What a week, what a week. And it’s only Wednesday!

Monday passed in a daze where the only two things I bought (lunch and a coffee) were not good. On my walk home my face must have been such a picture. Standing at the traffic lights in the wind and rain, I honestly felt… pathetic. I was too tired to laugh at myself, so I dragged myself home and got in the shower. I always do this. I wash the day at the office off me as soon as I walk through the door (and this is the reason that if you call around unexpected, particularly in Winter, I will greet you in my nice, warm pajamas). Presently, I will also most likely be muttering about how cold it is here. Central heating appears rare. Insulation the same. I have been so cold here that all my muscles are tensed. Every single one. I can feel my shoulder blades straining and clenched together, and I feel my toes like frozen pebbles inside my woolen socks with Andy’s hiking socks over the top. I put our three heaters on, plus 4 layers of clothing, and I feel better. We laugh together at the lengths we must go to. It is never ~ temperature wise ~ particularly cold here, but it is oh so very damp, and the damp gets right into your skeleton. It becomes the overwhelming feeling. On the weekend we drove to a friends house with the car heater set to 32 degrees C (90-ish F). And we still felt cold, as if the heat wasn’t able to reach our bones.

The first winter we were here, and I mentioned how ‘chilly’ it was, my colleagues then just laughed at me. One day, when surfing the net, I was so glad to find this article from Madame X on her observations of NZ, from an outsiders perspective. Our current apartment is more modern than the one referred to there and we also made peace with our incredibly high power bills for running three heaters, a tumble dryer and electric blanket.

Last year I met Amy, when she begun working for a group on the same floor as me. When I was confiding to her yesterday about just how down I was really starting to feel, she did a fantastic job of cheering me up. Firstly, came her tale of how she herself sleeps in her thermal purple dressing gown. Next came the little card she left at my desk whilst I was at lunch, about the joy of slippers. Thirdly was the image I kept recalling of her wagging her finger at me, saying “No, no, you must not get depressed, Miss Smith! Don’t make me wag my finger at you again!”

Honestly, whilst it may be darn chilly in New Zealand, I must say I love the humour of those close to me here. They can make me forget where I am for a while, and just enjoy the moment.

It’s been a busy week, making home all the better to arrive back to. Aside from working, I’ve been cooking dinner this week (we alternate weeks), and after that, I’ve been reading Lisa Tucker’s The Cure for Modern Life. It has not taken me long to read the book ~ three days. If it had arrived with me on a weekend day, I’m pretty sure I’d have read it in a day.

I read her Once Upon a Day over the holidays. I’d picked it up on the way through the US, and saved it (for no reason I can think of) until we arrived in Nice, France. This meant that in the evenings we’d always get to sleep late, because I couldn’t stop reading it. The writing was so beautiful. There’s a lot of detail, a lot of flow, and enough to pull you in emotionally, but enough to keep you distant to reflect on the character’s choices, as well as your own.

The Cure for Modern Life was similar. I chose the US version, as anyone who knows me knows how much I love American published books. There is something about the feel of the paper, the choice of artwork on the cover, the smell…. This book was no different. I much preferred the US cover of this one: two people standing on a bridge looking out, with a flock of birds flying overhead. It caught my imagination. I could almost hear their conversation and quiet laughter.

The story inside got me interested from the first few pages. I knew that it was going to be a book that moved me and made me think. It is a story about how little you are in the scheme of things, that you can’t stand up for everything you believe in (it’s so easy to not know the full truth anyway, let alone be objective yourself) and the best you can do is to make the best choices you can at any given moment, and to enjoy each moment for what it is.

I related to this book now, as I’d related to the movie Crash, when living in London. I remember Andy and I walking back from the cinema after that, talking about the fear that we felt, generally about safety and distrust of others. This book described people who’s work and intellect defined them, regardless of what was in their hearts.

When I finished the book this morning, just after Andy had made blueberry pancakes, I realised how happy I truly am. Sure, there are things I’d change given the chance and choice, and things I am working at changing. But Andy and I have had such a wonderfully fun history together, that just one word or phrase can set us laughing hysterically with each other. The Cure for Modern Life is to take pleasure in the small things, in our lives, so it seemed to me. To enjoy where you are now, this instant. The imperfections are just imperfections, they are not something to make rash decisions over, and get upset about. So simple. But sometimes I think we all forget, when caught up in emotion.

I usually don’t go for fiction books at all, but this week I received my Amazon order of this book, and also Laura Dave’s The Divorce Party, which is next in my pile. Perfect timing, as the weather has turned and it has been cold and wet. Perfect weather for lazing on the couch and reading… Just enjoying a no pressure kind of day…

Every time Andy goes away, my mind goes in to overdrive: what am I going to EAT? You see, I eat everything (minus dried apricots and stringy celery) and he does not. So every meal I eat alone is carefully constructed to contain things I miss in my every day life. Like anchovies. I try not to secretly mix them in to Andy’s food for fear I would appear to be turning in to my mother (who I still tease for putting celery in my mashed potatoes whilst I was growing up). This past Friday he was in Auckland (picking up a prize, no less!) and anchovies were on my mind again. It had been a long day in the office, and the clouds had swept in so low that the hills on the other side of the harbour were no longer visible. Walking home in the rain that was being swept horizontal in the non stop gusting wind, I called in to Commonsense Organics and picked up a few basic ingredients for a simple dinner at home. Time I got to our apartment, I had removed my glasses as I could see less through them than without them, and I was verging on staggering as I came through the door. One warm shower later, and in my pajamas, this is what I fixed for myself:

** Easy Anchovy Pizza for a Wet, Windswept Evening When You’re Tired

Take one thin, organic pizza base and place it on some oiled foil on a baking sheet (or pizza stone if you have one). Smooth intense tomato paste evenly all over. Crack open a can of french anchovies and blot some of the oil off them with a piece of kitchen towel. Evenly place them across the pizza, and then scatter with sliced olives and rinsed capers. Chop up some mozzarella and place sporadically across the pizza. Put in an oven at 230 degrees C, and wait ten minutes. Whilst you’re waiting, you may like to open a nice bottle of red wine and start drinking. When the pizza is ready to emerge, use a fish slice to transfer it to a plate, and scatter with freshly torn basil.

I watched Waitress on dvd, curled up on the couch in a blanket, until bedtime beckoned.

My friend ~ Amy~ & I challenged each other to write 500 words about our favourite city. Here is what I came up with…
***
I would have to say that Paris is my favourite city. Every visit it has unfurled itself further and led me down other alleys in different parts of town, past otherwise hidden green spots, grocers and cafes. Changes of companions have also highlighted different facades as we searched out a common ground. Then, as I got older what I looked for and enjoyed altered and I found pleasure in different places doing different things at different paces.

Throughout this, there has always been one common thread to my time in Paris: Indulging and reflecting on life. It was where I went to celebrate my birthday and spend time with those I loved.

My 21st passed in a blaze of hot sunny days. I was kicking myself for having forgotten my sunglasses in the rush to pack my bags. The white paths that criss-crossed the city’s green spaces blinded me. My closest friend at that time and I stayed in Lumiere, a cheaper area just outside the city centre. We ate our breakfast in the local cafes, moved on to the Latin Quarter for lunch (we found a great little tapas bar) and ate dinner on the Champs Elysees. We drank multi colour cocktails in cool candle lit bars tended by gorgeous barmen. We laughed heartily with the street vendors. I got a kiss from a French policeman outside L’Hotel de Ville. His lips felt soft and refreshing. The city felt warm and alive.

On a more recent visit, I booked my boyfriend and I into a hotel along a tree lined avenue in Bastille. We walked hand in hand across the city and absorbed the views from the Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe impressed me all over again with its size and attention to detail on the underside. We had an outstanding meal in a restaurant we tripped over five minutes from our hotel down by the Monoprix supermarket. We watched the lights twinkle and sparkle on the tower at midnight, the warm air lightly easing over my still bare shoulders. We slowly wandered back along the Seine and arrived back at our hotel a few hours later, our eyes clear and bright, our feet tired. The next day we passed an hour soaking our feet in a fountain outside the Louvre, people watching. I was wearing my new perfume: Kenzo Parfum d’Ete. It had the scent of fresh green leaves.

The last winter we were in Europe, we went back to Paris with good friends who had flown in from New York City. I was curious to see the city I loved in a season other than summer. The Sacre Coeur was it’s same old busy self, only this time it was decorated with icicles dangling from the gargoyles. The Parisians wore scarves and berets. We chatted over all the staples – Croque Madame, duck, escargot, cheese and wine – in bistros and cafes. We walked aimlessly and bought homely things, like cushions, from tiny boutiques.

It was warm, fun, delightful, easy and pretty. It has never been anything but. For me, Paris is a place where life goes on and is both simple and celebrated. It’s real life, made special, every day.