tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166174302024-03-07T16:39:29.243+11:00because mummy's a feministMotherhood, gender, and the occasional rant about the state of the world.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-9710509573492184342010-08-10T11:25:00.003+10:002010-08-10T11:54:50.563+10:00PinkI've been complaining a lot lately about dressing my daughter in pink. I've been arguing that it's limiting, it's narrow, it's only one way of being a girl. The more I think about it, the more I see it's about more than just performing femininity. It's about how women and men still do not have equal access to opportunity in this country.<br /><br />It's not as if my daughter has any obvious disadvantages. She's rich - by world standards - fed, loved, clothed. She has two parents, seven grandparents and doting aunts and uncles. She's healthy, breastfed, no allergies (yet). She's living in one of the world's most developed and prosperous nations. No war, no famine, no violence, no sickness. Just wealth, comfort and security.<br /><br />It's not enough. It only seems like enough when you compare it to what so many girls in the world don't have. But does the fact that so many girls are suffering make it okay that my daughter will grow up in an Australia in which inequalities still exist? Yes, it's better than many places. Yes, it's better than it was. But does that mean it's good enough?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.eowa.gov.au/Pay_Equity/Files/Pay_Equity_Statistics_Feb_2010_web.pdf">This</a> report shows that women in Australia still earn less than men, and the gap is widening, not getting smaller. More than a third of women in <a href="http://www.aifs.gov.au/acssa/statistics.html#internatsurvey">this</a> report said that they had experienced physical or sexual violence from a partner. Less money, less power, less freedom, fewer opportunities and more chances of being a victim. This is not what my mother wanted for me and this is not what I want for my daughter.<br /><br />Little girls get dressed (and choose to dress) in pink to mark out their difference from little boys. But if that difference means my little girl is going to grow up in a world where her genetics are a handicap, forget it. She's a person first, with all the rights every person in the world should have, and that's what I want to remind people when they see her. That it's just not enough to give us pink tutus. Girls and women everywhere deserve much, much more.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-32322255404540143112010-05-01T19:49:00.002+10:002010-05-01T20:02:28.155+10:00New look, new titleAs an unanticipated consequence of my subject about using technology in the language classroom I decided I should try to use my blog more often, more often that is than once every ten months which is how long it's been. I do have a good excuse, but I thought it was time to delve back into the pleasurable vanity of blogging as a handy procrastination tool. I am studying again, I have had a baby. Both these things mean I have no spare time (mostly the second one) and therefore it follows that I need something to do in all the spare time I don't have.<br />Clear as mud.<br /><br />The reason for the new title is that I feel having a daughter has sharpened those feminist instincts I had as a feisty teenager and were dulled by early adulthood and other distractions. We live in a sexist world, sometimes so much so it hurts to look too closely at it in case you throw your hands up in despair and go and live in a cave. But a blog is a good way for me to point out all the things I don't like about the world without boring my loved ones to tears, and without sending myself to the asylum by keeping it all bottled up. Which is bad for you.<br /><br />The first thing I would like to rant in a very unstructured way about is: breastfeeding. Not the act itself, which is pretty damn fantastic, but its sheer invisibility in the world. You never read about it, you never hear about it, you never see it in movies and rarely in life. I can't express milk in public because it's weird. Why is it that I can blow my nose, but not express milk for my baby? <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2517126532">This Facebook site</a> was a result of women reacting to the decision by Facebook to randomly delete pictures of them breastfeeding because they were deemed obscene. So, not only is it invisible, when it is out there it's seen as flashing your breasts. The fact that there is a baby involved is somehow so irrelevant to the primary issue which is of course, women as sexual objects. Get over it, world.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-35321999330861740032009-07-23T17:16:00.004+10:002009-07-23T17:43:53.751+10:00On holidays<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EUyM-8J33joKMBf8tddbB8RSC4vpPeg-3Ncz5kwkyBDntZpSEApTRImSACRRWC1mHWyIS7-vTbBG2eKqrkzar8doEadPk7Wod5llzYsX3LsQqtdyXndu72l4jycVfElyJzQ4/s1600-h/vaka-moana-boat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 131px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-EUyM-8J33joKMBf8tddbB8RSC4vpPeg-3Ncz5kwkyBDntZpSEApTRImSACRRWC1mHWyIS7-vTbBG2eKqrkzar8doEadPk7Wod5llzYsX3LsQqtdyXndu72l4jycVfElyJzQ4/s320/vaka-moana-boat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361553324699272146" /></a><br />Spent the weekend in Canberra after spending the previous one in Cairns - my half-hearted attempt to tour places in Oz beginning with 'C'. It was lovely and cold, as well as cultural and Mum looked after me very well. Putting up with my self-centredness and even buying me lots of purple maternity gear, since the belly is growing and kicking away. I have booked my bed in the hospital and there's no going back now.<br /><br />My favorite part of Canberra was the National Museum, which was free (excellent), vibrant (excellent) and pretty inoffensive (amazing). I was a little annoyed that the short film introducing the Museum and the story of Australia had no subtitles for speakers of other languages but I hope that eventually Australia will realise that our langauge is not always easy to follow, even if you speak fluent English. The First Australians exhibit also impressed me, as well as teaching me that the Tasmanian Aboriginies are alive and well - always good to actually learn something at a museum.<br /><br />Funnily enough though, the best exhibition was from New Zealand about the journey to conquer the Pacific by 'the ancestors'. It was really well done and quite thrilling, to think that they had the navagational techniques to sail a canoe across the Pacific to find all those islands, some of which are tiny. I feel I have acheived something by managing the grocery shopping. Makes you wonder if we've really gone forwards at all.<br /><br />http://www.aucklandmuseum.com/vakamoana/Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-18466511039612392212009-06-24T20:23:00.003+10:002009-07-23T17:43:38.784+10:00Up the duff<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbz1KuqL9FPMsgyvkXKBoBjbig4TS658YROuRabdFZar4u5y0HtgGIPs2WNYUDunCFx8RC5rZhssQCh_zacddvW8UtdPb_8jppqvwJBx7ihs8VzqMezyJlJCDojyOyRccJzFE/s1600-h/parking+sign.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbz1KuqL9FPMsgyvkXKBoBjbig4TS658YROuRabdFZar4u5y0HtgGIPs2WNYUDunCFx8RC5rZhssQCh_zacddvW8UtdPb_8jppqvwJBx7ihs8VzqMezyJlJCDojyOyRccJzFE/s320/parking+sign.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350844058192485602" /></a><br />Sooo I'm pregnant. The <em>I can't believe it </em>stage has given way to a weird kind of acceptance. It's a bit like being told you're going to the moon. You have seen it on TV and you have a basic idea about what it involves but actually doing it is extremely remote from your life experience. I keep looking warily at screaming children and wondering why I am doing this again. I suspect my desires and needs had nothing to do with it, this is my body just doing it's thing. <br /><br />Which is pretty exciting really. I can't think of another time in my life when I felt so at the whim of the physical. Every day the bump gets bigger and I'm watching it like a facinated gardener watching their seeds grow into seedlings. Amazing that all that stuff I learnt in year seven biology is happening in my body. It works! Who would have thought all that life giving potential was lurking beneath.<br /><br />Unfortunately, as thrilled as I am to be pregnant, I don't really look it, I just look rounder than usual. There is a sign on buses and trains for the people you should vacate the seat for and the prego lady is thin with a big bump out front. I am beginning to realise that that is not going to happen to me. I am slowly acquiring a waist that otheriwse copious doughnuts would give me. At the end I think I'll look more like a large bell than a stick with a bump. As a bonus, I also have enormous breasts and keep accidently flashing my students cleavage in tops which were previously quite chaste. So not only am I more voluptuous than usual, I'm also a bit of a poser. Not the serenly maternal look I was expecting.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-91983032886328133462008-12-09T21:03:00.002+11:002008-12-09T21:16:16.956+11:00The daily grindAfter much frustration, thanks to the lovely computer guy at work, I think I've finally worked out what the problem is with my computer being so agonizingly slow I have barely written an email over the last six months, let alone on this blog. And what do you know? It turns out to be the bloody anti-virus software that's slowing me down. Which, like a sucker, I paid eighty bucks for. I don't care if I'm invaded by hackers who destroy the hard drive, anything is better than staring at that little rotating circle and wondering if you should give up or just wait a few minutes longer to send that one email you've been trying to send for ten minutes...<br /><br />The only reason I bought the software was that I accidentally deleted the software that came with the computer in a misguided effort to speed the damn thing up. Which proves I should not be left alone with a computer and a plan. Anyway cross my fingers, it all seems to work now.<br /><br />Only two weeks till Christmas, which means two glorious weeks off work. Can't wait. I plan to ride my bike, cook, go out, celebrate and spend time with people in a relaxed frame of mind, with no work peering over my shoulder. Oh, and I also plan on watching a lot of TV, and a few movies. I saw <em>Australia</em> last week and loved the sheer excess of it. Wonderful scenes, music, comedy, drama. It was an all you can eat buffet and I gorged myself, even when I knew it wasn't good for me. Ah Hugh.<br /><br />Today I was in Roseville paying my lovely dentist $10 a minute to take care of my teeth. Just before I had that privilege, I wandered into a shop which seemed to be entirely filled with upmarket party products. No waving Santas here. A woman in the shop with her toddler was discussing the difficulty of sending her kids of different ages to one of the states most elite private boys schools. "It's so hard when you have two boys," she said "because you've got to drive them to <em>two different campuses</em>." And people think the rich have it easy. Personally I went to a school when I was six, rather than a campus. I wonder what the difference is? Possibly the quality of the lawn on the tennis courts.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-74989239041120003742008-10-15T18:13:00.003+11:002008-10-15T18:27:48.790+11:00The more I see the less I know<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZuLx0prN-Kml5JdsmEhyphenhyphenWSeNnqyj-LqYfFVDlk4m0gemZMVVgcYtJrbxFq8NwtnZV3qWhSuZliqDZJsgdl5U7nWP-mhXsB9TB1ydFv7Sj5EnAB_qPGo61yGWKC_glfXZiFQL/s1600-h/all_rebel_rockers_404.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZuLx0prN-Kml5JdsmEhyphenhyphenWSeNnqyj-LqYfFVDlk4m0gemZMVVgcYtJrbxFq8NwtnZV3qWhSuZliqDZJsgdl5U7nWP-mhXsB9TB1ydFv7Sj5EnAB_qPGo61yGWKC_glfXZiFQL/s320/all_rebel_rockers_404.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257278943012588642" /></a><br /><br />Last night I went to see Micheal Franti and Spearhead at the Enmore Theatre and had a fantastic time. I'd forgotten how fabulous the theatre itself is, all deco and shabbiness, and we sat up the top so had a great view. The band came on with so much energy and never stopped, they are a combination of high-energy, inspirational lyrics and raw sex appeal. I haven't enjoyed myself on a Tuesday night like that for ages.<br />And they had many sniffer dogs, which gave me the sense of being part of some underground drug-fuelled anti-establishment swarming mass. A far cry from the staid English teacher I am during the day. Which is always nice.<br /><br />http://www.spearheadvibrations.com/Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-31950526713890269772008-10-12T20:51:00.002+11:002008-10-12T20:57:42.306+11:00Three thingsThere are three things which have been a large part of my life this week. They are <em>The Flight of the Concords</em>, hay fever and two books which have made their way into my mental landscape. The <em>Flight of the Concords </em>is a wonderful show. I love it because it satirises many things I like to make fun of, such as men, women, pop music, homophobia, Australian nationalism, American culture and the idea that consulates do any real work. It also gives me hope that in the USA there are many who have an excellent sense of humour and couldn’t possibly vote for a female version of George Bush. The tracks are quite catchy too.<br />The hay fever is less welcome. I have itchy eyes, a snotty nose and every morning I wake up feeling unrefreshed and lethargic. The only thing the medication does is dry up my nose for a few hours. Every year it feels like my hay fever is getting worse, and for someone who’s never been allergic to anything, being allergic to spring seems incredibly unfair. I love spring. I also love plants and pride myself on my ethical diet and lifestyle. It seems like nature’s way of saying I’m not a real environmentalist. A real greenie surely wouldn’t have to medicate against flowers.<br />The books I’ve read are <em>The Book Thief</em> and <em>Reading Lolita in Tehran</em>. One novel, one autobiography. Both beautiful and a little self-indulgent. I loved <em>The Book Thief</em> from the first page when I realised it was written from the viewpoint of Death. There’s something about this device I find incredibly comforting. The idea that Death has a consciousness makes it so comprehensible and less alien. It would be so good to believe that Death cared about us, that when we die in terrible ways or simply when we die, that there is some being who notices it and registers the horror of it. Anyway I loved the book from then on. The other thing about it was that it was an unashamed celebration of books, as was the second book I read <em>Reading Lolita in Tehran</em>. Both books reminded me of the power of words to make life bearable, in fact even to give it meaning. <br />Now the lovely Kate B has given me <em>Persepolis</em> which is a perfect sequel to <em>Reading Lolita in Tehran</em>. There’s so much I don’t know about that part of the world. I love the way that learning about it is like watching a map become detailed while I look at it, things are illuminated I didn’t know were in the dark. I’m starting to understand something about Islam and women. The benefit of knowing very little about a subject is that it’s a perfect excuse to spend hours reading about it.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-15956126104639739472008-08-23T15:33:00.002+10:002008-08-23T15:45:00.110+10:00Work life balanceIt's been a very long time since I last wrote anything on this blog and unfortunately I don't have an even moderately exciting reason for my virtual absence. Just bloody work, work and more work. I have no patience with new jobs. I'd like to go from the awkward, first days when you don't know anyone and have no idea what you're doing to the chummy familiarty and weary repetition of tasks in a few months. I've been working at my new place of work for over four months and it's still so damn exhausting <span style="font-style:italic;">and</span> I still don't have any friends. Well, not really. So I can't even whinge about it with the regularity I'd like, I have to come all the way home and complain to S, which he unsurprisingly doesn't love. <br />What makes it all the more irritating as well, is that I suspect my job isn't actually that hard, and that I'm doing fine. This seems to be the feedback I've got from other people. Which makes it even more illegitimate to moan about how I'm tired all the time, can't keep up with the work and want to go and live on a kibbutz. Now. Today.<br />The one bonus of all this is the amount of reading I'm doing on the commute. I'm going through three books a week and loving it. In Germany I didn't read much out of a sense of guilt about the fact I was reading English rather than German and even when I did, the supply of cheap books was limited. Luckily for me I've forgotten all the plots of my books so I'm happily rediscovering my entire book collection. It turns out I have quite good taste.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-826481126864023292008-06-01T15:19:00.001+10:002008-06-01T15:21:18.401+10:00Warning: self-indulgent rantToday is one of those blah days where my body seems to be inhabited by a black hole, located pretty much dead centre of my chest. Anytime I try to make a decision about what to do with myself a surge of hopelessness and lethargy jumps out of me and sweeps that desire away, replacing it with an aimlessness and restlessness which has seen me waste a whole day on doing small pointless jobs that are a distraction from my own inner monologue. <br /><br />It must be the weather. It’s a grey day, with the occasional drizzle (like right now when I want to play frisbee) and a sort of heaviness in the air, like before a storm. There’s just enough wind to need a few layers. The noisy birds continue to chirp, but somehow it seems ominous to have cheeping birds without sun. Dreary, dreary day.<br /><br />At times like this I wonder how reliable my own perception really is. Obviously, the world is coloured by my emotional state more than I’m willing to believe. If birds seem creepy when I’m feeling down, who’s to say that my assessment of what’s great when I feel good is any less crazy? That said, how am I supposed to evaluate anything? Through a serious of tests that have nothing to do with how I’m feeling? Ultimately I have to set benchmark based on my experience, but my experience when? When I feel good, as if the world if full of joy, or when I feel demotivated and lifeless? <br /><br />I guess the difference between happy and troubled people is what they choose to see. Someone once said to me “But things are basically good the way they are!” and I thought they were wrong. I still think they were, but I understand the need to believe it.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-62169319881270637172008-05-26T20:16:00.000+10:002008-05-26T20:17:13.307+10:00Learning EnglishIn front of me sit a class of eighteen defeated, demoralised students. Their faces register shock, their slumped postures show their defeat. I flit among them, trying to reassure and clarify. “Teacher, teacher!” “Hanna, Hanna!” each time I stop and talk to one, the others cry out like baby birds. <br /><br />The reason for this chaos is my attempts to follow the program, which requires that they make a poster based on the excursion we went to last week. I have just spent ten minutes explaining that they need to make a poster and give a presentation, enunciating each words like I’m speaking to the deaf. I have asked them to form groups of three. The result was this village of the dammed. In the middle of trying to put a group of eighteen adults into groups of three (“four? Why no four? We can four?”) which will not result in any cultural clashes but will result in some English being spoken I feel like a kindergarten teacher without the height advantage. As I dash from group to group making suggestions that are greeted with strained silence – did they understand or are there tensions I don’t know about? – a student asks if he can ask me a question. I look at him. Is he blind? Can’t he see I’m in the middle of something important? (He can’t). I say yes.<br />“When this class finish?”<br />I look at him in blank disbelief at this apparent rudeness and disregard for all my effort. In fact, I snap. “What kind of a question is that? What do you mean?” He repeats the question. In disgust I tell him it’s the same time as every day, what does he think? He looks upset. I continue with my efforts to make a group of unwilling adults do what I want. The next time I move past him he grabs me again. By this time my patience is paper-thin – they have known about this poster from the beginning, why all this reluctance? He starts to tell me his English is no good. I think of my yoga teacher and breathe through the rage. I try to listen through the blood rushing through my head. <br />“ I mean, how long the week? When this class end?” With a sudden rush of guilt there is deadly silence in my head. Oh no. <br />“The course, you mean when does the course end.” Blank. I try to explain. It is too late. He is hurt and upset by his teacher’s failure to be patient with his English. I tell all the students when the course ends, and what the word “course” means as a way to assuage my guilty conscience. It doesn’t work.<br />Welcome to the world of beginners.<br /><br />Today I spent twenty minutes trying to convince a student he isn’t ready to go up to the next level. In the end his friends had to translate for him. His belief that he should go up even though he isn’t able to communicate with his teacher is astounding. There is an expectation out there in the world that learning a language is linear, like learning how to drive, that it’s a matter of checking the boxes. First, it isn’t. Second, get used to it. It took me years and years to learn German and I’m still learning. It will never be easy. It can be freeing and wonderful and help you to grow as a person, but easy? Forget it. A beginner student will need to do at least 100 hours of face to face teaching plus 50 hours of self-study to be able to express basic needs in English. In fact, it is unlikely that an adult will ever be able to express themselves in their second language as well as in their first, particularly about the things that are really central to their idea of themselves. They may become better at talking about a specific subject, if they learn about that subject in the second language. So for beginners, learning English is as much about learning to be realistic than actually learning new words and ideas. Beginners is the coalface, where expectations inflated by who knows what agent’s promises and a fancy school website, along with misguided notions of how easy it is, get deflated by the guardian at the gate. Who happens to be me. <br /><br />After a day of feeling like a harridan – “you need to do your homework and stop speaking Vietnamese in class!” – it is important to reflect on the students who succeed. Another student who I told last time to wait is now ready to go up a level. He has improved out of sight. When I first taught him I asked him if he had a question. “Kwe-stion?” he said, completely bamboozled. Now he is one of the better students in class. It takes time to learn to deal with a new language, a new country, and I understand why people fight it. It came as a shock to me how difficult it was being in Germany, and I was with my family and I already had an intermediate level of German. It is important to remember that.<br /><br />“Teacher! Teacher!” I smile, take a deep breathe and listen. They might have something important to say.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-7212214787042641802008-05-05T19:38:00.002+10:002008-05-05T19:41:18.004+10:00They say the darndest thingsFrom a student's listening test today:<br /><br /><em>When bushwalking you need to take a head.</em><br /><br />I believe he meant to write `a hat´. Who knows? My German friends never picked up on any ironic use of my German, perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt here?Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-40676297092210076242008-04-26T17:59:00.003+10:002008-04-26T18:03:35.193+10:00And along come the tourists...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-Mw65TvJttCGg7sGrbQSnHdZw0_5QEbJyVosqJSOhD4S-sQIw2_xcy98y8cfEgFP0qRiU6fTttXPUu9IMtvINpfFcaVgpCE7MfEU50fj0MegRbUMCAcIZaZQOIDaZirokIxO/s1600-h/header.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-Mw65TvJttCGg7sGrbQSnHdZw0_5QEbJyVosqJSOhD4S-sQIw2_xcy98y8cfEgFP0qRiU6fTttXPUu9IMtvINpfFcaVgpCE7MfEU50fj0MegRbUMCAcIZaZQOIDaZirokIxO/s320/header.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193461474330065394" /></a><br />... is a great film. Also The Edge of Heaven. Both the kind of German films which remind me why I go to film festivals.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-30376770267203064522008-04-26T17:57:00.000+10:002008-04-26T17:59:29.814+10:00Rain rain rainIt rained all day today, in heavy sheets that made the gutters and drains overflow. I drove Mum’s car, which was such a luxury given that it is usually me who is drenched by the spray of passing cars. Although it’s my week off, I went into work today to prepare a few things and leave myself free and easy for the weekend. <br /><br />In fact it’s been raining all week, perfect sleeping in weather, making my eight o’clock wake up a distant memory. It’s been a mini holiday in Sydney, thanks to Mum’s gorgeous house, and it’s been great. On Sunday we saw Lars and the Real Girl, which I liked, despite the obvious fantasy of the whole thing. I also wondered about the politics of it, is a sex doll in and of itself a misogynist object? From my vague memories of the minimal philosophy I encountered in English lit I seem to remember that its what we invest in an object that makes it so. Seems eminently plausible, especially when, in the film, the Bianca figure becomes slowly emancipated as she is taken on by the various women in the film. She even acts as the catalyst for an argument about the role of women, active versus passive. Lars is furious she isn’t going to be there for him one evening and his neighbour berates him for not letting her have a life of her own. I think that was my favourite moment in the film.<br /><br />Overall I don’t think I liked the politics much. Especially the contention that Lars was a good boy at heart. Surely it’s how you behave that makes you good or bad? And is inflicting a sex doll on your entire town really the sign of a caring, selfless person?<br /><br />This weekend I’m going to see a couple of films from the German Film Festival, one with the obligatory WW2 related themes, the other a rollicking feel good comedy. Can’t wait.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-4941638006975422322008-04-13T14:37:00.004+10:002008-04-13T14:42:21.887+10:00New job thrills<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHo0yEvMCV5QmJ5EqsEwVuo2QbmFXlr5eirmeVsC2_4DvIjjOazyF3MKxi597-TmLPw9q34f-kKI-nfATjFsokJHRqYKP0ivHKfG3ots4GYV17c9q6KZBxY8Fx0g0UiUccEair/s1600-h/P4032138.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHo0yEvMCV5QmJ5EqsEwVuo2QbmFXlr5eirmeVsC2_4DvIjjOazyF3MKxi597-TmLPw9q34f-kKI-nfATjFsokJHRqYKP0ivHKfG3ots4GYV17c9q6KZBxY8Fx0g0UiUccEair/s320/P4032138.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188585551329103650" /></a><br /><br />I haven’t blogged for a while, for which I largely blame work, work-related activites and the resulting stupour I seem to get into once I have done too much work. That being said, I have been working full-time for four weeks now and the shock to the system of only having two days a week for me is beginning to seem like a lame excuse not to write a few words on how things are going.<br />Last time I write I think we were both still on holidays and I was looking for work. Well, I found some.<br />My new job is as a casual – of course – English teacher at a language centre at one of Sydney’s largest unis. I don’t want to seem too paranoid but I also don’t want any current or future students to google me so I’ll leave the name off for now. Suffice to say, it’s the uni that’s pretty much as far away from the inner city as possible, which means a three hour a day commute time there and back.<br />That’s really the only thing I can complain about, however. Everything else is just spiffy. The school is professional, interesting, has a huge support network and seems to be run largely by extremely socially competent women. It’s like a dream come true. I even have my own desk with a brand new computer on it. There’s also a library for the students, as well as a big kitchen for the staff. And that’s just the facilities. The best things are the courses, which seem to be pretty well-run, well-planned and well-supported. <br />At the moment I’m teaching beginners two days a week, which is a massive challenge. It’s a little daunting when your students understand nothing you say and you start to break out into a cold sweat any time a difficult concept like say, the word aunt, comes up. I took them to the Aqaurium last week and tried to explain the concept of the Great Barrier Reef. Their puzzled looks told me I didn’t get through. Oh well. I can only improve their skills right?<br />The other class is a group of young adults who want to study at uni. They’re hilarious. Last week we had an afternoon of bush dancing with them and they squealed like kids when we told them they had to hold hands. I never thought I’d be demonstrating the heel and toe polka for two hundred international students but weirdly, I enjoyed it. It was a lot easier than trying to teach the word aunt, that’s for sure.<br />We also had the animal man in to visit, which has made my new favorite animal a green tree frog. They have such wisdom in their bulging eyes.<br />But the strangest experience so far has been having a fuly veiled woman in one of my classes, something I’m going to have to get used to. It’s amazingly difficult to connect with someone when you can’t see their face. <br />A couple of union veterans at work warned me off teaching English last week and said I should teach in high school, more job security, time off in the holidays to see your kids etc. It just didn’t resonate with me. I love the friction between cultures, I love teaching language and I love working with adults. It makes the lack of job security almost seem worth it. Almost. That said, I've joined the union. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvga3B7L8Sb1JXkgu93d0zsAbhGZtJp0WTItRQpkFtIseMallPnuoMi_6-IOD3lomreRJRcR2jc0PZabXSFaAnvnijFiD-DuVuVGRCjroO7pIS4pm2Jz6xDDNt7swxJFhMy2tU/s1600-h/P4032137.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvga3B7L8Sb1JXkgu93d0zsAbhGZtJp0WTItRQpkFtIseMallPnuoMi_6-IOD3lomreRJRcR2jc0PZabXSFaAnvnijFiD-DuVuVGRCjroO7pIS4pm2Jz6xDDNt7swxJFhMy2tU/s320/P4032137.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188584997278322450" /></a>Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-20902270461582328582008-03-22T15:12:00.000+11:002008-03-22T15:13:45.650+11:00Home easyOne of the strangest things about going away is the difference between what you remember a place to be like, everything from the smells to a friend’s job, and the reality of what you encounter when you return. It’s even more interesting to realise what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. But perhaps the most revealing is what’s changed about you, in the ways you interact with the world around you. Travel opens you up in ways quite unexpected and freeing.<br />I expected to dislike the messy streetscapes of Sydney’s west, and to remain unmoved by the glittering showiness of the Harbour. I thought I’d find talk of the future depressing, expecting everyone to be so much more together than I am. I wanted to be somewhere new, make a new life in Australia as far removed from my old one as possible. Mostly, I thought I’d find it difficult to adjust to being so isolated again, so far away. <br />I was pretty much wrong on all counts. I walk the streets of Marrickville, Leichhardt, Petersham and the lack of tidy German streets doesn’t get to me. I know there is no beauty in the cracked pavements, dirty awnings and traffic jams but I see it elsewhere; in the lorakeets on the bottebrush trees, the sunsets, the sunlight. I love housesitting for Mum and walking home under the eye of the Harbour Bridge, sitting on top of every hill on it’s bed of sparkling blue. I love the views of the cars sitting on the docks and glinting in the sun as I slowly climb the hill of the Anzac Bridge on my bike. I talk easily of the future, certain of finding a good job, a nice flat, a great life. Reconnecting with friends is surprisingly easy, over beer or dinner jokes are made, histories are told. I’m doing a few weeks of relief teaching at my old work, where the students seem the same, the colleagues are all new and my old colleagues are now somewhere else or running the place. I feel optimistic about finding new ways to make my old life interesting. Perhaps its just the summer never seems to end. Or maybe it’s the knowledge I brought back with me about the importance of being at home with yourself to feeling at home where you are. Whatever it is, I’m finding it surprisingly, marvellously, easy to fit back in to life here. Who knew I was carrying the capacity for joy with me all along.<br /><blockquote></blockquote>Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-1431764968282026142008-02-08T13:05:00.000+11:002008-02-08T13:26:22.660+11:00Heading southGiven that we’ve just arrived, it seemed only logical to leave Sydney as soon as possible for somewhere else. Simon’s Dad helped fullfil our escapist fantasies and took us down to his caravan on the south coast of NSW for a few days to reconnect with a few Australian essentials. Like the fact that it rained for two days and we spent most of them sitting in a caravan looking at sheets of water pour onto the bush. Or the fact that every meal was barbequed. Also going out on a tinnie (small boat) and running out of petrol (false alarm thank god) and drinking beer on a lake. Seeing roos on the way to the toilet block. Being woken up at all hours by screaming birds. Having insects fly into you as if you’re in their way. Seeing a wave of silvery fish flying through the air towards you. I suppose it’s not all bad, this place.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQcelJEeCN4H1sfAfV8x2j8fWNlbiTkYU8f9P6JCoyVLDl6GZoTZyEUzoFL7vOXLwQpgrAb1Bv9vRFLOrCqjJ0dyulEzvFPgf3oLCZAOlnk0xXE63L3Bz8xcZxmmHr7Ps3gfXg/s1600-h/DSCN3631.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQcelJEeCN4H1sfAfV8x2j8fWNlbiTkYU8f9P6JCoyVLDl6GZoTZyEUzoFL7vOXLwQpgrAb1Bv9vRFLOrCqjJ0dyulEzvFPgf3oLCZAOlnk0xXE63L3Bz8xcZxmmHr7Ps3gfXg/s320/DSCN3631.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164425148492532210" /></a><br />Kiel’s not the only town to have ludicrously large boats in the harbour.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjckFUBofB_SXGVFGxnqggPcks_By8n5z3biI6LGYPwHPSlLq6REckVZyGTqeROqoKgbGLr_ogRWlbqLzzvG1BqVsV5tctq9h4mZUTF8EbFCRCPBXoiwrFqIzxwQRmrWRJyXJ/s1600-h/DSCN3702.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjckFUBofB_SXGVFGxnqggPcks_By8n5z3biI6LGYPwHPSlLq6REckVZyGTqeROqoKgbGLr_ogRWlbqLzzvG1BqVsV5tctq9h4mZUTF8EbFCRCPBXoiwrFqIzxwQRmrWRJyXJ/s320/DSCN3702.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164427923041405490" /></a><br /><br />They’re like cows only bouncier.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1dZ3uNE4-0yYiivP75eIqVM0BMmMu0kLj4sf8rrB0rUjY_-_qVjrbl3Vgo2vpiHHJ98L7eruF-g_oI62wthXLvhIBOx3zfzPj3H0IYhvUJPV6gqI1U2P4lxXx9lf8mGBeZcL/s1600-h/DSCN3708.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1dZ3uNE4-0yYiivP75eIqVM0BMmMu0kLj4sf8rrB0rUjY_-_qVjrbl3Vgo2vpiHHJ98L7eruF-g_oI62wthXLvhIBOx3zfzPj3H0IYhvUJPV6gqI1U2P4lxXx9lf8mGBeZcL/s320/DSCN3708.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164427158537226786" /></a><br /><br />Birds on bikes…<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9mtyVJIwpK8GmHkqK3Zi8n2KjFVb_WXe5pIxTV-AT7iPjWq5tVMBKKL096CNCygSE5ynbxubfqGEthz6x1ptg2LHXGalI8Vo3WyK5syQBkhI3hD6n00T2DbINuZWUq1bjClN/s1600-h/DSCN3709.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9mtyVJIwpK8GmHkqK3Zi8n2KjFVb_WXe5pIxTV-AT7iPjWq5tVMBKKL096CNCygSE5ynbxubfqGEthz6x1ptg2LHXGalI8Vo3WyK5syQBkhI3hD6n00T2DbINuZWUq1bjClN/s320/DSCN3709.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164426600191478290" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-SUlMOZRG5h48duDSkVZ7j43BC-blKBMeMrKdnD8tMpG4gpYYJ0CBtT0vsuoRF8kk2T4ZtnPPAGPPky3aO23-4dvyo_kv5H_7fAzVVAaPH3yVjQ-Cu_BYx-_ixqdzT5mH4jg/s1600-h/DSCN3728.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-SUlMOZRG5h48duDSkVZ7j43BC-blKBMeMrKdnD8tMpG4gpYYJ0CBtT0vsuoRF8kk2T4ZtnPPAGPPky3aO23-4dvyo_kv5H_7fAzVVAaPH3yVjQ-Cu_BYx-_ixqdzT5mH4jg/s320/DSCN3728.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164425831392332290" /></a><br /><br />Hanging with the localsTorshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-32653109556690870062008-02-01T11:27:00.000+11:002008-02-07T17:03:55.318+11:00Home is where the shoes are<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZzplR9_UYFihMUytTrFx8HtSx7ttOwL30KrCG2618RI0du8u49OjmV3YCMUWKmhJZm-31bk5TP37csZx_-1IKFiEoimmCartI0KgzNYBfSknFzDUJXXGX5bNn9GFIQMxNgvP/s1600-h/DSCN3624.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZzplR9_UYFihMUytTrFx8HtSx7ttOwL30KrCG2618RI0du8u49OjmV3YCMUWKmhJZm-31bk5TP37csZx_-1IKFiEoimmCartI0KgzNYBfSknFzDUJXXGX5bNn9GFIQMxNgvP/s320/DSCN3624.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161803174037539218" /></a><br /><br />After eight weeks of holidaying we’re finally home – and so are all the boxes I sent from Kiel. The last one, which I sent first, arrived only yesterday, presumably after some similarly convoluted adventures through the globe, containing my fabulous red Camper pumps which will come in handy if I get around to applying for any jobs in the near future.<br />It’s very nice to be home. The day we arrived it was raining in sheets, but it quickly cleared up and then we had a week of heat, not unlike Thailand but with a little less crazy-making humidity. The skies were blue, the sun was beaming, there was a long weekend, and Mum threw us a party. The only things I could have wished for were fewer Australian flags about the place – since when did flag waving become cool?- and perhaps a front page without cricket on it. Fewer huntsmen in the bathroom staring at me with their multiple eyes while I'm taking a shower would also be nice.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7Q-BjZZWe4n72v4TIUHbzST_GHdXKzBnD88zLN-1dS8BobBSGKbxEJTCpV5Npv307vRmGPg5dPGrVeaIpEW1bwDQBvWf1cskeQTmUEOtz0ZEXtJ7YrEL7gs-NzPkJ_Sx1tln/s1600-h/DSCN3627.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7Q-BjZZWe4n72v4TIUHbzST_GHdXKzBnD88zLN-1dS8BobBSGKbxEJTCpV5Npv307vRmGPg5dPGrVeaIpEW1bwDQBvWf1cskeQTmUEOtz0ZEXtJ7YrEL7gs-NzPkJ_Sx1tln/s320/DSCN3627.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164114957364480482" /></a><br /><br />Simon, meanwhile, was in seventh heaven watching cricket on a real television for five days in a row. Ah the Australian summer.<br />It’s also a joy to hear “Strayn” again wherever I go, and to speak it. To be able to say <em>Chuck that over here will ya?</em> and be met with comprehension rather than bewilderment. I really do think we’re only a generation away from becoming completely unintelligible to the Brits and the Amis. Some of the things I’ve overheard I’d almost forgotten existed. I’m thinking of carrying round a notebook and writing them all down for a new dictionary.<br />So far, however, the only work I’ve done is rewriting my resume, trying my hand at a cover letter and glancing at the jobs section very reluctantly. My bank balance says it’s time to go back to work but my heart says no. I think it’s time to remember what I like about living here and maybe then, but only maybe, find a job. All in good time. There are a couple of movies I want to see first…Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-74241368805899346942008-01-15T22:39:00.000+11:002008-01-15T22:59:40.212+11:00Thailand<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1w2ZASd1ItMIWecrjEtKaREgmr0afKB2QyX54WurgZfjZadTYt8icSkhTfolLLHAOxasfeTELnNP8aDo5YPZGDIUrwUUIYqFTiyaeJXCQYV8IsPkXwYq-XOWvJk15PWOC1_h/s1600-h/DSCN3488.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW1w2ZASd1ItMIWecrjEtKaREgmr0afKB2QyX54WurgZfjZadTYt8icSkhTfolLLHAOxasfeTELnNP8aDo5YPZGDIUrwUUIYqFTiyaeJXCQYV8IsPkXwYq-XOWvJk15PWOC1_h/s320/DSCN3488.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155670119675337266" /></a><br />On top of the Golden Mount.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPF8aV39-LSzzIDx3ehREoVxlU94Fe5SQ23-d5QWOakJ3K9lNvW6f5yHlhiwzyfJTlAivARSmGvlNBFkJ5fr2uW59UTzyl3UmDQpY94ZDZkIlMM_pCVaaSn9ZVxZPikqMOJ6fY/s1600-h/DSCN3444.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPF8aV39-LSzzIDx3ehREoVxlU94Fe5SQ23-d5QWOakJ3K9lNvW6f5yHlhiwzyfJTlAivARSmGvlNBFkJ5fr2uW59UTzyl3UmDQpY94ZDZkIlMM_pCVaaSn9ZVxZPikqMOJ6fY/s320/DSCN3444.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155669621459130914" /></a><br />Who needs celebrity cooks?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAC0dbOU8xUYArmp-ls6s3pns3jxSsiTy6nYZTg5tx5bE_9DHsm3XviELbwlVYQy_RkttCwEiQ85ulbwULBHLdByRE1oF6WOW4s8Jh79qYT2Rnlyxshb30sxlynL9Py8Uc2vxu/s1600-h/DSCN3380.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAC0dbOU8xUYArmp-ls6s3pns3jxSsiTy6nYZTg5tx5bE_9DHsm3XviELbwlVYQy_RkttCwEiQ85ulbwULBHLdByRE1oF6WOW4s8Jh79qYT2Rnlyxshb30sxlynL9Py8Uc2vxu/s320/DSCN3380.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155668839775083026" /></a><br />The big buddha and us at Wat Pho.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbiP7rOp4iVHlz52nhqh7laW22WgCGiW6kS3foAS1dK48RGocqE82LQeUylwPb9Cbg5ZqtbejlulNl5RH3D_sG4Xp_kdreQ0JvFbh8tCLxgHhRAJaWmQMEZdrq-pDj-8-ga40/s1600-h/DSCN3504.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbiP7rOp4iVHlz52nhqh7laW22WgCGiW6kS3foAS1dK48RGocqE82LQeUylwPb9Cbg5ZqtbejlulNl5RH3D_sG4Xp_kdreQ0JvFbh8tCLxgHhRAJaWmQMEZdrq-pDj-8-ga40/s320/DSCN3504.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155670940014090818" /></a><br />Hanging in the hammock, Bush style (George, that is).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLhELYwmpv0BMu62LaPcEswcLri9FJivTobIU3r4m07ESoQQ-bJq6MU5ZYk8mbylqCtGdh9oUlPdWVSdB1OUkZfxsNBLACofE0PN73-6Bidfya8sMP2exlfL7NKXd2cLjI9Rvf/s1600-h/DSCN3509.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLhELYwmpv0BMu62LaPcEswcLri9FJivTobIU3r4m07ESoQQ-bJq6MU5ZYk8mbylqCtGdh9oUlPdWVSdB1OUkZfxsNBLACofE0PN73-6Bidfya8sMP2exlfL7NKXd2cLjI9Rvf/s320/DSCN3509.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155671360920885842" /></a><br />Our beach. Need I say more?<br /><br />Sitting on a tropical island, listening to the waves softly breaking and voices coming from the neighbouring bungalows, both Australian and German, I can’t help but reflect that there’s nothing quite as weird travel wise, as leaving the minus five, sleeting, <em>Ordnung</em>-filled world of Germany and arriving in the 30 degree heat, plus god knows how much humidity, chaos-filled streets of Bangkok. The list of contrasts is mind-boggling; the smells of German Christmas, marzipan and cinnamon plus the crisp smell of cold air versus a cacophony of food smells, rubbish smells, exhaust fumes, fruit, sweat. Not smiling versus smiling at everyone. Eating inside insulated, heated rooms versus eating on the street. Christmas markets versus Bangkok street markets. Potatoes versus rice. A well-organised transport system versus a constant traffic jam. Overpriced versus underpriced.<br />Jet lag is about more than just the time difference, it’s about the mid trying to work out what is going on, where am I, and more importantly, why is everyone smiling? Luckily, the reflex came back quickly. After all, I still used to smile at Kielers even though the response was often either cold disinterest or the striking up of conversation, assuming we must know each other.<br />The first three days in Bangkok, it was pretty clear that I didn’t know the people whose smiles I returned. We stayed in the backpacker nest, right near Kaoh San Road, a wonderfully mad area filled with stalls, tourists, massage parlours, travel agents, tuk tuks, restaurants and hostels. We bought fresh fruit from a vendor for breakfast, ate the best <em>pad thai</em> I´ve ever had from a street stall and shopped till we dropped. By far the best thing we did was a half day vegetarian Thai cooking course, where we made ten dishes including the world’s best green curry. Every curry we’ve eaten since then has come up a loser against ours. <br />After our Bangkok experience the thought of an island getaway was enticing, and we’d had enough long train journeys in Italy to last a lifetime, so we went for the luxury option and caught a plane to Koh Samui and from there a ferry to the Browne and Holmes island of choice, Koh Pangan. It’s amazing, there’s nothing to do but eat, lie in a hammock, read, swim, play frisbee and basically reflect on how excellent your life must be to have ended up here.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-37016426080735605242007-12-14T07:18:00.000+11:002008-01-15T23:03:26.843+11:00Grand tour part 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzMkaER8R2lrJig1TXCzKnVin-7O4y-M1TXiyoBIqB4hOjsIBDSQasg9c987tb7IIAQd7NnKXLuq_GAbhWRz5cgEHek-Cb9M1iDTzaqlhudR4vFvrU9Xac33zeoKirqGYSEDm/s1600-h/DSCN2862.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzMkaER8R2lrJig1TXCzKnVin-7O4y-M1TXiyoBIqB4hOjsIBDSQasg9c987tb7IIAQd7NnKXLuq_GAbhWRz5cgEHek-Cb9M1iDTzaqlhudR4vFvrU9Xac33zeoKirqGYSEDm/s320/DSCN2862.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155672645116107362" /></a><br />As I write this, I'm sitting in a gorgeous hostel in Rome, in an elegant white entrance hall and I have the computer all to myself. It's been a week and half since we left Kiel and I'm still processing it all, so much so that I haven't really noticed all the places we've been, apart from having to order coffee in Italian. I think perhaps a week doing nothing in Kiel would have been the cheaper option but at least I have enjoyed the Grand Tour element, if only in passing. <br />We started in Vienna, where we were both so buggered after our move that the first two days we mostly slept, with the occasional trip to the shops for food (that was Simon's doing, I was too busy catching up on what felt like a month of sleep). Then it was another few days of kitsch Christmas markets and apple strudel, before we embarked on an overnight train to Sienna. Terrible idea, don't recommend it in the least. <br />The only redeeming feature was watching our fellow travellers enact a very funny Italian/Turkish panotmine which began with the Italian man coming into our compartment and placing his jacket lovingly down on the empty seat beside him, stroking it now and then and straightening out the fur collar, or his pants, or polo neck every five seconds or so. Then, at the next stop the Turkish (I'm guessing his nationality I must admit, but it was definitely more emotive and less Teutonic than we've been used to for a while) man launches himself into the ever-smaller compartment, causing Mr Italy to hurridly sweep up his beloved jacket. Mr Turkish ignores them both and begins energetically attempting to pull down the bed, also ignoring his Italian fellow traveller's attempts to illustrate that this was impossible without the conductor's magic key. He then, seemingly spontaneously having come to the idea that the conductor was neccesary, proceeded to fetch him and demand his bed be made available although it was only seven thirty at night. Once the bed was down, being a rather short man, he threw his luggage onto the rack, which only took about five goes and narrow misses of Mr Italy's jacket. The latter meanwhile, was making amazed gestures at me and speaking energetically to the conductor who was making simliar, aren't all foreigners crazy gestures back. Then Mr Italy dissappears for the rest of the night. I imagine the conversation went something like this:<br />Mr Italy: This man almost messed up my jacket!<br />Conductor: What!? NO, no no! This must not be! Why don't you just pop into one of the completely empty compartments next door? <br />Mr Italy: Yes, I will do that. These foreigners are crazy!<br /><br />Funnily enough, once he had settled down and the other bloke had gone away, Mr Turkey was quite friendly and let us watch movies one the laptop all night without bothering us. Maybe he did just object to the jacket.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-46023091806137509742007-11-19T08:19:00.000+11:002007-11-19T08:34:57.994+11:00Saying goodbyeA few shots from a small party we had to commemorate our leaving...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFyTtbJYob7HsQ7DkK5Rk5npmoNCpzvFZS3Ke9l86HtjUqTzCyqfGpa4-RASSKn-FXKzmFjFvMF1LkNoNSh97mdtMm3ZGpCLiAc7EVoQRPFSDr7h1oBIVMVUA3u9af8gv8g-l/s1600-h/HannaSimonParty+034.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFyTtbJYob7HsQ7DkK5Rk5npmoNCpzvFZS3Ke9l86HtjUqTzCyqfGpa4-RASSKn-FXKzmFjFvMF1LkNoNSh97mdtMm3ZGpCLiAc7EVoQRPFSDr7h1oBIVMVUA3u9af8gv8g-l/s320/HannaSimonParty+034.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134296448228693074" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil2XKhDfHHo2UUlnk1W1L6PtN1bbM8A3XCPTzbsKPFljTncbOkZyoDJHEoK9ziggL0GYTMau6z0HAM4vml_TP36OJuQlwWxkeWcNi59luqna3oipvvuh96DzUzrSYb86_X3Zhv/s1600-h/HannaSimonParty+021.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil2XKhDfHHo2UUlnk1W1L6PtN1bbM8A3XCPTzbsKPFljTncbOkZyoDJHEoK9ziggL0GYTMau6z0HAM4vml_TP36OJuQlwWxkeWcNi59luqna3oipvvuh96DzUzrSYb86_X3Zhv/s320/HannaSimonParty+021.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134295159738504226" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTfGzO1oZVjn_ZdCOxRRt71EsX6ojo3A82Znb2CBF-A6JXzQUj76nahj-Y2XXqoJDFPrf-r05uvAAV5QbH2hIb8MmG7wOxIVBQxkw7IA7OPAvD2KO5IqSab-WAKJwcg5W8dCdw/s1600-h/HannaSimonParty+020.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTfGzO1oZVjn_ZdCOxRRt71EsX6ojo3A82Znb2CBF-A6JXzQUj76nahj-Y2XXqoJDFPrf-r05uvAAV5QbH2hIb8MmG7wOxIVBQxkw7IA7OPAvD2KO5IqSab-WAKJwcg5W8dCdw/s320/HannaSimonParty+020.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134294833320989714" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3be9QIAa284n0KqEFPxiURj8QjW3bX7hrQhStlf9cE4JXeXc_VNEzwlvPgwY_kAXmfmyNlfhwT1hiPC1JaY93MHotYvj4H6H_Da79JIdCdHw8crwa2-4XxzNUd5srD1YPINi/s1600-h/HannaSimonParty+014.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3be9QIAa284n0KqEFPxiURj8QjW3bX7hrQhStlf9cE4JXeXc_VNEzwlvPgwY_kAXmfmyNlfhwT1hiPC1JaY93MHotYvj4H6H_Da79JIdCdHw8crwa2-4XxzNUd5srD1YPINi/s320/HannaSimonParty+014.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134294429594063874" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7vbFrjwXA27FzdQ29YPdHeLPeIuQ2kE4oXVOD5hyphenhyphenLCwhJK6izPlC4gvl62mvLX1IzL6e3IDZL3ifqOlgSPjZKvscvBY_QuHNuJLOV6FUIR2-yVcrSPCsRKhJkkoQT1veHhEI/s1600-h/HannaSimonParty+010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7vbFrjwXA27FzdQ29YPdHeLPeIuQ2kE4oXVOD5hyphenhyphenLCwhJK6izPlC4gvl62mvLX1IzL6e3IDZL3ifqOlgSPjZKvscvBY_QuHNuJLOV6FUIR2-yVcrSPCsRKhJkkoQT1veHhEI/s320/HannaSimonParty+010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134293836888577010" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeUYCporf7SA6ik0TXiTHNAlmSP8Wzn_0l5u1rMeWA9hSqnf54cSzeZQqEy64-dP6SYgXvtC1YCCAYa_Z8dJsfD3Oy-N2KAQshBCRdcTiKYz6UcnhG_NBPCrEszs99YsPuIFL/s1600-h/HannaSimonParty+032.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeUYCporf7SA6ik0TXiTHNAlmSP8Wzn_0l5u1rMeWA9hSqnf54cSzeZQqEy64-dP6SYgXvtC1YCCAYa_Z8dJsfD3Oy-N2KAQshBCRdcTiKYz6UcnhG_NBPCrEszs99YsPuIFL/s320/HannaSimonParty+032.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134296023026930754" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkr3eSdyLHjm0U42VRe_sPdSTgFxC4bzHOgO0Qjr-5cpfQbhgFmVpG1DHgk_9ADaHmteg5YX5tBnBsqW5uALIOxSefQA2_xiYTOV5r4ipc5TELGYU0KDaOmx1gSzQ4aPzLs4E/s1600-h/HannaSimonParty+025.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYkr3eSdyLHjm0U42VRe_sPdSTgFxC4bzHOgO0Qjr-5cpfQbhgFmVpG1DHgk_9ADaHmteg5YX5tBnBsqW5uALIOxSefQA2_xiYTOV5r4ipc5TELGYU0KDaOmx1gSzQ4aPzLs4E/s320/HannaSimonParty+025.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134295584940266546" /></a>Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-39672146296126141092007-11-18T06:31:00.000+11:002007-11-18T06:34:42.271+11:00Action shot<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqo_-twnC1As8lxZtf0F6skY-IaQdaR8rcIUu2iTyx0kONUG6q10aPNUON3qMgvl3JdkLoz0wX06UAqk7Jj35IKLC_a0qErg6fhMDox6ol-ciNkAWzC_pKIvkeiaY7ai9Z4nA1/s1600-h/Kegeln+024.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqo_-twnC1As8lxZtf0F6skY-IaQdaR8rcIUu2iTyx0kONUG6q10aPNUON3qMgvl3JdkLoz0wX06UAqk7Jj35IKLC_a0qErg6fhMDox6ol-ciNkAWzC_pKIvkeiaY7ai9Z4nA1/s320/Kegeln+024.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133894916031157218" /></a><br />Our farewell event with our five flatmates was an evening of skittles, which I've taken to like a duck to water, as you can see from this shot.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-3851921328912122402007-11-13T18:31:00.000+11:002007-11-13T19:07:11.248+11:00A goose a dayOn Sunday it was Saint Martin's Day in Germany (possibly in other places as well) so we did the traditional thing and went to eat goose with my family. Or, to be more exact, watched them eat goose, with brussel sprouts, red cabbage and dumplings. Apparently the story comes from the fact that, when the people wanted to make Martin a bishop, he was so shy he hid himself in a goose stall. But the geese kicked up a fit and they found him and made him bishop. Which makes it, in my humble opinion, rather unchristian that you have to eat goose on Martins Day. But there you have it. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-a4-q0co7evtv3xkrlSGa6xwMD4Otq22G3mn2EUmKW4QWXwgIcuk_SOIIxjmRVk5aokEvswfKbX2mwimEsECZQfyf06-b6X80vKi9XQQasn9dZJ8wsvuw5E94NgipYbhc5KR/s1600-h/DSCN2614.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132225912575576946 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-a4-q0co7evtv3xkrlSGa6xwMD4Otq22G3mn2EUmKW4QWXwgIcuk_SOIIxjmRVk5aokEvswfKbX2mwimEsECZQfyf06-b6X80vKi9XQQasn9dZJ8wsvuw5E94NgipYbhc5KR/s320/DSCN2614.JPG" border=0></A> <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZe1NqBPCWDMYU4LomEhvHiL3zRgV07B6CVfg_5lb0xiGwAxJNw88_JQaJsaXaeEIw_MPp6kUtxtringOBP3njXtvbGr-zJATMi1MG_B8voEaX3OfjatOddcTGBrTzbXQPvsPO/s1600-h/DSCN2600.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132225620517800802 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZe1NqBPCWDMYU4LomEhvHiL3zRgV07B6CVfg_5lb0xiGwAxJNw88_JQaJsaXaeEIw_MPp6kUtxtringOBP3njXtvbGr-zJATMi1MG_B8voEaX3OfjatOddcTGBrTzbXQPvsPO/s320/DSCN2600.JPG" border=0></A> <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiFrGl-ND0MtDU3U2HAQEFTX5Dx2oSAnzsp6MgDJFi_EMYNnGeEbmMQG6jdY_b_1O_wCgDxKYlTJtnmIAoaUN5sDX7BkPVPjgDWsKO64DCCAvDUHStvqxIKpkEK7BRhvm6eFWG/s1600-h/DSCN2618.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132226221813222274 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiFrGl-ND0MtDU3U2HAQEFTX5Dx2oSAnzsp6MgDJFi_EMYNnGeEbmMQG6jdY_b_1O_wCgDxKYlTJtnmIAoaUN5sDX7BkPVPjgDWsKO64DCCAvDUHStvqxIKpkEK7BRhvm6eFWG/s320/DSCN2618.JPG" border=0></A>Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-6866850931542789902007-11-13T18:23:00.000+11:002007-11-13T19:07:59.989+11:00Random acts of meannessIn all the recent excitement of telling everyone we're leaving, receiving gifts and guilt galore from students and packing up my life of the last two years, I haven't really taken the time to reminisce about the things I won't miss about the lovely city of Kiel. So here I go:<br /><br />On the weekend I was running late and jogged across the (deserted) road on the red and two young whippersnappers on bikes yelled at me to the tune of: <em>Oi! Don't you know it's forbidden to cross on the red!</em> Little tykes.<br /><br />One morning last week riding to work in the early morning darkness with a broken headlight I rode past a lady on a bike who yelled after me once I was safely past her: <em>Where's your light?</em> Lovely way to start the day, I always think.<br /><br />Mind you, there's a certain smugness one can assume when living in another culture which is much more socially acceptable than being smug about how crap your own culture is that I will also miss. Complaining about how the Germans complain all the time has become a favorite pastime, and it just won't have the same ring to it back home. I may well be faced with the question: well, why did you go there, if it was so bad? Which just misses the point completely.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-34580208085196602112007-11-02T19:30:00.000+11:002007-11-02T19:47:52.335+11:00Winter blues<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Z6kDrdNxcv2g31WA8adRCia6CPgZbGGMrpflrtwf45AM2vByT5aDKSXxVna6-1gWiZAnnqiggFE-T86AZT05GkZT-AFBAkcOjRM4HR6AKVoAeitsmQFKf0lylN1GlMCzq68w/s1600-h/DSCN2550.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Z6kDrdNxcv2g31WA8adRCia6CPgZbGGMrpflrtwf45AM2vByT5aDKSXxVna6-1gWiZAnnqiggFE-T86AZT05GkZT-AFBAkcOjRM4HR6AKVoAeitsmQFKf0lylN1GlMCzq68w/s320/DSCN2550.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128161791318944610" /></a><br />It's that time again in Kiel, the dark creeps in at four thirty, the days aren't really light and it drizzles all day without stopping. It's enough to make me want to leave. Which is convenient, since I am.<br />It's quite amazing really, I've been here for two years, met different people, taught numerous students, travelled around (not enough of course), sprained my ankle twice, lived in three houses and now I'm heading off home. Incredible how much you can experience in a small town on the Baltic Sea.<br />The reaction among my students has been shock and disbelief, and I've been asked what it would take to make me stay. If I knew the answer to that question I'd be sitting on a mountain somewhere, dolling out wisdom. But I don't say that, I say that it's time to reconnect, it's time to be in Australia and see my people. Maybe that's the real answer after all.<br />I will miss lots of things, the transient lifestyle of living with other people's furniture and cookware, the excitement of fulfilling the most mundane task (I rang the real estate agent!), the fresh bread available everywhere, the changing of the seasons from winter iciness to spring flowers to lazy summer to the colours of autumn. I'll miss speaking another language, learning new words and expressions, discussing cultural differences endlessly. I`ll miss dressing up. I`ll miss riding my bike to work, and everywhere else. I`ll miss the cheese and the beer.<br />But this is life after all, changing, moving on. The Sydney I go back to is not the town I left, and neither will Kiel be the same if I ever come back for a visit. Nothing stays the same, everything changes. Not even the most powerful people on the planet can change that.Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16617430.post-45371527828912421582007-10-14T23:36:00.000+10:002007-10-14T23:53:27.634+10:00I heart Autumn<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjps1i3IbvSatrSmYZaUXghY15Iv8uX_Pe6nsLHe01xVinwcuNpr1CUCJsc2LEyIaDKXyC5REvTiXybrmJIAEj8HyceWX8snM2v-Q5EMkRamN0qqfE5j5yQ0eKMiGT0rfG_8lFV/s1600-h/DSCN2538.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjps1i3IbvSatrSmYZaUXghY15Iv8uX_Pe6nsLHe01xVinwcuNpr1CUCJsc2LEyIaDKXyC5REvTiXybrmJIAEj8HyceWX8snM2v-Q5EMkRamN0qqfE5j5yQ0eKMiGT0rfG_8lFV/s320/DSCN2538.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121188232016775954" /></a><br /><br /> At Laboe...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizmXBWW2YO7oTILSL-aSyLfhUzpJkokG2ORfr8Hz6YsDuxNwpE2Bz9Qktoddg0mfQaibmKxEVEy2XYAP94y4HwB4Br9poiFDN_CSwZMhxzHv3HJaQwOD_Q8xD0yyUTkjZavWs/s1600-h/DSCN2539.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizmXBWW2YO7oTILSL-aSyLfhUzpJkokG2ORfr8Hz6YsDuxNwpE2Bz9Qktoddg0mfQaibmKxEVEy2XYAP94y4HwB4Br9poiFDN_CSwZMhxzHv3HJaQwOD_Q8xD0yyUTkjZavWs/s320/DSCN2539.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121188897736706850" /></a><br /><br />...the only beach I know to have a submarine for tourists to go in on it.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsaCodNDYaQMShtZUNHVMccSLT_wYLQ_2vvq0kIubo5bWaJaxvIueDcCP5FHRTOkDtbNpxKn5Nfr4eyVA8edSNDxx_jHVZVwC_XSW2hQTpJFE-CKIn8KcKxdXTrVfrq7Gl3C2b/s1600-h/DSCN2525.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsaCodNDYaQMShtZUNHVMccSLT_wYLQ_2vvq0kIubo5bWaJaxvIueDcCP5FHRTOkDtbNpxKn5Nfr4eyVA8edSNDxx_jHVZVwC_XSW2hQTpJFE-CKIn8KcKxdXTrVfrq7Gl3C2b/s320/DSCN2525.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121187768160307970" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBACo3YdDqVAErVsD6hnKLb4eYTlch0tsOZH2I6mpjZGaIVX6JVj1wwzhWpO-yRUnbgqtEuakfKPfa0vhX0JEgoOtW8iQQAeXGrswmLiH0ReEm1mbLyAEU9PdWvLtIF2HYg_A/s1600-h/DSCN2519.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBACo3YdDqVAErVsD6hnKLb4eYTlch0tsOZH2I6mpjZGaIVX6JVj1wwzhWpO-yRUnbgqtEuakfKPfa0vhX0JEgoOtW8iQQAeXGrswmLiH0ReEm1mbLyAEU9PdWvLtIF2HYg_A/s320/DSCN2519.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121187411678022386" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyb2z-R3DHeF4jdSzDSrvjtobEE7flE4a-xfm1O1tTxEK-zFVO_PTvCNVik8TWsH0OPP8iOzeg5w6zEwmJYUHKDUs82Lszz-06h-detcLuyKxlZBuBoDkCC5W0oGsHfolzIE9/s1600-h/DSCN2497.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyb2z-R3DHeF4jdSzDSrvjtobEE7flE4a-xfm1O1tTxEK-zFVO_PTvCNVik8TWsH0OPP8iOzeg5w6zEwmJYUHKDUs82Lszz-06h-detcLuyKxlZBuBoDkCC5W0oGsHfolzIE9/s320/DSCN2497.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121186698713451234" /></a><br /><br />This weekend has been glorious - sunny and still with the blue skies contrasting nicely with the red, orange and brown leaves which meander gently to the ground all over the city. We went to the beach yesterday and enjoyed what will certainly be the last rays of sun in Kiel this year (prove me wrong Kiel, prove me wrong)...Torshyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09619345210034606549noreply@blogger.com0