tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32566100436316816442024-03-12T16:03:52.447-07:001095 moments...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-37160075650131449062013-05-23T03:02:00.001-07:002013-05-23T06:14:33.621-07:00Sick leave.
This post could probably win the dullest entry title of the blog, but that's one upside of being sick: one no longer gives a damn about what one writes. Also, one starts to refer to herself in the third person. About the only entertainment one gets, while yawning and feeling crap.
Another upside of being sick is that one has a lot of time on one's hand, so naturally one wonders what to do. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-3106210250233778502012-04-23T20:24:00.009-07:002012-04-23T23:30:58.453-07:00Day 23. Adelaide.
Pierre's voice sounds instantly familiar. He has only spoken for a minute---I am still at the beginning of the video---but it feels like I've heard more of him now than I have in the last 23 days, what with the timezone difference, the inconvenience of always being at a place where either someone else is in the room with me (hi, sis!) or someone else is within earshot (hi, half of the Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-81109807493456083542012-02-03T06:47:00.000-08:002012-02-03T06:49:01.054-08:00Schnee.#. Outside my office window, it is snowing beautifully.(Interrupted by a Coke break, or rather, a I Already Have A Coke But I Am Going With You To The Machine Anyway break. Which was a good thing because I had not been sure how to continue after that initial sentence anyway.
Maybe something about Cassandra waving strangely in my peripheral view, her voice muted by my massive WESC earphones,Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-10189469631835091302011-11-02T06:15:00.000-07:002011-12-02T04:18:57.882-08:00Flashback VI.November 10, 2009.
All about a Belgian sandwich. [Fire drills.]
When I came to work yesterday and turned on the laptop, it logged itself onto Skype, as usual. Here, most junior researchers (PhDs, postdocs and the likes) and even some senior academics use Skype as an unofficial internal communication system. Lunch at 12:30, who's in? Coffee in five minutes? Meet near the lift to go to LatinUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-45177678223121909462011-10-20T14:25:00.000-07:002011-10-23T01:38:54.019-07:00Amsterdam I.605. Stepping off the Thalys and into the rain. Feeling like I have yet to leave Brussels.
Almost three years ago, Amsterdam was a mini winter vacation taken between a graph theory Brazil conference and a research visit to Twente, filled with first times. First time seeing the infamous Red Square and belatedly wondering what his parents, devoted Christians, must have felt when I -- mistaking it Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-67822792954640770742011-10-17T11:25:00.000-07:002011-10-17T11:37:33.301-07:00Dentist II.595. Pre-op. "Isn't it ironic, that we are eating cupcakes at the dental waiting room?"
596. Pendant op.Dentist: OK, you should feel some numbness in your mouth now...You shouldn't be able to say sausage. Me, instinctively: Saaasaaage. ---Me, toes curled firmly inside my grown-up boots out of fear, forefinger pointing at eyelids, which close and open quickly: Eyes...Dentist: You want toUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-16533890662416685132011-10-15T06:19:00.000-07:002011-10-19T04:55:57.421-07:00Flashback V.All about a Belgian sandwich. [B-B-B Benny and the Jets!]
As most of you already know, my awesome friends got me, among other cool presents, a ticket to go to the Red Piano concert by Elton John, in Antwerp -- just an hour train away from Brussels. I've been meaning to write up this entry for a while, but put it off because of, well, insert any excuse here :) Anyway, here it is.
Thank you,Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-47783663754045738552011-10-08T01:25:00.001-07:002011-10-08T01:37:24.093-07:00Aroma.#. Waking up to the delicious smell of freshly baked bread (and the hopeful thought of being able to eat it soon!) It makes the Brussels-ly relentless rain beating down the skylight window a hundred times more bearable.
For future flatmate's ad: Criteria #1. Being able to bake bread *and* willing to do it at one am Saturday. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-55902462320459102772011-10-06T08:34:00.000-07:002011-10-06T09:24:43.751-07:00Flashback I.(In order) to consolidate two inactive Brussels blogs together...-----------------------------------------
All about a Belgian sandwich. [Never say never.]
5.58 am, Wednesday October 7, 2009.
"There would be letters, emails and phone calls, but there would never be a blog."
During my last week in Australia, things were extremely chaotic and it seemed like I was uncertain of everything. One Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-2655160590313821252011-09-22T09:27:00.000-07:002011-10-06T03:13:54.455-07:00Logic III.#. Sex and simplicity.
Boy: Gazpacho, men are animals. I mean human being... Ass is more or less where the machinery of reproduction is located. Men look at ass. That's all.Boy: Men like breasts because in the remote past, small breasts = no food for baby = baby dead.
*a pause*
Boy: But I don't know really why I like feet. Maybe because in the remote past there was no cars.
#. A silent office.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-53860666775495984432011-09-13T15:13:00.000-07:002011-09-29T16:17:23.889-07:00Amis.493. The Super Sized Group Lunch.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------ | [Browser] [Postdoc] [Baby #1] [Princess Peach] [Rainbow] [Mario] || [Ambrosio] | | Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-9574688278741020442011-09-12T11:15:00.000-07:002011-09-29T15:13:51.832-07:00Decisiveness.491. Or lack of.6ish pm. Me: The weather is beautiful. I am going to run!
6:50 pm.
Dark clouds are gathering outside the living room window. Me: Do you think it's going to rain? Gaston: Maybe...Me: I'm running anyway!
7.10 pm.Gaston: What happened? *silence* Gaston: Did you even make it to the park?Me: It started to rain...Gaston: So? Me: So I'm a princess Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-54393171597046176072011-09-11T11:55:00.000-07:002011-09-22T14:08:29.813-07:00Years.487. Living room. We have just finished the main meal; now, endlessly, I stride back and forth, putting the pair of scissors away, filling up the half-empty pink Brita, rinsing water glasses, adjusting whatever else in the living room that is seemingly out of harmony.
"I feel old," I whine, "cleaning up like this." "It's a good thing... cleaning up... no?" Pierre hesitates, as if he wants Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-73477758874933665792011-09-10T07:10:00.000-07:002011-09-24T03:55:57.800-07:00Belated.484. Finally posting Zoe's account of her 30th birthday: How to Celebrate The Crossing To The Dark Side. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-71306513484414610492011-09-09T04:46:00.000-07:002011-09-17T00:50:50.116-07:00Learning.483. You learn to speak by speaking, to study by studying, to run by running, to work by working; in just the same way, you learn to love by loving. -- Anatole France.
How to spend a Friday evening. Part 2.
Stop making excuses like (a) you are feeling really grumpy at the moment, thanks to an unsolicited reminder from Facebook of what happened this day in 2009, (b) you do not have Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-3443602984632826112011-09-08T08:41:00.000-07:002011-09-13T14:47:37.125-07:00Sharing.478. More pick-up lines. Mid-afternoon.Boy: r u there?Me: I am now. Me: What's up? Boy: good... but I forgot why I buzzed ... how r u? Me: I'm okBoy: just ok? Me: yeahBoy: Why r u so boring? Boy: Is it me or is it you or us?Me, wondering to myself when it has become an us: Why are you not working??Boy: I am working on u.Me: :) Boy: It's hard research, u know. Me: Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-32916400064879247802011-09-07T02:14:00.000-07:002011-09-12T05:00:39.298-07:00Never.475. "At least you two are close friends...," Anna says. "Yes, but seven months and then that's it, you know...," I say. "Why? You can still email and chat and..." "He doesn't like writing," I explain, as the preemptive apology flashes in my mind. I'm not very good with keeping long-distance friendships, he once confessed, and then we must have had the same thought, because he looked at me Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-10249297753609690692011-09-06T15:20:00.001-07:002011-09-07T13:28:22.045-07:00Changes.472. Having croque-monsieur (without ham), goat cheese on bread and proper coffee for breakfast, in someone else's clothes.
473. A Parisian offer that I cannot refuse (I watched The Godfather last night): "Do you want to be my remote office-mate?"
474. It is a Tuesday dinner, but not as we usually know it. Side by side, Gaston and I have prepared our own food separately, he making a zucchini/Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-54601920833903221142011-09-05T07:15:00.000-07:002011-09-11T00:21:49.251-07:00Ingredient.471. Recreating our own delicious pasta tomato sauce, with the secret ingredient added in the very last stage: ketchup. Italians the world over cry about our sacrilegious treatment of their national food, but we love it all the same. Making dinner together is one of the best parts of a slumber party. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-80084018611502034632011-09-04T15:41:00.000-07:002011-09-08T07:43:54.919-07:00Pink.466. Realizing, that instead of the anticipated peer pressures, all I have received so far has been peer support. Over afternoon brunch, Gaston -- in order to encourage me to stick to the September plan and defy social expectations -- tells about his ordering tomato juice at a pub the day before, then showing up for a friend's birthday dinner at a fancy restaurant in a white, faded T-shirt and Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-58447366704706747622011-09-02T23:02:00.000-07:002011-09-08T08:40:19.498-07:00Reasons.460. Brussels in the final days of a summer/autumn warmth. On the steps facing the fountain near a campus entrance, as we eat our salads and sandwich from the "Italian place," a nearby sandwich shop that has long earnt their nickname from, well, being Italian.
Mario: Will you eat the bread? Anna: No, I'm really full. The salad was a lot!Mario: Do you know how many Indian kids who do not h-MeUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-41207551192741891802011-09-01T04:41:00.000-07:002011-09-01T05:26:47.769-07:00Sept.Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
457. From: Me To: Gaston
Happy one year anniversary!
And, if you don't move out tonight, you'll break the record of the longest flatmate that I ever had.
From: Gaston To: Me
Oups. I forgot to tell youUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-67772893965393256612011-08-30T08:45:00.000-07:002011-09-02T02:52:19.126-07:00Logic II.451. On her fiancé, who gets more and more sheepish as the story goes on: "We used to fly separately to Brazil. And each time, he kept saying, it's boring, flying is boring, we should fly together. Then one time, we did fly together, there and back. We got on the plane, and what did he do? He started working. Shh, shh, I am working. The whole eleven and a half hours! This is boring. I told him, IUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-59093176114222852572011-08-29T12:20:00.000-07:002011-09-02T01:48:06.227-07:00Friendships II.448. A makeshift coffee room, third floor. With our drinks in hand, ten of us are standing around the room, forming three thirds of a circle around Gisele, who is sitting because she is pregnant, and the table with wine bottles and cakes. Speech, speech, someone starts the usual celebratory chant, and Mario, embarrassed, passes the bucket to Bowser, who, to my surprise, actually starts a speech. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3256610043631681644.post-49688755950272946402011-08-28T06:31:00.000-07:002011-08-29T02:45:49.984-07:00Semi-stranger.445. One of those awkward moments that I have not experienced since Tintin moved out last month and that I have forgotten about until today: seeing a stranger in my apartment in the early hours of the morning. Or, in this case, a semi-stranger: someone you know well enough to wish her happy birthday recently, but not well enough, evidently, to realize that she has spent the night, or to know whatUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0