la manque de vie

Just returned from a sweet weekend of Paris. Every morning I would savour the French pastries - croissant, pain au chocolat, chausson aux pommes - and fresh espresso. I left the flat to partake of the famous Paris 'Soldes', to make wine purchases of Gigondas and Bordeaux, to sit on the steps of Sacre-Coeur and float in the breeze of la Seine. But just as much time was spent in Thibault's gorgeous flat, within plain sight of la Tour Eiffel and les Invalides. Inside I lay in the sunlight next to the window, reading Purple Hibiscus, listening to children singing outside (trop mignon!), and learning to make french vinaigrette and dinde de creme et moutard from Annabelle.

Restless. A little part of me is hoping I don't get the job project call back. The second 'interview' felt off. But maybe it was me. Halfway through I was struck by the transition into this new stage - work. This is my last summer. Ever. I want to loungt on Mediterranean beaches and explore places like Turkey and Egypt. I'm not sure what it would mean to NOT work this summer. Perhaps it would mean I should return home in September. Too much time on my hands, mind wandering too far. Been thinking about my parents a lot lately. It feels so wrong that I can actually forget to call them 3 weeks in a row. I so want a place of my own. And a dog.

Missing Austin today.

Nagaland = food + gossip - subtlety

So I've changed my mind about salmon. I don't absolutely hate it. It's gorgeously slick and delicate when raw. 24 hours after the question 'when are you going to cook for ME?' a mini sushi feast evolves. Mai prepared miso soup with udon noodles, seaweed, tofu and crab meat followed by an array of hand-rolled sushi. We trickled out to the garden in the pink-tinged darkness of winter in the northern hemisphere and relished sake, strawberries, and ice cream. The evening reeked of Nagaland. Maybe it was the sing-song tone of Malaysian-English, the incessant chatter about food and recipes interspersed with cheeky gossip, or the matter-of-fact remarks from the grumpy chef who reminded me so much of my favourite cousin. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

London heat

This week has treated me well, reminding me of all the good things London offers up. Tuesday evening Nermeen and I wandered around Regent's canal up to Little Venice, a canal with colourful houseboats, and then dinner in Maida Vale. Wednesday was Japanese food with Janice and Brian in Soho and whisky on the rocks at Bambou. Friday evening I trekked down to Shoreditch to the Light Bar where people had to queue to get in. Queuing for a bar/restaurant at 7:30? Only in London. But it was worth the wait and in many ways, it reminded me of 4th street in Austin. Friendly people, friendly waitstaff, and a rather large open air patio.

And this weekend, what a lovely (but sweltering) weekend! Had an excellent facial on saturday morning, administered by a tight-lipped Indian lady with magical hands. I sense another addiction looming... Afterwards I ambled down to Trafalgar Square for Dilli Haat, an annual Indian crafts bazaar, and was unabashedly excited when I found the stall for Nagaland (though of course, they lumped together the entire northeast India region). Waiting for Janice to arrive, I sprawled on the steps of St. Martin's church, legs sticking together with sweat and dust, lustily eyeing the fountains of Trafalgar. Lunch at the colourful Neal's Yard (it always reminds me of barrio Bellavista in Santiago) and hours of idle chatter as we wandered through the lanes of Covent Garden and Soho until finally we arrived at Oxford Circus, at which point I had to dash to London Bridge to see Tropicana, described as 'a minimalist cocktail of sex-and-death, circus sleaze and club concert.' Of course, as is my odd luck, I was sitting next to one of those individuals that screams and clawingly grabs at the person next to them.

Yesterday, a few of us partook of the day of sun, a picnic on Primrose Hill with a truly international group that makes me appreciate London all the more - sevillana, madrilenos, italians, canadian-egyptian, canadian-chinese, malaysian-chinese, british-argentine, spanish-indian, aussie, jamaican, desi (pukka!) and myself. Getting lethargic, we changed to Camden Market. Senses a bit dulled by sun and wine, I had to concentrate to walk in a straight line and not constantly trip over the cobblestones. But had I done so, it would not be out of place at this particular market... Anyway, the heat was giving me a headache so I went home at about 6 and dammit, the sun was still high and the flat was stifling. I opened all the windows which was useless since there was no breeze and opted to sit spread eagle in my bikini in front the tv, a fan the size of my hand blowing full on. The air cooled imperceptibly when the sun went down at which point I lay in my bed, licking the moisture in the air, panting like a dog and wishing I had appreciated air-conditioning when I had it.

Tickled by the cool pre-dawn air and pink light, I woke up at 4:30 am. Noticing the breeze, a true god-send at this point, I perched myself at the window and nodded off again.

daily amusement

Granted, self-restraint has saved me from incurring bad karma that would set me back a couple of hundred lifetimes, but there are moments I wish there was no filter between brain and tongue. Today, I was asked about my accent by a personal trainer at the gym. He said it was too soft for New York and guessed California to which I responded 'you will never guess'. Finally, I admit Texas along with a few other words, after which he responded 'oh, just heard that faint Cybill Shepherd drawl'. I thought, are you fucking stupid? Really, that's like reaching into your ass and finding absolutely nothing to show for it. Cybill Shepherd has one of the heaviest Texan accents I can recall and I sound nothing like her you jack-ass. For your sake I really hope you're better at getting people into shape than impressing them with your knowledge of American accents. And no, for the last time, I don't want to 'chat' with you about my fitness goals. Are you implying I need to lose weight? Wanker.

Now, 2 pictures come to mind. In one, the trainer, his jaw on the floor, starts crying like a baby. In the other, his hands fly up to my neck and start choking me.

Note to self: stop reading celebrity tabloids.

celebrity addiction

As I navigated the world wide web for footage on the infamous Tom Cruise - Oprah debacle and Lindsay Lohan's alleged coke addiction, I stumbled across this: www.thesuperficial.com. Freakin' hilarious. It's like crack.

little lime

An evening of home-made margaritas and Tesco pizzas with my SOAS crew and Sarah, followed by a crash course in bollywood for the Dubliner who is about to make her exit back to the emerald isle. Nita, Trygve and I laughed when Louise gasped, scandalised by the 'erotic' dance on the train in the opening scene of 'Dil Se' and we were impressed by Sarah's mad bollywood dance grooves.

Life is not without its sense of timing. Immediately after a comment about the anatomy of Indian males, the subtitles to the song 'Nimbooda' from HDDCS flashed across the screen - so tiny yet so juicy!

Done done and done

Exams are finally over! I turn the last one in today and I'm done with all except the dissertation. It's finally fun time. Quality time. Relaxation. In the sun. We're already getting 16.5 hours of light a day!!!! And it's not even near the height of summer.

Men part 2.

It's quite telling that all of the male respondents to my last post countered with sexual desires. That was incredibly stupid. Did you forget whose blog this was? I've just spent the last 5 days reading feminist theory. From the sample, I can only presume the following:

1) Men are driven purely by sexual libido (very sadly, rather low on the spiritual totem and Maslow's hierarchy)

2) If not #1 then men are extremely insecure as witnessed by their inability to express their 'genuine' desires and dreams

3) If not #1 or #2 then men are incapable of viewing women as significant others deserving of the position of equal interlocuter in a dialogue

Oh yes, and I was also respectful by addressing those respondents as 'men' as opposed to farmyard animals. Not just any farmyard animal mind you, but one that is tiny, vulnerable and easily crushed. On behalf of all women, thank you, for you are indeed god's gift to us. Or at least, that's what you want to believe.

'Over and over, we begin again'

Finished reading Yoshimoto's Kitchen. I highly recommend it, even if you think you don't want to read about death and relationships and chance occurrences. Or maybe you should leave it for those rough times, the ides. Rachel and I concurred, something must be in retrograde. The past two weeks have been quite difficult for quite a few, or perhaps only the ones lucky (or unlucky?) enough to be preternaturally sensitive to the subtle energies.

In all outward forms, life couldn't be better - busy social calendar, companies showing interest, multiple suitable suitors, girlfriends to confide in and only one exam left. Yet all I can think about is 1) avoiding everyone I know, 2) getting out of London, and 3) reading The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. I'm tired of people, tired of idle chatter, of desire and sex and career and studies and the 'future'. Just want to slither back into my shell for a while, to sleep, read, and drift in silence.

After finishing the novel, I tried to remember what it was I wanted to 'do' before I died.

1) Bake bread in the sands of the Sahara desert
2) A week of uninterrupted viewing of the Himalayan range
3) Swim in the Phosphorescent Lake in Puerto Rico

What do you want to do?