I was reading an essay written by François Serrano -the husband of my housemate's boss, who is studying Sociology at Birkbeck University of London- on Marx. And I realised that I am intimately a Marxist. Next step: reading the Capital. I believe that the economical/sociological analysis Marx undertook was incredibly lucid and true. The drift towards the meaningless of action, due to the specialisation and division of labour to an extent where anyone is replaceable, is something I'm experimenting right now.
I lost the sense of what I'm doing. I miss the 360° classes I took in my degree course in Verona. I miss the well-rounded overview on the issues. I miss the comprehensive attempt to explain things, the analysis from different perspectives. I miss the stimulating environment of my classes, the bubbling and lively conversations with my classmates before a glass of spritz. I find my daily routine meaningless, energy- and time-consuming, but lacking a purpose. I feel like I'm dragging myself ahead towards the completion of the Master without gaining much. Without feeling engaged. Without being passionate about anything.
The world of news is like this. A quick glance at the world, then write it, edit it, spread it and move on. It's like a factory processing of facts and opinions, that is getting more and more self-referential to my eyes. I miss the research, the in-depth investigation, the speculation, the discussion. I miss the passion, the passion above all. And reading the book on Italy makes me all the more sensitive to this lack. The passion oozes from the pages and smells like intrigue. My country pulses with emotion. It has a lot of flaws, but one of them is definitely not the lack of warmth.
I was discussing this with Marianne and Yass. The feeling we've got from being here in London is that the Big Smoke is like a whore. People come and go, they spend some time here, they make money and then leave. London is a disposable city. You exploit it and then you move on. There is nothing stable, everything is superficial, minimal. Relationships seem cold. "Italians are so emotional," said an American friend of mine once. Which is true. And we should be proud of that. London is a city with no ties, no links between the rushing splinters that are its dwellers. London is the realm of individualism and self-reliance, home to self-help literature and exaggerated Darwinism. It's no wonder that Marx has long lived in London. He must have seen the transformation of the individual in the character of the worker to a mechanism in the machine, before putting forward the concept of alienation.
Why are we doing what we do? I've always been ambitious, maybe too much for my real capacities. I've been dreaming instead of facing reality. Reality being that we just have one life to live and sometimes what gives us pleasure and happiness is not what we accomplish with our jobs, it's not in how we change the world. But how we influence the world around us. The microcosm we live in. That's why when I asked my talented teacher of history of arts why she was still living in such a provincial small town such as Pordenone she simply replied: "Because I like it." She had accomplished something on a small scale and was happy with it. She made us love the subject, and that was enough. She enjoyed knowledge and art for knowledge's and art's sake. She was a hedonist and a good teacher.
At the end of the day, the joy of living doesn't come from a mark at university, from the bylines you get, from the reports that are aired. Joy comes from the people you meet and talk to, from the relationships you establish. Aristotle said man is a social animal. And I believe so too. What distinguishes man from animal is language. Man, this communicating beast that needs relations to function and to make sense out of life (an ascetic would definitely disagree though). That's why I'm realising that and that bound me to my family, my home country, my home town, those ties that I've considered chains for so longwere not handcuffs after all, but roots. As in a tree roots provide nourishment and anchorage, so my roots give me life and emotional stability. And as much as I would like to climb up the trunk, the branches, the leaves to reach the light, I will always need the earth and the water from underneath to get the life blood running.
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Inside Justice - What's it like in a Court of Appeal
We live in a world of paper and words.
Today I went to the Royal Court of Justice. I listened to the appeals of two cases in the criminal division. The first thing that struck me as I entered the small court was the amount of papers it contained. The walls around, especially the one at my back, behind the benches, was covered with tomes of books, old, yellowed books. A man in the row before mine had four or five briefcases, tied together with a rubber band, and each one of them had a pile of sheets inside. The barristers in the front row had papers and folders and documents displayed before them as evidence to support their arguments. The three Judges were examining documents and leafing through files.
The surroundings gave me the idea of being in the temple of hacks and formality, of eloquent circumlocutions and fixed practices rather than the temple of justice. The simple task of handing out a document to the judge involves a threefold transfer: from the hands of the barrister to the secretary, from the secretary to the assistant of the judge, from the the assistant to the judge. It gave me the idea that justice - especially in a Court of Appeal - relies more on technicalities than on the actual respect of the law. But when it comes to human, after all, there's always something more involved.
The defendants were behind bars, in a sort of cage. One of them reminded me of a cow, or a bull. He had a big neck and a bald head. He seemed a little bit like me: a little bit lost, a little bit sleepy. He was looking around, and maybe he didn't understand all the arguments that the two wig-sporting law people were putting forward, deciding on his life, on the future of his existence.
In the house of the law everything is strictly regulated, but the flow of people that come and go. Anyone can pop up and attend a proceeding, from young professionals wearing blue suits to school girls wearing flowers in their hair. The restriction is limited to under-14s who are not allowed in. The behaviour within the Court is also subject to restriction. Recording the proceedings and the use of mobile phone are prohibited. Food and soft drinks are not allowed in the Court and a special ban makes clear that chewing gums is not welcome.
The Court is also the reign of the dust: a mixture of tradition and procedures. A barrister addressed the judges calling them Milord and Miladies, a trite formula that reminded me of The Rose of Versailles (Lady Oscar). Judges and barristers are still wearing wigs, even though we are in the XXI century - I imagined fleas having parties in those disgusting yellowish, greyish fake hair. Microphones hanging from lamps and from the ceiling amplify the articulated discussions between judges and barristers. The former giving a hard time to the latter, who do their best to challenge the judges' previous judgement and lead them to revise it.
It's an exchange which is sometimes hard to follow, but extremely fascinating too. The epitome of it being an invitation from Lord Justice Toulson to the barrister: "Will you remove the fog?" Such a powerful expression to embody the search of truth that the justice has to assess to make its decision. And at a certain point the judge's admission that sometimes judges have to come to a verdict making the best of the element at their disposal, though they may not be all.
It's somehow eerie that life-changing decisions are made on the basis of paperwork and words. Pieces of paper and speeches can and do change people's lives.
Today I went to the Royal Court of Justice. I listened to the appeals of two cases in the criminal division. The first thing that struck me as I entered the small court was the amount of papers it contained. The walls around, especially the one at my back, behind the benches, was covered with tomes of books, old, yellowed books. A man in the row before mine had four or five briefcases, tied together with a rubber band, and each one of them had a pile of sheets inside. The barristers in the front row had papers and folders and documents displayed before them as evidence to support their arguments. The three Judges were examining documents and leafing through files.
The surroundings gave me the idea of being in the temple of hacks and formality, of eloquent circumlocutions and fixed practices rather than the temple of justice. The simple task of handing out a document to the judge involves a threefold transfer: from the hands of the barrister to the secretary, from the secretary to the assistant of the judge, from the the assistant to the judge. It gave me the idea that justice - especially in a Court of Appeal - relies more on technicalities than on the actual respect of the law. But when it comes to human, after all, there's always something more involved.
The defendants were behind bars, in a sort of cage. One of them reminded me of a cow, or a bull. He had a big neck and a bald head. He seemed a little bit like me: a little bit lost, a little bit sleepy. He was looking around, and maybe he didn't understand all the arguments that the two wig-sporting law people were putting forward, deciding on his life, on the future of his existence.
In the house of the law everything is strictly regulated, but the flow of people that come and go. Anyone can pop up and attend a proceeding, from young professionals wearing blue suits to school girls wearing flowers in their hair. The restriction is limited to under-14s who are not allowed in. The behaviour within the Court is also subject to restriction. Recording the proceedings and the use of mobile phone are prohibited. Food and soft drinks are not allowed in the Court and a special ban makes clear that chewing gums is not welcome.
The Court is also the reign of the dust: a mixture of tradition and procedures. A barrister addressed the judges calling them Milord and Miladies, a trite formula that reminded me of The Rose of Versailles (Lady Oscar). Judges and barristers are still wearing wigs, even though we are in the XXI century - I imagined fleas having parties in those disgusting yellowish, greyish fake hair. Microphones hanging from lamps and from the ceiling amplify the articulated discussions between judges and barristers. The former giving a hard time to the latter, who do their best to challenge the judges' previous judgement and lead them to revise it.
It's an exchange which is sometimes hard to follow, but extremely fascinating too. The epitome of it being an invitation from Lord Justice Toulson to the barrister: "Will you remove the fog?" Such a powerful expression to embody the search of truth that the justice has to assess to make its decision. And at a certain point the judge's admission that sometimes judges have to come to a verdict making the best of the element at their disposal, though they may not be all.
It's somehow eerie that life-changing decisions are made on the basis of paperwork and words. Pieces of paper and speeches can and do change people's lives.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Quirky Intros and Complete Strangers
First of all, let me point out that I'm used to having random conversation with complete strangers. It's a form of networking that I might even find enjoyable from time to time. When I was in uni in Italy, I used to take the train every week. And God knows what chance encounters you can experience on a train. I promised to myself I'll write a book about it. So, I'm not rookie here. However, some people's intros still take me aback.
The first week I moved to London, I was happily surprised by a transvestite who stopped in the middle of the street, ended her phone call and postponed another one, just to tell me: "Oh my goodness! You hair is fabulous!" Which wasn't even true in my opinion. She complimented me and bet that I'd rather have straight hair, instead of curly. Nope, I said. She then started to blurt out a number of solutions to deal with the dampness of London's weather - not a good thing for my already frizzy hair.
That was a quite funny, but flattering way of starting a (2-minute long) conversation. Other times, intros are clumsy and lame. Such as that of a worker yesterday that drove by me while I was walking to uni. I heard the car stopping and thought to myself: "Oh, Jeez... what does he want? I don't know my way around here," expecting him to ask me for directions. But he said: "If you smile then the sun will come out." So, I moved aside my umbrella, smiled at the sky and obviously nothing happened. Same old rainy grey weather. Flattered by the compliment, though annoyed by its cheesiness, I said: "It doesn't work," and moved on.
The worst ones, however, are those creepy people that just stare at you and then grin and then mutter something that you don't understand, and when you pass by them, ignoring them hopelessly, they shamelessly turn their head 180 degrees like an owl, risking to break their neck.
I went to a stand-up comedy recently. I've been told that the opening line is the most important one. So, please, people out there willing to chat with the person next to you or walking by: especially if the person is me, make it a good one.
The first week I moved to London, I was happily surprised by a transvestite who stopped in the middle of the street, ended her phone call and postponed another one, just to tell me: "Oh my goodness! You hair is fabulous!" Which wasn't even true in my opinion. She complimented me and bet that I'd rather have straight hair, instead of curly. Nope, I said. She then started to blurt out a number of solutions to deal with the dampness of London's weather - not a good thing for my already frizzy hair.
That was a quite funny, but flattering way of starting a (2-minute long) conversation. Other times, intros are clumsy and lame. Such as that of a worker yesterday that drove by me while I was walking to uni. I heard the car stopping and thought to myself: "Oh, Jeez... what does he want? I don't know my way around here," expecting him to ask me for directions. But he said: "If you smile then the sun will come out." So, I moved aside my umbrella, smiled at the sky and obviously nothing happened. Same old rainy grey weather. Flattered by the compliment, though annoyed by its cheesiness, I said: "It doesn't work," and moved on.
The worst ones, however, are those creepy people that just stare at you and then grin and then mutter something that you don't understand, and when you pass by them, ignoring them hopelessly, they shamelessly turn their head 180 degrees like an owl, risking to break their neck.
I went to a stand-up comedy recently. I've been told that the opening line is the most important one. So, please, people out there willing to chat with the person next to you or walking by: especially if the person is me, make it a good one.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
People and History
Yesterday I met Liam, an Australian guy, at the club. He said his country is boring. And the reason for this would be because Australia has no history. He even said: "White people shouldn't be there." I thought that was quite a statement.
Being born and raised in Italy, a country that lives on its past, I've never considered the lack of history as something that would affect me. But apparently, the lack of history can really be an issue, leading to a blurry sense of identity. At least, that's how it is for Liam.
I'm currently reading a book by Tobias Jones, The Dark Heart of Italy. It's beautifully written and it's also quite interesting to read about one's own country through the eyes of someone else. All those little details that one takes for granted are seen again by fresh, brand new eyes. It's a mirror that I quite enjoy look at to see myself reflected.
It's true: you need distancing to really appreciate what's missing. To fully become aware of your own identity. To realise how in love you can be with the country you ran away from. Little Italy... I'll come back, because you're worth it, after all!
Being born and raised in Italy, a country that lives on its past, I've never considered the lack of history as something that would affect me. But apparently, the lack of history can really be an issue, leading to a blurry sense of identity. At least, that's how it is for Liam.
I'm currently reading a book by Tobias Jones, The Dark Heart of Italy. It's beautifully written and it's also quite interesting to read about one's own country through the eyes of someone else. All those little details that one takes for granted are seen again by fresh, brand new eyes. It's a mirror that I quite enjoy look at to see myself reflected.
It's true: you need distancing to really appreciate what's missing. To fully become aware of your own identity. To realise how in love you can be with the country you ran away from. Little Italy... I'll come back, because you're worth it, after all!
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
Random thoughts
So, today it will a little bit like a shopping list. Random thoughts on the past couple of days.
- Today I went to a refugee centre in St Pancras. It's for a feature for Home Affairs course. Everyone was incredibly helpful and warm, especially Jabbar, who welcomed me with a warm cup of a tea and insisted that I eat the meal cooked by the volunteers and delivered free to the drop-in session (awesome food, indeed). And then there was Mr Sharif, who was so proud to tell me his story (speaking straightforward to the voice recorder instead of looking at me). And then Herbert, who would wait for me to look at him in the eyes to speak (he couldn't bare talking to me while I was taking notes).
- On my way back to uni I met a man who probably had some sort of disorder. He stared insistently at me while waiting for the green at the traffic light. I said "Hi". He asked me to go take a beer with him. I declined the invitation. He paid me a couple of compliments. I thanked him and moved on. A couple of seconds later I looked back and saw him wandering, or rather zigzagging, in the middle of the street. I was utterly bewildered. And wondered if he would end up as the cat a couple of months ago: run over by a double decker. As far as I know, the bloke was luckier than the feline. But I wouldn't bet on it.
- Drivers would kill you with delight if you cross the street randomly and happen to be on their way. Amelie (French friend) made me laugh once when she said that cars even speed up when they see you NOT on the zebra crossing. But... if you're close to them they will even slam on the brakes to let you cross. Schizo Londoners!
- And fina
lly, to cheer you up, a funny veggie picture. Supposedly, it is an eggplant....but, with a little airbrushing it can turn into a face very easily. And wonder of all wonders, it wasn't even by Iceland (cheap dodgy supermarket).
- Today I went to a refugee centre in St Pancras. It's for a feature for Home Affairs course. Everyone was incredibly helpful and warm, especially Jabbar, who welcomed me with a warm cup of a tea and insisted that I eat the meal cooked by the volunteers and delivered free to the drop-in session (awesome food, indeed). And then there was Mr Sharif, who was so proud to tell me his story (speaking straightforward to the voice recorder instead of looking at me). And then Herbert, who would wait for me to look at him in the eyes to speak (he couldn't bare talking to me while I was taking notes).
- On my way back to uni I met a man who probably had some sort of disorder. He stared insistently at me while waiting for the green at the traffic light. I said "Hi". He asked me to go take a beer with him. I declined the invitation. He paid me a couple of compliments. I thanked him and moved on. A couple of seconds later I looked back and saw him wandering, or rather zigzagging, in the middle of the street. I was utterly bewildered. And wondered if he would end up as the cat a couple of months ago: run over by a double decker. As far as I know, the bloke was luckier than the feline. But I wouldn't bet on it.
- Drivers would kill you with delight if you cross the street randomly and happen to be on their way. Amelie (French friend) made me laugh once when she said that cars even speed up when they see you NOT on the zebra crossing. But... if you're close to them they will even slam on the brakes to let you cross. Schizo Londoners!
- And fina
lly, to cheer you up, a funny veggie picture. Supposedly, it is an eggplant....but, with a little airbrushing it can turn into a face very easily. And wonder of all wonders, it wasn't even by Iceland (cheap dodgy supermarket).
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Stand up Comedy and Bloody Italians
So, tonight I went to my first London stand up comedy show. And I must say, I really enjoyed myself. A bunch of performers made our (the audience's) night much lighter and enjoyable. A good laughter brings people together, no matter their nationalities. And that's what happened tonight at the Soho Comedy Show at the Round Table in Leicester Square.
The room was cosy and small. As the show kicked off it was not even packed, but by the end of the night it reached full capacity, which was roughly 30 people. The six Norwegians in the front row were the guest stars of the night. Each and every performer, starting from the compere, made fun of them. Then there was the guy from Venezuela,, who was "funny in his country" [where people can understand what he says, that is]. Then there were people from all parts of Britain, including Scotland, and even from Ireland. And then there was me, an Italian.
But, no sooner had the fifth act got the stage that to my bewilderment I found out he was Italian too. Well, born and raised in Italy from Indian parents and had moved to London five years ago. He had kept the little piece of info for himself all night, as I got acquainted with the comics and the host, Jools Constant. No wonder he spotted my Italian accent when I speak (which is not as strong as a regular Italian). No wonder he knew where Pordenone and Aviano are. No wonder he was interested when I said that I find it hard to be funny in a language that it's not your mothertongue.
So, you can be in the most diverse city in the world. You may be the only one who vaguely looks Italian. But you can bet that there will be another Italian in the room, even though there are just about 30 people. We bloody Italians! But hey, stand up comedy in London....thumbs up! Definitely worth it!
The room was cosy and small. As the show kicked off it was not even packed, but by the end of the night it reached full capacity, which was roughly 30 people. The six Norwegians in the front row were the guest stars of the night. Each and every performer, starting from the compere, made fun of them. Then there was the guy from Venezuela,, who was "funny in his country" [where people can understand what he says, that is]. Then there were people from all parts of Britain, including Scotland, and even from Ireland. And then there was me, an Italian.
But, no sooner had the fifth act got the stage that to my bewilderment I found out he was Italian too. Well, born and raised in Italy from Indian parents and had moved to London five years ago. He had kept the little piece of info for himself all night, as I got acquainted with the comics and the host, Jools Constant. No wonder he spotted my Italian accent when I speak (which is not as strong as a regular Italian). No wonder he knew where Pordenone and Aviano are. No wonder he was interested when I said that I find it hard to be funny in a language that it's not your mothertongue.
So, you can be in the most diverse city in the world. You may be the only one who vaguely looks Italian. But you can bet that there will be another Italian in the room, even though there are just about 30 people. We bloody Italians! But hey, stand up comedy in London....thumbs up! Definitely worth it!
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Brits are freaks - The art of queuing
That British people are polite is out of question. That their politeness might lead to a sort of stiffness of manners is also out of question now. Today, I read on the Sunday Telegraph that queuing properly will be part of the test that immigrants have to pass to be granted British citizenship.
Being able to queue is now officially a requirement to "Britishness", along with the 5 o'clock tea and the fish 'n chips meal. After the ridiculous queen's hats, the judge's greasy wigs and the pint-addicted pub-goers, the queuers are definitely the latest English strangeness to add to the many already inhabiting my stereotyped imagination.
Once, I was thinking how much time the Brits waste queuing. They queue at the bank, they queue at the tube station, the queue at the cinema, they queue at the canteen, they queue at the cash desk. They queue orderly and patiently everywhere. In Italy queuing is accompanied by snorts and frowns at best. At worst, it is dotted with bitter complaints, agitated gestures, miserable attempts at passing who's ahead in the line.
Recently, I went to the One Young World summit. At 1 o'clock we were ready for lunch. The caterers had already set the tables. The conference finished. We (the journalists covering the event) ran to the trays to get some food and go back to our stint. The delegates calmly reached the tables and queued for their lunch. I imagined the same scene in Italy: everyone rushing to get the best bite, possibly tripping somebody else up in the run.
There is no space for gentleness in my country, despite the worldwide acknowledged warmth of its people. But in the UK queueing is not just politeness. It is part of the people's identity.
Being able to queue is now officially a requirement to "Britishness", along with the 5 o'clock tea and the fish 'n chips meal. After the ridiculous queen's hats, the judge's greasy wigs and the pint-addicted pub-goers, the queuers are definitely the latest English strangeness to add to the many already inhabiting my stereotyped imagination.
Once, I was thinking how much time the Brits waste queuing. They queue at the bank, they queue at the tube station, the queue at the cinema, they queue at the canteen, they queue at the cash desk. They queue orderly and patiently everywhere. In Italy queuing is accompanied by snorts and frowns at best. At worst, it is dotted with bitter complaints, agitated gestures, miserable attempts at passing who's ahead in the line.
Recently, I went to the One Young World summit. At 1 o'clock we were ready for lunch. The caterers had already set the tables. The conference finished. We (the journalists covering the event) ran to the trays to get some food and go back to our stint. The delegates calmly reached the tables and queued for their lunch. I imagined the same scene in Italy: everyone rushing to get the best bite, possibly tripping somebody else up in the run.
There is no space for gentleness in my country, despite the worldwide acknowledged warmth of its people. But in the UK queueing is not just politeness. It is part of the people's identity.
Saturday, 13 February 2010
Home, Sweet Home
"Zia, vieni a casa" (pause) "Dici sì!"
That was the heart-breaking point of the day. No one else saying these words would affect me, would make me cry. But his clear innocent voice and his sincere laughter have this power over me.
Home...what is home anyway? A place where you settle down. The place where you grew up. The place where you always feel comfortable. But more importantly it's the place where your heart sets its roots. I've always thought my home as a stifling place. A place that could have never quenched my thirst for life. Which is true in a way. I've always thought of myself as fire in ice, a burning flame stuck in a frozen land. Over time I've realised I'm much more like water, a placid river just flowing towards the sea.
In the meanders of life I ended up leaving my home, finding a new place to settle down and feel comfortable. And I do. But that's not what makes me cry with a couple of syllables. That's not where I go to look for comfort and affection. That's not where I know I will always be special, no matter what I achieve.
That's home. That's why it breaks my heart hearing my nephew say: "Auntie, are you coming home? Say yes!," and my answer is no. Not yet.
That was the heart-breaking point of the day. No one else saying these words would affect me, would make me cry. But his clear innocent voice and his sincere laughter have this power over me.
Home...what is home anyway? A place where you settle down. The place where you grew up. The place where you always feel comfortable. But more importantly it's the place where your heart sets its roots. I've always thought my home as a stifling place. A place that could have never quenched my thirst for life. Which is true in a way. I've always thought of myself as fire in ice, a burning flame stuck in a frozen land. Over time I've realised I'm much more like water, a placid river just flowing towards the sea.
In the meanders of life I ended up leaving my home, finding a new place to settle down and feel comfortable. And I do. But that's not what makes me cry with a couple of syllables. That's not where I go to look for comfort and affection. That's not where I know I will always be special, no matter what I achieve.
That's home. That's why it breaks my heart hearing my nephew say: "Auntie, are you coming home? Say yes!," and my answer is no. Not yet.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Fighting online for Human Rights - an inspiring story
She was skinny and humbly dressed. Almost physically anonymous as she took the stage at the One Young World summit today in London. But as she started speaking her energy broke out, leaving the audience inspired by her experience.
Esra'a Al Shafei is only 23, but has already done a lot in the fight for human rights in her country, Bahrain, and in the Middle East. In 2006 Esra'a invested a ridiculous $100 to set up a social network, mideastyouth.com, and provide a dialogue platform for young people from the Middle East.
"Internet is a gateway for freedom of speech," she said. "There is no censorship there. And even when the government tries to shut websites down, there is always a away to get aroung that."
Esra'a used animation, comics, ads and podcasts to reach a young audience and change their mentality, rather than communicate with the government. Her aim was to tackle human rights violations and promote respect among diverse people.
The website launched projects to support minority groups, such as the faith of Baha'i and the Kurdish, and fellow freedom fighters, such as Kareem Amer, the blogger who was jailed for his alleged anti-religious and insulting to Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak posts.
Esra'a, a graduate in social politics and international communication from the University of Lugano, Switzerland, is confident that the power of social networks will lead to a change in regions where intolerance and violence are still daily bread. "When I saw that people in my region were arrested, tortured or kileld because they were fighting for their dignity, I had to take action," she said."And Internet is my weapon."
Her hopeful activism, however, has not preserveed her from danger. Esra'a lives under death threat and has been banned from Egypt. "My mission is to stay out of prison," she joked, asking the audience not to take photographs nor to film her.
The One Young World, a three-day summit that gathered young leaders from all over the world, has given Esra'a the chance to meet other young leaders and build a network that will help her further her mission.
"This conferencewas inspiring, but in terms of actual action, it's hard to tell [whether it will be effective]," esra'a commented. "It's more about meeting other people, sharing, connecting."
For more info: http://www.mideastyouth.com/
Monday, 1 February 2010
Flat sole + Slippery pavement = Death
I bought a new pair of boots a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was a bargain. Not because it was particularly cheap, but because it was exactly what I needed. Black boots, flat heels, high legs. It was not perfect, but I know myself. It's either the first thing I see that fits my needs, or I would keep looking for the perfect pair forever (I would then buy the perfect one, only to find a more perfect one the next day). So, I bought these boots.
I didn't notice, however, that the sole was completely flat. I had the chance to realise that only last week, when I finally hit the pavement again to go to school -previously I spent most of the time at home, typing the three articles a day I had to submit for my internship. So, I hit the pavements wearing my brand new boots, strutting, feeling proud and sexy, and then... I slip. Oh my Gosh. A man looks at me commiserating and goes: "Watch out!"
Since last week I've collected several warnings, piteous looks, friendly smiles and a couple of chuckles, too. There goes my adventure in my new boots, as if London's pavements weren't dangerous enough! Every single day I almost fall at least a couple of times. Today I scored an impressive 7 times: 3 on my way to uni and 4 on my way home. Temperatures have plummeted below zero last night so the streets were still a bit frosty.
My reaction is usually a sigh of relief for not having broken my legs -tonight I almost did the splits. Luckily, I am self-ironic. I also giggle, whisper swear words (just in Italian, cause it's more effective) and pull myself together praying it won't happen again. Until I slip again and think: "What a bargain?! I should put tacks underneath my boots, like a soccer player! Or at least buy a helmet!"
But there they are, my brand new boots: exactly what I needed, although not death proof.
I didn't notice, however, that the sole was completely flat. I had the chance to realise that only last week, when I finally hit the pavement again to go to school -previously I spent most of the time at home, typing the three articles a day I had to submit for my internship. So, I hit the pavements wearing my brand new boots, strutting, feeling proud and sexy, and then... I slip. Oh my Gosh. A man looks at me commiserating and goes: "Watch out!"
Since last week I've collected several warnings, piteous looks, friendly smiles and a couple of chuckles, too. There goes my adventure in my new boots, as if London's pavements weren't dangerous enough! Every single day I almost fall at least a couple of times. Today I scored an impressive 7 times: 3 on my way to uni and 4 on my way home. Temperatures have plummeted below zero last night so the streets were still a bit frosty.
My reaction is usually a sigh of relief for not having broken my legs -tonight I almost did the splits. Luckily, I am self-ironic. I also giggle, whisper swear words (just in Italian, cause it's more effective) and pull myself together praying it won't happen again. Until I slip again and think: "What a bargain?! I should put tacks underneath my boots, like a soccer player! Or at least buy a helmet!"
But there they are, my brand new boots: exactly what I needed, although not death proof.
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