Looking out over the fields into total freedom …

“How many coffees are you drinking? That’s your third one today. You’re going to have a heart attack!”

-- photo taken by my sister Barča --

I’m back home for the holidays … and that means one thing: parental supervision. My first evening here was a peaceful family idyll: we all sat down in the living room and laughed over a box of photographs from my childhood. For once, I was happily drinking tea from my mother's cups; without the bitterness that creeps into every meal and every drink I prepare – the taste of being tired of looking after myself.

Second, third day … I started to crave the solitude of my apartment in London.

“What are you reading? What page are you on?”

“Do you have a boyfriend yet?”

“What are those pictures?” (Peeking over my shoulder when I log on to Facebook.)

“What time did you wake up today?”

“How much did your plane ticket cost?”

“Do you have any clothes that need washing?” (Rummaging through my suitcase full of dirty socks and knickers without asking permission.)

“You’re not eating enough fruit.”

Arrrrgh. The questions! The life advice! The intrusions into my privacy! How on Earth has an incompetent child like me managed to survive on her own in foreign countries for nearly eight years?

There is no book that better describes the feeling of an expat returning home than Kundera’s Ignorance. I first read it back in boarding school, but even now, the passages that I had underlined as a teenager still seem just as relevant.

“Irena had always felt less pretty and less intelligent in her mother’s presence. How often had she run to the mirror for reassurance that she wasn’t ugly, didn’t look like an idiot …? Oh, all that was so far away, almost forgotten. But during her mother’s five-day stay in Paris, that feeling of inferiority, of weakness, of dependency came over her once again.” (page 21)

“She left here as a naïve young woman, and she has come back mature, with a life behind her, a difficult life that she’s proud of. She means to do all she can to get them to accept her with her experiences of the past twenty years, with her convictions, her ideas; it’ll be double or nothing: either she succeeds in being among them as the person she has become, or else she won’t stay.” (page 37)

-- photo taken by Dad --

“And then too: everybody thinks we left to get ourselves an easy life. They don’t know how hard it is to carve out a little place for yourself in a foreign world.” (page 40)

“By their total uninterest in her experience abroad, they amputated twenty years from her life. Now, with this interrogation, they are trying to stitch her old past onto her present life. As if they were amputating her forearm and attaching the hand directly to the elbow; as if they were amputating her calves and joining her feet to her knees.” (page 43)

Office xmas party

This year's office Christmas party was a substantial step-up from last year's debacle. Not that I expect you to remember, but in 2008 it was a 3pm disco in broad daylight, half-raw vegetables and a dubious Christmas pudding at the Gloucester Hotel (which is where they poisoned that Russian spy). This year, tadaddadadaa: The Mandarin Oriental in Knightsbridge, just across the road from Harrods. Promising location? Tick!

Not to boast of anything, I've seen the outside and inside of many five-star hotels around the world. But this one really stands out: not just posh, but posh with character. It's a beautiful red-brick building that smells of old money, and for once I didn't feel like an aspiring social climber. They had a huge Christmas tree in the hall, which soooo reminded me of the movie Home Alone / Home Alone 2 - Lost In New York -- I felt just like little Kevin when he's alone in this big city, staying at the super-fancy Hotel Plaza, but among all that luxury he's just missing Mum and wishing for a merry Christmas. Remember that moment where the two of them are reunited underneath the giant Christmas tree at Rockefeler Center? This was it. (Except my Mum wasn't there, of course; the only thing I was happily (re)united with was a glass of champagne.)

The balcony doors of the banquet room open up to a wonderful view of Hyde Park; the kind of view that speaks for itself in a understated sort of way ... In a way that says, we don't need to dress up our windows with sparkle and glitter and candles or fancy curtains, because we can just open them up and there it is -- Hyde Park. Just happens to be there, you know, like a million pounds lying on a pavement.

Food was lovely. Oh, who doesn't enjoy the five-star treatment once in a while? I've never cared much for material things, but it's nice to be able to experience this side of London, too. Just like all girls, I too enjoy putting on my high heels and a coctail dress and being called ma'am once in a while.

And then I went home, a little tipsy ... and ate a pizza in bed. Life is good.

Last night it snowed ...

but it's all melted now.

Always always raining ...

Dear God, it's me -- Lucie. I'd like to know why it's always raining in London. And can you make it better, please? I am tired of covering my hair with the Sunday Times. Thank you. Bye.

World Press Photo 2009 at the Southbank

This weekend I dragged my lazy bum down to the Southbank Centre for a bit of visual pleasure, as they are currently playing host to the World Press Photo 2009 exhibition. (It's free of charge and will be there until December 13th, in case you are interested.) The exhibition includes some pretty poignant images of Barack Obama on his campaign trail; and some photos with an interesting take on the credit crunch too, but my favourite was the 1st prize photo story in the "Daily Life" category by Brenda Ann Kenneally.

The pictures show the life of a single mother of seven children in New York state. There's filth; there are small kids abandoned at home and smoking in the kitchen; there's sadness; there's chaos and anger, tiredness and loneliness. There's a bit of love and fun, too, but the general feeling is that of laziness, despair and degradation. I admire Kenneally's guts for getting so close and intimate with this family. A part of my extended family lives like this -- alcohol, squalor, constant arguments, no ambitions beyond surviving this week, a never-ending circle of irresponsible behaviour that upsets everyone involved. I keep no contact with them; I can't bear to look at the naked truth of this sort, at people who don't comb their hair, who wear dirty singlets and tracksuit bottoms and wake up with hangovers every day, then shout at their kids . I wonder if it's courage or just voyeurism that drives a photographer to get their lens so close to a family like this. You can view the pictures online here.

Onto more pleasant things now: you know how I raved on about the bridge that connects Embankment station with the Southbank Centre? Well, this time, I brought my camera along, so you can finally see it all for yourself - the bridge, the guy who stands there with this saxophone and plays jazz, the view of St. Paul's Cathedral from the bridge. If I ever end up homeless, this will be my bridge. Because it has jazzzzzz written all over it.

Merry Christmas ... with sincere sarcasm and hate.

The lady who sells these I-hate-Christmas cards at Spitalfields Market was of course not happy to see me taking pictures of them. It didn't take long before she yelled, "Excuuuuuse me no photos pleeeeaaaaaase." She had one of those squeaky voices that you remember long after, because its high frequency makes your eardrums resonate and sends painful pangs to the furthest corners of your brain. And she said it like it was all one word, too. NOPHOTOSPLEASE. What a nice coincidence that this miserable old cow makes a living selling hateful Christmas cards.

Peace on Earth and goodwill to all lesbians.

Yours,

Lucie

xxx

And as a small bonus, here is a Christmas "decoration" I found while walking around the City. It stank of salad cream and chip-shop mustard. Someone out there clearly hates Christmas even more than I do.

The advent of ...

Christmas has lost all its charm. I grew up; my family grew apart. Year upon year, buying presents is a hopeless enterprise that reminds me how little I know about the people who should be close to me. I don't know their needs, their taste; I don't know what rocks their world. I wish I could tell apart the things that make them go Awww, and the things that make them go Yuck!

I wish I knew who is going to be there with us, at the dinner table, eating fried carp (Czech tradition), cracking walnuts and cracking jokes. I dread the empty chairs. I dread that there will be no jokes. I dread the silence and the unsaid questions. Where is ...? Why didn't ... come? Pass me the salt. Uh-huh, that tastes good. At the end of the evening, when I help my mum tidy up the crumpled-up wrapping paper underneath our Christmas tree, we both feel a sad sense of relief. So that's that. Survived another one, congratulations. Eating fried carp is like an annual funeral to my childhood. It's over. I will never believe in Santa again.

Maybe when I have my own children one day, we'll be able to feel it again - the magic of the season. We'll look forward to putting the decorations up. We'll bake cookies together. We'll tape Home Alone and when we see Christmas decorations all over town, we will say Awww, not Yuck!

But I'm too young for that. Ballpark, there are at least ten more funerals to go. So, bring on the mulled wine ...

London at night

I was feeling very blah one day. And when I'm feeling blah, the last thing I want is to talk about it. My friends know that; they don't go all blah blah blah at me. They shut up and take me out somewhere to take photos. Two girls, two cameras, same language. Click. Click. Click.