Monday was my first day at my new job, working for my new boss, Me. This is a massively thrilling and massively scary undertaking, but I am feeling-the-fear-and-doing-it-anyway (or something like that).

So, first days always bring introductory exercises, yeah?

Like on the first day of a new year at school, when some overly enthusiastic teachers would make you establish the ‘rules of the classroom’. And you’d all have to come up with a list together (We will listen when other people speak. We will speak to each other with respect. We will not talk during silent reading time).

And then there are the grown up versions that happen in the workplace. At my last job, in the corporate world, we often had to do ‘team-building’ exercises or ‘getting to know you’ exercises that made us all roll our eyes and long for lunch time. (You know the ones!)

Well, my new boss decided to make me do an exercise on my first day (she’s crazy like that!). And can I say, it is way more fun when you do it by yourself, compared to when Mr Gilbert makes you do it in grade ten at school!

These are my own personal rules for running my business…

The Business Owner’s Manifesto

I will be kind to myself.
I will not get frustrated when things take longer than I expect. I know that I am on the right path, and that things will unfold when the Universe is ready.
I will not be lazy – I won’t sleep in, just because I’d rather; I won’t succumb to daytime television just because I don’t know where to start – I commit to getting started and showing up. Hour after hour, day after day. I will show up.
I will honour my energy.
I will push and hustle and pour myself into this growth.
And I will give myself a break when I need one.
I will bet on myself. I will give myself the benefit of the doubt.
I will refrain from comparing myself to others: that is a path of destruction, and I choose another road.
I will recognise that there is enough pie for everyone. Seriously. And I like pie.
I will make decisions. I will listen to my gut.
I will not beat myself up if I do things wrong.
I will always keep learning. I will be willing to try. I will figure it out.
I will strive to get things done, not get things perfect.
I will conduct my interactions with love and kindness.
I will honour my worth, and will not undervalue my self or my skills.
I will share my knowledge freely and empower others, because I know that in helping others, we become our best selves.
I will be grateful for this new thing that I am creating.
I will be kind to myself.

This is now adorning my wall and informing my decisions and my attitudes. Do you have any that I should add? xx

♥

Dear Wonderful-Kind-Amazing Peeps,

I’m back! After three months wandering around Europe, I am officially back home in Brisbane. I had an absolute ball, it was massively growth-inducing, and my cup did overfloweth with incredible experiences. That said, I am also thrilled to be home. (In fact, today is my first day working for my new boss [me] at my new work [my house]! Super exciting! I’ll be filling you all in on that very soon.)

I still have a bunch of travel-related stories to tell, that somehow I never got around to putting into words. Well, into any form of intelligible words that a person other than me could understand – basically, my journal is a mass of random sentence-scribbles and brainstorm-maps, which I intend to decipher and elaborate on in the coming weeks! So even though the actual trip is over, there’ll be some more travel stuff appearing on the blog, as well as loads of other stuff, as all the new parts of my life (new work, new house, new perspective) unfold.

I wanted to take this opportunity to say that I have received so many lovely little love notes from so many readers. Even as blogging took a backseat to living, people continued to write beautiful messages, and I appreciate every single one. I am really looking forward to being able to catch up on all my correspondence and reply to people, but please know that I have greatly appreciated your words. When I was far away on the other side of the world, it was incredible to feel such a warm connection with others, most of whom I’ve never even ‘met’ except on these here interwebs. It certainly is a wonderful community that we are all a part of, and I feel privileged and humbled that such kind-hearted, intelligent people take the time to read my words.

With massive love,

Jess

♥

Dear Chocolate Croissant,
Oh how your flaky goodness fills me with delight! I have eaten way more of you than I ever thought I would – back home, I’m so strict with my food, so rigid and regimented. But you have proven to be the catalyst for my relaxing about it all. Who in their right mind would voluntarily choose not to partake in your buttery, airy deliciousness? I like you better in France – with your modest line of firm chocolate filling – rather than the more generous dollops of Nutella that fill your Italian brethren. But honestly, I’ll eat you all. Sometimes multiple times a day. Dear Mr Chocolate Croissant, in the immortal words of a certain Ms T Swift, you belong with me…

♥

Dear Positano,
Wow. You’re a bit of a show-off, aren’t you? Seriously dude, every morning I wake up to your cliffs and your waters and your distant horizons, I am a little bit gobsmacked all over again by your almost-indecent beauty. You are overwhelming, in the best possible way. I feel as though we should make our relationship a little more permanent. I don’t want this to be a mere holiday fling, a four-night stand of intense passion, only for you to never call. Fancy a couple of extra Australian citizens as newfound residents for good?!!

♥

Dear Time,
You keep marching ever onwards, and like always, I keep trying to grab hold of you and pull you back. Sometimes I panic when I feel how quickly you stride, and sometimes I waste time cajoling you to hurry the hell up. There is, of course, nothing to do but accept you exactly as you are. I am working on this. Thanks for the lessons.

♥

Dear Breath,
Thanks for helping out with the above Time-related issues. You are always there for me, if only I could remember this sooner.

♥

Dear Hugs,
How great are you guys?!!

♥

Barcelona feels like a city with fire in its belly. Somehow, the city seems to be united in a struggle against… something. Itself? Time? Everything. Everyone.

This is nothing new. The city of Barcelona has been in a constant struggle to assert its independence and right to self-determination almost since the dawn of Spain. The capital of the Catalunya region, but the second-best, passed-over sibling of the firstborn son, Madrid. People here consider themselves Catalans first, Spanish second. If at all. Catalan, not Spanish, is the language spoken here (and, if you foolishly try to engage your waiter in conversational Spanish picked up from your Rick Steves’ guidebook, he might tell you rather tartly that they are completely different languages, and that Catalan is actually closer to Italian than it is to Spanish. Duh!)

Flags on the Ramblas

One example of this united fiery struggle, obvious for all who walk the streets to see, is not played out in the stuffy halls of Parliament where one might expect a fight for sovereignty to take place. No, it takes place in a far more accessible arena. For where better to play out centuries (millennia?) of political and religious rivalry than on the big, green, grassy football field.

It’s all about the soccer.

I arrived in the city on the day of reckoning. FC Barça, that hallowed team who carry the region’s heavy expectations, versus ye olde rival, Real Madrid. Barça is owned by its members. Some
170, 000 Catalans buy season tickets each year, and for the small price of 177 Euros, they get to own a part of the club. They ARE the club.

I was in a jet-lagged stupor the night of the match. But I could still see the excitement everywhere – bars overflowed with over-excited men consuming lots of beer. Scarves and mittens and beanies in the Barça scarlet and blue could be seen everywhere (actual Barça jerseys were not so obvious, hidden beneath the massive coats required to fend off the unseasonably cold weather).

Like all things Spanish, it did not start until late. In my hometown, Brisbane Roar starts all their games at around 7pm. In Spain, they don’t start til 9pm. Of course. And after thirty hours of transit, my fogginess and thick-headedness was only going to be cured by some serious sleep. So, as much as I wanted to watch this bloody battle go down, bed beckoned more.

I awoke the next morning, ventured out very early (damn jet lag) onto La Ramblas, and was greeted by a grey-black day. Not just the weather – frigid, gelid, effing cold – but the mood – grey, black, unhappy.

Over my morning coffee and pastry, I asked the waiter what the score had been, having already figured out that a loss had occurred. “Why you try to make me sad, Miss Kangaroo-lady? Why you make me remember this?” he questioned, only half jokingly. “It was TRAG-edy, that’s what it was. TRAG-E-DY.”

“Did Madrid deserve to win?” I asked, rather foolishly.

“Madrid NEVER deserve to win!” he said, looking at the strange kangaroo-lady in front of him as though it was the dumbest question on earth. He then proceeded to give me a long explanation about why Barca had lost, when they should have won. Apparently (and this is a football lay-person paraphrasing a very passionate diatribe, delivered quickly and feverishly through a thick Catalan accent), the usual manager of Barça, who has been instrumental in the team’s ongoing success and achievement, has gone and unfortunately gotten himself cancer. Which is unfortunate for him, and very unfortunate for the team. For the replacement manager is not good, not good at all. Not enough experience, you see. And this is not good for Barcelona as a whole, not good at all.

And all of this was making the general Catalan population very, very concerned.

Lucky for me, there was a rematch a few days later, for the European league. On Saturday, I jostled my way into a random bar that had proclaimed its possession of a big screen TV on multiple blackboards out on the street. Managing to sneakily score myself a bar stool (stalk and pounce, stalk and pounce), I was then able to sit amongst the local peeps and watch the spectacle for myself.

It was madness. Yelling, screaming, the Barça war cry. (It’s very complex. It goes something like this: Barça! Barça! Barçaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!) Way too much beer. Lots of testosterone. Lots of general shouting and gesticulating. These people are seriously passionate about their fotbal.

And again, lots of disappointment.

The bar man had been giving me good-natured cheek, calling me ‘Skippy’. (Always with the kangaroos!) I decided to give my own back. “That’s twice in one week, isn’t it?” (Accompanied by a dashing smile, of course. Always smile when you are poking the bear!)

“Don’t look at me!” he intoned. Half fake, half fierce. “Is it you bringing us bad luck? You arrived the day we lost, you are still here and we lose again! Maybe Skippy is responsible!”

He then proceeded to pour me a shot of some scary looking liquor. He made me shout Barça, Barça, Barçaaaaaaaaaa, then drink. Taking one for the team, he explained. To get rid of the bad luck, you see. (A tradition I am perfectly happy to embrace, it must be said!)

Liquor downed, and the bar now filled with depressed and drunk spectators, I took my leave. “You’ll be back later, yeah?” the bar man asked. Smiling and nodding is much easier than explaining that the hour of 9.30pm, combined with quite a few glasses of wine (plus a gratis shot or two!) meant I was close to bedtime. Any self-respecting Catalan would likely scoff at this infantile hour of retirement, but I turned in anyway.

I will have left Spain by the time the two rivals face again. Perhaps this means there is hope for Barça after all. Cheers to that.

Old city, Barcelona

♥

Barcelona has got under my skin. I didn’t think it would, at first. At first it felt too rough and raw. I was a bit… affronted. Confronted. Back-to-fronted. All of which are, of course, the reasons we say we want to go traveling in the first place. And yet the reality of them can be very overwhelming. Disconcerting. Unpleasant, even.

When I arrived in Barcelona, it was to unseasonably cold, miserable, grisly weather. (Oh, and killer jet lag. But that is to be expected when flying from Australia!)

The city seemed so in your face. Waiters and maître d’s who are almost aggressive in their ‘invitation’ to you to look at their menu. Shopkeepers who are so persistent in their attentions that I kept purchasing things more out of wanting them to leave me alone than anything else. And males on the street who pay me far more attention than I ever receive in Australia (seriously, it’s bizarre!).

On top of this, I was openly scolded a few times. A waiter who berated me for sitting at a particular table (which, I might add, another waiter had guided me to). A taxi driver who got remarkably aggressive when I wanted to pay by card and asked for a receipt. And I unknowingly took the wrong orange from a pile in the market, and in my too-delicate jet-lagged state, nearly wanted to cry when the woman scolded me like a naughty and stupid child for a full two minutes.

And I was scared. So scared. Of everything, but mainly pick-pockets. Let me tell you, if you are a chica travelling alone to Barcelona, be warned: do not trawl through travel blogs devoted to the subject of personal safety in this enchanted city. For it will scare the bejeebers out of you. Be-JEE-bers. Endless tales of stolen wallets, handbags and luggage may have you regretting your decision to travel there on your lonesome ownsome. There’s a reason for this plethora of pick-pockets, by the way. Laws against personal theft are lenient – non-existent if the offender is under 18 – making it difficult for police to enforce. Combine this with the fact that the economy has been hit hard and unemployment is presently at 26 (twenty six!) per cent. All factors combined, pick-pocketing is not so much an act of mischief, but an accepted profession. Whilst violent crime is low, your belongings are more likely to be nicked in Barcelona than any other European city.

But slowly I figure it out. I ignore all beggars. As much as that breaks my heart. I get better at simply leaving a store (without parting with any dineros) when a shop assistant is being pushy. And I lock the zipper of my bag every time I use it.

And I get off the Ramblas, which is key.

La Ramblas in the morning

The Ramblas is the main strip of Barcelona. It’s lined with bars, restaurants and stalls; theatres, churches, museums; a market, the metro and numerous street performers… Basically, it’s a traveller’s mecca. All of my guidebooks had said it was a fun place to hang out, that the bars were great, that there were heaps of exciting things to do. And even more convincing, I had had two separate, unconnected friends tell me that La Ramblas was their favourite place, that it was likely where I’d end up every night because it was the coolest, funnest, most adjectivally-abundant part of the city to hang out in.

Heeding such exuberant advice, I booked my accommodation right next to the famed strip, an excellent central position, and proceeded to explore it, expecting wonders and marvels and a truly Catalan experience.

What I found, however, did not float my boat. Sure, there is plenty to see and do, and you should indeed visit La Ramblas during your time in the Big B. However, you should then just as quickly get off it. I spent two days trying to take in all its pleasures, as my friends had assured me this was the best Barcelona had to offer, but I found them distinctly wanting. It felt like a superficial hammed-up imprint of Catalan culture. Spanish culture, even (which is very different to Catalan).

This was not the character-filled gothic city of my imaginings. This was a highly touristic area where you could easily find yourself in a bar where more people spoke English than Catalan. Where all the menus have paella and sangria on them, neither of which are native to the region, but which are served anyway to satisfy unaware-and-insistent tourist demand. Where party-ready lads from other parts of Europe come for testosterone-fuelled bucks’ nights (Hola Niels and Lewis!)…

In hindsight, I should have realised way earlier that it was not what I was after, that it was a manufactured version, that it was not-quite-real. It was – for those of you from the land of Oz – akin to visiting the Gold Coast and spending all your time on Cavill Avenue. Sure, it’s fun for a bit, and plays an iconic role in the identity of the GC, but the real beauty of that city can only be experienced by getting away from that touristic zone and out into the more truthful places.

My enjoyment of the city skyrocketed as soon as I began exploring beyond the tourist-and-English-language-friendly borders of the Ramblas – the trendy El Born district, the upmarket Passeig de Gracias, the many sites of Montjuic…

But it was the Gothic Quarter in particular that sang to me. I experienced a moment of near-cathartic peace and pleasure inside the unexpectedly tranquil and amazing cloister of the Church of Santa Anna. I had an orgasmic cultural conniption over the impromptu guerilla opera concert I stumbled upon in a random alleyway near the Arc de Bisbe. And I re-visited the 13 geese inside the cloister of Barcelona Cathedral five times (one goose for each of St Eulalia’s torments!). (Ummm, in case you can’t tell, I love cloisters, they are my new favourite thing!)

The cloister inside Barcelona’s Cathedral

I fell in love with the dark and twisty old city. This Barcelona is one where every twisting passageway gives way to an amazing church or plaza or Roman ruin. The street corners are populated by millennia-old fountains, twisted-and-gnarled iron work and street performers of every persuasion. I stumbled into hidden courtyards and hidden tapas bars. I saw walls covered in glorious decorative tiles and walls pockmarked by civil war artillery and walls covered in urine. In short, it was everything that I had imagined, and more. I devoted a large amount of time to just wandering through its wonders, each time seeing something new, each time slowly finding my way a bit better and also getting that little bit more lost.

It was wonderful.

I also fell in love with everything Gaudi, a man who designed such beautiful and bizarre and over-the-top architecture that it gave us our English word ‘gaudy’. Yet somehow, his work manages to exist absolutely perfectly – harmoniously, even -  in the Barcelona streetscape.

Gaudi’s Casa Battlo on the right. This house is kah-RAY-zee!

So the message of all of this is that if you are traveling somewhere and staying within your comfort zones, then you’re not doing it right. That if you’re not enjoying a city, venture further, deeper, wider. And that Barcelona is wonderful. Just wonderful.

It wasn’t love at first sight. But sometimes a second look is well worth it.

Have you been to Barcelona?

Very happy selfie. In Park Guell, a park designed by Antoni Gaudi and filled with crazy awesome architecture…

♥

One of my favourite writers, Ms Sarah Wilson, has been focusing a lot lately on food wastage. It’s scary stuff, especially considering all the people in the world who go hungry everyday. Australians throw away a lot of food. In fact, estimates say that 40 per cent of the average household rubbish bin is discarded food, making food waste the single largest component of our household waste. When food waste is thrown away and sent to landfill, together with other organic materials, it then becomes the main contributor to the generation of methane – a greenhouse gas 25 times more potent than carbon dioxide in its impact on climate change.

This is undeniably something that needs to be examined in our habits and in our homes, but there is another side to this issue.

I have forever been someone who eats everything on my plate. Always, without fail. I let the serving size dictate my stomach size. Basically, if it’s in front of me, I’ll polish it off. Hook, line and after-dinner sinker. I do not want to let it go to waste.

And if I don’t finish something off, I experience ridiculous guilt. I have wasted something. I’m being wasteful. There are starving children in Africa who could eat that.*

It is a challenge for me to listen to my stomach and hear when I am full. (On a side-note, it is also a challenge for me to listen to my stomach to hear when I am hungry. My poor boyfriend does not understand how I can all-too-frequently fail to pick up on the warning signs until it is too late and I have crossed over. Welcome to Hangry Town, population: me.) But this particular musing is not about the pre-hunger noises made by Monsieur Tum-Tum, but by the ones during eating that signal that I am full.

Whenever I realise that I am full prior to finishing my mean, it is a means for celebration in and of itself. Seriously. Some of you out there who have never struggled with this will be scratching your brow and saying ‘Huh? What’s she onabout? It’s so eeeeeeeeasy!’.

Then there will be those of you who know far too well that feeling of which I speak. And perhaps also the related feelings of being unable to stop, or not knowing how to stop, or wanting with every fibre of your being to stop. But again, I digress.

Today I sat down for xiocolata con churros, those delightful-looking little crimpy Spanish donuts that you dip into a cup of steaming, thick hot chocolate. I had sampled this dessert on one of my first few days in Barcelona, and hadn’t overly liked it. The churros were almost like raw dough in the middle – soggy and       stodgy. And the chocolate was a gelatinous soup. As though a cheap packet of instant chocolate pudding had been stirred with boiling water. It was not very nice.

(Side-note: I finished them.)

When I mentioned to my Spanish host that I hadn’t really liked this national delicacy, she informed me that (1) churros are not Catalan, they are Spanish. The Catalan tradition is to dip sponge finger biscuits into a similar thick hot chocolate; and (2) of course I didn’t like it, I had it at some cheap tourist trap on La Ramblas. If I wanted quality churros, I needed to venture off the main strip, perhaps into the depths of the Barri Gotic (Gothic Quarter) and look for somewhere more artisanal, more traditional, less production-line.

So I did. The Barri Gotic is the most fabulous part of Barcelona to wander in (in my humble opinion). Nooks and crannies paved in cobblestone give way to Churches, Museums and Town Squares. Statues and fountains and street musicians populate every second corner. I often run out of pocket change on these streets, as I constantly want to give coins to the buskers and musicians. (Yes, I am a softy.)

Petritxol is a doll of a little place in one such street. Artisanal chocolate is the name of their game, and I was in a little bit of heaven perusing their shelves. I ordered my xiocolata con churros, as directed, and went to sit in the deserted room out the back – all polished wooden tables and wrought iron chairs and cute little lamps. Decidedly quaint and delightful. The sort of place that a boyfriend might take his girlfriend in order to earn brownie points. (Quite literally – the ones in the window looked amazeballs.)

My sweets arrived at the table. The chocolate was a really nice consistency – thick and rich and glossy, not like the close-relative-of-packet-mix-gravy I had last time. The churros were crispy and light. You dip them into the chocolate mix, and the brown goo sticks in all the furrows and trenches of the churro, and then you gob it all into your mouth.

Sounds awesome, yeah?

Well, it was. For like the first few mouthfuls. I knew it was too sweet for me from the start. Tasty, and obviously of better quality, and I could see why people liked it… But it was not for me. Now, this knowledge started as a mere feeling when I started to eat. It took me a third of my churros before I was able to articulate it in thought form – This is too sweet, you should stop. And then another churro before I actually stopped.

And this, my friends, is a cause for celebration: I realised I didn’t really want it, and I stopped.

But even this caused me guilt. It’s a waste. Your ordered it, so you should finish it. It is a waste of money not to finish it. There are starving people who would kill for this. There’s only a little bit left. It’s wrong to waste things. It’s bad to waste things.

All the above thoughts flashed through my brain, accompanied by the associated feelings that manifested in my gut – guilt, worry, swirly-sinking angst.

But happily – luckily – on this occasion, the other feeling that was manifesting in my gut was stronger: I don’t want this.

And I listened to it, and I stopped, and all was good.

We do ourselves a disservice by not listening to the signals our body is sending us about the food we eat. Hearing those signals can be a challenge in and of itself, so when you actually get that message, to then ignore it is a crime against your stomach. And is disrespectful to your self.

Psychologists might be able to point to the cultural cues that engender these attitudes in us from a young age. The psychology of parents using food as a treat and reward, or a threat and a weapon. Whatever. That doesn’t much interest me now, I just need to keep working out how to move forwards.

On (yet another) side-note, a couple of months back, I was at a cafe in Brisbane, and a mother was sitting with her son, whom I guessed to be about four or five. Very loudly, she kept on berating him for not finishing his cake and his milk shake. The cake was a giant slab (over-sized for an adult) of some chocolate confection, and the milkshake was in one of those big (again, adult-sized) parfait glasses. I remember it distinctly because she kept going on and on at little Johnny (or Jimmy or Bobby) to sit down and finish his ‘shake and cake’. Now, I know nothing of this woman and her son. For all I know, he could have some medical condition that demands that he consume a lot of food (I grew up with a boy who had a medical condition that meant his mum often had to force him to eat lots of fatty food. I used to be envious of the snacks in his lunch box). Or perhaps the mum knew her kid would get cranky in ten minutes time if he didn’t eat more of it. Or perhaps there was some other perfectly good reason why a mum was nagging her kid at the top of her voice to eat his over-sized, sweet foods.

But from where I was sitting, all I saw was a kid who’d made a sizable dent in both items, and had then decided to stop eating, of his own accord. And it made me sad and cross that this mother was trying to override her son’s judgement in this matter. When my parents nagged me about food, it was only ever to finish my vegetables or meat. They would never have forced my consumption of dessert or treats (which we hardly ever had anyway).

So this is a long-winded and windy way of saying that sometimes it’s okay to throw away food. There are so many greater issues here that contribute to our society’s messed-up relationship with food (don’t get me started on serving sizes, or the fact that main meals can come without vegetables, or the fact that McDonalds has the heart foundation tick of approval, or the fact that…) as well as so many massive issues about the inequality of food distribution across the world. But feeling guilt about throwing something away when you don’t want to eat it is not helping anyone.

Least of all yourself.

For me, my next step – as always – is to try to listen to my body better. Particularly my stomach. I swear it knows what to do, sometimes I just find it tricky to hear its whisper-light voice. I hope that if I can listen to it more and honour its requests, perhaps the little voice will, little by little, get stronger. More audible. More clear.

For today, not finishing my Spanish sweets was enough. I had a win. And I’ll keep listening tomorrow.

My leftovers!

*Note that I am not using this example lightly, as though it is a joke. It is a massively serious issue that deserves massively serious attention. But in our culture, where lines similar to this were often quoted to us as children at our respective dinner tables, it now has an almost-humourous connotation. It’s lost all meaning as anything other than the baseless threat of a frustrated parent. (And the de-sensitisation inherent in this last point deserves serious attention of its own.)

♥

By the time you are reading this, I will be on a plane. Thanks to the wonders of WordPress scheduling, I wrote this a few days ago, just summing up how I’d been feeling in the lead up to this Most Momentous Occasion.

In a word, crazy.

Crazy-excited, crazy-scared, crazy-crazy-filled-with-anticipation!

This is my first proper trip overseas, at the grand old age of 29. When I say first ‘proper’ trip, I’m not counting the trip to New Zealand a few years back. Not because it wasn’t great (I am in love with the land of the long white cloud, and I could live there one day. I seriously loved it), but because most Australians and New Zealanders will concede that… it doesn’t really count. Our lovely neighbours just across the way share so many similarities with us, and us with them, that it’s not really a culture shock to visit there. I think its easy for us to feel at home over there. And what I want right now is a culture shock to smack me in the face. You know. Like getting hit in the head with a croissant.

It’s not that I’ve never wanted to travel before, it’s just that I never had occasion to go before. And what I mean by that, is that I never had anybody to go with. I always wanted to go with someone. Which isn’t unusual at all. But whenever friends were off doing the backpacking thing, there was something going on in my life that made it not a good time. And my long-term boyfriend during my early twenties was never much interested in travel. And seeing as one´s partner is the most convenient travel-buddy, when my partner didn’t want to, I let it slip off my radar. (And didn’t much mind, it must be said).

And then, of course, there was the whole ‘having depression for years-and-years-and-years’ thing, which meant that I could hardly face living life day to day in a city which I’d known forever, let alone trying to do so in a foreign face-smacking city. (Although, that said, with the glorious ruby-tinted vision of hindsight, I now wonder whether for that very reason it wouldn’t have been the best thing in the world for me back then. Perhaps being smacked around the head a few times with a baguette may have spurred me into action and recovery? Who knows?!)

Fast forward a bunch of years to last year. 2012. Where I have a crazy-beautiful-wonderful boyfriend who is into travel. We start talking about it. Then we start talking about it a little more. Then I start picking up travel brochures and we start looking at them together. Then we spend a lovely little night on the couch together looking at all the places we want to go and looking up potential flights etc.

And then, in that way that sometimes happens in relationships, we somehow come to each be operating under different understandings. We had what is known as a ‘miscommunication’ based on an ‘assumption’. And you know what they say about assumptions – we all fall on our asses (wait, is that it?).

I suddenly realised that I was operating under the assumption that we were going traveling together. That we were exploring options about where we would go. But we were definitely going!

Whereas he was operating on the assumption that we we exploring options about what we were doing in general. Travel was one of many options.

He was looking at travel brochures in an exploratory surgery kind of way. Whereas I was deciding between heart and lungs, but had already fully committed to the cardio-thoracic region.

And I only realised the error of my assumptive ways after he said something once that indicated that his priorities had changed – travel was important to him, but buying a house (which had been something he had wanted for a really long time) was taking clear precedence on his List.

When I realised this, at first I was kind of angry. Which was totally fun for him, let me tell you. After a proper, grown-up discussion, it became clear how we’d come to have these different ass-umptions. Turns out we communicate a leeeetle bit differently sometimes. He’ll throw ideas around and explore things out loud. It’s how he rolls. I, on the other hand, as a chronic planner, latch onto things and build castles on those ideas, not realising that the foundations are built on sand.

After our Most Grown-Up Discussion, I stopped being angry, cos it wasn’t either of our faults, and I fully understood his desire for a house (hell, it was such a close second on my list I could have been quite easily swayed onto the same path).

And then I started being sad, because I started to think that I had lost my opportunity to travel again. I finally had this beautiful, perfect partner, but the timing wasn’t right again. And this time I did mourn for the fact that travel was, once again, not a possibility.

See, it had never occurred to me that I could go by myself.

I don’t quite know why, seeing as I am a fiercely independent, strong-willed, headstrong person.

But there you go. It just wasn’t on my radar as a possibility, even.

What happened, was my boyfriend. (I hope this doesn’t get gushy). Basically, he opened my mind to the possibility that I could do it by myself. That I could do whatever I wanted, in fact. That I could do anything. (He’s that special). Basically, he encouraged me to actively pursue the dreams that had been brewing for a long time, but that I had always found convenient excuses for not following.

Somehow, I managed to hear him, and realise he was absolutely right.

And so I decided what I wanted to do and set about taking all those little steps along the way to make it a reality.

I decided Europe. I decided three months. I decided to quit my job. And I did all those things.

And here I am on a plane.

I’ve said to my boy a few times, thank goodness for moments of boldness and for non-refundable deposits. It is only the combination of these two things that have seen me continue with my original plan. Cos in the interceding few months, I’ve definitely had moments of fear so intense, that I would have jumped on the opportunity to take it all back. (You know those moments. They’re the ones accompanied by a dry mouth, a roiling stomach, palpable panic and a loud inner voice inside your head saying ‘what the hell were you thinking, Jessie? Three months, are you CRAY-ZEE?!!’)

But, like I said, here I am on a plane. Bound for Barcelona. If the last few weeks are anything to go by, this very second I am probably a champagne-bottle of excitement, about to fizz over on to everyone around me. I also probably have tapeworms of fear doing nasty things to the butterflies in my stomach. I also probably had a few tears in the car saying goodbye to my Mum (I love my Mum!), and then probably shed more than a few saying goodbye to Adam. Who seriously made all this possible. Or who made me believe it was all possible. And who I will miss with every cell and butterfly and tapeworm.

But now it’s just time to be excited. I think it’s totally normal to be scared, but that that’s why we do it. That that’s half the value. The scaredness can just flow along in the background as long as it needs to, but the rest of me is going to focus on all the awesomery around me.

♥

Note: Due to some weird goings-on in my WordPress scheduling calendar, this post didn’t go live last week as intended. Instead, it is here today… Better late than never, hey?!

Dear iPad,
Originally, I thought you were just for suckers. I did not see your point. But now I am a convert. You are so light and useful and… slick. I love the little keyboard I bought with you, which means I can sit and write *profound* things (you know, like this!) when I am out-and-about at a cafe or park. And I am particularly enamoured of the way that you carry all my guidebooks in such a sleek little package. No hefty tomes for the forthcoming trip, instead I can have the wonders of France, Spain, Italy, Austria, and Hungary all held tight + safe in your little digital belly. I try not to be attached to possessions, and I’m not, and I could absolutely get by without you. However, I am really super grateful for your current presence in my electronic oeuvre and I am enjoying the pants out of using you.

♥

Dear Latte,
How you brighten my day with your silky, foamy goodness! I particularly love when you come adorned with fabulous little love hearts or leaves or other arty designs. Thanks for bringing little moments of me-time to my day.

♥

Just to clarify, in no way do I look like this during my yoga sessions. I’m waaaay better!

Dear Yoga Mat,
I haven’t had you out for about three months, but getting acquainted with you again this week has been wonderful. After my session with you last Wednesday, I felt so beautifully, whimsically light. I am working on prolonging that sense of peace beyond your borders.

♥

Dear Mock-orange Plants in My Neighbourhood,
You guys are bloomin’ lovely at the moment! It seems like all the rain of the past few weeks has kick-started your flowering season, and you’ve all gone nuts and bloomed at once. Your flowers smell light and floral and delicious. I believe that you are actually classified as a pest, which just goes to show that beauty does indeed lie in the eye of the beholder, because from my perspective, you guys are bright green bushes of lovely-smelling awesome.

♥

Dear Electricity,
After being apart for a week (Jessica, stop exaggerating, it was Sunday to Friday!), I have a newfound appreciation for how useful you are, and for how much we in the Western world rely on you. I am humbled by how much I rely on you. And I am humbled by the enormous blessings of convenience that we have in this lucky country on a daily basis.

♥

Dear Universe-at-large,
Thank you for sending such wonderful opportunities and people into my life.  I am blown away by all the wonder . Thank you, thank you, thank you…

♥

So I may have mentioned that at the end of February, I’M LEAVING MY JOB! AND GOING TRAVELING! AND STARTING MY OWN BUSINESS! (Phew! Fist pump! Exhale!)

The point of this musing is not to ramble about my various new directions, but to talk about patience. Because I have another few weeks at my job before I leave. And if I succumb to the enormous impatience that is periodically raging and swelling inside of me, then I ain’t gonna be a very pleasant person to be around for the next few weeks.

It is no coincidence that the first self-growthy goal that I am tackling for the new year is meditation. And I consider this pursuit somewhat of a community service (big of me, I know!). I am embracing meditation and the calm, centred, peaceful feeling that it brings, hoping that it will balance out the insane levels of burbling excitement that occasionally threaten to spill over and consume both me and everyone around me.

Not that I think that there’s anything wrong with excitement and anticipation. In their way, they can be totally delicious. The last few days before my boyfriend and I are reunited each time he comes home from his fly-in-fly-out job are sometimes really quite sacred moments of heightened awareness and love. (Sometimes, however, they are just freaking frustrating.)

And I am really grateful to have so many things in my life at the moment that I am looking forward to. It is an amazing, amazing time, and I haven’t felt this excited for I don’t know how long.

But this excitement and anticipation also makes me kind of wary. John Demartini talks in a few of his books about every feeling, by necessity, and by their essence, having an opposite. What goes up, must come down. You can’t experience joy without sorrow, bravery without meekness, elation without despair.

And I suppose I would really like to be experiencing these insanely exciting times without being quite so attached or emotionally heightened. Because I am so excited right now that I am a little bit scared that I might just burst or bottom out or blow up. I’d like to have just a little more of the ‘observer’ in me and be a little less of the fully-succumb-to-every-fleeting-emotion-like-a-crazy-hormonal-teenager type gal.

Hence the meditation.

Hence the practical action steps that I am trying to tie myself to, in order to sink my energies into actually achieving travel-related things rather than just swirling in an excited thought-vortex. You know, like ‘book train ticket from Girona to Paris’. And ‘buy a camera’. And ‘decide how many pairs of undies you’ll actually need for three months, noting that you’re not great at doing laundry’.

And hence the recognition that patience is necessary. And it is necessary to practice presence now. And that I do indeed believe that presence takes practice. And the word ‘practice’ implies that there will be ups and downs, fanfares and failings in the process. And it’s all okay.

I think that if I don’t start flexing the patience-slash-presence muscle now, I may find myself in Paris yearning to already be in Rome, or to be home, or to be in the arms of my boy, when I have spent the preceding three months longing for nothing but chocolate croissants and real champagne and cheesy-cheesy pizza.

What I am saying, my sweets, is that if I’m not frickin’ careful, I may end up spending the next four months not being where I am.

Which is less than ideal, to say the least. Especially when there are croissants to be savoured and schnapps to be sampled and pizzas that I have not yet met.

Really, I wish to be exactly where I am, wherever that may be. That is my wish for me.

I want to savour these last few weeks at work in all their frustrating glory. It is because of those feelings of frustration that I finally had the courage to make this book-a-ticket-and-leave, consequences-be-damned decision. I want to marinate in those feelings and bottle them up. Then I can unstopper them during the inevitable moments of frustration in my new working life and remind myself why I made my decision.

And I definitely want to be where I am on my travels. Be it at an airport waiting lounge or the Eiffel Tower or mid-mouthful of flaky chocolate pastry. Because to not be exactly where I am would be an unfortunate missing-of-the-point. A wasted opportunity. A cause of regret somewhere down the line.

And I am reminded of this:

‘No one longs for what he or she already has, and yet the accumulated insight of those wise about the spiritual life suggests that the reason so many of us cannot see the red X that marks the spot is because we are standing on it. The treasure we seek requires no lengthy expedition, no expensive equipment, no superior aptitude or special company. All we lack is the willingness to imagine that we already have everything we need. The only thing missing is our consent to be where we are.’ (Barbara Brown Taylor)

I don’t need to go anywhere, none of us do.

Traveling is super exciting and definitely important and crazy growth-inducing.

But all of this is also true of standing still…

♥

I have not yet finished my goal setting for the coming year. I need to feel that the juju is just right before I break out my magic moleskine and light my special candle (coconut and elderflower scented – definitely the scent of success!!) and so far, the right mood just hasn’t struck me.

However, one goal that I know will be on my list (it always is) is meditation. ‘Develop a meditation habit’. Along with ‘reach goal weight’, this little beauty is a repeat appear-er (or repeat offender) on my list of New Year’s resolutions. I have spoken about my meditation battles in the past.

As always, I believe that this year will be different.

However, unlike previous years, I am actually going to approach this baby from a different perspective this time (what is it that Einstein said? That to do the same thing over and over again and expect a different result is the definition of Jessica?!)

Anyway. I am reading Danielle LaPorte’s wonderful The Desire Map. And she asks you to focus on your ‘core desired feelings’. If you work towards feeling those desired feelings every single day, then you will be creating a more fulfilling life for yourself, regardless of whether you actually become the Gold Medal Winner or Editor-in-Chief or General King Ding-a-ling.

Why is it that I want to develop ye olde meditation habit?

Because sometimes when I do it, I feel amazing.
Because sometimes when I do it, I know that I am a better person.
Because sometimes when I do it – just sometimes – I feel bliss. I reach my very innards in a way that electrifies me and calms me and ‘whole-ifies’ me. In a way that is so singular yet universal, and entirely, frustratingly ineffable. All at the same time.

But I suppose, mainly, it is because I want to feel centred. I want to feel calm and peaceful and present. I want to feel that I am fully living in the present, and meditation has always been a wonderful tool to help me do that. Even if I have raged and railed and struggled against it from time to time.

So this year, I am going to develop a meditation habit because I desire the feeling of calm, peaceful centredness. Not because I think I should. Not because I need to. Not because my grandfather had Alzheimers and studies have shown that meditation increases brain health/power/longevity and bloody-well-just-do-it-already-you-procrastinating-idiot-of-a-time-bomb. (Yes, because if self-guilt and self-placation don’t work, you should definitely try self-beration.  It’s super fun and garuanteed to work!)

I’m going to do it because I desire to feel centred and peaceful and myself.

This month, I am attending a group meditation session and I am meditating everyday for five minutes. Because goddammit if anything but babysteps just leave me feeling overwhelmed right now! But five minutes I can do, five minutes I can handle. Starting small seems like the way to go. And I am doing it for a feeling.

I will keep you posted.

♥

PS – In line with the whole idea of reaching health goals this New Year, my gorgeous friend Jessica Nazarali from Live Healthy Simply is a holistic health coach who is kicking off 2013 by offering a limited number of lovely ladies a free discovery coaching session. These sessions are designed to help you make those lifestyle changes that have seemed just-out-of-reach for oh-so-long. Jess is great at chunking things down so that even the most veggie-averse person can see how implementing small, simple steps can add up to a life of wholehearted health. And if you’re already a green-juice-guzzling-gal, she can help you push it to the next level. If you would like to learn more, click here or email Jess at jessica@livehealthysimply.com.

♥