It’s one of those nights again.
And it is so clichè that it bores even me. But it seems that it takes one of these nights to make me sit down (because I can’t sleep and have nothing else to do) and finally write something. I had loads of blog-material, loads of moments and stuff to write about, but I sort of got bored before I ever got to post it. It all seemed static noise or meaningless chatter.
Fact is, I haven’t had time to sit down and write a meaningful post, or that it hasn’t been important enough for me to do it. I am living and I am finding my feet again. My core again, actually, but I’ll come back to that in another post.
I have moved twice since October and hopefully for the last time in a looooong time. I moved away from NV due to circumstances out of my control* the first time, and got a sublease in a wonderful place on Vesterbro. I actually had a piano and a chandelier for a month and a half. I wanted to get pictures taken of me in an evening dress, featuring a Martini and the Piano but I never got ’round to it.
I don’t drink Martini either so it’s probably for the best.
The second time, I moved out of necessity; sublease ran out. I found a very small apartment out of town-ish – a little gem of a place with a kitchen I immediately fell hopelessly in love with.
I still am. It is nothing grand but it is a safe haven for me and I love, love, love it.
I was nominated (wow, eh?) ‘restaurantchef’ at work in November and while I have no faith in nominations nor titles, I actually spend my days making important-ish decisions for the restaurant and being bossy with the lazy Italians.
It’s harder work than I thought it would be, but it is also funnier than I thought it would be.
Once in a while, when I am on my way to the restaurant, arms full of flowers and fresh bread I find myself disgustingly happy, knowing I’ll get to work and find staff there, cleaning up, preparing the tables with immaculate tablecloths and crystal glasses. I know I can trust them.
I’ll caress the keys to the restaurant and feel as satisfied as a mother. I will feed the hungry and feed them well =).
Funny because it’s true. Simple as that.
I don’t know for how long it will feel this good, but it always takes me by surprise. I might have had the worst, hardest week or a bad evening, but every day is new, we always get to try again, the slate is clean and we may try our best. Yet again. (Sorry, got carried away there).
And then there’s family. My mum is very sick. She is getting better but ever so slowly, it is impossible to bear. Ironically her sickness has brought me closer to her and to my dad. Sad to say, and very clichè – but sometimes adversity do bring people together. I feel lucky that I am in Denmark now that she’s sick, would have been terrible to sit far away in Italy now. She’ll be fine, in her own good time.
I have made new friends; out of the blue. I don’t know what happened; it seemed one moment I had no friends in Denmark and missed my Italian ones, next thing I know, I’m surrounded by people I care for and who cares for me.
I don’t have as much me-time as I would like to have, but that’ll come. For now I am nesting in my little apartment, working way too much but looking forward to a good 6 days of vacation next week. Off to Madrid for 2 days with one of my best friends (he’s Italian; granted) and then a few days of relax at home.
I am not doing much with my spare time; I am not drawing, photographing or cooking much, but I am singing a lot and discovering that I am not that bad either.
This whole Denmark-adventure is nothing like I thought it would be, and the fickleness and generosity of life still blows my mind.
Me, the control freak, letting go, maybe learning to live a little looser, a little more creatively, am actually… happy-ish.
It surprises me.
Not that I am happy, but that I can just live it and not reflect, analyze, foresee, rationalize and try and shape things. They seem to happen nicely enough on their own as long as I trudge along.
I think this is a good start. Again.
*very elegant way of not spilling the beans on loser-flatmate who forgot to pass on the rent I (over) paid him, so we got thrown out. Oooops. I spilled’em.