In Search of Soy: The Adventures of Celina

Bounce for your youth!

2008-03-06T18:53:00.006+01:00

There was a jumping castle.

Words fail.

I can only say that I have chosen some stellar friends here in London town. Super fantastic people. The kind of people, in fact, who hire a jumping castle for a party exclusively for the use of adults. I love them.

I have always loved jumping castles but have been hindered by society's frowning upon adult women heaving themselves onto the bloody things while 4 year olds play about on them. So when we were invited to a house party with a a jumping castle we - ah ho ho ho - jumped at the chance.

Oh ho ho.

The whole event had a rather surreal air to it. You'd be sitting outside chatting and then out would walk two people. All in all, generally trendy-looking people. They would walk out, look up at the castle, place their drink on the grass, remove their shoes and then run at the castle.

At first everyone is a bit awkward on it, just jumping up and down like Coke bottles bobbing in the ocean. But eventually someone goes for a back flip and then it's all on.

Anyway, it seems jumping on a jumping castle is significantly more difficult than the abovementioned 4 year olds would have you believe. Seriously. It's hard work. After 30 seconds on the castle apparently healthy 20-somethings rolled themselves off it, panting and shaking their heads. The put their shoes back on, picked up their drink and returned to muck about with the playlist.

This led me to worry: this could be the last time I both have the opportunity and ability to jump on a jumping castle. I mean, if it's this hard when I'm 26 how hard's it going to be when I'm 36? And given that it's been 10 years since I last got a chance to go on one, this could very well be my last opportunity to jump. I mean to really jump.

As this dawned on me I turned wide eyed and looked at my fellow jumpers (incidentally, they were Laurie, Geoff and Claire - you don't know them). It felt wrong. This couldn't be the last time we all got to fully enjoy a jumping castle. It was too soon.

And yet, too late.

"Bounce!" I cried. "Bounce for your youth! Bounce for your youth!"

And so we bounced. Dear lord, how we bounced. We bounced until the bouncy castle man (for in England it is a 'bouncy castle') came and stood to watch myself and Claire continuously run at opposite walls like frenzied ferrets.

But I think he understood; we were bouncing for our youth.

It seems, however, that I over-estimated my youth. For I was sore and unable to move my left shoulder properly until Wednesday.

Next party we're pushing for a ball pit.

I'm a work of art

2008-02-28T18:17:00.004+01:00

Yes, my friends, I believe I will resume this blog once more. Things are in need of being said and I have some spare time on my hands.

So I am, in actual fact, a work of art. An important work of art, mind.

Lazing about one Sunday morning a couple weeks back now, Laurie and I got an urgent call. That call, dear readers, was from Art. And Art said: "Celina and Laurie. There's an emergency down at the Tate Modern. I need you save me. Will you come and save the day for me, Art?"

"It's nothing naked is it?" I asked, having studied a little bit of art in first year.

"There will be semi-naked people there, but you won't be naked," Art said.

"Well Art", said we. "Art, if you're in a bind we'll see what we can do. I think you're in luck, Art. I think you just might be in luck."

A slow breakfast, four coffees and two thirds of the Sunday papers later we raced down to the Tate Modern to see what it was that Art required us to do.

We arrived at the Tate Modern to see our friends Richard and Cleuci, acting as agents of Art. Cleuci was part of a team organising a performance art weekend at the Tate featuring key works since the early days of performance art being re-performed in one performance art bonanza. When, if I recall my lectures correctly, there was a lot of naked.

Art ushered us over to a corner in the Turbine Hall. An old German artist - who looked significantly more like a carpenter than a revolutionary performance art mastermind - took us through our paces. There were 5 of us in all. A crowd started to gather around us and I thought, my how casual this is of Art. People can come right up and touch us. How democratic. How nice for the people.

And then, I became art.

By holding up a canvas in the shape of a half completed tent. And then, when my arm got too tired, I knelt down at the semi-tent and looked at it as if, I believe, to convey deep contemplation.

I was art for about 10 - 15 minutes.

I should also mention that on this day I had not realised that we would be kneeling for the duration of the performance and so, it is quite likely, that given these damn low cut jeans, it is fairly probable that on that day, Art had arse crack.

And, sadly, people had cameras.

But while it lasted only 15 minutes, if there is anything I have learned from my work as Art it is that Art is both ephemeral and eternal. Yes, it was fleeting. But how many lives did I touch? How many little children watching me as Art will go on to produce great works of Art themselves?

It is one of the small, but many, contributions I like to think I have made to the advancement of humankind as a spiritual force.

Other things that were Art that day included:

I'm comin' home!

2007-12-06T16:50:00.000+01:00

No one reads this any more. I know that. Can't blame you.

But here's a heads up to dead air on the internet:

I'm back in Sydney in mid-December. Hooray for life! I'll be in town for Chrissie and the New Year and then I shall depart Oz for London once again. Friends and associates are encouraged to book 'Cel time' in advance because I expect to be highly popular and suffocatingly loved on my return.

How do you catch a moonbeam in your hand?

English people are great

2007-08-16T16:14:00.000+02:00

I know. Once again. Long time, no blog. I'm 'lazy', as they say.

But anyway, if you are reading this, I will tell you why English people are great.

To be frank though, first off, I generally don't believe this to be true. English people drink hideously. The kids kill each other frequently. Their feta is 25% fat. They litter. They don't know how to make coffee. They always eat chips. And they pronounce Pantene 'Pan-ten'.

So, being so prejudiced, it takes a lot for me to like English people. But two Saturdays ago I fell in love with them.

I had been to a picnic in South London on the Thames with a few people; Laurie, my uni friend Kana and assorted friends of a friend of Laurie's. On a green, green stretch of ground along the banks in the sunshine we drank rose, ate mushroom pate and I - as is my custom-bitched about the numerous short-comings of the English as a race. It was a nice day, a sunny day, a rare day. Everyone packed up to go home but Laurie, Kana and I decided to stick around. Just to try a cider at the pub on the riverbank while the sun was still out. The pub was full, as they all are, and everyone was standing on the footpath outside squinting through the sun.

Essentially, long story short: we got flooded. This wasn't your old fashioned rain flooding. This was just a very quiet, sunny, perculiarity of a flood. By the time I returned from the bar to get 3 ciders the very civilised bank, which 3 minutes before people had been dangling their feet over, was broken. Within half an hour the water was knee high.

But the thing is, the English didn't flinch. They didn't care. They hardly even moved. They rolled up their pants and stood there in the water chatting and refilling their glasses. They cycled through it. They walked their dogs in it. We giggled, sat on our bench, tucked our feet on the edge of our seats and decided that, essentially marooned at the pub, we should remain there until the flood waters receeded. Though, given the very unnatural nature of it all I wasn't altogether sure that the waters would go back at all. If, somehow, the apocalypse was upon us and it was quirky.

Somehow the event seemed so civilised. So much the band playing as the Titanic sank. And so ridiculous. And I think this is what it is about the English sometimes, they are so civilised it is ridiculous. They will let the waters rise around them, wade through it and not even giggle. Barely even speak to eachother. I liked it.

Eurovision is just dumb

2007-05-18T10:36:00.000+02:00

I hate the Eurovision Song Contest.

I'm not saying I'm going to hate it forever because I ain't no damn fool. But I hate it right now.

Well, to be honest, seeing as it's been almost a week since The Vision my initial loathing has somewhat simmered down. But I'm still a bit angry at the Eurovision Song Contest.

So, OK. I don't hate hate it, but it was a little bit crap. For me. I'm sure the event itself was still great.

I went to Helsinki to cover Eurovision in a behind-the-scenes, what's-it-all-about-alfie? kind of way. I had this idea that I could hover in the green room and watched the semi-finals imagining what questions I would put to which Euro stars. But then I got there I realised that not only did I not get to go backstage but I didn't even get to go in front of the stage. My press pass essentially allowed me in to the press centre and got me free transport through the Finnish capital.

Oh. And I got a Eurovision laptop bag which included a Marija Serifovic notepad and paper door knob hanger.

For that I travelled across a continent and slept in airports on two consecutive nights on my days off.

And for that, I hate Eurovision. A little bit. For now.

I am going to Eurovision

2007-05-10T14:00:00.000+02:00

I am going to Eurovision.

People, I am going to Eurovision.

But not just going to Eurovision, I'm going backstage at Eurovision.

I don't even know what to write. It's ridiculous.

Year after year I've sat huddled on various Sydney sofas, involuntarily repeating"Belgique, deux points", planning the Eurovision house party that would never come. I'd frantically turn off the end of news broadcasts so I wouldn't find out who won and one year - when I was working and had to listen to the news - I watched the whole affair carefully monitoring my body language trying not to give any indication to others as to who the winner would be.

And here I am. Going to Eurovision.

I'm there in a professional capacity thus the press pass. But the story I'm writing is actually so short my fee won't even cover my airfare. I leave London on Saturday morning, spend 23 hours in Helsinki and then fly out at 8am on Sunday. But I don't care. Because how many times do you get a press pass for Eurovision in your life? Really?

Last night for the first time in my life I got the opportunity to vote in Eurovision. I voted 4 times. I only meant to do it once, but it's a little bit like crack cocaine. Once for Israel's controversial 'Push the Button' ska-hip hop ode to Iran's nuclear programme and widely condemned position on Israel. Three times for Portugal because God knows they need it.

So, if you are watching for any reason on Sunday (and that reason should be because Eurovision is the greatest cultural event of the year) keep an eye out for a wild-eyed version of me buzzing around the glittered European D-listers. Still haven't decided what I'll be wearing yet, because what does one wear to Eurovision?

The problem is soy.

2007-04-19T16:24:00.000+02:00

The problem, my friends, is that I’ve found it.

The packaging is slightly different, it's true. But this is the soy milk I drank and enjoyed at home. The one that set the bar too high for any European soy milk to meet. The one I had considered having shipped over (until I realised it would cost over $800). The one I wrote to Sanitarium about (I really wish that was a lie dear friends, but I actually am that sad). And all the while it was sitting quietly on the shelf of a supermarket 10 minutes walk up the road.

This, my friends, is my one and only daughter. Lakisha. The brilliant first child against whom all of my subsequent sons have failed to compete. This is the one I thought I had left behind, but who has returned to me, unchanged and forgiving.

And so now the problem is this: can I continue to write a blog premised upon the search for soy when I have in fact found said soy? It seems to make it all one big ugly lie.

But I've decided, since so much has happened that I haven't written up I have heaps of stuff to write about and catch everyone up on. Banal stuff mostly, some whingeing and a fair bit of defamation.

Because I know you're all desperate to know.

'lright?

2007-03-02T16:41:00.000+01:00

Every work day starts off awkwardly. Every day I isolate myself just a little bit more. Look a little bit more bitchy, a little bit stiffer. Because every time someone greets me I get flustered. I hesitate and, inevitably, witness my chance for a jovial and productive work relationship sputter out like a firecracker that shoots higher and higher and just farts, drawing a thin grey line of shame behind its hollow, falling mass.

For what, my dear (largely non-English) friends, is the appropriate response to ‘Lright? It’s both greeting and question. And response. And I just can’t deal with it.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried ‘Fine thanks, how are you’ (too formal), ‘Not bad, not bad’ (too negative), ‘Hello’ (appropriate but somehow incomplete) and ‘Yes’ (the wrongest of them all).

The only thing I haven’t tried is, in fact, ‘Alright’. Which it seems is the only acceptable response.

Sorry. I can no longer continue this entry because I just now said- and this is a direct quote – “G’day, g’day” to a fellow editor as I passed him in the hall. That’s it. I mock no one.

Oh my god.

Shut up, I'm working.

2007-02-08T18:27:00.001+01:00

Here I sit at a proper desk, in a proper office, on my fourth day of work and I wonder: will updating my blog from my highly visible work computer result in me being fired before I have given my new employer my bank account details?

I guess, though, that it’s not all that much worse than bringing an MP3 player in on my second day and spending most of yesterday trying to find out if there really are only 8 public holidays a year in England. I have to say, though, I’m not just a little bit cocky about my ability to hold on to this job seeing as specially bred monkeys could probably do it quite satisfactorily.

So it is, my dear neglected readers, that I have finally landed in London and started to resume something of a ‘productive life’. That is to say, I used up all of my redundancy payout somewhere between Bosnia and Sweden and I need to start earning a valuable currency.

And I must say that I have a great affection for the English dreariness. I always found the sunshine in Sydney oppressive. So much squinting. But here, every morning when I see that great eternity of greyness slumped over the city I smile and think London is the greatest town in the world. Bring me my galoshes man servant!

I am also quite amazed if you have read this, seeing as it’s been two months since I last posted anything at all. You must be really, really bored. My ego thanks you from the bottom of it’s shallow heart.

Italy: Accurately represented by violent cinema.

2006-12-10T12:59:00.001+01:00

The mafia.

I can't say for certain that I was witness to mafia activity. I have no actual 'evidence' as they say. But you know; men, guns, Italy. You join the dots.

So we ended up in Venice. It had never been our intention to go to Italy. I had said the words: "I have no desire to go to Italy at all. It's strange. It does not interest me in any way". And so, while in Finland, we burned the Italy section of the Lonely Planet. And Portugal and Spain. Andorra, Germany, Belgium, Iceland, Austria. Gone. All part of Idiot Boy's grand plan to 'consolidate' our luggage down to a lunchbox. He says the Lonely Planet is significantly lighter now. I got to burn Switzerland myself though. I really hate that country.

We went to Italy because there was a cheap flight from Madrid to Milan and Milan is east of Madrid. And we stopped in Venice because Venice is east of Milan. And we stayed in Venice for 6 nights more than planned because we were living in a caravan park out past the airport and we discovered that you can quite easily live on pesto, gelato and women's multi vitamins.

We had been walking for hours one day and found a quiet part of the city. We found two health food shops and declared the area bohemian. It's quite a rare thing, in Venice, to find a part of the city away from the chaos of the pounding of tourist upon tourist, and we thought ourselves superior and fortunate.

We stopped to take a photo of this little piece of stencil art. Because we thought it was funny. Gun death, we laughed. Ha ha. Sometimes there's tempting fate, and then there is tempting fate.

"Our own little part of Venice", said Laurie looking out over the canal at the gently bobbing fishermen's boats. I nodded. Venice is nice.

We started towards this little narrow alley that had clothes strung between opposite windows. And I got to thinking about how it is that after hundreds and hundreds of years of stringing clothes between windows, nobody has thought there may be a more effective method of drying clothes. And how it is that noone seems to mind that the whole city can see your underwear. I've seen undies that could power yachts. And I saw one apartment which washed a load of pinks and whites twice within a week. What kind of freaks have that much pink that they need to do two loads a week? Who would do something like that?

It was because of this kind of profound thought that I didn't catch it when Laurie first said "That's a gun".

I continued walking down the little narrow alley.

"That's a gun", said Laurie again. But he says a lot of things. Sometimes I listen, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I hear other things. This particular time I heard 'that's a group', by which I assumed he meant a tour group and so I picked up the pace planning to get close to the group and listen in to the guide's talk and get information for free (score!).

"That's a gun", said Laurie.

And then I saw it. The man pointing some object at another man's head, that man opening his trench coat in an apparent gesture of innocence. And the man in a black beanie and sunglasses who was looking straight at us.

"Oh", said I. "A gun".

We tried to walk away at a pace that told the organised criminals, "Hey guys, we don't condone your activity, but we lack the linguistic skills and local 'know how'" to report it. We're nobody. We like your gelato". And then Laurie took of his jacket so that we could not be tracked down by the mob.

On the plus side, Italy had Lindt balls as big as my head!

You win some, you lose some. But with gigantic Lindt balls, everyone's a winner.

The route so far

2006-12-06T17:53:00.000+01:00

OK. So the following posts are just going to be all over the place. That's how it is. Don't cry.

But so as to give you some illusion of continuity, this is how we have got ourselves to Daugavpils by a long and convoluted route. Here is a visual aid for your benefit:

Purple is for planes. Yellow is for boats. Green is for trains and buses. The giant red arrow indicates where we are now. Daugavpils. Because I know you really, really care.

So it was from Paris to Stockholm, Stockholm to Turku back to Stockholm, to Oslo, to Bergen, to Tornio (via Olso, Trondheim, Fauske, Narvik and Lulea), to Lapland, to Jyväskylä, to Vaasa (also known as Vasa), to Porto (via London) to Lisbon, to Sobreira Formosa, to Lisbon, to Lagos, to Sevilla, to Madrid, to Milan, to Venice, to Dubrovnik, to Sarajevo, to Vilnius (via Budapest and Warsaw) and then to Daugavpils.

Daugavpils is nice because it doesn't move. And the Russian hair.

Particularly harrowing, perhaps because it is still a raw scar on my soul, was the three consecutive nights spent on Soviet trains and buses getting from Sarajevo to Vilnius. Naturally checked and searched by border guards and other demanding Eastern Europeans at random points during the night (usually when we were just about to fall into what was a permanently elusive sleep). Technically it was only 2 and a half nights, because we were kindly dumped in the middle of an abandoned Vilnius bus depot at 3:15 in the morning. With our 45kgs of luggage, nowhere to stay, no idea of where we were and a total ignorance of what currency they use in Lithuania, let alone ownership of any said currency.

But clearly I survived in tact enough to spend 20 minutes drawing arrows and lines on the 1996 version of Microsoft Paint. That is my contribution to humanity.

Comical things in Europe

2006-12-06T16:10:00.000+01:00

The following are things which bewildered and appalled us on our travels.

1. M and M's in Norway

It's M and M's people. You can get either/or.

2. Pods for rent in Italy

There was no natural light, no heating, no bathroom and they've probably been out of use since 1972, but I could not help but, ever so slightly, want to stay in one of the pods. Because it is a pod.

3. Giant grapes in Finland

They're just really big grapes.

4. Footwear all over Scandinavia

Once again, the Scandinavians adopt a controversial but comfortable Third Way. While the rest of the world remains bogged down in the eternal struggle between sock and sandal, Scandinavia boldly says no. Sock and sandal are not mutually exclusive pieces of footwear.

5. No MOSE protestors in Venice

MOSE is a program in Venice designed to prevent the flooding and destruction of Venice as changing weather patterns threatens the future existence of the great city. Apparently some Venetians have taken great offence at this and are protesting against the preservation of their city.

6. The redundancy of walking in Vilnius

There is something really wrong about developing walking aids for the able-bodied. This particular cool dude is perusing sweatshop oil paintings of bridges, flowers and kittens. He never gets off his Segway, but silently rolls back and forth very, very slowly. It was like that cold sore ad where the woman is so ashamed of her facial herpes that she wears just such a helmet everywhere only to soon be freed by the miracle of Zovirax. It's also strange that this is taken in Vilnius (that's the capital of Lithuania sweetheart) which is barely 15 years out of Soviet rule and appears to be leading the world in the uptake of totally useless and disturbingly expensive consumer goods.

C.??

2006-12-06T00:01:00.000+01:00

I know not who this C. is, but she sounds like a fun a classy lady.

I like her.

A short account of Hapless C's shame (part 1). By Laurie

2006-12-05T22:56:00.000+01:00

Question- what should one not do hours prior to an international flight (in this instance, from Paris to Stockholm)?

Answer- dose oneself up to the eyeballs with laxatives. This is what the Hapless C. did and by lord, did she pay for it. We arrived at Paris Beauvais airport after a lovely week in Paris. Shortly after, the bathroom stops began. At first I thought it was odd that C. went to the ladies three times before the security check. But she drinks a lot of water. After we made our way into the departure lounge, again I thought it was quite odd that C. rushed off. I queried whether C. was ok and it was then that C. revealed her penchant for self medicating- apparently when one laxative doesn't work, you pop another one. When the second fails to work, pop two more.

Once the queue to the plane got a moving Hapless C. needed to run off to the toilet once more, leaving bags full of shoes purchased from Paris second hand shops, with me. I must admit that I was getting a little flustered because I know the Darwinian struggle for Ryanair airline seats. I had visions of securing the best two seats on the plane but now those dreams were making their way down the drain. As the minutes ticked away, C. finally emerged and it was left to me to race past old men and women and perhaps I may have even backhanded a child or two, to claim two seats at the very back of the plane. They were near the bathroom, a point which I'm sure did not go unnoticed by Hapless C. After shoving the luggage overhead with some venom, we were off, holding hands and reflecting on the week that was in Paris, the city of love.

Thank you for your time.

PS. don't tell Celina.

The Olga-isation of Celina.

2006-12-05T21:42:00.000+01:00

I have decided to attempt to start referring to myself in the third person. It adds an air of mystery I think.

Anyway, more or less, I attribute my recent lack of blogging to my Olgaisation. That is, the process by which a thoroughly modern, cafe hovering, documentary watching, inner city dwelling wanker is transplanted into a rural environment where, apparently, velvet shoes cease to become wet weather wear.

Here I am shown on a tractor. It is my belief that tractors are used for 'ploughing.' I am not entirely sure of what ploughing is having been carried off this particular tractor soon after this photo was taken when I realised I could not get down. This is in northern Finland. I am to understand that at this particular moment, this tractor is out of service on account of the fact that all of Finland is now under around 746m of snow. I'm back there next week.

Before we left Finland (about 3 months ago now) it had already begun to get a bit cold. Enough so that soon after this photo was taken my socks burned on my feet. This despite the sage advice of this particularly homicidal looking young man:

Indoor toilets? Flushing mechanisms? None of this fancy pants, fat cat life for me. There is a door, that is all you need.

After leaving Finland, which thrust me on the Olgaisation trajectory, we headed to Portugal. My entire immediate family descended upon the small Iberian land and the endlessly smaller 2 bedroom apartment in the Lisbon ghetto. It was here that my Olgaisation took on a more sinister and ethnically appropriate turn: Maria-isation.

Here you can see me and my similarly rustic sister stomping on grapes in my dad's farm in central Portugal. I had very much wanted to stomp grapes, but was shocked to discover that after about 5 minutes it starts to get boring. It ends up being pretty much just stomping. And there is something a little disconcerting about drinking something which is the product of you stepping on it. Especially seeing as I knew the amount of spiderwebs and other small insects which had miraculously got through my uncle's stringent quality control regimen.

And this is not me, but I feel the day is nigh.

Daugavpils, Daugavpils.

2006-12-05T21:25:00.000+01:00

"It is a drab, post-WWII Soviet creation and so depressing to visit it's almost a national joke. A skyline of smokestacks and the lumbering great hulk of Daugavpils prison greet those who approach".

But what the Lonely Planet doesn't tell you about Daugavpils is that they have very, very cheap chilli nuts. And no Euro. Pros and cons, my friends, pros and cons.

So we find ourselves in Daugavpils, Latvia's second biggest city which, according to the Lonely Planet, had it's glory days in the manufacture of tractor and bicycle chains for the rest of the Soviet Union. Those days are over now and Daugavpils has made to negotiate it's place in a bicycle and tractor chain free future.

We've been staying in a very nice and fantastically free apartment belonging to Laurie's cousin's wife (Milana) and gorging ourselves on the world wide web. Stayed up half the night to find out whether the Labor leadership challenge was successful. If only Kevin Rudd knew that two twenty somethings were spending a freezing Baltic night hovering around a computer with only a 1.5L bottle of gin and tonic to see us through. I suspect he would do a cartwheel. He's that kind of leader. He may be elevated to son status, but I reserve judgement.

Anyway, I can't really comment on the drabness or otherwise of Daugavpils as I do not leave this apartment except for trips directly to and from the supermarket. And after over 6 months of non stop travelling, Daugavpils is, to me, a perfect kind of mundane.

Plus Laurie gets to speak Russian, just like he has done ever since we got east of Italy. Except in Hungary where he spoke German. We have found people really love it when you speak to them in the language of their former overlords. The good thing is that now, people actually do understand the Russian words for 'good', 'thank you' and 'what'. A little babushka came to the door this morning and Laurie explained to her that we were not intruders, but inoffensive houseguests by repeating the phrase 'Milana comrade. Milana comrade' and then closing the door in the aforementioned bewildered babushka's face as she continued to cry 'sto? sto?' (what? what?). Cultural interchange my friends, that's why we travel.

There are no photographs here of Daugavpils. We have not taken any.

Firstly, the whale.

2006-11-02T21:46:00.000+01:00

Again, sorry for falling off the planet. I would normally spend some moments explaining it, but really it isn't really worth it. Lucky for this blog I am at the computer for work and if I'm writing it's like I'm working and not procrastinating at all.

So, the whale eating.

Technically Laurie did eat whale. But not eat-eat whale. You know how these things are.

We got to Norway. (There's a long and classy story in that involving sleeping in Swedish bus shelters and in a plastic bag on a Finnish cruise ship but that's for another time. Probably next time if my procrastination continues, in all honesty). Basically, Norway is the stupidest place on the face of the earth to go if you are travelling on a budget. You will probably end up eating out of cans bought from your friendly Turkish grocer for $5 each with stolen forks and find yourself saying to your travel partner "I think I'm just going to eat the whole cracker".

So we were in Bergen and just wandering around, innocent and whale-free, and we got to the fish markets. And suddenly everyone was offering us free smoked salmon and raw salmon and wild salmon. And, you know, it's salmon. It's pretty nice. So what they do is talk to you in whatever language you pretty much want and start slicing off a bit of fresh salmon. And we just nodded and discussed the virtues of cured salmon in relation to smoked salmon as if we were going to actually purchase something in kroner. And then while we were trying to slide away to repeat the same routine at the next stall, the fish monger starts to slice off a piece off a dark, almost purple, thick square of meat. And I was like, that's whale. That is whale. And I start to shake my head. I thought about explaining the complexity of my 'no mammals' policy to the aforementioned monger, but he just keep flailing the meat about on the end of his big long knife.

"It's just like beef", he said. And I, still in the afterglow of the best salmon I've ever had in my life, could just keep shaking my head. And so that is when Laurie, reluctantly gallantly, stepped in and said: "I'll eat it".

He said it was not nice.

So that was the first time he ate whale. The second time is my fault too. I was at another fish stall surrounded by seal oil and whale and sampling their salmon (incidently, it was far inferior to the first stall) when the monger started flailing whale meat at me. Then he started to explain the entire whaling regulation regime and the cultural relativist arguments for whaling. And I was really stuck, still half chewing my salmon and nowhere to go. And then I saw Laurie walking past. And I thought, well, he's already eaten whale. So I said to the fish monger "He'll eat it" and gestured Laurie over with a Judas wave.

And so, Laurie ate whale twice. It was pretty much my fault. I'm a moral-less pescetarian.

These are other ways in which Norway hates nature:

Alive.

2006-08-30T12:10:00.000+02:00

'Thank god!' I hear you cry. 'How I have been waiting for news of the health and exploits of the fearless and intrepid young woman that I have come to call Celina! Let us all rejoice for life has meaning again!'

I thank you for your concern.

I have been wrenched from your hold, dear blog, by a northern Finnish farm house. My days are hecticly divided between waking up at 11am, picking wild berries and staring at the river dividing Finland from Sweden. Sometimes I barely have energy to drag myself into the sauna. Life, my friends, is indeed hard.

But all soon will be remedied as I will soon move on to a place which has internet connection. O, dare I say, there is many a tale to be told.

But for now, a teaser: Laurie ate whale.

Twice.

Idiot Boy and Paris.

2006-07-29T22:40:00.000+02:00

My sincere apologies for delays my dear and doting friends. Much has happened in the past two weeks. Many countries traversed and one Idiot Boy met up with in Paris.

Idiot Boy struggles sometimes. Sometimes he dresses all in black and wears all of his important documents in security pouches held together by masking tape attached to his belt during a Parisian heat wave. It can be difficult to be Idiot Boy during these times.

Idiot Boy's security system led to a never ending search for respite, and the improvement of forms of respite. Evian spray was our first encounter with true respite: Ming. Our East Asian World Vision sponsor child. Not a son, but he has a close and disposable place in our hearts.

Ming was soon replaced by Mong, father of Ming, stradling the long lines of obese Americans waiting for the lift up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Mong brought much joy to Idiot Boy. Much respite. Young children and women were pushed aside in the worship of Mong.

And yet, more respite was sought by the Idiot Boy.

We visited the Louvre. For the air conditioning. Idiot Boy, wearing a beret cap, took it upon himself to police Article 33: the no photography rule on level 2. A bolshy middle aged American Dan Brown dared to question the authority of Idiot Boy and asked whether he worked in the Louvre. While passionate about the security of great art, Idiot Boy is not a Louvre employee. Being thus caught out, Idiot Boy could only continue to shake his finger at him and said 'No No No' in his best French accent. He was subsequently challenged to follow said American while he continued to take photos, regardless of Article 33.

The enforcement of the Article 33 took it out of Idiot Boy. But he felt contented with his small, yet important, role in protecting the treasures of the Louvre. Thus, he could rest in respite. On level one.

And wherever respite called. Idiot Boy controls not the call of respite. He merely answers it with determined relief.

Life is hard for Idiot Boy.

France likes me drunk and stupid.

2006-07-15T14:05:00.000+02:00

When first I embarked on this great, noble, transnational expedition, the words 'roughing it' figured greatly in my imaginings. I also imagined this week prior to my return to Paris on Tuesday would involve me living in some kind of farmhouse in a tiny village riding a bike with a wicker basket amongst the passing sheep and kindly, rosy cheeked farmsfolk. Perhaps stopping, if required, to help an injured baby sparrow back into it's mothers nest in a medium sized peach tree. I thought it not entirely out of the question that I may pick up, and quickly master, the ancient art of weaving.

And then I ended up in the capital of Chamapgne. Literally, there's a capital. It's Reims. They are still slightly angry about the Revolution.

Reims, I believe, is also the global capital of white pants and boat shoes. Sometimes the white pants all catch the rays of the sun at once and I am temporarily blinded by the glare. I believe it may also disturb the trajectory of overpassing satellites.

Dear friend, I did try so hard not to look like the scungy backpacker I am. Washed my hair special. Wore a dress and put on blush just so the people at the Mumm champagne house wouldn't scoff haughtily at me. And this is what France did to me. This is what constitutes a street sign in this fine country.

So I did not make it to that particular champagne cave that day. I instead had to resign myself to a rosé in the big avenue, wearing sunglasses until 10'o'clock on account of the aforementioned luminiscent pants.

But I was not fazed, dear reader. Not I. I picked myself up from the filthy floor of dejection and misdirection and boldy strode out in search of more champagne. I thought, join the party Cel. You don't own white pants but that doesn't mean you can't scull a brut like the best of the bourgeoisie. And I think humanity advanced just a little that day.

The first champagne place was staid enough. Went on a little tour. Nodded. Had a good little Brut Rose. And all was good in the world.

At my next stop on my personal champagne tour/crawl I was put on a little motorized white car (preceeding and following pink, middle aged Germans in white pants) and was told such things as 'Champâgne, the king of wines, had now become the wine of kings'. Then bubbles were thrown on me and I was subjected to a light show. And I thought, that could have just made me epileptic. It was like getting drunk by osmosis.

When I got off I half expected Gene Wilder to ask me to lick grape flavoured wall paper. But no such luck. Instead I was walked into a super fancy pants bar, surrounded by big groups of fancy pants middle aged people, and was sat in front of a table with three glasses of champagne. Spent the first 5 minutes trying not to giggle out loud.

And I thought, you've here placed me in something of a quandry Mr Piper Heidsieck. Please elaborate on the word 'moderation'. For I have eaten but one banana and a chocolate croissant today and here I have my fourth glass of champagne in front of me. What an interesting predicament I find myself in.

Decided to sit there and drink it like the sophisticated and graceful young woman I am. People did keep glancing over, no doubt think I was mysterious and aloof. But then, those looks could well have been ones of concern.

Remi: The most French man in the world.

2006-07-11T23:36:00.000+02:00

Remi is the most French man in the world. And he doesn’t care. So that makes him even Frencher.

Remi does not like French people. Or people generally. He calls most of them bitches. We watched the first half of the World Cup final on a cobbled street craning to see the TV screen over the heads of drunk fourteen year olds. At half time Remi announced ‘I’m so over it Celina” and we left. Instead we wandered the streets rolling our eyes whenever the city roared in unison.

Remi smokes constantly. He buys croissants and baguettes every morning for breakfast and makes coffee on the stove. He drives a Smart. He is waiting for his mum to die so he can inherit her book collection. He is a socialist but hates the socialists. He got me off a train fine by pretending he was trying to pick me up and that the conductor was interrupting sleazy French love. And I am not allowed anywhere near any of his cooking utensils.

And he has just shaved himself a moustache. Mainly to annoy his girlfriend, my best friend, but also because it is a moustache. And because he is the Frenchest man ever.

I don't deserve to get anywhere.

2006-07-11T23:30:00.000+02:00

I have a theory and the theory is this: universe is heaping my life’s quota of good luck on me now and there will be some terrible balancing in the future. I had expected the balancing to come in paper cut form, that is that I’d keep getting little annoying but psychologically traumatising incidents of bad luck. But the universe is messing with me. Obviously I was spared the bed bugs – the perfect paper cut opportunity. And when Lucy was in Madrid we were sitting right next to eachother and a bird shat on her leg. Mine was entirely bird poo free. Not even splatter. I told Lucy it was good luck, but really I knew. I get all the good luck in the world and I suck it away from those surrounding me.

So I have started to test the universe.

I had to get to Girona airport for my flight to Paris. Plan was to sleep in the airport seeing as my flight was at 6am and I am a cheap, cheap young woman. I realised, about 45mins before the last bus left to Girona from Barcelona that I didn’t have my plane ticket. I didn’t know what airline I was flying, what airport I was flying in to, when I would land or if whatever airline I was travelling with would let me on their plane. And I was like, ‘Come on universe. I’ll take ya.’

I made it to the airport after running for the bus with all my gear (thus confirming my suspicion that I would probably win The Amazing Race) and spending the ride trying to think about the beauty of a Spanish sunset and not the prospect of being stranded in a town I had never heard of. The airport was essentially a box. It had a café called Café Café, two ATMs, three vending machines and one bathroom. Good times, good times.

I spent the night with my bags tied to my ankle and locked together (gypsies are in airports too) wondering about the universe and what it would do to me in the morning. At 4am I bolted from the plastic comfort of the three chairs which had become my bed and ran to the check in counter ready to pull the dumb little girl who just might cry at any moment thing. I do it very well.

But I didn’t need to. The universe had my back.

I arrived outside Paris and remembered that Remi, who had offered me a place to stay and a lift, had no idea I was in France and I had no way of telling him so. But, you know, it all worked out. Because the universe has my back.

Nutshell.

2006-07-11T23:22:00.000+02:00

I return, my children! Fear not for my safety. I have merely been delayed from updating this blog by the general crapness of technology.

So clearly I’m not going to update you comprehensively on my exploits. Shenanigans really. But I’ll get you through the end of Spain.

Went to Granada – where Monique and Jo became pock covered freaks and I got a nice olivey tan. Our hostel was infested with bed bugs, but it also had tap beer that was left totally unguarded at night. You win some, you lose some. This oversight in security somehow ended in me, Monique and Brisbane Dan crashing a party across the 1m wide cobblestone street. I apparently was heard to call through the mail flap “Quiero fiesta! Me querio fiesta!” Dignity aside, we were eventually invited in and a great inter-cultural exchange was had by all.

Apart from being really, really classy we did do stuff. Culture stuff. Saw flamenco in an underground tiny white hall and spent half of the time trying to figure out if I’d sound local or stupid if I called out Ole! Decided on stupid so I just took photos the whole time which made me look really local.

Went to the Alhambra. Never before have I so much wanted to have go-go-Gadget powers. I was walking though these gorgeous halls thinking ‘Go-go-Gadget shovel arms!’ and how much I hate all tourists in the world who are not me. Felt particularly aggrieved seeing as I had never heard of the bloody Alhambra before in my life.

Then, you know, went to Barcelona. Had an overnight train which is never a good idea. Especially if you are by yourself in the back corner and surrounded by very annoying people who are most likely gypsies. I have a great, great fear of gypsies. I think most people in Europe are in fact gypsies and their sole aim in life is to wait for a slip in my amazing concentration to rob me of all of my possessions. And then probably put a hex on me. And then laugh in their caravans while dancing a jig and swallowing swords. Anyway the gypsies/annoying people kept feeding their kids chocolate milkshakes at 2am and shouting. My Spanish being pretty much limited to crashing, not complaining about, loud parties I could only try and catch their eye and make a really angry “what the?” gesture. However, the only person who look at me was a ten year old gir and I was wearing a sleeping mask which said ‘Do Not Disturb’. I stared that bitch down though. Now that’s hard core.

Anyway, this is a long entry. Barcelona was nice. They have like, famous buildings and stuff.

Monique and Jo got ugly.

2006-07-07T23:40:00.000+02:00

This is really after the event. No longer in Spain at all. But it's important for you all to know, Monique and Jo got ugly.

Not such much ugly persay, but rather hideously infectious. A result of our hippy hostel which told us that bed bugs were "just nature". Nature which has made Monique and Jo disfigured to the point of leprosy. People stare. Sometimes in sympathy but usually in horror. They really look like they should be in some kind of orange plastic tent with air pumped in through some kind of large tubular filter.

Jo has 63 bites on her right knee. Over 130 on her left arm if she counts up to her bra strap. Monique's turned in to welts. And I got one. I suspect this is due to the overwhelming power of my mind over my nervous system. The girls didn't so much appreciate me suggesting this. They also didn't really appreciating me imposing half hour moratoriums on them talking about how much they itched and how much the current temperature was aggravating or alleviating their discomfort. They didn't take kindly to my requests for calamine lotion for my bite. But they did somewhat embrace my offer to walk at a disassociating distance from them.

So everyone's a winner really.

Yes. That's urine too.

2006-06-25T16:46:00.000+02:00

In Madrid, circumstances often prompt the asking of the following questions:

'What's that man/dog doing?'
'What's that smell?'
'What's that on my foot?'
'Is that rain?'

Urine is the answer. Pretty much all of the time. It's got to the point where you only have to hear the words 'what's that-' and you respond without thinking. Piss.

Monique and Jo can tell the difference between canine and human urine from anywhere within 4m of the original site of urination. I think that means you are officially a Madrileno.

Here the night time street cleaners (who I think are paid according to how much they shout outside Monique's window) are washing the streets down.

But, really, I think that could be piss too.

Oil.

2006-06-25T16:05:00.000+02:00

This looks good to me now.
Iberia has changed me.

Cheese and olive oil. It's like the inbreeding of cholesterol. You know it is especially good when a fat crust halo hovers above your food. It's like a challenge. When the food you want to eat has a visible reminder of martyrdom.

But, O, to go down in such a blaze of olivey glory.

At a restaurant with Lucy we got our mandatory fake 'free' bread with our food. And I looked at it in disgust. How am I supposed to eat bread without olive oil? What the hell do you think you are doing waiter man? Are you mad? Are you loco? I may be foreign but I ain't no fool. Bring me my goddam oil! I know my rights.

Sadly though, on that particular day, I forgot the word for olive oil. Like water from olives. The water from olives! Please, please senor! Where is the water from olives? And while I did say all this in Spanish, (I learn languages at a hyperbolic rate because it's pretty likely that I am the smartest person in the world) the waiter looked at me like he'd never heard anyone ask for olive water before. When he figured it out he surlily (yes, that's a word) gushed olive oil over essentially everything we had. And I said, that's right. You pour that oil senor.

I'm now considering beginning ordering olive oil before food and drink. Don't want to get screwed over again. Time spent without olive oil is wasted time my friends.

Our boys!

2006-06-22T23:27:00.000+02:00

Got nothing funny to say. There is nothing funny about the redemption of Diego. If I die, he gets it all. He's earned it.

Not a single goddam bar in this entire city showed the Australia-Croatia game. Bloody Brasil-Japon everywhere. Brasil-Japon. Brasil-Japon. God. I was even willing to go sit at one of those muchacho bars where the likelihood of me being mistaken for a prostitute (or similar) was high to bloody certain.

Instead I sat at this computer, alone, desperately trying to click on to any online radio station that would broadcast it to me. I clicked and I clicked and I clicked. And I cried. And then I got some pissweak FIFA 'live update' thing which made a crowd cheering noise everytime anyone scored a goal in any game. And I'd scream 'Who! Who??'

Then I called my football faithful parentals and they kindly placed the phone next to the radio so I could listen. The static to understandable commentary ratio was about 65:35 but, you know, beggars and choosers. Had the one working speaker (result of my persistent failure to remember to keep gripping things) uncomfortably close to my ear and a little mic to keep telling Dad, yeah, yeah, yeah, I can hear. Is Simunic still on the field? They should get him off. Get him off the field! My neighbours must be rather confused at the dog-whistle pitched squealing coming from my shoe box quarters.

Have considered appropriating one of my sister's spare sheets as some kind of patriotic banner from her balconey but I have no textas. Otherwise, all of Corderra Barrio de San Pablo would know Australian football has finally reached it's much delayed puberty.

Let's not talk about Brasil. Let's just say, lucky I know some Portuguese.

My god. The sales are here.

2006-06-21T23:05:00.001+02:00

Sometimes I talk to clothes and accessories.

Not talk talk, but a little bit. Like, I'll walk past a pair of shoes or a dress and I'll say 'Hel-lo'. It's not intentional. It just comes out from somewhere. Usually this is in my head, but not always. Not enough.

I had placed myself under a shop moratorium from Monday until Friday when Lucy came. I planned to use her visit, and her possession of pounds, to shop through her. During my moratorium I did not go into a single shop. But I did catch myself gasping- actually out loud gasping- at a pair of shoes during this moratorium. And I talk-thought to these shoes 'I'll see you on Friday. I'm under a moratorium'.

Anyway, today I planned to go to Segovia. Honestly I got to the station at the right time and everything. Several queues, information personnel and wait-for-your-number-to-be-calleds later I was not in Segovia. I was still very much in Madrid and still very much ignorant as to why I could not get anyone to sell me a ticket to Segovia. And I thought, fine, Madrid is clearly conspiring against me. It does not want to lose me to a day trip. Fair enough, fair enough.

So I plugged in my sister's iPod and blasted some Wolfmother. Not my favourite band, but sometimes you need your music to take a bat to a thousand glass windows for you. I wanted everyone who could hear that clangy buzz to know that I was angry and yet mysteriously outwardly calm. And be a little afraid. Like a fighting monk - we look peaceful but just you watch yourself.

Then I wandered. Doing my best to ignore the fact that I had again failed to leave the city. And I came across this:

And suddenly the world was beautiful again.

I got a bit twitchy. I kept thinking I was behind all the other women. 'I don't know their stock. I don't know their stock!' I walked in to shop after shop totally disoriented. Half of the shops are multiple levels and the clothes are packed so tight on the racks you'd need forceps to extract a pair of jeans. I actually felt my hands twitching. I'd start walking in one direction and then turn, for no reason, to the opposite direction. Pause and then turn into a different direction again. And then I'd just have to leave. Flustered. But happy. The sales are here.

But my entire world is 85 litres plus hand luggage. I just cannot stuff that backpack anymore. And I'm alreading leaving my mu-mu with my sister when I leave Madrid. It seems that the ironic beauty of a mu-mu does not transcend even the smallest of cultural barriers. Why mu-mu? Why?

But I have found fashion Esperanto. The stripey shirt. I still like it. But I have started wanting to very, very slowly stick very long needles into the bodies of those who wear them.

Sorry this whole entry is on shopping. But, you know, I didn't get to Segovia. A girl's gotta console herself. And my only friend in this entire country is the red mark through a price tag.

My brief engagement.

2006-06-21T15:56:00.000+02:00

My friend Lucy, who's living in London, arrived in Madrid at 9am on Friday to stay for a few days while Monique's in Portugal.

By around 2pm she decided she would make me her wife.

By around 2:06pm my name was replaced by 'Wifey'.

Spanish sun. Sangria. You know.

Lucy's once-in-a-lifetime, use-it-well-now-or-die-wondering working visa is an iceberg drifting south, melting in the cruelty of global warming. I laughed. I have a European Union passport but the innability to correctly pronounce my own surname in my supposed national language. People like me laugh a lot. I'd marry ya, I said, y'know if gay marriage was legal in the UK. It was siesta time.

Lucy said it is legal and perfect. We could have a wedding and we could both wear dresses and if anyone challenged our love we'd cry discrimination. I thought it may be slightly more difficult. Lucy said we could work it somehow. I'd just have to show up. Get Lauri to research it.

I started to wonder if you should invite your parents to your sham lesbian wedding.

This was taken during our betrothal. Look at us. Giddy with fake love. Rowing on a lake in a park which, prior to Lucy's arrival, I walked for 3 and a half hours without finding. My aversion to guide books has also extended to looking at maps (ever) and, for some inexplicable reason, reading street signs. I just think it's a dead giveaway that you're not local. Lucy read maps and endorsed the purchase of this significantly floppy hat - which I had forgotten I have wanted since I was 18. I think I would marry most people with those two traits.

Lucy left on Monday. As it turns out, alas, we cannot have a fraudulent marriage. No same sex couple can get married in Britain. It's called a civil partnership and in order for a civil partner of an EU citizen to get residency in the UK you have to prove you are financially co-dependent, are in a committed relationship of at least 2 years in length, can support yourself without the assistance of public funds and have documents to prove you are the two sole occupants of your home in Britain (including any dependants).

It's just like Romeo and Juliet.

So any one else planning on marrying me for a visa, my hands are tied. It has been investigated. Thoroughly. Sorry. Would if I could but, you know, discrimination and stuff.

The Cup of Life runneth over.

2006-06-15T00:12:00.000+02:00

I can't explain why, but I love Australian football like my third born son Diego. He's a little bit slow. Pedro and Manuel have set the bar pretty high for him and he has issues. And a slight lazy eye sometimes. But still, his victories are my victories.

We watched the Australia Japan game in an Irish pub in Madrid. They sold Fosters and a fusion Irish-Spanish cuisine which is wrong in theory and, god, so much wronger in practice. There were 6 Irish boys, 2 Aussie guys, 4 Japanese, an American and 3 Queenslanders. They're different you know. Like that son that I sent away and never talk about because I'm embarassed by his Asperger's Syndrome and significant physical deformities.

(I suspect during the course of this blog I may become a prolific giver of births to sons.)

Anyway, as the game went on and I considered re-offering the Japanese Queensland and some parts of the Northern Territory (I'd like to visit Kakadu one day. That'd be kept under Australian control in my terms of proposal) in exchange for the victory I had to keep getting Monique to translate. God how I hate unbiased commentary. They hardly even talked about the supreme injustice of the Japanese goal. They even said that Australia was disoriented and had only a few really strong players. There not a single mention of the Australian spirit at all! Maybe the Spanish don't know, but the Australian spirit means that we want to win, a lot. I mean, doesn't the world know about the Australian Spirit?

The whole time all I could understand was 'Cop-a-feel, Cop-a-feeel!', 'Key-well!'. I like to think I understand soccer. There's like 3 rules or something. But rules a game do not make and I was crazy eager to get Mum's half time extremely over-priced half time call to Monique's mobile. I kept saying that we were too frantic to score but that was only because I had to say something to justify my intermittent squealing. Sometimes being a girl really undermines your credibility.

In this picture you can see me thinking: perhaps dissolving the Queensland parliament will allow for the movement of Peter Beattie into Canberra thus revitalising the federal Labor Party.

Obviously we won. You know that. And if you don't, I don't know why you are my friend and can you please stop reading my blog and leave me alone. And it was great. As the Japanese left I felt I had to console them. I said 'Bueno! Bueno!' because I thought 'Origato' might be patronising. I patted one on the back. They seemed to really appreciate it.

So next it is Brazil. It shall indeed be a challenge. For me. I shall challenge all of Madrid and their horrible, inexplicable, frenzied support for Brazil. I'm not a patriotic person. But I may just take the flag Mum made Monique pack just to counter all of the Brazil paraphenalia. Might even wear it as a bandana or some kind of cape. I'll be honest. I could get bashed. But I'll do it for Ostraya and our boys.

Cuenca. Say it. It's fun.

2006-06-14T22:40:00.000+02:00

My conversation with my sister went something like this:

Monique: Let's go to Cuenca (pron. Kwen-ka). It has the best name in Spain.
Celina: Splendid. I am endlessly easy going and carefree. And what is there, dear sister?
M: Hanging houses. They hang from trees.
C: Hang from trees you say? That sounds implausible and troubles my powerful mind. How could such a thing be so?
M: No, it's true. My friend went there. They like hang from Willows or something.
C: I trust you implicitly.

And so we went to Cuenca, with visions of houses hanging from trees dancing like sugarplums in our heads. And this is what we found. 'Suspended from willows' apparently sounds very similar to 'slightly overhanging from cliff faces' to some people. Monique later remembered that noone actually told her that houses were suspended from large fauna. She had, in fact, made it up at some point and forgotten that it was all her own big fat lie. She had been rather nervous on the 3 hour bus ride there.

But all was not lost in Cuenca.

It was in fact rather amazing. The kind of place that you would imagine medieval Spanish cities were like if you ever imagine medieval Spanish cities. All tilted terraces and dark crumbling alleys and nonsensical flashes of colour. And not another English speaking tourist. Not a single American twang. Glory, glory.

And we just wandered and wandered. All day. Well, not all day. We collapsed into siesta at some point. Picked a nice lookout and lay down. People actually climbed around me to get a view. I probably looked really rude, maybe even American, - especially when a mother lifted her child up so he could stand at the small slither of seat left at my propped up feet - but I was taking a stand for siesta. Everyone should be lying down. We all had things to do, let's not get crazy.

After we got rested up we got all intrepid. Pine wood fences no barrier for us. Not the Ribeiro girls! Ha! We laugh at your attempts at public safety Spain! And we found ('found', like we discovered Tutankhamen's tomb) these old ruins. We didn't know what anything was - I have this great aversion here to reading any kind of information guide, it's not the Iberian way.

But it was one of those times when you just had to keep saying 'wow' and breathing out slowly. And laugh because all you can say is 'wow' and you sound like an idiot. And just try desperately to suck in everything through your pores the way you do when you know you'll never be in a place again.

And then swearing, but all with great, great reverence.

Most levels of hatred towards us are entirely understood. Welcome, even. Honestly, courted.

My living fifths.

2006-06-14T22:31:00.000+02:00

Noone should ever mock what free accomodation they are offered. But sometimes, sometimes, that free accomodation is in a comically small studio. So small in fact that someone at the shorter end of the average height range for her age can touch opposite walls at the one time. And in such circumstances, and when their gorgeous sister is away in another country, a moderate level of public mockery is acceptable (and considerably safer).

So, like, other people and stuff.

2006-06-09T18:49:00.000+02:00

I always thought publishing a blog would be a great exercise in arrogance. Like people really care what I'm doing every freaking day. But I do understand some of you, my dear friends, have rather 'low intensity' jobs and often look for diversion and I thought perhaps I'd give you another page to browse. 'Cause really, there's only so many times that www.ratemypoo.com is funny.

I did not, however, expect this blog to consist exclusively of photos of myself thus making it look very much like I am in love with myself.

So, other people.

This is Jo and Monique outside the theatre next door to Mon's apartment. Mum and Dad please do not freak out. The amount of graffiti in no way reflects the extremely high level of safety in which we all live here. It's just the local gangstas.

Monique and I on her balcony. Monique still loves surprising people with the fact that we're sisters. Especially with the fact that I am her older sister. She always slides it in to conversation in a way to maximise freak out. She reckons a lot of people probably don't believe we're biological sisters. I believe they think she's the adopted one. She has the air of someone not raised by their biological parents.

This is Jo. Here she is having a Calippo. I think that rather than having a Calippo, really you're best off just sucking on a tube of your own frozen saliva. Push Pops were phased out for a reason. Saliva is not a confectionery item.

Siempre siesta

2006-06-09T18:10:00.000+02:00

The best thing in the world is siesta. Some people might say, 'hey, Celina, what about the love of fellow man? What about the the miracle of life?' And to those people I say, shut up, I'm sleeping. Because siesta is the best thing in the world.

I haven't even been here a week and already a life sans siesta frightens me.

It has it's own magnetic pull. I'll be walking, well intentioned, to a museum and then I pass some grass. And I'll think, god that grass looks comfortable. And then it's almost like I black out. It's like Iberian Celina momentarily and placidly possesses me and before I realise what I've done I am under the shade of some tree with my Spanish fan fluttering above me and my bag under my head. And in siesta I have come to discover nothing. It's amazing. I am almost totally without thought. And it's not that crappy empty mind that they try to get you sucked in to at yoga. It's an absolute contended stupor. A temporary, glorious lobotomy. Lobotomies get too much bad press.

You can have no guilt about spending all of your time doing nothing because it's cultural. It's like the law. And really, what else do I have to do? I am redundant. Monique keeps saying that "Madrid is a city you have to experience and Barcelona is a city you have to visit" (I may have to lobotomise her if she says this one more time). And while I haven't been to Barcelona I hear they don't do siesta and so I agree with her. Barcelona is dumb.

In this picture I am in the midst of a super siesta. It was a little bit radical. Usually siesta is from about 2 to 5 or something. Here it's about 9pm and I'm half an hour in to what became a 4 hour marathon siesta. I actually stayed lying on my sister's balcony while she and Jo watched TV, read and went to bed or left. Did not even go to the bathroom. Rather proud of myself. Some would call this being a big fat lazy blob, but I don't care. Because I'm always chilled out. Because of siesta.

THINGS I HAVE NOTICED SO FAR: Spanish people love naked.

2006-06-07T15:08:00.000+02:00

Not technically 'naked', I admit. But naked is a much more fun word than 'public partial nudity'.

In Madrid, where there is grass, there is flesh. And there isn't much grass so the flesh to grass ratio is very high. This photo doesn't really capture it but it's as good as you're going to get without me being charged with invasion of privacy or something. Sorry about that. Having naked in the title probably got your hopes up.

My sister loves me.

2006-06-07T14:54:00.000+02:00

There is no greater expression of sisterly love than attempting to light a twig-stick bonfire on your sibling's back as she tries to be all local and siesta.

My sister and Jo also have had great fun in teaching me incorrect Spanish. Essentially it involves me asking everyone if they want to have sex. Somewhat awkward for all involved, but I had to high-five them on that one.

I love shoes.

2006-06-07T14:21:00.000+02:00

Very much.

My limited Spanish skills already includes the ability to ask for the other shoe to try on, to request size 37 and answer whether or not they fit well.

I love these shoes like my second born son, Manuel. Not quite as much as Pedro, but I'd still summon super-human strength to lift up a car should they somehow get trapped under one.

and oversized cocktails

2006-06-05T22:23:00.000+02:00

This place was something of a temple to Anglo-American tack. But the 3E cocktails were as big as my head and so it has the discerning approval of Jo and Monique.

... I really do love shoes.

2006-06-05T20:48:00.000+02:00

I request comments on these shoes because I am somewhat conflicted about them.

I do also like Spanish culture. I do. Especially when that culture involves shopping. Then, I really like Spanish culture.

I promise I'll see some Picassos tomorrow.

And so it begins...

2006-06-04T20:08:00.000+02:00

Can't say I really have all that much to say honestly. It's just that I finally came up with a blog name - crap as it may be and as much as it cannot live up to the weeks of group deliberation - and I thought I should probably blog something or other.

Not that there's nothing to say in actual fact. I am rather surprised that I got here at all - really did not deserve to given that I bought my insurance at 4:45 the day before I left and was still packing at 11pm. ButI like to think that adds an interesting danger element to my daily life.

But I am still rather jet lagged thus I shall tell a story through pictures taken with my camera, who I have come to call Pedro because I love him like a first born son.

Everytime I am in a hotel that has even remotely fancy pants, I have an enduring and inexplicable urge to behave like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. I can't explain it. It just happens. And sometimes, I also photograph and publish my shame.

I suspect this was also related to my joy at being in the homeland of Junichiro Koizumi, arguably the hottest prime minister in the world. Although... that Helen Clark...

Anyways, got in to Madrid after another marathon flight which surprisingly was not made more bearable by Big Momma's House 2 or both the American and Japanese versions of the true life story of the rescue of dog-sleigh-dogs by Antartic scientists. Strange but true. I did, however, take some comfort in the fact that it looks as though all the check in staff in the world really, really want me to live. I get getting seated right near the exit door and I believe this is their way of saying "I want you to live the most Celina".

Anyways, I should go. My sister and her friend Jo were really excited about watching the Spanish version of Deal or No Deal - and really, when it comes down to it who isn't? - but it appears not to show on Sundays. So we are off in search of perhaps soy, but more realistically anything which is without ham. It could just leave me with water.

So thus my story in pictures is just me crapping on. What a surprise.

Hasta la vista.