A date with the Captain

Isn’t. Life. Just. The. Funniest. Thing.

I think my week in Cambridge might be quite interesting.  Apart from obviously learning some stuff, it looks likely my evenings will be full too after I had a rather delightful surprise last night, when I received a message from a very old ‘friend’.

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We met in 2003, as he walked towards me, out of the smoke of a helicopter display team finale, in a boiler suit, carrying his helmet.  That is not a euphemism, and I’m not even joking. FACT. *swoon

Tenuously linked on FB and not actively in touch, (apart from a genial birthday wish once a year), I received an invitation to meet up with His Dashingness for drinks, during my study week. And who am I to refuse that offer?

Please note: I’m still on man sabbatical. A little bit.

When Joie de Vivre is not enough

Joie de Vivre
Origin
French
1. a delight in being alive; keen, carefree enjoyment of living.

* “can be a conversation, joy of eating, joy of anything one might do…And joie de vivre may be seen as a joy of everything, a comprehensive joy, a philosophy of life, a Weltanschauung.  Robert’s Dictionnaire says joie is sentiment exaltant ressenti par toute la conscience, that is, involves one’s whole being.”

I’ve had a funny few days.

Having finally truly discovered my joy of being, in the (almost) three years in Barcelona, I will often hear myself say to others, “I’m still in my honeymoon period”.  This being accompanied by much animated arm waving, enthusiasm and exhuberance.  I might have even become one of the very people that used to irritate the sh*t out of me. The perpetually happy and optimistic.  In an early Skype with my dad, I said, “I think I’m content.”  Not being familiar with positive emotion, I still wasn’t sure.

Telling all who will lend an ear, how happy I am to simply be alive on this beautiful planet, how touched I am by the very simple things and how lucky I feel to have such wonderful friends, how when I leave the house to go to work, I sometimes still can’t believe that I live here, you may think, “whatever, thousands/millions do it, so what?”

It’s a personal triumph.  Small as it may be to you; it isn’t to me.

It comes with some sense of pride for the changes I’ve made.  At forty, relocating and starting again, learning a language, making a new life.  And capitalising on this new found confidence, (that has come with the knowledge that I can get by and get on by myself), and fully embracing my enthusiasm for life, I have accepted invitations to travel around Europe a little this year, to meet up with friends-to explore new places, and share experiences.  And sometimes just to sit in the company of, and listen to these people speak about their own experiences, is a pleasure and a gift in itself.  I don’t expect more than the pleasure of their company; because it is being with them that gives me that pleasure.  And to have younger friends who I look at and think, “Shit!  I wish I was as savvy as you when I was your age.” and take inspiration from that too….. I’m very lucky.

And so, a fairly inocuous conversation in France, with a throw-away comment, hit me like a sledgehammer to the side of the head and rocked me harder than I ever could have imagined.

So hard in fact, that I’ve spent the best part of the last three days, (drinking, crying, sleeping and watching Robin Williams on loop – too tragic) and wondering if it’s enough to just be in love with life.  What do I contribute to the world (to friendships), what’s my net worth?  So far, my findings have uncovered; small change and pocket fluff.  Not so much.

Maybe mistakenly (I don’t know), I have derived a great deal of pleasure from those situations that I’ve found myself in over the last couple of years in particular, (but throughout my lifetime in fact), where I’ve met new people, from all walks of life.  It’s interesting to me on every level –   They could be successful sculptors from Uruguay or have just missed the tourist bus and need directions.  And, I love that I can chat to all of those people, whoever they are, and sometimes, make those people laugh.  In February, the Hot Frenchie said to me, “You’re funny.” and I said, “That’s the highest compliment you could give me.”  Natch.

L'EstanquetI could see this very clearly most recently when I was sitting in a little bar in Marciac, while my friends were busy doing musiciany things.  I was ‘chatting’ with the owner and his son, wine producers, enjoying the music they were playing.  They spoke no English or Spanish, and I speak tourist French, and we communicated.  For almost two hours.  While I sat and tried to translate a piece of promotional literature, to practise my French, and they busied themselves with barrels and crates and glasses.  And I made them laugh.  And that made me happier than you can imagine.  And as I left the bar, there were hugs and photos and I felt good.  And that night, after the concert, I shared some time with my friend, and we laughed uncontrollably about the silliest things, so much so that my stomach was in pain the next day.  I loved that shared time and seeing him laugh that hard.  It made me happy and I felt good.

So answer me this:  if the pleasure I derive from the company of my friends is to be in their presence, hear their stories, absorb their experience and see them laugh, and in return, if what my friendship offers you is breathing space to be yourself, to laugh freely, offer a little irreverence, to allow you to let go of the trappings of your everyday life; switch off momentarily, be a bit silly, forget the mundanity of routine or ridiculous pressure, maybe even tell a good story to get a laugh: is that such a bad thing?  Underneath the laughs, know that I care and I’m supportive.

If my sole purpose on this planet, is to put a little smile on the faces of those I meet, or bring a little ray of sunshine along with me, be free and generous with my irreverence and ‘joie de vivre’, then so be it; I’m going to have to make my peace with that.

* Source: Wikipedia

So ….

…here’s the thing.  I have some awesomely cool friends.

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I’m hanging out with some of the guys at Marciac Jazz Festival.  As a former organiser and programmer, I feel like I’ve died and gone to Heaven.  Really. Look at this venue. Look at the line-up, look at the list of sponsors.  It’s a dream come true.

It’s also a real pleasure to see the guys in full ‘swing’ (pardon the pun), and me not be stressed that they’re happy, the sound is ok, and tickets have sold.

So, today while they’ve been rehearsing, I’ve been mooching around this tiny village that transforms once a year, into a mecca for jazz lovers. Everyone, but everyone, is involved. And everyone, but everyone, loves it and gives 100%. Everyone but everyone is here.

I saw Wynton Marsalis perform last night, and then I met him. He was cool. I tried to keep mine.

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Tonight, it’s Evan and Seb playing, with Clarinet Road.  I know these guys and I love them; I also realise how lucky I am, and how privileged I am to be a part of it, from this side of the fence.

Sound check. Got to go.

A bientôt.

False advertising

A piece of my heart just died.

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Attracted by the beautiful, peaceful face of Buddha resting on the reception desk, and the wonderful smell of essential oils wafting out of the open door, (and a desperate need for a professional massage to loosen up my traps), I popped in the new spa, between my place and the gym, for a price list.

Sleazy, weasly (completely non – spa type hombre) sitting inside, ‘explained’ there was no treatment menu to take away as it was ‘solo para hombres’. Poor Buddha.

Which is fine. It is after all, the oldest profession in the World.  Only I can’t help thinking he’d wasted a lot of time and money on the spa trappings, if that’s all it is.

Surely all you need is an intriguing, permanently locked door, frosted windows, a neon light and a very small picture of the silhouette of a naked lady, somewhere on the front.  In fact you could probably dispense with the light and the picture. Men can sniff these places out, with the ability of a bloodhound. And I am almost certain they’re not in the slightest bit interested in how fluffy the colour-coordinated towels are.  Call me a cynic.

Maybe these would have been more appropriate on the front desk……

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Acceptance is half the battle

won……..

I accept that I am short and have curves and am never going to look like a human praying mantis, say for example; Alexa Chung, Mary Porteris. It’s all the rage these days.

I accept that I am single, so I am enjoying my freedom travelling around Europe this summer, following the music, visiting family, catching up with old friends and studying.

I accept that I am sometimes just another notch on someone’s bedpost, and so adjust my attitude accordingly.  Enjoy it for what it is.  Good. S*x. (Man sabbatical over).

I accept that if you have completely unrealistic expectations, you are always going to be disappointed.  I am very seldom disappointed.

I accept that if you are truly grateful for the little things, you will be rewarded with happiness.

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I accept that when sister Pank arrives this evening, there’s going to be shenanigans and mayhem for the next few days!!!! 

Bring it on.
X

It was René Magritte who said…,

“If the dream is a translation of waking life, waking life is also a translation of the dream.”

So I wonder what exactly it is that my subconscious is trying to tell me this week, or which is being translated and from where, with it’s string of bizarre and seemingly unrelated dream topics.  In a previous post, I explained that in my dream I was, as I thought, late for my own surprise wedding, back in the homeland.  And when I woke yesterday morning, I was slightly perturbed that the subject of my dreams had once again, been weddings.

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Edgar Allan Poe

This time I was with a ‘friend’, although in actual fact the woman was unknown to me, it involved rushing again, but to catch a very small plane, owned by Richard Branson, (who by the by, thought I was common, from a very brief conversation we had at the airfield office).  There were left luggage cages, lost luggage (mine) and a matter of seconds to run onto the tarmac and get aboard once the luggage had been found – with the help of a nice chap called Trevor, sporting a greying walrus moustache.   I was so exhausted, I was quite literally dragging myself along a red rope, as if on rollerskates,  to where I needed to be.  And the final destination?  A wedding, although this time, not my own.

This morning I feel drained, after a third night of vivid dreams, in which a school friend I hope to see in September, died from a heart attack, and I found this out from the news, which was actually Facebook broadcasting on televisión.  My mum was annoyed that I wanted to change the channel back from something nondescript to FBTV to confirm what I thought I’d seen.

Someone please put me out of my misery, and tell me what all this means.  I feel like there is some kind of messsage trying to get out, but for the love of sweet baby Jesús, I have no idea what it is, or could be, and it’s driving me a bloody insane.

To quote one of the great sooth sayers of our time, Miss P. Hilton, “I am tired and emotional”, (though she rolls it out when she’s been papped, cracked off her t*ts).

 

 

Total recall

…..and not the movie.

Recollections are just surfacing of the super weird dream, I had in the nondescript place that hovers between sleep and consciousness, in those moments before waking.

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I was getting married, (in itself, bizarre but stick with me people), it was on the down low and it was in my home town in North Wales.

The dress was made of scratchy tweed, in a tartan of pastel hues including heather,  my favourite (!).  Corset top with a swathed skirt, and diamanté detail on the waist where the fabric was gathered. It cost £720. Details are important, because I want some kind of analysis – you need to know everything.

I was rushing around because I only had an hour until my 7.30pm wedding, (but the rushing wasn’t necessary because I had in fact, read the time wrong, it was actually 5.30pm).

I was trying to inform my two best friends there, D and S, so they could come, but one was really angry about being rushed.

I had forgotten the shoes I wanted to wear, and so skipped back to BCN, to get them out of the storage box under my bed, and was back in Wales before you could say, dream boarding pass.

I woke before the wedding took place, the groom was anonymous, and I remember feeling anxious throughout.

I woke with a heavy heart and a real sense of sadness.  Like I’d been through an emotional wringer.

What. Is. All. That. About?

Yours sincerely
Freaked of Barcelona