Archivi tag: blog

Six years: a graffiti audio-love story

When you say...

Anche se questo blog è più o meno in pausa, il post anniversario, c’è. L’anno scorso lo ha scritto Orso, quest’anno ve lo racconto io:  è un viaggio audio negli Stati Uniti, anche se si chiama Accidentally in Joburg

This blog is -more or less- on a hiatus. But there is this the anniversary post. Last year Orso wrote it, this year I… speak it: it’s a trip to the US even if it is called Accidentally in Joburg


Spousal support

As my marriage is inspiring more and more posts recently, I grew hesitant about whether Orso was bothered by it. So I asked. Here is how it went.

“Don’t you mind me writing about our marriage in my blog?”

“No, I’m fine with it.

Anyway, it’s not like you’re successful or anything”

Even when I hate you. Street art in Bairro Alto, Lisbon

Street art in Bairro Alto, Lisbon

Siccome il mio matrimonio ha ispirato molti dei miei post ultimamente mi è venuto qualche scrupolo. Nel matrimonio siamo in due, e magari  a Orso dà fastidio. Quindi ho chiesto, ecco com’è andata:

“Non ti da fastidio che scriva del nostro matrimonio sul mio blog?”

“No, mi sta bene.

Tanto non è che hai successo, no?”

A note for 2013. Appunti per il 2013

“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence is not an act, but a habit.” Aristotle

“Siamo quello che facciamo sempre. L’eccellenza non è un’azione, ma un’abitudine” Aristotele

Happy New Year! Buon anno!

Fireworks in Leipzig

La giardiniera incostante

Piantina di timo e bambolina giapponese Io non so niente di giardinaggio. Ma proprio niente. Per questo vorrei che la mia vita gli assomigliasse un po’ di più. Al giardinaggio.
Dicevo, non so proprio niente niente eppure ogni volta che arrivo in una nuova casa prima o poi viene il momento: e se mi prendessi cura di qualche pianta? Quando arrivai in Inghilterra ho persino comprato dei bulbi pensando che un caotico giardino all’inglese facesse per me: i fiori non spuntarono mai. Prima tenevo le mie tre piantine sul davanzale davanti alla porta del mio appartamento parigino, perché all’interno non c’era abbastanza spazio. Un giorno scoprii davanti alla mia porta la vecchina del terzo piano prendersi cura delle mie piante di nascosto: “le ho viste così malmesse, pensavo che fossi partita da tempo”. Ero in casa. Da quel giorno le ho affidato le mie piante che fossi in aereo o solo sotto la doccia e quando ho lasciato Parigi gliele ho regalate, o almeno i loro amabili resti.

Insomma, per dire quanto io non ne sappia niente. Però mi piace sempre di più occuparmi di piante. Quello che mi piace è che lo faccio con una convizione che sembra che io sappia tutto, con una sicurezza che sembra dire: io so cosa sto facendo, anche se il mio unico attrezzo è un cucchiaio da minestra. Dieci, venti giorni dopo forse non spunterà niente, e la maggior parte delle volta non spunta niente. La maggior parte delle altre volte ciò che è gia spuntato muore.
Ma talvolta qualcosa spunta e talvolta l’origano dimenticato durante il nostro inverno africano ritorna in vita. Così nel giardinaggio qualunque cosa bella è un regalo, qualunque cosa brutta un incidente già dimenticato.
Siccome la vita io l’affronto proprio al contrario, mi chiedo se non debba darmi al giardinaggio. Ma solo così, senza mai imparare nulla.

An ordinary day

So, how was your day today? Well, it was not exactly today- it was two or three weeks ago- but nothing I write here is entirely true, remember?

Not too early in the morning I wake up in a sunny Leipzig. I wave good-bye to Orso with very humid eyes: we’ll see each other again in two weeks. And we are only ten days into the European commute that we like to call a marriage.
In Plagwitz I pass by bike by the most beautiful care-home I have ever seen: I wonder whether they accept residents under 30… because I’d definitely love to live in one of the apartments with the view on the canal. I get to work (yes, it is funny and -forgive me for the word- cool, but I’m still making  a job out of telling stories) crossing not one but two parks: I could definitely get used to it. But there is no time.
I get my lunch from a Syrian takeaway, hipster German style: a lot of vegetables and less fat. I’m still not used to it.

I smell the garlic sauce and the grilled chicken and I turn back two years in time: I am in Place Monge, Paris,  and feel that loneliness that does not feel like being alone.

I also think about how uncomfortable I am with the past and what it is all about. Orso says that I always behave as if I was on my guard when I talk in the past tense. I should dig the reasons why but basically: I don’t feel at ease because it’s about another woman, most of the time a girl, I don’t particularly like now.

On my way to the train station I miss the right tram and I have to get on two others trying to make up for my errors: a lot of stress while dragging a too big pink suitcase.

I learnt how to force myself to sleep on transports so the train journey from Leipzig to Berlin passes quickly. Everytime the train goes through  Lutherstadt Wittenberg I can’t help wondering whether Luther’s theses were 95 and everytime I reach home -wherever it is- I’ve already lost interest. Or maybe I don’t want to spoil the only passtime that does not make me sick on transports: having conversations with myself and digging my memory about useless information.

Off the train I jump on the bus to Berlin Tegel airport and hit all ankles I can find in the small corridor of the bus with my too big pink suitcase . I don’t do it on purpose and I am -even if I bit sleepy- pretty so I am forgiven rather easily. Yes, life is unfair.

I get to wait for my flight in the best lounge of the airport: and yes, it includes free food and tv. This is all thanks to Orso, who’s not a billionaire banker but he knows his way through airline promotions like no one.

My plane is the stereotype of a flight to London:  loads of skinny ties and Blackberries. Anyway, finally I have a copy of the Independent on my lap and I hope that the flight is calm enough so that I can read instead of spending my time recalling all the names of dog breeds I used to know when I was nine.

At Heathrow airport there is a bus waiting for me, and I can finally eat my Leipzig-made sandwiches and think about how many German regions I can remember: coach trips really make me sick. Two hours and a definitely different landscape later I am back to the very unlikely place  where exactly one year ago I decided to go to turn my life upside down (and therefore create another past version of myself I would feel uncomfortable with, I guess).

I walk home, I need some fresh air and the Southern coast of England is fresh on a late summer evening, even cold actually, but I put some extra layers on before the passport control at the airport: it’s not the first time I make this complicated trip. It is actually the last one, I think with relief and a point of regret.

Bike-tram-train-plane-coach and then… my own feet: it took so many different transports and now I am in bed with a fluffy raccoon (that’s really another whole story, that of the raccoon -a soft-toy, not a living animal).

In bed I read the French translation of a book on the life-changing trip to Italy of a famous German who lived in Leipzig as a young man: I drift into sleep thinking I am not doing anything new (well, except for the company of the fluffy raccoon).

I know, this post is very private, more private than you’d want it to be, more private than I -and certainly Orso- would like it to be. But my life had overtook my writing for a bit, so I thought that writing had to strike back and take whatever was there.

By the way, I forgot to ask, how was your day?

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