mánudagur, nóvember 17, 2008

A few things I've learned (but do not hate!) about the Bordelais

1. The women never, EVER seem to be cold.
When I leave the house in the morning to go to school, dressed in every single piece of clothing I have yet feeling so cold that I mentally kick myself for not having turned my duvet into an avant-garde parka, I pass the french mademoiselles wearing miniskirts and T-shirts, nonchalantly smoking a Gaulois as if we were on Copacabana beach instead of (from my point of view in any case) the North Pole that is Bordeaux in winter.
I just don't know how they do it.

2. Politeness is just another useless invention of the English speaking world,
along with Marmite and spray-on cheese. The same goes for the phrases excuse me, I'm sorry, and is that YOUR foot I'm standing on?

3. The beggars ask for your little finger, and become almost indignant when you don't offer your whole hand and both legs as well.
I try as often as possible to give a little something, even though (given the end-of-the-world situation in Iceland) the only thing that separates me from them is a truckload of schoolbooks. But no matter how much I give, they always turn sour when they see that I haven't slipped car keys or a check that would put Ed McMahon to shame into their bowl.
Some people are just impossible to please.

4. They've all got an impressive réseau, and they're not afraid to use it.
Réseau would translate as "klika" in Icelandic or "network" in English, and is taken advantage of in every aspect of life. So it is merely a matter of who you know whether you get elected president, find a job or get to eat in the university canteen.
It often seems to me that the only people standing in line, waiting to be fed in the canteen are me and the rest of the foreigners at D.E.F.L.E.
The French just do a "réseau".

5. Once a Bordelais steps on the tram, that is it. He/she doesn't budge for the rest of the journey.
Which is why, at rush hour, it is not uncommon to see huddled around the entrances of the tram about a hundred people or so in a tight bundle as if trying to start some kind of a vertical orgy. A few steps further away from the doors, a few forlorn souls stretch their legs comfortably in an area intially destined for the "entrance-lovers".
I don't know the reason for this, the French do like intimacy though, but my theory is that everyone stays close to the entrance to be able to escape quickly when the ticket controllers arrive, because everybody's too cheap to buy a ticket.
Which is exactly why I join the vertical orgy each morning myself...

6. E-mail for the Bordelais is what the electric foot massage machine was for the Icelanders.
Everybody's got one, but nobody seems to know how to use it.

7. "Sure I'll call you back, don't worry," really means "Maybe in the next life, you gullible fool." I think I prefer direct insults à la Scandinave, thank you very much.

8. Bordeaux is the capital of paradox when it comes to the women.
In Bordeaux you will find hordes of the world's most beautiful women. With their white teeth, immaculate skin, slender physique and legs as long as Iceland's road to recovery, these graceful gazelles smoke like chimneys, eat more sweets than a tribe of Cookie Monsters and their consumption of saturated fats keeps the cardiology doctors in the South-West busy as.
Again, I just don't know how they do it.

9. Their love for paperwork almost exceeds their love for the country.
The Bordelais are never happier than when they can throw in your face a dozen pages for you til fill out, attestations to sign, permits to get from abroad and photocopies of your parent's will, even if all you wanted was to get a haircut or a student discount at the movies.
After having provided all the information needed and given it to them, they look at you with a smug smile and tell you that it will take a few days for them to "reflect a little" and take long lunch breaks while they're at it. How I miss the good ol' spit n' shake hands method of Australia!

10. People are wrong when they say that the French don't eat in between meals.
In Bordeaux, they snack on each other's faces.

11. Today is a gift - that's why they call it the présent.
This is the motto of the Bordelais, as it is evident that they try to make the most of each day and enjoy life to the fullest. Everywhere you lookyou see happy couples attempting to eat each other at the train stop, old men outside a café loudly discussing politics and slowly sealing their destinies with filterless cigarettes, old ladies hand in hand choosing the fattiest steak or the bloodiest brain at the butcher's, in short, people taking pleasure in every day life and what ever the everyday life has to offer, exciting or not.

All of this has grown on me and I've come to admire. Although there are certain things that the Bordelais can keep to themselves (like blowing one's nose in public and then examining the results as if it were the numbers of tonight's lottery), I think the Icelanders could learn a lot from them. Public toilets free of charge and red wine and cheeses in the IKEA canteen would be a good place to start!

If inspiration seeks me out again, then I will continue in the same manner with A few things I've learned about Icelanders during my exile. So stay tuned....

Over and out,
Good Run

mánudagur, nóvember 10, 2008

Jaeja, thetta var prufubloggid. Ef eg thyrfti ekki ad laera til ad bjarga lifi minu myndi eg opna hjarta mitt en thad verdur ad bida aaaaaaadeins lengur....

laugardagur, janúar 27, 2007

Nú ætla ég sko ekki að drekka þangað til næst....

föstudagur, desember 08, 2006

Eftir fimm daga verd eg ad segja bless vid unadslandid Astraliu og koma heim i raunveruleikann og laera ad verda edlilegur samfelagsthegn aftur sem kemst ekki upp med hluti bara af thvi ad hann talar med skrytnum hreim, og laera ad tala edlilega upp a nytt an thess ad stytta hvert einasta ord thvi allir vita ju ad "the more you talk - the less you drink". Eg tharf ad kvedja vini og astarthraela fra ollum heiminum, borda Vegemite i sidasta skipti, hanga a strondinni an thess ad svo mikid sem dyfa storutanni i sjoinn eins og sonnum Astrala saemir, og lauma ut ur mer seinustu aulabrondurunum. Nu er sa timi kominn ad eg tharf ad koma thvi i not sem eg hef laert a besta ari lifs mins, sem er svo miklu meira en bara thad ad blanda aldrei saman bjor og blaki. Eg tharf ad fara ad lifa lifinu eins og fullordinn einstaklingur, og vera systkinum minum god fyrirmynd, tho ad althjod viti ad thau seu longu farin i hundana. Svo tharf eg ad flika nyfundnum haefileikum minum i thvi ad hlaeja og grata i senn og fara aftur ad ganga i sokkum og pakka nidur sandolunum minum. Eg tharf ad fara ad vinna aftur, skrifa ritgerdir, borda plokkfisk og keyra eins og sjotugur sjoraeningi med glaku eftir tiu manudi a stad thar sem allir keyra ofugu megin a veginum.
En mikid fjari hlakka eg til.

Bless bless Astralia, og eg hlakka til ad sja thig aftur.
Gudrun Vidforla

sunnudagur, nóvember 19, 2006

Astralia er storhaettulegt land.
Her finnast haettulegustu slongur i heimi, haettulegustu kongulaer i heimi (sem eru a staerd vid tituprjonshaus, hafast oft vid innandyra og hafa gaman af fotleggjum svo ad sturtuferdir hja mer minna helst a steppdanstima a heitum kolum af otta vid ad koma heim i likpoka med nafnspjald um storu tanna) og leidinlegustu skolastjora i heimi. Svo a madur alltaf a haettu a ad deyja ur solbruna og vatnsskorti (og leidindum ef ad thu byrd hja fyrri fosturfjolskyldunni minni). Ef ad ekkert af ofantoldu hefur gomad thig, tha hlakka krokodilarnir og hakarlarnir til ad laesa tonnunum um thig thegar thu svamlar ut a olduhafid til theirra a brimbretti eins og heimsend pitsa.
En thad er einn fugl a Regent Street West sem gefur frat i allar haettur heimalands sins. I huga thess fugls er adeins ein ogn sem stedjar ad honum, og henni verdur ad tortima. Thessi ogn er eg.

Fra thvi eg vard nogu stor til ad fara i slag vid systkini min (og vinna) hef eg alltaf verid mikill fuglavinur. Frost er Uti Fuglinn Minn kom alltaf ut a mer tarunum og eg eignadist fjoldamarga ovini a theim arum thegar eg stod i theirri herferd ad frelsa alla pafagauka a Storreykjavikursvaedinu ur prisundum sinum. Svo hef eg um langt skeid reynt ad fa mommu til thess ad kaupa Hamingjuegg i stadinn fyrir Ohamingjuegg, tho ad mig gruni sterklega ad haenugreyjunum se nakvaemlega sama hvort burin theirra seu byggd af hippum med ast og ur lifraenum hraefnum eda ur stali og heyi. Thess vegna hef eg alltaf gengid fram hja trenu thar sem fugl thessi hefur byggt ser hreidur a 40 ara lanum til ad stofna fjolskyldu med lotningu. En thad stodar ekki neitt thvi fuglsfjandinn heldur thvi stadfastlega fram ad eg hafi skorad a hann i heilagt strid og hann thekkir ekki muninn a skolabuningnum minum og sjalfsmordsprengju, svo ad i hvert skipti sem eg og fostursystir lobbum i sakleysi okkar i skolann bidur fugl daudans eftir thvi ad komast i skotfaeri og laesa klonum i harid a renglulegum skiptinematitt og koma honum fyrir kattarnef svo heimurinn geti andad lettar. Thar sem fostursystur minni er sidur en svo skemmt thegar eg hleyp undan hrinunum bolvandi a tveimur tungumalum og veifandi hondunum eins og eg aetli mer ad takast a loft og gjalda fuglsfiflinu i somu mynt hofum vid thurft ad skiptast a thvi ad thykjast thjast af gigt og lomunarveiki til thess ad fosturmamma keyri okkur alla 100 metrana i skolann.

Eins og eg er nu annars fridelskandi manneskja (thegar eg er sofandi eda nidri i lest i Herjolfi) tha thydir thetta ad sjalfsogdu ekkert annad en strid. Fyrir sakir barattu minnar til ad syna fuglinum hvarDavid keypti olid hef eg utbuid mer brynju ur koddum og laufblodum (til ad falla inni umhverfid betur) og hef sparad partipeningana mina i dagodan tima til ad geta mutad fostursystur til ad fara sem beita inn i greni ovinarins og halda athygli hans medan eg laet til skarar skrida. Osama og eg yrdum orugglega agaetis kumpanar...
Fra thvi fuglinn hof sitt personulega "War against terrorism" hefur kjuklingakjot aldrei bragdast jafn vel, og thad naestum hlakkar i mer i hvert skipti sem eg fae mer hardsodid egg. Fuglavinatta min er lidin tid og eg held eg skelli mer a fjoll i rjupnaskytteri thegar eg kem heim.

Rumar thrjar vikur og tha kemst eg heim. Eg attadi mig ekki a thvi hversu nalaegur Islandsdraumurinn er fyrr en eg hitti hann pabba minn a flugvellinum i Perth, en tha komst eg lika ad thvi ad eg get skellihlegid og hagratid a sama tima. Aetli eg geti tha lika sleikt a mer olnbogann?

Eg er farin ad ga,
Gudrun Spoaleggur

föstudagur, október 27, 2006

Jaeja, lent fyrir tveim vikum aftur i Perth eftir ad hafa verid aelandi a Taelandi (matareitrun er heitt trend thessa dagana) og mer dettur ekki i hug ad skrifa nidur ferdasoguna. Thad er tha bara haegt ad spyrja hvernig heilsodin kjuklingainnyfli smakkast eda hvort ad kynskiptingakabarettinn hafi i raun og veru verid fullur af fyrrverandi karlmonnum, ekki bara ljotum konum (vid thvi er svarid thvert ja, silikonbrjost i hokuhaed fela thad sko ekki hvad thid erud dimmraddadir strakar minir.....eda....stelpur minar?).

I stadinn aetla eg ad skrifa um vikuna i Hell's Kitchen, thegar eg for i sakleysi minu til ad vinna a Fraser's Restaurant i bodi Work Experience i Perth College.
Work Experience er ein vika thar sem thu getur farid ad vinna (launalaust thvi midur) vid thad sem thu gaetir hugsad ther ad gera i framtidinni (eg sa tharna taekifaeri til ad gantast sma i skolanum og spyrjast fyrir um hentugar strippbullur og leigumordingjasamtok en tokst med naumindum ad lata thad eiga sig, minnug fyrri reynslu med oborganlega fyndni mina) i eina viku.
Eg sa starf a Fraser's fyrir mer i stjarnfraedilegum hillingum, eg myndi strax a fyrsta degi verda sett i ad reida fram kras eftir kras, fengi kokkahufu eins og Herastubbur bakari i Dyrunum i Halsaskogi, og gefid god rad um hvada vin faeri nu best med snoggsteikta kenguruheilanum.
En thad er ekki alltaf allt eins og i imyndunaraflinu.
Thegar eg steig faeti inn i eldhusid var eg ekki viss hvort eg vaeri stodd a sjoarakra i York a 18. old, eda a arsfundi Tourette-samtakanna. Um golf gengu tattuveradir kokkar bolvandi og ragnandi svo ofrynilegir ad their hefdu gert islensku jolasveinana atvinnulausa a einu bretti, og eg matti verjast thvi hatrammlega ad enda ekki med sleif trodid upp i heilabuid thvi yfirkokkurinn var ekki buinn ad fa (nu yki eg i engu, og a eg tho til ad vera verri en 13 ara gelgja a ircinu) kokopoffsid sitt.
Thad tharf liklegast ekki ad spyrja ad thvi ad eg fekk hvorki kokkahufuna ne raudvinsradgjafastoduna, thvi eftir ad yfirkokkurinn hafdi maelt mig ut og komist ad theirri nidurstodu ad eg vaeri ekki efni i hjasofelsi setti hann mig i uppvaskid. Svo ad i heila viku i 7 klukkutima a dag matti eg hima uti i horni og "faegja" hnifapor (thvi a finum veitingastodum er algjort tabu ad segja "thurrka upp") fyrir utan tvo eda thrju skipti thegar eg matti saekja kaffi handa kokkunum sem gleymdu hvad eg het adur en eg kynnti mig. Thjonarnir heldu vart vatni yfir thvi ad geta loksins hunsad sjalfir i stad thess ad vera hunsadir og thad var med bros ut ad eyrum sem their stigu a taernar a mer og misstu heyrnina thegar eg reyndi ad stofna til samraedna og misstu sjonina thegar eg vippadi mer upp a bord og skok mjadmirnar eggjandi (eg gerdi thad reyndar ekki, en eg komst ansi nalaegt thvi i orvaentingu minni).

Ljosi punkturinn er tho ad eg laerdi margt a thessari viku og get nu m.a. stadfest thad sem allir ottast thegar their fara a veitingastad og senda til baka mat sem their eru oanaegdir med, ad kokkarnir hika ekki vid ad hraekja i matinn ef thu dirfist ad kvarta og ef ad kvortunin er ekki ad theirra skapi tha er ther uthlutadur hnerraeftirrettur i bodi hussins.
Eg laerdi thad lika ad borda alltaf heima hja mer, eg er nokkud vongod um ad mamma hafi latid thad eiga sig hingad til ad setja sitt eigid personulegt mark a kvoldmatinn....
Svo held eg ad eg verdi barasta ruslakall. Eg hef ekki nogu virka hrakakirtla til ad verda kokkur.

Sjaumst eftir 13. desember klukkan 16:00 a Keflavikurflugvelli,
Gudrun ruslataeknir

mánudagur, október 16, 2006

Mikid ertu taelandi...varstu i Taelandi?