Le temps court, plutôt...

Time is just running away. It's not that I need it to slow down or change direction, I'm just surprised at its stamina of late. I'm not a friend of numbers so I'm not going to start counting how many weeks we've been in Lyon, but I do know that we've paid two months' rent so far, which seems absolutely absurd seeing as we don't even have a vacuum cleaner yet, and I still get lost around campus. (Seriously though, there is something shady about the architecture of that place. Every single time I come at a door or a corridor from a new angle or direction I get confused and lose it.)

I feel blessed to already have met a lot of warmhearted people here. It helps me miss my homegirls, homeboys and inamorato less - although these are all of course tremendously irreplaceable. Missing your loved ones gives me such an achy breaky heart, it's such an inescapable feeling, and can be so overwhelming. Recent events, and their accompanying reflections, have caused a (however small and perhaps wholly mental) shift in me...from having been perhaps overly confident of my independence, and narrowmindedly driven by my own goals and dreams and ideas, I've started to realize how much it matters to me to be more than emotionally close to those that are close to my heart.

The day we had to be ashamed of being Swedish

The Swedish general elections on Sunday left us very shocked, with tears in our eyes and lumps in our guts. Despite the European trends, despite the financial crisis and the ignorant need for scapegoats, having a extreme right party voted into government, was, for me and for most others, very unexpected. It's so incredibly shameful and hurtful that a significant amount of people from my country has cast a vote for a backward thinking, hostile, ignorant and ludicrous party.

Mentally exhausted from having gone over and over how this could have happened, and how to deal with the situation, one thing strikes me. Listening to Akesson speak, I find him not only rhetorically challenged, I am equally astonished by how he manages to get away with being wrong most of the time. His successful misleading of people - quoting distorted statistics, drawing false conclusions based on incorrect assumptions -  can be done because his party has been partly stigmatized and treated as the undemocratic party they are. The reluctance to approach the Sweden Democrats is 100% understandable, but I can't help to think it's very dangerous because it gives them the opportunity to present themselves as martyrs. A politics of discontent works for people who are angry with their situation, who don't sympathize with the other parties, who hear the latter criticize the Sweden Democrats.

Now when they are in government, giving them the silent treatment isn't democratic, isn't really possible, and I am not convinced it is the best strategy. Surely, when so many of us are convinced their politics is bullshit, exposure is what is most dangerous to them?

Yesterday Maja and I spent a sunny afternoon sitting by the riverbank, and some guys who were sitting a few metres away started chatting to us. Having spotted the hair colour they asked if we were Swedish, and when we confirmed they retorted: 'the country of the extreme right'. Having had a good reputation abroad, it inevitably and unsurprisingly seems we're going to be met by less positive responses from now on...

How we just talk out of our asses all the time

One of the biggest mysteries my mind has tried to crack since I got out of the stroller and into school is the question of whether everyone else is really as smart as they appear to be. I am still waiting for that day when everyone just admits that they don't really understand what an isotope is either, and that they're don't quite sure how stock market exchanges work. I spent my first year at uni secretly terrified that someone would find out I wasn't smart, and learnt to hide my secret by talking out of my ass all the time. And then it hit me. What if that's what everyone does? Maybe everyone else just seems informed about every angle of everything, but really they're just taking making an educated guess, wrapping it in beautiful and long words, and sound believable. Few people I know hesitate and say that they don't know or aren't sure, most people just talk out of their ass.

I was told in middle school by my home room teacher that I was too modest about what I knew and was capable of, and wonder sometimes if I still underestimate myself a little bit. My reality, though, is that I am quite convinced of the opposite: I definitely overestimate my own abilities. Whether we're talking driving, applying for jobs or playing sports, deep inside I actually think I'm a little bit better than I am.

Now a quick word on opinions, seeing as election day is approaching and I've had to cast my vote two weeks in advance. I've never not had opinions (to no one's surprise), but I've generally always showed a great deal of respect for the opinions of people I find generally intelligent and thought-through. It's not because I am not confident in my opinions, it's rather that I have quite a strong belief in other people and realize that they - just as I and those that think like me - have reflected, and gone over, and concluded. I thus find it perplexing to reconcile the two ideas: opinions that I don't agree with, with intelligent and likeable people that I respect. It's a lot easier for the mind if bad people disagree with you, and good people think what you think.

On the other hand, it is incredibly valuable to exchange opinions and viewpoints; it's really a win-win situation. If you end up changing your opinions, having been enlightened, then you've won. If you end up having refuted the opposing opinions with even more vigor than before, then you've reinforced your beliefs, put your ideas to the test, and you've won. I've spent the last few weeks surrounded mostly by very wise people, and that's pretty much what I've learnt.

If I ruled the world...

...there wouldn't be dough in my hair when I left work...
...clothes would fold themselves...
...I would be allowed to play dancehall at work...
...it would be forbidden to make pretty deceptive heels that hurt after an hour...
...alarms would ring when you've set them...
...it would be so easy to find accommodation in Lyon you wouldn't have to even give it a second thought...
...parents would inform you when they make plans that involve you or your time...
...haircuts would be reversible...
...travel by Floo powder would work outside the realm of Harry's world...
...no one would sweat, especially short people who use public transportation and need to reach far to be able to hold on...
... no one would call it princessy behaviour to not like eating cardboard bread...
...TV would only show Americas Next Top Model, Sex and the City, Modern Family and Friends...(no one would have ever thought of producing the show 24, or of giving birth to Keifer Sutherland...)
...Jason Derulo would actually be able to sing falsetto...


Yeah, those are just a few things I'm working on.

(Excuse my French, but I had to write it backwards...)

Questions I would ask potential flatmates

It isn't easy finding the perfect flatmate, especially if you are venturing to live with someone you don't already know. But it isn't rocket science either. Despite being an outrageously patient, uncompromisingly compromising and pedantically tidy young lady I have had some interesting experiences in flat sharing and so have thought about how I would interview a person willing to move in with me. I would ask the following questions (with the following intentions).

• Do you generally close kitchen cupboard doors? (Because I tend not to and it annoys some people.)
• What is your favorite cheese? (Because chevre really isn't that good a steal to go with the end of the month pasta.)
• Do you know where bathroom fluff comes from? (Because I don't.)
• Do you like brussel sprouts? (Because I really do and I want them to myself.)
• Do you tend to be aware of how much shampoo there is left in the bottle? (Because I wash my hair a lot and sometimes you just run out, man.)
• Do you think having a cleaning schedule is the best idea in the world? (Because then we really aren't compatible.)
• Do you post little notes on my door even to say unimportant things? (Because that's my favourite form of communication.)
• Are you sensitive in the morning? (Because I've been told I can be scary in the morning...I assumed then it referred to my mood and behavior but realize now it could have been referring to the state of my face at this charming time of the day.)
• Do you knock again if a person doesn't open the door the first time? (Because I hear knocks, that's not it.)
• Do you know how to build IKEA furniture? (Because I'm not a real Swede.)
• Do you enjoy it when other people share their music with you through walls, floors and doors? (Because I'm quite one-way on that one.

 What a bunch of angels.

Where milk isn't really milk

My boyfriend told me to buy cereal because I've been bad at breakfast lately, and even though I said they have weird milk here I went ahead and did it. Erroooor.

First of all, having milk at all is a huge step for me. When I was young my parents tried to bribe me into drinking milk and because I since the age of zero have had an aptitude for feeding my consumerism, I should have been an easy target. I could never do it, I used to say it tastes and smells like liquid chalk. Today I'm not quite sure what that means. Anyway. During a moment of bravery a few months ago I reasoned with myself and figured that if the milk gets to hang around in the bowl with chocolate cereal willing to let go of their colour (an MJ joke would be so good here but what I really mean is RIP), maybe we could work something out. And so I found myself eating cereal with brown milk, all was frid and frojd.

The milk I bought today from the Belgian supermarket looked fine. It was white, came in a plastic bottle with a blew screw cap, nothing mysterious there. When I opened it, my nose that is innately and necessarily skeptical to all things dairy reacted immediately. It really must be a bad sign when milk smells like cheese. Only cheese should smell like cheese. I wasn't comforted by reading that its expiry date is in September.

So now I'm stuck with a shiteload of cereal that I can't eat and will most likely continue to be sleeping past breakfast.

I'm hot, you're not

I'd like to know why there are certain things that we are not really allowed to like, that we are supposed to be almost embarrassed about liking. Let's take music to be our supportive example, because it doesn't get more pretentious than in the hierarchy of music tastes.

Mind you don't get embarrassed now. Eurodisco. High school rock. Schlager. Country. Balkan beats. The majority of people (I'm all about generalizations) think these are very uncool genres to like. But essplain me whaaay?

Who says you can't be big and numble?

Like sand through the hourglass...

...so is watching nail polish dry. Typing very very carefully so as to not damage the finish (on second place comes: so as not get orange nail polish on computer) is a bit frustrating as well. I also am not sure if my lungs will ever recover from all the acetone fumes I must have inhaled; I just left my room and when I came back in I was hit by an army of nail polish remover particles and I found myself gasping for breath, dramatically put.


Something else that caused some dramatic behaviour from myself (and continues to do so on a daily basis as the sun comes out to play) was when I realized my beloved sunglasses broke the other day.

 

They call this phase denial...

Because the truth hurts

Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the most photoshopped of them all?

Cigarettes and strawberries

This whole thing about unethical advertising isn't something that has really bothered me before; sex sells, ok that's maybe inappropriate, but what are you going to do about it. Then, today, on my way home from work, I actually found myself on the verge of being a little annoyed about two ads I saw in the metro.

The first one was a typical Brusselite ad for an technical employment related conference/fair. In the right hand corner of the poster there was a little box explaining that even women were eligible for these kinds of jobs, so they should "venez nombreuses" to the fair. Even women, as if to say that women generally constitute an untalented and unwanted labour pool that no one wants to employ. Even women, kind of like saying even aliens. Am I reading to much into this?  

The other ad was for Pall Mall cigarettes, and the slogan read: "Pall Mall: Makes life taste better". First of all, isn't that Sainsbury's slogan? Also: really?! People know smoking is bad, people know smoking doesn't taste 'good' (we're talking the strawberry kind of good), people don't smoke because it tastes like strawberries...I am so tempted to go buy myself a big fat marker and put "Pall Mall: Makes life smell worse."

Mmmm.

Not even a penny for these thoughts

What kind of food store has 50 types of crisps but doesn't sell potatoes?

I love the smell of clean laundry.

I am so lazy about some things it's disgraceful.  I honestly think it's bothersome to do things like charge my phone and pick up clothes that fall by themselves on the ground.

If I freeride on the metro when my monthly pass runs out, what should I say when I get caught?

Why is it so difficult to remember things?

Why do bad things happen to good people? Who do the prettiest people do the ugliest things?

No matter how many times I rearrange the furniture in my room this bed will never be comfortable.

I already know that I'm not going to make it in for 9 am tomorrow. I don't think an absence of pressure is good for me. Nor is an absence of presence.

Is there a maximum number of times you are allowed to brush your teeth per day?

My gums hurt.

I'm not your toy

At the moment I'm looking for what we in Sweden call a "sladdjavel" to be able to put the video of Sara doing her vocal exercises online. I'm keeping my calm by listening to La Roux, I had forgotten how much I like her weird music. Listening to her "I'm not your toy" has got me thinking about something that struck me in meeting and trying to impress new people during the business conference last week.

I really am going to try to never never (forever ever? forever ever) play my femininity as a strategic card again. On the one adamantly waving hand I'd like to think we don't have to care about these things; we all portray and present ourselves as we want to, there shouldn't be and do's and don'ts. But, with the intention to generalize, I just can't help thinking men are so primitive sometimes. It makes me angry with myself that I know the President of company blablabla will take the time to talk to me if I send the signal that I am a pleasant and attractive female. It doesn't necessarily nullify my intelligence, but it pushes it down to an ill-deserved second place. If I hate feeling objectified, I certainly have to stop objectifying myself when it suits my momentary interest. Whilst I think we do it because we know it works and it is very empowering, it really isn't intelligent in the long run.  

I'll hit myself hard the next time I catch myself flipping my hair or smiling like I was in a toothpaste ad to charmingly catch the attention of someone. Why would I go out of my way to exhibit my physical attributes when I want to be valued for my mental ones? No, this time baby, I'll be bulletproof.

Naughty in the office

I'm all alone in the office right now. I wish our work environment was less relaxed so I could take more advantage of the situation. I'm listening to "Det Loser Sej" and being a bit of a rebel in the feet department now:

Annu en gång står vi inför samma gamla problem som vanligt.
Dom ofantligt stora och dom pyttesmå, och jag vet som vanligt inte hur vi ska lösa
eller komma över dom här sakerna som står emellan oss och total lycka.
Men vad jag tror är att om vi skiter i det och inte gör ett piss
så kommer nog tiden att lösa hela grejen, för tiden har en sån magisk effekt på oss.
Mañana mañana, eller manana manana som vi säger.
Skjut på det, skjut på det, skjut på det!

It's so hard when you're shallow as a shower

Tomorrow's the big day: the team will pull on their most business-looking outfits and go network at the European Business Summit. I'm not nervous about succeeding in delivering the elevator pitch or about doing well in the national sport of business card collecting. I'd say I'm just excited. Remember the guidelines: out of the approximate 55 seconds, you mustn't talk for more than 30; you must smile; your verbal communication only accounts for 20% of the judgment the person in front of you will make about you - whom you, under all circumstances, must appear to be interested in, even if they are in the toothbrush business. Ask interesting questions, don't forget to shave (I'm pretty sure that was for the boys mainly) and listen to the person you are pitching to.

To be honest I'm just working on my smile, I think I've got those other little details covered. Looking excited and interested enough for you?

This is how exciting I think your job is

Killing them softly

I have a really bad habit of murdering some of my favourite songs by listening to them on repeat for days on end. I know how it goes; I tell myself that this time it's going to be different, this song is not like all the other songs. This one is worth it.

So I listen to it about 300 times, and then, like a hormonal pregnant woman, I turn completely. I lose interest. I know every guitar pluck, every beat, I could write out the words because they are forever imprinted on the inside of my cranium, but what I used to be able to sing along to tirelessly is now just a few too many bars of annoying whining and predictable melody.

This week's victim is 'Billionaire' by Travie McCoy and Bruno Mars (especially the acoustic version)...I fear next week when my ears will bleed at the sound of it.

Machismo shmamismo

It's 26 degrees in Brussels, 32 on my seat and 100 in my fifteenth cup of tea. I've learnt something I've always known today: always listen to women. Little office anecdote coming up: we went on an excursion in Corinne's car to buy a printer today (necessarily a group activity, it takes five baby, you know how the song goes), and whilst the boys thought it wouldn't be a problem taking the shop trolley down in the elevator, us women thought that maybe the rows and rows of trolleys left on floor 3 indicated something. But no, don't be silly, come on now, let's just do this - it was a flashback to the millions of situations I've experienced where my father/brother/male friend/boyfriend feel the need to engage in divergent behaviour and do things their own way (also known as "the way things should be done", "the right way", "the logical way") as opposed to doing what everybody else is doing.

I don't really care as much if the person who decides to acts anti-socially only forces themselves to do so; the Swedish motto "var och en far skammas for sig" (excellently interpreted as 'people should only be ashamed of themselves and not others') (yes, in fact, thanks for asking, I am looking to become an interpreter when I grow up) sums it up well. But when other people have to deal with the consequences of the adamant and foolish ideas of men, well that's just annoying. (YES of course the trolley had to be brought up to the third floor again as we were not so kindly reminded by a shop attendant).

I can think of a few examples:

ONE:

Dad: Oh come on Maria just park here for God's sake, I'm just going to put this letter in the mailbox!

HONKHONKHONKTUTTUTTUTTUTm3rc!!£4%6Move your car bitch!HONKHONK

TWO:

Dad: Guys the queue to the ski lift is really long, let's just walk down, I promise it'll be quicker. 

Family: Moan moan moan, no, that's a bad idea.

Dad: Well I'm the dad so let's go.

Four hours later: Us children are doing less skipping and more sulking. Everyone is hungry. Dad's knees hurt so he's walking backwards downhill. Mom's feet are so swollen that the ants are getting down the hill faster than her. We all want to say the magic words 'We told you so' but we know what's good for us.

Va mourir machismo.

Espece-de-con-de-réveil-qui-ne-réveille-pas

The week could have started better than me waking up at ten minutes to now-you're-seriously-frickin-late-time. Thankfully life isn't always so snotty; the sun has come out and my colleague brought birthday fika to work, so I'm chirpy.

I can't help but still be on holiday mode after the beautimous three-day weekend though. The novelty of being a Brussels intern is starting to wear off, and after a coffee break discussion about how problematic it is that unpaid work is so widespread and exploited I'm feeling a little less ambitious. Pourtant this job is fun, my colleagues are excellent and I can update myself on world news check my Facebook three thousand times a day.

We just saw the results of the Portugal - Korea DPR game:

- Oh, that would have been a fun game to watch!
- Unless you're North Korean.

Won't you take me to your heaven, to your heart

Today has been a musical rollercoaster; I got tired of Drake and am now on Swedish schlager...I really hope nobody pulls out my headphones and exposes my shocking Thursday afternoon playlist to the whole office.

Wee-oh-wee-oh-wee

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Benjiday, Birthday, Parisday! Can barely contain my excitement, I'm finding it difficult to sit and be quiet and do my work. This jitteriness could also have something to do with my excessive tea intake today. Work is going a little slowly because I'm feeling a little low on creativity...(turns out tea is not the answer). Spotify (which I now have to pay for because Belgium is retarded) and l'abeille on Skype are also kind of distracting.

http://open.spotify.com/track/4VCbaWCN4WTOkT71e4C8kU

Desperate Holmblad

Why does life punish you when you're trying to be good and do housewifey things? For example, why did I mend the hole in my jumpsuit without turning it inside-out so that it now looks like its been attacked by a nursery child with sartorial ambitions? And why does it take me two hours to realize that the washing machine is sounding like it's sposed to and spinning like it's sposed to but there's no water mixing in with my clothes? Why, in fact, is there no water?! I'm so not meant for these things.

We all scream for ice cream

The sun is shining in through Caterina's panoramic living room and the ice cream van is playing its melody outside my window. Funny how even though we're on the seventh floor I can still hear that repetitive dingelingeling as if though the van was on my balcony. Or in my ear. If it weren't for the fact that our freezer compartment is tiny I would skip down and buy all that man's ice cream right now.

Ah, there we go. The melody is fading, he's gone to make some other neighbourhood happy.

Today has been a very good day at work, partly because it has involved very little working. Baden Baden and I got reinforcement on Monday, I present to you colleagues Luxembourgian Corinne and Italian Simone. We all had a lush picnic in the forest today, and may or may not have spent two hours out of the office, basking in the sun and eating strawberries. Upon cruising back into Silversquare we found out that our new office was ready for us, so we took a large portion of the afternoon moving all of our selves the 200 meters, and an even larger portion chatting to our new office buddies (one of whom works with trading milk products and has a great porcelain cow on his desk!) , re-arranging furniture, figuring out how the coffee machine works, testing the elevators, complaining about the air conditioning,  and just generally settling in. It's very important to feel comfortable in your working environment.

Seeing as today wasn't the most productive of days, and that I have gotten Friday off to go to Paris with my boy, I am going to dig into some work now whilst sitting in this uncomfortable arm chair in which I don't fit.

Paris je t'aime

Come all ye endorphins

I think I experienced a runners high! Or the amateur version of that. It was amazing, I felt like I could have ran forever and ever. But then I got tired, thankfully. May never have made it home otherwise. Feel like my body is out of endorphins, a little like this right now:

Definitely gave the old muscles a run for their money. Now that I'm aging I have to try my best to keep the old temple in shape.

Caterina has on two occasions this past week accused me of not being a real woman, I'm starting to wonder if I should take her seriously. But then again no, because, the first occasion was when I was ready to leave for work on time, and she said that because I was always on time I'm not a real woman. I know I'm not Italian, and I don't know how it happened, but that is seriously the first time I haven't been late in a decade. Please indicate if you think otherwise in a comment below. Secondly, she said I am not a woman but a machine when I came in from tonight's run. I'll chose to take that as a compliment, and not dwell on this further. 

I promised I'd be on time for work tomorrow, and because we are having a Skype conference at 9, it will be hideously obvious if I'm not there, even for those parties who are on the other end of the line. So I better get cracking. Gooooooood night.

I'm really too young to be feeling this old

My boss is a dude. He gave me Friday off pretty much on the basis of that it's my birthday.

Speaking of birthday, I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for this one. Being 21 when you feel 19 is alright, but not 22! Reminds me of this song:

This is the closest thing to crazy I have ever been
Feeling twenty-two, acting seventeen,
This is the nearest thing to crazy I have ever known,
I was never crazy on my own…
And now I know that there's a link between the two,
Being close to craziness and being close to you. 

I've just slipped into my running gear so that I won't get lazy and not go for my run when I've had my dinner, watched an episode of Modern Family (which for the record deserves and shall get a post of its own, GENIOUS!), let the sun set, laid on my bed for a bit too long...After the monstrous bike ride yesterday (...monstrous in the good sense of the word...!) I'm sure it will feel great.

Dirt off my office shoulder

Sitting at my desk feeling particularly important this afternoon. Just finished a press release, had some chai tea, going to attempt to complete the survey report in a second. Now I have to brief myself on the European Business Summit panel discussion we'll be holding at the end of the month, and probably write another press release. Exciting and life changing things like that going on at Silversquare this afternoon. 

I JUST WANT TO GO HOME. 

Strikingly Morroccan amongst a sea of Italians this weekend at Belgo Belge.

My name is not va fanculo

Good morning! It's still OK to say that if you haven't had breakfast yet, even though its past one o'clock. A few episodes of Cougar Town and the fact that I only have haricots verts in the house made that happen. Now, however, I need to change gear and find some kind of bike-friendly outfit as I am about to head out on a cycle adventure with my flattie and her boyfriend. Considering the vehicle involvement in this story a third wheel joke would be in order, but let's not be pathetic. 

Last night, after having spent a delightful day in the sun (and a good 26 minutes at the Palais des Beaux Arts) I went out to dinner with a bunch of Italian people with the aim of having real Belgian food. You could say that having bangers and mash - alternatively korv med mos - doesn't sound particularly exotic or necessarily specifically Belgian, but apparently it is. And it was really nice! We had a waiter who claimed he was Swedish, Caterina's boyfriend told him I was Moroccan, and the jokes kind of just escalated from there. We met some people with hilarious accents from Quebec and rolled home just after midnight and secured yet another good nights sleep. 

This morning Caterina was trying to do something on her computer and was getting a bit frustrated and yelled 'va fanculo', and as I was in the kitchen I yelled back wondering if she was talking to me. 'Your name is not va fanculo', she said.

Saturday morning, and who's gonna play with me?

After an all-nighter with my l'ame soeur on Skype I fell asleep around that wonderful time of day when the sky finds itself torn between darkness and light, and the birds are just starting to get chirpy. It's that time before they sound like they're on speed, before the garbage truck feels the need to go up and reverse down your street four thousand times and before you feel like it's actually morning and you've lost your shot at sleeping. Falling asleep at that time doesn't have you waking up feeling like you've been hit by a bus, but like you've finally been served the day you've been waiting for all week!

 kän käläng kän kän pti siiiiien

Pop pop pop that thing

The good thing about living in Belgium is that it is way higher up on drop-down lists where you have to fill in your country of residence than both Sweden and the UK. Also, there are no mice in the metro. People speak French but are not French, I like that. (Je plaisaaaante, bisous a vous tous!) I'm not saying the list ends there; Brussels is beautiful and it's only rained on 5 out of 9 days, that's not too bad...

But right now most things I want, can't stop thinking about, and love, let's face it, are not in Belgium with me. I'd totally trade waffles for my Archway flatmates - I don't like either at breakfast but would love both at a later and less cranky time of the day. That isn't to say that my current flattie isn't eeeeexcellent, because she is. Her name is Caterina, she works for the Vatican and is of course Italian. She is one of the most genuinely kind people I've ever met, so I feel very lucky to be housing with her. Living with her is slowly but surely teaching me Italian; one word I'm definitely down with is 'aspetta', which means 'wait'.

Because I've spent all day figuring out how to make logical links between sections in a report we are trying to write at work I'm going to make a completely illogical one now and go on to explain that I'm not sure why I'm starting this blog. A part of me wants to think it's because I suddenly find myself a little more lonely than usual (the tiny violin-playing part) and another that I am too lazy to write by hand in my pink purchased-for-a-purpose diary (the same part that just realized I am uncomfortable here on my bed and need another pillow but am too paresseuse to go get one so I made my hair into a bun and laid on it in the hope of becoming Americas Next Top Model that it would provide some cushioning). Either way, I am hereby making a commitment (because these days we don't have have to keep them) to write in it until I move back to London in 2011 so that all the people I directly forget to write to while I'm hors Angleterre can feel indirectly addressed via this here. 

It's now getting to that time of day when my eyes that have turned square from too many hours in front of an office computer screen are also starting to black out certain parts of my vision. I think that means bedtime. Expect great things from Le temps danse. Ask me where I got the name from. Expect office gossip about Baden Baden and the marginally friendly receptionist with great shoes. Expect reports from Yaoundé which unbelievably enough is only 19 + 24 (whatever that is) days away. Expect many a posts tainted by love-sickness about a Benji who lies over the ocean. Expect Miss Maja Helena Jazzee Nordstrom to be guestblogging from Lyon and Miss Sara Sir Vas Edvinsson to be distance blogging from the other side of France in order to reunite L'equipe suedoise (also known as the blog that DIED).

This one will not die. I have killed cacti in my days but am determined to let this one live. So cheers! La quercia solitaria aspetta la notte - The lonely oak waits for the night.