Wherever You Go, There You Are - But That Don't Mean You Can't Sneak A Peek

Run away, RUN AWAY!  Like you're Ripley and a chestburster really, really wants to put it's thingy in you.  Like a politician backpedalling on an promise.  Like a sensible child fleeing from a clown.

I am a born wannabe-escapist - I say 'wannabe' because I can be unrelenting in my pursuit of even the most futile endeavours, like a T1000 missing half it's body and still chasing an chipmunk-voiced, under-aged Edward Furlong.

You know that idiot who says, "You can have my sword/bow/axe/stupendous loyalty for seemingly no good reason," in aid of some hopeless quest? Yup, that's me.



So, here is some natty writing about faraway places and looking-out-the-window dreams, possibilities and realities that belong to others.
My reality is mine - but it's always educational to peek into what could be.
Ergo, my sin today is covetousness.  Journey with me?

Russia: The Georgian Ministry of Highways building is the ultimate treehouse.

Japan: The Edo period never really went away, thank goodness.

New York: An American retail adventure as guided by The Sartorialist.

Note: Today's post is short because I slammed my fingers in a car door - the middle and ring fingers on my dominant hand are out of action.  So typing ain't easy right now... but I'll be back to 80 wpm soon enough :-)

My Kind Of Lingua Franca

“Now I want to know where this terrible American accent is coming from.  You didn’t have it before, then yesterday it was all CON-NOR instead of Conner and just then you said  O'NEEAELE instead of O'Neil.  It’s since you came back from holidays”.

The complainant is SN, my extremely effeminate, extremely plummy and extremely Anglophiliac boss.  His father had been knighted for services to the upmarket department store Georges, and as a six-year-old he threw a tantrum because he really, REALLY wanted to go to Paris… and then he got to go.  And of course, his family often ‘had the help in’ to assist in running their sizeable Toorak household. 

SN and I have a few things in common.  I, too had been to Paris as a child; just not the interesting bits like the Black Dog heavy metal bar where Gieger showed his work.  My family only did the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe and you know… the usual.  I, too was used to ‘having the help in’ (we had maids) and still have fits of unreasonable ‘it’s-not-fair’ tainted fury when the house is in a mess created by myself, with only myself to clean (and blame).

But unlike SN, my childhood was rich with wonder of  McGuyver, Dallas and Magnum P-I.  Sure, I could 'do' the tones of Miss Marple, the entire cast of Trainspotting and Monty Python; mainly because I went to an international school full of grumpy expat children.  However, my voice, my truest, dearest and most comfortable voice is Michelle Gellar a la Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  I may not look like a California blonde, but in my heart of hearts I am in a GM convertible, wind and Sun-In in my hair, on my way to an audition for the next CIS:New Orleans/Florida/Hoboken.  

So I do posess an ever-changing, somewhat schizophrenic voice.  When angry I go Proper British, and due to where I grew up I can do a reasonable Manglish/Singlish.  And please let's not discuss the time I stayed with my Hindi best friend in high school for Job Week.  Exorcising those high pitches and Bollywood head movements from a teenage girl makes Linda Blair's efforts look easy.

And yes, I recently had been on holiday visiting relatives, in a country where English spoken well is spoken in Default American.

But funny things happen when children stay up late with their mothers watching Dynasty.

 

To Be Reminded Of Your Options

There is a certain comfort in knowing that you can be in other places, be another person, opt for something that it not here, now or you as you are now.

On the bus, a cold day, an hour away from dusk.  A stretch of industrial road.  It feels like an early spring in rural Canada, the outskirts of some university town.
Not that I've ever been to this place, mind you.

Instead, it's about 6.10pm in Melbourne, Australia.  The moment here only feels like a moment in country I've never been to.  These moments don't have names, they are only reminders that there is a life somewhere else just like your own, but not.