The place to say no.

After another stint in Austria, this time Vienna, I attended the most bizarre stag night. In fact, there was a distinct absence of the bride-groom. It was probably the wisest choice he ever made. It was a tacky and playful affair; I walked in at an apt moment. A colleague of mine was demonstrating how to look like a lady, from the front at least. He also had the worst porn I’ve ever seen playing in the background. I must be getting old(er), as I couldn’t keep the pace all night. Returning to the hotel was the best choice, at least until another colleague returned and started to drown his insecurities about his physical appearance at the top of his voice. Mostly he lamented his lack of height, I’m so glad I’m a woman, I only have the practical disadvantages to care about. I banged on the wall and shouted, “Sophie Dahl and Jamie Cullum” in sympathy, but I think he only heard banging.

Earlier today, I received a phone call from Russia. I’m very proud of all my hard work and effort that I put into most things I do. Sometimes I regret it, I should learn to do a terrible job, join the slackers club for once. Now my number is being passed around like a hockey ball. I shouldn’t complain in the current economic climate and it’s nice to be thought about. However, I seem to have a fear of turning professional work down, especially via personal recommendation. In this case, I don’t need to think too long about it. With yet another wrinkle and about ten grey hairs, another one year stint in Russia will delay finding a place to call home.  I haven’t planned anything, but I’m certain that finding a place to call home will open other avenues for me. I don’t want to be too passed it when they present themselves. I’m certain that these avenues don’t exist in Russia.

There are other occasions whereby “no” is said rather hesitantly, the only person at a loss is me, but for the right reasons. I had to respond with some tenacity to a renewed offer, lest I should be considered schizophrenic. OK, so the physical part of me declares, yes please! However, just to be a bore, I like to let people know where they stand with me, particularly if it involves the word ‘no’. I’m too stubborn to swayed by a few pretty words used for X, Y and Z. I prefer examples, a flight to the UK, making good of many opportunities to be in such and such, for X days, until then, certainly a friend. So, I’m a bit of a tease sometimes, I’m very clever with the word “maybe”, but not “no”.  As a result, I’m able to say “yes” elsewhere, when I’d previously said “no” to some contract/ activity and most importantly, someone. It doesn’t take me too long to sketch out how to make a few ambitions and fantasies occur. I will kill two birds with one stone from my rather morbid list ‘Before the chop’ in about two weeks.

Rituals

Trust me, because I have the mentality to try everything at least once, and twice to check if I like it, I have found myself in some odd situations. Sometimes I manage to have an out-of-body experience and then I try to observe myself, then I ask, “what on earth am I doing?”

Which brings me to a ritual which I have depended upon in cold countries; trips to the sauna. In Russia the saunas are segregated and they have different classes. Men might be envious, but it is a matter of taste. I have been sat next to Russian shot-putters, models, gold digging mistresses and greedy banker’s wives, and possibly female KGB spies. Who knows?

The saunas are so hot, that for once wearing a burka seems like a good idea. Exposed skin is likely to evaporate into Sahara dust. It certainly looks like a cult when you enter the sauna; everyone is swathed in white sheets and wearing tinker-bell hats. Then even stranger, some of these women pay to be hit with twigs. I understand the science behind it, but it must sting like lighting.

However a few weeks ago, I had an OBE (Not from the queen) in the dampfbad. The Austrians are keen on Finnish styles saunas, so when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Naturally, I’m not prudish, but I didn’t understand the norms when it came to sharing the jacuzzi. Every two hours a body treatment was handed out to customers for usage in the sauna. The previous week, the treatment was salt, but on this occasion it was chocolate. So, there I was, sandwiched between approximately thirty naked men and women, there was no personal concern about this. It was when the sauna master appeared with the chocolate body treatment that the situation became surreal for me.

Suddenly, a stranger started to put the chocolate mud all over my body. Likewise, I was then expected to do the same. The scene looked like a minstrel reunion gone wrong. I can’t describe what it looked like on the floor of the steam room. One experience to register for life, thankfully none of my colleagues were sharing the experience with me.

A few wise men

I have been fortunate. I’ve always been surrounded by clever men, living with them, dating, going out, flirting, learning from them and studying under them.

I had a tenant live in my house for a few years, let’s call him Dr. X. He worked at a local university and he taught science to master’s degree students. I never found out how old he was, he never said. Nor did I find out his birthdate, because he simply didn’t believe in birthdays. However, hailing from the north, everything he said was just funny. He told me all about his experiences of working for the MOD. Matters that should be super-complicated, he made it simple. For example, how to survive a ‘dirty bomb’. Thanks to him, I know how to survive a few extra days after a radio-active attack before my skin falls off.

Another wanted to save the world by stinking out my kitchen with a waste bin (a career eco-warrior), which I always ended up cleaning. But, it was easy to forgive him as he often walked around the house in only a towel. A night out with him revealed the only downside; he couldn’t dance, unless it was the funky chicken. Another guy I lived with could fix anything; he was a super-practical genius. We used to watch programmes like ‘Mega structures’ together. It is going to be odd living in an all female household when I move to Japan. I can plaster (not whole rooms), change a plug, light bulbs, and paint, follow IKEA instructions, seal bath tubs; I’m woman of many skills. I hope these chores won’t fall into my lap when I live in a women-only-domain.

The prize for the smartest man I have ever met has to go to a past lecturer. Ok, I will admit to a crush, albeit not entirely sexual. Most of the time I sat in fascination as to how anyone could become so smart. My crush had a lot to do with my desire to emulate him, rather than physical encounters. He could teach aspects of theatre, romantic poetry, postmodern criticism, film studies….....For once, unlike my behaviour with some smart men I’m attracted to; I actually talked and got involved in everything. I never intended to dominate, (the classes were full of zombies) but across three entirely different degree strands, all of which had some 60 -90 students, everyone knew who I was. I intended to study his courses for a second time, but the intake was too low, therefore the course was dropped. Then, sadly, he died. After this sad occasion, I considered that I should do my best to race against time and LIVE. Maybe one day I will be just as smart in memory to him.

A place of learning

I have been to a lot of museums, sometimes I can’t absorb all of the information on offer and leave, imagine being at the Hermitage for too long. Naturally, I always go to a sex museum, if there is one in the city. More interesting than that was the palace in Florence with a rich display of navigational equipment. Being quite a traveller, or a gypsy, my interest was not as shallow as a visit for visit’s sake.

I remember I wore red and it was rather hot that day, there was sweat on my collar bones. As I looked up from a display I looked up to meet someone’s eyes. A man dressed all in black, he looked like he might be the fourth member of Green Day. At first he smiled at me, merely in a friendly manner. The setting was marvellous, but as I walked from room to room, there he was, unshakable, and each time I looked up, there he was. Only his smile changed from friendly to suggestive, suggestive to sexual. I thought at any moment, Tinto Brass would pop out and say “cut”. There he followed me, from glass case to glass case. I felt myself attracted to him, though he was an unusual looking man. I am not so sure I have ‘type’, beyond intelligent or adventurous, the one can be greater than the other, so long as his reserves of either are greater than mine. (I am only as good as my audience).  I fell asleep in the gardens, and he sat close by, but it was only a silent flirtation, silent men are sometimes the best kind.

The other museum was bizarre in that all the places in the world to have the largest display of Rolls Royce’s, it is in Dornbirn. It is strange that this British institution is not in England and that an Austrian was the car’s biggest fan. Every Phantom and Phantom II was cleaned, polished, oiled, dusted, spat on, rubbed and leathered, it was a dizzying experience. Perhaps this is closest I will ever get to being artificially high. I was a very good girl, I never had time to get drunk, or try soft drugs. I had two jobs and was rehearsing for a musical whilst I was still attending school. (I worked so hard that I made myself susceptible to glandular fever.) In the first hall, I thought I might be in heaven with every inch of metal gleaming like angels’ halos. At St Peter’s gate, the Andrew sisters were singing. In reality the songs were played out over the tannoy. Unfortunately, the real joy of the cars is bound to each platform they are displayed on. The most fun you can have at the museum is to have a dinner party surrounded by the cars.  It is shame to view the cars as only trinkets and not out on the surrounding roads, like birds of prey kept on a string, the best of their beauty is clipped.