WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE

At lunch today, I was telling my colleagues about the air hostess at Virgin Atlantic.
The one who screamed 'WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE' over the loud speaker.

I made them laugh their heads off.

That got me very smug and I continued the performance by laughing just enough myself to make them think that I'm always this funny - that it's part of my personality. I also did a little mimic.

I am still laughing at the poor lady, still smug and still incredibly proud over my little gag.

But also wondering how she managed to, in a panic state, locate the interphone, push the button, and then blurt out that information.

Then it struck me that I probably didn't have my facts right. Because, really, how could she have? Sweating, I looked the event up on the internet and realised with horror that I was right about myself. She didn't scream over the interphone. She just screamed every time there was turbulence and there were only a couple of passengers next to her who heard it. Neither did she say "We're all gonna die" but a lot more boring "We're gonna crash". That's not nearly as funny as my version.

Now I keep thinking about how all my colleagues look it up on the internet, realise I was wrong, and then start to send emails to eachother with the actual article, discussing what a pathetic attention-seeker I am, distorting facts to make them laugh.

I am torn in between putting up a casual note by the lunch table, explaining the real facts and just leaving the joke as it is, hoping that no one doubts the veracity. It's like the battle of consciences. One part of me wants to prevent my poor self from evil things said behind my back. The other one just want to continue riding on the glory of being considered as a fantastic joke-teller.

Blue cheek

G's parents have a summer cottage where they spend all their holidays. It's not actually a cottage, but a small studio. G. and I barely fit in there.

The studio is part of a lot that lines up about 20 little homes. They're all attached so you basically see your right hand neighbour, as well as your left one, every hour of the day through the holes in the fences that are situated on both sides of the houses. Three studios share one small yard. This doesn't bother me at all. It provides me with insights that not everyone spends their vacation in Hawaii.

The neighbours to the right are called Mr and Mrs Lopez. They're not old but they're not young either. They have three grown-up children who come to visit regularly with their own children. Mr and Mrs Lopez are quiet and friendly and not at all invasive. They say 'hello' in the morning and 'goodnight' before they close the curtains. They smile when you walk by.

As a couple, they represent something special to me. Because deep down under that cynical facade of preparing for divorce before getting married, I do want to spend the rest of my life with G. This couple embodies in many ways how I picture us when we're old.

They play cards in the afternoons and always have a drink before dinner. At night, they sit and talk quietly next to each other. The only thing that interupts the humming sound is Mrs Lopez' laughter. On other nights I see them walking by us in town, holding hands. Sometimes they see us and say 'hi' but most of the times they're in their own world where everyone else is excluded.

This summer, there was no Mrs Lopez.

G's mother told us that she died in June.

Arriving at the studio, we said hello to Mr Lopez. He seemed frail and I didn't know what to say. The compulsary 'ca va?' wasn't appropriate anymore. So I said nothing. Feeling bad because I don't know him well enough to give him a hug, and not little enough to pretend I don't know. Later that night I saw him standing at the gate and went to express my condoleances.

He cried in front of me.

I cried in the shower afterwards.

Then, I thought to myself that Mr Lopez is lucky to have his daughter and her two children, a boy and a girl, staying with him at a time like this. They're gorgeous. Quiet, with luminous eyes, the children stare at us through the fence. The boy never speaks. G. and I wondered if he was autistic.

The next day, I heard the first slap.

A little later in the evening the second one.

When we left a couple of days later, the little boy waved bye to us by the gate. Smiling, his cheek was blue.

I wondered, in the car home, if we should have done something. In France, it's accepted to slap your child. Not to beat, but to slap. It's a fine line. Between what's accepted and what's not. Between how much you can observe and when you have to intervene. Between to what extent grief can be the scapegoat and when you use grief as a reason to.

I wonder if the grown-up boy will think about us sometimes and blame us for our passiveness?

Skinless toe freak

It's never a good sign when you get up in the morning and catch yourself wishing it was evening again and you could get back into to bed.

I look at the signs that indicate my level of stress. And yes. They're all there. No nails, no skin around fingers, no skin around toes (yes, I peel that off as well when I'm really stressed) and everyday I find a couple of new grey hairs. My sister told me that her boyfriend's grandmother got married at 23- grey-haired. I'll aim for the same.

I think I have a new sign to add though - cramps in my right foot. Every night when I fall into bed and nearly slumber in, my foot goes balistic. It hurts like hell and when I look down my toes are all pointing in different directions. It looks really fun. I laugh and then I scream. G. helps me with the two biggest toes and I concentrate on the three smaller ones. We bend them and stretch them and after a while, they calm down. Every single one but the pinky toe. It still points slightly to the right. Even during the day. I look like a freak. A skinless toe-monster.

I should really take more time for my feet. Or for my soul.

Do some zinking, as the French would call it.

By the way, if none of my job prospects work out, I'll start working for real on a French phonetic dictionary. One that would help the English understand the French way of speaking. I have loads of words already, zriller (thriller), zout (thought), zink (think), zmizz (Smith).

It's gonna be a success!

Pollution and jobs

Adding a job to my life will mean so much. Structure, feelings of self-worth, money. No forget the last bit. Some money. Seeing that I'll be an I-N-T-E-R-N (same thing as R-E-S-P-E-C-T, only the opposite). But it's a start. A promising and fun start.

Next week I'll be working with things that I care about. The environment, issues between Africa and the west. I'll be all smug at home like 'you just go ahead and work in aeronautics, contributing to pollution and war.' Nevertheless, if Eurocopter offered me a well paid job I would probably take it.

The human nature is by definition selfish as A. would argue in the comments field. I agree but with one exception- my friend J. She isn't. She is the only one I know who calculates how much she pollutes the air by taking the plane and makes up for it by other gestures. I'm doing the same this summer. According to some calculation I found on the internet G. and I need to pay 9.80 euros for our air plane pollution between Sweden and France. It's reinvested in environmental projects. But it's not a lot. I might add by not separating the clothes by colour for the washing machine. Well, at least not G's clothes.

Damn it, A's right.

The Ones Who Care

Caring about someone is a beautiful, complex thing. It has the ability to provoke all kinds of feelings, ranging from happiness to irritability, from wellbeing to asphyxiation. The reaction depends on what state of mind the person you care about is in. During your teenage years, you only want your friends to care about you, or that boyfriend you dream about. Your parents' questions and concerns only seem to you as an exploit of your coming independence. When you get older, start dating, too caring potential boyfriends are the worst type you and your friends laugh about. Then you get that relationship you always wanted and caring about the person you love the most becomes your main concern. You even do it subconsciously. Then, the day you have children, you couldn't even imagine being able to care about someone that much. And suddenly, it's you who ask the questions and raise concerns about their lives. You understand what your parents meant. Caring truly is a beautiful thing.

But sometimes, the concern can be hard for the person who receives it. Even as an adult. At this time of my life, a lot of people care about me, try to find solutions, give me pep talks, dispense advice, try to make me realise that it's not the end of the world that it takes time to get a job. They try out different tactics; hard ones to stop me from feeling sorry for myself ("Other people have lives much worse than yours"- I know, thanks for reminding me), soft ones to make me happier ("You're so talented, you'll find something soon" - Thanks, I'm just a bit impatient), logic ones to make me realise my potential ("What if you try English-speaking companies?" - Thanks, I have, but I'll keep looking) and reality related ones to make me aware of my choices ("You're the one who decided to move to France where it's harder" – Thanks, I know and I am happier here than anywhere else despite my joblessness.)

I would hate for them to think I'm ungrateful. The pep talks, concern, advice, experience, pushes and help from everyone who cares are gifts. I love the people for it. I know they mean well. But what they don't know is that if you take everyone who cares and put all their conversations together, it just gets a bit much. Added to how I constantly think about this situation, it fills me up and seeps out in the form of tears. It's not because I'm sad. I'm just a bit tired from constantly hearing and thinking about something that I am reminded of, and know, is not the end of the world.

I have to find a way to make this a tad smaller without making the ones who care think I'm unthankful. Because yes, I feel unfulfilled doing what I do now. But yes, I will find something else. I also know that unatisfaction runs in my family. I need to work on that. But in the meantime, some days I need to be able to complain about my situation without feeling that I have to keep a facade up to not get the answer that others have worked harder or more than me. Other days I need to be able to be happy about trivial things without feeling that I should be explaining, in concrete terms, how my job hunting progresses.

It's a tricky thing being a grown-up. I welcome the day, I can put this into comprehensible words in my mouth when the moment demands. Nowadays, when I try to speak, it just sounds like I'm an ungrateful 14-year-old who doesn't know how lucky she is to have all those people who care. It's not true. I know.

Lions Mane

To remind myself of next time I go to the hairdresser:

- I do not like to look like a lion
- I do not like layers
- I do not like hair in between lengths

Whenever my hair starts to look really disgusting, I drag myself to the hairdresser, anxious about the visit days in advance. I just know that I'll go straight home and cry. And yet, I really need to get those split ends cut off. I always start by saying "Please don't cut off everything. Really just the ends. Really just what you really really really have to." I guess it's the last part that gets me in trouble. That and my need to blurt out compliments to the person cutting my hair. I told this one that I liked her cut (on her) and she replied that it's such an easy cut. Just a few layers at the ends. "Would you want me to do that on you?" she asked me. I hesitated, but seeing the pity in her eyes when thinking about how unmodern I look with my long hair, I said that she could maybe do just a few.

And here I am. One hour into my new lion's haircut. Shoulder short and big and blond. I cried for 15 minutes trying to tie all those layers into my regular bun.

I know this is a minor crisis compared to the bigger one "What should I do with my life?" or even "How are we going to stop climate change and world famine?" But those are just too big to even glance at. I'm focusing on this one for the moment.

Maybe I'll flip through some fashion magazines to try to find a haircut that looks like this. To imitate. But then again, it's very likely to be found in the 'before' section in a make-over article. Usually not a source of inspiration.

Cinderella

Yesterday was another day in the second Paul Smizz store. The anorexic boss had sent me to this one instead to work. I wonder if it's a punishment. And although I complained about all those people trying stuff on and buying key rings in the first one, I now miss that. This second store is located 1 minute from the city centre and yet the Aixois think it's too far away..(the effects of living in a small city) so there aren't any customers. The best moment of the day is when I get to vacuum. It takes an hour. I consider it being the sport of the day while thinking about the good old times at the other store, sorry, boutique. D. the boss, used to send me down to the basement to clean some wiping towels and as I stood there cleaning and drying, she used to shout "Daaaaanielllla" and I answered "I'm coming, I'm coming". It always made me laugh (quietly of course) because it was like we were playing a bad version of Cinderella.

Anyway. Today I am phoning up the boss of one of my ex-colleagues at Airbus. It's a complicated story. E. my ex-colleague works at Airbus but is a subcontractor for a company based in Paris that has offices in Marseille. I thought that maybe that person could be good to contact.. Is this starting to get messy or am I just being a good job hunter? Head hunting? Where do you find those by the way?

Yesterday, I also went to the American club in Aix. I thought that maybe they would have some tips about finding work here, or at least some contacts in companies. Turns out, I am drawn to old people. I came to this little café with CVs in my hand ready to charm all those Americans. Having been here a while now and still kind of friendless, I also felt like Sally Field in "Not Without My Daughter" when she sees the American flag at the American Embassy in Teheran. I was going to be rescued! I stepped into the café and discovered 20 people with an average age of 65. But just like with the book club, I told myself not to judge too fast. I should have. Turns out the president of the American club, a fat woman dressed entirely in pink, didn't even want to take my CV. She told me that if I want to become a member, there is a waiting list I could get on. Yes. Of course. Thank you very much. I would kill to get on a waiting list to be able to engage with these retired oldies. So I turned around and left after having spoken to the only interesting woman there. A Spanish teacher who would want to learn English. She adviced me to go to yet another club called "Association of France's cities" They have as a mission to welcome foreigners.. Hahaha. The French! Welcoming foreigners!
But I'll still go..

The Paul Smizz boutique (Written 24/05/2007)

You start to work in a boutique. Yes. A boutique, not a store because it's Paul Smizz in Aix en Provence. You spend two days running up and down a zillion stairs fetching shoes and scarves and trousers and jackets and skirts. And key rings. That cost 150 euros. But hey! They come in the shape of an umbrella. Most of the women who come in barely greet you. Maybe because they're too weak from not having eaten since 1985. Most of the young men look at you like the dirt you are. Because you have to work. What a disgrace. They all tell you to fetch the shoes and the skirts and the trousers and the scarves. Then they try them on and put everything in a pile in the changing room. You clean up. On the way down the stairs with the pile in your arms, you see them buying the key ring. You don't understand because you thought they would buy it all. But then again you have never been a 17-year-old brat who tries on 400 euros Givenchy shirts with his Ray Bans glued to his face.

You prefer the ones who don't even look at you. They just come in, try the items on and then say: "I'll take it all in all the colors you have".

And you don't understand why it's so hard to think about this positively. You'll be earning some money, you won't feel like a maintained house wife (or will you even more?), you'll get to speak to people during the days, maybe even get some contacts (or friends yaay!). Somehow you get the feeling that you were meant for something bigger. But then immediately you feel bad for thinking you deserve better than to work in a store. Lots of people do that all their lives. Not just only maintained house wives. Many dream about this type of job. And you feel unfufilled--what kind of person are you? You shrug it off and decide to hide those feelings in that dark corner of your mind where you hardly ever look.

You try to have a serious talk to yourself about what you want with your life. What makes you feel good. You get no where near a solution. Your friend M. advises you to go see a coach. To clear your thoughts. Get some perspective. You immediately think about your family issues. "One problem at the time please!" you imagine the coach saying. But you agree that it's a good idea. If only it weren't so expensive. You think about that new bikini you've fallen in love with and actually reflect over what will make you happier - the bikini or a clear mind? Instead of dealing with this right now, you decide to be woken up tomorrow at 4am to obsess about it.

Then you come home from your day at the store and discover that England has sent you letters claiming that you have some debts. 293.79 pounds to be exact. You were sure that you cleared those before leaving. You feel let down by technology when the debt collectors man on the phone tells you that your card wasn't authorised at the time. You pay the debts with your Swedish emergency credit card and make a mental note not to wake up tomorrow at 4am. Problem solved! You sigh. Then you think that you will ask for some more hours at the Paul Smizz store. Sorry "boutique".

The Art of Making Friends (Written 04/05/2007)

Here are my two latest attempts to make friends in this city:

Monday one week ago, 12.45:
I am sitting at the internet café I am always at due to French companies that screw you over when you order internet deals to your home. (We ordered CLUB INTERNET, which is a package with internet, phone and television, two and a half months ago and it still hasn't come).

Anyway, I am sitting minding my own job hunting business when I just happen to look over at the screen next to me. It's an email written in Swedish. The person who uses that computer is a girl who looks like she could become my friend. I nearly talk to her but then I think that I might scare here away. Therefore I come up with the plan of a genius. I call my sister and talk to her for a bit in Swedish, hoping that this will make the girl say "Hey! You're Swedish, so am I. Do you want to be friends?". When I hang up, I am very smug and sure she will fall right into my trap.

But the girl pretends to not even notice me. This puts me in a very difficult position since she now knows that I am Swedish but I am not supposed to know that she is. Before I start wondering why she ignores me, I tell myself to be brave, lean back in the chair and let out a big sigh. I do just that and look around in the room. When I look at her screen, I say, very casually, "Sorry, couldn't help noticing that you're on a Swedish web page there". The girl turns to me and looks terrified. I continue to blabber about myself, why I am here and that job hunting sucks. Then I ask her what she is doing here. She is visiting her sister who studies here. "Oh", I say, "Then you must have alot of free time during the day. Do you want to get a coffee sometime?" She is now literally leaning as far away from me as she possibly can. She smiles and says "sure", turns off her session and gets up. I say "wait, I haven't given you my number yet!" She smiles again and takes the little paper on which I have scribbled my number. "OK, maybe I'll see you around," she tells me while exiting the door. I almost yell after her: "You know, I have some time right now if you're free!! Or later on in the day, or any time this week!!" Now she doesn't even smile but just runs out the door.

Yesterday 17.30:
I have decided to go to a book club. A couple of weeks ago I was in en English bookshop when I saw that their book club was going to discuss a book I just read that my friend J. recommended. It was The Handmaid's Tale and I was very excited about this opportunity. I love this book and discussing things is a great way to meet new friends. Exciting friends who have chosen to discuss such a fantastic book! I go there with butterflies in my stomach, imagining my new life with great people at dinner parties, picknicks in parks with rosé wine and long hours in cafés. I enter the book shop and look around. Two old ladies, well, old and old, between sixty and sixtyfive, are sitting at a table. I tell the girl at the cash register, who was my age by the way, that I am here for the book club. She points to the table and says "Have a seat". I look at the old ladies and introduce myself. Sit down next to one of them. Then I think to myself that they are probably just here to listen to all us young people discussing in English. Other people start arriving. The table fill up and after a couple of minutes there are about 15 of us. When the woman who had chosen the book starts the discussion with "I chose this book because it got me thinking about how we have forgotten how bad past times were. When I got married in 1958...", I think to myself that I should stop judging people because of their age. I might have loads in common with these people. I just wonder how late my dinner parties will go to with an average age of 65?

The Thorn Cuts (Written 02/05/2007)

This morning I woke up with a terrible headache. Not from drinking too much or from staying out too late, but from knowing that today is going to be another lost day in my life looking for a job.

I told G. who put on his usual face he does when he is about to give me 'the speech'. This consists of abnormally raised eyebrows (supposed to convey optimism), a large smile (supposed to make me feel warm inside) and an expression in his eyes that is meant to show me how much he believes what he says. If you want to try this on one of your loved ones, let me just warn you that not one of these expressions work. They just make the person feel even worse. Combined with the 'don't worry, you'll find something soon and this is just what everyone goes through'-speech, it's actually an effective way to push your loved one over the edge.

Dammit! It's been two months since we moved here! When am I ever going to get a job? I have left all ambitions behind me to just now hope for some crappy communications job; and still NOTHING.

G. says that there is no way around this. Everyone has to pass through, and it's always the long way. I do not agree. But I don't tell him, seeing that he is the only ally I have around here.

What wouldn't I trade for an hour with my lovely friend J. at the wannabe cozy coffee chain in Bristol that we quite simply named 'our' café? I know what she would tell me about this situation. She would not say that it's the same thing for everyone, or that I am exagerrating or that I will find something when I least expect it. She would say that if the employers can't see what a catch I am, then it's their loss. Then she would add: 'Daniella, there probably IS a short cut somewhere for you to take. You just have to look for it. And when you find it, you shouldn't be surprised if it leads through some bushes with thorns. It only means that you should let them scratch you. That will compensate for not choosing the long way around."

Smart lady that J.