Great Ocean road

Wow, many times wow, at every stop, at every bent, at every lookout point.
Watching cliffs sculptured by the waves and the winds during millennia can be breathtaking. The Arch, the London bridge (fallen down, fallen down), the Loch Ard gorge where ships used to wreak in the 19 century and the amazing 12 Apostles (which are not really apostles and not even 12, but after all, it does not matter).

This must be quintessential Australian. A beautiful landscape, tough natural evolution, strong sunshine (burning despite the chilly wind), large beaches with huge waves and blond surfers, long roads and kangaroo/koala warnings all along.

Carcasses of several kangaroos killed in road accidents are testimony that those warnings are not unnecessary. But luckily the forest along the lighthouse road is great for koala spotting: sweet koalas clinging on eucalyptus branches, trying to grab some of those yummy (?) leaves are very rewarding for the sun-burnt travellers.

A walk on the beach at sunset, a nice dinner in a restaurant overlooking the shores, a short walk to the lighthouse split-point. Anything would do today. Anything on this road will be right to keep the magic going. What a glorious end of the year.

So this is Christmas?

So many times we hear people having troubles coping with Christmas, because of lack of time to buy all the presents or because of sadness for the lost childhood happiness of this time of the year. Or perhaps because the whole world is upside down and things seem completely out of tune.

Imagine a huge Christmas tree in the main square of a town, when outside is 32 degrees and you are sweating every minute of the day, unless you are swimming in crystal clear water at 28 degrees with a bunch of clown fishes - and jelly fishes.

Imagine it is Christmas eve in a frontier town: 20.000 inhabitants and 50.000 snakes, bars close at 6, one restaurant remains exceptionally open until 9, there is no place to go before the midnight mass and you should probably not go anyway because it is highly recommended not to stay out in the streets at night. And you are sweating again.

Imagine it is 45 degrees Celsius now, in a splendidly red desert, there is a swimming pool with palm trees and a receptionist offering you some chocolate:
"oh, thanks, this is so sweet of you"
"no, it is Christmas".

Imagine Santa coming in many different forms: as a scarecrow carrying the just harvested hay or - rather obviously - on a surf board or on a SUV disguised as a reindeer with a red nose.

Imagine still to catch a plane around noon and have your Christmas lunch 10.000 mt high. And lunch is a frozen chicken sandwich. And imagine you finally land, it is 25 degrees (and you are complaining) and at last you can sit in a normal restaurant - the only one open in town - and order a typical - which you never ever had before - Christmas lunch: stuffed turkey and Christmas pudding.

Merry Christmas down under!

In the outback

A very young country lying on the oldest of the continents. A land of extremes. Extreme rainfall - which locals measure in metres, not millimitres - giving rise to rain forests, huge palms trees, long rivers and billabongs populated by unusual birds, colourful butterflies and hungry crocodiles. And extreme heat, with temperatures jumping "up to ridiculous" - said the driver pointing at the 45 degrees on the termometre - home to stunning many-million-year old monoliths, snakes, lizards and pesky flies.

Life in the outback is extreme as well. No phone connection, limited water supply, long distances and all sort of threats, from venomous snakes to floods, from isolation to heat strokes. Still, people come here: ranger posts, cattle farms, national parks shops and services. Doctors here come by airplane and there are sandy red runways in the middle of a semi-desert land. Children, used to interact only with adults, go to a virtual school in a classroom of a few thousand square km. The definition of friendliness here has a no-nonsense nuance which sets it quite apart from the east-coast laid back attitude.

Never mind decades of explorations and modern life. The dangerous fascination this frontier land exercise on human spirit is still intact.

In the land of Anbangbang

Where are you waiting for the Mayan end of the world today? We chose Kakadu park. It feels already like the end of the world anyway. The driver said 800 km to drive in a park of 20.000 kmq.

Light rain today and long straight roads through Aboriginal land. Long lonely highways, north to south and east to west. In a couple of weeks these roads will not exist any longer, covered by 2 metres of water fallen from the sky. We are just at the edge of the inevitable.

Kakadu is not like the Daintree rainforest and has none of its giant trees, but this is Crocodile Dundee's land, so watch out for crocs and Aborigines.

Crocodiles are big, smart and dangerous and you are part of the food chain here. Crocodiles have sensors to detect movement, they swim under water with not a single wave on the surface, they can jump out of the water in no time and grab an arm or a leg of yours. But no worries, a croc stomach fills up with just about an arm, so it will not eat the whole of you. It will simply kill you, eat a bit and leave your body floating on the murky waters for other crocs to also have a go at you.

Aborigines had a hard time with the white man, his guns, booze and germs. And with his rule of law, not recognizing their properties or citizenship rights for longtime. Aborigines tell stories. They painted them on their rocks for millennia, now they paint on items for sale. Then they tell stories on what those paintings mean, different stories to children, to adults, to whites. Maybe they take us all for a ride.

A bit like our blue eyed, sun tanned, sharp tongue driver guide going by the name of Matt.

G'day mate, welcome to Cairns

Landed. Australia it is, finally. It is 5 am and the jet lag is killing but that was the deal, mate.
First encounter with Australian culture: espresso is 'short black', latte is 'flat white'. Easy concepts. Pretty pragmatic those Aussies.
Why a short black should cost 4 or 5 dollars is not as easy to understand though.

It is 30 degrees C out there and there is a Christmas tree in the hotel lobby. Indeed, it does feel kind of awkward. But the Great Barrier Reef is just a boat ride away, so forget your Mariah Carey and all she wants for Christmas on air, get your boat ticket and go swim with the fishes in those warm crystal clear waters: clownfishes are waiting for you. So is the scooba doo diving experience, a Chinese favourite apparently, but it is not extremely difficult to lure a couple of European hopefuls - hopefools? - into trying it. Yes, it is kitsch; yes, it is overpriced; yes, you are going down a mere 4 metres. Still, try to go from aquafobia to 4 metres under water and then we talk again.

A few kilometres away, "where the great barrier reef and the rainforest meet", lies another stunning display of natural beauty: the Daintree rainforest, home to tall trees, lianas, millennia-old plants and lizards who do not need sun to warm up. And to those beautiful giant blue butterflies you may have seen only in cartoons before.

But the Australian day finishes early. At 6 pm everybody is already busy with dinner. What better way to close the day with a kangaroo steak or some kanga banga sausages grilled on the barbecue facilities freely available in the city park? Admittedly, you are going to feel a little guilty later on, when you meet those cute kangaroos that love you at first sight (of the apple and carrot slices you are handing them) and try to hug you tight (to grab the can of fruit you are holding).

Tokyo time

A long flight, fast-forwarding through the day towards a sleepless night in Economy class and Tokyo welcomes us, jet lagged and all, but with about 30 hours to invest.

Funny sights all around: all these young girls and boys in school uniform like the in the cartoons from our childhood, the manga characters all over the city, the extreme politeness of formalities and bows, the extreme complexity of the massive subway network.

The first day is dominated by sleeping: resisting the urge to jump in a proper bed while taking advantage of every occasion to close your eyes for 15 minutes. It did not take us long to realise that the Japanese seem to have mastered the fine art of power napping during their long subway rides and we are very happy to copy such good habits while crossing the city from Shinjuku station to the Asakusa temple, from the 600 mt tall Skytree tower to busy Shibuya area.

The other undisputed protagonist of this day and half is fish. Excellent sushi at no-midori restaurant for dinner, followed by alarm clock at 4 am local time to reach the fish market for a rich sashimi breakfast of amazing tuna of 3 different types.

And endless queuing. To buy coffee, to get into the restaurant, for admission to the Skytree, to take the elevator, to enter the metro, to take a picture of the temple, to get money from an ATM. Closing our stay with a long queue at the check-in desk of Jetstar Airways is the minimum to keep up with the style.

Good bye Japan, next stop: summertime.

26

Life at 26 was really cool: travels, friends, experiences. Great memories.

Life on the 26th, in my new office high up the tower is not too bad either.
After three weeks, the amazement continues at the great views of a clear day, a red sunset, or the urban beauty of the city lights at night.

They say: you will get used to it and soon you will not notice any longer.
But what do they know, all these people sitting on the 4th floor?

Oh yes, life with 26 (Celsius) would also do the trick.

Blind optimism

A red explosion, a shining orange spot and everything else turning pink and blue.
A lonely bird slowly gliding westwards.

Never mind I had to wake up early today. Never mind I spilled the coffee and burned the milk. It will be a good day.

A small town

There is a place - far away - where you are not supposed to walk, not even for short distances. And the most you may ever need to walk there is probably 800 metres.

If you walk, you will enjoy it, until some stranger will inevitably offer you a lift - for they will know where you are going anyway. You may have to make up an excuse to decline the offer of borrowing someone's car altogether.

And it is not just about the car. In that place, everyday someone will want to offer you a coffee, a drink or a bite. And you are not supposed to decline, lest get people offended.

It is funny, because in that place you can walk alone at dusk on a dark road leading to the cemetery without feeling any kind of fear.

Nor will you fear driving all alone in complete darkness across desolated crop fields, occasionally letting the engine die at a steep bent while staring at the moonlight shadows. Even storms and winds are somehow reassuring sounds there.

And life passes between running away from there and waiting to go back again.

Let it shine, just one more time

 St. Martin's summer coming earlier due to the latitude? Veering winds? Gobal warming? Whatever, it was a great October day. 

On a busy working day, obviously. Just like a free ride when you've already paid.

Idyllic also the park and not crowded like in the "real" summer (note for the reader: real summer in Brussels = towards end July, after weeks of rain and 15 °C max, one afternoon the sky suddenly turns blue, the city starts smiling and despite the grass is still wet everyone feels compelled to go to the park and sit in the sun, possibly with some sun screen just to be safe - as if the sun up here would actually tan you)

A solitary nun, a few single parents with their babies, some teen-age couples on the grass, two secret lovers kissing in the shadow of a tree - too much passion to be legitimate.

And the leaves that kept falling.

Tomorrow it will already be -1 °C, soon there will be no more leaves and no more lovers in the park. 

Where will I be then? Maybe in a place where the sun shines. Just one more time

A bit short and dark they are

It must have something to do with getting older.

I am walking these streets with this complacent smile on my face, thinking: "Oh, how nice going back to a know place, a place enjoyed already some time ago, a place whose streets and shops feel vaguely familiar and at the same time, not quite so".


And memories come back all the way.
Memories of climbing the Bastion or walking along the beach with an already very ill but stubbornly fighting mum. Or memories of sweating all the way to the faculty building on a hot July day to talk for four full hours about competition law. And memories of that good restaurant close to the Tower of the Elephant which I discovered, by chance, with my friends.

Good, let's try to find again that great restaurant.

As tradition has it, as in the Old City in Jerusalem, as every time I go back to a place I think I know, once again I turn right instead of left when I am just few metres away and end up going in circles for an hour. Typical, no surprises here. Surprise was that "my" restaurant did not have on the menu that wonderful fish tartare any longer.

But a few new things added to my rucksack: fregola and Cannonau wine at restaurant Sa Piola, coffee at one of the terraces in Via Savoia, elevator up to the Bastion.

Yes, I am still here and already looking forward to the next teaching invitation.

Good riddance

There is something special about September lately.

I have seen people for whom it is like a new spring, their coming back to life, full of energy, ready to conquer the world.
I have seen others falling in love in September, sometimes with an old friend, sometimes with every person they meet in the morning train.

For most it is a struggle. A struggle not to look behind, at the lost summer, a struggle not to look ahead too quickly - and resisting getting the winter duvet for the bed. A struggle against the first cold of the season. Or a struggle to plan the next move, take the next decision, figure out if it was worth the while.

I think we need a break after September.

Wallonia wandering

And here comes Belgian summer.

Abruptly, intermittently, three days one week, one day another week.
Today 30 degrees feel like 42. Few more days and it is 7 degrees at night.

Be it as it may, summer brings energy, hope and wakefulness. Summer brings love and happiness, plans and expectations. And sometimes a bit of frustration for what the best plan could be to make use of the unexpected gift of sunshine.

Perhaps going to pretty, quiet, shining, tiny lake at Genval. Romantic, if you need. Being able to find good food (or maybe just a good coffee) would make it almost perfect, but one cannot have everything.

Flying is always a great idea for a summer day, a safe bet for a great time.
Even when factoring in the waiting in line, the sudden lack of good thermal lifts, the low ceiling due to air traffic regulation (anyone up for a close encounter with a Ryanair aircraft in its descent to Charleroi?)

Temploux may not be the most user-friendly of the aerodromes but still the best available option.
Papa X-Ray ready to take off.


Speaking of thermals. Lovely experience is also dipping in mineral water at an open air pool in Spa. Quite cute address, on the "Hill of Annette and Lubin". The Tourism Office also organises hikes on Sunday, both with sunshine and heavy rain (your guess which one I found). Add a deviation to historical Stavelot or funny Coo and it is easy to get some additional sense of Walloon cuteness.

August

And so it finished. Dark and cold as it started. Belgian kids will go back to school in a couple of days, traffic is becoming heavy again, we are already back to work. The pouring rain did not change, whether it is July, August or January.

Not many complain about the end of the year, great expectations colour the new beginning. Instead, a lot of whining about the end of summer, although September does bring a new beginning too.

I used to like September better than August: that sparkling air bearing the promise of a new start, the riddance of that sticky feeling of the impending end of season. And, after all, there were more things to do, more people to see, more plans - and even a new TV season - in September.

I do not watch TV any longer. Probably that is the problem.

And "I am never gonna leave you" is what we need to hear.

Lithuania 2012

Nice time in Vilnius. After more than 7 years it is fun to be back, with the only sightseeing pressure coming from the sun shining on a Sunday afternoon and the curiosity to see whether I still remember the city  - I did not but it seems it is not entirely my fault: big renovations took place in recent times.

It was also an instructive trip. I learned a lot about Lithuanian energy concerns, dismissed nuclear power plants, Lithuanian pagan traditions, national heroes and famous painters - oh yes, and Sorainen superheroes.


Once again, the gastronomic part of the trip was a big success. Biggest achievement of the trip is fishing my own 1 kg trout and eat it, instead of going for the legendary zeppelini I tasted 7 years ago. Bistro 18, run by an Irish lady, has the "best breast in town" - duck breast, that is.  Excellent wine & cheese football night - and Italy won against England.


As a wise man put it: life is good but good life is even better.

Stop-over in Frankfurt - or: how years of Ryanair made me a better person

It started when I sat in my economy class seat and there was plenty of room for my legs and a hook for my jacket.

Then I got a glass of white wine without being asked to pay for it. It came with snacks in the shape of little airplanes and it gained my heart.

I wanna fly Lufthansa from now on. 

No non-sense, they gave me wine, a newspaper, legroom and a smile in Economy class. And they did not complain that my luggage was bigger than the free. They gave me 30 minutes free wifi at the airport and a free coffee - Ok, given the total price of my ticket I know there is really no free lunch, but anyway

I wanna live in Germany

Germans are normally bigger than me, so I do not have to struggle for the right size when I go shopping - Ok, I know that given my tastes, I will still have to buy Italian fashion, but anyway 

I wanna cheer for Germany tonight.

My dear fellow Greek PIIGS, I am sure you understand that this is better also for you - Ok, Greeks have shown passion and resolve, but anyway

I wanna marry a German.

Germans always respect the rules and do not cheat - Ok, I admit that after few years in the public administration I know this is not true, but anyway

The airport shop displaying packs of Sombrero-shaped pasta at the price of 12,95 Euros finally opened my eyes and broke the spell. 

Off to Vilnius.

Malaysian dialogues

"So, you are from Brussel. How is the weather in Brussels?"
"Oh, it is crap"
"Why, too hot?" - Cultural differences

"Where are you from: Germany, Holland?" - Guess all Europeans look the same
"Where are you from: Jordan?" - Getting harder to figure out


Foot reflexology masseur: "Foot hurts here? It is the brain. You think too much" - Who am I to contradict the experts


"Do you like this Batik cloth? It is an original copy of Italian design. By the way, where are you from? - Should I tell him? 

Flat lands

A beautiful sunrise welcoming me back from Asia, a small plane waiting to take me home, a clear morning offering a great view above the low lands and over the Maas flowing into the North Sea.

The airport security checks were also pretty successful: a dangerous half litre milk pack and a certainly evil facial moisturizer seized with gusto by the acute staff.

"Do not worry, you are back to Europe" said the guy at Amsterdam passport control looking at my broken passport. And I find myself wondering about how long this will still hold true. How long before an Italian will become a stranger needing admission to a EU country?

I remember you did not eat rice

How far can one go in Malaysia if she does not eat rice? Far, very far. And happily so.

Can you eat spicy food? Tom yam soup with sea food? Can, can.
Penang style Kway Teaw? Can, can.
Steamed pow? Chicken in Pandan leaves? Can, can.
Beef rendang? Can, can.
Red snapper or pomfret? Grilled please.

Hawker food? No hesitation!

"Shall we go eat at the American restaurant? Just to relax your stomach with western food." 

Oh, for Goodness sake, no!

My fruit chapter is quite long. Fruit whose existence I completely ignored popped up on the table, straight to my mouth: custard apple, dokong, longan, mangoustine, dragon fruit, guava. 

At the end, spoiled by superb fresh mango, coconut and water melon juice, I'm not sure I'll be able to drink anymore the stuff we sell back in Europe.


My roller coaster ride into new flavours had to stop somewhere and it did.

It stopped at the encounter with stinky Durian. The - ahem - "king of fruit" is big in Malaysia but I realised I better survive without it. And it stopped again with the Cengdol and a bunch of other gummy sweets involving the use of red beans. That far I could not go. 


Luckily, besides the Cengdol, Malacca has got unforgettable pineapple tarts. Yummi!

Pulau Langkawi

Read the guide and it tells you that it is all about booze and crowds. I will remember Langkawi for its superb mango juice and for the screaming waves.

Langkawi is big folks, writes the Lonely Planet. Well, it is true. half an hour taxi ride to go anywhere. At least you don't pay more than 6-7 euros each ride. Btw, for peace of mind, tariffs are regulated, in case you are wondering.

My perfect day in Langkawi started with a walk in the bat cave and a cruise on the mangroove river, where vegetation is thick, eagles go hunting and monkeys steal your pastic bags. The visit included first feeding the fish in the fish farm, then tasting the well-fed fish in the fish farm restaurant.

A stop at the cable car to witness the beauty of the island from above was complemented by a chat with the occasional Malays going up or down with you - short ride but long enough for them to chat you up, take a photo of you and ask for the email address of this exotic tourist from Europe.

Back to base, a little roasting in the afternoon sun, dinner cooked by some Malay mama at the port and listening to the sound of the waves splashing the golden sand: one of those days you wish could not end.

Air Asia

Special mention for the "best low cost carrier in the world" (Copyright: Asia-lover scuba diving friend).

Purchased for 1 ringit (25 Eurocents), inspired by Ryanair business model, so far it managed not to become the pain in the neck the Irish carrier has converted itself into.

Air Asia gives you an assigned seat - although probably the last you would have chosen. It does not oblige you to put your handbag, computer and sandwiches all in one cabine luggage. It sells real food on board and has the best flight attendants ever: not trying to sell you lottery tickets, not making noises or trumpeted announcements and wearing jeans and cute slim-fit shirts.

Perhaps, after you have tried Ryanair, you just get happy with small things.

Malacca

"Hot" has just acquired a new meaning in Malacca (or Melaka), due to the sun hitting like a  hammer the visitors exploring this ancient and cute town.

Malacca is a pure blend of many different cultures. Our beautiful hotel is a sumptuous traditional Baba-Nyonya house. The Baba-Nyonya themselves are a mixed culture of Chinese and Malay. The stroll in Jonker walk ends with a huge Chinese Dragon hanging over the main crossroad (the not-so-photogenic Rabbit year is over).

The streets of the old town are full of Chinese heritage (temples and shops) and lead to the main square sporting a Stadthuys and a church. Climb the Fort hill and find what remains of Malacca's Portuguese and Dutch glorious past in the old days of the spice trade.

The gastronomic and shopping expeditions were also pretty successful. I totally fell in love with Malacca's pineapple tarts and I bought my own kebaya and a couple of cheongsam (qipao).
While I have no doubt that my stock of pineapple tarts will soon be gone, I am still wondering if there will be any occasions to wear Malaysian traditional clothes back in my side of the world.

Feelomaysia

And then, there was the time I landed in Asia.

I had not been too attracted by this part of the world before. I think it is because I like drier lands, maybe. Or perhaps in my previous life as a RAF pilot I have been shot down in this area and now I am afraid of going back to the region. Who knows, speculations. Malaysia here I went.

Everything started off as a full immersion in Malaysian-Chinese culture, courtesy of my friends whose wedding I came for.

Hospitality is sacred and the guest gets fed, pampered, driven around, paid everything, all the time.

Breakfast means noodles, spicy chicken, rendang beef, dim sum and honey lime. Not that lunches and dinners are any different. A wedding meal has 8 courses, including rice and dessert, and has to be celebrated with loud toasts "iaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam seng" - or something like that - by the 400 or so guests.

Interesting to discuss with the locals and to learn that in their view western women are too submissive (i.e. forget about your Malaysian wife if passivity and obedience is what you are after).

And then there was Kuala Lumpur, KL, with its highways, its heat, its mix of races, its traffic jams and its breathtaking skyline.

Eat, Pray, L...

What an experience is to visit the Holy Land. Quite apart from the most serious manifestations of the Jerusalem syndrome, it is sort of unavoidable to find oneself caught in the mystic atmosphere of the Old city and to feel the intense spirituality of the place - well, if one manages to abstract from the hords of tourists snapping pics and of pilgrims rubbing all sort of clothes on every holy stones around.

And this even after a few visits, when you think you know enough to play the tour guide for your friends.

Not much partying, but the gastronomic side of the Holy Land was, once again, no less mystic.

Despite a well deserved special mention for the superb crabs from Chakra, the discovery of this trip was much more low profile: the Yemenite Malawach.

Almost the only food available to us on Shabbath, a fried pancake filled with hummus, tahini, tomatoes, peppers, aubergines, onions, spicy mix and zaatar (but you could further use your creativity), roll up and eat.

Tel Aviv knows almost no Shabbath (except for hotel staff waking us up because checkout time on Friday is at 9 am) but knows all kind of gastronomic pleasures. Our pick: Nanuchka, good Georgian food and over-excited customers singing, dancing and screaming all night long.

Over to Nazareth, the palm goes to Al Reda, in an old Ottoman mansion, facing St.Joseph's Church. Excellent muhammar, very helpful host, great views from the rooftop terrace, and a romantic loft for future needs. Note taken. 

And the "L" part of this story? Well, some Listening will do.

Minus 50 outside

Sitting next to the window, looking out. Daydreaming a bit. And completely enjoying the excitement of departure, of taking off, of feeling skybound once again, despite those more than 3000 km to go.

I wish I was there already and at the same time not there yet. I wish the irresistible "I'm flying" smile would be enough to overcome the fatigue of the journey.

And while it suddenly comes back to my mind that in the cockpit of a 737 the pilot cannot stand straight, contrary to an A320, I know I will always be grateful to who showed me what it really was like to be airborne.

And I wish I could pay back, that when I arrive at destination you would be able to see the world through my eyes, feel the warmth through my skin and the peace through my soul. And like it as I do.

One year later in Florence

One year has gone by and I am back in tourists' dream city, only to find out that not much seems to have changed.

Hotel is the same, tourists are the same, my lecture is the same, the beautiful golden series "Calla" on Ponte Vecchio still for sale. Even my wallet empty and me in urgent need of an ATM, exactly like last year.

One again, easy to see why Florence has become the jewel so many people dream of. So much art everywhere, so easy to manage, so great that "typically Italian atmosphere" (whatever it is exactly).

And Florence obliged: everyone speaking English, filtered coffee at breakfast, cappuccino after lunch. And once again, like a year ago, beautiful but not my dream. Regardless my teenage memories of the endless queues at the Uffizi, of the shining green of the Boboli gardens and of the beautiful slurpy icecream, forever symbol of sweet abundance.


Nice for shopping though. And there you see that next summer will be quite colourful. Buy red or orange sandals today, never mind the pouring rain outside the shop.

Flying lessons

"A pilot does not merely execute, a pilot takes decisions."
I'm certainly not a pilot yet: I still need to learn quite a few things to be able to take decisions.
And to be able to execute commands correctly, for that matter (such as: get out of that sink - I'd like to but how do you do that exactly?)

"Up in the air, never too relaxed: flying is not natural for humans."
OK, point taken. But do you really have to tell me this while spiralling upwards to 2800 mt QNH?

"In aviation, we are all peers, no need to use the formal pronoun for pilots. And next time you go on a plane, don't hesitate to ask to sit in the cockpit."
Oh yes!

"Don't worry about that parachute, its purpose is just of a cushion for the glider seat".
Not sure whether I should feel reassured or not.

"Good to have girls at the training, so housekeeping is taken care of." 
Downwind, base, final approach. Landed. The slap on their face, that is.

Ten flights later

Ten flights after arriving in Auvergne, I've learned a lot.

Going straight, turning left and right, going up, circuits, radio announcements are achieved. Towing and landing not quite yet.

And French aviation jargon in my pocket.
Ça degueule a mort if I'm going down 3-4 mt/s. En vent arriere to start landing, all different meanings of the word "Pompe". And that aller aux vaches should be avoided, while s'envoyer en l'air is always a very good thing.

The training is almost over, wishing it could continue still.

Gliding

The first time is a big stress, the second is a big tension to do it right. The third time is just awesome, especially if you fly for over two hours in a perfect sky, you go up to 2800 metres, the instructor shows you a loop and a low pass but he lets you do all the rest.

Afterwards it's impossible to stay on the ground, you just have to go again ASAP. But the weather conditions may change and one may end up playing scrabble while waiting for the sky to clear up.

Funny to be caught absent minded while rewatching in your head the last landing, to figure out how to do it right next time. And thinking how it is when you fly solo. Well, i know, a bit early to say after just 6 flights and not really knowing how to use the airbrakes right.

Few days left. All hopes in good weather.

Will be back

Why on earth did you come up with this now?

Well, I don't know.

Maybe it was that poster hanging on the wall in some cafeteria, it was too much talking about going up in air, it was just an undefined thought in the realm of possibilities.

Yet, sometimes in the realm of possibilities, one of them materilises for lack of a better idea, or for lack of an excuse not to do it.
So, yes, I guess the answer is: why not?

Why are you going to the middle of France for a week to learn how fly a glider?
Well, why not?

Just an earth bound misfit.
See you soon again, my friends.

Staccando l'ombra da terra

Today we disconnected our shadow from the ground. Our hope being to take full control once in the cockpit, nose up and joystick in our hand.

A little Coavio DF 2000, an ULM according to Italian standards, lifted itself up in the sky as if that was the most natural thing to do. As if its place was never meant to be on the ground.

But windy weather converted us wannabe pilots back into simple tourists of the air.

Piloting would have been amazing. But sitting in the little plane, floating in the blue sky blessed by the sun is far from being a disappointment - even when hit time and again by a sudden wind blow.

Up to 2000 feet, our lady pilots-in-command headed south over the Lake of Bracciano, turning over the peaceful blue waters, then pointed at the background mountains covered by the recent and unexpectedly abundant snow and finally towards the brown woods, still incredulous of the outburst of a gorgeous March day.

Another of those days when you look down and wonder how you can possibly not have started yet your PPL - money, logistics, north European weather or just lack of resolve?


In any case, it won't be for today that we become pilots, so perhaps a check of the Bracciano lake from a little closer may be a good way of filling our spirits with yet more beauty - as well as our stomach with some tonnarelli alla ricotta and torta della nonna.

The world upside down

Another weekend out of Brussels and another change of perspective.

People boarding on a plane and regretting not having booked an Alitalia flight seems an interesting start.

Heading south Italy to ski also sounds interesting, if not a little funny. Even more so when friends complain that east to west in the Alps, from Aosta to the Dolomites there was no snow. But the Divine Providence rewards people who dare and allow them to ski some 1.000 km south of Mont Blanc, with temperatures of almost 20 degrees and a clear blue ski. The Divine Providence above even made me go down a slope on my own and with no panic. Wonders of Laceno.

And a little nightime earthquake, just to shake up things a bit. And to remind us that we are children of a terra ballerina and must learn to keep vigilant to survive.

Going nowhere

Yesterday the metro service was disrupted. People kept waiting for a train for quite a while.

Why were we waiting?
Probably for some of us there was no suitable alternative: they live far away and the taxi is too expensive.

But what about the rest of us? We could have walked, for example.
We did not know how long it would take before a train arrived, we were getting anxious and annoyed. Yet, we gave it more and more time to start functioning again.

Had they made a formal announcement, we would all reorganise ourselves - move on with our life, so to say. But, in the metro, as usually in life, there was no formal statement "hey you, stop waiting, it doesn't work".

Under uncertainty, why do we give it more and more chances when we see that things don't work and waiting is going to be a waste of time? Is it because we still like to hope? Or is it because of laziness?
Perhaps it's inertia: keeping a conduct we always had (although it has become pointless) requires less effort than facing a new challenge.

Until when? At which point do people realise that walking up and down the platform, making phone calls, reading a book, thinking about life may be a more or less nice way to kill the time but is not a way to arrive at destination? How long does it take until we finally take action?

Eating London away

That funny little rain which annoys you  but does not make you really wet. 

Those very nice services, such as free WiFi connections for starving foreign smartphones.

That people’s incessant hurrying everywhere, like those escalators in the underground, faster than everywhere else.

And that endless choice of food, from the four corners of the world.

Food, yes. Got the feeling that all was about food, this one and half day in London.

For example, my eating the greasiest possible food (fish and chips, in case you are wondering), in possibly one of the most famous Fish and Chips places in town, and sitting next to the occasional American tourist ordering to the amused waitress: “Do you have something which is NOT fried”?

Next stop, Italian ice cream place Scoop, just next door. Having a long chat about living in The City with the funny Italian waiter, totally bored (who would want an ice cream in a grey cold and humid London day?) and considering a life change: making money more quickly by working in some restaurant in Australia.

More food at Marks and Spencer, trying not to get discouraged by the long serpentine queue at check out. Highlight of the day, the season repackaging: your favourite comfort food now becomes your Valentine's eat-in ready made dinner for two. Runner up: among all sorts of impulse junk food next to the cashier, the "healthy" section: chocolate hearts.

And what recommendation for best dinner in town? Or the best option for lunch break? Same answer: Pan-Asian.

To finish off, coffee at Nero: what's wrong with ordering a single espresso ristretto and why should the waitress not believe that, yes, I want something this small?

Inversiones y competencia

Airport, subway, hotel, seminar venue, hotel.

Restaurant, hotel, subway, airport.

It was Madrid, it could have been anywhere. Too quick to even notice.

No, not everything.

The sky was very blue, despite temperatures below zero, and the full moon was beautiful to watch.
Jamon, queso and the steak with Jerez sauce were good - and the people in bars, hotel etc. were fairly impolite as the city reputation wants it.

And all those beggars in the street I did not expect, reminding of the difficult times just outside the shiny seminar room.

And I did exercise my Spanish, successfully understanding, less successfully being understood (as the fact that I paid my hotel room twice proves).
And I have given up looking for the reason why the Spanish word for investment is "inversion" and the one for competition is "competencia".

Ski lessons in Aosta

Young European officials having interesting conversations with their ski instructors while learning to make turns.

Stereotypes
Ski instructor: Where are you from?
Poland.
Ski instructor: Did you come here to work?
...

An excellent example
Ski instructor: Tell me, what's your job?
We enforce competition law.
Ski instructor: ... for example?
You know, we investigate companies fixing prices together instead of competing.
Ski instructor: Aha! Like our two ski schools charging you the same price

More about competition
Ski instructor: May I ask you something a bit embarrassing?
...
Ski instructor: You do competition. Could you inspect the competing ski school? They are cheating on taxes

Abul... quoi?

On a fast road, in the middle of a park, a stone's throw from some posh clubs, stands a little theatre. Low profile, old style, a bit uncared: Belgian style for coolness.

Invasion! is on as of today, telling the story - better, the stories - of Abulkasem.

Abulkasem is a character in a play, is a terrorist from the Middle East, is a word in youngsters' slang (a noun, a verb or even an adverb), is an illegal immigrant in Sweden.

It is a tale of identity and prejudice. A tale of points of view and of manipulation. And a tale of language and misunderstanding: we have expectations, we make assumptions, we think we get the point but maybe we are not even listening really. Then every person or every word can be Abulkasem, it won't matter.

Hey you, reading this, why do you abulkasem me like that?

Soundtrack

Back one year ago, in January, Martin Solveig's Hello was played endlessly on the slopes of Bardonecchia, soundtrack to abundant clumsiness and falls on the snow.

When February came, Skin's You saved me popped up quite a few times on the radio and in my email box.

In March I was dancing with the Black Eyed Peas for my birthday, so in April well-deserved rest and peace came with the beautiful soothing voice of Patrizia Laquidara.

May was a though month, from many sides. Music seemed to stop healing, me just longing for the summer to arrive and the Italian radio streaming from my computer Arriverà.

And summer finally came. With summer came rebirth of energy and hope. June was brightened by little trips, sun and a bit of rock. July was simply great: my New York moment of happiness and fulfillment. August misled me and served me a mix of bright sunshine and a little bitterness. As always, it was a matter of waves and winds.

In September I tried to change direction and Noel Gallagher accompanied me, while in October I had to get tougher on my resolutions and face the emptiness of words and promises.

Despite everything, November brought me in Africa once again, where the sun was hot again, animals were wild, villages were poor but dreaming was not only possible, it was real. Until December was back and, as we know, Thank God it's Christmas.