Dear everyone,
I'm feeling a new sense of inspiration today, maybe because i'm sitting 18-stories high, over-looking a vastness of different shades of green and tiny, tiny buildings in a far, far away distance.
I am in the Lebanon for some R&R. Sorry, I hadn't been in a rush to tell anyone, but a little bit of time-out is in due for this potty-mouthed little lady. And perhaps the potty mouth has come into full-swing more so because the combination of fatigue and multi-tasking breaks my balls so hard as if I actually have them, and makes cuss words more like adjectives to me that emphasize what I really want to say, like, "how do you pack your life up in two-hour fucking increments, in between working and jetlag?", or "how can I stay in touch when there is no fucking telephone line or internet in my new, beautifully laid-out apartment which is in the middle of motherfucking nowhere". That's right, my company paid-accommodation is being moved, and therefore, I am being moved. The awesome thing about this is that I will now have a dishwasher; the chaffing thing about this is that we are being given 2-days notice (or less) before we can actually move. All family and friends should be prepared to not hear from us pawn folk for a while because it seems that this area is pretty much secluded and disconnected from other life forces. That is unless, you are lucky enough to flag down a lost taxi driver, who would be better off taking your ass as a passenger than to further go astray, or, if you step outside of the building - meters away from said building, and find yourself one lucky, fluctuating bar of reception on your mobile phone. All this until...approximately August 14th, when they aim for the communication tower to be erected and functional. Ah, who am I to complain anyway. The company pays for our accommodation, and hey, like I said, I get a new dishwasher. This would be a lot more spectacular if I didn't find washing dishes therapeutic and if I didn't think that rinsing dishes before putting them into the dishwasher negates the point of having a dishwasher to begin with. Sorry. I've just been a little stressed as of late. Woosah. Positivity-in. Inhale. Negativity-out. Exhale...
Positivity-in. Inhale. Sitting in the cafe of this semi-boutique hotel makes me feel a lot more settled . I had a moment the other night and mulled over about what life is going to be like after flight attending. I felt in dire need of coming up with plan for Phase 3 of life. Phase 1 is aptly titled The Sabbatical wherein I moved to the Philippines and spent nine months of my life figuring out what I wanted to do with it. Phase 2 is this - living in Dubai, while traveling the world as a flight attendant, and Phase 3 ...Phase 3 is the part when I quit flight attending, after 2-and-a-bit-years of living in Dubai and settle back in the land that makes me happiest in happy's most virginal form, Australia. After my epiphany, I decided that Phase 3 is when I've established my humble empire back home, which will allow me to trade between continents and make a good living out of it.
Down time: Sometimes, a girl needs to do something counter-productive like this in order to be a hundred times more productive in the near future. i.e. instead of packing my house up, I have decided to fly out to gather my thoughts, charge my batteries and plan out my future, so that when I return to Dubai, my morale is back up and my mind has resumed the pace of my life.
The cutlery clinks and clashes against each other as the lady bustles to re-set the dining tables in the background. I look up, and the man in the olive green button-down puts some elbow grease into brushing what seems to be the sink, spotless. South American music, the last thing I expected to be wending in the air of this Middle-Eastern paradise. I listen and am even more pleasantly surprised to discover that it is the original version of Garota de Ipanema, the same one I played months ago when Kym and I recklessly dissipated that South African bottle of Merlot, while I, having donned my "stolen" Noodle House apron, simmered my experimental curry in my kitchen, in my apartment on Sheikh Zayed Road. I love this song. It always makes me feel more coquettish and disarming than my unkempt bun and bantam gym shorts. And today, it's doing the trick as it always does.
This kid's ready to kick back and shift straight into neutral.
Love,
Kristine
I'm feeling a new sense of inspiration today, maybe because i'm sitting 18-stories high, over-looking a vastness of different shades of green and tiny, tiny buildings in a far, far away distance.
I am in the Lebanon for some R&R. Sorry, I hadn't been in a rush to tell anyone, but a little bit of time-out is in due for this potty-mouthed little lady. And perhaps the potty mouth has come into full-swing more so because the combination of fatigue and multi-tasking breaks my balls so hard as if I actually have them, and makes cuss words more like adjectives to me that emphasize what I really want to say, like, "how do you pack your life up in two-hour fucking increments, in between working and jetlag?", or "how can I stay in touch when there is no fucking telephone line or internet in my new, beautifully laid-out apartment which is in the middle of motherfucking nowhere". That's right, my company paid-accommodation is being moved, and therefore, I am being moved. The awesome thing about this is that I will now have a dishwasher; the chaffing thing about this is that we are being given 2-days notice (or less) before we can actually move. All family and friends should be prepared to not hear from us pawn folk for a while because it seems that this area is pretty much secluded and disconnected from other life forces. That is unless, you are lucky enough to flag down a lost taxi driver, who would be better off taking your ass as a passenger than to further go astray, or, if you step outside of the building - meters away from said building, and find yourself one lucky, fluctuating bar of reception on your mobile phone. All this until...approximately August 14th, when they aim for the communication tower to be erected and functional. Ah, who am I to complain anyway. The company pays for our accommodation, and hey, like I said, I get a new dishwasher. This would be a lot more spectacular if I didn't find washing dishes therapeutic and if I didn't think that rinsing dishes before putting them into the dishwasher negates the point of having a dishwasher to begin with. Sorry. I've just been a little stressed as of late. Woosah. Positivity-in. Inhale. Negativity-out. Exhale...
Positivity-in. Inhale. Sitting in the cafe of this semi-boutique hotel makes me feel a lot more settled . I had a moment the other night and mulled over about what life is going to be like after flight attending. I felt in dire need of coming up with plan for Phase 3 of life. Phase 1 is aptly titled The Sabbatical wherein I moved to the Philippines and spent nine months of my life figuring out what I wanted to do with it. Phase 2 is this - living in Dubai, while traveling the world as a flight attendant, and Phase 3 ...Phase 3 is the part when I quit flight attending, after 2-and-a-bit-years of living in Dubai and settle back in the land that makes me happiest in happy's most virginal form, Australia. After my epiphany, I decided that Phase 3 is when I've established my humble empire back home, which will allow me to trade between continents and make a good living out of it.
Down time: Sometimes, a girl needs to do something counter-productive like this in order to be a hundred times more productive in the near future. i.e. instead of packing my house up, I have decided to fly out to gather my thoughts, charge my batteries and plan out my future, so that when I return to Dubai, my morale is back up and my mind has resumed the pace of my life.
The cutlery clinks and clashes against each other as the lady bustles to re-set the dining tables in the background. I look up, and the man in the olive green button-down puts some elbow grease into brushing what seems to be the sink, spotless. South American music, the last thing I expected to be wending in the air of this Middle-Eastern paradise. I listen and am even more pleasantly surprised to discover that it is the original version of Garota de Ipanema, the same one I played months ago when Kym and I recklessly dissipated that South African bottle of Merlot, while I, having donned my "stolen" Noodle House apron, simmered my experimental curry in my kitchen, in my apartment on Sheikh Zayed Road. I love this song. It always makes me feel more coquettish and disarming than my unkempt bun and bantam gym shorts. And today, it's doing the trick as it always does.
This kid's ready to kick back and shift straight into neutral.
Love,
Kristine
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