There and back again

Between a rock and a hard place; today was a revolution

"Mountains and canyons start to tremble and shake, as the children of the sun begin to awake" -Led Zepplin "Going to California"

2012-13 will always remain gouged in my memory with French-manicured nails, free-falls in the stair well, and deviation signs as the year of Beth Doyle. Not only are all those who know her slightly unsure of where she comes from due in large part to the mongrel accent that mysteriously seems to change in accordance with the propriety of the subject matter (think Guiness talk vs. tea talk) and the amount of gansta rap healthy eardrums can cope with in the course of an afternoon (white girl Eminem holla holla whaddup), but this blue-eyed, ivory-skinned Irlando-brit was, to the disbelief of many, born an Emirate princess.

Recap:

Whilst merrily reigning from her poolside throne in Abu Dhabi, at the first call from the minaret, an ill-fated day arose from the east and spread its scorched wings out over the desert gulf. An omen, it was. Following an unfortunate series of events, curiously involving one of her father's eight wives and a failed dance battle at court, Bethany soon found herself fallen from grace, from favor, and exiled mercilessly to French school in equally exotic Sveetzerland (think Petrol-state problems vs. Cahuzac problems). After becoming quadrolingual (or something like that), a touch stingier than your average Joe, and all around awesome, she returned to her roots on the Emerald isle, braving the stench of the Liffy, and reassembling the tatters of her improbable existence to become an honored scholar at Trinity College. These days, our desert maiden can be found stalking the…ehem...moist streets of Brussels, where she frequents the cheapest hipster bars, and, in her spare time, works in social networking for billionaires (anticipating a possible return to power via rich Saudi husband? The question remains to be answered.)

Essentially, my dearest Bethany (aka sugar mama B Doyzzle) is a mystery, a great party accessory, and my best friend.

InchALAH, our fortuitous meeting was to take place at 8 a.m. on a friday morning in Paris while scouring the pages of the Quran in religion class. And basically nothing has changed. You can still find us up at ungodly hours drinking herbal tea discussing thoroughly intellectual topics, our noses firmly wedged in the crack between two pages of a text book. And that, my friends, is how you take a good thing, and make it PG.

So yeah, anyway, at the end of the day its important to understand that I don't actually live in Lille. I work there four days a week, and spend the remaining seconds in Beth's lair being a parasite and enjoying the best Belgium has to offer. Aka beer, fries and waffles.

Yet, as this last weekend was my final visit to Brussels, we decided some soulful deliberation was in order, and, intrigued by the energetic Sunday disposition of each and every one of Beth's four roommates, we came to the conclusion that a lifestyle intervention was well merited,  consequently finding ourselves shackled and dragged off to the gym. But not just any gym… A rock-climbing gym. (cue maniacal laughter from Barbara and J.S.)

Turns out that a fair few Belgians, when not being recluses in the aforementioned cheap hipster bars, consider rock-climbing to be a worthy time investment. And I suppose they will be the few to survive in the event that some unforeseen cataclysmic event of global consequence causes a new fault line to form and this once despairingly flat country to become the new Himalayas- beer-brewing monks and all.

After learning to tie some goofy cub scout knots that subsequently may or may not have saved my life, we were off.

Harnesses on. Camera out. Arms and legs sprawled in all sorts of unnatural directions. Lots of awkward ass pictures were taken.

Several hours and many a laugh later- what did we learn (besides of course that we are easily coerced and make some questionable decisions) ? That vertical surfaces are not as easy to move across as horizontal ones. That continental Europe would never think to educate you nor make you sign a waver for fear of lawsuits, and instead simply lets any old hillbilly from Namur come in and tie a knot around his buddy's waist before scaling a 30 meter wall. That forearms are awkwardly weak (like, seriously, so weak). And, well, this one isn't really new, but lets say we were reminded of my skill in emitting some pretty great handicapped gorilla roars when in fear of plummeting to my death (think bike accidents and public humiliation).

In the end, we all managed to climb some pretty impressive shit, and considered ourselves more than deserving of a Moroccan dinner and cookies to top off the weekend.

In sum, it was a great culminating event to finish out a year of adventures. I have had the opportunity this year to spend some very precious moments in Belgium with amazing friends, both old and new.  However, it would appear I have once again found myself in the position of abandon-er, leaving my new home and most cherished friends behind to pursue some giant question-mark in the sky whose allure is shameless and more than I can bear. It surprises me, I surprise me. As if all this were unanticipated or against my will. And yet I know that I chose this, that I chose to leave when I did. But where the fuck am I going?! Africa?! Oy vey.

 Its too early in the evening for me to be a crying hot mess and all, but I truly mean it when I say that this year has hammered home a new message about the value of people. 

As a new grad, extracted from that world of academic convention to which we professional students become as attached as we do inured, I cannot quite seem to account for the greater part of what I have learned this past year, spent idly wandering from city to city, spending so many consecutive moments with the same familiar faces, and meeting so many fresh ones, both at home and afar. But some lessons are repeated, or solidify when the sandbar shifts and exposes enough dry earth for roots to take hold. 

I have learned that anywhere can be paradise when friends are true and the mind stops drifting too far into the joys and woes of yesterdays or tomorrows. When it is simply present, awaiting opportunities with a detached glance at the skyline and, when need be, changing course to avoid the whirlpools and shoals set out to capture the idle sailor who strays from his post and loses sight of where he is going.

I've learned that human generosity can in fact be boundless. 

That a mother's love can only grow sweeter as children ripen and the sands of time, once loose as the dunes of the Sahel, condense to form the foundation of mountains. 

I've learned that the sun cures all hurts and the sea cleans all wounds- and that the light of the Mediterranean inspires the eye to see poetry in everything is falls upon. 

I've learned that I should in all things look to my sisters for guidance- like two North stars, they will always be the brightest in my night sky, even when seen from afar. 

I've learned that poverty cannot be measured in bounty or the price of gold, but in the weight of smile, the depth of laughter, or the sweet fragrance of mint tea. 

That souls wandering blindly in strife, need simply take up a book and listen to the words

 as though they were music, with an open ear and an open heart. 

That there is a great deal of creation to be found in art's consumption- books must always be interactive and a song is never heard twice in the same way. 

I've learned that a teacher, provided he remain perceptive to the worldview of his students, will forever remain a child. And that a little more childhood would do the world a whole lot of good.

As of this afternoon, I have finished my first teaching contract, and celebrated the strike of the clock as the '2' of my twenty second year awoke from four seasons of slumber, veered in a new direction, and became a 3. 

I am too dumbstruck to grasp the entire extent of what this all means, but I was hurting pretty badly today thinking of my students smiling faces and reading their kind words as I left Lille for the last time. I'll have to save the events of my last week in France for another post, once I've slept, drunk at least a bathtub of tea, and found a napkin to wipe the drool of my chin with. Slobber, so hot right now.

As I finish this post, the symphony begins to play and another chapter comes to a close. I am seated at a cafeteria table on the ferry crossing the windswept channel to her royal England,  Gay London, to be exact. Looking out through  the salt-stained windows, I can nearly see the white cliffs of Kent as the setting sun pulls the curtains of twilight shut on what will always be remembered as a dazzling performance. If I didn't know better than to be duped by the tricks of time, I would likely sit here emphatically crying 'Encore! Encore!', awaiting the actors' reappearance from behind that dark skyline for a last round of applause. That moment of indulgence after a truly magnificent spectacle  when at long last you burst to your feet and release the cascades of praise left boiling inside since the very first act. That precious moment when, for once, the demands of convention and emotion actually coincide, and your actions are led entirely by impulse, unadulterated.

 But that moment won't come. Not this time.

In my ear I can hear the soft echo of a Semisonic song- "One last call for alcohol" 

Except its not really an echo, that was just the ferry staff announcing the end of duty-free sales. And there all the Brits go running! 

Drunk, drunk, drunk! nom, nom, nom! Pim's, cheerio, poppycock!

Well, I'm gunna make my way back to the bus now.  

Peace, love, and mince pies to you all <3