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WHAT'S SO BAD ABOUT BRISBANE, ANYWAY?

I have moved home to Brisbane. Temporarily. There are some things in life I’m not sure about: heels or flats, Bordeaux or Côtes du Rhône, Tom Tilley or Michael Fassbender… But the choice between Paris and Brisbane was never one to begin with. It was something known. Something sure. Brisbane has my family, my loved ones. Paris has my heart.

We had two fish here in Brisbane. They were huge and lived on my balcony in a small garden pot that my dad had transformed and renovated into some type of luxurious pond-oasis surrounded by luscious trees and water lilies that gives ideal, dappled light for swimming. In the afternoon, when the sun is going down, I like to sit out there and have a drink. It’s a relaxing little nook as there is a small fountain that doubles as a filter for the fish and the sound of the trickling water as I watch the pink skies over beautiful Brisbane is just delightful.

However, just two weeks ago, I found the gold goldfish belly up and the pipe to the fountain disconnected, while the white goldfish hid in the dark corners, behind their log, now his log. It was upsetting; they made such a good team and their colours complimented each other perfectly.

This got me to thinking of life here in Brisbane. Life here is good. And I mean really good. You should see the size of our steaks. I have a friend who is a sales assistant in a shop; she just bought a Kenzo sweater! Our beers are cold and our seasons are warm. Life truly is great. But not only is it great, it is easy. High minimum wages and low rent, and all of it surrounded by golden beaches.

However there is something lacking. Underneath our blazing sun and through our café-ed streets, we lack something. And it’s not the fact that bars close too early or that a concert will set you back $100. No. After returning to the sunshine state after six years away, I can finally see what it is: Heart. Passion. Fearless, heartfelt passion for life. Whether it’s due to the heat or the relaxed attitude of the locals, Brisbane seems to shy away from anything even remotely emotional, except maybe cricket. Instead, we are boisterous and aggressive. Sadness or fear is given a few pats on the back and a “you’ll be right”. People seeking help are made to jump hurdles or are turned away. We pack our things in the middle of the night and run from the issues, from the connection. And anything remotely endearing or romantic is better to float away from, undiscussed and monotonously forgotten. But the strong, fun loving façade will remain, despite the lack of heart.

Sure we get excited from time-to-time. We eat out. We go out. We party. And we do it hard. Then we stop. We go home. We regret. We re-think. Until it’s the weekend and we get excited again.

Sometimes we chase the action, the attention. We’re snapped at every bar we go to, tagged and commented on. We tinder. We hashtag. We swipe left. We swipe right. But Monday comes, the action cools, the buzz wears off and we only have our comfortable jobs to go back to, our baths to take, our pools to swim in, our exuberant salaries to enjoy. How comfortably dull. How directionless.

It is my theory that the white goldfish disconnected the filter himself: he was bored with his life and wanted to shake things up a little. Being the stronger of the two, he knew he’d survive and he would be the big fish in his small, beautiful oasis. Perhaps I spend too much time out there watching the sunset. Perhaps I over analyse the psyche of a goldfish but now, after two weeks, he does look unhappy. He floats alone, in his beautiful, adequate pond. Friendless. Aimless. A lone fish on a balcony in Brisbane.

Perhaps he’d be happier in Europe.

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Final sentences:

And, somehow, Sara felt as if she understood her, though she said so little, and only stood still and looked and looked after her as she went out of the shop with the Indian gentleman, and they got into the carriage and drove away

from A Little Princess

[Then I went out of the rose-garden.] I shall never go into it again.

from My Robin

[Across the lawn came the Master of Misselthwaite and he looked as many of them had never seen him.] And by his side with his head up in the air and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy in Yorkshire - Master Colin!

from The Secret Garden

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[Tell me how bad I am.] It makes me feel so good!

Anne Rice, from The Queen of the Damned (via the-final-sentence)

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A Bridge over Parisian Waters

I hate the locks on the Pont des Arts. Sure you’re in the City of Love and lucky you, you’re in love! But we live here. That bridge that is literally falling under the weight of your public displays of affection, we use that bridge daily to get to and from work, between left and right banks and back and forth between friends and lovers. Our taxes pay for that bridge and it is ours.

Like you, I too am in love. And this bridge is our garden, our escape as we live in the area. It’s where we go for a breath of fresh air, nightly strolls or where we cross while running to work. It’s where he has been going since his childhood for afternoon picnics. And all those years ago, when your love locks weren’t there, he could look out across the Seine, over an unspoiled view of Paris.

The other night, during one of our late night walks along the Seine, we crossed the bridge of lovers and watched and you locked locks and locked lips on Paris’ favourite bridge. The bridge had just re-opened that afternoon after part of it gave way earlier that day to the pressure of the love put upon it. The part of the bridge that had buckled was swiftly replaced by a new, unlocked panel and the bridge was re-opened within hours. But just as quickly as it was repaired, were the hoards of romantics, desperate to show the world that they were in love. And once again, our view was interrupted and once again our bridge felt the strain of your affection.

My boyfriend and I discussed the bridge and it’s significance to the lovers of Paris. We traced back our steps to when we first noticed the locks.

"Pas loin apres 2004", he said. After 2004, I agreed.

I noted a certain final series of a the very popular Sex and the City where Carrie and Big finally got their shit together where there were no locks on the bridge. Not one. Could it be? Did the final scene between these two on-again-off-again-ers fabricate an age old tradition that could bring down not only the humor of everyday Parisians but also a Bridge?

Who cares! You’re in love and you don’t live here. You love here, but you don’t live here.

So we continued our walk until we stumbled upon a guy who called himself God. He was smoking a rolly, drinking a beer and eating a sandwich. He’d also managed to find a key someone had forgotten to throw to the depths of the murky Seine and had randomly tried it on some locks. Seems, my friends, that your love locks are not one of a kind. As it turned out, this one key could open numerous locks tried at random on one small portion of the bridge. So God took on his heavenly duties and was making his way along, undoing some of the strenuous love that was placed on the bridge over the last 10 years. He’d done well, too. Whether or not this had any effect on your relationships, if you suddenly felt the pang of detachment or of being undone, I don’t know. And I’m sorry if you did. But that night God rid the bridge of approximately 40kg of your love and that’s 40kg less that we have to worry about.

During our walk we also discussed deterrents; Sever penalties? More policing? Plastic locks? Electrified fencing? Angry Parisians driving over the bridge every 30 minutes in their cars, tooting their horns, yelling “DEGAGE!!”

No. You’re in love. And Paris truly is the City of Love and you should enjoy it. Let it sweep you away so that you too can say “we’ll always have Paris!”. It’s magical like that.

But as we wandered home, we pondered over the idea: would we ever attach a lock to the Carrie and Big Bridge as a sign of our undying love? Perhaps. Perhaps we’d buy a lock and write our names on it. Perhaps we could chose a spot, a special spot, important to both of us. Perhaps, with a loving kiss, in front of you all, we’d take that lock and shove it up our arses and walk away, with our love and our lock, hand-in-hand. Happily ever after.

Because WE will always have Paris.

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Let's go vintage.

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m - i - c - k - e - y m - o - u - s - e !

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deer me.

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OkForTheMoment

Ever tried online dating? I have. After the last fiasco, I had a go at okStupid… I mean cupid. OkCupid. The trial lasted a little over five days with three dates, 2 unsuccessful and frightfully dull and one, let’s call him, “still pending”, but I soon deleted my account. Apparently I was supposed to answer some questions regarding my personality and preferences which I didn’t do as I figured the boys could ask if they were interested. When confronted about this by a prospective suitor, he claimed I looked like a witch in my profile picture. Nasty behaviour from the safety of one’s smartphone… Very brave! Then I tried Tinder. Mostly because I was away for work in Barcelona and assumed I could escape the possibility of seeing anyone I might have a connection with. How wrong I was! The world is indeed a small place. But while the idea of flicking through images of men and selecting what I like and don’t like is terribly empowering and ego-boosting, I found out that most people use this app while on the loo. So girls, sorry to say but you were probably “liked” (or god forbid, “disliked”) mid shit. And boys, I’m sure finding out that girls shit at all is shocking enough. But after Tinder-ing for three week or so, I couldn’t handle the continuous stream of judgemental thoughts that were hurtling from my head like mental diarrhea so instantaneously about men who were probably quite lovely. This accompanied by the fact that the same judgements were probably being lobbed upon me: it was a little too brutal. But it wasn’t the only transitory, brutal behaviour I have been involved in of late. Oh no! These online judgements were overshadowed by the events of Paris Fashion Week or #PFW, as I’ve learnt. The amount of photos one clicks through during a month of online dating will be nothing compared to the amount one photographer will snap over the course of one day at Fashion Week. What’s more, while you may select the photos you want to show your prospective Online Partners (no matter how risqué) but at these #PFW events, you are constantly on show. A walking image to be judged and commented on. A moving profile, if you like. And just like your on-the-loo-liking with Tinder, here you too are doing the same! Now I’m not saying there’re identical, nor am I saying that nothing good comes from either: the world’s best fashion springs from these events and some of my favourite couples met online. But for one reason or another, there seems to be, with both online dating and the events and parties of Fashion Week, a sense of urgency and canned laughter to it all that make them eerily similar. And it’s for this reason I believe online dating is to these Fashion Week Events as prosecco is to sparkling wine: both enjoyable and can certainly get you giddy, but they’re not quite champagne. Take, for example, a Fashion Week Party. Even before you step in the door, you’re forced to wait outside in the bitter cold winds of February. Then, if you’re lucky enough, someone recognises you or your friend and you are skipped through the VIP line, into the gritty warmth of Fashion People, wearing the latest while you’re still in the T-shirt you slept in the night before. And while explaining that you’re not in fact IN the Fashion Industry and have nothing really to offer or sell, the conversation runs dry. However, you do meet a Queen from Chelsea, who credits the only laugh of the evening, explaining that, “no darling, my sweater isn’t mink. It’s castor, darling. From the beaver family”. This is followed the next day by a Fashion Week Show where you do the same mixing and banter-ing, but this time with a camera in the day light. But whatever they think and whatever they’re wearing, at least there are cascades of champagne flowing. No wait, that’s not Champagne. But none-the-less, it’s bubbly and light and entertaining. What makes these events so thrilling is the fact that you can get so easily lost in the instant-ness of it all: the models, the parties, the fashion, all moving so quickly, here and now for the week, but no longer. They pass you by on the street, you take your photo, you thank them and they’re gone. The thrill is up. You caught them. And when it’s all over, you have numbers you may or may not call and photos to edit and you’re tired from trying to keep up with the pace of swift footed models and well dressed bloggers. But tomorrow there will be someone new, another great shot to take. More people to like and chase. In that same instantaneous thrill, we can get utterly lost in the world of Online Dating. Being liked by and liking someone and showing interest can happen within moments. On top of this, you are inundated by fresh, new faces and sexy body shots almost, depending on your cruising speed and/or smartphone speed, every second. The next best thing is here, now and it’s waiting for you! It is in this space that we can exist on a level of separateness and self-confidence, that we can get carried away. It is an area of control and remoteness between us and a photo that we can so easily inhabit because it is just that! While expressing interest and excitement you can enjoy a moment, keep your distance and move on without any annoying attachments because you were never connected to begin with! And why would you want to get too involved? It’s fun up here! But in saying that, someone somewhere has created two brilliant forums in which people come together for fashion or a fu… flirt. This is noteworthy AND inspirational as both are hugely successful. On the same note, while the shows and parties may be immensely amusing, there is nothing quite like owning those designer heels or truly knowing the work that goes into a single collection and being involved with it. Nor is there anything quite like making eye contact with someone cute across the bar, or finally working up the courage to tell someone you’ve fancied them for an eternity. All-in-all, while the accumulation of millions of singles looking for a little love online and the hype surrounding a few world-class designers in the one place is incredibly thrilling and fun to be a part of, my days of online flirting and frolicking are over. And, while I will enjoy many more Fashion Week Events to come, I probably won’t be wearing Mink or Beaver. But instead, I’ll be happy there in my overnight-T-shirt. Because at the end of the day, it’s just hype and it just isn’t the same as the real thing. It just isn’t champagne.

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Game of Dating

I am single. I have been this way for a while now. Sometimes I’m not, but mostly I am. My brother, who also flies the same singular flag, believes we are lone wolves, destined to never settle to one cave or wolf mate. While it’s a fun idea and we like to joke about it, I’m no lone wolf. Instead, after being brought up on Disney Princess cartoons, Gene Kelly’s smile and Star Wars happy endings, I’m truly a romantic. I’m realistic, but ultimately a romantic. This, therefore, makes me a regular on the dating scene: a weird and wonderful world of first kisses, infatuation and hiding the fact that you’re dying to fart after most big meals. Normally I love dating. It’s a real thrill. Sure there are highs and lows, wins and loses (both for them and for me), but generally I do love getting to know people, no matter what comes of it. But yesterday I was led to question my place in this game after I was broken up with via text. Yes. Text.

I have just started watching Game of Thrones; a TV series I was avoiding getting into as I find my commitment to television series goes all the way and I often tend to forget daily tasks like tidying or showering. I may not have a great track record at relationships, but boy can I commit to a television series. As I was making great progress through series one, while bedridden with a horrible case of everything-that-is-going-around-at-the-moment, and thoroughly enjoying the gore, violence and back stabbing and almost begging the characters, “Don’t trust that guy! He’s a crook!”, when I received the dreaded text from Mr Socially Awkward explaining that after overcoming his infatuation with me and having gotten to know me, he realised he didn’t like me and that he didn’t want to continue seeing me. And “Splat!” went the man as he fell from his horse, spear piercing through his gut, blood bubbling from near lifeless lips.

Now I’m not saying I’m any better. I’ve been at this game for thirteen years now and sometimes I’ve made my own low blows. Sometimes. What I am saying is; it can be a chaotic mess out there, full of self-obsessed, horny singles with baggage the size of a Greek Financial Crisis. So, when playing this game, how do we play fair? Who do we trust?

Game of Thrones has taught me no one. Not even your own children. And especially not your wife. Or your king. Apparently you can’t turn your back without someone conspiring against you or sticking a spear through your kneecap. And you need a viscous dog to protect you, as well. I now fear that the dating world has evolved into the same heaving, cesspool: a bloodied mess of people saying one thing and doing another… including myself.

But what are the rules of the game? When going through a break up and are called a so-and-so, do you fight back? Eckhart Tolle believes no. His book, The Power of Now, taught me that one should just accept it and simply be at peace with ones self, that our constant need and yearning to put the other person down when they insult us is only our ego. Our big, fat egos needing to feel empowered and unscathed. It is the first, and probably the last self help book I will read, but he does make a point. If we were simply to live in the moment, rather than project ourselves into a future ideal, to accept others, to be pleasant and all with a smile on your dial, there’d be a great deal less mess. The heaving cesspool would clear to become a tranquil lily pond, free to date and just be.

However Game of Thrones would be somewhat less interesting if it followed the rules of The Now. And I dare say dating would, as well. Imagine not letting yourself fall completely as you laughed your way through your umpteenth date. Imagine not fantasising about your possible future. Imagine not feeling wildly enthused about someone and thinking they’re just brilliant. Imagine letting a little, bald French man call you une mensonge pute and not saying anything. Imagine, instead, calmly accepting a person into your life, without the rush and thrills and ups and downs. Or graciously reading and accepting Mr Political’s comments that after having spent time with you, he actually didn’t like certain aspects of your personality. No thanks. Bring me my Hellhound, please!

So, while my ego is slightly bruised, I’m sure I’ll be back in the dating cesspool sooner or later. And, no doubt, there are many more men who, once the infatuation is gone, realise they don’t like me. I just hope they can play fair, avoid the kneecaps and stay clear of the texts. 

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Detox-ed

I’ve never actually properly detoxed in my life. Ever. I once had to try to because of a kidney infection but as I was in the Alps and the only food available to me was 5 star cuisine, I was out of luck.  I was left with no choice but to eat their gamed pigeon stuffed with foie gras and chestnuts. I once had to give up coffee, as well, as I had pneumonia. But the unshakable headache forced my unwilling body to crawl down to my local café and wheeze for a lifesaver.  Out of pity (and mostly shock at me getting down there), the coffee was on the house.

Paris doesn’t make it any easier, either.  If I’m picnicking or eating at home, for €10 euros I can have a decent bottle of wine and a platter of cheese with some of the world’s finest views.  For twenty I can have champagne. Visitors don’t help either.  Especially in the summer.  (I love you all, but you and my indulgences with you have actually made my arse incredibly fat). We all go out and “enjoy the holidays” even though I’m very much NOT on holidays. 

And after all is said and done, I only end up with heartburn and buttons popping on my jeans.  Not fun.

But neither is a full blown no carbs, no suguar, no booze detox.

Work recently has taken me to Portugal for a week to a resort and health spa.  The popular trend here is to eat like a saint with their daily menu of whipped-up air on a piece of steamed something-or-other and then have your toxins spa-ed out of you in their two kilometres of treatment rooms.  This is then supplemented by beach lounging and pool paddling.  Wash it all down with litres of water and a fruit juice every afternoon and you have your detox spa experience.  What a holiday.

As the old saying goes, I “did as the tourists do when on health retreat in Portugal” and got on board with the all the hullabaloo.

Or hulla-ba-nothing, as it turned out. On arrival into a sweltering 35°, they placed in front of me a slice of grilled courgette and a slither of white fish.  A desk lamp could have grilled this fish. I breathed it in. Quite literally. I don’t actually remember chewing for the entire week. But I must admit, for air, it was incredibly tasty.  I can see where the 5 star cooking was going. 

I get to my room to find a bottle of Portuguese Porto with a note saying what I can only presume as “drink me”. Very Alice in Wonderland. Also, very sadistic of them. 

By 5pm, you’re famished. You’re body wants to throw in the towel, instead it’s kept awake and forging on by the gallons of water you’ve had throughout the day. The very water you imagined was wine or an ice-cold beer as it slid down your throat. What’s on offer, you ask?  Juice. Yum, you think. Freshly squeezed and blended fruit and vegetable juices by the pool. This’ll hit the spot, you think.  Yeah bloody right! Nothing could be more unsatisfying than a carrot, lemon and turnip juice when you’ve been chasing after kids all day.  To add to the pain, the children are slurping away at a chocolate milkshake and chowing down on a KitKat.

By dinnertime, you hate yourself even more. The children that you love and care for are whole-heartedly enjoying their fresh pasta and home made tomato sauce. If they were any older they would have ordered a glass of the house red to go with it.  A red that is so light and delicate, it’s just perfect with the heat and the home grown, Portuguese tomatoes that are melting over the delicate pasta in front of them. All you want to do is slap the fork out of their hands, push their high chair out of the way, slide in and eat it all! In stead you tell them lovingly that they’re eating so well and you almost faint in your seat.

By day four, you’re pretty proud of yourself for seeing it through and not having stolen anything from the children’s plates. That’s when you get your spa treatment. First round and you’re lulled into a sense of serenity in a personal spa bath filled with sea water, warmed to a blissful temperature and jetted in all the right places. Then they come for you. They motion you into a semi-bathroom and tell you to take your swimmers off and stand at the end of the long tilled room. They then blast you with scalding hot seawater as you’re directed about into different positions. Apparently this woman is blasting in the same direction as my blood circulation.  She also seems to be blasting most of my dignity away.

By round three, you’re dignity and sense of who you and all your strength have all but disappeared, as you lie down flat on a table and have a Portuguese man massage the rest of it out of you. It’s as though he is reassuring you and your body that you didn’t need any of it, anyway. 

Day Eight rolls around and you have only eaten half a slice of bread and taken only what the children didn’t want to eat, which wasn’t much. You’re a new person. Sleep has become deeper. The meals you are served somehow become enormous. Your skin has become brighter. Thighs have become tighter. Mornings have become… less hangover-er. And, for some reason or other, the sun is shining in a way you’ve never seen before. And the seagulls have never looked so wonderful as they glide through the air and over the blue-green waters. And that dress has never looked so good on you!

And then you go home.

In fact, I’m not even home yet. I’m still on the plane and enjoying my second baby bottle of Prosecco. They asked me what I was celebrating – the end of a detox. Bravo!

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Faux et Fashion

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The Word Around Us

I always get a tad nervous before posting one of these. Often, half way through writing, I’ll re-read what I’ve jotted down and think how utterly stupid and wanky it sounds and then scrunch up the remnants of my thoughts (yes, my first draft is normally always on paper) and throw it to the wasteland of the unwanted, hating ever word that was on there.

The truth is I think I’m slightly dyslexic and I know I am a downright god awful speller and when I’m not reading things the wrong way, including text messages, novels, emails etc… I’m misspelling them and judging myself and every ignorant, pretentious utterance that makes it’s way from that squishy mass in my head and out through my fingers. And it doesn’t just rest at blogging; this extends to Face Book posts, photo comments and every other assertion that tumbles out.  Thank god for “lol”, “mdr” and emoticons.

While I may be somewhat of a strongly opinionated conversationalists, those first exchanges with someone still and will always terrify me. Even more so in French, my second language. It took me over six months of close observation and intense listening here in France to work up the courage to actually give an opinion on something. And I still made a tit of myself.  I was asked one night, at a friend’s dinner party, in front of parents and grandparents, what it was exactly that I really liked about France. I quickly scanned over subject matters and to just how far my vocabulary could span when I promptly said, “Food. Yes I love the food here”.  The twenty odd Francophiles sitting around me all smiled and nodded in common accord. Yes! French food really is good isn’t it? They were pleased I’d noticed.

“But why?” they inquired. “Why French food over your native Australian food, or American or British food?”

Why did I prefer it? I was beginning to get nervous.  They were pestering me about culture and preference.

Easy. “Well, I find the food in France to be so much more reflective of the seasons and much more natural. You’d be surprised at the amount of préservatifs you’ll find in the food in Australia, the UK and America.”

They stopped, looked confused and then with an appearance of interest asked, “Préservatifs? Really?”

“Oh yes! You’ll find them in almost everything. I mean, I find it really destroys the taste and takes away from the organic qualities of what you’re eating. You’ve travelled”, I said to my friend’s grandmother, “you know what I mean when I say that all this American and British pre-packaged food is just packed full of préservatifs. Sure it destroys the taste, but at the bottom line it’s just really not good for your health to be eating so manypréservatifs”. I couldn’t have said the word more.

Voilà. My first public opinion given in French. They looked at me. Shocked. My darling friend then leaned over and explained that perhaps I meant ‘conservators’ and not préservatifs which actually meant condoms.

After dying a million deaths of humiliation, I then went on to learn and speak French as much as humanly possible. And four years later I’m still going, and making somewhat less of a fool of myself.

What is illuminated by living over here, in this culture that is not my own, is the fluidity of language and the fun we can have with it. The fun of using the words that are all around us, that our making up our thoughts, by mixing them up and putting them together and getting them out there and then playing with them until we can play no more. It never ceases.

However there will always be a party-pooper who wants to ruin the fun. Some judgemental person who tits and tuts at language and its use.

Here in France, we have a panel of 40 or so official language makers and deciders who meet annually to decide on the course of the French language. They decide what makes it, what doesn’t and whether it’s too English or not. For example, while we all say ‘le weekend’ here and not ‘fin de semaine���, it’s not actually an official word here in France thanks to this panel. This is a group of people who spent months deciding if the word ‘iPod’ would be masculine or feminine. Months.

Being a bit of a linguist lover, I admired these people. Greatly. In these highly sought after positions are the people deciding on the words we use and, if you believe the current psycho-linguistic and the 1984 Orwellian views, then these are the people creating and allowing our thoughts. Without the word for holidays, for example, how could the thought of time off from work ever exist? If your language does not have colours but instead has only ‘dark’ and ‘light’ every parrot you saw could only ever be a magpie.  The thought, the idea, simply wouldn’t be there.

However, after having watched the wonderful Stephen Fry in his documentary Planet Word I soon found out that these people, this panel I had so admired had, amongst other things, annihilated most of the French dialects in an attempt to have one true, official and beautiful French.

In an instant, I regretted every affected and assuming nod of agreement I’d ever given to every old aristocratic ninny who claimed that the youth of today wouldn’t know French if it knocked their smart phones out of their illiterate hands. And I hated even more every dogmatic and pompous comment I ever made on someone’s work, on their words.  I wonder if these ladies could Tweet these thoughts in fewer than 178 characters. I couldn’t. I still don’t understand Hashtags.

The thing is, language is a fluid thing and it will continue to change and evolve to reflect our thoughts, our desires and the world around us that is never fixed but rather a constantly evolving thing. It has it’s formalities in the past that transcend and progress into the future. And we are lucky enough to be able to, as Stephen Fry states, play with it all on many levels, every single day because our language, our thoughts, our words are truly a delightful thing to enjoy in every way possible.

So I will brave the faceless world of the internet and I will post this. And I will continue to play with every morsel of my language, even if I do make a tit of myself.

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Winter colours.

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