Saturday afternoon was spent doing touristic activities.

Tomorrow will be spent looking for a job, waiting for a very intimidating interview on friday.

I have always thought of high-school reunions as terribly depressing.

A few days ago Mark and I spent a couple of hours discussing the politics of high-school. I tried to explain how my experience of high-school did not include clans, groups, bullying and stereotypical ideas including cheerleaders (France doesn’t have them) or nerds hiding away in the computers’ room.

I had a similar discussion with B. a couple of years ago. Having grown up in Canada, I guess that B’s schooling experience was closer to American movies than mine was: being very good at sports and therefore quite popular he enjoyed a lot of attention from the opposite sex and had a blast training hard, studying a little, and partying lots.

Truth is, I was bored at school. I remember it as a never-ending string of 8-hours days beginning with me getting up at 6.30, taking the bus at 7.35 to the outskirts of town and walking from classrooms to classrooms until 6 in the evening. My establishment was in a relatively poor neighbourhood (compared to those downtown), not too strict (compared to those downtown), comprised of 70 percent white kids, 30 percent kids from visible minorities (unlike those downtown) and I enjoyed the teachings of really good teachers and excellent programs (which unfortunately didn’t prevent me from wishing I was travelling the world instead).

I believe that a good half of my learning experience was carried on by myself, either on the internet - a wonderful, life changing discovery as far as I was concerned- on in books. Iwas not part of any clubs, was not hanging with the pretty girls and didn’t play sports (nobody really did within a school setting) but had a couple of very close and very different friends.

Francesca* was the sassy one and a great sense of humour who would sometimes whisper fierce and unwelcomed remarks to fellow pupils (and for that she was sometimes despised by others), Catherine* was the stunning, quietly beautiful one secretly dating the prefect, Tess* was the upbeat, politically aware and stupidly well-read rebel who did not obey any rules and Piers* was the very bright, intelligent but insecure and sexually unsure guy. None of them truly liked each other so I spent a lot of them with them one-on-one. And as to how they would describe me themselves, I have no idea. The point is, I wasn’t cool or uncool, casted away or bullied.

But I must say, doubt started creeping in after Mark and I finished our little talk on the subject. Maybe I had been hated all these years, and was oblivious to it at the time? Perhaps everyone saw me as a loser with high grades? With that in mind and Mark falling soundly asleep in bed next to me, I grabbed my laptop and did what I swore would never do: I joined the french version of classmates.com and started looking for clues. My approach was slightly pathetic and reminded me of Little.Yellow.Different hilarious takes on his high-school years, and thought that if students in France had high-school reunions, I would surely have felt like David Kleeman.

Truth is, I of course didn’t find clues - and I guess I’ll never know how people truly felt about me back then -and boy, does it feel self-centered to admit of my curiosity. I found a couple of people I once knew, and their faces didn’t change that much. They all looked very happy in their recent pictures, some having the jobs everyone knew they would have (dance teacher), some having made surprising choices (being quite highly graded in the army). After much searching, I discovered that one of my oldest childhood friend is now trainning a school-teacher in Southern France. Safely hidden behind my screen, the thought made me happy.

* names have been understandably changed to, uh, protect the innocent.

Picture via, sadly mourning the announced death of polaroids.

La Chola / Brownfemipower always gives me serious, brutal and -in a very bizarre way- almost unwelcomed food for thought. I would guess that a lot of her readers agree that she pushes boundaries, opinions and ideas quite far, and in doing so allows me to pause and think hard about the truths I willingly or unwillingly avoided so far.

She published a beautiful post describing a story of love, murder and revenge this week and this quote stood out for me:

“Love is the strength that allows you to see it is the system that creates monsters out of humans that must be destroyed, not humans.”

Something to keep in mind.

(Picture via.)

My friend Aurelie is back from China, and moving to Brighton this week. An adventurer, she is. I am thrilled to have her and her intrepid boyfriend stay in our flat for a couple of days, so she can tell me everything about her tribulations in Orient.

Boris, Aurelie and I spent the entire year of 2006 together, slaving away during this hard last University year that we shared. We went to protests together - even blocked a roundabout at 6 in the morning (1)-, created a Gender-focused ‘zine and had too many glasses of Cotes de Blaye, which is quite possibly my favourite white wine of all time. Conversation this year was understandbly sparse as her blog has been censored many times (even though I did commission a couple of her blog entries at work!) and well, phoning Nanjing was a bit over the top.

Needless to say, I missed her a lot.

(1) In which Boris, Aurelie and I woke up at 4.30 in the morning, walked across town to meet other protesters, walked on the highway and blocked the main roudabout leading to the city. The police arrived soon enough, and our little experiment brought us both cheers and encouragement from commuters, an equal load of insults, and a lot of hooking. By 10 o’clock I was back in bed, listenning to people on the national radio pestering against those “damn socialist students”. Good times were had by all.
[…and this is from July 2005:]

And old friend, and an old song

I met Aurelie at Old Street station around 10 o’clock. She is in London for two days, coming from Edinburgh with Amnesty International. It was great to see someone so familiar who knew me already (read: someone you don’t have o explain your life for the very beginning. She has the basic about me and more, vice versa. I was relieved to be able to talk to a friend face-to-face).

In a way it was a little bit like going back home, somewhere safe, secure, not challenging. I don’t usually appreciate ‘home’ per say, but I needed that.

We could only chat for an hour - over Baileys, hidden in some very gloomy pub- and parted ways in front of the tube again.

This damn fucking tube.

We hugged hard like only women seem to know how to, breast againt breast, all smiles. Not this ‘Oi you’re my boy’ kind of hug, but something deeper, emotional, silent, understanding (no homo-erotica in here, please).

I took the escalators and when reaching the platform I heard this guy singing. Turned round only to nice a dreadlocked man playing guitar with a real broken soulful voice.

I stared.

He was singing the worst lyrics ever.

‘I wanted to take control but love took control of me - it’s just another sad sad sad song - I have to let it go let it go’.

Somehow the whole thing was really sincere, and I was really moved. It made sense.

The train arrived and I smiled at him. He winked and did a ‘peace’ sign. I waved back. Got on the train, sat down, and as we left the platform, he waved again still playing guitar. I smiled. Life is a bitch but this guy made it more than fucking cool for one minute.

Of course, with me not having an kind of Internet connection at home which does not involve some kind of savage and unreliable piggy-backing, and me feeling a wee bit tired of the blogosphere once I hit home everyday after work, luck and motivation were not on my blogging side for months.

I admit to still feeling a bit shaky at the thought of resuming my private blogging. So.

Although work has been very stressful for the last few months (that, dear friends, is an understatement), M. and I have nevertheless managed to enjoy a wonderful week in Spain, both in Isla Cristina and Sevilla.

I was born in Sevilla and although I lived there for 0 to 2 years old (and later had the chance to visit Cordoba, Malaga and Granada while in high school) I had never actually visited Sevilla ever since my mom and I flew back to France as I learning my first words.

Not much can be said about Isla Cristina: it is an odd Spanish-touristy town bordering on Portugual with nice beaches but little else to see except if you dig those huge project management housing beach sites which are progressively disfiguring the coasts of Europe. But Sevilla was another bargain and as my dad has put it, it might just be the best city in Europe if one can cope with the 35-38+ degrees which pushed me into a catatonic state for most of our stay.

Upom arrival M. and I asked ourselves the same question: “Why do we live in London again?”. I for one couldn’t explain why we have been living in the ugly English city for so long when confronted with Sevilla’s many charms: excellent food, cheap prices, nice people, brilliant music, a bit more soul than one can find in big capitals, as well as one-Euro Tinto de Verano (I am not even mentioning to sangria, the fact that pigeons did not exist, the marvelous parks and gardens, and a sense of fashion which suits my tastes better than those neo-rave London kids).

Flying in I wondered if I could remember any of those places - after all, I had seen those parks and houses many times as a baby, so maybe their souvenirs would be buried in my memory. Alas, I did not have such Proustian moments, but does no regret any of it nonetheless. In fact, I will come back there if I can.

All that being said, dear blog, it’s good to be back (online, at least). Now is the time for dinner and a glass of wine.

A couple of weeks ago I was walking home though Shoreditch when I heard a voice beside me:

“Jess! Heey-ohh Jess!”

I am not used to have my name called in the streets - let alone in London: I usually have my headphones on and I’m quite oblivious of the world surrounding me when I do. And of course, being relatively new to this city (under one year still makes you a newbie, or so I hear) I don’t have many acquaintances. But, being headphone free this day, I quickly turned around and saw my ex colleague/ buddy Anamik:

“This great to see you.” I said. “Especially since I think you’re the first person to ever call my name in London! This feels like a landmark”.

He had some time to kill before going to an exhibition at Rich Mix to see Gavin Hernandez’s cool photographic series, so we decided to have a quick drink in a pub nearby. His friend joined us a couple of minutes later, and he introduced me by pointing out that I had just gained my official Londoner title. The friend, a tall and chatty guy talking quite fast, laughed:

“What a strange coincidence. I usually never see people I know in the street, but I just bumped into my ex-girlfriend before joining you”.

He then told us about the first time he bumped into someone in the capital: like me, almost a decade ago, he had decided to London and had been trying to call London a home for months. One day, and for the first time in his entire life, he decided to enter a sex shop. While reaching for the exist he walked through the gay section of the store, and bumped into one of (gay) his classmate. Apparently the conversation went like this:

“Hey!”

“Hey…”

“Uhm… Weird to see you here… Do you want to go for a drink?”

“Sure”.

And so they left. I must admit I enjoyed the anecdote immensely. From what I gathered from the story, they never mentioned this encounter again, except for a couple of years ago when he threw an allusion in a coversation:

“Hey, do you remember this time….”

“(hastily) Yeah, I remember the time”.

Sometimes big cities are tiny places indeed. I could tell you about the time I bumped into my Canadian friend from Victoria/Toronto in Piccadilly Circus in the middle of summer, and how it turned out that we had rooms on the exact same floor of the same hostel, but I think I already mentioned it elsewhere (very last post on the page - I guess I didn’t know what permalinks were at the time of posting).

For the past week and probably to my boyfriend’s dismay* I’ve suffered a terrible case of PMS syndrom - something I have been quite happy living without for most of my teenager and adult life. Ridiculous mood swings and crying fits - you name it. Should you happen to be blessed with the wonders of a female body, you probably know what I am referring to. If not you can listen to Mary J Blige, who wrote about it (what a really strange topic for a RnB singer. I didn’t listen to anything by her ever since this duet with Method Man [if you know the song you are old school - HOLLA!] so I don’t know the song itself, but I disgress…)

This might explain why I enjoyed this post at Sivacracy, which attacks the faux-caring, paternalist and condescending tone napkin and tampon manufacturers use when adressing their customers. She quotes a letter sent to a manager of a company representative:

… As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you’ve no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers’ monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it’s a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend’s testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey’s Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.

Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: “Have a Happy Period.”

Are you f***ing kidding me?

I should write infuriated letters like this one more often.

And don’t even get me started on the “flowery scented” pads trend, which I find revolting. Periods are a natural cycle of your body, and pushing women to feel like their body odour when menstruating is wrong really irks me. Now, while I would certainly agree that it’s a “tough time for women”, it’s also one we have to embrace, not detest.

I know some women decide to regulate their cycle by taking Depo Provera which stops mentsruation altogether, but a really interesting post I read today confirmed my fear of such drastic reproductive-options.

Now about those pads? This great company will be the place where I am going to shop next. At least they don’t treat their customers like raving chocolate-eating shopping-addicted morons. And no more chlorin-ified cotton!

*He is a very patient man. Lucky me.

Question. You walk to work in the morning minding your own business, absorbed in your thoughts but not really sulking (just slowly waking up). Passing by a couple of professional drivers and courriers, one of then looks stares at you and say “C’mon girl, smile!”. Should you:

A. be annoyed that someone would order you to smile because hell, you don’t feel like being nice and let’s be honest there’s no way in hell I would be ordered to change my facial expressions if I was a 6 ft. pumped male athlete walking the streets?

B. just smile?

This morning I chose both options. I smiled first -the guy was trying to be nice- then got annoyed that I did. But maybe this is just because I’m bitter, miserable and acting like a “real monster” every day of the year from 7 to 11 o’clock.

And well, you might remember that I have a problem with pictures/smiling.

Eternal Life is now on my trail
Got my red glitter coffin, man, just need one last nail
While all these ugly gentlemen play out their foolish games
There’s a flaming red horizon that screams our names - Jeff Buckley

In a brave move to save the environment save myself from the nightmare of the London underground I tend to walk to and from work everyday. It’s only a brisk 40 minutes promenade. Every so often I go through Bunhill Fields. It is an amazing secret lost in the heart of the City - a public open space which used to be a cemetery for dissenters and non-conformists. According to this page, it’s the last survivor of London’s once numerous small burial grounds.

And it’s the most heartbreakingly lovely place to walk through: on a couple of acres are hundreds of really old graves and tombstones surrounded by all kind of animals, and old people who feed them. I have seen squirrels numerous times, as well as cats, magnificent crows and what I still maintain to be a dove (and not a white pigeon). The birds are usually silently meditating on top of the grave, napping on top of human flesh and decay.

People walk their dogs there - today a young man was walking with Niki, his adorable 12 weeks husky friend who, he said, had been “very naughty” recently. I know because I was ear-dropping on his conversation with an older woman while pretending to pet the little furry animal.

Two weeks ago daffodils started to bloom and I can’t wait for them to be all over the green space. On the benches there’s always people napping, eating breakfast and chatting, and right next to it there’s a green space where little kids from the next-door school take their supervised recreational breaks. I’ve always found it quite weird, to see all the kids playing in a burial ground, those people sipping StarBucks, those couples cuddling under the shade - all of them surrounding by, well, corpses.

But see, that’s the interesting thing about this place: it is not gloomy or frightening at all. On the contrary, I would go as far as saying that it’s one of the prettiest and most enjoyable places I’ve found in the city so far.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that William Blake is buried there? Even if I am more a Baudelaire type of person, a touch of poetry is always welcome.