an inch of my breasts (also because I have absolutely nothing to show off) so they cannot be offended by my attire. I also know they are not admiring my toned, boxer's arms, as the muscles I once had , have turned into Dumbo's wings. I'm sure they are worried I'll catch a cold! Bless them.
I wish to point out that the winter temperature at the moment is 25 degrees and if I was at home I'd probably be wearing nipple tassels, but it's winter, right? I should be cold, what's wrong with me?
My rabies jabs will continue, on and off throughout the month, so whether I like it or not (I don't) I cannot leave Bolivia and continue with my travels.
To put my time here to a good use, I enrolled to school. I thought going to school would be just like 20 years ago, so I turned up to class sporting a hangover, to then realise that NOTHING FEELS LIKE 20 YEARS AGO.
I replied with a German "Ja", when what I meant was "Si" and nearly puked all over my unfinished home work. Forgive me, Teacher, for I have sinned. "Can we just speak English today?", I begged.
Luckily, my teacher is cool. He has kindly agreed to teach me one abusive rude Spanish expression a day.
He also dosn't mind if, in the middle of class, I suddenly jump up and show him some dance moves. Nor he minds when I throw my books against the wall, moaning and cursing, because I don't know how to conjugate irregular verbs.
He's the ideal teacher for a grown up student who act like an annoying teenager. Me, basically.
I checked myself into a beautiful hotel. It's expensive, but I'm injured, so fuck it.
My neighbour for the week was Louis, from England. Louis and I became inseparable.
In a good old British fashion, we spent the entire week moaning. We moaned because it was too hot (whilst our friends back home would have sold an organ in return of a ray of sunshine). We moaned because the beers we were drinking in the gorgeous patio were just a little bit too refreshing. We moaned because the pizzas we were eating every day were just a little too delicious. We moaned and farted and laughed. A lot, especially the farting.
After my buddy left, I left the fancy hotel and moved to a hostel, where I'm hoping I will meet thousands of lovely people who every night will greet me with balloons, and confettis and hugs and kisses.
And if that doesn't happen, at least I'm saving a lot of money which will be spent buying delicious pizzas and cold, refreshing beers. And maybe, just maybe, a long sleeve top.
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