Holly Jolly

Airport again. It's a tradition now, I think you could call it. Already fraught with danger- an hour delay on the highway out to the airport resulted in me yelling and shouting obscenities while D, my driver, calmly told me to Shut the eff up because shouting at people would not make the traffic go faster. Nevertheless, it did result in her pulling onto the shoulder and pulling some sweet, illegal, chotskie-bro moves in order to move ahead. You go, Glen Coco.
London soon. I'm excited to see my dog.
I nearly broke this weekend. My shoulders are carrying so much tension that just touching them hurts. I wonder why I had forgotten about how much finals suck. It's not like it's new knowledge. It shouldn't be a surprise. But maybe because they were my last ones, it was hard to see the finish line. I kept on trying to pull the ol' sprinter trick and look beyond the finish line in order to push as fast as you can until the end, but my farther goal line was so blurry and anxiety-filled that I don't think it helped at all. It just made everything worse.
I don't know what is to become of me! She cried.
Oh, woe is me.
But then I just laugh because seriously, there will be time enough to worry. And this is the Christmas season- jolly and holly and merry and bright and all that. And I'm going to be in England with my fam jam. And I'm done school. And I have the best friends in the world.
OH DARN I'M HUNGRY. THEY BETTER FEED ME ON THIS FLIGHT.

December 9, 2012

Had a lovely dinner with my roommates at the Sugar Bowl tonight- a place more than any other I've been to that I can genuinely describe as "warm"- warm lighting, warm people, warm music, etc. We drank some awesome beer, ate some fabulous lamb burgers, and laughed our asses off. I swear, these 3 individuals have been my life-savers this past semester. I've come to depend on them so much for providing a sense of normality and perspective when my own internal thoughts sweep me into a dark spiral.
And it was snowing when we left too. I wanted to walk part way across the High Level Bridge, but it was cold, and I had an essay to finish for the next day. So we just danced home. Literally. They remind me of my cousins, Jacq/Ben/Em. We don't give a shit what other people think of us when we're together, and we can be loud and crazy and glow. It's the high spirits that old people shake their head at and grumble. The joie de vie that sad boring grey people try to emulate with perfume. The feeling of invincibility and power that makes cheerleaders and quaterbacks so popular. Ah. It's glorious. Once in a while it's good to feel this and remember it for when the darkness sucks you in and leaves you bruised and hurt and broken at the bottom of a pit, staring at the sky that is so far off and dreaming of a fresh breeze across your face.

Classy Drinks for Poor People

My cousin Jacquie and I are planning for the day that we set up an uber cool bar in Vancouver or Paris or something. It will be minimalist, but not in the trendy try-hard way but rather the "we know only how to make a few things, but we make them gooooood" kind of way. Also, the "we're poor as heck students and like to create drinks using things in our cupboard" way.
Here are our first two drinks, created over the course of the last couple of years.
The first one, called the Very Simply Wrong Mojito came into being by the fact that I only had vodka in my cupboard last summer, and some mint leaves and a lime. So, when Jacq and I met up at Whistler, we created this muddled and potent and perfect for hot hot days little cocktail.

Very Simply Wrong Mojito

Muddle juice of half a lime with a couple teaspoons of sugar and a handful of fresh mint leaves in a tumbler using the back of a spoon.

Freehand pour chilled vodka into the glass filled halfway with ice cubes.

Add a couple more teaspoons of sugar, a little more lime, a few more sprigs of mint (for decoration, natch!), and mix by swilling glass gently by hand.

Drink quickly until all the liquid is gone, wait half an hour for the ice to melt, drink again. Or, refill the glass with vodka before the ice melts, and reuse it. Way to be economical!

Oh, and at the end you can eat the mint leaves to cover up the smell of straight vodka on your breath.


This martini-esque concoction comes from a bit of a darker place. Last winter I was feeling sad, like, all the friggin' time, and having a hard time sleeping. So I used to put myself to sleep by watching episodes of The IT Crowd and swilling vodka or gin mixed with Dry-Sec Martini and pickled stuff. Let's just say, that tv show was HILARIOUS, and I eventually got happier when I left for Greece in the Spring. But I came back, and missed the classiness of holding that beautiful martini glass. So I started bringing them back, but only for special occasions. Hence the name.

Drink for Success Martini

One shot chilled vodka

One shot Dry Sec Martini

One pickled onion. Or bean. Or I guess an olive, or an asparagus could work.

One big splash of the pickled...thing...juice.

Stir with the veggie.

Be careful, these things are like bombs. They will mess you up if you drink too many. And be prepared for the classiness that will come your way.

On Being a Girl

I've thought long and hard about our conversation last night. It's so strange- it hardly concerns guys at all, but girls spend much time thinking about what it means to be a girl. A woman, I guess. Yesterday I feel like I talked about the negative aspects of it, but I've realized lately that there are many privileges too, that guys are often denied.
A young, pretty girl can get away with murder. In many ways we are almost outside of, or above, the law. Of course this isn't true in every case, but certainly more so than men.
We are probably one of the most desirable things on earth. It's kind of sick and twisted, but once you except it you also realize that a world of privilege and opportunity can open for you just based on gender, age, and genetics.
You'll be hard pressed to find a girl who admits to it, but I will- I have consciously used my "winning personality" (a.k.a. feminine wiles) in order to get things I want out of men, especially older men. Usually at work- if you flirt with an older, wealthy man, he will give you money. More and more money. My female manger has even talked with me about it, brutally, saying "Here, this private party has requested a young female server. Go charm them. Don't you feel like a prostitute?"
And yes, it does feel like prostitution, but I also don't feel bad about it. If the fools think that me batting my lashes and joking with them means I'm actually into them, and give me things that I want/need, then it's no skin off my back- it's only acting a part.
As one of the most desired commodities on earth, you get into clubs. You get the jobs. You get drinks bought for you, dinner, attention. Special service. Worshipped. It's heady nectar.
Some girls don't realize this, I think. I started to realize it after high school. It was so incredibly easy to play the role that men expected. Other girls will fight their entire lives, complain, push people away, get offended. But the ones who see the truth of the system will use the system, and to their advantage. It's hard enough being a girl as it is. If you expect equality, you will forever be disappointed. But if you can twist the inequality to your benefit, then at least for a few years you are the one who has the upper hand.
What men want is so unbelievably simple. They are flattered by attention, by the way you gaze at them admirably. If you tease them about being idiots, they think you mean the opposite. They want to be noticed, they want you to feel safe with them. Besides the obvious sex thing, they want you to need them in some way. They want you to laugh at their jokes. To respect them.
And if you provide the illusion of even a few of these things, they will chase you, they will want you, they will eat out of your palm.
Maybe feminism is dead. Or maybe it just has a new face.

One (Blake's Got a New Face)- Vampire Weekend

I fell in love with Anderson Cooper during the most recent American election.
It was strange. I had heard the name batted around before, but I don't pay attention to CNN unless I'm half way around the world and it's the only English thing on tv. So I had never noticed his face before.
But a month ago I was watching the election at my neighbours house, visiting their new kitten. And he- oh his eyes- and I know he is old. And gay. But he looks so strong. And he is funny. And dives into the face of danger, and if there was a war, or I was in trouble, I'd want him to be on my side. I'd trust him. Follow him into battle. Whatever.
It is supposed to be a snow storm today, but so far it is just freezing cold instead. And a yucky yellow sky.

Rome and Too Much Caffeine

Too much caffeine this morning. I am almost done drinking an entire pot, and my eyeballs are jittering and my palms are sweaty. Instead of helping me focus on writing my Classics paper, it has me scrolling through Facebook pictures and becoming intensely interested in current world events. And now blogging. Which is writing. So it's a step closer to my paper, I guess.
Gotta stay positive.
Look on the bright side of life.
Very Life of Brian, non?
But anyway, the result of all this internet searching, scanning, reading, etc., is that I am craving Rome. The dirty streets and the crush of people getting off the train station at Termini. Want to know a fun fact? I have been to Rome over 10 different instances. I lived there for the month of August a couple of years ago. We would drink too much caffeine then too. An espresso at every break. Every new sight or stop we would find a cafe and drop a euro on a coffee. Except at lunch time. Then, Linds and I would make a big pasta lunch with fresh produce picked up on our way back to the convent, and then we would crack open a bottle of red and drink a glass or two with our food. Sometimes we would make a salad instead of pasta. A crunchy, fresh salad of rucola full of tuna or little fish, and chickpeas, and we would free- hand pour olive oil and balsamic over the top. Then it was nap time. Or more like I would sleep and she would watch South Park stolen from Duncan on Tristan's laptop. We would gather in the late afternoons for a final few churches to explore, sweat dripping down our backs.
Rome in August is hot.
So is Rome in July.
Rome in January is rainy and cool.
Rome in February can be warmish, but it still is rainy and windy.
Rome in March is usually quite pleasant.
And by April, Rome is wonderful. Maybe my favourite time there.
Gosh, I sound pretentious, don't I? Sorry. But honestly, it's probably my favourite city.

When I was there with K, we would take the metro out to the Vatican JUST to get Old Bridge gelato. It was cheap, huge helpings, in a tiny crack in the new part of the city. Plus, the gelato was served up the cutest Roman guys. So smiley, and charming. Sometimes we would go twice a day.

And when I was there with Dani, I showed her the donair pizza place I found in the basement of an internet cafe by the Santa Maria Majjore. We would make an effort to stop there every time we were in Rome for a day or two, or even just passing through on our way to somewhere else. I wonder if I could find it again...
Just ran up to the attic and pulled out an old map of Rome. The street names are only vaguely familiar, but if I was there in person, I'm sure I could figure it out.
One of the last times I was at that pizza place, it was with Dani and Sonja. We had spent the whole day wandering around the Tiber, and exploring around the Ponte Fabricio, eating bread and cheese and salami cut up with my Swiss army knife. For dinner we made our way to the pizza place, Dani and I promising Sonja that it would be the best donair pizza she had ever tasted. It really was, too. We sat at one of the 3 tables to munch, and watched the tiny little tv that was switched to the Italian news station, and that was when we first saw footage of the Japanese tsunami. I remember we were shocked, almost crying, using our rudimentary Italian to try and understand what was happening. It was scary.

Syringes From Syria

This is continued travel adventures from Cyprus. We ran wild on the beach and dunes, dug holes to hide from the wind, found caves and made them liveable. Why on earth we didn't think about food and water is beyond me. Maybe we were going to fish. Steal rain water. Be feral. But there were these broken needles all along the tide line, apparently washed up from Syria, and when we ran (we hardly walked) we kept our heads down to avoid stepping on them.
We had 2 thin fleece blankets between the 3 of us, and no other way of keeping warm. Fire, perhaps, but it rained so everything was wet.

Chris went swimming on the rocks and tide pools, and one day we hitched a ride out to some fascinating cliffs and a lighthouse. We climbed all over the cliffs and got sprayed by the smashing waves, and got lost, and got separated, and I remember that the utter freedom we had was terrifying. It felt very Lord of the Flies. After a week we left. We left in the early morning, walking along these country roads with our backpacks, through fields, in the sun, and across stone bridges. We walked for a long time, and took a break under a big tree, and I want to say we recited poetry but I think we were mostly silent. Finally a white van approached behind us, and we stuck out our thumbs and he stopped for us. Chris and Dani loaded into the empty, dusty back of the van, and I sat in the front with the driver who spoke not a word of English but we managed to communicate that we wanted taking to the nearest town. So for an hour or so we drove through the afternoon, and the windows were down and I stuck my hand out the window and hoped that Dani and Chris could breathe and weren't too scared in the dark.

He dropped us off in front of the big stone building where we had sat and watched a movie be filmed some days before. We sat again on the pillared veranda, and drank tea, and smoked cigarettes, and I think we ate some beans or something, or maybe a bag of strange chips because we were always hungry and had no food.

After a few hours break, waiting to see if a bus would come, we set off again. We walked to the edge of town, and then found a highway that seemed to lead back in the general direction we wanted to go (South), and again we walked and walked for hours. Finally a tiny car stopped for us, with two teenage girls in the front and a sullen, shy teenage boy in the back. Somehow we managed to cram all three of us plus our bags into the already tight car, and again, no English was spoken but we didn't care where we ended up, as long as it was somewhere. The girls were always laughing, and teasing the boy, and I remember being jealous of their clean hair and painted nails, because I'm pretty sure we looked and smelled like garbage. But they took us all the way back to Famagusta, and that night I think was the night Chris and I walked all the way to the deserted beach resort and then hitched a ride back with a crazy vegetable seller, who took us on a tour of the university campus and hospital and such, when really I just wanted to get back to the hotel where we were staying the night with Dani.

When you hitch a ride you are at the other person's mercy. And you owe them your attention, and you owe them your stories, and you owe them your smile and laugh and you owe them the allowance to be in the spotlight. A ride is never free. A meal is never free. Anything that appears to be free I guarantee is not.