In a relationship of different nationalities, cultures, education, history and language, the most and least reconcilable I have found is the latter: the words. It is also the most frustrating, interesting, hilarious and surprising of our differences.
Words are the heart and soul of a language and those that use them. I didn't realise the richness of it and how much our identity is bound in our native language until my boyfriend didn't understand that I don't 'give two hoots' or I didn't get what 'living inside a ravioli' implied. Looks, gestures and our body language truly compliment our speech, but the words we actually say and write are the main course, with lashings of meaning on the plate: intrinsic, implied, embedded.
It is obviously a continuous journey. Not only are there words to play with, but new sounds, intonation and rules. One thing that has become clear on this journey, and that both of us have learnt, is that there are words which just stay in one language. This may because they are difficult in the other, not easy to remember or we just like them. For example, the words mattress, drawer, cloth and thermos flask are always spoken in this house in Spanish. These words, in our world, have transcended all barriers: "Pass me the trapo to wipe the table"; "Your money's in your cajón." I can never remember the word for budget in Spanish, so it will always be: "El lugar depende de su budget."
Then there are the words which remain, but for different reasons than the above. These are the perfect words; words which have such a wonderfully exact meaning in their usage that there is, literally, no other word or translation for. Words like ponce and pikey in English, or quilombero in Argentine Spanish: you simply have to use them, there is no other word.
This discovering and use of our two languages means that my boyfriend and I have developed our own lengua. It's going to be interesting when we have children and they grow up speaking both languages far better then either of us. While, as parents, we will no doubt be jealous, I smile with glee when I think about the day my son or daughter comes home from school: "Mum, the teacher told me that globo isn't a word. What lengua have you been teaching me? I thought you said I spoke perfecto."
And though others may not know it, perfecto is exactly what they will speak.
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Monday, 25 April 2011
Sunday papers
On Saturday, it was my boyfriend's 30th birthday. We had a picnic in the park, which turned into a settle down in the pub once the (tropical) storms came late afternoon. Pimms, wine and dinner was followed by cake and champagne back home and a couple of gins to round off the (day and) night.
Needless to say, I woke up yesterday feeling dry and crusty. How alcohol drains the body of such moisture is incredible. Litres of water later, we headed out with leftover picnic (for there is so much food) to another park to lay in the sun and enjoy another sunny blue day with nothing to do. On the way, we bought the Sunday papers and this, and only this, was my mission.
It's very rare that I actually get to read the Sunday papers on a Sunday, though yesterday I truly relished it. And I realised what you need to do to be able to finish them: either be my dad who is a professional paper/supplement/magazine reader; or get of your house and lay in a park so there is nothing else to do instead.
When we're at home on the weekends, I enjoy buying them and thinking 'Ah, some couch time with the Sundays'. Inevitably, I end up half way through the magazine before I get involved in soup/roast making, clothes sorting, writing, washing or exercising of some kind. IT'S A SUNDAY!
And yesterday I also realised why the Sundays are called the Sundays. It's got nothing to do with the day and everything to do with the Sunday sensation. It's the day before going back to work with its intellectual and physical grind so the contents are built around the weekend mentality: it's gentle, interesting and a diversion from the usual business of news.
Yesterday I lapped it up, breaking only for a kip under the tree. Now, I am asking myself how I will manage this in the Sundays to come, knowing now what I do. Well, next Sunday I am at my parents' house. That's easy, I'll just do what my dad does. Job done.
And after that? Well, I need to escape my house, so I am going to need a whole lot of sun.
Needless to say, I woke up yesterday feeling dry and crusty. How alcohol drains the body of such moisture is incredible. Litres of water later, we headed out with leftover picnic (for there is so much food) to another park to lay in the sun and enjoy another sunny blue day with nothing to do. On the way, we bought the Sunday papers and this, and only this, was my mission.
It's very rare that I actually get to read the Sunday papers on a Sunday, though yesterday I truly relished it. And I realised what you need to do to be able to finish them: either be my dad who is a professional paper/supplement/magazine reader; or get of your house and lay in a park so there is nothing else to do instead.
When we're at home on the weekends, I enjoy buying them and thinking 'Ah, some couch time with the Sundays'. Inevitably, I end up half way through the magazine before I get involved in soup/roast making, clothes sorting, writing, washing or exercising of some kind. IT'S A SUNDAY!
And yesterday I also realised why the Sundays are called the Sundays. It's got nothing to do with the day and everything to do with the Sunday sensation. It's the day before going back to work with its intellectual and physical grind so the contents are built around the weekend mentality: it's gentle, interesting and a diversion from the usual business of news.
Yesterday I lapped it up, breaking only for a kip under the tree. Now, I am asking myself how I will manage this in the Sundays to come, knowing now what I do. Well, next Sunday I am at my parents' house. That's easy, I'll just do what my dad does. Job done.
And after that? Well, I need to escape my house, so I am going to need a whole lot of sun.
Friday, 22 April 2011
Precious moments
Last weekend, I went to Buenos Aires: three nights and three-and-a-half days of talking, eating, drinking, laughing, sweating, dancing, shopping. Not too much sleeping. "Time was precious".
I managed to do a twenty-four-hour talkathon, spa-athon and drink-athon with a wonderful friend there. It's quite incredible when you grasp the time you have, yank it towards you and run with it until you can run no more. It's amazing what you can pack into a day when you know what little time there really is.
And something I realised when there was how well distribution of time can be spent. Two minutes with the man who used to sell me my paper every day was fabulously sufficient; five hours with my in-laws, eating and talking; ten minutes with my shoe-shine friend who worked on my street. All was enough.
People spend far too much time, time they don't have, on the people they don't really want to focus on. Through family, society, customs, we are often railroaded into spending our time with distant relatives, obnoxious colleagues, boring friends of friends. Really, it's not the time that becomes precious, but the people you spend it with. They should be the precious ones who make you feel fantastic, happy, understood.
It then doesn't matter how many seconds, hours and days you have to spare; if it's with the right people, the moments last a life time: every time you close your eyes, you are there.
I managed to do a twenty-four-hour talkathon, spa-athon and drink-athon with a wonderful friend there. It's quite incredible when you grasp the time you have, yank it towards you and run with it until you can run no more. It's amazing what you can pack into a day when you know what little time there really is.
And something I realised when there was how well distribution of time can be spent. Two minutes with the man who used to sell me my paper every day was fabulously sufficient; five hours with my in-laws, eating and talking; ten minutes with my shoe-shine friend who worked on my street. All was enough.
People spend far too much time, time they don't have, on the people they don't really want to focus on. Through family, society, customs, we are often railroaded into spending our time with distant relatives, obnoxious colleagues, boring friends of friends. Really, it's not the time that becomes precious, but the people you spend it with. They should be the precious ones who make you feel fantastic, happy, understood.
It then doesn't matter how many seconds, hours and days you have to spare; if it's with the right people, the moments last a life time: every time you close your eyes, you are there.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
The Lonely Fish
Today, I am supposed to be running a marathon. But it's not going to happen. Eight weeks ago, I stopped running becuase I have a fracture in my bone. Probably best. Wouldn't want it to snap on mile 22.
Not to be defeated and to still keep my promise to the MS Trust for who I was running, I decided to swim a marathon instead.
If I could be any animal in the world, it would be a shark. I love water. Just looking at, listening to, thinking about it creates a tranquility that thinking about trees/mountains/the tube doesn't do for me. I love water that looks like blue glass and I love water that is tormented and wild. When I lived next to the sea, just stepping out of the front door, no matter the temperature or colour, and just seeing the sea brought a spring to my step. When I lived near Iguazu Falls, the immense cascades which divide Brazil and Argentina, I would spend Sunday afternoons laying in the sun listening to that incredbile power and following single droplets as they took the plunge.
So, a swim made sense. I've always been a decent swimmer and I can get in the pool and swim for a mile without any problems. But, as I was in the pool earlier this week, I realised what this new challenge meant. I am going to swim 26 miles in 26 days. Almost 4 weeks of my life will be dedicated to the pool. I have to swim 1677 lengths. And the thing I realised most is that it would all be done alone.
Running is a relatively lonely sport. But you can also choose to run with others, and chat along the way to make the time go faster and burn more calories. You can listen to music and have Paula Radcliff telling you what a good job you're doing. What I've discovered about swimming is that it is even more isolating. Swimming cap on, goggles on and it's you and the water, nothing more. Whilst when running I might have Helen Reddy or the Red Hot Chilli Peppers pumping me up, the pool gives me nothing more than the swish and swash of my own strokes.
One good thing is that I think a lot about my stroke; doing it right, being effective. When I am tired I like to think I am a shark, gliding through the blueness effortlessly and it makes me pull my elbows out properly or breathe deeper. It's that and counting. There's no one to greet on the way round; no one whose bright pink head band you can laugh at inside; no one to emulate or beat.
I think it's going to be an interesting 26 days (due to take place in May) and I am looking forward to it. Running has always cleared my head and I believe that all this time in the pool will have the same effect.
And at least there is the sauna, steam room and jacuzzi for the lonely fish to relax in afterwards.
Not to be defeated and to still keep my promise to the MS Trust for who I was running, I decided to swim a marathon instead.
If I could be any animal in the world, it would be a shark. I love water. Just looking at, listening to, thinking about it creates a tranquility that thinking about trees/mountains/the tube doesn't do for me. I love water that looks like blue glass and I love water that is tormented and wild. When I lived next to the sea, just stepping out of the front door, no matter the temperature or colour, and just seeing the sea brought a spring to my step. When I lived near Iguazu Falls, the immense cascades which divide Brazil and Argentina, I would spend Sunday afternoons laying in the sun listening to that incredbile power and following single droplets as they took the plunge.
So, a swim made sense. I've always been a decent swimmer and I can get in the pool and swim for a mile without any problems. But, as I was in the pool earlier this week, I realised what this new challenge meant. I am going to swim 26 miles in 26 days. Almost 4 weeks of my life will be dedicated to the pool. I have to swim 1677 lengths. And the thing I realised most is that it would all be done alone.
Running is a relatively lonely sport. But you can also choose to run with others, and chat along the way to make the time go faster and burn more calories. You can listen to music and have Paula Radcliff telling you what a good job you're doing. What I've discovered about swimming is that it is even more isolating. Swimming cap on, goggles on and it's you and the water, nothing more. Whilst when running I might have Helen Reddy or the Red Hot Chilli Peppers pumping me up, the pool gives me nothing more than the swish and swash of my own strokes.
One good thing is that I think a lot about my stroke; doing it right, being effective. When I am tired I like to think I am a shark, gliding through the blueness effortlessly and it makes me pull my elbows out properly or breathe deeper. It's that and counting. There's no one to greet on the way round; no one whose bright pink head band you can laugh at inside; no one to emulate or beat.
I think it's going to be an interesting 26 days (due to take place in May) and I am looking forward to it. Running has always cleared my head and I believe that all this time in the pool will have the same effect.
Friday, 18 March 2011
Shouldering in the sun
This week I've been learning a lot about people.
The world is always divided into two: people who like tea and people who like coffee; dog lovers and cat lovers; people for war, people for peace; drivers and cyclists; red and blue.
And there are those that take responsibility and those that don't.
It struck me that those people, who, for whatever reason, hide in the shadows, their fingers coming into the sunlight to point at others when the question of blame arises are only doing themselves a terrible disservice. Why?
Because if you never shoulder responsibility, you can never make a decision. If you can never make a decision, you don't live your own life. If you don't live your own life, you are frustrated with all you do have. Maybe you're red, but you secretly want to be blue. You can't scream that from the shadows. If you're frustrated, you become negative. When you're negative, you blame others for it all, and that's when you suddenly come to life: IT'S NOT MY FAULT!
Avoid these people. Make mistakes. Shrug. Keep your fingers in your pocket. Because you are already standing in the sunshine.
The world is always divided into two: people who like tea and people who like coffee; dog lovers and cat lovers; people for war, people for peace; drivers and cyclists; red and blue.
And there are those that take responsibility and those that don't.
It struck me that those people, who, for whatever reason, hide in the shadows, their fingers coming into the sunlight to point at others when the question of blame arises are only doing themselves a terrible disservice. Why?
Because if you never shoulder responsibility, you can never make a decision. If you can never make a decision, you don't live your own life. If you don't live your own life, you are frustrated with all you do have. Maybe you're red, but you secretly want to be blue. You can't scream that from the shadows. If you're frustrated, you become negative. When you're negative, you blame others for it all, and that's when you suddenly come to life: IT'S NOT MY FAULT!
Avoid these people. Make mistakes. Shrug. Keep your fingers in your pocket. Because you are already standing in the sunshine.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
The Perfect Panic
A couple of weeks ago, I went to Switzerland for a long weekend. To escape London for three whole days was fabulous: fresh air, mountains, Swiss cheese, Argentine wine (were staying with one of Martín's friends), fondues, chocolate, thermal pools and a whole lot of fun.
I had passed through Switzerland before in a sleepy daze having arrived at some obscene hour to be transported from a Swiss airport to a French ski resort. I remember stopping at a very beautiful lake (I have no idea which one), getting off the bus into a gale force wind, getting straight back on again and marvelling at the mountainous backdrop before the eyelids sunk once again.
So, this was my first real Swiss experience. For Swiss fans, we were staying in Basel, right on the border with France and Germany (the airport, in Switzerland, is French. Following all three European flags is quite confusing on landing). It was also excellent to have a Swiss girl as one of our hosts - the other being Argentine, which obviously doesn't count. That way, we could understand a bit about the Swiss folks' psyche, their culture. For example, nobody really talks about politics as there are representatives in the government from all parties, it's all so charmingly democratic; owning all types of fondue devices is a prerequisite for being Swiss and the German Swiss language is only spoken, even they don't know how to write the words they use.
The three days were well spent, driving around in our hosts' motor home, through green fields and sloping hills to crystal lakes surrounded by snow-capped peaks. Magical. We took the train to a spa near Basel. Heaven. The roads were clearly signposted, everything ran smoothly. The speed limit was adhered to. The trains left on the dot and arrived on the dot (the Swiss think those damn Germans are always so late) People could all speak at least three languages. Everything was in its place (apart from those two Argies)
Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Tick tock. Tick tock.
It struck me as a wonderful thing at first. Peace, tranquility, no need for chaos or disruption. Would the Swiss ever protest or march on parliament? There was a puzzled frown in reponse. Of course not. Are there traffic jams? Do people rage about the economy? Is the gonverment full of idiots? A shake of the head. Of course not. Has your Granny had to wait ten months for a new hip? Is the cheese bill sky-high? Need a loan to fill up your car? An ironic laugh. Of course not. Switzerland is quietly perfect, neutrally still, modestly unobtrusive.
But then, I thought, what if something does go wrong? The bus is late. The bike was moved. The rubbish collection failed to pick up the plastics bag. The train breaks down. A delivery of cheese doesn't get through customs. The chocolate workers want more money. There is no de-icer.
The smallest diversions from perfection and chaos can ensue. I don't mean that the country grinds to a halt because someone left the car light on and there is no battery in the morning, but rather the psychological consequences play out. Panic, tension, stress. All those things that people the world over, in less than perfect places, are used to. Our hosts admitted that when there is a break from the norm, it is unsettling for the Swiss. It also has one of the highest suicide rates in Europe; they don't even see it as a necessarily bad thing, the suicide reports on the radio. It's part of the normal ebb and flow.
This in itself is enough to make me want to get on a plane and head back into the regular beauty of Buenos Aires chaos. Can you imagine Basel transported to India? It would have 30 million people living there in a week, looking for some peace and quiet from madness of Mumbai. Who then wouldn't get the point.
So, perfection and clockwork isn't all it is cracked up to be. Your mobile running out of battery on the way to work; the pile of dog crap you step into on the way to the wedding; the long queues at the supermarket; the insane hours on the phone to any call centre; time being a flexible friend which weaves through the ifs, buts and nearlys of life. It's crazy to think that these, which are now facts of life, would drive us mad. I'll take random and I'll take mistakes and their frustrations, because the perfect alternative is just a little cuckoo...
Cuckoo.
I had passed through Switzerland before in a sleepy daze having arrived at some obscene hour to be transported from a Swiss airport to a French ski resort. I remember stopping at a very beautiful lake (I have no idea which one), getting off the bus into a gale force wind, getting straight back on again and marvelling at the mountainous backdrop before the eyelids sunk once again.
So, this was my first real Swiss experience. For Swiss fans, we were staying in Basel, right on the border with France and Germany (the airport, in Switzerland, is French. Following all three European flags is quite confusing on landing). It was also excellent to have a Swiss girl as one of our hosts - the other being Argentine, which obviously doesn't count. That way, we could understand a bit about the Swiss folks' psyche, their culture. For example, nobody really talks about politics as there are representatives in the government from all parties, it's all so charmingly democratic; owning all types of fondue devices is a prerequisite for being Swiss and the German Swiss language is only spoken, even they don't know how to write the words they use.
The three days were well spent, driving around in our hosts' motor home, through green fields and sloping hills to crystal lakes surrounded by snow-capped peaks. Magical. We took the train to a spa near Basel. Heaven. The roads were clearly signposted, everything ran smoothly. The speed limit was adhered to. The trains left on the dot and arrived on the dot (the Swiss think those damn Germans are always so late) People could all speak at least three languages. Everything was in its place (apart from those two Argies)
Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Tick tock. Tick tock.
It struck me as a wonderful thing at first. Peace, tranquility, no need for chaos or disruption. Would the Swiss ever protest or march on parliament? There was a puzzled frown in reponse. Of course not. Are there traffic jams? Do people rage about the economy? Is the gonverment full of idiots? A shake of the head. Of course not. Has your Granny had to wait ten months for a new hip? Is the cheese bill sky-high? Need a loan to fill up your car? An ironic laugh. Of course not. Switzerland is quietly perfect, neutrally still, modestly unobtrusive.
But then, I thought, what if something does go wrong? The bus is late. The bike was moved. The rubbish collection failed to pick up the plastics bag. The train breaks down. A delivery of cheese doesn't get through customs. The chocolate workers want more money. There is no de-icer.
The smallest diversions from perfection and chaos can ensue. I don't mean that the country grinds to a halt because someone left the car light on and there is no battery in the morning, but rather the psychological consequences play out. Panic, tension, stress. All those things that people the world over, in less than perfect places, are used to. Our hosts admitted that when there is a break from the norm, it is unsettling for the Swiss. It also has one of the highest suicide rates in Europe; they don't even see it as a necessarily bad thing, the suicide reports on the radio. It's part of the normal ebb and flow.
This in itself is enough to make me want to get on a plane and head back into the regular beauty of Buenos Aires chaos. Can you imagine Basel transported to India? It would have 30 million people living there in a week, looking for some peace and quiet from madness of Mumbai. Who then wouldn't get the point.
So, perfection and clockwork isn't all it is cracked up to be. Your mobile running out of battery on the way to work; the pile of dog crap you step into on the way to the wedding; the long queues at the supermarket; the insane hours on the phone to any call centre; time being a flexible friend which weaves through the ifs, buts and nearlys of life. It's crazy to think that these, which are now facts of life, would drive us mad. I'll take random and I'll take mistakes and their frustrations, because the perfect alternative is just a little cuckoo...
Cuckoo.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
We'll always have Paris
Place or people? People or place?
I am going to disgust some of you today by revealing that it was only two days ago, in my life of thirty years, that I saw Casablanca. And before you scream at me, yes, I loved it. I loved the fact that I could already quote half the movie; that at those lines, I put my hands spread over my heart and gave a little yelp much to the amusement of Martín; that even something as vile as smoking seems quite beautiful if you're Humphrey Bogart; and that there is always a reason to move on.
It got me thinking about the choices in the movie, and the ones which were finally made. Rick chooses the perfect past, in the perfect place, rather than a non perfect future with the love of his life. Brave or stupid? Admirable or foolish? Stupidly admirable, perhaps.
I thought about the places in the world which meant something special because of the person I was with there. Did the love and passion grow because of the place, the person, or both? Would one have survived without the other?
I spent New Year 2005 in a small, lakeside town, overlooked by a beautiful volcano, in Chile. I had stayed on instead of continuing to travel because I had met a man on Christmas Day. While my fellow travellers moved on and explored Patagonia, I stayed in his house enjoying a carefree life of lake swimming, moon parties, dog walks along the beach, strawberries in bed and the buzz of instant attraction. My companions got further and further away and my heart got further and further involved. Nearly two weeks later, it was a wretch to leave, but I did.
And life/fate/curious circumstance took me back there almost a year later. Twice. The first trip back was a disaster: the water under the bridge in his life meant my return was not an extension of our romance from before. What, I had to ask myself, had I expected? I had to leave again anyway, and tried not to think about it. The second time, things had changed again, and we went straight back to the fun, passion and yearning we had found in each other some seventeen moths before.
At 5am he stood on the porch of a house in the middle of a field. It was pouring with rain. Huge puddles sat between me and the beeping taxi, its headlights reaching our feet, standing so close together as we said our goodbyes. His kiss said stay. Mine tried to reply I want to, but I can't.
And, sadly, I drove away, waving, blowing kisses at that man as he stood blowing kisses back in the first light of morning, alone in his boxer shorts. I packed up my un-slept-in tent in the rain and spent the day in a trance of What if?
Right person, right place, wrong moment? In the I miss you emails that followed, I would have liked to have thought so. But, no. Some months later there was another person, another place and another magic. And I had to leave again.
But now, in this moment, if my heart thinks back to those 'perfect' times: the sunshine, the love, the picturesque place, the trust, and I try to take any part of it away from there, I can't. That man belongs in that place at that time. I can't put him at my side in a supermarket in London, nor can I see him in a restaurant with me in Buenos Aires. He doesn't belong on a chairlift with me in France, nor on the beach in Hunstanton.
He is where he is for a reason. If we had taken it somewhere else it would not have been the same. And we would never, with wonderful feeling, be able to say right now, "We'll always have our Paris".
I am going to disgust some of you today by revealing that it was only two days ago, in my life of thirty years, that I saw Casablanca. And before you scream at me, yes, I loved it. I loved the fact that I could already quote half the movie; that at those lines, I put my hands spread over my heart and gave a little yelp much to the amusement of Martín; that even something as vile as smoking seems quite beautiful if you're Humphrey Bogart; and that there is always a reason to move on.
It got me thinking about the choices in the movie, and the ones which were finally made. Rick chooses the perfect past, in the perfect place, rather than a non perfect future with the love of his life. Brave or stupid? Admirable or foolish? Stupidly admirable, perhaps.
I thought about the places in the world which meant something special because of the person I was with there. Did the love and passion grow because of the place, the person, or both? Would one have survived without the other?
I spent New Year 2005 in a small, lakeside town, overlooked by a beautiful volcano, in Chile. I had stayed on instead of continuing to travel because I had met a man on Christmas Day. While my fellow travellers moved on and explored Patagonia, I stayed in his house enjoying a carefree life of lake swimming, moon parties, dog walks along the beach, strawberries in bed and the buzz of instant attraction. My companions got further and further away and my heart got further and further involved. Nearly two weeks later, it was a wretch to leave, but I did.
And life/fate/curious circumstance took me back there almost a year later. Twice. The first trip back was a disaster: the water under the bridge in his life meant my return was not an extension of our romance from before. What, I had to ask myself, had I expected? I had to leave again anyway, and tried not to think about it. The second time, things had changed again, and we went straight back to the fun, passion and yearning we had found in each other some seventeen moths before.
At 5am he stood on the porch of a house in the middle of a field. It was pouring with rain. Huge puddles sat between me and the beeping taxi, its headlights reaching our feet, standing so close together as we said our goodbyes. His kiss said stay. Mine tried to reply I want to, but I can't.
And, sadly, I drove away, waving, blowing kisses at that man as he stood blowing kisses back in the first light of morning, alone in his boxer shorts. I packed up my un-slept-in tent in the rain and spent the day in a trance of What if?
Right person, right place, wrong moment? In the I miss you emails that followed, I would have liked to have thought so. But, no. Some months later there was another person, another place and another magic. And I had to leave again.
But now, in this moment, if my heart thinks back to those 'perfect' times: the sunshine, the love, the picturesque place, the trust, and I try to take any part of it away from there, I can't. That man belongs in that place at that time. I can't put him at my side in a supermarket in London, nor can I see him in a restaurant with me in Buenos Aires. He doesn't belong on a chairlift with me in France, nor on the beach in Hunstanton.
He is where he is for a reason. If we had taken it somewhere else it would not have been the same. And we would never, with wonderful feeling, be able to say right now, "We'll always have our Paris".
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