This doesn't happen to me a lot. I don't get homesick. Never have. I miss my family, my friends, but I generally don't miss my country, the smell of my city, the sound of my language. But lately I have. Perhaps it is because I have never lived abroad for this long before. And perhaps it is because I am seriously contemplating the likelihood of me returning indefinitely. But whatever the reason, I am feeling homesick.
It's an interesting feeling. It's a sadness that doesn't have a specific reference point, no real source. Like waking up and knowing that something awful has happened, but you can't quite remember what it was. Like the first awake moments after a forgotten nightmare, except it lasts all day long, and you never remember the nightmare, so you don't get the relief you feel when you realize that it was just a nightmare.
What gets me the most is the language thing. I just really, really miss speaking my language. I'm aware that Dutch isn't exactly a beautiful language, but I miss the comfort of my mother tongue, the way telling jokes comes naturally when you can distinguish the finesses of association and double entendres. Which is funny, because I think my English is probably much better at the moment than my Dutch. But still. I miss the feeling of the guttural ggggggg in the back of my throat, and I miss feeling my mouth moving to shape the diphthongs that are so common in Dutch. Paralinguistic nostalgia, I guess. I made that word up, although I'm sure someone else will have used it before me.
I am trying to not self-medicate with ample amounts of beer. So I went shopping instead. It didn't help, but I did get a jacket I've been lusting after for months with a 75% discount, and two button down shirts at €10 each. I also ate a burek, and it was a delicious treat that I don't allow myself to indulge in often, due to the fact that it is deep-fried cheese, wrapped in layers and layers of phyllo pastry that seem to serve the single purpose of encapsulating the pure, unadulterated flavor of frying oil.
I also helped Zori out at the bar today, lugging around crates of beer and kilos of coffee, in high heels. I insist that this be counted as a workout, as i am trying to get into shape. And I might go to a movie with my friend Luka tonight, but if he insists on seeing something sad (which he does generally insist on) I might pass. I kind of hope that he forgets to call (that happens a lot, too), or that he calls and suggests that we go walk his dog instead. Luka's dog is as fluent in Dutch as she is in Slovenian, meaning that she refuses to understand or listen to commands in either language. She's a rebel girl, she is the queen of my world.
I have also been listening to this song on YouTube (subtitled) over and over again. It represents everything I love about my country and my culture and my language. It's weep-fodder, but in the best possible way. I hope you all enjoy it, too.
Man, I never thought I would say this, but I kind of want to go...home. No matter how strange that word tastes on my tongue.
I was going to spend this weekend working. Unsurprisingly, that didn't exactly happen...
Saturday there was a big party at K4, in celebration of the opening of this year's Gay and Lesbian film festival. The place was packed, but it was fun to see a lot of people that I hadn't seen in a while. What I like about K4 is that every time I go there I realize that I am making more and more friends. I feel oddly at home at that place.
Sunday night I ended up going to the Christmas market with girlfriend and two friends. We had kuhano vino (mulled wine) and danced to Slovenian folk music. I don't speak Slovenian yet, but I heard that one of the songs was about a certain part (or should I say "parts") of the female physique that is quite popular. So I tried my best to perform some relevant dance moves. The result was unanimously deemed "hilarious." That's not quite what I was going for, but I guess that as long as my audience is happy all is good.
Needless to say, i am still working on that godforsaken paper. I am writing about the relationship between books and the body, and while that sounds nice and concrete compared to the very abstract nature of my larger project, it's proven to be a right pain in the ass.
But it will get done! Tomorrow this paper will be finished! And it will be the most exciting day of the...eh...week!
...and most quiz things are dumb. But this, in my experience, is quite true:
Never Date a Cancer
Clingy, emotional, and very private - it's hard to escape a Cancer's clutches. And while Cancer will want to know everything about you, they're anything but open in return.
Instead try dating: Leo, Sagittarius, Gemini, or Aquarius
The only time I dated a cancer was quite disastrous (for him, mainly), and I am perfectly happy with my current crazy saggitarius.
In any case, Chinese astrology tells me I'm a metal monkey instead of a virgo. Anyone who knows me should be able to tell right off the bat that chinese astrology wins, even when it's a competition between two shades of bullshit.
Since I think that WorkAndPlay pretty much sums up my life (in all it's balance and disbalance) I'll stick with the theme. So this will be a post in two chapters.
1. WORK:
I have been WRITING. Or rather, I have been making more or less successful attempts at writing. Now that I am in a PhD programme I am forced to face what is well known as the "Dissertation Crisis." I thought that was just a bullshit horror story that professors use to scare overly enthusiastic undergrads. But I have been staring into the face of that ugly beast for quite a while now. It took a few intensive crying sessions, a complete revision of my research plan, a few months of writer's block and a total change of overall perspective on pretty much everything under the sun for me to be convinced that The Beast is real.
Lately I have somewhat regained focus on the writing process, which isn't to say that it's progressing in any satisfying way. But it's progressing. I am reading like a fiend and writing like a crippled fiend. For now that will have to do.
In any case, my efforts so far have guaranteed me a spot here in Ljubljana until next September. That means that I have some space to breathe and think.
2. PLAY
Sunday is Zori's birthday, so I have been holding back on the "play" part of life for a while now. I am sure that Sunday's party will pretty much render me incapacitated for a few days, so I'm taking it easy and trying to finish the paper I'm working on before the hangover kicks in.
She is celebrating her birthday together with her friend Sneža at Klub K4, and there's a pretty good chance of Slovenia's most fabulous MTF superstar turning up, as her birthday was today. A triple birthday at K4 spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E, but trouble of the most fabulous kind. So I'm excited.
Updates to follow after either work or play have produced something worth mentioning. Whichever comes first.
After nine months of not posting I am hereby reviving my journal. Not that I have anything of particular interest to say at the moment, but just because I am in a better position to write. Why? A few reasons:
1. I am in a good place mentally. The last time I posted (and before that) I was going through some far-reaching changes in my life, workwise and playwise. Trying to avoid issues that are too personal to mention, yet too central to hide is not very conducive to writing anything beyond either the very trite or the overly melodramatic.
2. I have been going through a pretty intense writer's block workwise, and I am too proud to mention my failures, yet too honest to pretend that I am not failing. Hence the silence.
3. I have been quite busy playwise, and not in a way that I care to share with the world (or even my extended family), so even though a lot of interesting things have happened, few of them would have been able to pass my strict self-censorship.
But now I am back.
Now the question is how I should pick up after my extended hiatus. I have thought about writing a long update, but that would neither be interesting, nor would it bridge the gap between January and November. So I will just pretend that I never left and take it from there, in which "there" means "from my next post onwards."
In keeping with the theme of life changes and moments of clarity I took the plunge and decided to change my research topic completely. I am still brainstorming, so I can’t say anything to definite about the implications of the switch, but I can say that it involves turning my gaze from hookers to librarians, from brothels to libraries and from the internet to electronic archiving systems. The change may seem sudden, but I have been contemplating changing my topic for a while now. I just didn’t know what to change it to. And then a story Prof. S. told during a lecture suddenly made my brain click.
I am meeting Prof. S. next Wednesday to talk about this switch. I am convinced that I can use a lot of the knowledge I have gained in studying overt representations of sexuality in studying the erotics of the library, and I am excited about the opportunity to look at gendered spaces. An added benefit is that there seems to be very little work on the topic of the library as a feminist space, which will hopefully make it easier to find funding for the project in the future. I envision a fully interdisciplinary project that involves philosophy, anthropology, history and feminist cultural theory. I am working on the specifics as we speak.
I am absolutely in love with the topic, and it seems just the kind of profound change in my life I have been looking for. It’s an opportunity to not just change my daily rhythm and dietary habits, but to change what I spend my days thinking and reading about. Before I started writing my MA thesis, now about a year ago (holy shit!), I never realized how much my perspective would be colored by the topic of my research. The level of attachment I have developed to my research has been a very positive experience, since it means that I actually feel a lot of love for what I do. But it has also become a negative experience in many ways. Quite frankly, pornography and I have had a wonderful and exciting relationship, but I don’t think I want to turn it into a life long commitment. I guess that academic involvements, like romantic relationships, have a lifespan.
In this the first week of my self-appointed sobriety I went out dancing twice. Thursday night at club Global was a little weird. I don’t particularly enjoy the atmosphere of the club (lots of groping men and people gauging each other’s coolness factor from the perimeter of the dance floor), and I was there with some people I met here. They’re a bunch of young whippersnappers who get wasted before, during and after going out. All in all it was a bit too much to face sober. So I went home after two hours or so. If I had been drinking I would probably stayed for much longer. While I might have tricked myself into having some alcohol-inspired fun, it would have been such a waste of energy. I think I am learning that if I’m not having fun sober, it’s not worth getting drunk for. I guess most people already know this, but for me it was quite a revelation.
On Friday Sara and I decided to go dancing at Tiffany’s at Metelkova. Tiffany’s is the local gay club, and it has a great atmosphere. Being sober meant that I had lots of energy all night, didn’t end up doing anything embarrassing (like falling over on the dance floor, something I had been prone to doing), that I managed to dance for 5 hours straight (in high heels, even) and that I could take care of Sara (who had been matching each coke I had with a beer). I don’t think I have had that much fun in a long time. And not being hung over the next day ensured that I am looking forward to going dancing at Tiffany’s again next week.
In short, it appears that I am not so much in need of a twelve step program á la Alcoholics Anoymous, as I am in need of places where I feel comfortable and people that I find engaging. So instead of becoming an AA member I got a membership card for Club Tiffany’s. Hurrah for sobriety!
- Brita filters. If I don’t filter my water crispy calcium bits float in tea. Crunchy tea is not quite as delicious as one might expect; - Awesome stainless steel isolating flask. Cheaper than buying an electrical water boiler or a teapot and -light, and I have always wanted one anyway; - Lime green bathroom rugs. Bare feet on tiles when it’s freezing outside makes for a lot of involuntary swearing, and with granny C living upstairs I need to watch my language (at least near open windows); - Jeans. Favorite pair has a big fat hole across butt (must remember not to crouch down in jeans when hormonally bloated). These were on sale and fit perfectly in a size that I haven’t worn since 1997. Thus they serve the dual purpose of covering my ass as well as making me feel more content with said well-covered ass; - Sweater that doubles as a mini-dress. Was half off, and makes my legs look longer than they actually are, which despite claims to the opposite is of vital importance to my personal happiness; - Blister patches. Winter boots have proven to be not quite as comfortable as I thought; - Two bras for the price of one cheap one and underpants with ribbons at 70% off. No explanation needed; - Expensive imported Swedish pickled herring. Omega-3 is good for the brain, says Cosmopolitan.
Useless and unnecessary purchases:
None, although that may be because clothing purchases are so easy to justify to myself…
Projects underway and concluded:
- Finished knitting a bag from sari silk. Gave it as gift to Monique, who seems to like it, which would make it a success; - I baked a white bread with grilled onions, three cheeses and thyme swirls. No bread machine, as bread machines are for lazy people and kneading is almost like lifting weights, without having to wear Spandex contracting athlete’s foot from gym showers. It was very tasty. It was a foot wide and about two feet long and consumed in a matter of days (not all by me); - I baked two Challah loaves. The finished product did not quite seem as airy as genuine Challah, so I will let it rise more next time. It made great French toast, though; - I declogged the shower drain and scrubbed the shower. Those aren’t quite crafty projects, but the results are fabulous nonetheless. Now I can shower without flooding the bathroom; - Made a mixed CD for Amy with cheerful get-well music, as she is having an operation soon. I hope it arrives soon, since my last letter appears to still be underway.
Projects underway:
- I am freehanding a rather bizarre knit neckwarmer type thing out of a random skein of variegated sparkly yarn. I am knitting dangly bit with leaves onto one side and am going to attach a few beads as closures. I’m not sure if it’s going to be wearable, but at least it’s interesting; - I am also experimenting with knitting flowers that don’t look stuffy and old-fashioned. I am using this projects to practice with knitting short-rows (or at least my own experimental version of short-rows); - I’m working out ideas for a Europe-based feminist zine. I set the deadline for next December, and am working out ideas for a thematical framework and possible formats. Ideas are welcome!.
Projects failed:
- shining my sink. Four years of neglected calcium residue refuses to come off, no matter how much I soak or scrub. So the Flylady can suck it; I am graduating myself to the part where I make my bed every day. Though, surely making only the half I sleep on should suffice? Baby steps, people. Baby steps…
When I moved into my apartment “granny C.” (the lady who owns the building and lives upstairs) kept inviting me for coffee at very inconvenient times. Right before a lecture, for instance, or while I was writing a paper. But today I took her up on her invitation and followed her upstairs for a cup of what I can only describe as sugary mud diluted with cream from a cow that died during the Gulf War. The first one. I can feel my stomach lining dissolve as I am typing, but that is not what I want to write about.
What, or rather who, I do want to write about granny C. You see, granny C. speaks a bit of German, although she keeps telling me – in German – that she doesn’t. To be quite honest, her German is probably better than mine. So although granny C speaks no English whatsoever and I am more likely to intuitively pick up on Sanskrit than be able to understand a single word of Slovene, the two of us have found a way to communicate by combining advanced miming with a creative molestation of the German language. And that’s a good thing, for, as I found out, granny C. is quite a chatty lady in dire need of a fresh audience.
Granny C’s house is a veritable ode to fifties socialism, the good chairs covered in cloth as if waiting for visitors who stopped coming years ago, a four-seater couch in every room and a kitchen that undoubtedly stores canned food produced during the time when Tito was still in power. I do not intend this as mockery. Her house is lovely, in a “Goodbye Lenin” type of way. She sat me down in the kitchen, across from a huge portrait of a handsome young man. That way we could have coffee in the virtual company of the late Mr. C.
It’s strange how photographs manage to preserve people as they were, as if that long gone person is still there in all his 32-year-old glory. Looking at that picture I understood why some people still believe that a photo camera steals a piece of your soul. I drink my coffee in the multi-generational company of Mr. And granny C, he preserved at an age young enough to be her son, she casting him sideways glances showing an affection that would be incredibly inappropriate if that were actually the case.
Fortunately, photos can be looked at but not look back in return, and they are as quiet as they are deaf. For if Mr. C could hear and see his wife now, six years after his death, his heart would surely break. Granny C is not sickly, or at least not apparently so. Her body is strong, her hair thick and her voice clear. Granny C’s illness is called nostalgia, and the pain she suffers is called loneliness.
It is sometimes said of old people that they live in the past. Granny C’s stories all hail from the wonder years during which she and her husband ran a guesthouse by the sea, entertaining guests from all over Europe and spending the summer with their extended family at the beach house. Mr. C conversed in German, English, Russian and Slovene with whoever sat at their table that night, while Mrs. C enjoyed cooking the most elaborate meals. Other stories are about the time when Mr. And granny C lived together in this house in Ljubljana, visiting their children and grandchildren and tending to their garden. Even if these stories have become embellished a little over time, even if they tend to gloss over the occasional disagreement or the times when money was tight, they are surely truthful to the extent that they preserve a time when granny C felt happy, loved and protected.
Sadly, granny C does not live in the past. Without a trace of dementia and the memory as an elephant’s, she lives every day in the knowledge that those times are gone. Granny C is not happy very often anymore. Life has become hard, “schwer,” she tells me over and over again. Living in that big house, all alone, she gets scared of noises. The house is so quiet that she can hear the littlest branch scratching against the window and metamorphing into a thief who’s after her good china, every car that drives by without stopping at her door. Granny C is an 84-year-old widow who lives in the here and now, and who is bright enough to appreciate exactly how bleak it is in comparison to the 60 years she spent with the man in the picture on her sideboard.
But granny C is also an old lady who smiles all her (own) teeth bare whenever her grandson drops by unexpectedly, who tells me that she enjoys it when I play my music just loud enough for her to pick up on it, because it means that she is not alone in the house. I don’t know whether granny C’s nostalgia is only sadness, or if it is simply the echo of her former happiness.
Tonight, while granny C undoubtedly kisses the photograph goodnight before going to sleep in that enormous, empty bed, I decide to learn to appreciate sugary coffee that tastes like artificial fertilizer and has enough caffeine to give a buffalo the jitters. Or, at the very least, I will resolve to invite granny C over for some camomile tea.
I started out the new year by sticking to the only resolution I have made: I went to see my psychiatrist for the second time. Before I knew it I was agreeing to stop drinking alcohol completely for a month, starting today. So now I apparently have TWO New Year’s resolutions, which is a whole lot for someone who has never really considered holiday induced self-improvement before.
Of course the not drinking went out the window as soon as I gave it another thought. As excited as I am about the idea, it is at this moment far too daunting a challenge. You see, I went from drinking about 25 units of alcohol a week, which is almost twice the recommended amount for women. If I stop completely now, I’m afraid I am going to cave in and binge when I feel weak. So I made a new, more reasonable plan for the next few weeks. Hopefully it will help me to graduate to a full-fledged alcohol-free period.
Here’s the plan:
No more than 10 alcohol units a week (no continuous boozing) AND No more than 2 drinks a night (no binge drinking) AND At least 2 alcohol-free days a week, but ideally (or eventually) 5 alcohol-free days a week.
As a reminder to myself I will note down in my agenda exactly how many units of alcohol I have consumed each day. I already did so retrospectively for last week, and apparently I managed to consume an entire week’s allocation of alcohol in one single night. I’m not talking about the slimmed down allocation as stated above, but the recommended weekly maximum for women in general. That needs to change.
While I am not exactly a business minded person (far from it, actually) I made a little cost-benefit analysis, which will hopefully motivate me to stick to the proposed rations. Here’s what I came up with:
Disadvantages of not drinking: - no more drunken rambling with my friends. I will miss that; - no more wine with dinner. I love wine. There’s no alcohol-free wine. Someone should get on top of that; - no more alcohol in the house, so nothing to offer guests. I will have to be one of those people who tells guests to bring their own booze, for which I will have to make up with my fantabulous and adventurous cooking. I kid, of course, but there’s a grain of truth in it; - will become the token “sober person” in my gaggle of alcolicious friends and family. Not sure how I feel about that one; - how the hell am I going to get my brain to shut up and stop it from spinning out of control without some intoxication?
Advantages of not drinking: - alcohol slows down the metabolism for 2 to 3 days after consumption. Therefore, not drinking should get me in bikini shape without having to resort to cardboard flavored diet foods; - will be needing my full brain capacity if I am to ever write a dissertation. Not drinking alcohol should help me preserve my ability to concentrate and focus; - alcohol has a detrimental effect on my psychological state. I am drinking myself into sadness, so perhaps I can sober myself up into a more pleasant state; - while I am investing time and money in therapy I might as well be as clear-headed as possible, at the very least for the duration of the treatment; - although alcohol seems to relieve me from my insecurities while I am drinking, it drives me to sometimes embarrass myself, and the resulting mortification I feel might be far more painful than the initial insecurities were; - and while I intend to grow to a ripe old age, I would like to do so gracefully. As it is, I am headed for a future as that crazy old lady who sits quietly at a corner of the bar, until she unavoidably starts yammering something incomprehensible about socialists and that winter in the fifties when the price of potatoes suddenly went up to 23 cents a kilo. I do not want my lack of control to become other people’s amusement (at best) or annoyance (in which case please kill me now).
But in the end I think there is one thing that worries me most about this experiment. You see, while I keep drinking I can easily convince myself that I am not abusing alcohol and not dependent on its effects. But when I stop I might, for the first time, realize how deep my relationship with Bourbon, Bordeaux and Bacardi has become. And while I have enjoyed their company a great deal they haven’t proven to be the most positive of influences in my life.
I guess it’s time to make some new friends. So I decided to give Earl Grey and Granny Smith a call tonight. Granted, they can be a bit dull, but they are very reliable. And I doubt that they’ll have anything better to do on a Friday night…
First of all, a happy new year to you all. I hope you enjoyed the holidays and that everything is well.
Since getting to the internet has been a bit of a hassle lately, I have decided to write my journal entries at home and then post them when I get a chance. Until I get internet at home that seems like the most logical solution.
So today I will be posting a number of entries at once. I hope that that won't be too confusing.
It has been way, WAY too long since I last wrote an update, which could mean one of two things: I am not experiencing anything noteworthy, or I am so busy experiencing noteworthy things that I have no time to update. In reality, it's been a mix of the latter option and the fact that it's such a hassle to go to a computer lab everytime I want to write something. But here I am, and here is an update. Finally.
I am fully installed in my apartment and I LOVE it. When Bart came over he brought all the essentials and then some extras, including his precious self, so the place has been made my own twice over. It was really great to see Bart. I have never really been inclined to miss people much, but I have to admit that the first days after his departure were utterly depressing. The fact that I got a flu right after didn't help much, either. But I got better and I got over it, and in any case I'm coming home for christmas so I am just going to quit the sentimental crap and enjoy my time here.
Last Sunday I made dinner for my friends Sara and Maša (who, I may or may not have mentioned here before, are the cutest couple in the history of out of the closet lesbians). Thanks to Bart's present of a mortar and pestle (thanks babe!) and a trip to the spice lady a the market I managed to make a decent lamb curry. After that we went to the weekly gay party a club K4, which was a total blast. And again with the €2 gin&tonics...
But it hasn't been all play. I have been taking two classes. One on women's anthropology of myth. In the course we examined the way in which myths are gendered and do specific work of defining gender. Part of the course was dedicated to women's utopia, which links nicely, I think, to my work on feminist pornography. The other course is on the theory of rhetoric, the disowned bastard child of academic theorizing. It was a little difficult to shake off years of argumentation analysis to get into the jouissance and erotics of rhetorics, but I must say that I am starting to see its uses for a feminist academic agenda. For the first time in quite a while I am really looking forward to writing papers.
And to counter balance all this academic excess I have been revelling in my newfound domestic talents. I have, over the course of about two weeks:
- knit a bag out of really beautiful handspun recycled sari silk yarn; - rehemmed my skirt, which had been hemless for at least a year; - shortened my new Stella McCartney for H&M trousers; - did all my laundry by hand (more of necessity from lack of a washing machine, but still); - shovelled snow (hurray!).
And while on the topic of snow: In the week Bart was here we had snow just about up to his knees (wghich means it came up to my elbows, more or less)! It was really pretty for a while, but sad to see that all that remains now are piles of gray-black sludge by the sides of the roads. But still, it was exciting while it lasted. As soon as I get a chance I will post pictures.
I am in the process of getting internet installed at my place, so soon I will be able to update more regularly. Until then I hope you are all doing well and surviving your winter depressions unscathed.
So, after a radio silence of several weeks I finally present you all with an update on life in Ljubljana. You see, I promisd myself to update only if I had something to say, and lo and behold, I do.
A few things happened:
I went back to Holland for a week to take a course. I had takn the course before, so it wasn't all that stressful. However, I picked up some strange disease in the mean time. It seems more hormonal than viral. And that's all I want to say about that.
In good news: I met Sara, who was an exchange student in Utrecht last year. Her and her girlfriend (who is Slovenian) also live in Ljubljana. If you've never met Sara you can't possibly know how happy I am that she is here, because she is unimaginably cool. This Saturday her and Maša and me are going dancing. That should be a blast.
In even better news: I found an apartment! And it's not even a shithole! Nor is it 49 miles outside of the center!
The apartment I found is affordable and HUGE (about 50 sq meters) and comes with everything but a washing machine. I am contemplating either buying one or washing by hand. I wash at least half of my clothes by hand anyway, so why not save some money?
In any case, after signing the contract tomorrow I will be inhabiting a gorgeous apartment with a medium sized living room with couch and desk and bookcases, a smallish bedroom, which looks smaller than it is because it has a KINGSIZE bed in it, plus four GIGANTIC wardrobes. Do these people know me or something? There's also a big kitchen with a dining table, and a small bathroom.
The best part is (of course) that Bart will come over now that I have an apartment. One week from now he'll start driving down with my computer and 62 pairs of shoes. And I'll get to keep him for a week. Oh joy!
What I knew would happen eventually happened yesterday: huge anxiety attack, panic-O-rama. I had been feeling a little jittery all day; living in a new country, poor Max dying all of a sudden and a rather hefty hangover had been battling to take control over my brain. But I took a walk and felt better... Until I decided to go out to dinner with Ingrid (the other Marie Curie fellow here in Lj, and an awesome chick to boot) and Marcel (who joined me in a Gin & Tonic binge at Metelkova the night before, bless his heart).
It was my own stupid miscalculation, really. I know that drinking too many G&T's (or anything harder than beer) equals a risk of completely losing it the next day. But since I hadn't panicked in a while I thought I'd be fine (and also, they were only an irresistible €2 apiece). And I WAS fine, until I got to the restaurant and the waiter took FOREVER to take our order. You see, I am dramatically impatient even under the best of circumstances. But when I am jittery I become ridiculously claustrophobic. Usually a glass of wine will cure it, so I'm going to blame the waiter for not getting a move on with the booze, already.
In any case, I decided (after four trips to the bathroom in 20 minutes and many longing stares at the wine menu) that enough was enough and excused myself. As I stumbled out of the restaurant I passed the waiter, who was undoubtedly on his way to our table.
Of course I didn't remember to bring the number to the clinic Svetlana had referred me to. And of course I didn't bring the number of my insurance company, who need to approve of any treatment I get if I want the costs to be reimbursed. But sometimes those things matter less than just getting to a doctor NOW. So I took out money and ordered a cab to the University Medical Centre emergency room.
It was an experience. I got to wait in a long, narrow hallway, while people on heart monitors were being weeled in and out of the door next to me, which turned out to be the reanimation room. Since my panic attacks take the shape of aforementioned claustrophobia together with an irrational fear of having a heart attack the environment wasn't conducive to an improvement in my general mood. But the people around me were probably even more terrified. Of me. As I paced nervously up and down the hallway while mumbling affirmations to myself they probably thought that I was either an escaped schizoid lunatic from the local nuthouse, or a junky coming to beg for some methadone.
When I got to see the doctor she offered to give a prescription for ˝some tablets˝ that I could pick up at the drugstore across the road, and she also offered to give me a shot right there to calm me down. As I wasn't looking forward to a shot in the ass (I've heard it hurts) and didn't want to have to find a taxi in an unfamilar city while drugged up, I declined the shot but took the prescription.
As it turns out, I got a pack of 30 Bromazepams. Coming from the Netherlands, being prescribed anything other than a reality check and a good night's sleep was mind boggling. I mean, at home you have to be dead for a good three days before they consider giving you some penicillin, and here I was with a full package of (what I hear are) highly addictive tranquillizers.
When I got home I eyed the package. While being at the hospital and the walk to the drug store had calmed me down a lot, I was still feeling antsy. But the idea of taking a pill that sounded so serious, so grown up, so DANGEROUS was hardly soothing. In the end I thought ˝enough already!˝ and took a tablet. For 3 short minutes I worried that something horrible would happen. I would surely lose myself! I would prove to be the only person in the history of the world to be allergic to Bromazepam, and I would die in my sleep! I would...
The rest is history. I slept like a baby for a perfect 8 hours. It was heaven.
Still, I am going to take Bart's advice and throw out 25 of the 30 tablets. It's nice to have some when panic gets out of control (like yesterday, when I had been panicking for hours and showed no sign of calming the fuck down), but I don't have to rely on them. I am quite capable of calming down myself usually, so let's not tempt fate with drugs.
One thing about the whole ordeal has put some of my worries at rest, though. As i said, I didn't bring my insurance stuff with me, so I knew I'd have to pay in cash, possibly up front. So I went to a cash machine before hailing a cab and got out about a quarter of a bazillion Tolars (the equivalent of about €100). When I got the bill I was holding my breath when the boy at the administration desk told me with a worrysome face: ˝You vill need to pay now if you can, or ve vill call a relative, yes?˝
This was the damage: Consult in the emergency unit: €10 30 tablets of Bromazepam: €3
I think I may have accidentally laughed when he handed me the bill. At prices like this I can afford to be a neurotic nutcase! And that thought alone is more soothing than any tablet.
This morning I woke up at 8 and jogged for a while (okay, only for 15 minutes, until I was wheeying and clutching my chest), and then I lifted weights in the gym downstairs and then I did some yoga in my room. I am considering doing this every day (which would mean actually doing it every other day). I am trying to get out of my physical rut, and in any case, I heard that physical activity is conducive to good brain functioning. I will need a well-functioning brain if I am going to make it through this year.
Oh, who am I kidding? I am just trading in Sloth and Gluttony for the sake of Vanity. I know that vanity isn't technically a mortal sin, but perhaps it should be.
Still, runing in the morning before breakfast does seem to be quite envigorating. Why haven't you people ever told me about this before? Had I known a long time ago that excercising makes you feel good (you know, RIGHT AFTER it makes you feel like a deluded masochist) I would have looked more like a sleek and leggy Anna Nicole Smith circa those Guess ads, and less like a saggy, bulging Anna Nicole Smith circa right about now.
As it is I am hoping that an addiction to excercise is something one can develop later on in life, at the ripe old age of 25, rather than a cruel lie to sucker people like me into believing that there is still a chance to get off the damn couch and away from the damn fridge.
Fortunately Slovenian cheese is utterly disgusting (like the bastard child of cheap pizza cheese and Kraft's singles), so I guess that problem has solved itself.
Today I had another meeting with Svetlana, who presented me with the programme she has made for my year at the ISH. I have to say that it looks really good. Svetlana is encouraging me to make the most of being in Ljubljana, and that means connecting the theme of my research (pornography, technologies and the new media) to the local situation. I am not quite sure yet how she envisions such a project, but I am curious to see what it will lead to.
In any case, I just signed my contract, so it´s all offcial. It will be nice to sleep a full night without having recurring nightmares about Svetlana, the EU or the GenderGraduates people changing their minds and taking away my grant. I am a little neurotic that way.
For now the first training activity scheduled is the Theories of Sex/Gender course in Utrecht, beginning next week Friday with a public event called ˝Missing Links.˝ Jackie Stacey will be one of the speakers, so that should be very interesting. I remember reading her book Terratologies, which is fantastic. Anyone who has ever come in contact with cancer or someone suffering from cancer (which probably includes everyone) should read it. I am more than a little excited to meet her again.
On a non-academic note, I moved from the hostel to the graduate students´ housing complex yesterday. I will only be staying there temporarily (until I go back to Utrecht and a week after my return), but it is definitely a step up. The room is large, with a desk and dining corner and a small kitchenette and (best of all) a roomy bathroom where I can organize my 48 different kinds of glittery make-up and red lipstick. For a feminist I seem to own a lot of make-up and high heels. But I´m pretty sure that none of it was tested on animals, especially the heels. And in my defense, my research topic was bound to colour me in some way or form.
Since the weather here has been consistantly beautiful I think I am going to do some shopping at the farmers market this afternoon. Now that I have a fridge to fill, I may as well go for it. From what I have seen the market is right up my alley. It spans two squares, connected by a pillared gallery. The vegetable section is amazing, with all kinds of interesting looking vegetables and fruit. I have already discovered ˝kaki˝, which is not related to safari attire, but does appear to be related to the tomato. It´s best described as a gigantic, mushy, orange nightshade that tastes sweet and a little like vanilla. Today I want to have a go at the white, pointy peppers I have seen laying around and I also want to buy a piece of fresh horseradish, just because I can. The horse-radish obviously demands some kind of beef with it, so I will use it as an excuse to make myself a decadent dinner of steak and salad and bread.
Today I met with Svetlana. We had a nice talk and she seems excited about my project. Apparently she has been organizing courses and workshops related to new media and sexuality studies. I also met the head of the media studies department and he told me to call later this week for lunch and to discuss how my project might fit in with the other projects in new media studies. I am now someone who goes to lunch with professors. Hurrah!
I'm meeting with Svetlana again on Thursday, She will have reread my proposal and read my thesis and will help me consolidate my programme for the next year. I am rather curious as to what she considers attainable goals. She seems like a tough cookie...
Before I start I need you all to know that I am writing from a keyboard that is mysteriously missing the apostrophe. If I sound really pompous and official, it is because I presently have no apostrophes at my disposition.
But I am not here to write about missing apostrophes, so let us just accept that fact and move on, shall we?
At the moment I am sitting behind a computer at a hostel in Ljubljana called Celica, which means prison. Apparently this place used to be a prison, but it was transformed into an artsy hostel by a bunch of architecture students who had the wits to leave the original bars on the windows intact. It is a pretty cool place, actually. I will only be staying here until Wednesday, when I temporarily move into a University flat.
Today I had a bit of time to explore the city and wander around. All I can say is that the author of The bridges of Madison County has obviously never been to Ljubljana, because that book would have been completely different if he had. As tiny as this city is (20 minutes is all it takes to walk from one end of the center to the other) it has some of the most fantastic bridges I have ever seen. There is something about this city that I cannot quite put my finger on. Perhaps it is the high concentration of stately historical buildings in such a tiny place, or maybe the hill in the center of the city, which has a castle on it that can be seen from everywhere in the center, or maybe it is the feeling of being surrounded by mountains on all sides which is quite something else for a Dutch flatlander like myself. Maybe it is just because I am intent on liking the place where I will be living in the next year. Whichever it is, I do not really care. Ljubljana seems lovely so far.
Some things I have seen on my first day in Ljubljana (sorry, no colon on this keyboard either)
- bikes, bicyclists, bike lanes (everywhere, and it is just like home) - a Turkish parade (right in front of the taxi that was trying to get me to my hostel) - a one square foot toasted sandwhich (on my plate)
Some things that I have not (yet?) seen in Ljubljana
- bikes with any type of substantial locks on them. Apparently Slovenia is a highly sophisticated country (unlike the barbaric cave dwelling that is the Netherlands) where people respect eachothers property - dog droppings on the street - see comment above - professor Svetlana Slapsak.
I will see Svetlana tomorrow, and hopefully I will be able to start working immediately afterwards. I do not know whether Svetlanas no-show today was an honest mistake or a cunning employment of the priciple of reverse psychology, but if it is the latter I have to admit that it is working. I have never been so eager to start work.
You see? One day in Ljubljana and I am already changing from a lazy procrastinator into an eager and productive member of the academic community. Let us just hope that that will be an improvement.
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