September 02, 2006
Londra
Sot u tremba kur mendova se po me zhdukeshin pasionet. Tek ecja ne Londer, duke u lekundur nga cantat e medha te mbushura me rroba qe nuk do te vishen kurre, arrita ne perfundimin se kisha gati nje vit qe jetoja ne kete qytet, dhe nuk kisha pare shume per te mos thene asgje. Kisha ardhur pa asnje lloj emocioni, e shtyre nga rrethana te justifikueshme dhe tmerri ishte se e kisha pranuar kete gjendje "bezhe" aq lehte saqe deri sot, 10 dite perpara se te largohem perfundimisht nga ky qytet, nuk e kisha vrare mendjen per te vepruar ndryshe. Londra me dukej si "i njohuri te nje te njohures sime" qe rastesisht ka perfunduar me mua ne nje tavoline kafeje, ne nje mengjes te hene ndersa "e njohura" eshte larguar per pak caste, dhe se bashku shkembejme muhabete te vogela mbi tituj gazetash apo udhetimet tona, biseda me prapashtesa -eh dhe -varja. Bisedat spirale ne qender kane vetem nej pritje te deshperuar per tu shpetuar nga ndermjetesimi i detyruar i pales se trete, "qe duhet te vije nga momenti ne moment". Ne rastin tim me Londren, shpetimi eshte data e perfundimit te studimeve. Aq e perqendruar kam qene tek ky "shpetim"saqe e kuptova se kam anashkaluar nje bote, nje qytet te rende me histori, me detaje kulturash e jetesh te sperkatura neper rruget e ngushta, me nje mori ekzibicionesh zelarta deshirash e idesh ne cdo gjuhe te mundshme, me shije curry apo Cheshire barbeque Sauce...nese do ta beja film kete skene, une do te isha ne mes, diku ne Regent Street e hutuar ne buze te nje trotuari, dhe rreth meje te gjithe do te ecnin shume shpejt, ne fakt me shume do ti ngjante nje videoje muzikore. Dhe ne fund perpara meje do te ndalonte nje Black Cab, destination Heathrow. Kam tre dite ne dizpozicion per ta thyer "mallkimin e pritjes" dhe kam vendosur te dale. Do te dale vete, do te ndjek ndonej grup njerezish qe ecin ngadale e shohin vetem lart, do te iki te kap ekspoziten e fustaneve te mbretereshes ne Buckingham palace, edhe pse nuk besoj se do te me lejojne te prek cohen (kjo eshte deshira ime e vetme). Ndoshta do te kaloj edhe nga Madamme Tussaud, por e di qe do te nxitoj drejt Angelina Jolie apo Brad Pitt, duke anashkaluar te tjeret. Do te shoh nese Jolie eshte me e gjate se une, do te qetesohem duke menduar se dylli te fsheh difekte "qe ajo me siguri i ka kur zgjohet ne mengjes", me pas do ti afrohem Pitt e serish do te mendoj per Aniston, jo per fatkeqesine e saj te divorcit, por per fatkeqesine e gjykimit njerezor ndaj pamjes se jashtme. Do te mendoj per ate grup njerezish te shtrire ne te gjithe boten te cilet mbeshteten Aniston sepse thelle thelle, pamja e saj asimetrike iu jepte shprese se diku, qofte edhe ne nje segment endrre te nje dreke vere, ata "njerezit normale" do te kishin mundesi per te patur Ate "mashkullin me te bukur ne bote". E kur perralla mbaroi, te gjithe u revoltuan, por jo per ndarjen sesa per faktin se "me i bukuri ne bote" u FITUA (fjala magjike) nga "me e bukura ne bote", duke nxjerre ne pah friken e erret te tyre se ata "njerezit normale" do te bien perfundimisht ne shtrat me ata "njerezit normale e gerhites me kanatiere " ndersa ata "njerezit e bukur" do te presin qetesisht, duke lexuar Danielle Steel ne shilaresin e nje shtepie te bardhe, "njeriun e bukur" ti puth pa mendje.
Duke u rikthyer tek Londra; Kam menduar 100 gjera qe do te beja tre ditet e fundit, 80 prej tyre kerkojne shpenzime te medha, 20 te tjera duan te pakten nje shoqerim, mundesisht nga dikush qe ka pak pasion, por qe fatkeqesisht nuk njoh anje pervec disa 'comradeve" ballkanike te cilet shpenzojne me shume kohe ne boten virtuale te mbrujtur me alfabete cirilike sesa jashte. Nuk e di, ndoshta do te dizenjoj nje plan kursimi parash, per tu rikthyer serish me dike e per te bere ato qe nuk bera kurre gjate nje viti. Vetem se pak e pamundur ehte dhe kjo, duke qene se ne vendin tim vendimet e befasishme per te udhetuar diku, te shuhen gradualisht atje nga ora e katert e pritjes neper rradhet e ambasadave apo te plotesimit te formulareve me pyetje kurioze e te bezdishme mbi detajet e udhetimit. Sidoqofte, do te bej dicka. Ndoshta do ta nis nga Hyde Park. Lutiu te mos jete kohe e mire (nje lutje qe plotesohet me shpesh sesa e mendoni), sepse perndryshe do te perfundoj e shtrire ne ndonje cope bari prane mini-liqenit duke lexuar...ndonje roman te trishte, apo duke admiruar ata qe kane qen, ose femrat me trupa te tonifikuar qe vrapojne rregullisht neper rrugicezat e parkut. Dhe kjo do te me haje kohe, shume kohe derisa te bjere dielli e mua me duhet te nxitoj per te bere pazaret e fundit per familjen...sepse duhet ta dini..."po vij nga jashte shtetit"...
Duke u rikthyer tek Londra; Kam menduar 100 gjera qe do te beja tre ditet e fundit, 80 prej tyre kerkojne shpenzime te medha, 20 te tjera duan te pakten nje shoqerim, mundesisht nga dikush qe ka pak pasion, por qe fatkeqesisht nuk njoh anje pervec disa 'comradeve" ballkanike te cilet shpenzojne me shume kohe ne boten virtuale te mbrujtur me alfabete cirilike sesa jashte. Nuk e di, ndoshta do te dizenjoj nje plan kursimi parash, per tu rikthyer serish me dike e per te bere ato qe nuk bera kurre gjate nje viti. Vetem se pak e pamundur ehte dhe kjo, duke qene se ne vendin tim vendimet e befasishme per te udhetuar diku, te shuhen gradualisht atje nga ora e katert e pritjes neper rradhet e ambasadave apo te plotesimit te formulareve me pyetje kurioze e te bezdishme mbi detajet e udhetimit. Sidoqofte, do te bej dicka. Ndoshta do ta nis nga Hyde Park. Lutiu te mos jete kohe e mire (nje lutje qe plotesohet me shpesh sesa e mendoni), sepse perndryshe do te perfundoj e shtrire ne ndonje cope bari prane mini-liqenit duke lexuar...ndonje roman te trishte, apo duke admiruar ata qe kane qen, ose femrat me trupa te tonifikuar qe vrapojne rregullisht neper rrugicezat e parkut. Dhe kjo do te me haje kohe, shume kohe derisa te bjere dielli e mua me duhet te nxitoj per te bere pazaret e fundit per familjen...sepse duhet ta dini..."po vij nga jashte shtetit"...
September 01, 2006
London fashion
So I decided to start this blog since today is the Blog's international day. I wonder if there's a international day left for let's think "International day of nail clipping" or "international day of Brasilian wax". I mean these are pretty popular activities, don't you think so? Anyways, I am currently in London, although I officially live in Tirana, the capital of Albania. I am trying to finish my dissertation which unfortunately has to be around 60 pages and what is more an Unfortune, I cannot procrastinate on this thing! Unless I was a Genius on an overdose of Ritalin, with the typing speed of 200 wpm and with organizational skills of a Palm Pilot. But I am not so i have to work little everyday and by little i mean 8 hours straight at the library.
Today in London was surprisingly warm, although summer dies here at the end of July. This is what Britons say, but I say that this city does not have a summer at all, except some random spontanious greetings from the sun, which are scattered throughout the year. In may for example, I went out as usual with my black cordoroy jacket and a scarf I had just bought at Top Shop, only to end up with 43 quids less in my account, because I had to buy a tank top and a skirt in order to survive the surprising heat (well, you could say that I could have gone back home and change, but a girl's gotta celebrate those rare sunny days in the latest fashion).
What I like about London most is the fashion and those cute sandwich shops spread out around Oxford Circus. The fashion here has made me revaluate the Legitimacy of Matching up colors. I mean,who said that you couldn't match blue with black or brown with black, with purple ballet pumps and some yellow jewerly. Don't squint your face like you're biting on a lemon, because in reality, it looks good. At least on Londoners. I remember we once had a dress-that-clash day at my high school in Auburn, WA. We all had to wear things that did not match. So everyone wore excatly what the Londoners call fashion. Dots with stripes, green with orange, blue and brown, vintage dresses with patterns over a pair of worn out jeans. We would laugh at each other, and i never though that 10 years later, I would cry for not being able to pull this fashion off on myself. Well, not exactly crying, but I was irritated a little as i tried to mix and match clothes at the dressing room, of London's authentic store, Top Shop. I had chosen six items. One was a vintage dress which reminded me the annual pop music festivals in Albania back in teh 1980s and singers such as Vace Zela or Liljana Kondakci. Now to make this dress look "now" I brough a pair of jeans, a big belt, a long necklace, a pair of ballet pumps (the best fashion comeback ever!) and a green cardigan. I wore them and....nope...I did look fashionable ...for a village girl. And I don't mean any village girl. I mean I looked like those 18 year old brides from Albania's remote villages who wear dresses over pants, and after they get married and go to pay visits to their husbands' family , they put a lot of make up on, some jewelry on(whatever they can find or borrow from "the one who went abroad") a little natural blush on the cheeks (to show that they are and will remain obedient to their man and family). This is how I looked like and I am not from a village (well my father was born in one), I am from the capital for god's sake, I have traveled , spent a good chunk of my life abroad in NYC, Boston, London you name it, and I still looked like a Aferdita, Bajame or whatever their names are. After I spiralled adn twirled in front of the big mirror, I suddenly realized why: I couldn't look like a Briton, because I wasn't one. I wasn't as indivualistic as I thought I was, I wasn't a rebel with or without a cause anymore, I didnt feel free and I was restrained in many of my decisions and actions and suddenly after a long time abroad, I had re-developed the fear of being prejudiced. And this is because I was officially living in the small city of Tirana. Although I can't pull off at all Albanian "cheap eastern european slut" fashion, I certainly felt very foreign to the British fashion. The way Britons see clothes, is a way of expressing themselves, of being different from the crowd but not certainly distinguishing themselves among others. The way Albanians see fashion is a way of being seen, a way of covering inner insecurities and fears through an expressive, sexually to-your-face outfits, although at the end of the day, sex remains a taboo. I do not definitely belong to the crowd, but I also do fear of being to appart from it. I guess I will stick with what I know best, the American style. It is all about being comfortable, simple and classic. Classic works right? I mean I can go in Jakarta or Kabul and I will still look okay and acceptable. I choose comfort over loud expressions.
Today in London was surprisingly warm, although summer dies here at the end of July. This is what Britons say, but I say that this city does not have a summer at all, except some random spontanious greetings from the sun, which are scattered throughout the year. In may for example, I went out as usual with my black cordoroy jacket and a scarf I had just bought at Top Shop, only to end up with 43 quids less in my account, because I had to buy a tank top and a skirt in order to survive the surprising heat (well, you could say that I could have gone back home and change, but a girl's gotta celebrate those rare sunny days in the latest fashion).
What I like about London most is the fashion and those cute sandwich shops spread out around Oxford Circus. The fashion here has made me revaluate the Legitimacy of Matching up colors. I mean,who said that you couldn't match blue with black or brown with black, with purple ballet pumps and some yellow jewerly. Don't squint your face like you're biting on a lemon, because in reality, it looks good. At least on Londoners. I remember we once had a dress-that-clash day at my high school in Auburn, WA. We all had to wear things that did not match. So everyone wore excatly what the Londoners call fashion. Dots with stripes, green with orange, blue and brown, vintage dresses with patterns over a pair of worn out jeans. We would laugh at each other, and i never though that 10 years later, I would cry for not being able to pull this fashion off on myself. Well, not exactly crying, but I was irritated a little as i tried to mix and match clothes at the dressing room, of London's authentic store, Top Shop. I had chosen six items. One was a vintage dress which reminded me the annual pop music festivals in Albania back in teh 1980s and singers such as Vace Zela or Liljana Kondakci. Now to make this dress look "now" I brough a pair of jeans, a big belt, a long necklace, a pair of ballet pumps (the best fashion comeback ever!) and a green cardigan. I wore them and....nope...I did look fashionable ...for a village girl. And I don't mean any village girl. I mean I looked like those 18 year old brides from Albania's remote villages who wear dresses over pants, and after they get married and go to pay visits to their husbands' family , they put a lot of make up on, some jewelry on(whatever they can find or borrow from "the one who went abroad") a little natural blush on the cheeks (to show that they are and will remain obedient to their man and family). This is how I looked like and I am not from a village (well my father was born in one), I am from the capital for god's sake, I have traveled , spent a good chunk of my life abroad in NYC, Boston, London you name it, and I still looked like a Aferdita, Bajame or whatever their names are. After I spiralled adn twirled in front of the big mirror, I suddenly realized why: I couldn't look like a Briton, because I wasn't one. I wasn't as indivualistic as I thought I was, I wasn't a rebel with or without a cause anymore, I didnt feel free and I was restrained in many of my decisions and actions and suddenly after a long time abroad, I had re-developed the fear of being prejudiced. And this is because I was officially living in the small city of Tirana. Although I can't pull off at all Albanian "cheap eastern european slut" fashion, I certainly felt very foreign to the British fashion. The way Britons see clothes, is a way of expressing themselves, of being different from the crowd but not certainly distinguishing themselves among others. The way Albanians see fashion is a way of being seen, a way of covering inner insecurities and fears through an expressive, sexually to-your-face outfits, although at the end of the day, sex remains a taboo. I do not definitely belong to the crowd, but I also do fear of being to appart from it. I guess I will stick with what I know best, the American style. It is all about being comfortable, simple and classic. Classic works right? I mean I can go in Jakarta or Kabul and I will still look okay and acceptable. I choose comfort over loud expressions.
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