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      ‎~ is for ∞ for ♥ 

                                      for Lenka!

J'parle pas French

September, 10, 2011. Lyon Perrache train station, 8 am.

AG is travelling back home after an amazing roadtrip through France, ended with a most-of-the-night-long party. She gets off the train and heads towards the bus station to embark upon a 48-hour journey to her hometown in Romania. Waits in line to place her backpack in the bus trunk. The action is, of course, disorganized, bureaucratic and slow. Bare necessities strike AG, together with a slight awe at the amount of weirdoes around, waiting to get on the same bus as her.

About 10 minutes later, she has placed her backpack and still has 15 minutes left. She rushes to the restroom hoping to flush away both needs and fears. But life is not for free, there is an entrance fee of 50 cents. For half-reasonable reasons, AG only carries 20 cents in cash. She runs to an ATM to get some money. Finds only one, which is being assaulted by a literally retarded man. Necessities strike harder, this time accompanied by a slight frustration for the humans’ powerlessness towards genetic failures. After a forever of 5 minutes the guy finally leaves. AG jumps to the ATM. But luck is tough, her account has insufficient funds. Shouldn’t have bought those sunglasses!!!!

However, AG comes back to senses, remembers that the only way to go is forward, physiology supports her philosophy, and AG is AG for a reason, so she goes to the restroom anyway. She starts explaining her horrible condition to the woman at the entrance. She gives her best in French but it doesn’t work. And she didn’t even mention words such as “Roumanie” or “roumain”. She then follows her foreign friends’ advice regarding best practice when abroad and in need of a favour. “Sorry, I don’t really speak French”, and counts on body language. It works, the poor guard gives in. After all, 30 cents is not that much compared to the agony of listening to this desperate alien.

Happy and thankful for the humans’ kindness towards those in need, AG runs back to the bus. On her way she passes by other weirdoes plus 3 armed soldiers who patrol the station. She gets on the bus and manages to sit next to the only young and harmless-looking person in there. “Is this seat taken?” asks she, in Romanian. “Sorry, I don’t speak French”, he replies.

Don’t worry, it happens to all of us.

The List

I'm not at all a constant blogger but I'm trying to:)
No idea whether this is a good intention but sometimes I just feel like writing nonsense so I just opened this blog. Without promising anything, it's just a "Maybe", a continuous surprise.

These days I've been talking to some friends of mine about The List. It has to be treated as something more important than Schindler's list, so that it doesn't turn into a Bucket list. It contains the 100 To-Do things in life. I have made small lists with what I want to do several times, but they were always quite short-term and too demanding so that I ended up somewhat frustrated because I did not manage to reach my goals. This one should be different. Because it has lifelong span, it's not pressing and it's honest....

I'm just thinking of my number one.

Moods

How about just smoking a cigarette and watching the smoke curling up? To the right, to the left, gliding into curves that melt one into another, tangled, then straight, bent, then round again, mildly twisting with and against each other to subtly dissolve into the ether.

No 'before' and ignoring the 'after', only slowly, gently, tenderly…caressing alternately the cigarette, then the glass of red wine, then…

From time to time I remember to open my eyes to see my dreams coming true

A few days ago I was walking through Aarhus, alone and with my bike. It was the first time I saw the city on a Sunday mid-day and it seemed magic. I can’t explain exactly why, but I had that feeling of coming-spring, a good superstition about something great about to happen, be it merely a gorgeous flower about to burst into bloom, a beautiful child about to be born, or maybe the sun about to show up after such a large skipping…it was all that emotion and joy that the butterflies in your stomach give you, that make you melty, cheesy, creamy, warm, no matter how North you roam and how hard the wind blows going up on Viborgvej.

The seagulls choiring with the cathedral’s bells to announce the middle of the day, the couple cycling hand in hand, the bearded man savouring a shaworma, the sexy Danish girls wearing tights looking more humane than ever, the father walking his three angel-looking children or the one carrying his young boy on his tall shoulders, the woman wearing red-and blue moccasins and looking so hippie that she almost didn’t seem Danish. The small pebbled streets with narrow entrances and low roofs, the fairytale street with colourful houses, where you don’t know from which door to expect Hansel and Gretel coming out chewing gingerbread, the seven stones in Molleparken that have something from Stonehenge. And the list could go on and on with beautiful things that I usually don’t see on the days when I like to believe that I do important activities and that there’s no time. What a waste I can be sometimes!

I will let you discover the small street. It is colourful and lively during daytime, mysterious in a childish way at night. And you can be sure that there’s no witch hiding inside the candy houses, because the windows are clear and with no curtains. So small, yet so open and warm, they’ll almost fool you into believing that Denmark is like this.