how does it make you feel?

I was sitting in the Berlin underground, or the U-Bahn, with my new friend and co-worker, Jing, on our way to a cheap fabric outlet in Spandau. We had been lucky enough to get seats and a few people were standing. Sitting across the isle from me was a lady. I guessed she was in her 60’s, although her clothes; leggings, a purple bomber jacket and furry boots, might have looked more in place on a slightly younger person. She was a little plump round her hips with blond hair that she wore up and a weary. She wore no make up. Suddenly, a man, obviously not of German origin, started playing a violin in one of the isles, close to where we were sitting. He played beautifully and almost everyone started reaching into their pockets and purses before he had even finished a song. When he walked around with a little paper cup collecting contributions from us, most people smiled and some had even applauded. Although the lady opposite didn’t look like she didn’t have a lot of money she gave some to the violinist and thanked him dearly, taking his hands in hers. Her face had brightened up when she smiled and I noticed how pretty she actually was, and cold imagine how she had once been very beautiful. When the busker had finished collecting, she signalled to him, asking him to play more, which he did. At the next stop he got off and again a few people applauded. As the doors closed, blocking out the sound of the man tuning is violin on the platform, I looked around the carriage to find it full of smiling faces, a much warmer atmosphere than I am used to on public transport.

I had just looked away from one of these smiling faces when another young man came down the isle, stopped by where we sat and started addressing us. I was trying to explain that I didn’t understand, my German not being very good, when the lady opposite, still smiling and staring dreamily at a distant point, interrupted. A few more women sitting around us joined into what became a somewhat heated discussion, which I also didn’t understand very well. What Jing and I got from it was that the ladies were asking him why he wasn’t working and explaining to him that they had to work hard for their money and why should they give it to him. The man argued a little and then got off at the next stop. No one had given him anything and the atmosphere had suddenly shifted. There was an embarrassed air in the cabin and most of us went back to the normal procedure of avoiding eye contact.

not flirting, just friendly..

I have been told that I flirt. That I am a flirt. I’m not by any means trying to imply that I don´t. Anyone who knows me would laugh at me if I even tried, apparently I have been practicing this activity as long as any of my family members can remember as my grandmother is happy to tell anyone who is willing to listen.
In fact I like flirting and I will even go so far as to claim that without it life would be just a little bit less fun and am certain that many situations can be improved by a little flirting.

On the other hand, sometimes I don’t think I am flirting and then people still claim that I am. I am not sure what to make of this. I really don’t think I am so unaware of my behaviour that I do it constantly without even realising.
Come to think of it, what is the definition of flirting anyway?

flirt v
1. vi to behave in a playfully alluring way
2. vt to flick or jerk something

n
somebody who behaves in a playfully alluring way

Encarta® World English Dictionary © 1999 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. Developed for Microsoft by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.

Aha. Playful. This must be the key-word. So. What if I am behaving playfully but not in an alluring, but in fact a friendly way? When does playfulness cross the line and become flirting? I could argue that just being playful always has a certain allure to it and is by that definition always flirting. Another possibility is that the presence of allure part can be determined by the 2^nd or even 3^rd party and is therefore always a matter of interpretation, even an imagined factor.

‘Allure is in the eye of the beholder’?

I think in fact that simply being playful and nice can often be mistaken for flirting because if you are nice to the people you meet they are generally more inclined to liking you, and are also more like the conclusion that you might like them in turn. Often they will be right in assuming so, although the nature of this liking might not be clear at this point. I can recall more than one occasion where I hoped and even assumed that someone was flirting with me when in fact, they were just interested and enthusiastic about whatever we might have been discussing.

Does this indicate that if some people’s mischievous eagerness, or even just honest friendliness is commonly mistaken for flirting that perhaps people in general are not friendly enough,. On the other hand some people might argue that I, or anyone else who is subject to frequent accusations of flirting, should reduce their friendly- and or playfulness to avoid these kinds of misunderstandings.

A third option, and probably the most realistic one, is to accept that flirting will always be subject to interpretations and therefore misunderstandings and if we can’t beat it, we might as well try and learn how to deal with it.

Venice, boredom and being in love.

When I wake up in Venice and open my eyes I look up at the most beautiful ceiling I have ever seen. It is so high, that one could easily fit another door above the one we have already. I am sleeping in the living room of a flat, a few hundred years old, beautifully decorated and right in the centre. It is owned by a Venetian family but is presently being rented by Ittai who is staying in Venice for a few months to read art history for his PhD dissertation and was kind enough to let Amelia and myself stay with him during our visit here.
Venice has been interesting. Nice. Slow. I spent the first days with Amelia looking at contemporary art at the biennale and strolling around the city. The loudness off my footsteps on the stoned pavements has never felt more appropriate. The city is like a maze, lots of tiny little allies often leading you to a dead end or a canal so you have to turn around again. Everything is old and everything is beautiful; the churches, canals, the boats and little bridges. There are no cars too, which is wonderful.

I must admit though that I have a slight problem with Venice, and that is the tourism. Even now, off-season, when there are actually not so many tourists the city is still a tourist city. If you are not into expensive designer clothes, souvenirs, ‘art’ galleries/shops, delicatessens, restaurants and being taken around on gondolas I find that you quickly run out of things to do and explore. If there was a little treasure, a little church, local café or curiosity shop, it has surely been discovered by droves of people before you and is catering for the masses already.
Of course it is contradictory and even hypocritical to complain about tourists when that is exactly what I am myself. But I think you know what I mean, the feeling that whatever I choose to do, someone else will have decided what it is that I am going to experience.
In a way it feels like I have been spending the last 3 days walking around a museum, and even if it is incredibly beautiful and interesting I’m quite ready to go and get on with my life.
Yesterday Ittai took me over to another smaller island of Venice called Giadecca. It was quite refreshing. It’s the old industrial area, now more residential it seems with newer buildings and few tourists. Still very charming and beautiful but in a different way, less romantic somehow and more alive.
But on the whole, and maybe a little ironically, the best thing about my stay here has been to see and spend time with Amelia and Ittai and to look at the biennale. It’s really great to see such a wide range of contemporary art from all around the world, some of which was really excellent. So interesting, thought invoking and wonderfully inspiring. Just what I wanted before I go to Berlin and finally start making my own stuff again. Perfect!

Today I have decided to stay at home for most of the day and work. Possibly I will make soup.

Oh, and one more thing.
I realised yesterday that exactly one year ago I was in Pula in Croatia with Gagi. Most people who know me will know the story, we had met 2 months prior to that when I was in Belgrade and not seen since. When we decided to meet again in I was a bit nervous. 5 days can be a long time if it is not a good time. Luckily it was.
5 days in Pula. 5 days in Venice.
I find it interesting to compare the two experiences.
Pula is also a small city with a lot of old beautiful buildings and although it is not as touristy as Venice, there is perhaps not an awful lot to do at this time of year other than to walk around, stop for a coffee or a bite to eat and go early to bed. And although I have actually been to see a lot more while I’ve been here and had a good time my with afore mentioned companions here, I also admit that I have had to make more of an effort not to get bored in-between.
I don’t remember ever being bored in Pula. Most of the time we just walked or lay around and looked and talked and if we had nothing to interesting say or to look at we could just cuddle and kiss or gaze into one another’s eyes which can be an endlessly exciting activity when you are as infatuated aswe were.
I’m by no means suggesting that being with a lover is the only way not to get bored but it is definitely a great antibody when there is not much else to do.
And isn’t boredom the worst thing, many people’s idea of hell even; the eternal waiting room.
Is this perhaps one of the main reasons why falling in love is such desirable thing, because of the simple fact that it is guaranteed to prevent boredom in any situation?

Happy New Year!

It was my first time celebrating Halloween, and thanks to StrangeWorks it was incredible! A procession of spirits marching the streets of London with lanterns, masks and giant puppets, chanting and singing to live music and the toll of the bell summoning out the dead. Afterwards soup was served and friends were united in a frenzy of dancing to wild gypsy music. (more pics from the parade can be viewed at the magick's website here)
I have found out, and you may know this, that the festival originates from the Irish festival Samahin, the end of summer, sometimes considered the Gaelic new-year. There was also a belief that this night the boundaries between the worlds of the dead and living were broken, allowing the deceased back to earth, and to ward against their evil it was tradition to light large communal bonfires. This is reminiscent of the Icelandic New Years Eve at the end of December when the ghostly elves of our country, almost equally feared as trolls, would move their dwellings and roam around the countryside. Then, like on the night of Irish new-year, it is an old, established tradition to light bonfires that burn into the new-year. I like to draw this parallel because in a discussion with a friend recently we concluded that Halloween, or All-Hallow-Even, is really the best and most appropriate time to celebrate new-year. This time of year always seems to be a much bigger turning point in my life, and society in general than the new-year we celebrate usually. I therefore have started a new year as of last Thursday.
And that day I had a slightly odd experience where I found myself walking alone through Hackney for half an hour dressed in a dirty and torn costume from the night before. A lone bride in a pale blue wedding dress with a flowing full-length skirt and a giant lace turban garnished with a big white flower. What was special about it though was that in a way it seemed to me to bring together the myths of the Icelandic and Irish new-years-eves, the traditionally blue-clad elven lady of the Icelandic fairy-tales, wearing what was slightly reminiscent of an Icelandic traditional costume, exept not so glamorous, more like homeless dead of Ireland, lost between worlds. In fact I felt almost invisible at times and if it hadn’t been for the stares and grins I met on my way I might even have believed that I was.
In the end it was a relief to get back to where I had started the evening and to change into my normal clothes, although I cannot deny that I also felt a slight sadness, or regret for leaving the magical space I seemed to have stumbled into for a little while.

Arsehole!

Here is one interesting fact.
In the Icelandic language, like in most other languages, we have a word for the part of the body called arse. In most cultures, and please tell me if I am wrong, this word, like so many other words describing body parts in close vicinity to the arse, is commonly used in a derogatory way about people, even as a swearword. In Iceland however, if you call someone an arse ‘rass’, it is not in the least rude. In fact it is quite a nice thing to say and means that the person being addressed is kind of cute and cheeky. You may even pull a little face and use a special tone of voice to underline how cute the subject really is. If that individual is so incredibly cute and irresistible that even changing the tone of your voice is not enough to express your feelings of appreciation, adoration even, you may have to upgrade to the word ‘rassgat’; arsehole. Calling someone an arsehole, using the special tone and even pinching their cheek will really give a clear message about how incredibly cute you think they are, although in most cases they probably wouldn’t understand you, because the people most frequently called arseholes are in fact babies. If it is an especially cute baby, you may even refer to it as a ‘rúsínurassgat’, a raisin-arsehole, and, if that still doesn’t quite do it, ‘rúsínurassgatabolla’ is the word for you and means raisin-arsehole-bun (bun being a sweet doughnut like pastry).
Yes, in Iceland all babies are arseholes.

Coincidences?

Have you had things happen to you that just seem like they can’t possibly be a coincidence?
I’m pretty sure you have.
As it happens I am not one to believe in fate, or a particular higher meaning to our being for that matter. I’ve kind of been leaning towards the belief that everything is more or less coincidental, and that it is up to us to make the best of and give meaning to what we have and what happens to us. Be optimistic and make it special.
But sometimes things happen that just make me wonder. And there has been an awful lot of funny coincidences of late.
Maybe it started in Minneapolis. Maybe it started before. I’m not sure.
I had been in Minneapolis for a week and was invited to a dinner party. There I met many nice people and talked to a very nice and cute guy. Afterwards he cycled me home and we swapped numbers. Promising! Two days later my brother drove me to a thrift store to do some work-shopping. It was 9am on a Tuesday and hardly anyone there. But as I walk into the shop, which was not small by any means or definition, the first thing I see is the cute guy from the dinner. Wow, I thought, what a great beginning, this must mean something! As it turned out a few days he already had a lady friend and nothing ever happened between us except that we bumped into each other by chance 2 times after that and had friendly chats. I thought no more of it.

Until now. Last Wednesday my disbelief in destiny was as challenged as it will ever be until I actually change my mind and start believing in it.

Half a year ago, when I was still in London, I met a different guy. That was a completely different ‘meeting’, maybe most intense and magical I have ever experienced in such a short time. It was like a weekend of fireworks, except much more fun than fireworks and not quite as many loud bangs or children running around with glow-sticks and shouting. After the weekend he left the country and we continued expressing our adoration for each other with great intensity through email, for a week. When, completely unexpectedly the affair came to an end, as suddenly as it had begun. Complete silence until I finally received a letter explaining and apologising in the most beautiful and sympathetic way. That was that.
As it happens this man lives in Copenhagen. So when I was going there I couldn’t help thinking of him, and, despite not having heard from him at all for almost 6 months, I sent him a letter telling him I would be coming and whether he would like to meet. I was almost surprised to receive a reply saying that he would love to.
So I wrote back suggesting a day to meet but on my arrival in Copenahagen I still hadn’t heard back from him and wandered whether I should be taking ‘Lonesome Town’ on the train as a warning. I arrived around lunch and after settling in and having a shower and a bit to eat I decided to walk into town where I was meeting a friend later. As I strolled down the street towards the centre I wondered what he was doing and whether I should try to call him in the evening or just leave it, when suddenly there he was. On a bicycle, stationary at the red light by the zebra crossing I was about to cross. I couldn’t even speak. I just walked on and stared at him in disbelief until he looked my way and our eyes met. It is too corny to say that for a moment it felt like time stood still. Suddenly he was off his bike, on the sidewalk and as we let go our embrace we stood opposite each other, still holding hands, our eyes fixed on each other, smiling, sparkling, amazed. It was the most wonderfully bizarre moment. We both had so many things we wanted to talk about and tell each other but were both on our way somewhere so we decided I would call him in the evening and we would meet the next day. As I walked away I wondered if I had perhaps imagined the whole thing. What are the odds in a city of millions that I would run into him, and within 4 hours of my arrival?! Can you imagine my relief when he actually picked up the phone in the evening and suggested he come and meet me at where I was staying and we go for brunch somewhere.

Can you blame me if for a moment or two I forgot about my ‘no such thing as destiny’ rule and thought that this was two crazy to be a coincidence?

I have rarely felt as disappointed and stupid as the next day, when I had waited for 3 hours and finally tried to call him. The last thing I heard from him was his voice on his answering machine announcing to me that he was unable to pick up the phone but that I could leave a message. I did not.
I guess I’m back to ‘there is no such thing’, although, just because this wasn’t the magical twist of fate that changed my life forever, you can never be sure about the laws of the universe.

And not to end this on a melancholy note and to prove that I am the master of the universe when it comes to running into people in the most unlikely situations, here is a funny ending.
Last night I was at the supermarket doing last minute shopping for the farewell dinner. I was crouched down in an isle in Irma, the rather expensive supermarket but the only one still open at that hour, when suddenly I hear a man speak my voice. I look up and there is Rune who I have only met in London a few times because am friends with and used to live with his girlfriend, Lina. It turns out that he doesn’t live in the neighbourhood, not even close, but was there by some off chance and thought he would do a little shopping on his way home.
So we had an extra guest for our lovely little dinner where we ate so much lovely food that I am now grateful that we fucked up the muffins we were also trying to make. If I would have eaten them too I would still not be able to move.

By the way, I have just arrived in London!

mystery

Louisiana was out today. Never happened. Wearing pyjamas all day, having ugly hair and playing cards was most definitely in. I love it. Tomorrow however I am going to get dressed in the morning and go out and see something before we have a farewell dinner in the evening and I have to leave again. I wonder if there is any kind of limit to how many farewell dinners / parties you can have in one year?!
The other day I discovered a most curious thing. I went out running one morning when Katrín and Jens were already at work and nobody in the flat. When I came back and opened the door, the flat was in a mess, floor covered in white dust and a drilling noise further inside. I obviously got a shock at seeing that the flat had been transformed into a building site in my short absence and was starting to question my sanity when I suddenly realised that I had in fact walked into the flat on the floor below. Apparently, and of course nobody knew this, the key from the flat here also fits for the one below. We have been speculating how this could have happened and what should be done. It is of course an incredible opportunity for all kinds of practical jokes, which could be funny, but also not a good idea at all. I must admit I love the idea of going down there before anyone shows up and setting up a perfect little picnic on a checkered table cloth in the middle of the floor. A clean little island in the middle of a big mess, and then to see how the people would react when they showed up. Or maybe something just a little bit more subtle to begin with. Or maybe it is not cute at all and just creepy and good that I am actually leaving so I can’t actually do these things and get myself into trouble.
The craziest thing is that nobody knows how long it has been like this. And that if they hadn’t had such an absent-minded visitor who can’t recognise anything, nobody might have known for a hundred years.
What to do about the situation remains unresolved.
Have you tried your keys to the other doors in your house or neighbourhood?

ps. i love it when you comment but would love it even more if you would leave your name, or a hint at least which could be even more exciting!