With the start of march, away went...

- an anniversary not worth remembering but that I will not allow myself to forget. And with that, thoughts of revenge. I have already had it. Revenge is underrated though.

- personal pride and stubbornness. In favor of making things work out for the best. I think I am growing. And my staff with me.

- yet another anniversary, that I have promised not to blog about. I didn't. But I felt it passing.

- filters. I seem to be getting tougher. Like an onion stripped layer by layer, we merely become more what we already are. My eyes water, but I think I like this scent.

I gamle dage 6 måneder hvor hyppigt har i gennemstegt den næste aktiviteter?

Ok, I'm squiffy. On a Tuesday. So stab me.
I had a few drinks post-work with a friend and now here I am, innocently following a link on FB to answer user surveys*

*giggles*

*and my squiffy answers are just as surreal as *their* badly translated questions =)

Dreamscenario

I grew up in the countryside.
As in a place with < 2000 inhabitants.
Our house was the last house (on our side of the road ) before the fields meet the forest at the horizon. In front of the house were more fields and a long winding gravel "road" known as "hundevejen", where people would walk their dogs.
"Hundevejen" was also our playground. I remember bike-racing there, parking the bikes at the side of the road to stop at a little bunker, where we whispered in hushed voices about dead men coming back to haunt the place. The bunker was basically just a concrete cube with no lid, always filled with black, stagnant water, but it was easy to imagine drowning there and pretending to see white bones poking out of the water. I can't remember what games we played but I remember lowering myself into the concrete hole once, heart hammering.
I think it was a dare.
Anyway; I'm digressing here.

Thing is.
I remember the feeling of this "Hundevej". I don't remember exactly what games we played (and surely kids need no design of a game to play) - but it seems we spent a lot of time there. And this place often shows up in my dreams. I dream a lot, and often while I dream, I will remember other dreams I had totally forgotten about, as if my inner dream universe goes on without me, until I get back in.

My dreams are so real, that I almost cannot tell the difference between what I remember from my childhood, and what I have dreamed happened. I know for example that I once spent 3 days in a little clearing along that road, in what started as a picnic, and ended up as a 3-day hostage situation, where I could not move from that clearing, and my friends had to bring me more water and food, me sitting there like a little princess waiting for who-knows-what-ransom.
I know I dreamt that one =), but it feels so real and I think we might have made a picnic there once, and that the memory only surface in my dreams.

One of my first nightmares also took place there. A recurring nightmare, one that I would forget about until I had it again, many times throughout the years.

I find it fascinating how we can totally forget things and then a scent, a sound or a dream might trigger something and open up a whole new universe of memory.

I would like one day to go back there, take a walk down Hundevejen, Memory Lane and see what else (if anything) I remember.

The Fall

What's up with The Fall ????
Referring to Norah Jones' latest album here, not Tarsem Singhs' brilliant visual orgasm of a masterpiece movie.

I am so disappointed. Sounds like she has been put through the mainstream-synthpop-overproduced-alienating-dreamy-overfiltered-voice-machine.
What happened to her very personal, intimate sound ?
This album seems lifeless to me. And plain sad, at best, not her usual melancholic-quirky.
I miss her little intakes of breath and her very presence, it sounds like she's been cloned and polished to death.

Hell, I prefer her charming out-of-tune whistling to this.

Joy is 4:

Showering and getting kissed by rays of sunshine through hot-water-vapours.
Time slows down and looks the other way.

Two years ago

I was very much in love.
And the Valentines Day of two years ago, was the last one I spent as part of a couple. I looked for a blog-post of mine from that day, but it wasn't there. I did find a Love Letter from February 19th, addressed to the guy I was in love with, and initially, it surprised me. Not that I wrote the love letter, but that I *didn't* write about the Valentines Day he gave to me.
Thinking about it now, I know perfectly well why I didn't write about it.
Bear with me; here goes.

He flew to Italy from Denmark, carrying a hundred red roses and a bottle of champagne. He had booked a table in one of the fanciest restaurants of Florence and had the champagne poured and the roses brought, just as we sat down at our table. There was also musicians and everybody's eyes were on us, and the lucky girl that received such lavish attention from her man.

An American couple was taking our picture (he exchanged emails with them so that they might send the pictures), and the Italian restaurant-Mama that came out with my roses, whispered in my ear, how lucky I was and that he would surely marry me someday. After we sat down, toasted and tasted our champagne and the whole thing quieted a bit down, he produced a heart-shaped box full of tasty little chocolates.
All the while looking me deep in the eye and holding my hand.
We ate and drank my favorite foods and wines by candlelight and to the sound of languorous violins.

This true story might stop here, and I could leave you to go "ooooh and aaaw" over a guy that was this much in love. I was very much in love too, but this thing here needs confessing.
Because fact is; I hated every moment of it.
Judge me if you will, this is not something I am proud of; but.

I.Hated.Every.Moment.Of.It.*

I felt like a deer caught in headlights.
I felt as if I was on a stage, reciting the part of The Girl Who's Very Much in Love - but that this much pressure made me forget my lines and gestures.
This much expectation from everybody, from him peering into my eyes, just killed it all.

I love roses, champagne and chocolate.
Hell, I love a bit of romanticism.
But I get the creeps from long sessions of "we-can't-stop-staring-into-each-others-eyes-we're-so-in-love" and I get claustrophobia and a nervous itch from a he, that won't let go of my hand long enough for me to have a sip of wine.
I hate to walk in step, or maybe I just always seem to be the one correcting *my* step to his. I can fall asleep tightly wound around somebody (and love to) but sooner or later, during the night, I will turn my back to him and face the space in front of me.

So; we've established that I am an ungrateful, heartless bitch, and that I don't want all of the above.
But that's not true either.
Because I *do* want it.

I always look at the very-much-in-love-couples at the restaurant with a mixture of envy, longing and suspect. I long to be that much in love, to receive a kiss on each of my fingertips, to share a dessert, to look him in the eye for loooong, silent minutes. But I also find myself trying to guess if either one of them has an itch to up and run Forrester - trying to guess if I am the only one to find it too peachy to bear.

And I *have* been very much in love. I *have* sat there, staring into his eyes, receiving kisses to my hearts' content. But sooner or later I have always become itchy, and I always wonder if I'm the only one and if I'm just ungrateful.

I am not working tonight, but I will miss to see such a concentration of lovely couples at the restaurant.
Would love to try and single out the slightly twitchy girl in the corner, hand clenching his hand too hard, big smile plastered on her face and confusion in her eyes, and let her know with a glance that it is OK.
But maybe she's not there and I *am* a heartless bitch.

Here's a Happy Valentine to heartless bitches who will snicker at happy couples while secretly longing.
And here's a Happy Valentine to all of you happy, non-itchy, siamese-twin-joined-by-the-hip, lingering lovebirds out there.
I envy you, but apparently I don't have the wits to want what you have.

*And now Valentine Karma will ensure I never get romantic attention on February 14th again



UPDATE:
I received a one-word text after writing this post. "Cynic" it said.
I like to think that this is not really about cynicism. If you would like to buy me flowers and chocolate; by all means do, I love it. Don't do it because you think I expect it. I will spit on your flowers rather than have them because you think I want them. I  love to get lost in beautiful eyes and hold hands, but chances are, I will do it when it is least expected of me, and if the stage is set, lights are on and I find myself in what feels like a choreography, I will Up-and-do-a-Forrester.

.....

Somebody left flowers outside my door today. No card, no nothing. My karma can't be all that bad =).

Sunday

Haven't had a Sunday to myself for a long time now. Slow awakening in pink light through my curtains, sunshine and scent of coffee in my tiny kitchen, little green buds on all my plants, proof that they too, are thriving here.




Bikeride with favourite music in my ears, salty air, as I arrive at the ocean and ravishing hunger when I get back in. Cold white wine to hot, hot soup and crisp bacon. Movie on the couch and little catnap as movie fails to entertain me. Then more coffee and music as I shower; I'm off to hear jazz with friend later.

What a perfect specimen of a Sunday.
I am slowly, slowly relaxing again; building my little home.

It's one of those nights again.
And it is so clichè that it bores even me. But it seems that it takes one of these nights to make me sit down (because I can't sleep and have nothing else to do) and finally write something. I had loads of blog-material, loads of moments and stuff to write about, but I sort of got bored before I ever got to post it. It all seemed static noise or meaningless chatter.
Fact is, I haven't had time to sit down and write a meaningful post, or that it hasn't been important enough for me to do it. I am living and I am finding my feet again. My core again, actually, but I'll come back to that in another post.

I have moved twice since October and hopefully for the last time in a looooong time. I moved away from NV due to circumstances out of my control* the first time, and got a sublease in a wonderful place on Vesterbro. I actually had a piano and a chandelier for a month and a half. I wanted to get pictures taken of me in an evening dress, featuring a Martini and the Piano but I never got 'round to it.
I don't drink Martini either so it's probably for the best.
The second time, I moved out of necessity; sublease ran out. I found a very small apartment out of town-ish - a little gem of a place with a kitchen I immediately fell hopelessly in love with.
I still am. It is nothing grand but it is a safe haven for me and I love, love, love it.

I was nominated (wow, eh ?) 'restaurantchef' at work in November and while I have no faith in nominations nor titles, I actually spend my days making important-ish decisions for the restaurant and being bossy with the lazy Italians.
It's harder work than I thought it would be, but it is also funnier than I thought it would be.
Once in a while, when I am on my way to the restaurant, arms full of flowers and fresh bread I find myself disgustingly happy, knowing I'll get to work and find staff there, cleaning up, preparing the tables with immaculate tablecloths and crystal glasses. I know I can trust them.
I'll caress the keys to the restaurant and feel as satisfied as a mother. I will feed the hungry and feed them well =).
Funny because it's true. Simple as that.
I don't know for how long it will feel this good, but it always takes me by surprise. I might have had the worst, hardest week or a bad evening, but every day is new, we always get to try again, the slate is clean and we may try our best. Yet again. (Sorry, got carried away there).

And then there's family. My mum is very sick. She is getting better but ever so slowly, it is impossible to bear. Ironically her sickness has brought me closer to her and to my dad. Sad to say, and very clichè - but sometimes adversity do bring people together. I feel lucky that I am in Denmark now that she's sick, would have been terrible to sit far away in Italy now. She'll be fine, in her own good time.

I have made new friends; out of the blue. I don't know what happened; it seemed one moment I had no friends in Denmark and missed my Italian ones, next thing I know, I'm surrounded by people I care for and who cares for me. 
I don't have as much me-time as I would like to have, but that'll come. For now I am nesting in my little apartment, working way too much but looking forward to a good 6 days of vacation next week. Off to Madrid for 2 days with one of my best friends (he's Italian; granted) and then a few days of relax at home.
I am not doing much with my spare time; I am not drawing, photographing or cooking much, but I am singing a lot and discovering that I am not that bad either. 

This whole Denmark-adventure is nothing like I thought it would be, and the fickleness and generosity of life still blows my mind.
Me, the control freak, letting go, maybe learning to live a little looser, a little more creatively, am actually... happy-ish.
It surprises me.
Not that I am happy, but that I can just live it and not reflect, analyze, foresee, rationalize and try and shape things. They seem to happen nicely enough on their own as long as I trudge along.

I think this is a good start. Again.


*very elegant way of not spilling the beans on loser-flatmate who forgot to pass on the rent I (over) paid him, so we got thrown out.  Oooops. I spilled'em.

A few things I didn't need to know

..."You're actually surrounded by snakes, some people are just waiting for you to go down, but I know that's not gonna happen".

..."and they're so curious, they speculate as to why a woman like you doesn't have a boyfriend. They just don't understand who you are, don't think about it."

Well, I didn't. Until now.
It hurt though I didn't show it.

Probably also eased the hurt that I overheard him tell another waiter "she's got more coglioni than any man I know."

Guess that's what I get for having drinks with my co-workers and staying sober.


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Snippets of these days

- "So no kids, eh ? Hm. Probably you shouldn't even have a boyfriend."

-"You call me anytime. Middle of the night, whatever, you call me, 24/7".

-" You ought to watch yourself. Your mom's here now and your grandma was here before her. Probably runs in the family".

-"You sure you don't want to get married ? You cook really well too."

-"You're quite the snobby girl, aren't you? Probably think the sun shines out of your ass, don't you? "

-"It's quite easy to fall for you, your passion, enthusiasm and looks."

-"You're starting to scare me."

-"What's up, kitten ? Still landing on your feet ?"

-"Well, you aren't known as the most diplomatic person ever."

-"You're the best boss I ever had."

-"Come to the party, it's bound to be fun. It's Pimps and Hoes at (----insert fancy hotel----). You could be a wonderful Pimp, just come as you are."

Yoga

My first experience with yoga was a near-religious one. There is really no other words for it, though I am not religious at all.
It was one of those lazy early evenings at the beach in Italy - the waves were lapping softly against the shore, everything was coloured gold by the setting sun, the few people left on the beach were dark silhouettes against the sky, and everybody was speaking softly after a long, white-hot day under the sun. I was about to pack up my stuff and go home too, my friends had gone home a little while ago to get ready for the evening; I was still working in clubs back then.
I was just getting up, when the owner of the bar on the beach, a big curly-headed bear of a guy, Alessio, walked up to me and asked me if I wouldn't stay for the yoga. A small group of people did yoga on the beach once in a while, and they were just about to start. I told him I had never done yoga before, and he told me it didn't matter, he would guide me and I should just focus on my breathing and on feeling the flow of energy.

So I joined them.
I seemed to get the hang of it immediately, maybe because I have been working with my body for so many years, I am very conscious as to what's happening physically. I remember feeling the flow of my breath, a rhythm that soon set itself, in through the nose, out through the mouth. I copied the positions Alessio made, and he spoke out loud to tell us what kind of stretch we were doing; it seemed to me to be just another dance, what with the fluidity of the movements between poses and the grace of it all.
I couldn't close my eyes to concentrate more, but I remember that the golden light and that slight breeze didn't take away my concentration, it wasn't cluttering my focus, it seemed to be a natural setting to the whole thing.
I remember feeling heat spreading through my body, my breath getting deeper and slower and I seemed to be tingling all over with energy. Soon I wasn't thinking anymore, I was deeply concentrated on what I was feeling. It was effortless, it was as if I had been doing this forever, my concentration wasn't thought-related, it was as if I had no thoughts anymore, I had become all breath, senses, heat and energy.

We finished lying on our backs, eyes closed, to just breathe. I remember opening my eyes and watching the sky. Tingling all over, hot, hot, hot and breathing as deeply as if I was sleeping. I looked at the sky and the clouds were churning, moving against the sky; I had never seen anything like it, I had never felt anything like this, I felt like I was hallucinating, my senses seemed to be enhanced incredibly.
Alessio sat down next to me, softly touched my arm, and said "wow, you look like you felt this, eh ?" and I looked at him in awe. My vision seemed to have changed, the world seemed crisp around the edges, and more colourful. I was suddenly very aware of the breeze, the salty smell of the ocean, and the sand getting cooler under my body. I lay there for another twenty minutes or so; to get myself together, and then I went home.

I still don't know what happened. I have little pet theories, there's probably explanations to it, but it is not really important. What *is* important, is that I started doing yoga again.
I'll let you know =)

Mystery

I was right beside my boss when the restaurant phone rang today. Somebody wanted to know the name of the tall blond waiter with the too-tight ponytail. My boss gave me a confused look, and I heard him say "her name is (insert my real name)" before the someone on the other end of the phone, put it down.

And the plot thickens....

Thanks II

He came back.
Circles are closing themselves these days indeed.

I took a deep breath and told him that while I hadn't been ready to date when he asked for my number, it had been very important to me, it had made my day, but that I (for various reasons) hadn't had the balls to acknowledge his request. But thanks. He looked me straight in the eye and said "that's all right".

Felt good.

On another note. As of yesterday, I have been back in Denmark for a year now. We celebrated at work with bubbly and I plan to celebrate a lot more, away from work. Wish me happy-coming-back-to-D-day =).

Loop

I can feel it already as I am walking home, that wind, it is there again.
If I fall into this, I will stay awake all night, thinking in loops, doing nothing with this energy that I can't seem to get rid of, this sensitivity that I won't do without, but that sometimes drive me crazy. The same sensitivity that lets you live the good things this intensely, won't numb down when it comes to bad things, you can't have it and not live the good *and* the bad.

I need to relax. A lot of things are going on right now, work-wise, home-wise and family-wise. And sitting down now to linger on those things won't help me, I need to relax and let decisions take themselves, as they are wont to do. I was bored, now it seems life has thrown me more than I can handle. Sitting here thinking in loops won't help me out.

Will go to bed. And I *will* sleep.

Italy II

She had been reading when I walked by the living room, I was coming down from the rooftop terrace where I had been reading and enjoying the sun. I stopped to say hi, to exchange a few pleasantries and maybe to get to know her better. We had been tip-toeing around each other for a few days, in a very respectful and tender manner.
She; because she seems shy and a tiny bit intimidated
(his words; not mine); me, because I am curious and very respectful of what *they* have.
He; my ex, my first boyfriend in Italy, and (with time) one of my best friends, and her; the tall, dark Brazilian girl (she is actually a woman) with the soft manners and the curious eyes.

Now the living room was buzzing with smalltalk, Nix, his brother, the painter and the little mad bookbinder had all joined us.
She had been reading a childrens' book, written and illustrated by one of Nix's friends.
She was sitting there, impossibly long legs assembled in a lotus-like pose under her, book in her lap and hands gesturing to explain herself in Italian. She was beautiful, in a childlike way; long neck gracefully bending as she looked at us in turn over her glasses and spoke and smiled.

I zoned out of the smalltalk and wondered; as often; what it is we look for in love. She is probably everything opposite of me.
It seems we have very few things in common, it seems to me we couldn't be more different from each other.
And yet he fell in love with me once and is now very much (and very obviously) in love with her.

It set me wondering.
Because, while I always fell for a certain type of guy; very loud men, alpha-males, physically big and well-spoken, now I don't feel attracted to that type of guy anymore. It's not because I have had bad experiences (I have, but that's not the point) - I think I am changing with age.
I think that is the case with my friend too.
I see he's happy and I think they're good for each other.
It makes me believe there's hope for me out there too, no small feat =).

When he took me to the station early in the morning to catch the train to Milan, I asked him (out of the blue; it's fun, he can take it, and as an unspoken rule we never speak seriously about love. Not because we can't but because love is never to be taken seriously.)
"Is she the one? Is it luuuuuuuuurve ?"
He chuckled (I knew he would) and answered me something vague (I knew he would).
It was enough of an answer anyway.
He's a goner.

Restless III

I pretend to smell autumn in the air already, walking home from work, close to midnight. I know how to imagine something and trick my nose into smelling it. But there is no dark musky earth in the wind, there is no chill yet, the air is fresh but not cold, the rain is refreshing, not menacing and the leaves that have fallen and that cling to glass everywhere, are yet green, and have been blown off by the wind.

Yet I cannot convince myself.
I'm nostalgic and restless and the clouds are weirdly fluorescent as a sign of something that I cannot decode, as they are hurrying across the night sky. When did the sky get so dark as to show off twinkling stars like that ?

It's a full moon too, and I long for something I don't understand and cannot put into words.

Italy I

She looked at me with a very vulnerable stare. We were never close but we worked together in the same club as  for 4 or 5 years. She know me as a fun gal, always a bit too outrageous - a wild, but healthy girl as another girl put it - and as the always dancing firestarter.
I knew her as the quiet wholesome-pretty cashier, the long-time girlfriend of one of the PRs.
Now she looked the shadow of herself, dark circles round her eyes and shabby hair. Must have lost a few pounds as well.

I told my story of coming back to Denmark once again. About leaving an attractive job in the advertising business, about starting all over again after more than 15 years in Italy, about leaving, also to try my luck with a Danish boyfriend and about the baddest breakup ever. I made the story short (we were smalltalking in the ever-busy same club, after all) and as I said; we were never close at all, I choose whom I show my vulnerability to.
When I got to the part about breaking up, she got all soft in the eyes, and seemed to search for something in *my eyes*, I sensed something was coming.
I hesitated a bit and she picked up, it was as if something broke in her, and she let go; she had left T as well, a few months ago, after 7 years together. She was seeing a psychologist to try to atone for the guilt she felt, that even with a love like that it still wasn't enough for her. I felt she recognized herself in me, and clung to a hope to survive this pain she was going through.

I felt so tender and grateful that she spoke to me. We spoke for an hour, there in the middle of the club, bass pumping and people crushing against us. She let me try and comfort her, try and let on some of the things I have learned, all nuance and no sharp contrasts, truths that may not even work for her. But her hungry stare was so heartbreaking and I just wish I could have said something to comfort her. We parted with a big hug, having recognized something in each other, something vulnerable and human.

Later, the biggest bouncer ever, F,  pulled me away from the crowd, he wanted to talk to me.
We had been hugging, yelling, punching each other jokingly on the shoulders, calling each other all the stupid names we invented, years back, while tipsy and happy. We were friends back then, good times, we saw each other every weekend from May to September and then we would text back and forth during the winter.

Now he looked at me with a sheepish grin and said
"I'm afraid, K, I'm about to become a father and I don't know if I'm ready, I don't know how to do it."

I didn't know what to tell him and I told him so much. I'm not as arrogant as to know what it means to become a parent, and not as condescendent and superficial, as to tell him clichè "you'll be ok, you're a fine guy".
In the end I told him that  nobody gets to try it out, one day you're you, the next day you're a father, you just have to try your best.
He looked almost disappointed and then laughed a bit "yeah, well, you don't know either, do you ?".

I punched his shoulder.

It was as if

time had taken mercy on, and decided to overlook us for the night.
There we were, in the middle of the throbbing crowd of pub-crawlers, music blaring, the three of us nursing whiskies and drinks. The first reunion in more than 3 years. I had seen G the night before, but it is sort of difficult to lure M out of his little house in the hills. Yet, there he was for the occasion, impeccably dressed like the professor he still is, despite recent trouble at the Academy.

One would have a hard time putting together a more unlike trio than us. The too-thin M with the intense eyes, talented and famous painter and professor at the Academy of Art. Now he looked worn, thinner, but radiant to be there with us again.
The two of us were speaking; filling each other in on our respective lives these last years, him leaning in over the small table and looking at me over the rim of his glasses, talking, smiling and nodding occasionally.

G was sitting mutely, arms crossed and sardonic smile so typical of him. He is getting greyer for every time I see him, but handsomely so, he is from the south and ages with such grace.
Talk about a wild one. Mechanical engineer with a passion for art; so much that he opened up an art-gallery in Ravenna. He is married and have kids but he might be the wildest of the three of us. He had heard our stories as he remained in contact with both of us over time, and was now just observing.

And then there was me. Blonder by the day, tanned, dressed in faded jeans, silk camisole and visibly tired.

The three of us have been friends for more than 5 years. G and M see each other more regularly, but not often at all, though they live in the same city.

I believe this friendship to be one of a kind, it is like we complete and compliment each other. I like both of these guys and have seen them separately, throughout the years. But magic happens when we get together, as if it was meant to be.
We lead very different lives and really have very little in common, maybe except for the fact that we all have quite a temper and tend to overdo things, becoming ridiculously happy or hurt in the process.

The three of us spent one glorious summer together.
I was still working in the clubs, I would travel all over northern Italy, in my beloved, battered BMW, sometimes on my own and sometimes with other dancers.
Many times that summer, I would finish working at 4 or 5 in the morning, finding unanswered calls or texts on my phone from G and M; "K, where are you working? Up for after-hours?".
And I would collect my fee, get changed and hurry home (a two-hour drive sometimes) to meet up with the guys and go dancing. Again.
G sometimes had been up all night, going out on his own, other times he had gone to bed early in order to wake up and be there.
M was almost always fresh out of his studio, he would paint and listen to music all night and then meet up with us at 99, a famous after-hours club.

And there we would dance the morning away, laughing and enjoying ourselves. I think these mornings were a sanctuary for all of us, something that each of us wouldn't have done on our own. We would dance until lunch-time, then drive off to a small hut on the beach, where we would eat fish and pasta in huge quantities, then sample the coffee- and dessertmenu, a different one each time.

Sometimes we would walk back to the harbor, people-watching for hours and speaking about nothing and everything, all of us spent from lack of sleep but not wanting to part and go home to our separate lives. Other times we would lounge around on the beach, dozing off in the sun or talking.

As I remember it, there was always an aperitif to go to, a new upcoming band to go see, another restaurant to visit, endless talks about art, love, psychology, dreams, music and food. It was one of the best summers of my life, despite it wasn't all roses for any of us. But we were there for each other, unfaltering. We had each others' back.

And here we were again tonight.
The three of us, swapping stories, drinking good whisky.
All of us older, softer, none the wiser but a tad more human. We spoke for long, hurting, joying and wondering at life. And when there were no more words, we celebrated by going dancing in an open-air club until the heavens opened up and let out massive amounts of wind and rain. As the club closed and everybody sought shelter, we ran along the beach, ocean furious, through blinding sheets of rain, laughing and yelling to each other foolishly over the wind: "It is a sign because we're back together again !!!"

And for one long blissful evening in G and Ms' company, it felt true.


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OMG?

I think I feel bored. And in no small couple-of-hours-to-kill-way.

No, I feel bored in a big want-something-to-happen-or-I-might-make-it-happen-myself-way.
It has been a while that I have been feeling restless, not really doing anything with my spare time. Not that I have much more of it than the next person, but my spare time starts when I wake up in the morning and stretches out in front of me 'till around 16 in the afternoon. This means that on a normal day I have approximately 7 or 8 leisure hours in a row. I wake up rested, and there I am; 8 hours in front of me, in which to do stuff. It really seems a lot. And I do rest, and lounge around - I am now working fulltime at the restaurant and lulling around doing nothing is important too, I go to work rested and happy most days, looking forwards to get in.

My life in Denmark has settled quite a bit since I came back from Italy last year in September.
I live where I love to live; I thought a lot about getting an appartment of my own, but I realize it is good for me to have a flatmate; I like to have somebody to come home to, to chat with, occasionally cook for, and K is a really cool guy and fun too. Also; my work doesn't leave me very social hours, the few friends I am making work in the daytime so I don't see other people much outside of the restaurant.

Work is splendid. I really have the knack of it. Who would have thought; me, being satisfied, selling food and wine. No offense to waiters anywhere, but I thought I was to work with my intellect and creativity. Not that picking the right wine for a certain dish isn't creative, but it isn't exactly rocket science either. I mean; I have passion for food, wine and I love to dine out. Not really hard to see what our guest might be needing, and get it. Kind of satisfying too, to cater to such a basic need as food, and get to do it over and over again; seeing the results immediately and with no delay. As opposed to the advertising world where I slaved my creativity and intellect away for years =).

I make less money than I ever did. And it doesn't really bother me either. I live nicely enough, but then again, I am not paying a lot of rent (sharing the apartment), I am not buying a lot food (working at the restaurant) and I don't have expensive habits.

But I feel strangely....sedated. As if I am not... (i have no other word for this) *using* myself properly. As if I feel I could/should *do* more. I have no illusions about ambition. I have one ambition: to feel good. And that is good enough for me, and has been for all my life. So I don't get this sudden boredom, I don't think it comes down to ambition. I have had job offers ensuing more money and responsability but I didn't jump at 'em.

Maybe it is just that life runs smoother in Denmark. I don't have to fight so much. But I am afraid it bores me. I think I might miss the Italian chaos just a tiny bit. And if that is the case; what the F* am I to do ?

The Only Thing *I* Heard

He was actually saying something not *that* nice. Not bad-bad neither, his observation was well-meant and -founded. He's totally right about that second part; I know it and (plan to) work on it.
That's probably why I can just ignore that second part and focus on, and wallow in, and mentally relive that *first* part: "You're actually very sophisticated..."

Probably helps me focus on the good part too, that when we said goodnight on the corner of two streets, he kissed me a tiny bit. We kissed and parted; I had to go one way, (ok, I had no idea of *which* one) he another.

I realized while walking (staggering, dazed) away, that I had no clue to where I was.
Worse. He realized it too.
And I could just give up, go back to him, laughing (ha ha,-very-funny-laugh-to-hide-my-embarassment) and have him tell me which way to go. To get home.

Just because I lose my way. Not at all because he kissed me.

The right thing to do

I know it is.
The right thing to do, I mean. But my heart cries blood-tears.

I have been changing my wardrobe lately. Finally put away the heavier winter garments, taken out the summer ones. Folded, washed and aired everything that needed it, either for putting away or for taking out. A heavy task; I have way too many clothes.
I have stood there a hundred times, with a wardrobe vomiting stuff all over me, and yet not known what to wear. I do a regular clean-up of my wardrobe every 6 months, I figure "if I haven't worn it once for the last 6 months, then out it goes". And out goes a lot of stuff - usually I just pack a few big black garbagebags and carry them down to the nearest do-good-clothes-container. Must be a lot of very-stylishly-dressed bums out there.

But over the last few days I have slowly come to realize that there is no way (as in NO WAY) all of my sandals, slingbacks, flip-flops, dècolletes, mules, kittenheels, sabots, wedges, stilettos and summerboots (yeah; i have summerboots) can fit into (and on top of) my wardrobe. That, mind you, expands all the time. Having too many clothes and shoes doesn't keep me from buying more.

So. It dawned on me that I haven't been wearing many of my high-heeled shoes for ages. Years even. Actually there's a few pairs of shoes (ok, 3 or 4) that I. Have. Never. Worn.
And spent a lot of money on.
So I casually (yeah, I am sneaking up on myself here) dropped in on a fancy vintage-shop on Frederiksberg yesterday (it was on my way to work, lalalala) meaning to ask the sweet lady there, if she would take good care of my shoes and make sure they get at nice home, if I were to sell them. Actually the exchange went something like this:

Me: Good day. I am sure you're not interested, and this is probably not the right place for me to come, nor do I know whether you're the right person to speak to (probably ought to speak to a therapist), but I happen to have a.... (shitload) large amount of nice shoes that..
Lady: SHOES? Hell, yeah! Stilettos ???
Me: Well, yeah. Stilettos, wedges, kittenheels bla bla bla (aforementioned)
Lady: Wow, bring it in; I am in need of shoes. Can you bring me 5-10 pairs to start with and then we'll take it from there ?

And before I knew it, I had promised the nice lady to bring in shoes and left my phonenumber.
She called me this morning to make sure we have a deal; that I will, indeed, bring her (my firstborn) 5-10 pairs of shoes tomorrow.
I am now picking out shoes, trying them on, making little turns before the mirror and feeling like a traitor. The shoes lined up to go, seem to look at me accusingly and I can't help but to feel I am really giving up a part of my femininity, my woman-power. For mere money that I don't really need. At the same time I feel (a tiny bit, but I am trying to cling to that feeling) liberated. Like I am starting to quit something that might ... erm... be bad for me. (reciting here; obediently).

And of course I haven't faced the *real* problem yet:
How to not buy new shoes with the blood-traitor-money I get *if* she sells these.

....

My brother and I were standing in the kitchen; him preparing dinner, I catching up with things and angling for red wine. "You might want to speak to Nephew about Uncle M." he says all of a sudden.

Uncle M is my ex that I left back in February; he loved my nephews and they loved him dearly. And Nephew is very clever and has been asking anybody but me (see? very clever) about Uncle M.
My brother has mentioned it before and I have given it some thought; maybe even hoping the memory would fade and the kids would stop asking. But today Nephew had been asked whether he had siblings and he had answered gingerly "I have a sister" (forgetting little new Nephew 3.0 there), and then he had gone on to mention his uncle H, his uncle C and his Uncle M.

I looked at my brother for a while before I answered. "Yeah, well; I guess he's old enough".
Nephew is 5.

After dinner Nephew and I finished off the treasuremap we had been painting, and then went on with all his night rituals. Pjs, toothbrushing, a bit running around, and finally the exchange of endless goodnight kisses that I fake not to want, little skinny arms wound tightly around me. I put him to bed and then all of a sudden there was nothing else to do. He was there in his bed, trusting sleepy eyes fixed at me. I thought for a moment and decided to strip this of all complications (as if I was ever able to do just that =)).

"Nephew, I have something I want to talk to you about." (hesitating a bit here. Am I doing this right ? Is there an etiquette for speaking to 5-year-olds?)
"Do you remember Uncle M ?"
"Yes" he said. Making it no easier for me.
"Maybe you have been wondering why he doesn't come here with me anymore?"
"Yes" he said. Oh no, he's gonna make me do all the work here. (Of course he is; he's 5 years old)
"Well. We're not together anymore. He won't be coming here again." (I said it. Enough now.)
"Why?"
"Well..." (Hesitating again. Hell, I am bad at this. Might as well tell it as it is). "Things got bad and we started arguing a lot. Fighting all the time. And it got worse, so I decided to leave him."
"Yeah, I know what that's like" he said. "Once in a while you have a bad day and fight with everybody"
(relief)
"Yes, exactly. Uncle M. and I had a lot of bad days towards the end. We fought a lot, and so decided to quit." (hell, might be as true as any other explanation).
"Ok" he said, trusting eyes still not leaving mine, "but I miss him".
There was a question in there. And I could not ignore it.
"Mmmmm", I said, non-committedly; wanting neither to lie to him, nor to colour his vision of Uncle M. It was a bad breakup if there ever was one.
"But it is the best for me." I said, "We were both sad for a while, but now I feel much better."
"Yeah" he said.
"Is there something you want to ask me about all this?" I said, sensing that this might not be all he felt, he needed to know.
"Yes. Will you fetch the treasuremap for me to sleep with?"

I got it.

About romanticism

My mum lost her weddingring. She lost it a couple of years ago, took it off, along with a ring her mother gave her, and simply left it there. I never knew, I suppose she felt ashamed about it (I know, I would*). And she told me just now; days before my parents' anniversary.

My dad offered to give in *his* wedding ring, have it melted and made into two thinner wedding rings so they could share his. Must be the single most romantic thing I have *ever* heard.
Brought tears to my eyes.


*though I excuse my mum. She suffers very much from arthritis, and cannot always wear her rings, let alone hold a cup of coffee.

Coming home

I stepped outside in the early morning. The tiles of the terrace cool under my bare feet. The grass was yet moist, the lake was sparkling in the sun, birds were singing and the insects were buzzing. The light was bright, but yellow, the sky was blue as it gets only in Denmark. The early morning light, the promising warmth in the air, a fresh breeze caressing my legs. Scent of the coffee my mum brought to wake me up, and of fresh bread. The little table already set with butter and cheese, bees already buzzing busily around the marmalade.

Coming home from Italy after spending 15 years there, still takes me by surprise.
Sometimes I feel like I'll never get used to it all, and that I will always be Italian inside. I still talk too loud when I get excited or passionate about something, and I still use my hands a lot while talking. I also expect people to understand my sign-language and often will try to explain what I am saying. Those are moments when I feel like a stranger in a foreign country. A curious visitor, that has made a conscious choice to be here, and who wants to be here. But a stranger nonetheless. And then there's the perfect little moments when it is just like I never left Denmark.

Stepping out into a perfect Danish summer morning is just like that.

Zen

"So. K. You are sitting there all quietly in your corner. That's what you are, yeah ? Very quiet and zen-like, is it ?"

I swallowed the last of my champagne to answer (choking) "Well, no, not really. I am not zen-like at all. You totally misread me there."
She was very loud. And ugly, too. Unpleasant, really. She had thrust out her hand, presenting herself as "A" and from the way my boss greeted her, I just knew she was *the* A I had heard so much about. The girl who worked this restaurant before I did. The one that could sell basically everything.

Before I could say anything else, my boss broke in "Come on, you're kidding ? You're zen as hell, K. Everything's fine with you, you're large, you take everybody the way they are, not much fuss with you, that's why you're so good for this place."

I wondered. I am anything *but* zen. I tried to explain that I feel strongly about things but this is work; you have to be professional, you try to get the best out of it, that you cannot make people do what they won't do, might as well get the best out of everybody, but nobody listened anymore. Already moved on to another topic. A's topics. She was very loud indeed, being very provocative and challenging to everybody.

We kept on breaking out champagne. The new place is opening soon, everything looks just fine and we had had a hell of an evening. We had stuff to celebrate. And hell. Weather is finally wonderful, we sat outside and it was the infamous "wee small hours".

"A" kept on trying to get to me. I kept my calm as I am wont to do. I am slow. I try to believe the best of anybody and not react rashly, but slowly I realized she was on to me. She had it. Badly. With me. I didn't get back at her, at all the little remarks, all the little criticisms, all the little things directed at me. I didn't have time to. She got up, with her architect lover/husband/whatever, saluted everybody and left before I could realize what was happening. Typical of me. Slow, and way too naive.

I went to the bathroom and my boss trudged along. When I asked her, she confirmed. This was the "A" indeed. When I aired my doubts about A, she answered quickly "Oh, but she hates you. Definitely. She knows who you are, she's known for a long time, and she hates you because you're better than she is".

I don't see myself as Zen. I hate the thought of somebody "knowing who I am" because of what I do. And I wish I could have thought of a great come-back to this unpleasant girl that had it badly with me, because I am a better waiter than her. Talk about something good turned bad.

You know you're part of an all-male staff...

- when your collegues greet you "Hi summergoddess!" for just wearing a dress to work
- when a squiffy male guest approaches the bar and all of a sudden there's 3 waiters behind you, asking pointedly how they may help?
- when the cook hang out long after he's off-duty, to ensure you're going home safe and done closing the restaurant.
- when your collegues take over responsability of the winecellar because the 7 male guests there got drunk and too-bold (on expensive wine that *you* sold them), and you ought not to "hang 'round these people anymore".

While I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, I absolutely love to feel protected like that. I adore my collegues.

Comeback

She was standing at the entrance to the restaurant-kitchen. Blond, pretty-ish, drunk and out-of-bounds; our guests aren't allowed in the kitchen.
Tall, hot waiter approaches her from behind, and says (icily):
"What can I do for you?"
She replies, without turning around
"Oh, nothing..."
- then turns to find he's hot and changes her mind:
"Erhm, I don't know. What *can* you do?"

And she would definitely have a moustache...

".... small, fat and dark. Olive skin and black eyes. She would have big breasts and a huge bottom. She would laugh way too loud and be pretty vulgar, breasts wobbling while she was laughing. She would swear a lot and speak her mind. Wear vivid colours, big flowing dresses, and be far too honest. But you would have to love her."

I absolutely love it when people I like, play along on my beloved "If this wine was a guy/gal, he/she would be..."-game.

Love?

We had to get used to each other, it was a bit like dancing for a little while.
Treading lightly, measuring my every move, getting used to the physical part of it; us responding to each others' movement.
My hands clenching too hard, then relaxing, my thighs flexing, then finding the perfect rhythm, moving just so. Swaying this way, then that.

After a while, I let go of myself, in total abandon.
I could barely breathe, my heart was racing and I was gasping for air; it felt like we had become one.
I could smell my own perspiration, feel small beads of sweat form on my upperlip and drops of it trickle down my spine. I felt like I could do it no more, like I was going to collapse in a sweaty heap, but I kept going, moving steadily, rhythmically, while my head was spinning and thoughts dissolving, blown away to who knows where.

I think I am in love.
With my new old bike.

Lykke

It took me by surprise.

I was shopping and passed the supermarket on my way home, to pick up tomatoes for the buffalo mozzarella I have in the fridge. I was wearing my Ipod as usual - it's shuffling - something I never allow it to do, but these days I rediscover music I forgot I had.

I walk into the supermarket and directly into the fruit and vegetables compartment. I can't make up my mind, there's so much beauty and inspiration here and I have all the time in the world. I linger for a long time, and my mind wanders, I have to pick a white wine for tomorrow as well, a task I love. My eyes feast on the bright red of tomatoes, on the bright colours and shiny waxiness of all the vegetables in the compartment. The deafening and seducing scent of basil.

And suddenly I remember him telling me about tender bits of basil leaves wrapped around new Danish strawberries. They're both here, strawberries and basil, but I'll wait. I want to eat it with him. And as I realize what I'm thinking, Imogen Heap start singing (omg) Goodnight and Go in my ears.
And I am misted from above.
Seriously. By those... thingies that keep the vegetables fresh and moist in some supermarkets =).
And I am, for one perfect moment, blindingly, perfectly, blissfully lykkelig.