X: Are you okay? Why aren't you talking? Me: Well, funny thing is that -- X: Oh my god, behind you! What a cute dog! My best friend from primary school had this dog that... [Cue Noeline: leave stage]
There are some girls whose voices have the power to shut everyone else the fuck up. Even when what they have to say is completely banal. It's like Miss Popular came and sat down at the loser table and everyone is so amazed she ever gave them the time of day that no one notices that a girl like me has been interrupted, spoken over, or has stopped and started her sentence a few awkward times too many. Everyone will walk away knowing nothing about my life or my opinions - but we'll all be well informed about said girl's boredom in class, how her sister-in-law found ten bucks yesterday and the dress she really really wants to get online.
This is why I don't do well in conversations that involve, well, more than one other person. I think it's also why I write. No one can stop me.
What separates nice guys and the guys who are too nice is this. Guys who are too nice are usually pansies. The pushovers of the group. Who can't stand up for them selves. They will most likely be mummy's boys. When they do manage to pull a girlfriend they usually make a fine specimen of one that is 'whipped.' All jokes aside, what this indicates to us women is that if he can't stand up for himself, how could he possibly stand up for his wife? What this means is, if he can't stand up for himself, he probably won't stand up for his children either. Now that freaks us the shit out. Grow some balls. We don't like being the ones with more testosterone in the relationship. We're not asking that you be sucker-punching everyone, just that you be assertive in situations where it's due.
There are some people I could never afford to be friends with. They're the kind of girls who flaunt their most recent Louis Vuitton and Chanel purchases. Who buy each other jewelry from Tiffany & Co. Whose problems involve not knowing which colour Prada bag to buy. Friendship groups like these intimidate me. They have photos of them selves in swanky restaurants with equally swanky views. Do they finish their food, I wonder? Do they gossip and talk about clothes and make-up as much as poor people like me think they do? I once had a friend who pissed everyone off by continually asking them to take a photo of her, and another one, and one more. Sometimes she would do the same thing in front of different stupid backgrounds. Like a plant. Sometimes it would be different poses and angles in front of the one stupid background. Well, these girls have so many photos of them selves I wonder if they have a token man-friend always taking the snaps. And does he ever get pissed off like we did? Or do they always just use a camera stand? Although they wouldn't actually use it, would they? Or maybe they do. I also had a friend who, when taking a group shot always shoved her way into the middle. Without fail. In which process certain people ALWAYS end up on the side, sometimes cut out of said picture by said girl who made it her profile picture. But the funniest is when you get two girls who have the same 'side,' as in the side where they insist on standing because their face looks better that way. And then they end up fighting over who gets to pose on their rightful side, saying the other person actually looks fine from the other. And they're pushing each other playfully and they're laughing but all they really want to do is rip each other's hair out.
“I will be okay because I can write. I will be okay because my emotions can be poured into words that no one will care to read. I will be okay because I have been told that I have a very creative mind, and that is what I will use to give me strength. I will be okay because with my own mind I can create fantasy worlds to escape to with no intention of returning. I will be okay because I can voice my thoughts like no one else can, and my thoughts are like no one else’s, and yet they are the same as everyone else’s at the same time. I will be okay because I finally have a reason to be okay. I will be okay because one day my words might help someone else be okay. I will be okay because there are people worth being okay for, there are experiences worth living through and there are people worth meeting. I will be okay because I can write.”
When and if I can commit to one city in which to live I would love to deck my house out in decor from Zara Home. I snuck a peak and walked out wanting to buy an ash tray. I don't even smoke. Have never smoked. And have no intention of smoking.
Respect to the girls who wear lipstick. I don't know how you girls... (a) tolerate the smell nor taste (b) keep it on despite eating and drinking (c) can be bothered to go to the bathroom for the sole purpose of reapplication (d) manage not to stain all your clothes (e) have the patience to find a colour that suits you (f) have the confidence to wear colours that don't (or maybe that's the point? are they meant to stand out that much? I don't know!) (g) go to put the lid on but actually end up squashing the lipstick itself, absolutely demolishing the contours that were moulded there for easy application (tick) (h) forgotten which way it twists and wind the lipstick all the way to the top instead of the bottom with the lid still on (tick tick) ... Oh yeah. And respect to the guys who kiss girls who wear lipstick too (see point a).
This year has been a dream state for me. I already know it will have been the best year of my life. Apart from getting to see my friends and family, I've been so negative about coming back. But with at least another guaranteed year in Sydney to finish my double degree, a friend suggested making a list of things to look forward to. And since I love making lists, here goes nothing...
- arriving from a European winter to a beautiful Australian summer - mums cooking - my bedroom with my bookshelf and baby pink walls - getting to wear all the shoes I left behind - Christmas dinner with the family - New Year with the family - PP's, Jackson's and lunch at Cabra with my cousins - getting to catch up with friends (Macaque, Soulmate, Sof, Robert, Boomohn, Anja, Bad Girl, Brie & Dyl & Christiaan, the Bracewell girls, the Telstra peeps, Benyaw, CB, Jesse, Ailoid, Algebraz) - hanging out with Jack at the uni bar, getting her to show me around my own city - KFC - GRAVY OMG - pork rolls - Satang Thai - Chat Thai - good sushi, cheap sushi - skype with everyone - getting a smartphone with a plan so I can use every social app stay in touch with Luce, Rach, Chauntee, Krista & Nyota ALL THE TIME - keeping up with The Gron happenings through Danny & Jesus, Yassine & Mofugga (wherever they may be) - finding intercambios to keep speaking Spanish with - sending packages to all my overseas lovers! - visit Joshie in NZ - Gloria Jeans iced chocolate - Harry's Cafe de Wheels - Australian beaches - electro music (never thought I would miss it as much as I have, it's not even my favourite genre) - Cadbury chocolate - Krispy Kreme donuts - Connoiseur chocolate obsession ice cream - anticipating visits from my overseas friends - a new laptop (my macbook of six years has had the shits) - finishing uni, getting it over and bloody done with - getting to decorate my room with all the post cards I've collected - planning other travel adventures - STEAK. OMG STEAK! - Mi Goreng noodles - a new camera, one that isn't set to x248923755435876 zoom as its default so I don't have to stand kilometres away from things just to take a decent picture
Joder, my list of things to look forward to looks more like a fat person's shopping list than anything else.
"They're going out now, didn't you know that?" I should have been happy at the news that two of my friends had started dating. But thing was, the guy was my ex. It wasn't that I was still hung up on him. In fact, he was all hers for the taking. What got to me was that I had to find out through the grape vine. She and I hung out a lot and spoke almost everyday. I considered her a good friend. So how did something like THAT fail to come up in conversation? Was she ashamed? Was she scared that I would be angry? Or maybe because my relationship with him was nothing serious and I was already seeing someone new, she assumed I would be okay with it. But what if, despite all that, I wasn't over him? It's funny how hypothetical situations can prove how much you mean to someone. I couldn't talk to her about certain things for a while after that. In any other situation, questions natural to girltalk like whether or not he was a good kisser were, well, out of the question.
And to think I was suffering. What more for people whose good friends start dating someone they were actually serious with? Actually in love with? Actually engaged with? Actually married with? Actually had kids with?
So when it comes to dating people your friends have been with, is it a no-go zone or free for all?
Here's some of the responses I received on Facebook: - With BILLIONS of people in the world today, why would you restrict yourself to your friend's crumbs? - No-go zone. "Don't shit where you eat." - No-go zone: Who wants someone else's dirty seconds, especially someone you're close to? - If things progress later on, I don't want to be at that altar knowing the guy standing next to me, or sitting in the church has banged my wife. - There are millions of men and women in Australia, and the world - I'm sure people can find one their friend hasn't slept with. - You just don't date your friend's ex. It's a respect issue. - I don't think it's entirely a no-go zone! It would have to depend on circumstances, like how serious your friend was with them. For example, if it was a small fling and they both don't mind, then why not?
The last point reminded me of when I was on a Greek islands tour, and met two girls who were travelling together. Upon being asked how they knew each other one of them explained, "I'm going out with her ex. So actually, we met through him!" It's a question that tends to get asked a lot when meeting groups of people within groups of people, and they laughed every single time – less at the situation and more at everyone else's reaction to their reply. "I was so nervous about telling her. I was scared she was going to hate me." "No, I was fine with it. I could never hate her. It had been a while since I was with him, and I'm happy for her because I see now that he's grown up a lot."
But not everyone is as happy nor graceful about friends dating old flames, regardless of whether that flame lasted a night or years. Like one person mentioned above, it's a respect issue. But can there be such thing as being too possessive? Can you call dibbs on people you had a crush on? People you kissed once? On fuck buddies? And exactly what level of friendship do you need before a certain level of decency (i.e. talking) can be expected? When even talking doesn't guarantee that things will stay the same, it all depends on how much you're willing to sacrifice in the potential consequence of losing their friendship.
“I assured her that this was something that just sort of happened... I was surprised at how well she took the news... After a few weeks, I started hearing from her less... We still remain friends but aren’t nearly as close as we used to be. But that’s the price I paid for getting involved with her ex. I bet most times it doesn’t work out quite as well as it did for me. Honestly, I don’t know if I would be happy if I was on the other side of things myself. My advice to anyone considering dating a friend’s ex is to carefully think about it and what the outcome and consequences might be.” - Anonymous, Dating Trek.
After all, you should never assume how much or how little someone meant (or still means) to someone else. For example, your friend might only have kissed the guy you want to pursue – but for all you know she could have secretly been in love with him for a long time before that. Despite news that they have started dating other people, talking gives them the opportunity to admit to feelings they might still harbour.
If you're lucky enough to get your friend's blessing, what then? Veronica, author of 'Can You Date Your Friend's Ex?' cautions against making comparisons. Whereas previously you would have enjoyed dissecting one another's failed relationships, doing so now would imply shortcomings on their part. It's like saying "Your ex likes me better because I'm funnier than you." According to AskMen.com, “90% of the guys out there don’t want to hear about their exes being with anybody they know -- friend or otherwise.”
Another complication is that sometimes people pursue other people purely to make an ex jealous. Be weary of other people's intentions, and honest with your own.
Finally, what if things don't work out and you too become an ex? Not only have you lost a partner, but also the friend you'd normally turn to.
I have less than two months left in splendid Spain. Until then, here's my countdown of things to do: - a 5,000 word research project which involves surveys and interviews with Spaniards, as well as another 2,500 word essay for my uni in Sydney - three exams for my uni in Spain, whilst keeping up with the homework for each class - send a box of all the things I've amassed over the past year that won't fit in my suitcase (by things, I mean clothes and shoes) - if nowhere else, visit friends in Salamanca and La Carolina in Spain, and Casablanca and Marrakesh in Morroco
I have a year left of university waiting for me when I get back to Sydney. I feel like I'm the only one STILL studying. Everyone else is graduating or has graduated, working graduate positions. They're getting engaged and married and having babies.
I feel like there's something wrong with me for not wanting to settle down. I'll be 23 by the time I graduate. And even then I want a few solid years of that thing I've been working for since I was 5. I think they call it a career. I want to commit to it fully, sans husband and children.
If I do that for at least 5 years, I'll be 28 by the time I even consider walking down the aisle. Assuming I even have a steady boyfriend at the time.
So instead of channelling my inner Bridezilla or changing nappies, my to-do list looks more like this: - get a smart phone and have my first mobile contract - find a new job, probably two - take the L's test (again) - get my P's - buy a car - get a motorbike license - buy a motorbike - buy a house, rent it out - visit my family in The Philippines, probably get attacked by mosquitoes - have a white Christmas - spend a year or two living in a foreign country (again) - travel more, everywhere - improve my Spanish, learn French and Arabic - decorate my house with my own art - read more books - write more - date someone who challenges and pushes me, makes me laugh and understands me, someone I can trust completely - fall in love with the above person, marry them, have babies with them, adopt a child with him, get a French bulldog and call it Hombre - write a column or book (or both) - learn an instrument, piano maybe? - reach self-actualisation (Maslow, anyone?) - re-learn how to use a sewing machine, and make shit!
That should keep me busy for a while. What does your list look like?
"If you could be either rich or famous, which one would you rather be?" asked my friend rather suddenly.
"Famous," I decided. Because for me, fame is a form of immortality. You live for as long as someone remembers you.
Imagine if everything you ever thought or did was reduced to nothing. Like you never existed.
This very fear of being forgotten has borne some of the biggest monuments known to mankind. Pyramids. Palaces. Cathedrals. Statues. The bigger the better, because the more people see it, the more they'll be reminded, and the less they'll forget.
But without any slaves under my power or a royal bloodline behind me, I'd love to be remembered for my writing. I'd love knowing that centuries from now someone would still be reading the very words I put together and stir their thoughts from my grave.
When dating there are guys who pay for everything, guys who pay half, and guys who pay nothing.
But there's also the kind who'll shout groups of friends to show who's boss, then plan a date with his girlfriend and ask her to take care of the bill upon its arrival. Who is he really dating in this situation?
There's also the confused guy fighting an inner battle. One side of him wants to be all modern and advocate equality of the sexes by going Dutch, and the other side of him wants to be all romantic and gentlemanly by paying for everything. So as a coping mechanism against footing the bill he'll complain about how much of a rip off everything is and how much better his mum can make the same dish. He'll count how many hours he worked to pay for the meal in front of you, and how much money that leaves him for the rest of the week and how now he can't buy the pair of shoes he's been eyeing for the past couple of weeks. Then before you know it you realise you lost your sense of taste about five mouthfuls ago. He's been barging on so much now it's impossible to enjoy your food and everything was just a stupid waste of time and money.
When a book is so good you never want it to end. "One Day" by David Nicholls is one of them. I recommend everyone to read it if it's the last thing you do!
Some of my favourite quotes:
- As soon as she'd met him at the arrivals gate on his return from Thailand, lithe and brown and shaven-headed, she knew that there was no chance of a relationship between them. Too much had happened to him, too little ha happened to her.
- "I got to know you. You cured me of you."
- They're dancing together now, sucking in their cheeks and grinning at each other and once again Dexter is struck by how easily conversation can be when no-one is in their right mind. In the olden days, when people only had alcohol to fall back on, talking to a girl would involve all kinds of eye-contact, the buying of drinks, hours of formal questioning about books and films, parents and siblings. But these days it's possible to segue almost immediately from 'what's your name?' to 'show me your tattoo,' say, or 'what underwear are you wearing?' and surely this has got to be progress.
- She drinks pints of coffee and writes little observations and ideas with her best fountain pen on the linen-white pages of expensive notebooks. Sometimes, when it's going badly she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery. The true writer, the born writer, will scrabble words on scraps of litter, the back of a bus tickets, on the wall of a cell.
- Suki is the nation's ideal girlfriend, a woman for whom bubblines is a way of life, verging on a disorder.
- Self-pitying, self-righteous, self-important, all the selfs except self-confident, the quality that she had always needs the most.
- In the supermarket on Nicolson Street they shopped for a picnic, both a little uncomfortable in the strangely domestic rite of sharing a shopping basket, both self-conscious about their choices; were olives too fancy?
During my first week in Spain, a friend who didn't want to leave her bed asked me to go out and get her a hot tea, take away. "Un te para llevar, por favor," I said. They look confused.
What I got in return was a plastic cup of tea, the top covered in foil. Turns out it wasn't my Spanish, it was asking for tea 'take away' that took them aback.
Thinking I'd try my luck in a big city such as Barcelona, I asked for a pasta 'take away.' Again, I got a container with a flimsy piece of foil wrapped over the top. Needless to say the sauce would have spilled everywhere had my friends and I not decided to sit on a park bench nearby.
Who needs lids when you're in a country that actually sits down and appreciates their food? Lids are for countries with worker bees who work to live and live to work. Australia, I'm looking at you.
Don't you hate it, how quick some people are to borrow money, and how slow they can be at returning it? The power play is reversed and suddenly we're the ones embarrassing ourselves as we try to find ways of casually reminding them of their debt.
Borrowers with no regard of paying people back as soon as possible tend to be the kind of people with little value for money – probably spoilt. What they don't understand is that their friend is compromising their own spending habits while they do without the money they lent. Even if it was just sitting in the bank, that's interest lost. If it was something substantially expensive like a concert ticket bought over the internet with a credit card, that's interest being charged.
You think it's an even exchange frozen in time. In reality they're losing more money than they lent you. And they probably value your friendship too much to bring it up and make you feel guilty about it.
That person did you a favour. It's not up to you to pay them back at your convenience. If you can afford to be shopping, drinking, clubbing and going out to dinner in the interim – then you can afford to pay that person back.
I was recently on a Busabout tour around the Greek Islands. Some of the people you come across are pretty cool, others just downright idiots. Let me tell you why.
One girl was pissed off that the Greek people she came across couldn't speak English 'properly.' "I'm going to be so relieved when I get to England after this," she said. She's one of those righteous ethnocentric people who expects people to speak perfect English when she's clearly the one traveling in their country. What makes it even worse is that people like her dislike immigrants speaking their native tongue whilst in Australia. Double standards much? I wonder, when was the last time she spoke perfect Chinese, Hindi, Arabic, Spanish or what-have-you to a tourist? Someone tell me, where's that good old Australian tolerance we preach we possess in such a diverse, multicultural society as ours? These people should be frustrated at them selves for not being able to communicate properly, not at the locals.
Also, there exists a kind of rivalry between the people who decide to go on a tour with Busabout or with Contiki. With Busabout, you have the choice to hang around the tour group and join every single group activity offered. Others simply show up at every departure point to the next island before disappearing to do their own thing. This kind of flexibility attracts different types of people. There were party people, and people who wanted to relax. There were kids straight out of high school and people halfway through university degrees. There were people on a break from work, and there was even a newly-wed couple on their honeymoon. Contiki, on the other hand, caters more to the younger 18-35 year old demographic. Clubs, bars and parties feature more frequently on their itinerary than on Busabout's, which is fair enough if that's what you're after in a holiday. But one day, the two tour groups happened to be waiting at the same dock, waiting for the same boat to take us to the next island. "The Busabout people are next to us," one girl said. "I wonder what they do," she continued. "Their tour doesn't offer much. I'm so glad I went with Contiki." And that's based on what observation? Just because we're not table top dancing in our short shorts and wonderbras spilling beer on other people doesn't mean we're not doing anything.
Another night during dinner, the girl I was sitting next to was relating her previous travels to her friends. "Guys, you have to go to Hong Kong, it's absolutely amazing," to which her friend replied: "I don't know, I don't really like Asia. There's nothing to do there. I'd rather just stick with Europe." WHAT AN IDIOT. But I guess if you're looking to be surrounded by more white Australians and dance in bars that play the same music as in Australia then yeah, you're right, there really is nothing do do in Asia.
I was traveling with two other friends and we were having a massive rant about exactly this. One of them concluded that there are four types of people... 1. Tourists: People who just want to see the major tourist attractions and monuments, and take photos in front of them. 2. Travelers: People who at least try to engage with the host society on some level – they will pick up some of the language, try the local delicacies and learn some of their history. 3. Sojouners: People who settle down and make a life for them selves in a country. 4. Wanks: People who have no interest in appreciating or respecting the culture. Like the people in the examples above, they want the rest of the world to speak perfect English, serve their kind of food and play their type of music.
Ugh. Some people have too little sense too much money on their hands. It disgusts me. Fuck immigration, we have bigger idiots in the country who shouldn't be let out.
- Getting an email from the hostel you thought you made a booking for for the next month saying "Tell us about your stay" - Realising you bought non-refundable tickets online to a children's concert in a bull ring, not an actual bull fight. - Buying an expensive return ticket when you were only going one-way. - Rushing to the bus station and making it just in time. There's two in town and turns out you're at the wrong one. Sobbing to the ticket-man who charges a fraction of the normal ticket price. A trip that was meant to take 2 hours ends up taking 6 because it just so happened the next bus going to the same place stopped at every god damn "pueblo" on the way. - Accidentally locking you and your friends out of your hotel room. Reception is closed for another two hours. The bus that leaves for the restaurant for dinner with the rest of the tour group leaves in 1 hour. Oh, and we were all in our bikinis. - Going to the bus station and looking out for the bus company you bought tickets for, only to miss it because you should have been looking out for a subsidiary of that company all along. Asking a bus driver where we could buy tickets, only to be let on another bus without having to pay. It's empty and no one else gets on. It's just you, the bus driver and your two other girlfriends. Wondering whether you've just been kidnapped for two hours before landing in Pamplona safe and sound for the Running of the Bulls. - Not purchasing your train ticket online thinking you could just buy it at the window. They sell out and you end up having to spend an extra night in Barcelona, losing a night in San Sebastian - and having to buy a first class ticket because that's all that was available for the day after.
For the sake of making my friends and I feel better, do share your own stories if you have any!
Imagine a gap of about 1cm. That's how close I came to booking a particular hostel in Portugal. Luckily, I met a girl in Budapest who had been there previously and stopped me. She warned that it was a hot spot for other Australians who swarmed there for the cheap drugs and alcohol, a lot of times ending up sleeping together.
"New girls would check in every morning and within minutes they were being checked out by the other guys in the hostel, based on looks. If you have white skin and blonde hair you were pretty much in."
And then I realised I knew a few people who fit this category. Australians who go overseas and party hard with other Australians without actually taking in any of that country's history or culture. And then they say that they love traveling. No honey, you love partying. There's a difference.
The only part about their culture you know is the extent to which they're compromising theirs to satisfy tourists like you. I've met some people and told them that my parents are from The Philippines. Some of them talk about how it's such a beautiful place with nice people. Is it really? I've been there twice and never been to the tourist resorts. The Filipinos I know, including my own family live in poor conditions. The shower is a bucket of water you pour over yourself. A hot shower means boiling a separate pot of water and mixing it in. To flush a toilet you manually have to pour a few buckets of water down the toilet bowl. Going to school means hoping to God you have relatives overseas who can send you the money. Or studying your ass off to get by solely through the few scholarships that are offered. People are nice because they're making do with what little they have. Not because they're swimming around as happily in their beaches as you are. The rest are nice because it's the only way you'll give them money.
I'm all up for people who want to relax rather than sightsee - as long as they admit it. Nothing wrong with it, heck I went to Ibiza. Just don't try to act all haughty and cultured about it.
Sorry for being MIA recently. In the past two weeks I've... - Graduated with a diploma from my host university in Spain - Moved out from the student residence into an apartment with three amazing housemates (who knew living with three boys would be cleaning than living with one other girl) - Went out almost every night celebrating San Bernabe, a week long medieval festival in my town commemorating when they resisted French occupation, living off wine, bread and fish when all other food supplies were cut off - Finished a two thousand five hundred word correspondence assignment for my uni in Sydney - Bid farewell to all my closest friends in Spain as they head back home to their countries - Started my three month holiday vacation around Europe, during which I will probably forget a lot of the Spanish I've spent the last six months learning.
I'm currently writing from my hostel in Budapest where luckily enough I've managed to find some Mexicans and a Colombian who I've been able to speak Spanish with. Score! So far I've learnt how to say 'no mames wey,' 'que chido,' and 'jodido.'
I’m somewhat good at forgetting things. You're probably wondering from what issue of Reader's Digest it was ever a good thing to be forgetful. But I like to think of it as a self-defence mechanism. A self-defence mechanism from the pain of remembering. Of remembering bad things that happened and good things that don’t exist anymore.
If I tell myself to forget something, most times I will forget it. And it’s a good feeling when, one day, I struggle to remember the thing I successfully forgot. I might see something, touch something, smell something. It’s stimulating me, and I know it’s supposed to be reminding me of something, but I don’t know what. All I know is that I’ve blocked it out for a reason.
I realise while writing this that what I do sounds pretty freaky, if not psychotic. But for anyone curious enough to know how it’s done, read on.
“It goes like this: first you establish a screening image. I used white noise, both audio and video: a field of violent static, filling my entire field of view; like a TV with no antenna, with a loud hissing wash of sound… Now think about the thing you want to forget - but as soon as it comes up in your mind, flip to your screening image. Focus on [it]; make it really loud and thick; don't let the thought underneath surface… Most likely the thing you want to forget will float back up into your head. Immediately flip to your screening image again, and hold it until you get distracted. It gets easier each time… it starts to become a habit. As soon as the thought starts to form in your head, you will find yourself reflexively flipping to the [screening image]. You will still need to exert a little willpower to keep the thought underneath from floating up, but… the static [image] instead comes pretty quickly.” - Forum respondent on Meta Filter
“The trick to forgetting then is not to not think about it, but to give our mind a new path to follow.” - Forum respondent on Meta Filter
"He came to see her, but her boyfriend was there, so he came after me instead"
"Funny that he’s kissing her because he’s been chasing after you all day"
"If he likes her why did he even bother kissing me? I know that if she wasn’t here he’d be with me right now"
"The next night my flatmate asked me 'So… what happened between you and him?' and I was like 'Yeah he's such a nice guy!' and then he was like 'He has a girlfriend you know. So maybe he's not that nice' "
Maybe that’s what people do, rank people. They take what they can get depending on whether their top preferences are (a) there at the present moment, (b) in the country or (c) with their partner.
I’m at the stage where a lot of people my age have had, or still are in long-term relationships. Being 21, a good number of these couples started out as high-school sweethearts. They’re either married, or talking about getting married. They’re either planning to have babies together, have already done so or are currently expecting.
And me? After almost five and a half years, I’m starting from zero. As I started picturing my life without him, I realised that he and I will forever be subjected to judgement by anyone who ever knew us on a scale of Brad Pitt VS Jennifer Aniston.
I was one of those people who thought it only happened in Hollywood, until I witnessed it for myself at a party recently. He walked into the room with his new partner, and heads turned towards Maria* who was standing at the other side of the room. "I feel so sorry for her," people said.
One person ends up marrying the next person they find, raising a beautiful family in a beautiful house.
The other one will have strings of failed relationships, usually with assholes, oftentimes into their thirties, and sometimes into their infertility. They’re the one people look at and think 'poor thing.' They’re the one people feel sorry for, the one people worry about. "Do you think she’ll ever find anyone else?" I don’t know.
But amidst everyone's assumptions, whose to say she's the unhappier one? People can be in a relationship and be unhappy too. No one ever congratulates you for being single and independent. No one admires people who have the strength to admit that they're not ready to settle down.
The only thing that ended with Osama Bin Laden's death is just that - his life. He wasn't the last Islamic extremist.
It's like saying Christianity would end if the Pope were to be murdered. We'd just get another one.
"(The celebrations) are just like the so-called reports by American television of Muslims celebrating after September 11, this is just as bad" - Kuranda Seyit, director of the Forum on Australia's Islamic Relations
The first time it happened I was young, and all he had to do was put his arm around my waist. I felt dizzy in my stomach, but a nice kind of dizzy. Until then I never really knew what it meant to have butterflies in your stomach.
To this day, I still don’t know how to describe it with justice. It feels like melting. It’s like a feelings type of orgasm.
“Kiss me” “No” “Just kiss me, and if you don’t feel anything, I’ll leave you alone” So we kissed, and I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t get the butterflies.
I’ve dated a few guys in my life, and the butterflies came with some, not with others. Since then, I’ve taken them as a physiological response to my subconscious. i.e. That despite what I tell myself, if I get the butterflies it’s because deep down inside I really (really, really, really) like him.
But that’s just me. It appears that people also get the butterflies in their stomach when they feel nervous.
“I get it more when I am nervous. Like before a big sports game. When I used to swim competitively I used to get it all the time.”
So whether you get them in the company of someone you like or during moments of nervousness – both reactions are a form of stress. When we’re stressed blood is redistributed towards our most important organs like the heart and muscles so as to give them more oxygen. But in order to do so, blood needs to move away from the less important organs like the stomach, and this is what gives off that butterfly feeling.
For those who don’t know, I’m single again for the first time in more than five years. I’m scared that all the failed relationships behind me, combined with the scientific knowledge of what butterflies actually are might cause me never to feel them again.
Facebook wants to know how many languages I speak, but I don’t know how to answer that.
I was born in Australia but both my parents are from the Philippines, so Tagalog was my first language.
But then I went to preschool and after three months, I’ve been speaking English ever since.
I can still understand Tagalog but can only reply in English.
I can also understand Ilocano which is a dialect of the province in the Philippines where my mum is from. I can also only reply to that in English.
With that said, I can’t distinguish between Tagalog and Ilocano. I just know I’m hearing one or the other.
I studied Spanish for two years in university and am now living in Spain. I know enough to get around, but God rest my soul if someone tried to have a deep and meaningful conversation with me any time soon.
Also, Spain colonised The Philippines, so there are some similarities between Spanish and Tagalog. Like ‘puta,’ jaja.
A friend and I were catching up, and she started telling me about the guys she’s kissed. Some were good, and some were bad… really bad. All her reasons were attributable to him. What he did, and what he didn’t do.
And then we thought, to what extent are we responsible for such bad kisses? Do they kiss badly because of something we’re doing wrong?
So I started asking around.
A friend of mine has a theory that kissing is much like dancing. Guy leads, girl follows. Using this logic, girls have a style that they like, as opposed to a style that they impose.
However, another friend confessed the opposite. "The first time I kissed my current boyfriend, I was so used to how I had kissed my previous one that I went in tongue-first without thinking. He just kept kissing me back sans tongue and very gently - I'm a better kisser now because of learning from him!”
This confirmed another response I received, in which “the first time two people kiss they use what they like, and then its whoever’s style they like the most that will take over. Maybe the other person had never been exposed to the other way of kissing and will change.”
Then again, maybe what makes a kiss good or bad isn’t so much in the technique as it is in the attraction you have for the other person.
“I think everybody just has their own style, what’s bad to me may be great for someone else. And its one of the main ways you know if you're going to be compatible with that person, not necessarily just sexually, but kisses are so important in day to day existence, everything from hello to goodbye to I’m sorry requires a different type of kiss. And they have to be pleasant and reassuring. So if you're kissing someone and its bad to you (if it's not clicking they're probably thinking the same thing) then you should get out of there quick!”
“I honestly think it’s about the chemistry, you may be an amazing kisser to one person but not to another, reason being that you’re not emotionally/sexually stimulated towards that person as they may be to you.”
So there you have it. Everyone has his or her own style. Kissing styles can be received, delivered and changed. Maybe bad kisses happen when two people both want to impose their own styles, with neither person wanting to change, and/or when there's no emotional or sexual attraction for the other person.
As a person living and travelling overseas, I’ve come to pass through some pretty spectacular views. The view of Logrono from the caves inside Mount Cantabria. The view of Waterford from the top of Dunhill Castle. The view of Madrid from the top of El Corte Inglés.
And then I wondered, why do we have such a fascination with nice views? People pay exorbitant amounts of money for rooms with a view. How does looking at something from a long distance spur such emotion?
I think it’s the way you kind of disappear from the world. There’s a giddy sense of voyeurism in looking at a city that doesn’t know you’re there. The world becomes a caricature. Cars look like matchbox cars moving slowly, aimlessly. People look like ants: silly, colliding into each other the way they do. They look so stressed, so rushed. And all for what?
From up high our on-ground worries look conquerable, like the winding streets below that have somehow sorted themselves out into neat little blocks.
And it’s funny because even if you’ve seen a beautiful view once or a hundred times before, through no amount of photos will you be able to recapture that same sense of sanity.
(Bridge: Ashanti) If you were me, what would you do? Always a lie, and never the truth. Now as for me, I’m moving on, You’ll always be my baby…
(Chorus: Ashanti) Baby, I just had to let ‘cha go for now, thought I could take it for a while, Maybe I‘ll make it back around. Baby, I just gotta live my life for now, Can’t see me changin’ for a while, Hope I could make it back around.
(Verse 1: Ashanti) Anything that I want I can get it. Boy, you know you turn me on and on That’s why I switch my frame of mind of bein’ there when you call, I’m always on time. I’m looking to spread my wings and party, everything and for everybody, I need my space, my time alone, it’s like our hearts don’t match no more. Still, anything that you want, you could get it. Boy, you know I still got love for you. In court I plea the fifth, my baby (baby…)….
(Chorus: Ashanti) Baby, I just had to let ‘cha go for now, thought I could take it for a while, Maybe I‘ll make it back around. Baby, I just gotta live my life for now, Can’t see me changin’ for a while, Hope I could make it back around.
(Verse 2: Ashanti) When you was cheating, You was probably thinking I won’t sense a thing, But love got funny way of catchin’ up to lies, And your lies can’t look me straight in the eyes. I’m not surprised that you would hurt me baby, but why me baby? Just let me breathe and I’ll fly free babe.
(Bridge: Ashanti) If you were me, what would you do? Always a lie, and never the truth. Now as for me, I’m moving on, You’ll always be my baby…
(Chorus: Ashanti) Baby, I just had to let ‘cha go for now, thought I could take it for a while, Maybe I‘ll make it back around. Baby, I just gotta live my life for now, Can’t see me changin’ for a while, Hope I could make it back around.
(Rap: Verse 3: Ja Rule) Yo, yo… Why in the world would you wanna leave me girl? Is there something I did that you feel is better then what’s here at home? And I know a bitch could do bad on her own. You’re not alone. The way you hurt me baby, shit, why me baby? I be in pain a little, but I know that love is real And as long as it let you go, you feel the need to come back to me baby, Who else would hold you and sex you crazy? R-U-L-E come on back holla at me baby.
(Chorus: Ashanti) Baby, I just had to let ‘cha go for now, thought I could take it for a while, Maybe I‘ll make it back around. Baby, I just gotta live my life for now, Can’t see me changin’ for a while, Hope I could make it back around.
(Chorus: Ashanti) Baby, I just had to let ‘cha go for now, thought I could take it for a while, Maybe I‘ll make it back around. Baby, I just gotta live my life for now, Can’t see me changin’ for a while, Hope I could make it back around.
(Bridge: Ashanti) If you were me, what would you do? Always a lie, and never the truth. Now as for me, I’m moving on, You’ll always be my baby…
The very impulse to write, I think, springs from an inner chaos crying for order, for meaning, and that meaning must be discovered in the process of writing or the work lies dead as it is finished.
So, I worry about things. Don't we all? A friend of mine thinks I worry more than the average bear, and told me not to worry. "Live in the moment," he kept saying.
But I'm not used to just living in the moment. I'm used to planning moments. And while the moment is happening I'm thinking about how well it turned out, how bad it's going, what's going to happen next, or where else I could be.
And, at what point does living in the moment become an excuse for destructive behaviour? A justification for doing things you wouldn't normally do? A reason to do something without thinking it through? (See? Here I am worrying about how to in the moment!)
I've been like this as far back as I can remember. Throughout my years at school I never stepped in areas that were out of bounds, always wore my hat so I could play, always submitted my homework on time, I wore my uniform correctly and was never late to class.
Even as a child, I never jumped in puddles. I didn't like playing outside so I never climbed trees, never got stung by a bee, never broke a bone jumping off the roof thinking I could fly.
And where did it get me? It got me to 21 with no exciting childhood stories. I wish someone had told me earlier I would regret being so well behaved.
I was always scared of getting dirty, of getting lost, of getting hurt. In many ways I still am, maybe even more so. Because the pain isn't just physical anymore. I'm at an age where I can over think things really well - and make things hurt more than they do, more than they should.
And, how do you just switch your mindset from one to the other? Is it something you can do overnight? (In which case I would have already failed). Does it take time? Or is it too late altogether?
It's official. I chose the best city in Spain to live. Not that I needed experts to tell me that, but it's nice to know there's some quantitative support to justify why I love it here so much.
El título es el resultado de una encuesta a más de 9.000 ciudadanos de toda España, un análisis estadístico en el que se han tenido en cuenta más de 250 indicadores, la opinión de 95 expertos en gestión urbana y una evaluación directa de méritos.
The title is the result of a survey of more than 9,000 citizens throughout Spain, a statistical analysis which took into account more than 250 indicators, the opinion of 95 experts in urban management and a direct evaluation of merit.
We (oh my god I'm talking like a local) enjoy a high quality of life. The city offers the services of a big city; minus the rush, traffic, high crime rate, snobbishness and price hikes.
For better or worse, people are starting to take notice of this once humble city.
Today my substitute Spanish teacher revealed that there is an increasing number of people migrating and immigrating to Logroño. Just 5-10 years ago, international students snubbed Logroño for bigger towns like Madrid and Barcelona. Now we're flocking in. The commercial shopping centre here called "Berceo" (which houses such brands as Zara, H&M, El Corte Ingles) didn't exist until 2003. To this day, the closest McDonalds is a bus ride away, and there is no KFC.
I hope it never loses it's character. I want to bring my kids here one day, and show them where their mama lived when she was 21. I want to bore them with stories about the club where everyone got drunk off chupitos every Thursday night, the place where I did my groceries, and the street called Calle Laurel that served amazing pinchos.
There are good-looking guys that don’t get called hot because they’re too nice. They’re just cute, well-mannered gentlemen. They bring out the "awwwww" response in girls. They’re easy to approach and talk to, because their words are never full of sexual double entendres. If he wants you, it’s hard to tell because they treat you so platonically; and if you want him you feel desperate for being the one to vie for his attention.
Hot guys tend to be more confident and flirty – sometimes even rude and egotistical. They bring out the "oh, my, god" response in girls. Their smiles have too much smirk in them to be considered innocent. They don’t so much listen to you as much as they try to find opportunities to flatter you and make you nervous, or contest you so you get all worked up and call you cute for it. But you’re never the only girl they act like this towards.
Girls will tend to go for the latter kind of guy because they make your heart beat faster. They go for this kind of guy knowing they’ll get hurt. The sad part of it is that a small, sick part of them enjoys the tragedy.
Because tragedy is glamorous, and it’s all part of the thrill.
I'm having such a great time I don't want it to stop. I just want to learn new languages, live everywhere, eat local delicacies and travel forever. Is that so much to ask?
The world is so big I struggle to understand why other people don't want to go out and see it too. It's like being given a whole box of chocolates and being content with only eating one - if that.
I don't want to be tied down by a full time job, working overtime for a boss who will probably make me hate the industry I am supposed to love. I don't ever want to enter the real world.
And then I think, what if I'm the one in the real world? And that other one, the one where you work your ass off making someone else rich, the one where you all you care about is making a profit from people who can't afford your products and services, and doing it better than the competition - what if that one's the fake world?
And then I realise it doesn't matter what I think. Because even if it's true, you have to work your ass off in the fake world to fund your time in the real world.
So until I receive a phone call telling me a royal relative I never knew I had has just died and left me all their riches, there's nothing I can do but make the most of my time here.
In the last week I've booked tickets to the Greek Islands, Ireland and Ibiza :)))))
I don’t regret being in a long-term relationship. I like that my boyfriend and I can predict one another’s actions. I know that regardless of how nice food is the first time he tries it, he will throw a disgusted look on his face. I know that when we’re talking he will only make eye contact with me at the end of his sentences. When drinking a slurpee I know he will give himself about ten brain freezes and complain about every single one, but will continue to drink fast because it’s the only way he knows how. He stresses when he’s ‘running late.’ And by late I mean when he’s not at least half an hour early to things. When he’s really sleepy he talks jibberish, and says things that don’t make sense to questions I didn’t ask.
As nice as it is to know someone so well, sometimes I think my stories are never as exciting as those of my single friends. They will have numerous guys on the scene, some names they will remember, some names they won’t, and some names they wish they did. They will be kissing one, a few, many or none. There will be stories about good sex, bad sex and a guy who couldn’t get it up.
So as you can see, my stories don’t exactly have you sitting on the edge of your seat, gasping, screaming and dying of laughter.
Upon apologising to one of my single friends about having less juice in my stories than hers, she said something that makes me grateful to this day.
“At least your boyfriend goes out with you in public during the day and takes you out to dinner, listens to you and talks to you. My guy only wants to see me at 3am in the morning. He hides me from his family. I don’t know when I’m going to see him next, or when he’s going to call back. I’m the one jealous of you!”
It’s funny how single people search for what couples have, and once a couple, long for the single life again.
I've been working on setting up a Spanish bank account for two months now, and counting. Here's to an application that was supposed to take three days, but went nowhere for three weeks. Here's to chasing it up every two days, only to be told to call back in another two days. Here's to a reapplication that took another two. Here's to an application that took so long I'd be out of the country by the time my debit card arrived. Here's to being told I could easily just pick it up when I got to Spain. Here's to being told the guy you need to see is on holidays. Here's to being passed on to a lady who doesn't know what she's doing. Here's to signing another five contracts, and being told to come back the week after, to sign another five. Here's to going back, and the lady being at a meeting, and never calling you back. Here's to asking your Spanish teacher to come with you a third time so she can explain the situation. Here's to having your debit card sent to your address in Australia, instead of your address in Spain. Here's to waiting for your PIN that should have arrived this week. Here's to cash advances on my credit card, and the multiple fees they spring on you - just so I can have some cash in the meantime.
I just arrived home after being in Madrid for two nights. By home, I mean Logroño. It was a weird sensation feeling at home in a place other than Sydney. It’s official. I’ve settled.
As much as I miss home, I haven’t felt home sick per se.
So back to Madrid. As much fun as I had, the city isn’t for me. I guess because it reminded me a lot of Sydney. Big, and commercial, fast paced with fast food.
This payphone is proudly brought to you by KFC.
I went with five friends and we were scolded what felt like every five minutes. We were shopping the first time it happened. Three of the girls took a photo while inside a store, and were told off by the sales assistant.
The second, third and bajillionth time it happened, we were in an art museum. Sometimes you were allowed to take photos, as long you didn’t use flash. Take two steps forward into another room and suddenly you weren’t allowed to take photos at all. When it came to seeing Picasso’s Guernica, you were allowed to stand a few metres away from the painting and observe it, but if you wanted to take a photo you had to step back and do it from outside the doorway. We learnt all these things by getting told off.
The final time it happened I was at Madrid’s famous El Rastro flea market. I took a photo of some antique coins, and the stall-holder (an old, cranky man) literally smacked me on the arm and yelled at me (in Spanish), saying that I deserved to be slapped. Conclusion: when in Madrid you’re better off not taking any photos.
We had a crazy night out on the second day. This picture pretty much sums it up. Let’s just say the night started with three beautifully intact flowers, and finished with a flower, a stem and a straw.
What I'm going to miss about Madrid though, are the art museums. Rembrandt, Miro, Renoir, Picasso, and Dali. I saw them with my own eyes, and stood as close to the canvases as the artists them selves once did.
One thing I’ve learned so far (but have yet to master) from being in Spain is how to prioritise rest. Every Monday to Saturday, from about two and four in the afternoon, all the restaurants and shops (except major supermarkets and shopping centres) close. In what is known as siesta, most people go home to nap. During this time the streets are almost deserted; an odd scene to envision in the middle of a beautiful day in a beautiful city that was bustling just moments before. After that it’s business as usual until about 9pm.
Sundays are even worse. True to its Christian roots, Sunday really is a day of rest. This time EVERYTHING, ALL DAY is closed. While the country falls asleep around me, I usually find myself fidgeting, looking for something to do, or tossing around in my bed.
That’s because in my country we’re taught how to sacrifice basic human needs like sleep, eating well and keeping a healthy social life in order to work hard. For the most part, the country is still open on public holidays. Rest, we’re told, comes when you retire. There are hundreds of tourism ads aimed at retirees into going on lavish holidays ‘because they deserve it.’ But why do we have to overwork ourselves in order to deserve something?
Another thing I’ve learnt from the Spaniards, is how to prioritise fun. According to Spanish Living, “every day throughout the year there are fiestas taking place somewhere in Spain, either at a local, regional or national level.” Some are held in honour of patron saints, others in local folklore. Some well known ones include the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona (self explanatory), and La Tomatina in Valencia (tomato fight). I was lucky enough to catch the Festival of the Three Kings on my second day of arriving in Logrono. It featured an extravagant street parade of people dressed up as The Three Kings who brought Jesus gifts, throwing lollies at children in the crowd.
The nightlife here is more like early-morning-life. There are lounge bars you can go to from around midnight. But clubs don’t usually open till about 3am, and close at around 7am. Plus, they don’t wait till Friday or Saturday to go out, clubs are open on Thursdays too – yes, a school night. In comparison, clubs in Sydney die down by around 2am.
Where do they get all the energy? Probably from all the siestas they’ve taken during the week... no... their life.
Siesta and fiesta. You do it not because you deserve it from overworking yourself, but simply for being human and alive.
It took me 36 hours of travel, but welcome to my first post from Logrono, Spain.
I’ve been just over a week and I’ve spent everyday exploring some nook or cranny of this beautiful city. When travelling, keeping yourself busy is one of the best ways to avoid homesickness.
But with sore ankles permitting me from going out, I’ve finally been forced to sit down and reflect.
For starters, the weather here is the coldest I’ve ever experienced in my life – a big deal for people whose moods are predetermined by the weather. But I’m sucking it up.
I’ve also never felt so grown up in my life. Now I can say I’ve solidly lived out of home. Now I can say I’ve had a roommate, and had my patience tested by them. Now I can say I’ve done my own groceries and cooked my own food… and survived. Now I can say I’ve worried about money, I mean really worried about money; about whether or not I have enough to survive, as opposed to something superficial like being able to ‘afford’ a pair of high heels.
I realised that being able to afford something doesn’t mean having enough cash or money on your credit card to buy it. It’s about how much you don’t have to sacrifice in order to make that purchase.
I’m falling in love with this city, and am glad I chose it. Not Madrid. Not Barcelona. But the one most people have never heard of. It’s one thing to say you’ve been to all the top tourist destinations in the world, but all that shows is that you know how to read Lonely Planet. It’s another thing to go somewhere unpublished, to ask locals for directions and be told where to get the best pinchos. For me, that’s the difference between travelling and living in another country.
It’s a weird feeling when I consciously realise I’m speaking another language in a foreign country. That it all sprung from something as simple as a word in my head, an ‘ok’ to study International Studies at uni. People make small decisions in their head all the time without realising the power of where it can, or will eventually take them.
So here’s some things I’ve noticed about my town. There is a fuck load of dogs, yet the city retains its peaceful qualities because they don’t bark. My one dog at home makes more noise than all the dogs here combined, squared, and multiplied by a hundred. There are few gardens to keep them in, so there are about two or three dogs being walked down every street at any given time. I’ve only seen one cat, and it was wild.
Old people run this town. Unlike Australia where the elderly are mostly found in nursing homes, their Spanish compatriots wander around the town till past midnight. The women wear fur coats, walk down the street with linked arms, exchanging gossip and giggling – it’s like Sex and the City meets Meryl Streep meets Spain.
Classes started this week and I needed to buy a notebook. Only problem is their note books are what we call grid books, and grid books bring me bad memories. I used them for math class in high school, my most torturous subject ever. This was one thing I couldn’t suck up. Instead, I trolled dozens of discount stores before striking gold. What’s even more annoying is that similarly, grid books are impossible to find in Sydney.
Also, in bars and cafes people throw their rubbish on the ground below them. Literally. I guess it’s easier to sweep the serviettes up than pick them out from between dirty dishes.
I’ve met some pretty cool people while here. With a particular group of girls, it’s funny because we all speak English but have different accents. We then argue over the names of things are. Like, thong or g-string, hair tie or bobble, cell or mobile. It’s a bit of a struggle making friends with actual Spanish people because our classes are separate from theirs.
The architecture here is amazing, especially the old town with its cobblestone footpaths, sandstone buildings, and baroque churches.
I hope the rest of this year goes as quickly as my first week. And in between my classes for Spanish Language, Spanish Conversation, Spanish Cooking, History and Art of the Camino de Santiago, and doing culture assignments through correspondence for my uni back in Sydney – I’m going to do my best keeping you guys posted with my more interesting antics.
Actually, I’m going to a discoteca for the first time tonight.
It's funny how much hope a change of the years can bring. There's so much optimism and good cheer it's hard to imagine that anything can go wrong.
It's in this very spirit that we make new years resolutions for ourselves. And for just a few minutes we genuinely set ourselves a regimen of exercise, healthy eating and weight loss; of finding partners and friends who are better for us; of finding a better job or becoming a better person.
What I can assure you though, is that tomorrow on the news someone somewhere will have killed anther person, someone will be robbed and a someone else will be run over.
Similarly, tomorrow you will not exercise, you will not eat healthy and you will probably gossip about someone. You probably won't look online or in the newspaper for a new job, you will do absolutely nothing and hope that it finds you.
But whether it's a new year, a new month, a new week or even a new day - God gives us hundreds opportunities to "start fresh," we just have to see them that way.
I think what determines a good year is how you, personally, deal with the inevitable troubles that come with being human - rather than somehow surpassing it all. I think that's one of the reasons why God puts us through shit, because we're too lazy to challenge ourselves.
So for what it's worth, my dear readers, happy new year. But more importantly, I hope you all find the strength within yourselves EVERYDAY to keep going when life is hard; to one day look back at it all and be thankful for the personal growth you gained because of it.
