Caledonia

"You are the most patriotic person I've ever met...just not about your own country!" a friend said to me some time ago. I guess it's true. I have never felt very patriotic about Italy. Although I appreciate the good things the bel paese has to offer - and there are many, starting with gelato - I also see it from an outsider's perspective - because I am not Italian and because I lived abroad for quite a while. It has always been a bit easier for me to idealise Slovenia, the "promised land" that has been "taken away from us". But in this case too, I follow the news a bit too much to be able to idealise things. With Scotland it is different. The moment I fly over those green fields covered with white dots (yes, I tend to get overexcited about sheep - try to understand, we don't see as many of them here!), I forget about the SNP, the rain, health and safety rules & fire alarms in the middle of the night and the X25 bus that always stops in the middle of nowhere (well, to be honest I sometimes still get nightmares about being left all alone in the fields). All I remember are the friendly people, the good food, the sunny days, bagpipe music and all the amazing spots around Edinburgh and, last but not least the sexy Scottish accent ;)

I know what your counter arguments are going to be: 

- Scottish people are not friendly. I know not all Scottish people are friendly, but come to Trieste for a couple of days and you'll see what rude people are really like! They never hold the door for you, they stare at people in wheelchairs as if we where U.F.O.s and they never apologize when they accidentally push you. 

- What do you mean, "good food"? Yes, if you have friends who are really good and creative chefs. And the friend Mars bar is not actually that bad if you only have a tiny bit. 

- There are on average 4 sunny days per year in bonnie Scotland, but when the sun does come out the excitement is so big that everyone is out having a picnic. 

- Bagpipes are annoying. They really are. But my brain works with associations so I've learned to like them (bagpipes = guys in kilts ;). 

- Nothing to say about Edinburgh. If we exclude the roadworks in the city centre and that have been going on for far too long (will we ever get to see the tramway?) it is an amazing town.

                  

            I always get as far as "and I should become a stranger..." and then I break into tears. 

           Drama  queen.

This time last year I was on holiday in Edinburgh, having a great time. This year it will take a bit longer before I manage to visit. The good thing is I know I'll always be at home in Scotland because, as my mum says: "Home is where your toothbrush is." and I know for a fact that there's a toothbrush waiting for me in toon so that when Caledonia calls I can say: "Och aye, I am coming!" Start getting ready, pals! :)

PoP all the way!

I meant to write something more entertaining/inspiring/life changing, but I have a terrible cold and I just got back from work (never trust your colleague aka boss when they say they'll give you a lift home - you'll never leave the office!). This entry is more of a "note to self" kind of thing. 

- In the end, the catastrophe I thought I was responsible for yesterday wasn't a real catastrophe because the external hard drive I dropped on the floor and which I thought I broke is not broken! It just doesn't work very well but it hasn't died completely. 

Conclusion no. 1: NEVER spend a whole afternoon commiserating yourself for something you might have done wrong. Often things are not as bad as the seem.  I owe an apology to an amazing lassie for cheering me up and always being there for me. 

Conclusion no. 2: I am really lucky to have some amazing people around! Thank you! I'll try to be more positive, I promise!

- I spend the whole day taking notes at a commercial meeting ("Your notes are just amazing! It's incredible how fast you write. Can I ask you to take the minutes of the meeting?", I was told 5 minutes before the start of the meeting. Of course I had no notepads with me, of course I was completely unprepared and of course I was half as smart as everyone else). I took notes for 8h and god knows if I'll be able to decipher them tomorrow...Something to worry about tomorrow, not today. 

Conclusion no. 3: People do not realise what note taking (or interpreting, for that matter) involves. Intepreters get frustrated and angry and yet we often can't do much about it because (unfortunately) real life is in now way close to  AIIC guidlines.

Conclusion no. 4: Although one should never judge people by the way they look, in real life this happens all the time and people you were usually friendly with, suddenly look down on you. Reminder: always make an effort to look decent, if not smart. 

I have the feeling there will be more opportunities for me to feel inadequate/ stupid/ inexperienced but until that happens, I can definitely say...

Conclusion no. 5: the Power of Positivity rocks!

TrUe ColOuRs

A hard week is behind me and I can say: YES! I survived! Yesterday I had the feeling I was going to be told off for one thing I wasn't sure I did correctly. Instead, I got told off for two things that didn't have anything to do with my first fear. Life never ceases to surprise me! If there's one thing that keeps me going in this cold and rainy winter (it's been really cold here recently - bora times), it is my weird "gift" of seeing things in colours. Some of you already know about this, others might not. The fact is that I see numbers, the letters of the alphabet and the days of the week in different colours. So when I get asked to find code 1463 number I remember it because 1 is white, 4 is green, 6 is red and 3 is yellow. No, I am not making this up. Ask me in a week and the colors will still be exactly the same :)

                                    I wonder if he has synesthesia...

When I was little I thought it was normal to see numbers, letters and days the way I saw them. I just thought the colours may vary so one day I went up to my mum and asked: "Muuuuuuum? What colour is Wednesday for you?" She smiled, stroked my head (probably thinking my disability was far greater than just physical) and said: Hmmm...I think it's pink." You cannot imagine how disappointed I was when I asked her the same question a week later and she told me Wednesday was orange! I called her a liar and a cheat: "Days don't change colour!!!" That's when she started realising I wasn't joking. It took me a while to explain how everything works in my brain (and I am still not sure I got my point across, although I tried really hard!). Every number and every letter has a different colour. If one is white and 3 is yellow then 13 is white and yellow. For words it's a bit different. I only see all the letters in a word in different colours when I first hear a name or a word, after that I just see words as if they were printed in a book (thank goodness, imagine reading a 500 pages long book and seeing every single letter in a different colour. I think it would give anyone a headache!). 

After my mum disappointed me so badly, I decided not to talk about synesthesia anymore. I would just use it to my advantage all the time: when learning how to make calculations, when memorising new words, remembering appointments...But I still felt misunderstood. My life changed when I met T. I think it was in first year and we were still getting to know each other. I had started telling her that "I have this weird thing...I see numbers and letters in colours..." and was waiting for her to tell me I was completely insane, but to my great surprise she just went: "Aw, me too! How cool!" We then spent a whole evening going through the alphabet and counting to see if we had any colours in common. I would go "L is green" and T. would say: "No! it's blue" (I don't think I got this right, T., I'm sorry! :)

I now know that I am not that insane, but I also know I am not a genius or extremely talented because of synesthesia (apparently many famous musicians and artists in general had it). I just know it has always helped me, both from a practical point of view (memory-wise) and a psychological point of view (on a rainy day I just need to deal with numbers for my life to be a bit less dull). 

Despite having asked my mum a thousand times, she still hasn't told me what happens in her head when she hears the word Friday or 25,908 or a completely unknown word. My dad is hopeless too (he's also a man, which surely doesn't make things easier!). So please, please, please, tell me how it works for you. I am dying to know!!! Meanwhile I wish you all a very colorful weekend! Mine is going to be chocolatey brown :) 

Of wee favours an cakes...

When someone asks you "(...) just a wee favour...I have translated the text myself, you just need to go through it, it'll take you 20 minutes" or "It's just a page, no technical terminology...Can you do it for me. It won't take you long - you are soooo good" you know straight away they are lying. 

Let's face it: favours are never wee ones and they are never easy to do. They require time, effort and a great deal of self-persuasion  (i.e. managing to silence that little voice in your ear telling you you'd much rather read a book or watch a film than translate marketing plans and reports. Sometimes I don't mind, especially if translations have something to do with stuff that interests me. Recently I've been reading up a lot on the Israeli - Palestinian conflict and translating about it too. For free (it was for an NGO). What does bother me is that people expect you to do it for free, quickly and whenever they want it. If I am going to do it for free then at least let me do it whenever I feel inspired! Plus it's not like people doing other jobs will do them for free. Try asking a plumber to come fix your tap for free...It will never happen. 

Some days ago I had an experience which proved this. I heard that one of my neighbours (yes, there are about 25 of them) is very good at making cakes and she makes amazing decorations. Since I am having a birthday party soon, I thought: why not asking her to do it. It will definitely be nicer and easier than having to go to a bakery to order it. It turns out she charges 40 euros (!!!) per kilogram and she only makes cakes which are heavier than 3kg. I have to say the cakes are really amazing, very colourful and really very artistic. She can basically make cakes of any shape: from cars to dogs, flowers etc. Tempting at first. The thing is: even if I was ready to spend 120€ for a cake (no flipping way!) would the cake really be good? I (almost) never judge things by appearance (student life teaches you the most disgusting-looking food can taste absolutely amazing), so when she asked me what decorations and shape I wanted, I really didn't know what to say. What cake would I have? One shaped like a booth/a microphone/a rugby ball/a coffee tin? Please! All I want is a good  cake. So I asked her if she could make something simple (but chocolatey and gooey). The answer? "I only make sophisticated cakes and no, I can't make it for any less than 40€. Take it or leave it." Of course I left it. I am not old enough to go bankrupt. But the real question is: would I be ready to say to the people constantly asking me favours (often friends or at least acquaintances): "Sorry guys, I charge X€ per word. Take it or leave it." (Un)fortunately I don't think I would. 

All I know is that no cake in the world will ever beat M.'s 25 home-made cream cakes. 

                    The numbers are a bit smudged because of the wet weather, but aren't they amazing?!   

Coffee rebels

I have always thought I like to have my routine, to have everything under control, but I am realising more and more that I love unexpected things and changes. They definitely make life much more interesting (I just had the most improvised birthday ever and it was so so nice!).  

I know some people who are more than happy with a job which they themselves find boring. “It's good money for what I do and, let's be honest, I do close to nothing” they say. Sometimes I envy them because they have achieved something which I never will: they are happy with what they've got. Don't get me wrong, I am a very happy with my life, but I always think there's more to it. The sense of achievement after you've accomplished something great is an amazing feeling, but before you realise it, it's gone. You start wanting more, you set yourself new goals and I personally think this is what makes us grow. I'm possibly a bit to extreme, seen as I've never had any proper time off (and by “proper” I mean at least a couple of months to travel or do whatever I want). My life has always been “gap free”, full of changes, new faces, new places...The only thing I REALLY (REALLY, REALLY!) don't like changing are friends. Making new friends is always nice, but I  often  grow really fond of some people and then I suffer like hell when I have to leave them. I've realised it's not easy to keep in touch with friends whom you don't see very often and although I do my best to stay in contact with everyone, it doesn't always work (stupid time zones!). Luckily, I am not the kind of person who gives up easily, so I warn you: I'll keep trying!  :) 

Anyway, now that I am “stuck” at home for a while , there's a lot more routine in my life: get up, go to work - without ever managing to have breakfast, God forbid! - work, work, work, come home, write dissertation, cook dinner, blog – this damn wee thing is taking me far too much time! - bed and the whole thing starts all over again. I have to say I am not  tired of it (yet), but I absolutely refuse to do the exact same things every day.

My morning coffee is the only routine I like (and need desperately). Other than that, I like having coffee with different  people every day and, most importantly, I like trying different types of coffee (otherwise what would be the point in working in a coffee company? :) But there's a problem. The baristas know every single employee. They might not know everyone by name but they certainly know what time each of us usually comes for a coffee and what coffee we take. You get three chances. If you take the same coffe for three times in a row, that's you labelled for life. Choosing a different coffee every day like I (try to) do is a clear sign of borderline personality. It's almost like treason, after all coffee has a soul too. Who are we to hurt its feelings on a whim? So every time I ask for a different coffee, the barista gives me a sad look and says: “Are you sure you don't want the same as last time? You seemed to like it...” (of course I did, I like any kind of coffee!). I've been wanting to try latte macchiato for some days now, always unsuccessfully. The barista simply refuses to hear my requests and keeps bringing me “for-you-as-usual” coffee just because at one point I had cappuccino for more than three days in a row.

One cannot just go

                    to a cappuccino...

from a "capo in bi" (my absolute favourite)...

... a double macchiato

                                                                             ... and a latte macchiato 

It might sound stupid and banal, but in a way this coffee routine can be a metaphor for our lives: people are scared of changing and trying something new. And when they finally decide to go for it, it's often other people who warn them they shouldn't.

But I am determined not to conform to the rules. I'll make sure I try all of them. Whenever and whichever way I want.

Dana, the (coffee) rebel

We are all equal (but some are better than others) – Rugby (Part 1)

I am absolutely knackered! The coach wasn't there today so the boys decided we would have to work twice as hard. Especially me, since I am the “wee one” who needs to toughen up. I am also the only girl, so you can imagine the kind of lovingly mean remarks they make on my account. Today, for example, they kept going: “Come on girl, rugby is not ballet! Push harder, push, PUSH!” (to the point that I started wondering if I was just exercising or I was actually giving birth). Of course, the moment I really started pushing hard and taking up speed, they placed themselves right in front of me and - BANG! drove straight into my wheelchair.

                                         

                                      

                                                                                                 More or less like this ;)

I have come to the conclusion that there are different kinds of tackling. There's the evil tackle, which you resort to when you are playing and you really want to make your opponents' life hard no matter what; and there is the loving tackle, which more or less corresponds to the 'like' button on Facebook. The more you like someone, the more you get in their way and try to annoy them. While this might work on the rugby field, I doubt it's a good tactic in everyday life. Do you really think you could fall madly in love with someone who crashed into your car?

Not only am I the only girl, I have also been nominated official sandwich maker for all away games. My gut reaction to this was: “This is such a sexist thing to do! If you weren't sitting I would kick your ass”. But to be honest I pity them. They don't know that I am the worst sandwich maker in history. I enjoy cooking and I am quite good at it, but don't ever ask me to make you a sandwich, especially if you want soft and slimy stuff in it – anything from lettuce to tomatoes and mozzarella. It would end up in a total mess.

If you think disabled people are sympathetic towards other human beings who happen to be in their same situation, you are wrong...Well, let's say in 90% of cases. I was lucky to meet people for whom I can say without a doubt that they belong to the remaining 10%. Even so, a conversation about sport between disabled people is sometimes worse than football bets in Italy. The one I heard the other day, when my team mates were discussing who could be the next person to enter our team, went more or less like this:

- I know whom you could ask. Do you remember Luca?

- Luca who? The one who injured himself when skiing?

- Oh no, he's fresh. I mean the other Luca, the old guard. Car accident Luca.

- Nooooo! Not him! He's a bad tetra, a high one, I think he's a C7 - much worse than you. He's also totally disfado! He hasn't moved his ass for the past 10 years. He's fat like a pig, there's no way he'd keep up with us.

- Then maybe Piero.You know, Piero the young one. He'd be a wise choice.

...And back to line 2.

You probably don't have a clue what the whole conversation is about. Don't worry, I couldn't make any sense of it either. Like any other "interest group", wheelchair users too have their own jargon. Here's a wee glossary for you:

tetra - tetraplegic. Specimen of this kind can be subdivided into two subcategories (see low and high)

para - paraplegic. Same as above.

healthy - not disabled. A word which I personally dislike very much, since I consider myself very healthy despite being in a wheelchair.

low (synonym: good) – someone whose injury resulted in a damange to the lower part of the spinal chord and who can therefore use his arms and hands without any problem. The lower the injury, the better.

high (synonym: bad) – someone whose spine was injured pretty high up, which means that the upper body is affected too (back/arms/hands).

C7, C6, C5...  – Not only do wheelchair users all know each other they also know what kind of injury everyone else suffered. These are classified according to the vertebra which has been damaged. I would advise you not to dig deeper into this - quite scary.

fresh – someone who's just had an accident or has been using a wheelchair for a short time (less than 5 years)

old guard – someone who's been in a wheelchair for a long time (15 years or more)

disfado (a complete wreck) – A wheelchair user who's not active enough. People who belong to this category are usually frowned upon by the rest.

Luckily enough, my team mates seem to think I am not lazy enough to be part of this last category (phew!). I can now go to bed happy :))

                                                                           Spéciale dédicace à the Frenchies

Today is one of those days

And it's my fault. Not my job's fault, not my colleagues' fault, just mine. Don't worry, nothing bad happened, I just missed out a line in a translation. It's nothing compared to famine in Africa or forest fires in Australia, but translating is the only thing I am good at at the moment. And if I can't even do that right...well...I don't know how I'll deal with all the rest. I am ready to get told off by my colleague tomorrow (who also happens to be my neighbour, oh joy! ). What I am asking myself is...I have always thought I had "great attention for detail" (don't we all like putting that on our CV?). When the f...ornication have I lost it? Has interpreting made me focus more on speed than anything else? I don't have an answer so I will stop this stream of consciousness thing right now. Sorry about it, gentle readers. I'll come back to you with some fresh rugby news soon. I know they are much more fun to read.

Hugs from my negligent and careless self, who, however, still cares a lot about you :) 

Practice makes.

Yesterday morning I was having coffee with my colleagues like every morning and chatting away about the usual things, when I suddenly saw it. It was standing on the other side of the room, nice and tall, in all its beauty. An interpreting booth! My face lit up and I felt like a child who just received its Christmas present. I left my coffee at the bar and told my colleagues I'd be back in a second: "I just want to have a look at the consoles." 

Yes, I tend to get overly excited about anything related to interpreting, whether it be headphones, notepads or booths. I often think of the booths at Heriot-Watt with the kind of nostalgia typical of anything related to Scotland. They were so nice and cosy. When I was sitting in that small box, I felt safe and protected. I knew I could count on the wooden table and the walls around me for support, regardless of what was going on in my head (usually excitement, happiness and panic all at once). I still remember how disappointed I was when I first saw the booths in Ljubljana: they were ordinary portable booths - no firm walls around me. But after spending a whole year in their company, they felt like home, which means I now feel at home and happy wherever I go, provided that there is a booth somewhere near. 

It didn't always used to be like that. The whole of last year was really hard. I don't remember ever being so emotionally unstable as during my master's in interpreting. There were so many things I had to learn, so many do's and don'ts to remember...The hardest part was to stop striving for perfection. As we were once told in an interpreting class: "Practice makes perfect". It took indeed lots and lots of practice (I can hardly remember a day spent without interpreting) and a fair deal of patience from the side of my parents, friends, lecturers and a lecturer who is now a friend, for me to get to the end of it all. At one point I was so sick of interpreting I decided I would take up any job, provided that it was a routine job, that there was no stress involved and that it didn't  make me feel stupid all the time. It didn't take long for me to realise that any job can be stressful and that unexpected things happen anywhere all the time, not just in an interpreting booth. As for feeling stupid... I have never felt as stupid as now that I am expected to do things I have no clue about. I figured out that the only way for me to get rid of this feeling is to keep telling myself that it's ok for me not to be good at purchase orders, accounting and the like. I am an interpreter, people, why don't you get it?  :)

I wouldn't say I was born to be an interpreter, but of one thing I am sure: doing it makes me feel great. Now that I don't interpret that often, I really miss it - all of it: the adrenalin rush you get when you turn the mic on, the feeling of greatness when you find the perfect expression, the happiness after a productive day in the booth, even standing (sitting) in front of an audience and delivering a speech (something which I used to dread until recently). I've interpreted a few times after I finished uni, but certainly not often enough to call myself an interpreter. I knew things had to change or I would have no excuses for being bad at what I do now. My alarm clock (an extremely annoying French voice) started telling me that c'est l'heure de se réveiller half an hour earlier, so I can watch the news and read the papers before I go to work. Nerdy/masochistic, I know, but being up to date with what is going on in the world makes me feel in control of things and extremely intelligent :) I've also started practising again with a friend. We do not have a booth, of course, but it actually doesn't take much to re-create one.   

       My "booth"

Today it was the first time I did some simultaneous since my last exam. To my great relief I realised that interpreting is like swimming or cycling: you can get rusty, you can be a bit clumsier than you were, but you never forget how to do it. Once an interpreter, always an interpreter [Reminder/encouragement for those of you (of us?) who are going to sit an interpreting test in the (near) future]. The best part of it are certainly the blunders I make when I am working. Today I said: "Kmetje so morali vstajati zgodaj, da bi pomolzli kavo"(Farmers had to get up early to milk the coffee; kava = coffee, krava = cow). Why am I not surprised? :) 

The Salami Technique

* This post is not suitable for vegetarians. May contain traces of meat.

In my flat, the fridge is just next the door and since I only lock the door at night, anyone can drop by at any time. I have to say that this open-door policy has its plus sides: a) people bring you food b) you are never alone; but it also has its down sides: a) people demand food from you b) you are never alone. My ever-hungry neighbours have taken up the habit of checking what's in my fridge before even closing the door behind them and they always find something to complain about.

- "Why don't you keep any fizzy drinks? I wouldn't mind having some Lemonsoda..."

I profoundly dislike fizzy drinks since I cannot have them without making weird faces. It's embarrassing so I stopped having them, but I love my neighbours so I went and bought Lemonsoda. They were happy for a while but it didn't last for long.

- "You don't even have beer to offer."

I never drink beer alone, I only ever have it with friends. This is why I don't think it is necessary to keep more than 2 cans in the fridge. 

- "Look at this! What on earth do you live on? Love?" (I wish!)

Err... Let's say I never use my fridge to its full capacity... It's actually always half empty (or half full, depending on how you look at it). But it's not my fault! I was brought up in a family where we get the closest to autarky one can get in these modern times: we grow our own vegetables in the summer (and spend three months peeling/chopping/blending/grating/cooking/grilling our produce); we bake our own bread, make our own yogurt, buy cheese and eggs from local farmers... My dad is a convinced supporter of the "think globally, buy locally" and "less is more" philosophy. Therefore, it is NOT surprising that my fridge is always empty.

Visitors have accepted this by now. They got so used to my empty fridge that when they saw a new item on the shelf they almost got a heart attack:

"WHAT is this, Dana?! I really didn't expect this from you! Weren't you...?"

Yes, I was vegetarian. Until that nasty salami found its way to my fridge. I actually bought it for other people, not for myself, I swear. They ate most of it, but not all of it. Big mistake. 

In Edinburgh things were much simpler. Almost all of my closest friends were vegetarian so it was easy not to fall into temptation. And then I had T., my wonderful flatmate. We were (are?) both vegetarian and we would always cook and eat together (only veggie food). When one of us would make an exception to the veggie rule, we would tell each other. It was almost like a     confession:

"You know...over Christmas...family friends came over and...I sinned." (Funnily enough we are both atheists).

Now I've sinned again and I have no one to confess to. In interpreting classes we have been told that if we broke up long sentences into smaller chunks (the so called salami technique) we would find it easier to interpret a complex speech. I thought it might work with the real salami too so I started cutting it up in really thin slices, hoping I'll get tired of it soon - but I didn't.  I know it might sound stupid to make such a fuss, after all billions of people eat meat every day. The thing is that after  telling everyone you are vegetarian for more than 6 years, asking people to cook vegetarian dishes especially for you and saying no to so many yummy-looking dishes because they had meat in them, having a slice or two of that innocent-looking salami almost makes you have an identity crisis. Luckily it's almost gone now and I am not planning to buy any more meat for a very long while. All is not lost :)

“I know one of the guys in the team...” - Rugby (Intro)

Here is my first post about rugby, as promised. The thing is I can't go straight to the point because it's a long story, but I'll try to be as cohesive and coherent as possible (as one of my lecturers would say).

I've always wanted to play basketball. At school I would play with my classmates and I was good. It wasn't always easy to score, since it is much more difficult to reach the basket if you cannot jump, but I was certainly very good at bashing into people's legs and grabbing the ball from them. I was also low enough to sneak under people's arms. And most importantly, I was fast so my team mates were always happy to have me in the team. Playing was so much fun that I started thinking about taking up wheelchair basketball. The main problem was that the team was based in a town which was about one and a half hours away from where I live – too far away for my parents to drive me there twice a week. Then there was another major problem: back then I profoundly disliked disabled people. Before you start insulting me (you'd be right, by the way) and stop reading, let me explain. Throuought my whole childhood the only disabled people I saw were people who couldn't really move and could hardly speak. Most of the time they would try to tell something by shouting, which is all right, but it can be quite scary for a four-year-old. So for me disabled = scary. Also, my parents are amazing people, who decided I was going to grow up like any other “normal” child. I never wanted or felt the need to socialise with disabled people. I didn't have a problem with being “different” but I thought being friends with someone in your same situation didn't make any sense whatsowever. So wheelchair basketball.

This was about 7 or 8 years ago. In all this time I've learnt from experience that people in wheelchairs do not bite and they can be really good company. What I didn't know until recently is that they can be total nutcases, who knock on your door on a Saturday morning and go:

“Hello, I'm your neighbour. I was wondering if you feel like jumping off a plane with a parachute. Tomorrow. It won't cost you anything.”

I remember pinching myself hard to see if all this was really happening and I really was standing in front of a complete stranger who had just asked me to go kill myself on a Sunday morning – for the fun of it. I have to admit that, had he asked me the same question a couple of years earlier, I would have said yes straight away, but too many rides on Christmas fairies wheels in Edinburgh can make you change your priorities damn quickly!

When I said no to his offer he was quite disappointed but he got over it quite quickly: “Hmmm...ok. What about cycling. I have a bike. You should try it! Or maybe sailing. I have a boat too, it's in parked in the garage, I can show it to you!” Had I not seen the boat parked next to my car I would have thought something was seriously wrong with this guy.

It took quite a few dinners and many long talks for my neighbour to go: “I have just what you need right now. Don't ask any questions. All you have to know is that I know one of the guys playing in the team – and he is hot!”

This is how I said yes to wheelchair rugby :)

The basics

Players per team: 4 

Goal: the player who is holding the ball must cross the line at the end of the opponents' field.

Gear:

• a wheelchair 

There are two types of rugby wheelchairs: one for attackers – which is also the one I use – with big bumpers; and one for defendants, with iron bars at the front. The defendant's aim is to get the attacker's front wheels caught into the bars so as to stop him from reaching the line at the end of the field (and score). The attacker's only goal is...well...to run and hit hard.

Ehm...sorry for the technical picture! It's the only decent one I could find.

• A pair of rubber gloves (unlike normal wheelchairs, rugby wheelchairs do not have handles on wheels so you manoeuvre the wheelchair by pushing on the tyres directly. No gloves = bruises, bruises and more bruises!)
• A ball (a normal volleyball one)

   Me looking far too serious. 


Today I tackled someone for the first time and it was really good fun! I'll tell you more about it soon!

Ode To The Three Ss

Studying, sleeping and...no, it's not what you're thinking, you dirty minds! The third one is socialising, of course! In the first few weeks at UWC we were told we would only manage to do two of the three things: either sleep and socialise or socialise and study or study and sleep. The schedule was so full that doing all three things was almost impossible.

This weekend I've managed to do all three of them. 

Sleeping. I slept a lot, possibly even too much. I've always been the odd one out in my family since my mum and dad were morning people. My dad would usually come home from his 15k run on a Sunday morning before I even got out of bed and would wake me up telling me it was such a waste of time to sleep on such a wonderfully sunny day (how extremely annoying!). Now things have changed for some reason and all three of us enjoy sleeping until very late. It's good, since I don't feel out of place anymore but it makes it so much more difficult to do anything about the second S. 

Studying. I've been so busy at work lately that I've hardly had the time to work on my dissertation. I've now started analysing the data and although it's taking me a long time, I am really enjoying it. I have somehow managed to turn that ever-present feeling of guilt for not being productive enough into positive energy. Also, I can always rely on my friends if I need a push. As M. pointed out today: "Stop deceiving yourself! You are not writing your dissertation yet, you've just been collecting data." True friends always tell the truth. :) But still, I am pleased and I think I can tick off the second S. 

Socialising. This weekend has been one of the most social weekends I've had in ages. I've been catching up with some really inspiring friends. The kind of people who are so intelligent, so bubbly, so enthusiastic and so cool that you can't help feeling cool too when you are with them; and other friends who are just as cool, but who know you too well to expect you to be cool or wise on a Saturday night and they just take your silly giggling to mean that you are having a good time. 

You might be wondering why on earth I am writing all this on a Saturday night. It is not a very social thing to do, I agree. But you see, after all this coolness and some more coolness planned for tomorrow I cannot sleep. So I'm back to s(quare) 1 - FAIL! :)

I would be more than happy to add a fourth S: Sachertorte for breakfast on a Saturday :)

The Midnight Warriors

In my hometown cars are parked everywhere: on pedestrian crossings, on pavements, on bus stops, in the middle of the road, in the narrowest of streets...On average, a family of four owns at least two cars and a motorbike. "Public transport? You must be kidding! The last time I took the bus I was half an hour late! I am not doing that again!" You can imagine the chaos that reigns in the city centre. Although I've lived abroad where people accept the fact that rules exist to be followed and not to be broken, I know I cannot expect people to be so enlightened in my hometown. Here the only rule you must abide by is "an eye for an eye". It's the survival of the fittest. So when you cannot get on the pavement because a car has parked where it shouldn't have, you must react. I started off lifting the windscreen wipers of all the cars that were in my way in sign of disapproval. In the beginning it was fun, I must admit, but soon I got tired of it. Two years of UWC and the "peace and international understanding" philosophy have borne fruits. I am a convinced pacifist and I see no point in getting in a bad mood because of a bunch of insensitive lazy people.  What goes around comes around, right? No, not for my parents, or, as I sometimes call them, the midnight warriors. Of the two, my mum is the feistiest. One you end up in her claws she won't let you go. I have witnessed a number of very embarrassing situations, including my mum having a rant at the police for not doing their job properly or walking up to people who had parked on a disabled parking lot without a permit and shouting:"Well, you don't look disabled to me!", to which my dad usually replies by rolling his eyes and turning to me: "Ah, women! I really don't get them, do you?" (forgetting that I am a woman myself!). My dad's reaction is much more discrete. For years now, he has been taking photos of anything which might make my life more difficult (from high pavements to inaccessible buses). He does it abroad too and often asks me to pose for him next to a fancy bus with a ramp or a nicely laid pavement. "We'll soon have enough material for an open letter, you'll see." The circle of warriors has been expanding faster and faster: every person I meet, every friend I make is a potential member of the club. I still remember a Halloween when all of my friends refused to enter a club because it had no wheelchair access (I was actually the only one who didn't really care how I got in, all I wanted was to dance!) or the time when a friend got into a big argument with a hostess who didn't want me to take the plane on my own because I was in a wheelchair. As for myself, I'll continue being a pacifist...at least until I get my own rugby wheelchair :) I'll write more about rugby in my next post. Have a great weekend, people!

To blog or not to blog

The end of the year has always been a very creative time for me. Maybe because that's usually the time when I finally manage to catch up with people I haven't seen in ages and get lots of ideas from them. Maybe it's thinking about presents that makes me creative (although, to be honest, I've never been a fan of all this Christmas frenzy - I like giving and receiving presents all year long). Mind you, I rarely have life-changing epiphanies, but it is so nice to stop for a while and think about your life, your achievements (if any), your plans for the future, the year that has gone by... These days I've been thinking so much that I felt the urge to put things down on paper. Even the nicest thoughts can be draining sometimes. To start with, I thought I'd write just for myself, but I am a terrible procrastinator and I know I wouldn't keep it up for long. Also, writing for myself wouldn't necessarily help me to unravel the thoughts dwelling in my brain (why make the effort of being clear and concise if you don't have to?). In the end I decided that a blog wouldn't be such a bad idea after all. 

The main doubt I had (and I actually still have) is what language to write in. My choice no. 1 would certainly be Slovene, because it's my language, the language I think and dream in, but also the language in which, if you ask me, word plays are the funniest (I know, I am being biased here). Writing in English, on the other hand,  would mean I could use this blog to stay in touch with some people who live too far away for us to meet for a coffee and whom I really miss (strangely enough, Skype calls are never a very efficient way of catching up - too much reminiscing and a lot of giggling :). I also thought of those of you who would just love reading my posts and finding out grammar and spelling mistakes...So here you go: English it is, at least for the time being.

Doubt no. 2: Why would people be interested in what I have to say? a) Because of all the grammar mistakes b) "Because getting by in Trieste in a wheelchair is anything but easy!", as a friend said to me today. Very true! The title of this blog could be translated as "Dana's everyday life". It may not sound very exciting, but I can assure you that in Trieste even the most boring and banal things can become a source of amusement, if you are in a good mood, or frustration, if you are in a bad mood. 

Stay tuned.