2.0.1.4.

2014, they say.

To be honest, the day just ticked over for me. Normality. Regularity. Mundanity (?)

I looked out the window as the numbers changed and the 2013 became nothing more than a memory. My vision was littered with escalating light; blue, green and red was shooting up at dizzying speeds wide across the city. I let it burn into my eyes until all that was left was the empty darkness, like a blanket dropped on the city. The madness, revelry and inevitable chaos dissolved by silence.

I stood and watched, and wondered. What will this year bring?

Seeing it in with my Mum (and father by absence, he was there in dreamland) wasn't even depressing. It took being invited to a party that I didn't want to go to for me to know that I didn't want to feel like Harry Potter in a sea of muggles. My preference lay in being with people who's space I appreciated, rather than wondering why I was surrounded by people that, just like 2013, would soon be only a memory. I wanted to know that 2014 would be entered into through my own choices, that I would chose the fate I could control in the way I wanted.

Resolutions are silly, we all know that. But it is the distinct feeling that merely by making any, by simply putting a couple of words, a few bullet points down on a piece of paper, that we are halfway to achieving them. As if that act itself is part of the resolution. I can only imagine that 90% of people have "make new years resolutions at the top of their to-do list". Many will fail.

I make them every year.

Unaware why, and with only a half hearted attempt to really think what I want another year in the unknown to bring, I charter on with pen and paper. Wondering if the words I put together will still mean anything in months, even weeks. An amalgamation of a moment, an attempt to predict my attitude to the future.

This year, simplicity. No, that's not a resolution, that's literally my approach to the task. I felt bullet points were relevant - quick, easy, and its easier to stick to the task when you draw the bullet point and then feel the daunting obligation to fill it.

- confidence.
- daring.
- ambition.
- opportunity.
- gratitude.

Why is life divided into moments? Why do we insist on choosing one day to collate all our aspirations for 365 days?

Live each day. Make constant and consistent choices to be a better person, live the life you desire. Don't wait for the one day of the year where you are most likely to be hungover, feel like not moving and eating yourself through the bakery section of the supermarket, to make impacting decisions about the rest of the year.

Push forward and make every moment count. Live in the now, and live it up.

Passe Le Temps.

Reading through old posts and delighting.

What a chronicle.

Seriously considering printing them off and collating them into some form of a diary in an openly vain attempt of recollecting the past few years.

Also undoubtedly embarrassed about the bizarre intrigue I have into my own life. Is this normal? Passing it off as literary fandom rather than personal vanity as that would be concerning.

Moral of the story, I need to write more. It is so much fun (and so enchantingly nerve-wracking) to read back on such nonsense that seemingly held importance once upon a time.

There is a beauty in that though, I think.

Lovely to revisit what once held my thoughts. Lovely in a 'thank goodness this is retrospect/hindsight' kind of way.

Loving NOW.

Personal: Goodbye.

I can still remember when you tucked me into bed. You’d pat my head and tell me good night. I’d roll over and play with the edges of those blankets I loved. When I got older I could hear you snoring from the next room. Sometimes I’d hear your feet patter against the carpet and know you were up for your 4am banana or your early morning Weetbix. Sometimes I used to imagine what you did while you ate it; practising bridge in the darkness, or trying to scrawl the crossword answers in the glare of the moonlight.

I can still see you watching us from the doorway as we rode around the cul-de-sac on our tiny, shiny trikes. You’d call us in and we’d feed the birds, breaking pieces of old bread and placing it out. I never saw them eat it but it was always gone in the morning.

I remember Queenstown. Snippets, but they’re still there. You’re setting up the paddling pool, or carrying the towels as we take the dingy out on the lake. You’d wear a sundress and a wide-brimmed hat, and I remember looking back to shore and thinking you looked so glamorous. You would perch yourself under the multi-coloured umbrella and I would watch you move. You had the most graceful movements for a self-proclaimed ‘giant’. I would have loved to watch you play netball. I’m sorry you always had to play GS. I can imagine the other teams faces as you walked onto court. All legs.

I won't forget your stories. You didn’t marry your boyfriend because "he was too tall" and you thought you would have giant children. I loved the way you spoke about him. Not what you said, but how you said it. Your face changed and the lines of affection painted themselves across your complexion, filling in the beautiful lines and lighting your eyes. Well I could have done with a bit of extra height! I wouldn’t be here though, and I wouldn’t wish away being your granddaughter for anything. I’m the luckiest damn grand daughter in the world.

I don’t forget things too easily at this age.

My head is bursting with memories. They flood in.

There were so many things I wanted to ask you. So many more stories I wanted to hear.

Luckily, I got to know so much. I appreciate that.

Your jokes, your stories and your adventures. Your kindness, your compassion, your selflessness and your courgette puffs.

I am here, in London. Miles away from you. Many planes and layovers. Too many customs checks and foreign airports. I wish I wasn’t. I wish I was there. With you. They say it doesn’t matter, it’s not worth it, that you don’t know. Do they know? It will never be the same.

I am here because of you. Without you, I may still be there. Same old days, the groundhog race.

Travel, you said. And I did. I am. You taught me to go, to see, to experience. I have, Nana. I am. And it’s beautiful.

But right now, I want to be there. With you. Here it’s wet, and the salt tastes funny. It drips endlessly and stains. Blurring my vision and leaving gaps in my heart. 

I’ll still buy the postcards. Can you read them where you are? I’ve seen some wonderful things, Nana. Do you see?

“They can never take the memories away from you.”

Upcoming Beauty.

Morocco...

Mission On.

Mission: Finding happiness in the unknown.

I'm preparing to release my sails and let the wind guide me for the next few months and I couldn't be more excited. My last European foray!

Turning corners with hidden endings, finding revelations in unseen cultures.

There is an art to travelling. For me, its letting go.

Shantaram (though set in Asia) constantly spoke of the need to release the fight, and flow. If you fight it, you'll drown. I think this is perfect, the art is in the flow.

It is one of the most wonderful things to let yourself go and see where it takes you. I think it is the moments that aren't planned that turn out to be most spectacular. Where the wind catches you up and pulls you effortlessly and beautifully. An enchanting escape.

I haven't travelled alone in a bit and I'm ready to find fun in new faces, new smiles and unheard laughs. I'll miss those faces I love but people can be wonderful if you give them a chance. I hope I find some.

Morocco. Italy. Budapest. Poland. Czech Republic. Vienna. England. Singapore. Australia. H.O.M.E.

A week in humidity catching up with an old face and exploring a whole country I'm completely new to.

Then 6 hours with my favourite sibling in a city I'll soon call my own.

Then, home. Home. I cannot wait.

First Christmas at home, in summer, in two years.

That is where moments are made.

The Land of the Long White Cloud.

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.

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.