At least

Ryanair should seriously get a proofreader or at least learn how to use the polite form in Italian. Despite their broken Italian, I have just learnt that on Friday I need to be at the airport at least two hours before departure.

If I want to catch the train, I need to tell my name, surname, type of wheelchair, time of arrival at the station, time of departure from the station, my destination, as well as my shoe size at least two hours in advance ("But ideally you should be able to tell us at least six hours in advance, so we can get organised"). Say I went out at 6 pm. The CFL guys would need to know about my plans at 12 pm (probably before I event started considering going out), and I should make sure I take the train home at midnight. That's logical, isn't it? Everyone who goes out knows exactly when they are coming back. Why? So that the CFL people can take 10 minutes to get from their office to the main entrance,  where I am waiting for them, and take me to the platform walking like a snail on crutches. Now, most times there's two of them (what for, I wonder?). Most times they tell me off for being late even if I am there 20 minutes earlier. Most times they ask me to find the platform by myself and meet them there directly ("Ca ira plus vite, madame." Plus vite pour qui?!)

If I want to get a lift in a shopping centre, I usually have to wait for at least ten minutes before I can get in. People see me waiting, and yet all they can say is: "Il doit être vraiment difficile de se déplacer en fauteuil quand il y a autant de monde!" and give me a pitiful look. Well, it wouldn't be that difficult if all that walking monde moved their arse and took the stairs, wouldn't it?!

I came to the conclusion that it is often easier to do as you are told than to continue complaining and going against "the system". But there is another problem: nowadays, no one (apart from my dad, a control freak par excellence) plans ahead. People decide where and when to meet at the very last minute. "We'll see.", "I'll text you.", "I'll let you know." What they don't seem to get is that I would love to live the way they do, without fixed plans. I would love to take last-minute decisions and just go with the flow. Unfortunately, Ryanair/the CFL/lazy lift users/you name it don't let me do it. And that's is how Dana the rebel, the girl who was always messy, disorganised and late, became a control freak.  Yes, not all stories have a happy ending :)))

Odi et amo

Yes, these days like never before I have been constantly hearing two voices inside my head having endless arguments. Here's an extract from one of my many internal monologues, clearly showing my love-hate relationship with Lux. 

L: "Oh, I love my job. Respect, independence, long deadlines, a quiet office...that's all I need!"

H: "Quiet?! You call that quiet?! It's quieter than being in a forest in the middle of Siberia!"

L: "Oh yes, I do love my job. I couldn't live without constantly excercising my brain like I do now."

H: "But do you really care about minutes, petitions, amendments, resolutions? You think you are going to save the world. Yeah, right! Bullshit. This is utter bullshit. People are dying and you are in an office, sitting at a desk and staring at a screen 8 hours a day. Is that your contribution to creating a better world?!"

L: "But still, I do love my job!"

H: "Do you also love spending two hours per day to get to work and back? It's not even a train where you could at least read or meet hot guys (?). It's a bloody minivan so reading is not possible and the drivers are so talkative that you cannot even listen to podcasts like you used to. Gone are the times when you were an informed individual who took the time to listen to the news in five different languages every day. What a waste of time that was!"

L: "But I have met lots of nice people here and seen lots of nice places."

H: "Let's talk about that! You just spent an hour dealing with a guy from an insurance company who still doesn't want to tell you the company's IBAN number for you to be able to pay, because: "It's written on the invoice" (there are for of them and they all look the same!). And remember the grumpy bus drivers and the lazy people at the train station. You call them nice?!"

And it goes on and on and on... I have never been a big fan of coaching but a friend introduced me to this guy here who often talks about our "internal dialogue", the bitchy voice in our heads and self-fulfilling prophecies. Yes, sometimes he does state the obvious but, let's face it: our brains can be easily tricked. So if you understand Italian and if you haven't seen the video yet, do have a look!  

Ko zadiši po domu

Oziroma, ko je na meniju kislo zelje, ki si ga ti ne moreš privoščiti, ker nimaš časa. In potem se ti ves dan cedijo sline ob misli na to (ja, tudi brez klobas je dobro, pravi moj vegi notranji glas, ki je zadnje čase vse glasnejši). Isti dan ti prijateljica pošlje sporočilo, da manjka samo še 16 dni do božičnih počitnic, ko boš končno doma. In naenkrat se ti zalušta še po grahovi mineštri, fižolovi mineštri, radiču in fižolu (tudi tistem "poznem", grenkem radiču, ki ga je treba pošteno prežvečiti), vrzuotah (ja, J., meni so vrzuote všeč :), mamini potici in/ali industrijskem panetonu oziroma pandoru, kostanjih (ki se pečejo na štedilniku na drva špargertu, medtem ko ogenj veselo prasketa) in teranovem likerju.

Naenkrat si spet otrok, ki v kuhinji, kjer diši po sveže pečenem kruhu in praženi čebuli, piše pismo Miklavžu. Pismo potem mama nese na balkon, da ga bo Miklavž lahko vzel. "Mama, misliš, da sem bila letos dovolj pridna?" sprašuješ, čeprav že veš, da je Miklavž vedno radodaren. Dva dni zatem, ti papà pove, da je z vrta slišati cingljanje, da je to gotovo Miklavž. Z iskricami v očeh oblečeš bundo, se oviješ v topel šal in stečeš (?) ven pogledat, če je kje pustil kaj zate. Gledaš in gledaš, nato jo končno vidiš: pod orehom stoji vreča, polna daril, čokolade in mandarin. Ni kaj, tudi tokrat je bradati mož prinesel točno to, kar si si želela.

Preblisk na poti domov po napornem dnevu v Bruslju, osmih urah vožnje z vlakom, 20-minutnem premoru za kosilo, norem tekanju iz stavbe v stavbo, čakanju v vrstah za varnostno kontrolo in obujanju (lepih) tolmaških spominov. Ker je to samo dom (in ne dom dom), ni nihče skuhal večerje, tudi stanovanje se čez dan ni samo pospravilo in čez nekaj ur moram spet v službo. Oh, ko mi le zjutraj ne bi bilo treba skrbeti, ali je v denarnici dovolj gotovine in ali so ključi, kartonček, telefon in glava na pravem mestu. Saj vem, da mi doma doma tega ne bo treba početi vsak dan. Če grem kam s starši, včasih torbico preprosto pustim doma samo zato, da sem lahko za nekaj ur spet otrok, ki brezskrbno in zvedavo opazuje svet okrog sebe.