summery

So here I sit in my office, on my second last day of work, having the walls taken down around me as they install the airconditioning (how convenient, right as I leave). Pretty apt for how my life is about to progress, as I leave my comfort zone to keep on discovering diverse corners of the world and then starting my career. Off I leave on Tuesday on the next leg of exotic destinations, starting with Australia for ten days, then India for two months and finally Jordan for three weeks.

 

This summer back in my 'hometown' of Monaco (I was born here afterall, and also lived here for ten years, and spent every summer here until I was 18), I have learnt a whole box-full of lessons. I have figured out that this life is The Good Life: that people around the world come to visit and say how this could be the most beautiful place on earth, that this is a life free of worries due to financial comfort, that this is a place of relaxation and ease. And I agree with these things. My job is simple and well-enough paid. My coffees are delicious and plentiful. There are no moments of panic where I don't know what to do, or how to do something. Unlike last summer, I don't find it hard to please my bosses. I come home to a basket of clean laundry done by Mama, and a three-course dinner waiting for me hot on the table, suitable to all my dietary requirements and preferences.

 

But I also figured out that as lovely and peaceful and calm and stress-free and low-key and fine-for-now as this life is, this is exactly what I do not want. That my idea of the good life is not necessarily The Good Life.

 

I don't want the security of waking up and knowing my day will go a certain way, in a certain order, even if I know that that guarantees nothing ruining it. I don't want to know how everything works and never feel challenged. I don't want things to be obvious and never feel the pride of putting the puzzle pieces together. I don't want cheap compliments. I don't want to have the good life without having properly earned it. I don't want to have enough free time to have five coffee breaks a day. I don't want to know everyone where I live, and have everyone know how I live. I don't want the easy life because it is too easy.

 

But in knowing what I do not want, I come closer to knowing what it is that I do. I want spontaneity, whatever the consequences. I want every day to feel that I have climbed a mountain of challenges and the pride of success. I want to do my own dirty laundry and learn to cook better until one day it will be edible. I want to deserve, work for what I have. I want to feel busy, occupied, meaningful and satisfied. I want privacy to do less-than-perfect deeds without everyone having to know. I want to have room to want.

 

This is why I am so excited for my upcoming job; not only will I have gotten this job completely on my own and feel that I have really earned it, but there will still be so many mountains to climb, having to learn handfuls of new languages and moving last-minute to HSBC's destination of choice.

 

This is why I am excited to keep travelling; the more effort you make to see a country, the more you learn about it, the more you see, the more you feel. I want to learn ins and outs, and ways around and wrap my head around things that seem unwrappable. I want to relate, even if not living the same experience. I want to live an experience.

 

I know how hard we all worked through our years together and am so excited to see what life has got to offer us. Looking at where you all are and what you are all doing, I don't think we have much to complain about, and very much to be proud of. Good on us!

 

I hope to hear of your 'nouvelles' soon, and in the meantime, I send you all my deepest felt hugs.

 

Bisou,

 

Pooch

Multi-Faceted Canine Rescue Service

League of Eclectic People

Goodtown, Goodlife

Everywhere

 

Mama Monty

A work in progress. Montreal has touched us all, had some way of
accommodating us each in a very different way. I kept trying to put an
image to what it was, and decided that it had to be Mama Monty. Give
me your suggestions on what is missing, what you experienced in
Montreal, what Montreal made you experience.

Mama Monty.

She is not young; her heyday was in the 60's and 70's, a firm
protester to all that wasn't funky. In her old age, her hair has grown
wispy, patches of bald can be noticed if you look past the beehive of
gray. She wears groovy glasses to keep in the mischievous glint in her
eye during the day. Her skin is wrinkled and old, her smile is fresh
and beautiful. She is a leftover hippie, donning the leftover clothes,
taking them under her wing and making them feel wanted again, have
them come into their own once more. She is a mishmash of stripes and
stars and spots. She is all colors. Taken individually, the items of
clothing would not match; as an ensemble, the mere fact that she knows
that she can rock it makes it happen.

During the elongated frigid nights, the snow falls like shavings of
every cloud in the sky, as if even the sky had frozen; during those
nights, Mama Monty, the patron Saint of Montreal wanders the streets,
cursing under her breath, never looking anyone in the eye, holding her
true spirit hidden. She recluses. She hides in basements to keep warm.
She retracts into her enormous bosom, chin to chest. She wears a
frumpy, enormous, stained winter coat during the cold months; when the
first hints of (the first round of) spring sprout, she throws it into
the remaining snow defiantly, challenging the winter to continue
against her fierceness.

Spring comes for good eventually. She wakes from her epic seclusion,
and cackles for the whole city to hear. "You thought I would never
stop winter! You had dared to hate me! You fucking spited me!' (she
says this in French as that is the only language she speaks, and will
look on smilingly with a tilted head to any anglophone). And to spite
the residents of Montreal in return, she throws her fairy dust onto
every neighborhood, dusting downtown with smiles, sprinkling warmth
onto the Old Town, inviting bicycles to come out of hibernation in the
Plateau, tickling flowers to show their faces on Mont Royal. She makes
Montrealers wish they had never uttered a single negative comment
about Mama Monty's empire. She sparks everyone's hormones into
ecstasy, driving the youngsters to chase each other through the
streets, through the parks, through the restaurants, through the
clubs, through the sex shops, through the porn shows, all trying to
make as much love as possible while the countless beds of grass are
still fluffy green. Mama Monty cannot hold her laughter back, she
rolls on the floor cracking up at how she had fooled everyone into
thinking that winter would never leave.

Mama Monty spends the warm months talking to people's souls,
conversing them, coaxing them, cajoling them to ease out of their
shell and into the 'Real World' that is Montreal. And how many youths
come to this grand city full of strangers only to talk to Mama Monty
and have her explain who they were better than they knew themselves.
She makes everyone want to dance and smile and be adult in the least
grown up way imaginable. She forces all to take risks, and will cry
out in triumph regardless of the result. She takes all those lost and
confused and holds them all to her warm, enormous, almost grotesque
bosom, where they congregate and can help each other climb out of
their problems. She dances madly all through the day and all through
the night, and ignores the stares because she is just too damn into
her dancing. Her deep voice, scarred from too many cigarettes,
trembles the air with the joy of her cries and laughter. And seeing
her dance, all dance with her. Hearing her laugh, all laugh along to
her contagious rhythm.

bedtime reflections

i sit in my comfortable bed, sipping my mediocre red wine and thoroughly enjoying the slight buzz twirling up me into my imagination with every draw. my body is a satisfied, content tired, my muscles announcing themselves proudly for the effort that was made in the day's tennis game. my mouth is still reminiscing over the simple yet tasty dinner i managed to concoct. the house has assumed a content air, settling into the evening, as if stretching into resting position after a long day's work. the frogs are chirping, asserting themselves amongst all the other night critters. i try to seep into the ambiance, try to blend in with the night's birth rituals. 

i am happy. i have no particular reason to be so, but more importantly, not reason not to be. my soul feels full, well-nourished, cared for.  it has recently seen so much and felt so much that it has been moulded into a new shape, extreme situations expanding it, making it stronger, more capable, readier for any challenging situation coming my way. it does not crave.

my soul has spread in witnessing the marvels of the world, making space for wonder and astonishment. 

my soul has been inflated with the joy of meeting so many different people, has been magnetized to similar souls presenting themselves in such a variety of forms. 

my soul has swollen with the capacity for love to fill it it so abundantly, deepening it with feelings that have never been experienced before, grooving it with pockets to fill with the love for all i hold dear to me. 

my soul has widened with the emptying sorrow that comes with losing a friend whose groove had at one point been the deepest of them all. 

feeling is living. i live every day to try and feel the most possible. the more i feel, the more i feed my soul, and the more soul is in my possession to nourish others'. not everything i feel is pleasant; the times when the bad outweighs the good make me wonder why i haven't opted for the safety, of limiting feeling, restricting emotions, eliminating questioning, shallowing those grooves. the growing pains of the soul. but like when we grow, we don't stop simply because it hurts. we keep going because we will be stronger, bigger people because of it. 

my soul has been stretched in every which way this year. as i sit in such a familiar setting, so at home in my habits and ways, my soul remembers what it has been capable of supporting. it is appreciating a well-earned rest. 

La Senda Verde

I have a confession that is going to make a bunch of people smile complacently. So enjoy the moment, it probably won't come again, and don't you dare email me saying 'I told you so.'

 

I had my first maternity pang.

 

It's not my fault. It's Nena's. The sweetest little Bolivian baby that ever, ever tumbled (she can't really walk) across this planet. But what was I supposed to do? There we were in Coroico, and this adopted muffin looked up at me with these big black eyes and just begged to be hugged. She couldn't talk at eleven months, but she most definitely conveyed enough love to have me wrapped around her little finger. She had been adopted by the owners only a month ago (why did her parents leave her? How could anyone have left Nena?!), but was so comfortable there that you would never have known. The first time I saw her, she was trying to nap, but no luck. Instead, she decided to play. All the guests went gaga for Nena, obviously, so she was in high demand for attention. Her little way of holding her hands up high in the air as she stumbled from one hang-on-able object to another, of coming over and climbing into your lap and falling asleep there, twitching with her dreams of playing and running around, who couldn't have completely fallen for her. These long, long fingers with these tiny finger nails, and her language all to herself as she huffed and puffed to try and make herself understood. Even the usual baby things I hate she did with grace; she would always leave someone's lap to go pee elsewhere. So considerate. After a mere two days in this place, I was near tears when saying goodbye to her.

 

She was the sweetest spider monkey ever.

A day in Bolivia.

I usually don't particularly like writing about a specific day because
it seems to include a lot of 'and then's, but yesterday was such a
warped day that I am going to make an exception.

After exchanging turns in getting ill, Alex and I finally left Salta,
Argentina, by bus Tuesday night, to arrive in La Quiaca by morning.
The buses in Argentina are usually an utter treat, at least the
standard of first class in planes. Seats that recline to almost 180º,
footrests, food (albeit inedible), movies in English with Spanish
subtitles (colonization is far from over), and lots of air
conditioning because it is seen as a luxury. Now the problem
arises when you don't prepare for Arctic conditions, as the one
accessory they fail to provide is thermal sleeping bags with inner
electric-powered heating systems. So this last night on the bus was
spent clutching each other to try and resuscitate any form of pulse in
absence of a blanket.

We got into the border town before the sun rose. As we got off the
bus, we realized that we really had no clue which way the border with
Bolivia was, and nighttime is not the ideal time to wander about as
gringos with a blatant map in hand. We both were dying for the dunny;
in touring the entire town at 8 o'clock in the morning, not
a single establishment was open. We went up to the YPF gas station,
which had a big sign saying opening hours started at 7; I mouthed
'baño' to the man inside working but who had not opened the station, and
got a finger wagged at me. The streets were pretty darn empty, and
sparse at that, leaving us to cross some fields to get between
streets. Once the sun rose, we decided that even Bolivia, a third
world country, must be better serviced than this.

So we followed the trail of gringos leading to the border. We first
had our passports stamped to leave Argentina. The office for this was
before a bridge. Between the Argentina and Bolivia border controls was
no-man's land on the actual bridge. As we chatted to the border
control officer and other gringos lined up behind us, locals walked in
and out of both countries without hassle or questioning, running back and forth as if
the big bad soldiers with some impressive and used-looking guns were
not in front of both offices.

We crossed the bridge with the stray dogs and buggies and gringos, and
lined up for the Bolivian office. Normal entry visas for gringos is
free and for 30 days; Americans pay USD150 just for the heck of it.
The little wooden room we waited in had all angles of pictures of the
President, Evo Morales, who is revered in this country. Not really
sure why. Either way, the room smelled chokingly of diesel (comforting with gun powder and smokers around), and all the immigration laws were on printed pieces of loose
paper hung on the walls with Scotch tape. Alex and I, Australian and
Italian passports, got visas for 90 days, the person next in line with
an Aussie passport got 30. Walk on out into Bolivia.

Now Roxy had warned us of a (quote) STARK difference as soon as you
pass into the country: needless to say, she was right. The roads were
no more, only dirt paths from here on out. Houses were not made in any
organized fashion of laying bricks and paving them with cement and
plaster and painting over that. No no no, here the bricks were enough,
with a window or two included at best. Shops spilled onto the streets,
selling the oddest things, like lots and lots of polyester blankets
with pictures of tacky: tacky puppies, tacky Barbies, tacky rainbows.
Or socks. They REALLY like to sell socks in South America, be it in
shops, on the metro, at your restaurant table.

The people here are a completely different race from in Argentina; there are mixed figures,
claiming anywhere between 60 and 80% of the country is of indigenous
descent. I couldn't see a white person in sight in Villazon, except
your classic gringos. Their much darker skin was leathered from the
rough sun, their cheeks red from the harsh rays at the high altitude,
their hair jet black no matter what age.

The men were dressed normally. But the women. Wow. The women have
proven to me that fashion to an outsider does not make sense. You know
how men sometimes question why women wear belts around their waist if
not to hold anything up? Or why wear leggings under a dress and not
stockings tokeep your feet warm? You can never really understand a fashion until you are
part of the same one. Looking from the outside in to the fashion of
Bolivian women is the most puzzling experience. If you Google Image
Bolivian women, and you get a picture of a woman dressed in
old-fashioned, thin-soled, open-toed leather shoes with socks on, a
big frilly skirt to just below the knee, an apron over a big shirt,
two long black braids with tons of blue, glittery beads on the end, a
bowler hat that is about six sizes too small and hence sits atop
instead of on their head at an angle, and the quintessential Bolivian
patterned scarf tied around their body with a baby hanging in the
back, then you know what the majority of the women look like here, regardless
of age. I don't understand how 60-year-old women just like 20-year-old
women (who do not look all that different) are all carrying babies.
Where are they all coming from? Do they import babies to fill the
scarves? Is it like stuffing a bra? Alex purchased a scarf yesterday
and was properly laughed at when he put it babyless around his neck.
Why do they wear open-toed shoes if it is cold? And what on earth is
the hat for?

So we walked up to the bus station amidst the shops and coca leaf
vendors to the bus station, which although very dark, seemed pretty
established. We went to the desk for Tupiza, and asked for two tickets
on the first bus out. Our ticket was a hand-written note, one for the
both of us, for seats 35 and 36 at 8 o'clock. (Although you are
crossing North-wards, you change time zones. Duh.) At 8 o'clock, an
absolute circus began as twice as many people as assigned mounted the
bus. We sat next to the other man assigned seat 35 on the bus. As the
bus started to go, and the bus company realized that half of the
people had to get off before they left town, they started to kick
people off with their weapon of mass destruction: a girl that I really
want to hire as a bouncer in a London nightclub for her fierce power
of turning people away, having them dismount a moving bus. Eventually,
she got half the people off. My idol.

As we started our journey, a salesman (or salesboy, should I say,
since he looked about 18 and had a tattoo of Yogi bear on his face)
started his pitch. He began to talk to the people about how they were
consuming their coffee and bread and meat, but never getting any
nutrition. To me, this was an issue that had disturbed me throughout
Argentina, so my ears perked to hear someone preach to these people to
stop chewing coke and drinking coffee, and to start eating some darn
fruit. Wrong. He was preaching annual stomach cleansing. Apparently
that is what is wrong with their diet, that the Bolivians do not use
poisonous laxatives sold illegally through salesmen on buses in paper sachets to
erradicate their digestive system once a year. Clearly.

We passed out on the bus, and when I woke up I was sure that we had
been transferred to an amusement park ride, as the bus was in a tunnel
(note: hole in hill) that was a two-way passage, which very very barely
fit our vehicle alone. I have seen some iffy driving conditions in my day,
but this was topping the list by far. Later that day, people we met
were in a car that flipped on the road (no one was injured), which
blocked traffic. Solution? People got out of their cars and gathered
enough muddy dirt to creat a road next to the crash. Resourceful if
nothing else.

And now we are in Tupiza, at 3,000 metres, a very small town where the
Internet is slow, the people are nice, and the babies are worn. There
is currently a baby next to me that has been gurgling suspiciously (when aren't babies up to something suspicious) for the entire time I have been in this Internet cafe, with no one really
paying attention to it. I am considering kidnapping it and putting it in my scarf.

Cafayate

So here we are in the middle of nowhere.

 

Definition of the middle of nowhere: a day driving dirt roads amongst the deserts and plateaus and forests and Mars-like landscapes of the region of Salta in Argentina.

 

We set out yesterday out of the city of Salta, where we picked up our very questionable rental car (a flashy red Fiat Palio). The fact that there was no downpayment, no truly official contract, and such a very brief revision of the car's iffy state confirmed to us our previous thinkings about South American businesses and the conditions of the roads around the province.  

We left Salta at 10.30 AM, and the first scenery we hit outside of town was luscious green fields, big hills so covered with green trees that you couldn't tell whether there was any green ground beneath them. The cars accompanying us on the road were your classic Argentine beauties: 1970's masterpieces, Fords, Mercedes, Chevrolets. Some cars even had two badges on front, eg Mercedes logo AND a Ford label. Interesting.

 

As we went farther and farther South, the mountains began to climb, and fields were squished into valleys. The road got narrower and narrower, into a slight carving into facade. Fewer and fewer cars marked the road, and next thing we knew, we were in a valley surrounded by mountains thousands of meters tall, green as green gets, with a brown-red river slithering through. Streams would intermittently rush across the road; our little Red Monster did not appreciate this, but kept up. At one point, we got out just to absorb the fresh air after the polluted valley of Salta, and in doing so stepped on a biting ant hill. All part of the nature.

 

The river slowly was dwarfed by gigantic, treeless hills, so tall the clouds ate their summits. Comic cacti lined the horizon. Every so often, the mountains had cracked open, showing incredible red and blue minerals in the rocks, almost as if the earth were bleeding and bruised with nature's roughness.

 

Green got darker, the road steeper and more winding as we inched our way up to the higher part of the region. No more cacti, only green green mountains, so steep, with violently deep cuts from creeks making their way down them. The climb took a couple hours, on dirt road, with cows and sheep crossing from time to time, and many dogs chasing the Red Monster (I can understand, it was a handsome vehicle). Then, through clouds and creeks and fauna, we were at the top. Over 3,000 meters high, with a chapel and a white cross to mark it. As we peeked over the edge, we saw our route snaking its way up, and patted each other on the back for our bravery (or foolishness, whichever).

 

And then we turned around.

 

Mars. People, I tell you, we went to Mars. We had clouds at our back, and what we looked over to was a blue sky engulfing a Martian landscape. The ground was red. There were llamas (OH MY GOODNESS THERE WERE LLAMAS) roaming in their alien-like manner. Rocks jutted out into mountains sporadically, every one a different color, be it blue, red, brown, purple. The road, now Ruta 40 (a road that spans over more than 5,000 kilometers from North to South Argentina, sort of like an unpaved vertical Route 66) was the only sign of human existence. The air was thinner, and the wind whipped our Monster from side to side. The llamas remained unperturbed by the gusts. The sun was fierce, burning anything exposed to a scorched red.

 

We drove down from the plateau into the famous Valles Calchaquìes, which brought all of the above into a beautiful visual symphony: green fields lining the rivers, followed by a layer of desert with barren trees windswept to the side, all surrounded by the most interesting rocks closing in the valley. Colors I have never seen. Formations I have absolutely no explanation for. And all of this, home to delicious wines from the vines growing near the water.

 

As dusk set in, we knew we were behind schedule, and according to the hitchhiker we dropped off in Agnastaco, we knew we had another couple of hours to go to reach Cafayate. Our star driver (in a manual, mind you) zigzagged perfectly on the bumpy roads, until disaster struck: a flat. Dammit. To be honest, it was a miracle that we had lasted that long, but in the dark, we put our emergency lights on, and hoped for the best, despite the fact that in driving five hours from Cachi, we had encountered perhaps 20 cars. Both ways. In the meantime, we fumbled about trying to get our spare out the back, and tried to look like we had a clue.

 

The gods were on our side. It was like a Formula One pit stop; within a couple minutes, Dutch guardian angels landed and within 10 minutes had replaced the tyre. They made us swear to buy them a beer in Cafayate. No problem, man.

 

And through the star-spangled sky we drove.

Rio de Janeiro - A City of Contradictions

The marvelous city, drowned in poverty. The infamous glorious beaches lining one side of the city, as the favelas border the other side. The happiest people in the world, mixed in with absolute desperation for their country. Even their music, with its eccentric rhythms and endless movement, always has that haunting voice accompanying it. A country so willing to push itself ahead, with a massive surplus in their budget, a country with frightening amounts of natural resources and guaranteed wealth, held back by the habits it founded in poverty.

 While I was there for a week on minimal budget thanks to my usual terribly disorganized financier, my opinion of the city would rollercoaster over the course of every day. My first day there, I was mugged in broad daylight by kids on the beach; one guy held me as another ripped my bag off of me and ran to the top of the dune and emptied my belongings and picked up only the cash. All of his friends stood around watching. I could not help but stare them all down, no matter how hard I tried to look away. And lo and behold, as I went over to my pile of stuff, they came over and helped me pick it up. And none of them could look me in the eyes. They were so young, they were doing this for their families, trying to get ahead on the white man´s petty change.

 The same beach, a few days later: sitting in the blessed sun, reading, an elderly man walked over and offered a game of beach tennis. After teaching me for an hour, he invited all of my friends to a beer to watch his friend sing samba up the beach. He was so needlessly kind, so wonderfully curious and informative. The next day he came again, played again, and gave my friends shells that he picked up years ago in a shell crop, which he had adorned with a painting of Ipanema beach on them. His friend gave my friend lengthy legal advice; we all laughed as the sun set over those telltale double-mount hills. People so effortlessly friendly and kind, so naturally funny and good-natured. Sitting on the same beach.

 That is just a couple of people; the contradictions go much further. The city center is polluted, with the countless airconditioners raining down onto every street, nasty smells rising out of every crack in the ruined sidewalks, the noise of the city making it virtually impossible to hold a conversation on the street. All of that in front of the biggest city park in the world, Tijuca Park, which is an actual rainforest within Rio, filled with exotic birds, raccoons, snakes and the looming statue of Jesus. The Real, so much stronger than the Peso, in a country so much more visibly underfunded. Even the sight of seeing Asian, Black, White, Brown people all speaking Portuguese seemed so farfetched and modern, so much history that seems to have nothing to do with each other blending together, melting into the same city, a city founded in the first place by the French (and where are they now?). The city seems like a collage of odd bits and end of the world thrown together into the most terrific scenery, a melange of flavors, habits, traditions into the mixing bowl called Rio.

Backpackers deciphered

 After a decent amount of hostels, countless acquaintances, and too many adventures to possibly recount, I have managed to more or less classify the people that I surround myself with every day.

Class A: THE STRICT TRAVELERS
These individuals are on the journey to see, to take pictures with their SLRs, to rough it, to carry tents and sleeping bags and to truly mark themselves on the map and sights checklist. These guys are not going to have late nights out, as that may mean that they would not wake up in time for the tour bus. They are determined as hell.

Class B: THE HOSTELLERS
Typically in the 17-23 range, always anglophone (be it Aussie, English or Kiwi), and bordering alcoholic, these chaps aim to go from the station to the hostel, eat at the hostel, sleep at the hostel, drink at the hostel. When they leave the hostel, it is with an activity organized by the hostel. They are hostel hoppers. When they say that they traveled South America on their gap year, they will be familiar with the local cocktail of every country, but will not be able to ask directions in the local language. They sleep during daylight hours, and are a great laugh at night.

Class C: THE IN-BETWEENS
A good mix of wanting to see the city, making the effort to get a good deal into the itinerary, getting to bed every few days to have the energy to do it. But they are not to be taken anywhere near as seriously as THE TRAVELERS, as they will not abstain from a good party hostel, and will definitely participate in the odd loose night out. They will definitely know how to ask directions in (insert language), and probaby have the most interesting stories to tell.

Ilha da Magia

Florianopolis. Ilha do Santa Catarina. Ilha da Magia.

 

Unquestionable paradise.

 

It was a long 28-hour bus ride there from BA, crossing the somewhat sketchy Brazilian border in the middle of the night. When I woke up, I was surprised to find that the grass was greenest on this side; you know those highlighters that Flo decorates all of her notes with, the obscenely bright ones that inevitably get on your fingers no matter how long you wait for them to dry on the page? Yea, the green one. That´s the color of Brazil. The soil; brown? Why would you choose brown soil? Let us make it RED, violent red. And the sky? Well, let´s make it pretty blue during the day, but sunset, let us go all out and use every color we know. And then splash the sky with white at night.

 Even the cows are different on this side. They have this awesome hump projecting from their neck. Apparently it makes for really good, really fatty meat. By the way, forget being vegetarian at meal time in Brazil. Snacks, you´re set, between sucos, coconut water, queijo grilled right on the beach in a little charcoal bowl in front of you, churros filled with dulce de leche or chocolate. But meal time hits, and a vegetarian request lands you a frango sanduiche (chicken sandwich).

 Back to Floripa. So I arrived, and having no idea where my hostel was (truly NO clue), I figured it must be on the other side of the island, and so hopped on a bus with some Ozzies from the trip. They had to switch at one point, so I hopped off and started walking, hoping for the best. Mind you, the island is still probably 70 Km from North to South, so this was a serious shot in the dark. I asked the first local, and guess what? It was around the corner.

 I rushed to cross the lake/lagoon, and climb the hill over to the beach while it was still light. I hopped over one last hill, and there it was, Soft Beach, Praia Mole. Kilometers of pristine sand, with the ends chopped by huge rounded rocks. Surfers galore. Hippies everywhere. Young. Clean. Beautiful.

 Over the next days before Carnaval, I met some great characters at the wonderful Casa Brasil, a small hostel with hammocks out front and the most wonderful receptionist/barrista who made some lethal caipirinhas. When Carnaval began, I moved on over to Backpackers Sunset, which was a great location on the top of the hill to the beaches, with the most incredible view of the Lagoa da Conceição, but due to the masses needing room, the place was out of control. I formed a good group with a whole bunch of people from all over naturally, and we explored the island together over Carnaval.

 Betwee the elegant beaches of the North, to the secluded beaches of the South, the freezing water of the East, to the freakishly warm water of the West, the sand dunes and the mountains for hiking, and the partying which left us all out of breath, it was a crazy week. It just so happened that David Guetta was playing at Pasha, a 12,000 (yes, you read right) person club; and incredible night of dancing and smiling and watching the sun rise over a mountain of people.

 The last night was the biggest treat of all. Carnaval, the parade. So Carnaval is traditionally the top samba schools of the region competing in a parade held several times throughout the five days of Carnaval. Each school is given a theme, and on that they find the hundreds of people at the school to participate dancing, making costumes, and mounting floats. Each samba school comes from a different town in Santa Catarina in Florianopolis, and they have to have a song for their company. We went to the final night, which only had the three winners; the show lasted 8 hours. We were all exhausted, and it was cold after a nasty storm. But when the party finally started, there was no sleeping--- dancing in the stands, caipirinhas, singing! The parade was absolutely unbelievable. The women could be classified as the following:

The general participants, who were grouped into batches of 100 ish, and wore the more outrageous costumes

The little girls in their dream costumes of glitter and sparkles and crowns and sparkles and glitter

The older women in the most incredible hooped gowns spinning and spinning

The babes with the most absurd bodies filing out by the hundreds (HOW DO THEY DO IT HOW ARE THERE SO MANY OF THEM) in thongs and nipple covers and feathers. VERY nice.

 

The dancing.. oh the samba! It looks like just moving your feet as fast as humanly possible and shaking your hips at the same time and smiling like a crazy person.It was so lovely, when it ended at 2 AM, we couldnt help but stay and dance on their path, sucking up all the energy left over, and trying on all the costumes that they had shed on the way.

 

It is nicknamed Ilha da Magia, and it positively is. I would go back in a flash. And who knows...

Argentina de porteña

I flat out have a big-time crush on Buenos Aires, no two ways about it. BA, Bs As, Porteño land, has such a magic touch to it, something that moves the soul and makes it want to shake and dance because life is beautiful.

 The people have gone through some rough hardships in the past few generations, and those tough times are not forgotten; every week, the women of BA come to Plaza de Mayo to commemorate the missing from the Dirty War, and curse those responsible for it. There are memorials popping up in the spots around the city, under bridges, where hundreds of bodies were recently discovered hidden by the past governments. The people are not quiet about their past, and there is no reason to be; they were wronged, sent to disgraceful war in the Falklands  to try and save face for the President, and suffocated politically under his crazy wife´s rule. That is history; the present generation has seen quite a bit itself. Going from the most prominent and developed country in South America to plunging into poverty overnight in 2001, people saw their families desperate, and life 180 for the worst. Now, the economy is slowly climbing, but it is a very slow crawl, and it is difficult to accept that I am essentially profiting off of their terrible exchange rate. There are laws stating that tourist attractions may charge two prices, one to Argentines, and one to foreigners, to which gringos are outraged. I am of mixed feelings; the price they give us is still so cheap by our standards, why not let them make some extra cash while staying in our price range?

  There is money in Argentina, plenty of it, it just happens to lie in few´s hands. The range of wealth is shocking; I remember seeing an entire family living on an old mattress behind a shop in the bus station, the children running around unaccompanied as the television did a special on how dangerous the station had gotten. And I also remember seeing the wealth of the few families with estancias, thousands of hectars of land for one family, land that they probably will never visit entirely as they live in the decadent apartments in the city.

  But despite this rift, there is something amongst porteños that keeps them moving and smiling. The hot, hot days where all anyone can do is sit on a shady stoop of a once glorious building and sip mate under the trees. The busy plazas with everyone running every which way while just as many people busy themselves watching. The hundreds of people in the extensive parks, whiling away the day with their families, complaining about work. Maybe it was an unreal slice of life that I got to see, but I felt that here, people do not feel stress as we know it. They may work in offices, they may take a VERY crowded subte home in the oppressive heat, but at the end of the day, people are smiling, kissing, hugging, laughing, crying, shouting, FEELING. And that is what I came for, the city that feels outwardly, that has no problem showing what they have gone through, what they are going through, that has a pride in showing the world what they are and where they are from. Porteños.

A day on the estancia

i rode a horse. i fucking OWNED the horse. i bloody galloped. for a half hour. hair flying behind, holding onto nothing but the reigns as the gauchos do, into the fields of Areco with the storm at our backs.

 

the town has been lacking any rain for four months now, which is rather disastrous considering the region survives on agriculture. so everyone has been begging for rain, as the temperature climb, and the humidity soaks. little by little by little, it started to feel like the skies would explode, and last night everyone's hopes were the highest they could be. people stayed home waiting for it to rain. tension was so high. and then the stars came shining through, ruining everyone's hopes and providing another hot, hot night.

 

this morning, we walked to estancia cinacina (check the website--oh my goodness so beautiful). we were going horseback riding. ALL (note:every single one) of my riding experiences have ended in disaster, ranging in gravity; the first ride, thrown off a full-size horse at age 6; have a horse near roll onto me at 7; horse bolting off; horses bucking in front of me. they know i am scared, and therefore they are scared. clever fellows, they are, one should try and avoid the overly-nervous folk. so this morning, my mother convinces me to get out of bed early and head on over as the skies cloud over mighty fast. we meet our guide, Jose Luis, a charming shy gaucho, and i just pretend like i´ve been on a horse every day of my life, and guess what? JL and the horse bought it. fifteen minutes in we were running through the fields and a million bucks couldn´t have wiped the smile off my face. such a thrill. my ass may be killing me, but i could NOT care less. i am still grinning after three glasses of wine on the patio.

 

the rest of the day was watching traditional dance and laughing about with gauchos and italian tourists and american pastors (well, perhaps slightly laughing at the latter). as we ate the umpteen-course meal over the afternoon, the rain begain to collapse onto the grounds, dousing the estancia, giving us no choice but to get wet anyway. my mom and i looked at each other and decided to walk home in the torrential downpour, flip flops sliding in mud, winning the wet-tshirt contest and thoroughly drenching every part of our body. the electricity went out with the storm, and as we walked into the hotel, the staff (who is rather unoccupied seeing as we are the only guests in the hotel) burst out laughing at the sight of us. towels were wrapped around us and we siestad in the glory of my triumph.

 

the rain is still going, but i am happy it is, the rain makes the people happy, and i like smiling gauchos. i may try and sneak back on a horse tomorrow before heading back to BA

 

--
Julia Elena Paolucci

San Antonio de Areco

vale i will give you a poor attempt at a description of san antonio de areco.
 
as we (madre y yo) drove from pinamar, which is southeast of BA, to SA de A, the main thing that we noted was how much more lush the greenery gets. the arid plains of pinamar slowly deepened into dark green fields, with leafy, willowy trees keeping the innumerable horses and cows in the delicious shade of the afternoon. once we approached SA de A, there was no sign of town, just a bus stop on the side of the road. as i, porter of two, collected the bags, a remise (ie a car that serves the same purpose as a taxi) consisting of a driver and his wife in their ancient family bandwagon, drove up and picked our bags right up. as they drove us into the streets of the town, it was hard to judge, as the town was absolutely void of inhabitants. the hotel, from outside looked equally abandoned, shutters closed, a doorbell to ring to enter, and no sign of life anywhere.
 
and then the door opened.
 
we walked into a beautiful room that used to be a patio, with dark grey walls and cow hyde rugs and wrought iron furniture and plush beds and the typical black and white tiles of the region. the back terrace is where asado can be enjoyed, and there is a library in which i am currently sitting and listening to the life of the town riding by. once we settled in, we headed out. funny what you don´t notice in a car ride. the town (of roughly 20,000 people) is base camp for the gauchos' culture of argentina, which are like the cowboys of the south. they wear berets and boots and colorful belts with silver buckles. the chaps don the traditional patterns in exciting blues and yellows and reds, and their role from my limited understanding is to round up the cattle on their horses. so this is one of the towns that has maintained this history, and i can assure you that there are still gauchos roaming the streets of San Antonio.
 
The buildings are short, and the grid plan of the city reminds me of the forlorn mining towns in Colorado, only much, much greener. the buildings are from the turn of the 20th century, and unlike in BA, they have been wonderfully preserved and painted in traditional colors of olive green, beige and subtle pinks. when we arrived, the streets were empty because of the intense heat (35 degrees at 6PM anyone?), but little by little shutters opened and cars from the 70's started to show. in the calming heat of the evening, we ventured towards the town Plaza Arellano (pronounced arejano).
 
and then we were under attack.
 
from out of nowhere, water balloons were aimed at us from all directions from the Lost Boys of the Eve, and looking around, we saw the remnants of the siege and many others' ill fate lying in the streets, bullets of bright rainbow colors, lying exploded on the pavements, with the water splattered violently over the buildings.
 
once escaped, we managed to get to the Plaza, a dream of calm and green, and proceeded to make our way to the Rio; there, we found the citizens of SA de A adorning the banks of a beautiful river glittering in the evening sunshine as kids daringly jumped in. there is the absolute incessant beat of latino music in the air EVERYWHERE here, if you listen carefully enough, and here was no exception, along with youth and aged alike basking in the shade, patiently sipping at their maté before dinner.

returned to the hotel and having escaped a second battle with the young warriors, we ate the first vegetable meal since we have arrived (N.B. meals=carbs or meat. basta), before looking at estancias for tomorrow's adventures of horseback riding. you know my history with horses: please pray for me.

 

--
Julia Elena Paolucci

cross country skiing

Cross country skiing: oh my goodness. many points to be made:

1) WORK OUT OF MY LIFE. i am such a weakling and must improve.

2) such beautiful scenery that you get to appreciate in complete silence and solitude--> no kiddies crashing in front of you here!

3) easy! i mean, will slice pounds off of you every time you insert your foot into the oh-so-comfortable shoe, but the technique is very simple for basic cross country. 

4) cheap: renting the gear is $15 a day, and some of the routes are $15 per day, but most are free. this is compared to the $30 of skis and the $92 day pass for alpine skiing here (thank GOODNESS i can get free passes, this whole trip would have been unfeasible if not!). 

5) practical: your skis weigh nothing at all, and again, the shoes are normal shoes that you can run around in. you have to wear close to no clothing because you work up such a sweat, and it is very difficult to injure yourself.

it's a completely different sport, though. you wouldn't go cross country for any of the reasons you would go alpine, besides for something to do with a lot of snow on the ground. cross country is about the aerobic exercise while slowly enjoying the beautiful, remote and abandoned surroundings on relatively flat lands. alpine is about the adrenaline, the thrill, how steep can you go, how much can it burn, how much can you pull off without injury. 

the scenery is absolutely stunning. the entire area of French Gulch is not accessible by car in the winter (ie if something goes wrong, you gotta hope you're on God's good side!), and the ungroomed roads are the paths for xc or snowshoeing. the path is dotted with beautiful cabins and log homes that are reached by snowmobile from the road in winter, which i can only imagine makes for some pretty interesting major grocery shopping trips. but the perfect stillness of the colorado outback coated in pristine snow must be pretty darn worth it. absolute silence. impeccable white. massive sloping mountains ahead. every so often, a remote trace of wildlife (the mobile players, like elk or deer head to lower altitudes in winter, and the bears are sleeping, but wolves, coyote and moose are common sighting on the trails). fellow xc skiiers on the trails salute and thank the person that went ahead for breaking trail, and many bring their dogs and children (same category) along. a really great experience, to be repeated hopefully this week!

Snow sculpting competition

http://www.gobreck.com/page.php?pname=ISSC/09photo&mode=view

This past week, I had the chance volunteer with the great group of Breckenridge event planners at this wonderful local initiative that is growing so quickly in fame, size and deserved recognition every year. As you can see on the site, the artists are from around the world, and there is no cash prize, only 'glory'! All sorts of businesses in Breck donate their services; the artists eat for free in some of the finest dining, their stay is free thanks to the lodging that accommodates them, they get massages at the end of the day, and they can even ski for free on the town of Breck. I really like the event because it's been taken to a professional artistic level; it isn't just big sculptures of funny animals, they really make symbolic and beautiful representations from a medium that is so temporary, even in the depths of winter. Nature does play its tricks, though; poor Team Ontario's sculpture collapsed yesterday afternoon due to the freak warm weather! All those hours of work and designing gone, but luckily it came after the judges had cast their vote. We hear in half an hour who won their 'glory' prize; the streets of Breck are absolutely jam-packed for the event, with people seizing the chance to drive up to mountain town. 

The artists have 65 hours to carve the snow, with no use of any motor-generated tools, in teams of four. They can work through the night, and have to model their anticipated sculpture before-hand to the judges.

A fast-paced world

This week so far has shown me the beauty in being able to live your
life while taking your time, and how much we are persuaded to do
otherwise.

Before leaving for Chicago, I had a great day of skiing, and a calm
night in after dinner. During my stay here, there have been many a
calm night, and never do I feel like this is a waste, as it is
allowing me to be so well-rested to truly appreciate every motion of
the next day. Though I have been banished to the sofa bed for Sergio's
stay in Breckenridge, it is still great to currently be able to get to
bed at ten, to wake up and see the new day start afresh. Any of you
who vaguely followed my sleeping patterns in Montreal know that this
is not my usual rhythm; unpredictable bed times, late late nights
followed by early mornings, naps, Henry-time, sleeping is not usually
the top of my priority list.

There is something to be said for hurrying to fit the most into one
day. Carpe diem, seize the moment, live it up. We all follow this
regime, studying as much as we can, striving to reach our maximum
potential, pushing everything aside to meet the finish line. But what
about stopping to smell the roses? What is any accomplishment if there
is no time to reflect on it? Is a grade worth anything if learning the
material was unappreciated? Up in mountain town, people aren't focused
on the finish line, and shifted their attention to savoring each
moment getting there. The speed limits are low, so you have a chance
to take in the breathtaking surroundings when running to the
supermarket; shops are open late even though business is slow, giving
you all the time in the world to stroll to your destination on Main
Street; the next big city is a two-hour drive away, giving you no easy
escape to the real world and forcing you to get used to the slower
pace of life.

Cut to Monday, game day for an interview in Chicago. I had to wake up
at 5 AM, and woke up with a very familiar knot in my stomach, a knot
that was omnipresent until the past month. A knot that screams out,
'You're late, push, run, do better, impress, jump, work harder, push
harder, flail if need be, keep pushing!' all day long. Take van to
airport, rushing down the mountain to get to busy life as the sun
comes up. I feel silly for not having put on my business suit to be in
this mode, I feel like I will not look normal functioning at this pace
in every day clothes. On flight, which zips me across 1,000 miles of
beautiful scenery that I do not get to appreciate: the trip is not of
importance, the destination is. Not for the sake of the destination
itself, but of what I can rush through at that destination. Take a cab
through Chicago, a city I have never visited, to get to Mettawa's
Hilton. The next two days are a blur of friendly faces and kind people
and excitement and racing hearts and no sleep because of racing hearts
and bonds formed and speedy goodbyes. Back at the airport with time to
spare (the absolute enemy of the working world: inefficiency!), people
floated by, with those with business suits substituting for track
suits as they ran to their gate. I got on the plane and absolutely
collapsed with exhaustion; these two extreme opposites of life take a
lot out of me in keeping them balanced. I change back into mountain
clothes at the airport as the shirts are starting to stifle, and I
catch an earlier van to run up to the hills. I don't feel any sense of
relaxation until I am back in the comfort of my own home (well, one of
them).

And yesterday, I went skiing as if it never happened.

I will be volunteering with the local snow sculpture competition over
the following few days; what you can create out of a hammer, a chisel
and a block of ice! check it http://www.townofbreckenridge.com/index.aspx?page=496

happy obamania

bless y'all!

Breckenridge, CO, USA

the latest

it's only been a week and a bit, and already i feel like this trip has taught me. which is good, i did go on this adventure with learning as the goal, but i set out without really knowing what kind of learning was going to happen. was i going to learn about the places i visited? were people going to learn about me? was i going to learn how to live out of a backpack? where, when would i feel this learning start?

inevitably, learning means expanding, and expansion means change. no matter what my next step had been after graduation, it would have been a big one. but when you set out to completely blow yourself out of the water with new experiences, you are inviting yourself to change. and that in itself is a tad discomforting; who will i be at the end of this all? will i be the same person that me and mine know and care for? how will my view on life change? i'm not heading to the richest places known to man, and i've been warned time and time again that it won't be immediately uplifting. and the one way to swallow that is to accept that you cannot know the world in just seeing the good, and if i am to have a firm trust in man, then i must see both sides of the story. i have set out on all my crazy steps in life as of yet to push myself forward, no matter how steep the step ahead of me was, and each step has brought me closer to knowing the nature of people, and not all of those steps have been pleasant. at the end of the day, that is what is important, growing and learning and accepting and understanding and reflecting. and if that changes the person that i am into something radically different, then yes, i changed, but i changed for the better, for the informed, for the wiser. 

being on my own here has allowed for a lot of quiet time, quiet time that i didn't even know was missing before it set in. the past couple of months (who am i kidding, the past few years!) have been a rat race, and now at the finish, i am able to finally take a look back at how far i have come, and how much farther there is left to run. for now, though, no running. just strolling, floating through life instead of determining its path. at least for a little bit. 

the scenery here is... breathtaking. aside from the lack of oxygen. mountain living is not for everyone, but i know that it could be for me. being a short-term ski bum is wonderful! the chilled pace of life, the absolute lack of seriousness, the closeness to nature make for a different mind frame. no finance majors here! skiing down the mountain for days at a time, hiking into the backcountry, it allows for so much silent activity, letting my inner self a chance to be heard after all this rushing, partying, talking, studying, running. it's like i'm making friends with myself all over again. up in the high country, you look up, and you don't need to peek through buildings to catch a glimpse of the sun; here, the sky engulfs everything, everyone under it. oh my goodness, the colorado sky is so open you have no option but to reciprocate! the air is so clean, the water so fresh from the mountain that your body just thanks you automatically. my skin, hair, nails are all beaming from this dose of mountain life. no makeup, no tight clothing, no discomfort besides for the slight tightness of a ski boot (and that is remedied by the outdoor hot tub session under the snow at the end of the ski day). 

the people are on a different planet, one where long term careers do not exist, one where you live ski season by surf season, one where you move according to where they will let your canine friend live with you. i met a bunch of kids from st. louis last week and spent a good four days getting to know them, getting a little more familiar with my local roots that i am so used to discarding. good people. it's always fascinated me that no matter how conventional a person may seem, there is always a story to them. absolutely everybody has quirks, has history, has something that would be striking if it were their opening line to a stranger, giving us all reason to try and get past the first layer of anyone we encounter. never, ever judge a book neither by its cover, nor by its first handful of chapters, because somewhere in there, sometimes much deeper than others, there is a twist.

tomorrow, my solo time comes to an end for now, with sergio arriving for ten days. monday, i fly out to chicago for the big interview, to return (impressively enough) tuesday evening. it is now looking like jo will join me for the first ten days in south america, meeting me in buenos aires for a girly adventure (we'll see how girly i'm capable of getting- who knows, i may even wash my hair). 

laundry calls.

checking

london

reflection

it's a funny thing to be on your own. it is such a preconceived notion, such an expected reaction for one to feel lonely if on their own, that it almost becomes instinctual to fall into. it is still socially unacceptable to sit alone at a table, and to self-occupy. it is seen as if the person has no one to keep them company, has no other option but to suffer their own company. how can the individual, unequipped with any technological entertainment device, be satisfied? how can that be better than the banter that is had over the phone, the worthless conversation that can be had in text? the instruments we invent that birth a new application every five seconds have convinced us that what is old and simple can never be enough. what was sold but a year ago is no longer available for purchase, as a year gives rise to so many new functions in a single device that a model is considered worthless without the umpteenth widget that has been come up with. 

 human beings are having this technological trend translated to their behavioral interaction; we must always be changing, we must have new interests every x amount of time, we must be 'progressing', advancing, evolving. it is as if the act of morphing one's self is what is expected to provide enhancement. motion forward with no direction. keeping the wheels turning while off the ground. what is resulting is an utter lack of satisfaction; for how can anyone savor the moment if they are not allowed to stop and reflect on it? if it is expected for people to keep moving, keep busy, keep moving forward without stopping to appreciate the difference between being stationary and moving? the actions become the only thing present, while the reasons for these actions go unnoticed, uncared for, unimportant. at which point, what is an action worth if it is a mere mechanical reflex, a reaction to the previous action taken? every action is a formulaic and predictable ingredient resulting from what was done and what is striving to be achieved, and nothing more. what is the difference then between a human and a machine? have we transformed ourselves into the machines to which we have become so attached? 

people can know themselves better through reflections with others, but the purest self-discovery can only be done on your own, uninfluenced by anyone's tainted and inevitably biased opinions. even though it is true that to self-evaluate will only give one analysis on a makeup as complex as the personality, this analysis is what counts, as it is what you think of you. it is neither easy nor comfortable to delve into your self, to attempt to see your inside from the outside, but essentially is the only way truly progress, in whichever sense you take the word 'progress' to mean, as that progress is solely relevant to you. if somebody else does not have the same definition of progress, then that is for them to apply to their own character. our personality has been created by all the events in our lives that were unavoidable, granted, but we also play a large part in the moulding of our persona. it is we who choose, and the degree to which we choose in itself describes a lot about ourselves. 

 but if we keep drowning ourselves in gadgets and gizmos, and spend all of our time researching their purchase, purchasing, and following up on these gadgets, if we keep performing acts as mindlessly and emptily as 1,2,3, then we will not evolve in the true meaning of evolution. we will go forward without evolving, the wheels will keep turning with no advancement. which is why it is imperative to learn to appreciate one's own company; because unless you take the time to get to know yourself, then you can never really have anyone else know you thoroughly, as they will be knowing someone half-discovered, a person half blacked out. we can pretend all we want that these machines are bringing us closer together, but the truth is that until we can put these electronics aside for long enough to let us think about ourselves, then we will only be increasing the barriers between one another, and even more scarily, between getting to understand the real us.

Holiday Season

Well, it certainly was busy. After one mad month of exams, moving and many goodbyes to the wonderful people of Montreal, the 19th of December 2008 marked the end of my Canadian era. The separation sentiments were facilitated by the -30 degree weather. God bless those who are there for the coming winter. 

 I arrived in London on the 20th in the morning, to be greeted at Heathrow by Mr. Anderson himself, who kindly enough helped me stand upright under the luggage I was hauling. We stayed in London from that Saturday to the Tuesday, and it was simply incredible; from comedy acts, to ice-skating under the stars at the Natural History Museum, to champagne-filled evenings, to the numerous delicious restaurants, the days flew by on very little sleep. 

 On Christmas Eve day, I got my Eurostar to Brussels, of course seated in the car with a person who collapsed in the train and needed urgent medical attention; I predictably slept through the event, so I cannot give any further details. After spending a lovely afternoon with Paolucci Jr., I went to pick up Mr. Anderson, who arrived with a sack-full of gifts for the family (business got slow, so he went shopping instead). So Mr. Anderson met the Paoluccis,  and made quite the impression. Over the next couple of days, we ate to our heart's content (I think it was more like to over-content, as in too much content ingested), wandered the streets of Ixelles, Brussels and Antwerp, and basked in the holiday relaxation. Christmas scored me a backpack (Jo's response: 'So that's one bag for shoes, what will you take all the rest of your belongings in?'), and plenty of goodies, as well as one heap of a meal. 

 Back in London, life resumed to the busy social schedule. Mr. Anderson's friends are delightful, and a crazy night out at Modiva proved that they know how to party it up right as well. Very important qualifications. One highlight was a trip out to Richmond Park, where we rented bicycles and rode around to photograph the deer that reside in the park and that are so domesticated that they virtually pose for the photos. A final night at Ronnie Scott's, the infamous jazz joint, was the cherry on the cake to a friggin' great sejour in London under the Anderson supervision. 

 Next stop: Monaco. Spiced up with the fact that upon all car rentals being unavailable, Alex needed to learn to drive manual. On my father's car. On the wrong side of the road. In the rain. With French drivers. On French mountain roads. All considering, he performed incredibly, only stalling a couple of handful of times, and only once on the motorway (such a star!). The first night, we headed to Ventimiglia and then San Remo for some killer pizza. On our way back, however, we encountered the worst fog on the highway that I have ever seen down there, leaving us with absolutely zero visibility on highways that are hundreds of feet off the ground. Provided much reason to toast to a lot of champagne by the time we got home. On New Year's Day, the sun shone through, and a quick trip down to the beach turned into hours at the beach cafe, lounging and watching the paragliders land their colorful chutes against that perfect blue Cote d'Azue sky. Beautiful. A quick trip to Monaco allowed Andersano to drive the F1 track, which gave a good surge to his testosterone levels. The following day, our last, was spent pretty much in the car, driving up, up, up to the ski resort of Limone, where we snacked and walked the alleys of the tiny town. 

 The following morning, due to the extra early wake up call, I managed to realize as I was checking in at the very last minute that I had forgotten my passports at the house. Brava. Sergio was immensely kind enough to fly down the next day to fetch them. Oops.

 The last couple of days in Brussels were filled with running around, finishing up details, packing, and cleaning up the family fridges. After the usual long trip to Breckenridge, which includes two flights and a long, long van ride into the mountain range, here I am. I am currently unemployed, but will find something eventually, be it teaching French or Italian, or lift operating. It is absolutely dumping snow today, and since I did find a pair of skis for $125 today, I may make an investment... We will see! For now, all I know is that I have enough cash to get by for a while, but need a job to be saving some greenbacks for S.Am. 

 Signing off for now,

 Juj