It's time to close up shop.

As you may or may not know (and I frankly don't give a damn which one it is), I'm leaving for Bolivia on the 12th of July, 4 PM, Zaventem (notice the very subtle hint to please drop by and come wave a handkerchief).

One year of living abroad in a Spanish-speaking country where one shouldn't automatically assume everybody understands three words of English. One year in some of the world's highest cities, in one of the world's developing countries (and one of South America's poorest) with people I don't know in places I have never seen with a very slow and ineffective postal service, about 6300 miles (10139 km) from home.

Sounds adventurous? Surely is the most adventurous I have ever done.

Also, Internet is most likely only available in cybercafés. Hence the closing of this blog, which really lives on spur-of-the-moment writing. Last time I tried to hold an idea to make it a post at a later date, it went horribly wrong. Horribly wrong in that the post really was barf-worthy. In the throwing up on your screen sense of the word.

However, don't panic! This is not the Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy, but I'm opening up a new blog to try and make my own little Hitchhiker's Guide (for the AFS student going to Bolivia. Besides, I'm in serious need of a banner or a layout idea for that blog, so if you have suggestions, shoot! Below there is this shiny little button that says comment. It never triggers explosions and I'm never angry when somebody punches it.)
It'll be my travel blog/journal/tips collection and it's going to be named....

(drum roll, please)

Magali Goes to Bolivia

(and Frankie Goes to Hollywood. So Relax!) 

Not sure about the subtitle yet. My guess is I'll change it along the way. Other major dilemma is which language I'll write it in. I'd love to keep my English & Dutch up while I'm diving head first in the Italic language that is Spanish, but I know some people, namely my family, will want a native tongue read -- that would be French. I've played with the idea of a weekly newsletter to all French speakers, but nothing guarantees I'll be able to send every week.

One thing is sure, though, that blog will be made & you are all more than welcome to read it. A link will be placed above this page and it'll remain there for as long as this one stays inactive -- if I ever reactivate it. Not so sure it will be missed.

This is not about now.

It's about yesterday night; suffice to say that yesterday night I was majorly pissed, and not in the happy drunk sense of the word.

Actually it was a lot like the kind of pissed that women get once a month (fucking PMS, I think I'll devote a whole post to that next time it happens), except it wasn't that time of the month, and it really was the-drop-that-makes-the-vase-overflow kind of total freak out.

Ever notice how many of the (slightly) good posts around here are about food? Well, it's going to be one of those again.

Did I mention that I am busy lately? As in, extremely busy. As in, what my brother does times 1000. So then, why exactly is it that I always get asked to do things? My brother, all jokes about his stupidity and clumsiness aside, is not a dunce. He knows how to use a computer, use a CD burner, and if it's one of his good days he'll even remember the water has to be boiling before you drop the rice in.

So why am I the one who gets to babysit/cook/play Technical Support all around?

But I'll do it. I'll cook the fucking pasta, cut the fucking ham, get out the fucking parmesan, I'll dress the fucking table, and I'll still get sniffed at by their Brotherly Majesties of Couch Potato Country for whom ketchup is the highest good. No, there's no ketchup and yes you'll just have to eat it dry with ham & cheese. May I remind you that it's not half as bad as the last time you tried  to make dinner? Ya ain't happy, ya can do it yourself, punks.

It's not like I could have been angry nicely, like mum & dad with their business partners, who send each other 3 page emails which basically mean "Take my proposition, frankly I don't give a damn you don't like it" and "Fuck you, my dear".


I got upset. I snapped at them and got in a murderous mood. Once they'd left the table, I did the only thing I can do when emotionally distraught, because I do not have a friend to phone and whine to. Call it what you want, feeding of the hungry heart, whatever, it just means I stuffed my face. I just plunged my hand in the pasta pot and stuffed a fistful of pasta down my throat.


I half hoped I'd choke on it.

Sad thing too, because it was really good pasta, al dente & everything. I had timed the five minutes like it was my reason for living (and as dinner depended on it, it probably was), but I hadn't thrown it against the tiled wall to do the 'al dente' test. Looking back, that might have lifted up my mood, causing everyone to have a much nicer evening, but hey, it was bound  to come out at some point.

And so this story ends, with the scene of me alone at dinner table being kept company by dirty dishes and a pile of postal junk, morosely shoving pasta down my throat as if it could solve everything.

*Sigh*

Dare not say I'm not pathetic now.