Friday, December 14, 2012
Seeking some sense for the end of the World
Long haul flights are enlightening.
In between take off, tomato juice and touch down, between leaving something behind and discovering something new, the space fills up with sweet melancholy and paw nibbling excitement.
Long haul flights are the only time I ever see the sunrise. The only time I pray. The only time I watch out for UFOs. And the only time I do not touch my food. I spy at other peoples screens, watching 5 still movies simultaneously.
None of them The Artist.
And I find it magical.
Cut off from my crackberry, whatsapp, facebook, blogspot, streaming, youtube, twitter, snailmail and even the landline, with nothing to do but listen to my own thoughts, my neighbours snoring from dusk till dawn and to Mads Langers version of ‘You’re Not Alone’ on endless loop, I become quite small.
At 600 miles per hour, time slows down.
Its like a hardcore zen meditation. And I become the happy hermit.
I drink water like a camel, fast for real, retreat into myself and watch the glowing Dubai Palm from 10.000 feet, nose tip stuck to the icy glass. Searching for Mimi shapes in moonlit clouds, the silver lining on the horizon and my filthy little soul deep within.
On top of the world.
Closest to heaven. The only questions seem to be ‘chicken or fish’.
Window or Aisle.
Do they have life vests for lapdogs? And why, If we prepare for the worst case scenario anyway, don’t we all have parachutes? Is someone being stingy here? Is there anything braver than said lapdog protecting you against a gang of evil looking monkeys? And are we on the safe side if we believe in destiny? If dogs really look like their owners, what do you think I look like?
Or why does everyone I meet proudly announces that they ‘also smell of dog’, as if a) I did, and b) that smell would make us friends?
Does drama make you feel alive?
And can you tidy up almost any mess with a roll of Kleenex? At the end of the day, are to win or to learn the only choices we have?
And Can someone turn off Elton, please?! Thanks.
Under these conditions, revolutionary revelations appear out of thin air.
I’m off to Goa. Traveling frees my mind. and it’s time for my annual recap. Out with the old, in with the new. Always making me a wee bit sentimental. But that’s OK. Nobody can be sunshiney 24/7, not even Miss Mimi. And just imagine how annoying that would be, anyway.
Most of my blog posts, big decisions and even bigger dreams are made on the plane. This is where I best get to sort through the grey mess in between my Chanel studs and my pony tail.
I single handedly store real emotions in proverbial boxes, and label them ‘burn’, ‘cherish’ or ‘maybe baby’.
And stick them shut with lots of pink tape so there's no chance they will open and the demons can creep out.
I've got so many boxes by now, I think I need to rent some storage. I just don’t trust those storage guys.
But India never fails to calm me down.
The time difference feels like decades, not hours.
And apart from smog, sewage and incense this place breathes some real spirituality. Big time. Come and see for yourself. India stays with you forever.
At check in a hundred year old sun dried hippie- complete with sitar, long sheets of silvery hair and some kind of formerly white wrap dress (def not DvF), sceptically eyes me up and down asking ‘You goin’ to Goa? Yes? You’ve been there before? Really?’ singsong voice dripping with doubt,
shooting accusing looks at my pink mac, tiny greyhound, black fox, golden sneakers and gigantic trapeze.
Ruined it for you. Capitalism has your freelove palm tree paradise in its greedy grips and wont let go.
Just kiddinnnnng. Ive got my ripped jeans shorts and turquoise beaded necklace in my elephant sized travel trunk. Like yoga, style is all about flexibility, and a vraie parisienne can do zee heeepeeee, just like you.