See, now…  There are folks who are fond of giving advice[1] to someone who’s down-in-the-dumps[2].  “Sometimes you just gotta look at the bigger picture,” they say, with all the optimism and certainty they can muster.  They tell you, “You’ve gotta see the forest through the trees.”  Intellectually, I totally get it.  I agree 100% with these sentiments.  However, I’ve got one more to add, and here it is:  Sometimes you have to go away in order to come home again.  Yes, to see the bigger picture, to see the forest through the trees, sometimes you have to remove yourself from that forest a little bit in order to get a better view.  The bird’s eye view.

That was the answer for me.  The antidote to my on-going feelings of doubt and uncertainty about the bigger questions:  Why am I here?  And what am I truly meant to do?  In this life?  On this planet?  And for whom?  Me?  Another?  The masses?  I knew I needed to get out of NYC for a little bit, so I could come home again.  A change of perspective.  Literally, a change in my point of view.  This was what I needed.  But how would I get it?  Where did I want to go?  What did I need to see?  I had fallen in love with Italy in the fall of 2011.  Perhaps I could go back there?  Study the language a bit?  Do some cooking?  No.  As much as I loved Italy, and as much as it, like England, was a place that felt like home to me, I wasn’t feeling pulled there for some reason.

It started out as a nice/windy day

Then the wind started picking up while we were getting ready to dive.

Here I am with my best friend and love….

By the time we were getting in the water, the sand was starting to hurt a tid bit. We definitely didn’t do much talking.

It was actually a pretty clear first dive, but the second one was too windy. But we completed our open water dive #1 and #2!

Here is a video of us driving on the way back. It is just like when it snows back home. People place on their flashers and go slow. “Sand plows” are out scooping sand from the highways.  It sounds like tiny hail pellets.

This is worth your time to watch this..

IMG_4509

►

]]> http://adrianahartley.com/2013/06/09/day-319-the-joys-of-presence/ Sun, 09 Jun 2013 18:06:12 +0000 adrianahartley http://adrianahartley.com/2013/06/09/day-319-the-joys-of-presence/ Here I Am. Am-ing. Just being, and enjoying the journey that unfolds. I love to be in the moment, but am not always comfortable not having a plan. But I am loving the process of flowing with whatever comes my way and am always so pleasantly surprised with how life twists and turns.

I have a friend here that is full of life. She is always smiling, loves her life, her kids and her husband. She is athletic and enjoys entertaining. She makes time for herself, her kids and her husband. And her eyes sparkle. I love being around her and love that she knows what it’s like to be an expat, because she was once one too. And I think because of her experience, she understands me and has reached out to me, making me feel at home here, inviting me to join her for coffee, lunch, dinner, paddling, swimming, ice skating, and today a Sunday morning tennis match. I am so thankful for our friendship and admire her and learn from her and enjoy her company. I am going to miss you, Barbara. Thank you for being my friend and kicking my ass today at tennis! Rematch?

…..

After coming home from tennis and sharing a cup of tea, Jeff and I went on a spontaneous date to the Trompen museum in Amsterdam. We took the tram into the city and walked through Oosterpark to the museum, holding hands. The architecture itself was gorgeous, and the artifacts from the Dutch colonies were very interesting. Afterwards, we stopped in a Biergarten for some biterballen and cold beer from the tap. We are enjoying having kids who are of the age that they can stay home alone. We were only gone for 3 hours and it was perfect! Here are some photos from the museum and around town.

Oosterpark

The Royal Tropical institute is very fascinating, highlighting the tropical areas of the world, focusing on the former colonies of the Netherlands such as Indonesia, Surinam, India, and others. I especially enjoyed seeing the different religious and philosophical influences and seeing the different artifacts. I think I would enjoy studying how they interrelate and making connections between the different beliefs. One love, one world. Namaste.

How did your Sunday flow?

Leidseplein – waiting for the 5 tram to head home.

Prior to the trip, I would never in a million years have guessed I was, in fact, a city girl.  And during a mere two weeks, I found myself having the time of my life!  Yes, Manhattan still had that distinctive stench I remembered.  But this time?  I didn’t care!  This time I was loving everything I was hearing, seeing, smelling and tasting.  This time I really took notice of the people’s faces.  So much diversity!  So many different stories and histories to be found not just on the faces of the people walking the streets, but also the architecture, the art, the parks, the languages, the food.  The flashing lights in Times Square.  The cacophony of the street noise and the sounds of life going on.  It was music unlike anything I’d heard before.  Oh, and how I loved the fact that pedestrians could cross the street whenever and wherever they damn well felt like it, dodging taxi-cabs and buses along the way.  I loved the subways!  Figuring out how and where to hop on and jump off.  I loved that you could call a friend and say, “Meet me downtown in 15” and you could actually do that!  It was a vibrant place.  Alive with an energy that filled me with excitement.  Like a drug.  And most importantly…

Everything felt possible here.

And that was all it took.  I knew.  This would be my new home after I finished college.

We talked for hours, had a nice lunch, a few cervezas and some wine before heading out to the garden to get away from the sun that eventually hits our porch.  What nice folks. I think Ecuador and especially San Clemente has a special place in their hearts and we will see them return again and again to enjoy part of their retirement in paradise.

I recently read an intriguing online article regarding HOW to spot a psychopath. The name was just too appealing to ignore.

If you occasionally fixate on crime documentaries for hours and hours and then regret it at night because you cant sleep from extreme paranoia, then WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU! Just kidding. I do it too.

I dont know why, but I relish watching these bone-chilling, true-story psychopath documentaries which eventually trigger a multitude of negative thoughts and ultimately throw me in an abyss of distress, paranoia and insomnia – and no, I’m not turning into a sociopath, unless you cross me. *insert lopsided smile here*

According to psychologists, being aloof yet charming, apathetic to common human pains, unremorseful after wrongdoings, tranquil and nonchalant in instants that the average person shows anxiety, regretfulness and deep concern are all some traits of a psychopath. If this is your friend or even relative then I’d suggest you’d be careful not to tick them off. Here’s a humble advice: with the latest stab-and-run craze in Kuwait, don’t be – and pardon my french – an ass to strangers.

So ladies, with that being said, the next time a guy approaches and fervently tries to offer you his number in public (albeit you never asked for the Yellow Pages), stalks you to your residence on a daily basis (albeit you never formally applied for an escort service), poses a Joker-like grin/smile at you from afar for a good five minutes (although this isnt the ideal “Kodak Moment”) and any of the other common Middle Eastern behaviors of desperation, then you have found a psychopath - JACKPOT!

Now, run.

Baldwin’s novel is broken up into two parts.  The first sets up David’s relationship with Giovanni, which grew out of the relative boredom David felt as Hella traveled in Spain.  Through his homosexual friend Jacques, David is introduced to Giovanni and the gay bar that would be so important in the plot.  Jacques invited David to recklessness with a very convincing monologues that can be applied to numerous situations.  All that is required for a full realization of life’s potential is the absence of a concern about the future.  Liberty requires a degree of recklessness.  “Love him, love him and let him love you.  Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?   And how long, at the best, can it last?  since you are both men and still have everywhere to go?  Only five minutes, I assure you, only five minutes, and most of that, helas! in the dark.  And if you think of them as dirty, then they will be dirty — they will be dirty because you will be giving nothing, you will be despising your flesh and his.  But you can make your time together anything but dirty, you can give each other something which will make both of you better — forever — if you will not be ashamed, if you will only not play it safe.  You play it safe long enough and you’ll end up trapped in your own dirty body, forever and and forever and forever–like me.” (267)  If is convincing enough that David is chooses to begin a relationship with Giovanni.

The second part of the novel focuses on the destructive nature of David’s decisions.  One could almost say that the root of his problems was that he was not projectural or destructive enough.  He took Jacques’ advice seriously in the short-term but did not carry it out.  (Can any of us?)  His family expectations and his relationship with Hella convince him to move out of Giovanni’s room.  Fearing the future, David picks up a homely woman, only to leave her.  It seems he wanted to prove that he could play heterosexual prior to Hella’s return.  Almost simultaneously Giovanni is fired from his job and  ends up scraping by on the charity of his friends.  David greeted the returning Hella with a marriage proposal (which also works as a cover to get some money from his father).  Giovanni is distraught by David moving out and by his lack of work or money.  Giovanni brutally kills the bar owner, Guillaume.  The events leading up to the murder were his confession to Giovanni that he was essentially used up (“Giovanni, like a falling move star, has lost his drawing power.”)  A bar like his needed an unknown, mystery man.  Giovanni is put on trial and the newspapers reveal all the notiorious details of his life in Paris.  He is executed at the same time that the narrator tells his story.  The final loose end is the collapse of Hella and David’s relationship, which was destroyed by the exposure of his homosexuality.  She discovered him with a sailor.  In the second half, David’s most destructive act was his attempt to reinvest in his relationship with Hella, considering he had the chance to escape.  Who knows if there was any future for Giovanni and David.  It is also wrong to assume that there was nothing meaningful in his plans with Hella.  It was David’s attempt to have it all that was so destructive.  Did he have any alternatives?  He could have listened to Jacques’ advice and stopped playing it safe, stopped despising his flesh and desires.  Yes, it would have required a painful and honest moment with Hella and himself.  It might have avoided the broken bodies, broken hearts, and broken souls that we are left with at the end of Giovanni’s Room.

A final biographical note on Baldwin in Europe is in order.  Baldwin lived in France between 1950 and 1954.  This novel was published two years later.  Not as dramatic as the events of Giovanni’s Room happened to Baldwin.  The biographical sketch at the end of the “Library of America” volume suggests he spent most of his time writing.  He likely knew about expats scraping by and can speak from personal experience and observation about the comparative freedoms expats enjoy.  These are themes in the novel.  While it is true that expats (often Zygmunt Bauman’s tourists) have liberties that people closer to home lack, we should not overstate the significance of this.  At best, it can be a lifestyle approach to freedom.  Not all of us are capable of moving abroad and most that do move abroad do so as economic migrants and often find their life in a new land to be one of drudgery, labor, and exploitation.  David (like Baldwin) came to France with a bank account, connections, and a U.S. Passport.

Enjoy a James Baldwin interview, recorded in 1963, mostly on race issues.

Every year in June, one block south on Midvale Avenue, the parents throw a big birthday bash for their little boy. This year it was a mariachi bouncy castle. Latino children streamed down the street for hours, in twos and threes, black hair bobbed in bowl cuts, their mothers close behind, arms swinging, dressed in shorts and flip-flops, sometimes a thermos of coffee for the long evening ahead.

I stood in my kitchen grilling a cheese sandwich and giggled. Children toppled out of the bouncy castle, which jolted with the beat of the mariachi band playing in the parking lot. One little boy—I imagined his name was Geraldo—made a grand act of launching himself out of the castle and then seating himself demurely on the edge of the bouncy platform, one ankle propped on his knee, his arms folded in the manner of adults, making a show of carrying on a dignified conversation while he bounced up and down with the music. I laughed and laughed.

But then I got quiet.

I stood for a long time at the window. I watched the mothers waddle down the road in their flip-flops, chattering in Spanish, as their children scurried down the gravel shoulder toward the castle. Dusk settled in over the clouds, streaked with power lines like behind my grandparents’ house in Kennewick. My sandwich burned. I scraped it out of the pan and sliced it and ate.

The children bounded in and out of the castle, up and down the road, gleeful. Unaware of their parents’ mortgages and minimum wage jobs and credit card debt, their visa status. The women poked their heads through the castle gate and waved dishrags at their children, receded and clustered around the parking lot talking.

I wondered if they know how lucky they are.

How incredibly lucky. To watch children grow older, year by year, to know their names and not have to invent them, to look after them and pour them glasses of milk and settle disputes over bicycles and then one day, to stand by and shade the eyes and watch them fly.

One woman in a tank top pregnant. She had not been pregnant last year. All the women eyeing their children, hands flitting through silver air, grounded by their denim capris and ponytails, always coming to the same house. Year after year, returning. With the same names. Shared names. The same weight of love on those rolled, tired shoulders.

Do they know how lucky—how goddamn lucky—they are.

Me around first or second grade in Bogota.

The first day I sat at a table with my novel as I greeted arriving alumni (compañeros). Sometimes we recognize each other sometimes we don´t – or we were here in different years. I recognize classmates of my sister Carolin too, who arrives and we have lunch.  Living on different sides of the USA we haven´t seen each other in three years.

We visited Zipaquira where an ancient salt mine – or part of it ( it is still an operational mine) has been turned  into a cathedral.

As we get off  the bus a colombiana passes around a roll of toilet paper – there are modern toilets at the mine  – but no toilet paper!

My friend Sue passing around the toilet paper roll!

Below is the entrance to the salt mine.

Mural above the entrance

entrance to the mine (wood saplings are covered by steel ribs)

A picture of the light show in one of the many carved out crosses.

Artist(s) have carved into the salt.

Town of Zipaquira

For breakfast, we went to the ex-pat haven that is African Bagel Company. The roommates and I had been salivating over the idea of cream cheese and a real bagel in middle of East Africa. All my dreams came true this morning. They even had the option of liquid milk for my coffee – I nearly died of happiness.

From there we visited the Kigali Genocide Memorial. It’s never easy to face the reality of genocide, and I left heartbroken.

In honor of the first movie theatre opening in Kigali, we saw The Great Gatsby in 3D. Although the glasses fit awkwardly over my own glasses, it was quite the escape back into the American world I’m so much more familiar with. Besides selling popcorn for $1.50 and the elaborate display case for a few Snickers candy bars, it was quite the authentic movie-going experience.

For dinner we had Chinese cuisine at a restaurant called Flamingo. They had interesting dishes – let’s call it Asian fusion. One menu section titled “Dishes in a Pineapple” is still puzzling me. But it was tasty food, and I was able to eat something that wasn’t cereal or protein bars, which is always exciting.

I’m happy to be back in my home – a home whose electricity is back on – I even put up my mosquito net. I have a feeling I’ll pull it down in my sleep, but it’s worth a shot: “When in Africa…”

Most of them laughed, and told me that I had it all wrong.  They began to tell me about their lives in NYC.  Some shared about growing up in the city, while others who were attending the universities there – like Columbia and NYU – talked about what it was like doing that.  I was officially intrigued.  These people seemed normal.  Happy.  Interesting.  They were pursuing the things I was pursuing.  They seemed well-adjusted (for the most part).  They all insisted that I had to give NYC another try.  “And this time, do not come with family!  Come with a friend.  Or by yourself.  You have couches to crash on now![1]”  I was finally persuaded.  That said, it wasn’t until spring break[2] of my senior year, when a friend and I finally made those plans to visit NYC.

. Great day to be on the water! Thanks Kurt and Ally.

My favorite flowers in the Lindengraacht Markt.

Bubble fun makes me smile.

Mail delivery, Dutch style.

Kid taxi. Jeff wants one of these for beer and bbq transport.

Gorgeous day in the city!

Best buddies! Waiting for the 5 tram.

So these pictures are my receipt for putting one foot in front of the other and not having a plan, and letting life unfold how it’s meant to be. I started the day off anxiously and am ending with joy. I wish you the same. Go outside and play.

By that I mean, they work respectable jobs earning a decent take-home that allows them to indulge in one of their passions – travelling.

If you have ever read lonely heart columns or descriptions of people on flat-sharing websites, you will find an abundance of fellow travellers. Travelling is one of the three hobbies that they list. Their job is not something they freely mention. Is it because they don’t like being pigeonholed? Accountants are boring, investment bankers are dicks, models are vapid (but would certainly brighten up the place).

Or is it that they hate their job, the mundane 9-5, weekly slog – the rat race.

Fight Club is often a movie quoted when listing your favourite movies of all time. The reason – escapism, rebelling against capitalism and sticking it to the man. Reverting to a time when we were free from conforming, multinationals, the acceptable path through life.

Now, don’t stop reading because you think I’m going to go into a diatribe on rebelling against the government or living a green existence. My point is that our holidays are a way, albeit short-lived, of not setting the alarm, wearing a suit and braving the commute in grey weather to return to a cold, dark apartment, dinner, rubbish tv and bed.

For 28 days a year (depending on what you signed up for), we can escape to warmer climes,  wear shorts and flip-flops (thongs to my Aussie friends, jandals to my Kiwi friends) and drink beer all hours of the day. Most people I know only really read books when they are reclining by a pool or on a beach under a palm tree . The rat-race is but a distant memory.

We fail to hide our envy of those Westerners who have ditched their lives back home to open a hostel/surf shop/cafe in a new, brave, exciting world. ‘It’s hard work, but it was worth giving it up to start afresh and enjoy life for what it is’ they say.

Damn, why don’t I do that?!

BUMP. That’s reality giving you a jolt as the wheels touch down at Heathrow and you recognise the unmistakable grey skies of London.

What we need is a kick-up the arse to do one of two things.

1. Suck it up and carry on. Everyone else is working hard to save to buy a house, have kids and ‘grow up’. Should be able to get a couple of holidays a year, maybe to Butlins or Disneyland depending on your salary.
2. Take a grown-up gap year.

The latter option is proving increasingly popular, the likes of STA Travel jumping onboard and publishers producing guides specifically for those having a mid-life crisis. But how long is a gap year or sabbatical. Is it really just a year?

Send me your thoughts on starting a new chapter in your life by quitting your job and travelling. Or just join me in moaning about how we all wish we had the cojones to do it.

Sometimes we set ourselves up for major disappointment when we get an idea planted in our head about how a place or a person will be when we finally meet it[1].  We spend weeks, if not months or years, fantasizing about what the thing, the place or the person looks like, and feels like, and sounds like, and smells like, and even tastes like.  We imagine, and seem to live through in our mind’s eye, these complex scenarios.  Little events that we just know, deep in the pit of our soul, will change our lives forever.  And then… When the magical day arrives, and we prepare ourselves to meet our fate, it’s like one resounding THUD in our chest.  Our hearts sink when we realize it is nothing at all like what we had created in our minds.

Well…

My arrival at Oxford in the summer of 2006 was unlike any experience before or since.  For it was exactly as I imagined it would be.  I fell in love.  Really!  I did!  The place felt like magic.  And it was the first time I had the conscious, somewhat otherworldly experience of feeling like I was home.  I was home.  I mean I knew this place.  I wandered its streets like I’d been there a million times before.  Like I’d lived lifetimes there.  It was official.  I was in love with England.

Jislaaik com! Free Home Pages, Sport, Blogs, Domains, Dating, Free Classified ads, News, Visas

Normal
0

false
false
false

EN-US
X-NONE
X-NONE

/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:”Table Normal”;
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:”";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin-top:0in;
mso-para-margin-right:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt;
mso-para-margin-left:0in;
line-height:115%;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:11.0pt;
font-family:”Calibri”,”sans-serif”;
mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:”Times New Roman”;
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}

Jislaaik com! Free HomePages, Sport, Blogs, Domains, Dating, Free Classified ads, News, Visas

No one had to think about it, no one stopped to do anything, they just all left to take care of this problem. What we see here in Ecuador is neighbor helping neighbor. We see very little police or government involvement in daily living. If there is a problem folks here find a way to solve it. If you need help all you have to do is ask and they are there for you.

We need to understand that we are part of a community of people who take charge when there is a situation that needs to be addressed. I am proud to be part of this community and hope to be able to take part to the best of my ability and fit in with these wonderful people.

I understand from one of the other neighbors that the damage to the home was extensive. I had called David Hitchcock so he will probably have some information on his blog. Figuring it Out in Ecuador at http://figuringitoutinecuador.wordpress.com/

After the house was clean, I rode my bike to the Friday market to pick up fresh bread and appetizers and vegetables. It’s finally become natural to hop on my bike to go to the store, and fill my saddle bags and basket instead of my trunk. I rode to the mall, did my shopping, and rode back in 30 minutes. Along the way I saw my little goose family. The babies are getting so big!

Did you notice the heron in the background? I am going to miss this natural beauty right out my front door when we move.

Dorine and Nadja came over tonight for a final goodbye. It’s strange that we haven’t seen them in 6 months. I think it’s because they live an hour away and are as busy traveling and entertaining as we are. I like that they live life to the fullest and was thankful that they took the time to come over for happy hour and dinner.

The weather was great again and we had dinner outside on the patio. We used the table raclette, grilling meats and veggies, melting cheeses and enjoying the wine they brought back from their trip to Italy. Juliana made April’s rum cake for dessert and we all enjoyed her baking skills.

We were able to give them a few things that we won’t be able to take back with us, like alcohol and our raclette and immersion blender. I share this because its another layer of letting go.
We are thankful for our family in Holland and will hopefully see them again in California when they come to visit us.

Have a great weekend!

Adventures of a third grader in Beijing for a year. All about having fun in China, the land and its geography, history and politics, and visiting China’s different regions and peoples. Do shadow puppetry, ride a camel in the Gobi, make dumplings on a farm, and cheer for the Guoan (World Peace) soccer team.

Vriendelijk verzoek het artikel + de link naar de petitie te forwarden naar familie, vrienden en kennissen voorzover nog niet gedaan. Hieronder de tekst; op de site kunnen reacties worden achtergelaten.

About these grandparents…  They are ones who instilled in me a love of travel.  The need to travel.  And if I weren’t the favored Granddaughter — which, as uncomfortable as it has been to admit over the years due to my sensitivity to my sisters, cousins, et al, was quite true — I wonder if I would be where I am today. They took me to various countries in Europe, to Canada, and around the United States.  At age 12, I dined in the White House with Ronald Reagan’s press secretary[1].  I also dined in the Senate Cafeteria with Teddy Kennedy and others nearby, and attended several fundraising receptions and what-not in various Senators’ & Representatives’ Chambers. My grandparents spoiled me rotten, no doubt about that.  And you know what? I loved it.  Positively and absolutely, I knew I wanted more of this.  These experiences.  It wasn’t about the flaunting of money, but I understood at a very young age, that money would sometimes be required to have the experiences.  However modest or lavish they may be.

Thankfully, my Grandfather made a point to teach me the value of money, and that it must be earned.  ”Then,” he told me, “it can be used to not only enjoy some of the luxuries the world has to offer, but also to give back to those in need.”  He instilled in me the belief that money should be used to educate ourselves so that we have something to offer back to the world.  Something to pass on to others.  Pay it forward and so on and so forth.

A strong work ethic, the value of education, the value of the dollar, and giving back to our world.  These became my standards to live by.

Now…if I could just figure out the making money part of it.  I did not choose the easy route by proclaiming to be a writer, that’s for sure.  Maybe Grandpa was right about getting that MBA?  Nah.  Too easy.  Where’s the challenge in that?

All of this is merely to illustrate the origins of my “hate-affair” with the isle of Manhattan and its surrounds.

What can I say?  Growing up in a house in the suburbs of Southern California, I was biased towards far more spacious living arrangements.  Being accustomed to that as I was, wasn’t it totally understandable that I — a mere child — would feel suffocated by the cracker-box-sized apartment in Brooklyn?  Crammed with my kin-folk?

Of course, I would later learn this was fairly typical for apartment living in the city, and when I finally moved my life here, I adapted to it with minimal difficulty.  But back in 1999, space was a luxury I was pretty sure I wasn’t willing to sacrifice.  Not to mention, I craved unobstructed views of the sky, along with the clean air and tree-lined streets that I was growing up with in my idyllic-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things Southern California suburban childhood.