I am back.
In the beauty of my home, my city. The same, albeit slightly destroyed.
It is wonderful to be home. I have been luxuriating in the wide open spaces, the constant smiles of the friendliest people in the world, the easy, laid back, happy-go-lucky nature of the lifestyle and being around (almost) all of my favourite people in the world.
It is fantastic to see my family again, my brother even trekked over from Sydney to make my first few days back in the country that much more special.
I have been here almost 3 weeks now, absolutely indulging myself.
No work, no study, no job.
It really is glorious.
But things can't stay like this forever, and I guess, if I do think about it, I wouldn't want them to.
I need something to do, an inspiration, a challenge and my visa and flight back to the other side of the world beckons.
LONDON.
This time, still Europe, but English. I love Europe. I do.
But for now, rain, wind, chill followed by sunny skies and that sharp blue of the sky I've only found in NZ. Beach minutes afar, down streets I know in a car, all mine. Soft, clean carpet. A cupboard with the most amazing food, opportunity to bake, cook, clean, read, write, run, tennis, netball, surf and generally do anything I want to.
I will live here.
Not now, but I'll be back.
If there's one thing I know, I will never ever leave NZ forever.
I will always, ALWAYS be back.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Dimanche matin.
What is it with the French and their baguettes? It really is an obsession. A non-exaggerated, realistic portrayal rather than a horribly over-represented stereotype that permeated from nowhere.
Baguettes are everywhere.
My favourite part about the French and their baguettes is the innate ability of the baguette to break down all misconstrued perceptions and realistic conceptions of the wide and blatant divisions within French society. There are homeless people everywhere. I would say I can't remember the last time I went down a random street and there wasn't someone perched on a step, sullen in a corner or walking in circles to keep themselves warm and their total statelessness off their minds. Often, they have baguettes. I actually have no idea how because Parisians barely bat an eyelid at them or give them enough time in the day to even hold eye contact let alone give them any money (other than les centimes rouges), but somehow they manage to swindle baguettes from God knows where. So there they'll be, chilling quietly in the corner, faces down, matching positions to aid warmth with their cardboard signs in front of them, emblazoned with child's writing with 'SVP, j'ai faim', munching systematically on a baguette.
Similarly, (and an observation of mine from today, which is actually what started this whole pointless rant), is the interesting and amusing scenario of the upper class and their baguettes. They're not hard to spot, the upper class, you can see it on their face and in their dress that they are practically selling their wealth to you. Their noses are cast upwards, only slipping slightly and occasionally to dismiss those they walk past, their mouths frozen into pouts (peut être Botox?) and their fur coats, leather boots, freshly coiffed hair-dos and their refusal to move their umbrellas even a smidge classifies them as instant 8th arrondissement dwellers. Obviously only gracing other arrondissements in order to exude their grace, elegance and all-round upper class-ness. Today, these upper classes seem to be practically invading me and I was met countless times with the stares that have to be seen to be believed and in which no amount of words on paper (or teeny, perfect black letters on a large white screen) can explain.
But my favorite part of this type, is their complete transferal to normal humans who don't own 2 cars in a city lacking the design for vehicles, or owning an apartment three times the size of the local supermarket, despite spending the majority of their waking hours wining and dining and displaying the general air that they are better than everyone else, which clearly if you saw these apartments, you would agree they were. The baguettes change them.
An old lady walked past me, smothering me in her Chanel No. 5, donned entirely in Chanel clothing and clinging onto her walking stick. A middle aged man strutted along the sidewalk, wearing his Sunday best, his tie swinging gracefully behind his shoulder. A middle aged woman, the crisp, structured and uncreased style of her blazer, matching that of her expression.
But as they walked past me, seemingly oblivious to my lower class status (if you saw the state of my shoes and traveling clothes you too would understand), their eyes plastered on the road ahead, they lifted up their baguettes, brought them to their mouths and ripped out a hunk of the bread off the top, unable to wait to taste the deliciousness of a fresh baguette from the boulangerie.
As they walk on, the crumbs are scattered behind them, like a bad parody of Hansel and Gretel, practically waiting for a homeless Harry to come and gather them up.
Baguettes are everywhere.
My favourite part about the French and their baguettes is the innate ability of the baguette to break down all misconstrued perceptions and realistic conceptions of the wide and blatant divisions within French society. There are homeless people everywhere. I would say I can't remember the last time I went down a random street and there wasn't someone perched on a step, sullen in a corner or walking in circles to keep themselves warm and their total statelessness off their minds. Often, they have baguettes. I actually have no idea how because Parisians barely bat an eyelid at them or give them enough time in the day to even hold eye contact let alone give them any money (other than les centimes rouges), but somehow they manage to swindle baguettes from God knows where. So there they'll be, chilling quietly in the corner, faces down, matching positions to aid warmth with their cardboard signs in front of them, emblazoned with child's writing with 'SVP, j'ai faim', munching systematically on a baguette.
Similarly, (and an observation of mine from today, which is actually what started this whole pointless rant), is the interesting and amusing scenario of the upper class and their baguettes. They're not hard to spot, the upper class, you can see it on their face and in their dress that they are practically selling their wealth to you. Their noses are cast upwards, only slipping slightly and occasionally to dismiss those they walk past, their mouths frozen into pouts (peut être Botox?) and their fur coats, leather boots, freshly coiffed hair-dos and their refusal to move their umbrellas even a smidge classifies them as instant 8th arrondissement dwellers. Obviously only gracing other arrondissements in order to exude their grace, elegance and all-round upper class-ness. Today, these upper classes seem to be practically invading me and I was met countless times with the stares that have to be seen to be believed and in which no amount of words on paper (or teeny, perfect black letters on a large white screen) can explain.
But my favorite part of this type, is their complete transferal to normal humans who don't own 2 cars in a city lacking the design for vehicles, or owning an apartment three times the size of the local supermarket, despite spending the majority of their waking hours wining and dining and displaying the general air that they are better than everyone else, which clearly if you saw these apartments, you would agree they were. The baguettes change them.
An old lady walked past me, smothering me in her Chanel No. 5, donned entirely in Chanel clothing and clinging onto her walking stick. A middle aged man strutted along the sidewalk, wearing his Sunday best, his tie swinging gracefully behind his shoulder. A middle aged woman, the crisp, structured and uncreased style of her blazer, matching that of her expression.
But as they walked past me, seemingly oblivious to my lower class status (if you saw the state of my shoes and traveling clothes you too would understand), their eyes plastered on the road ahead, they lifted up their baguettes, brought them to their mouths and ripped out a hunk of the bread off the top, unable to wait to taste the deliciousness of a fresh baguette from the boulangerie.
As they walk on, the crumbs are scattered behind them, like a bad parody of Hansel and Gretel, practically waiting for a homeless Harry to come and gather them up.
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