Bedtime story.

Just a quick one as I have been really busy, but have also been feeling healthy as in getting 10 hours of sleep every night to make up for the busyness. That's why it has to be quick otherwise I won't make the 10 hours. Yes, I know my friends with babies will roll their eyes here and probably stop reading out of protest. Fair enough.
In addition to all the sleep I literally ran to yoga twice already this week and that even though I had to go to another studio which only offers 60 minute Bikram classes. The Antichrist of Bikram classes for me. Usually. What can I say? I still ran and I got a lesson in humility on the way.
Now I just had a fresh squeezed orange juice for dinner. Let me repeat slowly: Me. Voluntarily. Orange juice = dinner. Unheard of. Especially after strolling the aisles of Superstar for half an hour before class to get something decent i.e. pasta. I will write it off under healthy week for now, though me not wanting dinner is actually a bit worrisome.
The only unhealthy thing I did was smoke in my dream last night and it was actually quite yummy. But then it was bright daylight again and the smoking allure vanished when the only other person around me smoking today was on of the team members, I am looking after, and who is actually quite a bitch. So I wouldn't want to be associated in any way and be it just by sharing a smoke.

Other than that I can just say change is coming. Good change. Big change. I can feel it. Lessons have been learned (except the French ones – language that is for my trip of course) and now it's time...goodness is in the air. Just a little spark. For now I will smile, bow my head, and say night night.

C'est la fucking vie.*

*excuse my language.

I know I am supposed to tell funny stories. I guess that's why I am here, because that's why you are here. The wind is howling though and I do not feel funny at all. I am hormonal and emotional and I wish I was in New York. Chrisp air and sunshine, Mudtruck coffee in the morning and on a special day a raspberry scone from Dean & Deluca, and with all of it the clicking of high heels on the sidewalk. The fact that my spell check for mysterious reasons has changed the word sidewalk to pavement 3 times in a row and once more in this sentence isn't helping. I'm listening to a song talking about Africa and all I want is home. As in New York. Though my heart cringes in a good way when I hear the words about Africa. I am in Africa. And miss New York; silly me. There I would sit at Bua, having a Corona. After having a steak with thin fries at Mogador. Or a delivery of arepas from Caracas and Friends with my friends and Julian, the stinky cat.

I do know that even if I was there, all would be different. Two of my friends married with a little baby boy. A friend, my Mum wanted me to marry, living with his boyfriend. My bestest friend ever far away, back in Germany. So it is just me. Still dreaming of the same stuff. Everybody else has already arrived.

I was recently praised for my honesty. Praised from a guy who in the end wasn't all that interested in me. C'est la vie. So there I am with my honesty. I can't bear the thought of leaving Cape Town, I miss New York, and I don't know if I will ever … finish this sentence.  

Wasabi leaves.

The last weekend was fully planned to the brim with activities in honour of my friend Nele being in town. But as usual when there is me involved only the activities that included drinks really got to shine. Though in this case I am more than comfortable to blame the weather…

Due to a lack of heat Crystal Pools was promptly substituted with sushi and wine at the V&A. In hindsight we were quite happy that Sevruga didn’t seem to want our money as we ended up on the deck of the new Harbour House, me burning my left shoulder, enjoying wasabi leaves (you can tell by the title of this post that the leaves were clearly a highlight for me) and tour boat views.

Sunday plans were drowned in … rain. No big walk, but just big hang over and the aftermath i.e. pizza and red wine. Happy days.

Monday's bachelor.

No news about the fact that Mondays usually suck. It’s in their nature. Today is no exception. Today is the epiphany of a Monday. I went on a very civilized pizza date last night and returned with no voice and no idea whatsoever if the guy wants to see me again. To make it clear: I would very much like to see him again. Any idea how much it sucks and pulls on my patience (which is little at the best of times) to not know whether he feels the same?

Those are the moments when I love a concept like “The Bachelor” purely for its lack of mixed messages. You get a rose or you don’t. Rose great, he wants to get to know you better; no rose cool, you can move on with your life. No mixed messages. Also you get your answer within 24 hours, which I find crucial for my sanity. In real life things are all different and in my opinion quite messed up. There is no answer within 24 hour guarantee, it can take up to a week and still be acceptable in some cultures. Some answers aren’t even real answers. There is usually a lot of maybe floating around. Insane driving maybe. When was maybe ever an acceptable concept?

The other problem is that these days it is not even clear who is the bachelor and who the contestant. Am I supposed to sit around, just assume and wait or take the initiative and hand out a rose myself? And if a certain someone* decides to go against better judgement and hands out the modern day version of a rose aka SMS themselves, what is an acceptable time frame to accept or decline the token of interest? Answers please! And no, an answer with maybe in it, does not count.

UPDATE: I just got a lovely SMS from a certain bachelor, saying thank you, but no thank you. So here I am now - no rose, but happy to know that some men still have balls.

*Yes, we all know that would be me. I know, I know...

Happy landing.

I usually love fetching people from the airport. It doesn’t even matter who I fetch and that’s because just to stand in the arrivals hall makes me happy. My romantic heart can come out and play. You will never see a grumpy face, but lovers reunited, family gatherings, and even the people who just have a taxi driver waiting for them, are happy because they are finally off the plane. It’s happiness all around.

Last Sunday though it got a bit much and even my romantic heart turned cynic. First a lady, who was waiting, filmed another lady coming out. That one was screaming and shouting and waving her arms. I guess it made for a really good picture in her mind, though everyone around seemed a little embarrassed on their behalf. It got worse. Now another lady with her boyfriend/husband/whatever got out, started crying and hugging a probably long lost sister or something dramatic to that degree. The boyfriend/husband/whatever stood next to them and started to take pictures of the two. From all angles. I mean come on, they just got off a plane and the first thing he needs to document in Cape Town is that? Really?
I was barely done rolling my eyes, when I spotted my friend Nele and I hopped and skipped towards her. I was promptly ‘punished’ for my eye rolling, because when she saw me, she stopped dead, pulled a face and ... started crying.
Though to my surprise I realized – there was nothing embarrassing about it. I just wished I had had my camera to take a picture of her. Because in the end, cheesy or not, it’s the arrivals hall and people just cry sometimes after a happy landing, just happy to have finally arrived.