Archives for posts with tag: moving

13260170_10153432058166455_5805496588537396922_n

  1. Pretty much everything you think you know for certain, you don’t.
  2. Plan pee breaks, know where the nearest toilet is…at all times.
  3. My waist is becoming a distant memory.
  4. The amount of fucks I give is rapidly declining; at the same rate my waistline is expanding.
  5. Never deny yourself pleasure. Eat. Drink. Being skinny does not feel as good as real Italian pizza tastes, or fresh sushi, bacon sandwiches, picanha with soy and wasabi. Devour everything.
  6. The internet is dangerous for bored husbands with mobile phones and penis in hand…
  7. Dick pics are rarely enticing.
  8. Don’t try and change people. Everyone tells their own tale, we craft our own narratives, become characters in our own stories. If their reality is different to your version, let them keep it.
  9. Never stop being a kid. Once in a while sing, play, build nests and forts, jump around and laugh until you cry.
  10. My teeth are divorcing, the distance between them is so great, whole sirloin steaks can be found in the crevices. Toothpicks loiter in all my handbags
  11. When you have heard all their stories, if you are not making any new ones…it’s time to move on.
  12. You are as beautiful, sexy, alluring or desirable as you want to be, this does not come from outside. Radiate you, give a giant fuck off to anyone who doesn’t get it.
  13. You can move across the world, twice, and still find kindred spirits, good hearts and wise women.
  14. An early night in your own bed is a moment of pure pleasure.
  15. ‘Just stick it anywhere’ is not a romantic phrase to hear in a tender shared moment.
  16. Never, never, Google your symptoms. Inevitably it will say cancer, then you will have to spend the next hour panicking and further couple of hours reassuring yourself you are not dying.
  17. Your friends will have children who are adults, how is this possible when we all still need to grow up?
  18. Dating is not a game, it’s a procedure.
  19. You have definitely heard it all before.
  20. People may say you are an inspiration or a role model. You remember the time you slipped over in your own vomit after too much red wine and keep quiet…
  21. Travel is wonderful exhilarating and exciting but you can afford comfort over authenticity.
  22. Do not be afraid to be seen, be judged, be stupid, fuck up, fall over, all you need to do is get up and smile.
  23. Sing. Loudly.
  24. Inhabit the body you have, not the body you think you should have. Touch the sides.
  25. No more waiting, the time is now.
  26. There are people in your life who have grown older alongside you, and these are precious gems.
  27. You will experience loss and you can survive it.
  28. The excesses of youth do catch up with you, recovery times are increased, at times I feel like my body is angry with me, I am ever grateful it never gave up on me, despite the abuses.
  29. There are some people you have to let go.
  30. And some that go but stay with you forever
  31. Manage your expectations, be content with the reality of people and not the projection of what you wish they could be.
  32. You will know the meaning of perimenopausal and start to look out for ‘changes’.
  33. Don’t blame others for the consequences of your choices, own it, overcome it and hope to choose better next time.
  34. Vigorous dancing, especially jumping, can result in a little leakage…
  35. Don’t let this stop you jumping and dancing, a life without leaping is a life half lived.
  36. Fear is fading fast, I am no longer as afraid, it is not courage, it’s survival.
  37. There is still so much wonderful music you haven’t heard.
  38. Create, create, create and surround yourself with creative people, this is the real life force.
  39. Avoid people who want to change you.
  40. Avoid people who want more than you can give.
  41. Spend time with people who know and love you exactly as you are.
  42. Birthdays matter less but always take the opportunity to celebrate.
  43. Age ain’t nothing but a number baby
A shamed samurai actor posing for photos in a Kyoto film studio

A shamed samurai actor posing for photos in a Kyoto film studio

My good friend Vicky and I often suffered from, ‘Booze Guilt’. We would wake drenched in shame the morning after a night out on the drink. After a few hours of throwing dirty doubles down our necks, ranting about work and men, cackling with laughter at ridiculous jokes, we would fall home to troubled sleep. Texting each other in the morning filled with fear of broken friendships or foolish behavior; “Sorry if I was a twat last night”, “No I was a twat I was so annoying”. Self-loathing messages zooming back and forth between our mobile phones. The demon drink getting in to our brains and distorting the night’s events. Unnecessary fear and shame making us doubt ourselves.

Shame and fear. Empty emotions.

But fear and shame allowed me to make that final journey to leave the UK. Shame allowed me to leave. Not bravery, not courage, simply shame.

I sat on the shuttle bus at Charles de Gaulle airport waiting for my connection to Sao Paulo and it finally hit me, The Fear. What was I doing? Why was I leaving? I couldn’t do this. I needed to go home. I didn’t want to live in Brazil. The only thing that stopped me from getting a flight directly back to Brighton was shame. I would be ashamed to have not even made it to Brazil, this great adventure I had boasted about for months. I couldn’t scuttle back home, tail between my legs, failed, the adventure a failure. So rather than face the shame I got on the plane.

Absolutely the right decision. The two years in Brazil were life changing.

And now I am here in the land of incomprehensible shame, Japan. This place with shame ingrained in the culture. Haji (shame) is said to form the core of Japanese culture. Japanese culture is described as “shame culture ” in contrast to Western “guilt culture”. A place where shame can lead to suicide, where you must not stand out, must not make mistakes and must be ashamed if you do. They trace this back to the samurai era, and the concept of seppuku or hara-kiri, to cut one’s own belly with a sword, to suffer for shame. In this era, it was better to die than bring shame on oneself. Killing yourself for shame was an honorable act.

Even now the Japanese students I have taught struggle with being wrong, preferring to be silent than make an error in their spoken English. I am told that Japanese people won’t speak their mind that “… no doesn’t always mean no and yes doesn’t always mean yes”. There is a shame in being definite and a fear in being wrong.

I have had my own struggles with shame recently. I am planning a trip to The Great Wall of China and determined to stride powerfully up the steps and along the wall I am trying to exercise. I am overweight and unfit but the biggest hurdle I had to cross to start the journey to getting stronger was my own shame. The real pain didn’t come from the lunges or squats I was doing but the burning, searing pain of feeling so inadequate and judged and useless and embarrassed. It took extreme willpower to stay in the gym and continue for the first few days.

I am lucky there is a space at work where I can exercise easily and I have supportive new friends who eased me in to exercise, gently encouraged and motivated me. I feel humbled that once again I have travelled across the globe to find strength and care in a new group of people. So, once again my shame has given me the most amazing gifts.

And as I struggle home on the train, limbs aching, barely able to place one foot in front of the other, so tired I have forgotten my own name, I hear a beep and the messages came in on my phone from these new friends, encouraging and kind. Being the DQ (Drama Queen) that I am, I start to well up, crying in public, shaming the Japanese commuters with my overflow of foreign emotions.

Shame keeps pushing me to new experiences and in each one I find a wealth of new connections which continue to fill me with joy. The further I travel the more I realize that the world is filled with good people and I am so grateful to be able to fill my life with such wonderful people. So to my beloved Brightonion, Brazilian and now Japanese connections, thank you from the bottom of my heart, you help more than you know.

 

You can read all the posts about Brazil in one place. I have edited them in to a small book. Available on Amazon.

http://www.amazon.com/Saved-City-Lucinda-Willis/dp/149433495X/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1386657746&sr=8-2&keywords=saved+by+the+city

Or what I have learnt about Japan in 4 months..

4photo1.    Vending Machines

If you asked me what I knew about Japan before I arrived unfortunately I might have said, .”..don’t they have vending machines selling schoolgirls’ used knickers?”  Within in this one misconception lie many layers of ignorance and assumption about Japan, technology and sexuality. It‘s a complex county and I have been here only for a short time but I’m already undoing many of my misconceptions.

There are many vending machines in Japan. They’re everywhere, but the majority of them sell drinks, plastic toys or ice cream. Some of them sell beer. A friend was telling me she questioned why the Japanese teenagers didn’t buy beer from the vending machines, they have no locks or ID checks, on them, “because they are not allowed to drink alcohol until they are 20” was the simple answer. They are not allowed to, so they don’t. This may have been a Japanese adult misconception too. I would imagine Japanese teens are sneaking beers out of the vending machines but I’m not sure.

But I am sure that if you put a beer vending machine in the middle of Lancing (where I used to work) the beer and quite possibly the entire machine would be gone within minutes, and the teens of Lancing would be partying hard.

2.   Neon

I blame Bladrunner. Not once since I arrived have I been in a flying car zooming past huge neon billboards with beautiful women advertising exotic products. Instead if you can, imagine my shock at arriving and being given an apartment here:

I expected Gotham City and I got Jane Austen.

My need for neon led me to traipse around Tokyo seeking out ‘Japan’ and missing out the fact that I was right in the middle of the capital city. I was in Japan it just didn’t look like the 1980s  vision of the future I had expected.

I have moved away from the countryside now and have a city view with a couple of neon signs visible in the distance. Please remember I had been living for two years in Sao Paulo where billboard advertising was mainly banned in the city.

http://www.amusingplanet.com/2013/07/sao-paulo-city-with-no-outdoor.html

Now I was in Japan I wanted NEON.

3.   Efficiency

Not only does Sao Paulo have no outdoor advertising, Brazil also has a love of confusing and protracted bureaucracy, from the simplest task to complex visa requirements. My Brazilian Visa took 6 months to obtain, my Japanese one less than 6 weeks.

One night in SP I went out to see a band. To get a drink you had to queue 3 times, first to look at the drinks menu, then a new queue to order a drink, then the 3rd queue to pick up your drink order. Although Japan is thought of as  super efficient sometimes Japan and Brazil are not so different. In the Japanese supermarket you put your shopping in your basket and take it to the till. They get a new basket and put your shopping very neatly and carefully in to a new basket as they ring each item through. You then pay and take this new basket to the special bagging area (supplied with additional packing materials) and unpack the shopping again to repack it in to your shopping bags.

In contrast to Brazil however, Japanese efficiency tends to work (Brazilian bureaucracy seems to drift round making you dance but is always presented with a smile). In Japan my train has arrived on time, every day, to the minute, without fail. No leaves on the line or excessive heat on the tracks causing cancellations like good old British Rail (RIP). When I arrived in the country they took my photo at customs (thanks, I looked great after almost 24 hours travelling) and created my resident card on the spot. My Brazilian card arrived just in time, at the end of my two-year visa. Japan is efficient? Yes. Over efficient? Possibly.

4.   Technology

Ok, so my first Japanese apartment had a talking bath. It would fill the tub with exactly the right amount of water to the perfect temperature. I miss her voice reminding me to put the plug in. My new apartment has an ordinary tap and the only voices I hear are the ones in my head (you are dirty, you will never be clean…).

I  had one Bladerunner moment. I was in an huge electronics shop in Kyoto over excited and overwhelmed by the displays of gadgetry, fingers itching to spend spend send spend. I had that too hot shop feeling when you have six layers on and your coat is too heavy. I couldn’t see the exit and I was starting to get panicked that I was going to spend two months salary on a pair of headphones. There was a female voice with a slow computerised British accent explaining the deals of the day. If the Terminator had blasted the Bose display in search of Replicants I wouldn’t have been shocked.

But I digress; the technology on sale here is fantastic. I’m sure my Epsom printer is capable of world domination once I work out what the hell the instructions are saying. Or maybe the kanji are just another reminder to put the plug in the bath.

But it’s just not quite as high tech as I expected. I noticed a pay phone on the train platform. Low-tech yes, but practical. It was the paper copy of the phone book underneath that disappointed me. Paper? This was not the technology I was expecting. Where were the robot butlers?

photo

Japan has a love for paper. Not just beautiful handmade pages but cold hard cash.  I have rarely seen people pay by card. This is a society that generally pays in cash. It’s so safe you can carry your wealth in paper form.  Every note is pristine. This is could due to the Japanese government printing extra money to boost the economy or anther example of Japanese efficiency. Either way I have always had two purses. In Brazil it was one real purse, one purse to give to the robbers. Here it is one coin purse and one hermetically sealed note storage device. No more crumpled fivers shoved in a pocket, and Sellotaped and snot stained.

5.   Kawaii

Those who know me well, know among the myriad of ways there are to annoy me, a good one is to call me cute. I am not cute I am a large loud mouthed woman who stomps around arguing unnecessarily. I’m still not entirely sure why I came to the land of cute characters. They are everywhere. I saw a Police van, presumably designed for rounding up rioters or drunks? Cute little police mascot stuck on the side.

I was expecting cute and crazy fashion everywhere. I was expecting kawaii girls. What I see in reality is endless streams of school children dressed in hideous nylon sailor dresses or navy synthetic round collared jackets. Japanese school uniforms look incredibly unconformable, impractical cheap itchy fabrics. But no pink haired crazy girls in cosplay. As I sit on the train in the morning most people look the same there is uniformity in everyday Japanese fashion that you don’t find in the UK. As I travel I realise my beloved Brighton is a place where anything goes and although this is sometimes carte blanche for middle class wankers to live out hippy fantasies it also makes for a more interesting train carriage.

As I attempt to assimilate in to another new culture I realise once again, that what I think I know I don’t know and what I didn’t know is probably a lot more useful.

Japan is fascinating and I am prepared to be surprised.

Diana Thimble

Diana Thimble

I have been in transition, meandering my way across the globe. Fearlessly traversing the planet, I thought, as I was congratulated on my bravery. However, this courage was as real as the rich darkness of my hair. Fears hidden by naivety like the grey hairs covered up by Clairol Soft Mocha. I am not brave, I am stupid. I don’t think carefully, I blithely assume, I simplistically imagine that all will be well, I childish jump around in excitement without thought for real consequence or outcome. I ask not for sympathy for my ignorant state, in fact I think my ignorance gives me the power to move across the world and inhabit these new spaces. I exist in world of fake reality and it confuses the hell out of me…

So, I have left the fantastic toddler existence of my now beloved Brazil, stopped off for a few weeks in the rebellious teenager of Brighton and arrived in the world of the disapproving adult with a secret fun side, Japan.

I have been considering this extended metaphor of countries as an age. I loved the childlike exuberance of Brazil, that fun colourful world with an edge. Parts of Brazil were so welcoming and generous, like a toddler giving you their last sweet and pulling you by the hand to play in the sea, but turn away for a second you see that same child kicking a cat! Brazil intoxicated me with its playful sharpness. It was fun, it was beautiful but with an edge of uncertainty and danger.

When I arrived in Japan I was immediately aware that this was a place with many rules, that this was a place that was already looking down on me with a critical frown as I made terrible errors, such as placing burnable rubbish in the non-burnable bag. My early impressions of Japan spoke directly to my inner teenage rebel, making me want to giggle in a corner whilst surreptitiously doing something against the rules. I was immediately filled with recycling fear as colleagues told me horror stories of neighbourhood retribution at incorrectly separated recycling or, the horror… bags put out too early, dumped back on your doorstop with livid red labels letting you know you transgressed. Because I am new and I want to be respectful I worked hard on my recycling, spending hours arranging the rubbish, checking and rechecking, right bag, right time. Under my sink are 6 different sorts of recycling carefully separated, and correctly bagged. I creep out in the cover of darkness to put out my bags on the allotted day, still afraid I have made an error. But yesterday as I came home from work I saw my Japanese neighbour putting out their plastics, TWO DAYS EARLY. So what is real? What is the reality of the rules driven world I live in? I need to spend more time here to explore the factual.

When relaxing on the beautiful beaches of Rio we would sometimes play a game, ‘Real or Fake? ‘ Now, I am unashamedly a feminist and this is game which ultimately objectifies women’s bodies, perhaps the reality of my feminism isn’t a strong as I think it is? or perhaps it’s just a fun game to spot bad plastic surgery with your friends on a beach…? I feel like I am playing an extended game of real or fake as I attempt to link my experiences of living abroad together.

I left Brazil and returned to England, the two worlds had never really mixed, no one from the UK had come to Brazil and I hadn’t met up with any of my Brazil friends in my previous visits home. This time I was going to cross the streams. To use the familiar Ghostbusters metaphor, this crossing of the streams, this breaking of the rules could only have two possible outcomes; total disaster or saving humanity. As it turned out my stream crossing resulted in a few beers in the sunshine and people making jokes about collecting thimbles.

I was worrying about what was real and what was fake, the Brazil life still seems so unlikely, even after two years, that I had a suspicion that on return to Brighton I would find out that I had never really left. Perhaps this was a particularly vicious hangover and I had been sleeping and dreamt of a new life across the world, where I was braver, stronger and happier. In one full drama queen moment I suspected that I had almost died and that this was a form of purgatory or coma and that I might wake up back where I started not brave, strong or happy, just the same bored teacher in my castle above the sea. I worried that the friendships which blazed under the Brazilian sunshine, would crumble in the feeble British drizzle. I was in fear that my Brighton rocks, my wonderful long friendships, would disintegrate without me there to maintain them, that I would be replaced, forgotten or that my new life and old life would be incompatible and I would be left, spinster friend, reminiscing about the old days.

As it happened everything stayed strong but me. I squirmed my way through 5 weeks in the UK.  Simultaneously loving being home, delighting in the people I loved the most, grabbing hold and pulling away, because I knew that around the corner was one more goodbye.

Because the reality of this life I temporality inhabit, this world where I am now a TCA, a third culture adult, takes hard work. I know others traverse the movements from one life to another with ease but I find it a constant painful wrench. The rewards are huge, the travel, experiences and pleasures I have found in Brazil, and already in Japan, are wonderful. The pride I feel in myself, and that I know others feel in me, make it worth it, but the goodbyes? I don’t think there is anything fake about these. They hurt every time. Every time I am transported to small child standing on the steps of school, saying goodbye to safety and security, stepping in to the unknown of big school. And like school, there is adventure and wonder to be found when you can be brave and let go of your mother’s hand.

I am ready to create new realities, but forgive me if I cling a little to my past too. I am going to fake fearlessness for a while, just until I feel brave enough for real.

photo

The sunrise over Sao Paulo from my bedroom window

I have cried twice since I left the house the morning, weeping as I walked to work. I gazed around me at the Sao Paulo sky, feeling the rain gently fall on my face. The day is so English, grey skies, drizzle, it is almost like I am already home.

I am feeling such a mixture of emotions today, my last day at work in Brazil. I am still overwhelmed by what has happened to my life, still slightly shocked by these wonderful changes. Utterly terrified that I am breaking the spell- that when I finally shut the door and say goodbye, it will all disappear and I will be back to before and will never have left England. I feel such sadness at the ending of this life that has grown over the last two years.

Saudé!

People ask, “What will you miss about Brazil?” I could say many things, Acai (delicious with strawberries and banana) or Guarana (a fizzy drink) or picanha (fantastic cut of meat) or the skies over Sao Paulo I love and have photographed endlessly. But I realised, as they asked, what I will miss most, or rather what I gained most, was connections. Not just connections but the intoxicating and joyful knowledge of the possible.

I moved 5000 miles from all I knew and found that despite fumbling language skills, different cultural references, different childhoods and different worlds; human connection is possible and in a moment the world became smaller and held me tighter.

I found this as a teacher with my pupils, found that despite all the differences between us my ´teacherness´ was now so much a part of me, it shone out of every pore. I supported some older students teaching English in a local school. I know that I looked nothing like the usual teachers who taught the local children.  I could barely speak Portuguese, and they were fascinated by my nose stud and tattoo. Despite all these differences they still knew I was the teacher and when I gave them the `teacher stare` as they got too noisy, or encouraged them in my incomprehensible English our interactions were teacher and student, no different to my classrooms in the UK.

Learning English

Learning English

I felt it with my colleagues, my wonderful open, enthusiastic, warm colleagues. The fantastic department I worked with. I never would have believed that we could form such a strong bond. A Brit, Brazilians, a South African, a Columbian, a Belgium, an American, an Argentinean, an international group but with a shared passion for helping and supporting children. We connected and the connection is more powerful that I ever could have hoped for. I will miss them and I am eternally grateful for their warm welcome and heartfelt farewells.

Graffiti outside Pablo Neruda's house in Santiago. A man who would not be told what to do.

Graffiti outside Pablo Neruda’s house in Santiago. A man who would not be told what to do.

And my friends… When I left Brighton I ached for my friends, missed momentous moments, birthday, births. Two years in Sao Paulo and I have found friends for life, friends who filled those gaps and will now leave me with new gaps. I say goodbye to our Brazilian life together with such sadness because these friendships, these connections, have been tied up with a new spirit of adventure, open mindedness, exploration and fun that has shown me a whole part of myself I never knew was there.

Ah yes, me, always at the centre of all my over-analysis. The biggest connection I made was to myself. In England amongst the stress and the hard work and the overwhelming frustration and sadness of my job, I lost sight of many things. Being here has given me back so much, creativity, language, music, energy, travel, courage and pleasure.

I am thankful that on that dark December day in 2010, I pressed enter and sent off the email that changed my direction. My finger hovered over the key and even then I knew that pressing send was the possibility of a whole new world opening before me. I took a chance, pressed send, and since then everything has changed.

Iguazu Falls

Iguazu Falls

So I finish this, my final Brazilian blog, enabled by my experiences here, ready to start to writing about Japan and the new challenges, adventures and connections I hope to find there. A friend described Brazil as my Kindergarten, preparing me for the next stage of my life. Giving me the tools to move to another new country. She was right, I wouldn’t have been ready two years ago. But I’m ready now.

This is to say one final obrigada to every Brazilian connection; it has truly been a most wonderful adventure.

O tempo não pára! Só a saudade é que faz as coisas pararem no tempo…

20130504-194425.jpg

I already own too many owl related items. I have no particular affinity to owls, I don’t even really like owls but the story of how I came to own these owlish items is a good argument for believing in the concept of karma and the dangers of social networking.

A colleague and Facebook friend was telling me the story of why she had also ended up with a collection of owl memorabilia. It is a familiar enough tale, the boyfriend’s grandmother buys you an owl ornament, and you are too effusive in your thanks and from that moment on, constant owl related gifts. Every birthday and Christmas, “We know you love owls so we bought you this owl oven glove/ owl key ring/ owl socks/ owl pencil sharpener etc etc.”

Even after she moved to Brazil the owl goods continued to arrive, winging their way through the crazy Brazilian postal service and import tax to arrive at her door. She was packing to leave as she told me this story, struggling to decide if she should spend money transporting the owl collection back to the UK.

And here is where I step in, foolishly laughing my arse off enjoying the familiar story of the over enthusiastic response bringing an avalanche of unwanted gifts from family members. The people who are confused about what to buy you so they hook on to the one thing you said you liked once and continue you to buy it for you for 20 years. My family gave me gifts like purple lace gloves or black nail varnish even as I hit 30. This doubly offended me, I wasn’t even a Goth when was I was 18, I never wore purple lace gloves or black nail varnish but somehow remained the perpetual teenage rebel in their eyes.

OK, maybe I did wear lace gloves once but it was the 80s… Anyway back to the owls.

I found the story so funny that I thought it would be hysterical to post owl pictures on her Facebook page, in the hope that I could cement her family’s purchasing beliefs about her owl fetish. This interchange of owls was funny until something else started to happen.

Seeing the owls on my Facebook timeline people began to think that I liked owls! The owl legacy I had tried to palm off on to my friend was coming back to bite me on the arse. People started to post owl pictures to my own Facebook page. Then they started to get me owl gifts. One of the most terrifying of all was the owl painting a friend gave me. Although knowing him, I am sure that he was fully aware of the escalating owl frenzy and was taking the piss. I got owl earrings, at least two pairs, owl bags and purses, owl ornaments and more. Karma.

I have been in Brazil for two years, I arrived with one suitcase and one bag to an empty space which has filled quickly with the possessions which make my home. Forgive the obvious metaphor but there were not only empty spaces in my apartment but many more inside me and Brazil has filled then better than I could have ever imagined.

It is my time to pack again, I have moved many many times in my life. Despite not travelling far I would move house often, rarely staying anywhere for too long. I have never really been fixed to one place; I grew up in two homes moving constantly back and forth. I find it hard to put down lasting roots, but it also has made it easy to embrace change.

As I consider what to take with me on my next move (I’m off to Japan by the way) I remember previous times I packed, my mother helping me. We would pull the hidden boxes out from the top of the wardrobe.”I probably need to throw most of this away I would say and inside the box would be birthday gifts my dear mother had given me over the years. One of them was even an owl, Oscar the owl, presented to me by dearest mother for my performance in the school play.

So what of our possessions, our wall of protection from the world, our short hand of presentation. This is me, this is what I like, this is who I am. What do I select and discard as I pack once again to move on? As I chose what is important to me, what best represents me as I embark on another new adventure.

I don’t think I will bring the owls.

This is my favourite owl joke.

Q: Which is the most popular owl?

A: Teat.

…Teat owl

…Tea towel

…Sorry.

20130504-194523.jpg

%d bloggers like this: