Maximum two

Spoiler: that is the number of people it takes to make or break a relationship.

Recurring conversation topics nowadays in any group of people I hang out with are around cheating, open relationships, love triangles, anything involving a tad more than the average two smitten individuals. Could be that I am pathologically drawn by people prone to dysfunctional shit. Or maybe taglines like "bigger is better" or "more is more" are also catching on when it comes to the number of parties that have to participate in a relationship.  Perhaps it was there all along and people are now just more daring in tackling these subjects. Nevertheless, human matters of the heart and interaction in general are devolving. And I, of course, have a take on it.

You see, I pride myself with being an above average open minded fella. I promise I have the personality tests results to prove it. However, when it comes to this, my counting skills don't go higher than two.

Let me first clarify the borders of my distress. I'm not referring to that drunken threesome that still kind of, sort of seemed like a good idea. Or those multiple insignificant Tinder flings that one juggles in order to boost their pathetic lonesome ego. Not even  that one time when you might have accidentally fucked that other guy while your sweetheart was in summer camp. And regretted it terribly.

I'm talking about the real deal here. That something worth, well, commitment and, um, feelings and...stuff. About what you supposedly have with someone when you've informed yourself: "Bro, this is IT."

When it comes to that, there is no such thing as a third wheel, successful nose poking, second best or several significant others. Tricycles are lame. Poking only works in stuffy relationship settings.  You don't also want a Ladurée once you've had a Pierre Hermé. That's greedy. And nope, those ladies or gentlemen are definitely not qualifying as significant when plural.

I don't believe in successfully balancing two love relationships. If you thought you had those two, sad news, homie, you probably have none worth having. I don't think it's possible for a couple to dissolve because someone else showed up and interfered with their business. If there was room for interference to begin with, the intruder neither has a reason to self five, nor should be made to wear a scarlet letter for home wrecking . I absolutely don't believe in compulsively hovering over different desserts when you've carefully selected your cake.

I guess what I mean is, choose one other that is significant enough to make (maximum) two sufficient. And ride your damn bicycle of choice. After all, in the long run, that's undoubtedly better for your environment.

He's Just Not That Into You

I've recently inexplicably gained the role of trustworthy adviser for several wonderful ladies. See, they are still doing a great job at being profoundly womanly when it comes to love, infatuation and other similar drugs emotions. Which, how to put this nicely, causes them to momentarily be heartbreaking doofuses.

I honestly don't know what brought about this popularity of my recommendations. Could be my cynicism with regard to matters of the heart. Or my cold bloodiness in providing counselling to anyone's restless soul but my own. Perhaps my loudly declared conviction that sometimes, even a hint of a negative balance between costs and benefits is reason enough not to start, or settle for, anything else but absolute. Or just the fact that I happen to be there, with the rudeness of a truck driver, telling them what they don't want need to hear.

You see, I am by no means claiming to be some sort of scholar in the arts and crafts of handling true adoration, or more likely lack thereof. I just happened to learn one or two things whilst naively being at the receiving end of fifty shades of shit, and becoming the aforementioned doofus myself. To be clear, I am not referring to subtle hints, possible lose end situations or hidden meaning actions. I am talking here about the obvious, the coarse, the ugly.  Allow me to exemplify.

He is using internationally acknowledged language for what i like to call "on-the-hook-ness".My personal favorite is "Not right now". Which translates, with no exception, into "Oh, don't mind me, I know you have a ton of feelings so I will keep you pointlessly hung up here a little. Or a lot, I've not decided just yet."

He's sleeping with your sister. Or your best friend, who just so happens to be a guy. Or your pet goat. Or anyone else for that matter.

He set your car on fire. Or stole your wallet. Or drank the last beer.

He prioritizes anything and anyone else but you, and should you point it out he claims that you're an overly attached, delusional, suffocating person.

He is mindful of his own comfort at any cost. He is giving ridiculously little,yet feels entitled to the whole of your world, time, feelings, money, chocolate cake, vagina.

Should you, my dear, have ticked any of the above, (yes, including the beer), here's a thought to prevent you from imminent disillusion.

Maybe the timing is bad. Or he is a little broken. Perhaps he does not know how to express his feelings. Maybe this and that. But very likely and very simple, he's just not that into you.

The Pointless Chase

Okay, it is a fact, people do shiloads of pointless things throughout their life under the umbrella of "everyone does it, so there must be a point to it". Obviously I'm not going to tackle all of them, that would mean arguing with a rough 99% of mankind's actions and would lead us to a (pointless) conversation about the meaning of life and other deep shit. However, I will refer to a recurring theme nowadays, which has me perplexed on how we unnecessarily complicate our lives. And just to clarify, by "we" I mean you including me, as I definitely am prone to such condemnable behaviour.

I will start from the (I hope not far-fetched) assumption that everyone wants to find true love. Or okay, maybe that is a bit too corny. Say the majority of us, the less ambitious, want to find  at least some warm substitute to IT (the true love that is), to snuggle with on the couch on a Sunday afternoon and complain about how shitty our day was. And to talk, fuck, laugh or, what do I know, other actions we supposedly cannot perform as well on our own.

Then comes the typical scenario. Girl meets Boy, or should I say, Woman meets Man, as we're all pretending to be adults here.  They interact a bit and both decide (in their heads only, of course) that they like each other and there's some potential future laughing, talking, fucking, snuggling on couches and complaining about bad days. They play a completely unnecessary game to exchange phone numbers or Facebook IDs, and when they eventually do, the Pointless Chase begins.

Let me explain. You see, as I mentioned before, they both decided they liked each other. However each will go out of their way to prove the contrary, thus earning desirability points (???) . She will not call first because of double standards, because she might seem too eager and easy and all of the such. And of course, because as soon as she shows a bit of interest, it's game over. He will not call the first 3,5,7 days either, because she will then think he's weak or clingy and a potential overly attached boyfriend. And what man in their right mind wants that? And this is just a first sample of the never-ending chase that will follow, to continuously establish who's in a position of power in that relationship, that has not even started yet. Which makes a whole lot of sense, eeerm.

In a happy end scenario, they will manage to hook up. However, they will have wasted a lot of time they could have spend together instead. Factoring in the assumptions that they were both looking for companionship and there was mutual attraction from the very beginning, point proven, the chase was pointless. In a less joyful case scenario, while one of the parties is busy putting all that effort in earning desirability points, the other party (who let's not forget, was interested to begin with) might get bored, or fall in love with a more interesting hunter, playing the game better. Again, point proven, futile chase.

Maybe I am simple minded this way, but I'd say, since we already have a lot of chasing to do in our everyday life anyway, why not make this slight percentage of it easier? You likey, me likey, let's go, no?

Loving with Nobody to Love

First time I fell in love I was eight. His mother was my dentist and he was the smartest boy I had ever met.Child of divorce, a bit damaged, with dark hair and eyes and a resonant name. He used to give me his fluorescent lollipop cards and say that it was hell if I didn't love him back. He said his shirt had a sensual print. I said the same...about my 101 dalmatian print blue leggings. We went to summer camp together, I drooled on his desk after his mom fixed my tooth, we danced on Backstreet Boys. Then he left the city. We would still see each other every once in a while when his parents would visit mine. I would make the most awkward jokes and wear the shortest skirt, even when having my both knees grotesquely bandaged. He was the first guy who made me want to be the best version of myself. I swore to love him forever, and all the love songs were happy and about us back then.

I met my second big crush when I was in the 6th grade. Again a very dark haired boy, this time with the bluest eyes ever. Fatherless, a bit damaged, it seemed like a nice pattern to follow. I went to social studies gatherings and sang in the choir just to spend time with him. I drove my best friend crazy by talking on and on about him, dragging her for endless walks by his block just hoping to run into him. It went on for a while, and by then the love songs, which of course were about us, had started to be bitter sweet. I was already discovering how confusing young love could be, but still happily crippled my emotions all over again.

After a string of small, poetic flings, that kept my hyper heart busy enough, I decided to give another piece of me for keeps. What started as friendship and gratitude to (yet another) the dark haired boy who was by my side in the darkest hours, turned out to be the greatest love my 18 year old self could accommodate. I guess that after tons of happiness, promises, bliss, learnings, firsts, but an equal amount of anxiousness and hurt, a great love that is not THE love can only turn back into its initial state, of immense gratitude. For the teaching that sometimes it is okay for love songs to be sad, one can gracefully survive and even dance on them.

My latest discovery is that you can become oblivious even to the Theme Song of your life. Rollercoasters do stop running eventually, and neither heavenly nor heartbreaking songs last forever, even if they temporarily tell Your story.

Now for the first time in almost two decades, all the love songs are happy again. It is easier when they're not about anyone. Just like loving, that is easier with nobody to love.

2000 and 13 Clichés

As these days I find myself confined in bed, fighting "not-malaria", a wrap up of the year that just ended seems very much called for. After all, it's been one of the most interesting and emotionally diverse years of my life. How many clichés can one fit in a year's time? I had to catch'em'all, I mean, overachiever much? And since I know very well that (Cliché#1) time does wash everything away, and this is one of those years I do want to remember with clarity, here goes what the past 12 months taught me, of course, the hard way.

My 2013 started with metaphorical clouds of storm and actual rainy days, in what better a setting than the (Cliché#2) city of love. Which is a bit ironic, cause right there I was ambushed into (Cliché#3) letting go of a whole love related lot. And since I saw no choice, with a tiny resigned heart I obliged, or at least so I thought. But how very wrong I was thinking that I can, just like that, accept what for me was a less than ideal course of events. And how many intrinsic back and forths and illegitimate feelings and hope I had to fight. Took an unacceptably long amount of time and a whole lot of ego taming to understand that it is perfectly possible that someone cannot love you the way you want them to. And that (Cliché#4) even if you find their new heart direction useless and inappropriate because it is not right up your street, it doesn't mean it's not there at all.

Upon wrapping up half a horrible year in Paris, an extremely overrated location for that matter, time came to move to Amsterdam. And I be damned if I was not bamboozled when I wept for letting go of my 20 square meter studio in the 17th district and my coldhearted colleagues. Because of course, (Cliché#5) one's routine, even if bad and harming in its nature, is something one finds comforting in the face of something new. But there I was, having signed up for an everything but routinary lifestyle, carrying more than I could handle, in all possible senses. But after moments of perfect soul storm I switched to this new home and to a new stage of 2013, not lacking all kinds of lessons, more or less trivial. I taught myself (Cliché#6) how to ride a bike in Amsterdam, seems like I have a taste for choosing resonant locations. Soon after, I turned 26, and one of my biggest dreads, the late 20's, kicked off. (Cliché#7) I felt a different age for the first time after quarter a century, but good different for that matter. Then I discovered, the hard way of course, with tears and sweat and a whole new level of heartache (Cliché#8) that the best way to get over an obsession is to replace it with a fresh and as different as possible one.

Sometime halfway through the year the news about my third assignment came along, and then a distinct drama broke loose. Needless to say that stability had not been my strongest suit this past year, but I suddenly felt like I was being forcedly extracted from everything that was at least remotely familiar and thrown some unnecessary thousands of miles away. It was in the process of acceptance of this new upcoming reality when a few more truths occurred to me, not the easiest to digest. (Cliché#9) Difficult circumstances make for unlikely friendships, and (Cliché#10) similar experiences fast forward people's closeness. Complementary, (Cliché#11) those few people who matter and whom you matter for will stay despite of the rootlessness, the growing apart or outgrowing each other or even an actual continent standing in between.

By far the toughest relationship wisdom of last year, experienced from both perspectives -that of affection projector and projectee - was (Cliché#12) not taking people who care about you for granted. Because there's so much one can put up with before they say "F it, I am done". And while it is the easiest to take it out on people who you know love you, thinking that unconditional love will be enough for prioritizing your arrogant and needy ass, there is a limited amount of tantrums and eyes rolling one can prioritize you over. Because flash news, (Cliché#13) someone's boundless affection is not synonymous to them sticking around forever.

To wrap up a majestic 2013, in the 4th quarter my Africa begun. Which is too big of a deal to even begin fitting it in last year's story. Which was and still is beyond any imaginable cliché and beyond my explanatory power. The experience I feared most and still fear, that caused me to cross a lot of my boundaries and break a number of rules, that thought me different is not better or worse. Just refreshingly different, just how I feel now while blowing my nose, color coding my wardrobe and writing stupid sweet nothings.

Fruit taste better in Nigeria. Mac cosmetics are the best. There's no place like home. French people don't like to speak English. Your best friends are the same kind of crazy as you. You'll not be given more than you can handle. There are a million bikes in Amsterdam. Feelings put on hold are prone to kick back when one’s ready for them.

All of this and 2000 other tiny things broke my inside into tiny pieces and put it back together last year. And I kid you not, this refurbishment was much awaited for.

That Awkward Moment

That awkward moment. When your prude princessy arse is taken out of its comfort zone. Way out. Say...7000 km. When one afternoon, without too much warning, you find yourself away from everything you are familiar with, both literally and figuratively. When your common sense is so peculiar to your new environment that you cannot do anything else but smile, and...wait. For something, or everything, to happen.

It only takes an email announcing you you're flying to Lagos soon, to be living there for half a year. After a series of initial "OMGs" and "WTFs" and "why me's", you experience a complete change in your priorities. You suddenly start telling people more [of course in a very awkward way] how much they mean to you. Not that you didn't love them before. But the perspective of being shipped thousands of miles away makes it more necessary to express it. So your love declarations fly out as often as you fly back home. Which is disturbingly often, to somehow compensate for the months you skipped before and the absent months you are about to serve. The logic of that? None whatsoever.

Then you start preparing. Physically but mostly mentally. You oscilate a million times between "f this shit, I'm going home" and "f, let's do this, I'm moving to Nigeria" with no clear pattern and of course, no logic in your decision making process. You discover how difficult it is to obtain a visa for this country, while running around to put together a huge pile of requested documents. You take a million shots against all these weird diseases, panic in the process, go again through the two gate decision tree, and make up your mind on moving forward. Buy all these crazy things and stuff your luggage with blond hair products and medicine, cause you don't expect to find them here. And you're superficial and prejudiced, but you're right.

You start asking random people for their opinion. They divide themselves into two big groups: the "Oh wow" and the "Oh yay", which of course doesn't help you in any way. You hear annoyingly often words like challenging, interesting, different, fascinating, which can only mean trouble. You start asking for input from people who've experienced the same thing. They give you precious information (to which you react either by panic or nervous laughter) but tell you that some things cannot be explained, you have to see them for yourself to understand. You have no idea what they're talking about, and imagine they are just being unnecessarily mysterious. You understand immediately what they meant once you set foot at the destination.

You pack, fly the longest flight in your life, land, scared shitless and embrace it all, even if sometimes forcedly. People ask you how you find it, you say challenging, interesting, different, fascinating...way too often. Then you say that some things cannot be explained, one has to see them for oneself to understand. They have no idea what you're talking about.

That awkard moment. When you are thorn between living The experience of your life and living Your life.

The Rootless

Every time I start gathering the many small pieces of my existence to move them somewhere new, I am invaded by equally numerous worries, more or less justified and obviously, more or less superficial. I’ve been called (yet again) shallow when I found out I was going to Africa for six months and one of my first thoughts was ‘What am I going to do about my blond hair? Who is going to dye my roots?’

If there is something I already appreciate about African ladies, without having interracted with too many of them though, is their amazing volatility when it comes to hairstyles. But as much as I appreciate that, somehow I am pretty sure that taking care of thin and moody blond hair is not on their skill list. And don’t get me wrong, I had the same fear while travelling around Europe. Shout shallow again, but it seems like my hair is one of my top concerns nowadays.

So after a few jittery days I had an epiphany, maybe it’s not the end of the world if the roots stay for a while. Anyway, they are the only ones I can hold on to nowadays. Which brings me to the actual point of this tell-tale.

I’ll admit, two whole paragraphs on ‘50 shades of blond’ can be tough to digest, but [in my defense] it was just meant as a witty (?) lexicon introduction to the matter at hand. It shall be called‘The rootlessness’.

They say that persons who keep moving around for several years experience this unfortunate feeling of non-belongingness. Which of course, to compensate, has its perks, like freedom from all imaginable constraints, independence, increased adaptability and tolerance, all those amazing, beautiful people you get to meet, the pride of calling oneself ‘a (wo)man of the world’ or an ‘international kid’.

I’m honestly afraid that one of my special talents is to be an early adopter of all them ugly truths. So take this as a testimony of an international kid, after only one year of wandering the wonders of the world. A kid who does feel and appreciate the perks, for sure more than the non-belongingness. But also acknowledges that she’s become ruthlessly rootless.

Thus here's acknowledging what may be nerve wrecking for the poor devils of the world. It's the endless anxiousness of not knowing where she’ll end up next. The heart ache when he sees all of his loved ones partying together +2000 km away. The lack of a fair notion of what “home”is, as this home changes so often that it can be anywhere. A messed up value system and crazily high and unrealistic expectations. The long flights, jet lags, heavy drinking, forever new and empty houses, endless string of goodbyes and fresh beginnings. But most of all, circumstantiality in everything. Mostly with people who are walking in their life, taking a small piece of their existence, giving a new piece in return.

But hey, who can be prouder of having such a diverse and international heart? No matter how patched and rootless.

You Will Never Know

How I sometimes cannot eat my stupid dull sandwich or chase my pet mouse or proudly ride my colored bike without thinking what if.
How I could take me 3 years, 3 months, 3 seconds, to go from zero to crazy because of you only.
How I never told you I knew for sure you were the one, and then you just knew you weren't.
How I have no doubt it was wise to let you let me go, but then I have them all.
How I became so much better for you, and all of the sudden so much worse because of you.
How I knew I did not want crazy eyed, thin haired, moody and bipolar babies wearing tiny uggboots and foreign names, till I knew I did because they could mean more you's.
How I never shouted you should go, stay, care, come back when I should have said everything, and when you should have done everything.
How I don't care about being blunt about how I feel for the last time, or actually for the first.
How you'd make me more retarded and controlless than a space cake.
How I wanted you to be the happiest and I the one to cause it, and how disarming was to discover that I could only do that by pulling a disappearance act.
How I act half my age when having to face and stand up for my own truth, or when it comes to accepting concepts like No, Impossible, Contretemps.
How I was not ready to save you yet.
How I am scared that someone will love me differently, too soon, especially now when I try to persuade myself that different is better.
How I am even more scared that this one time ever you really knew what you were doing.

How this is not meant to be a bold statement nor a lame love song, but it's most definitely much of both.

You will never know. Only that now, you do.

Just A Lil' Bit's Enough

I just got a reason, and just a little bit was enough of the feeling that

something is going better instead of the already notorious negative trend.

I am quarter a century old and learning something completely new, just when I was starting to think that I was running out of possible new experiences. Even the 'never have I ever' started to be boring, I would get drunk so easily on my lack of new firsts. 

But voila! Never have I ever biked. Sunday it was my first time ever getting on a bike, and after half an hour of failed attempts to maintain my balance, despite the lovely encouraging smile and hoorays of my ad hoc teacher, I thought I would never be able to do it. Another half an hour later, I was slightly getting the hang of it and actually pedalling quite shyly. 

Today, second time ever on a bike. Proved once again that I am as selfsufficient as one can possibly be when it comes to learning something. It's like denying myself part of the victory if I ask for someone's help (although at times I should be screaming for it). Why do it differently this time? Some football court square meters, sixty minutes, a million micro heart attacks and two million bruises later, triple the ego, I can actually pride myself with pretty decent biking skills for a newbie.

Saddest or best part of this, or both at once, is that I cannot even remember when was the last time when my motivation and my pride skyrocketted together like this. So I am going to do what I do best, extrapolate, blow everything out of proportion, make a huge deal of a random humdrum act such as biking and infer that things can be going in a good direction once I decide to keep rolling. 

I have to give this blue and purple bike that I am so fullheartedly riding a name. A little bit of blue melancholy, a little bit of purple craziness, what if I just call it Life? Mine.

Anything could happen

I guess we know that's just what humans do.

Crave for a little change and challenge, and get the full package instead. I mean, who would have imagined that only a few days and some hundred km away everything would be so overwhelmingly different?

I have to say, judging by some random sane standards, new does not necessarily mean better. I have the food, a cold house and the bipolar weather (at least) to vouch for that. But different probably does. The people, the paved roads, the lightheartedness, the stupid stoopwafels.

Cheers to the different, right? This time I choose to be not only foolishly but fully in, and whilst letting go of everything ever possible, I will hopefully start getting something in return, whatever that is. I would bet on my own self, who knows when and  to whom that was lost. 

Cheers to the different I said, with a glass of Zinfandel rose while searching for summerly NY flights, just to prove that despite all the rush of change I can still belong, even if in bits and pieces and not rightfully so.

Sensor based heating when indeed so much need to move (on), clean slate, a singing secretary, hundred square meters and a heart to fill, cheap love, a little imaginary (?) mouse for company since pets are not allowed, a blue and purple bike, big windows, innovation, a beer, two beers, three beers...I guess that from now on anything could happen.

(And now I know the truth that anything could happen. And though I think I need you, I guess it does not really matter.)

Extraordinarily Ordinary

Worst thing you could possibly ever do to someone: go ahead and make them believe they're exceptional. Exceptionally good or outstandingly bad. Happened, eeerm, to a friend of mine, to be misled , on and on, in concentric and vicious circles, from trivial to core levels. True story, thus now she's learning stuff the hard way and paying the dues for not knowing how to take in the averageness.

Let's imagine this little bitter story. Say we have a baby girl who happens to walk and talk 'exceptionally well' when 1 year old. While the parents are a bit bummed for not having some gags and stutters to laugh about, they say, damn, we did well, this is a good one, one hell of an exceptional child. Say the girl goes on doing some unusual stuff for her age, drawing, singing, reading, being adorable, conquesting the adults, being first in class and shit. Say she learns from the ones around her she is doing some amazing things, thus she must be exceptional. Also say she starts to learn and value the taste of this outstandingness, to the point where it does not suffice for her to be exceptional on her own, but also by comparison.

Say she goes on and on like that, living her life and making her choices ruled by this god of exception, and that everyone is very happy to feed on that. Say she cries for any less than maximum grade, and suffers for every person she has chosen and does not love her exceptionally. Say she cannot bear to accept minor success, mild pain or mere happiness, because one must be extraordinary, no matter the price. That the only thing she is sure of is that over the top is always better than fair. And that life is only worth living from a certain degree of comparison upwards.

Say that she is just learning the hard way that averageness is an option, even if it is not. And that there are times when you cannot be exceptional...if you are not.

Failure junkie

There was a time when I had learned the hard way that one has to enjoy every day they get to live and breathe. I had conceded that one has to appreciate every experience, be it positive or negative, to the fullest, and always get something [the most] out of it. It sounds like extreme motivational crap, but at the time I had reasons to think it was true. After taking in and spitting out all the anger and frustration, I had reasons to think for a while that I was the luckiest. I had dodged a bullet, so I needed not trip on the trivia, be unhappy or dissatisfied for the most insignificant reasons. Because then the significant stuff span in a completely superior sphere.

But of course that any experience, no matter how significantly good or bad, fades away with time. Did I hear someone say time heals everything? They were right. So I started to forget. And to calibrate the significance of all happenings to my current status. And now being confident that there is a tomorrow, of course I can make a huge deal about my nail polish chipping. Or a genuine drama because French does not stick to me once and for all.

Thus I went back to being an addict for failure.It's like running around in circles and always finding reasons to be malcontent, of course making everyone well aware of it and if possible also spreading a sense of guilt all over. It works like this. You think you want something, work for it, scream and shout. It eventually happens, but maybe not exactly when you wanted it or with some minor adjustments. Then you don't want it anymore, set your mind to having failed, just because, well, you can.It doesn't even matter if some things work out for the best, there's always something that does not happen just perfectly. And you, being addicted to dissatisfaction, will choose to cling to that instead.

That I complain a lot, well, it's common fact. People around me always try to remind me that there's some things that are not even worth complaining about. That I am selfish and should think about those who are really having a hard time before going all bitchy about some meaningless shit. I am aware of my selfishness, and I can even be sympathetic to other persons' misfortunes. But on one hand I cannot do anything to change that, and on the other I had my own share of big misfortunes. Now I just face my own small unhappinesses tailored to my small existence. Which are by no means less significant, which trouble me more than necessary, it is true, and into which I dive fullheartedly, like the failure junkie that I am.

Ça va? Hell no.

I grew older and fancier all of the sudden. I left behind the old famous pair question-answer "-How are you?-Fine" for the classier "-Ça va?-Oui." However, a trivial question is the same no matter the language. And lying, even if in French, is still lying.

The overcrowded trains that are always late and smelling funky, Ça ne va pas. Neither do the complicated subway hallways, forever scenting like piss.

The lilliputian apartments with see-through bathroom doors, Ça ne va pas.

People reaching a whole new level of inefficiency and rudeness, Ça, for sure, ne va pas. Likewise putting on hold the idea of making local friends.

Having to clench your teeth and force yourself to get out of the bed in the morning, not looking forward to anything, Ça, for sure, must be wrong. Always having the impression you are wasting people's time, but mostly yours, again, awkward.

Being sucked in by a completely messed up system, which drains away your positive energy and motivation, I must say, Ça ne va pas. Suddenly finding Africa to be an appealing option, what about that?

Despite of all the tasty pain au chocolat and sparkling tours, my honeymoon period is done. And I just learned the hard way that you cannot force any kind of love on people, and I am for sure not in love with this. So, just like I always answered "Fine" with a huge smile on my face or a nervous laugh, I keep saying "Ça va bien", even if it most definitely doesn't.

Apologies, for Losing my Cooling

Making excuses can become a vicious hobby. If you are preoccupied with developing your career, it may in time even turn into a full time job. Should you want to go and surf a little bit the scholar side, you might as well get your PhD in the art of being apologetic. And you reckon it's okay, like with all your other nasty habits, you think that if all the others do it, more or less, it is for sure acceptable and why not somewhat normal. But what happens when making excuses becomes a way of life, the only one you acknowledge? When you're so far off in this soothing routine that you start making excuses even to your own self? Say you reach that awkward moment when you are so caught up into finding an excuse for the frustration, or the unhappiness, or all the things happening (or not) in your world that it soaks up all your stamina. Say I reached it.

I personally make excuses, I'd even say I mastered an expert level. You'd imagine, since I so like to excel in everything I embark upon, with a slight preference for the destructive. I feed them excuses back and forward. Sometimes because I am lazy, sometimes cause I am introverted or weak or afraid. Other times because I am a too naive, and despite all odds still a believer. I make excuses equally for and to myself, unbiasedly for and  to the people around me. But so much conciliatory feedback and forth has got me fed up.

I know it should be as simple as this. If you suck at doing your job, it is probably because for some sort of twisted reason it is not the right one for you. If one does not make you equally peaceful and thrilled, it is simply probably because they are not the right one for you. If someone doesn't write or call or <insert random action> you back, it's because they don't want to. If people are constantly cold or mean, it is not because they are damaged or twisted and they secretly need you to fix them, it is just because they don't care enough to make an effort. So they probably don't deserve any effort back, not even the one to make an excuse for them.  If you are not happy with something, it is probably because you are doing it wrong, and not because all the planets aligned in order for you to be miserable. And yes, I cannot only imagine, but also know, that most of the time, making an excuse is easier than standing up to any kind of discomfort. But also I, the ultimate excuse junkie, can vouch that (more often than just) sometimes this string of easiest choices and this tray of appealing apologetic cupcakes ends up in a huge pile of debris. Okay, maybe this was a bit too figuratively put. Or too culinary?

For what is worth, as I conceded before, life is too short to remove usb safely. Or to keep making excuses when it gets down to your own hapiness. Eeerm, apologies, but can we try for a little while no alarms and no surprises, and no more excuses, please?

Unless they are the really good kind.

Everything is Changing and I Don't Feel the Same

So I say I wander my own land. I've chosen, more or less, to wander here, stating  not to fear the distance, the loneliness, the novelty or the change. And it's true, distance gives me perspective, loneliness (although extremely rare and momentary) gives me time (though not so much as I expected and needed) to introspect and quietness (if I ignore my neighbors moving furniture all the time) to think about my own self, novelty is amazing by its own nature, change however gives me mixed feelings.

See, unlike some people who have a huge list of golden rules and principles (and good for them!), I don't have too many stable lifelong beliefs (and yes, I know saying that is redundant, we already set in stone my bipolarity). But on the tip of my tongue these days happens to be one of them, which is of course the trigger for this odyssey (or more like soap opera) episode.

I often say (and also strongly believe it) that people cannot change fundamentally, of course, without completely excluding that one exception that confirms the rule, which to my defense, I did not yet have the chance to encounter. I agree, people might be influenced by their fellows (sometimes friends, more often than normal enemies [drumroll.... inception, parentheses within parentheses, just to briefly touch on our dysfunctional habit of putting in more effort to impress people we don't like than people we like, doing and trying things we wouldn't normally do] to try another type of music, to adopt a funkier styling or to smoke a cigarette. This range of different endeavors, scaled according to their importance, say 1 for tasting a spicy pork roll when you don't really like pork and 10 for moving in with your friend's friend, who you happen not to stand (not sure if I got the grading accurately but you see my point), can depict some fleeting behavioural adaptation, but, who are we kidding, not a veritable change of character. So, bad news to all the dreamy girls out there who are dating jerks and still hope they will change in time. Mmmnope, they most definitely won't, so if a nice guy is what you want, just find one that is already nice.

Now that I clarified the 'never-changing paradigm', of course there's a corollary, actually the topic I wanted to develop to begin with. Despite their characters which are bound not to change, people are experiencing  ever-changing circumstances, feelings, relationships. And this is what worries me, the dynamics of all these elements that I cannot control, which even if not fundamentally changing me or my significant others, do have a huge say on how our course of events develops.

I guess there is no unique approach and probably no generally accepted good way to act upon change hitting us. Some people shut up about it, choosing to disappear in the tenebrousness of the change that was imposed on them, to ignore the mess and to run away from taking responsibility (a neverending run if you ask me). Some book a ticket last minute and they go back in time, to indulge in what used to be before the change (a momentary run if you ask me). Some others slap the change in her face with some more change, giving up on any trace of balance (reckless behaviour if you ask me, the one I personally embrace most, resulting in blonde hair for example).

See, I don't know if  anyone gets my point, these guys don't . The essence is there if we change the song name though. Everything is changing. And I don't feel the same.

You Own Me, Lucky You.

One quarter down from the first third of my very own life changing experience, one of the first slightly sour evenings, thus a sudden urge to write down the things I've learned and/or experienced so far.

Firstly about Paris, France and the French. No stereotype setting intended, but simply a biased subjective summary of the stuff I had the fortune/misfortune to go through. The first impressions, expressed here, obviously remain valid.

The almighty cornerstone, which unfortunately sets the pace and mood for each and every of my days here: the language. While pleasant for the ear, it's painful to be learnt. And how naive should an expat be to even hope of fast becoming articulate and having a dreamy accent accompanying an incredibly fast-paced discourse?  So yes, here, they speak a lot, and fast, and loud, both to the point and beating around the bush. And no, having studied French for a decade and a half does not help much, it all resets when speaking to a native. And no, if they have the French option open, they will not speak to you in another language.

The food. Is still great, and I say this after having tried several traditional dishes and also international food cooked their way. Sweets are unbelievable, probably a reasonable explanation for the tons of weight I've put on. But then again, how could one give up on their 'macaron', 'croissant', 'eclair' or 'pain au chocolat'? Then again, after my other expat experience in Norway (more details right here), no wonder the French food is a miracle. Their cheese, their wine, their quiches, goddam'em.

The people. Are really nice in general, but considerably kinder if you make the effort to address them in their own language (yes, again the language paradigm, I might have a slight obsession). The guys are pretty shy, and, as previously noted, pretty...pretty, probably way too pretty. And they're really big on Eastpack backpacks, literally each Parisian guy has one. The women are outspoken and straightforward, and not as stereotypically ladylike and fashionable as I would have expected. Oh and really big on tights and blonde highlights. I mean really, really enthusiastic. Overall they're quite pleasant people, having managed to shake out  my preconception about the rude typical French. All peachy peachy, but have I mentioned the 'no English language' policy?

Places to visit, things to do. The abundance is overwhelming, and I'm still baffled by my cheesy girly nature and by how a quick glimpse to a tacky sparkling Tour Eiffel can turn my day around. Seriously speaking though, Paris has so much to offer,  that planning a trip here should be on anyone's shortlist. I'm not going to start enumerating a list of landmarks to be more convincing, you can find a 'top 10' or a 'top 50' anywhere. Just know it from me as well that when it comes to travelling, Paris, it is worth it!

Miscellaneous. A few more random facts before the length of the opinion-sharing becomes unbearable. Really tiny, overpriced, cozy apartments, a weirdly inefficient and slow work rhythm, great transportation system, strangely high prices for cosmetics, many benefits for youth under 26, a fair range of shopping opportunities, very moody weather.

Secondly, about me in Paris. Basically, the equation is simple, Crina+Paris=Love. But then again, on one hand anyone+Paris=Love, on the other Crina+anything can equal love if the circumstances are right, this being an (obvious) hint to my being prone to getting overly attached to people, places, objects, especially on grounds of novelty and loneliness. Fact is that even though I am terribly missing some elements from back home and I have it rough sometimes, for the time being I am (overall) happier here than anywhere else I've been before. Fact is that after seas and oceans of Bucharest tears, the first shy wave of Parisian ones is apparently yet to arrive, so something must be right. Fact is that I am my worst critic, and this is crippling my joy and taking away some of this great experience, also keeping myself from bringing my A game. Fact is that I am happy, but not happy enough, I am doing good, but not good enough.

So Paris, you own me, lucky you. Why won't you own me already?

To Wish Impossible Things

I kept wishing my life to be at least slightly less complicated.I would clench my teeth every time things would go weird and be stressed through the roof at the slightest sign of derail from the planned trajectory. Every time something would not go as my (mild) inner control freak would imagine, I would summon the Gods and have that awkward conversation about what I keep doing wrong to deserve such intricacies. Then I would remind them that I already had my fair share of convoluted, so some monotony would be good for a change. 

Of course, derailments and delays would occur as frequently as in our beloved national railway system. And what else remained there than to stir up the drama, to pump up the blood pressure, murder some afore-happy neurons, complain tons, get on people's nerves a lot and come out as a needy brat, cry some supposedly legit tears and curse a little more whoever was making everything so complicated. Whatever this complicated meant, and measured relative to...whatever. 

Random or deep equally, everything would get to me. See, I wished I were less sensitive, both teeth wise and emotions wise, for example. I wished I would love without a 2000+ km lag, but I guess even if people and circumstances change significantly, that doesn't seem to get better. I wished I did not feel the strange need to prove I was worth it all the time. I wished I found the perfect shampoo and I wouldn't hate conditioner so much, that would have made things easier for my hair, whom I worship even if not worshiped back, despite of the literal twists and turns and breaks. I wished I were not so sickish and fearful. I wished I could get to that point when I would concede I have enough stuff and voluntarily decide to stop recurring to shopping therapy, thus putting an end to literally buying something (no matter how insignificant) every single day. I wished for more honest conversations and screamed out loud affection. I hoped I would stop eating out of boredom and get over my newly acquired weight self-consciousness. I wished I figured out where I wanted to go professionally. I wished I spoke perfect French and I didn't choose to be shy and introvert in the outmost inappropriate circumstances. I wished I lost my stupid nervous guffaw I bursted into every time I didn't know how to handle a situation. 

Less drama, more balance, more intimacy, less awkwardness, more genuine laughter, less shutting in, plane tickets bought in the right direction, nails not breaking, the right person/place/time mix, cheesiness in cheese cake only, longer and warmer days, a sense of security and a pointer to what is right,  ratless picnics on the shore of Seine, these are merely a percentile of what I would have liked to see change.

I kept wishing my life to be at least slightly less complicated, so I would cry my heart out longing for some straightforward happenings. Four weeks of wonderfully estranged being, and I dry cheekedly say that I might as well have learnt something the hard way, while fullheartedly diving into the complicated. To stop wishing for impossible things. 

She's Yes, Then She's No

At the end of the day, both literally and figuratively, it all comes down to my softcore bipolarity.

It's what people would notice most, so right after their thinking either that I am overly chatty and annoying, or quite the opposite, rather funny and cute (and I chose these particular idiosyncrasies because they are apparent at the very first sight, one just needs to make their choice), It pops. Forget about discovering after a while that there's more to me than just being hilarious or irritating, bipolarity is there to linger. Just like a very unpleasant red wine stain on your favorite white shirt. Or on your favorite girl.

It goes like this with my momentary states of mind. Just give me two seconds, and I will for sure display two completely different ones, confusing the poor spectator, disheartening the active participant to the moody soap opera. Fortunately, if the state is not well rooted in my heart brain, it could easily take just a blink to forget about the rage, frustration, pessimism, discomfort and go back to the jolliness. Unfortunately, jolliness is as precarious as all the above monsters. Unfortunately too, love can also be classified as a state of mind, so it is also quite prone to precariousness.

It goes exactly the same when I attempt to write. While my trigger for writing is pretty clear (i.e. uncomfortable circumstances, tonight more precisely the pouring Parisian rain) it's never easy picking the subject, the plot, the punch line. Allow me to exemplify. I was torn between making this post about how horribly frustrating it feels when you're facing language barriers and cannot fully speak your mind, then I remembered that my boss wears green glasses and teddy bear socks, so everything must be okay. Then I was getting ready to unravel my only good piece of advice when it comes to love, but I remembered a sad love story and put the romanticism on hold, just to giggle the moment after when thinking randomly about a certain him. I ended up writing about, well, a little bit of this and little bit of that, some sort of corny, some sort of frisky, scarily accordingly to my own way of being.

And while, despite the evidence, at macro level I have it almost all figured out, my day-to-day is still trivially composed of an endless string of little nothings about which, ultimately, I cannot decide how I feel.

I hate...being bipolar...is so good.

I Will Run until My Feet No Longer Run No More

I used to think running is foolish. What would it take to change my mind?

Tell me it clears my head.
Tell me it makes me look better.
Tell me the road is mine only and mine to keep.
Sprinkle my way with surprising people that make it hard not to run away from all the bad.
Take away all the balance I knew and relied upon.
Take me away.
Make me take decisions.
Challenge me and my jolliness.
Acknowledge me, that makes it all real and intimidating.

I started running and I am for sure running away. But at least I am moving forward, until my feet no longer run no more.

The First Day (of the Rest of my Life)

At this point I reckon I've been pretty outspoken about it, so there's probably no one not aware that as of this Friday I'm living in Paris for the following half a year.

Obviously, some fresh thoughts after my weekend spent here.

CDG airport is really pretty and well organized. I literally had my luggage running on the belt in around 10 minutes, which would never happen in Bucharest. Or in Amsterdam. Or wherever. Might have been just a fluke but it doesn't matter. Afterwards, the way to the bus/metro/taxis was quite comprehensive, so some more extra points for this unexpected French effectiveness. Even more extras for the taxi service, safe and fast and not at all dubious, with a really pleasant chauffeur. A little expensive, but totally worth the money.

Then the hotel for the first night. It was supposed to be a 3-star but was far from it. Kudos to the friendliness of the staff, who despite their limited English tried their best to cater to my needs.

Vive Google maps, who allowed me to get myself around in a really efficient manner. Vive the (only) nice girl from HR who took care to book a hotel at a walking distance from the studio they rented out for me.

The apartment. Is really cozy, equipped wonderfully with everything from teaspoons to pillows and to a washing machine. Even if it is rather small and built in a strange old building with a twisted wooden staircase, it is perfectly chic, modern, and suited to my needs. Extra points for the white furniture and for the surpise bed under my double bed. More extra points for the quiet and safe neighbourhood, and for the proximity to the city center. A small minus for being rather far from the office in the suburbs, but I guess this is the trade-off, ultimately the most advantegeous one.

The food. Just the one from the supermarket I've tried, priced moderately, somewhere between Bucharest and Oslo. The range of products is good, I'll not suffer from scarcity. Oh and I discovered they have Marks and Spencer food stores, so a big hurray!

The people. Look calm, polished and beautiful, and they speak this amazing language I shamefully cannot produce properly.

I this first weekend I walked over 15 km, discovered some Starbuckses and a huge Haagen-Dazs store,  bought groceries and office pants (not from the same place),wandered the entire Champs-Elysees, saw the Triumph Arch, got lost, was asked for directions, spoke a bit of French, was visited by a neighbour, unpacked my bags, and plenty more. 

What I did not do, despite the evidence, is be sad or homesick. So this can only mean these are the first days of the rest of my life, living my honeymoon stage with Paris.