As I sit here, gaze flickering,
From pool to people, beautifully blond beaus
Pushing prams around tiles soaked in cloud, not sun,
(Because it’s November so go figure)
The pangs of loneliness surface
But then promptly retreat, like smiling Pennywises
Dipping back into a drainy kingdom
Tag: travel
Outside and warm
There’s something to be said
For sitting on rattan chairs and looking up
At a tie dyed sky
The same inky blue I saw in a dress earlier
The one I added to basket but never checked out
This is a sky of another era, a time
When we rode like ghosts on American highways
Legs pressed up against the dashboard
Podcast blaring nonsense
Gently slipping into sleep
Half expecting to hit a deer
That fear every time we rounded a bend
Or you vroomed a little too callously
A cacophony of screeching, and my brain doing somersaults
Playing out the poor deer’s death
And this balmy air also smacks of times in Spain
By the sea where we built our lives
And had a fridge full of food
And money in the bank
Dusted pink sunsets trickling down to the seafront
Paellas baked fresh, inches from the seabed
Tummies content and hankering for margaritas on Friday nights
Warm all the time
Flip flops flung over shoulders
Walks down to the beach and then back to Lidl
For a feast
Work was still a drag, head filled with dread
Every fucking Sunday night
Like some stupidly mundane weekly ritual
The brain bashing, self inflicted fear and loathing in Las Palmas
I was still afflicted like I am now
But those balmy sun dappled evenings
Grinning on terraces
Stuck like insects in a treacly loveless web
Boy was it good sometimes.
Florida dreams
Driving around Florida was perhaps the happiest I’ve been.
This was back in June when responsibilities were low and expectations were high
when the orange-clad Disney-donning streets always led us to Chick-fil-a or Moe’s at the height of hunger
stomachs beaten by pangs, the allure of burrito bowls and buttery milkshake broths awaiting.
We stopped in at all the parks and scaled iron-fisted fortresses and dropped
down vicious clanging paths
took oodles of pictures for the ‘gram and drank pint after pint of poisonous soda
to ward off the southern sun, bleeding onto our skin…
while fabric Mickeys and Minnies gasped for air
through the winter-laced fibres of their bulbous heads
probably paid a pittance
to stand in the sun and boil like broccoli
skin wretched and pasty at the end of the day; ours firetruck-red.
We went to Medieval Times because you said I ought to get a taste
of American pastimes
there we watched horses charge up and down with stout little fellows on their backs
wielding sticks and swords
jousting like they might have done back in the day
while we hunkered down over a medieval meal
turkey leg, garlic bread, tomato soup and enough Coke refills
to disintegrate a steak, and rot my molars.
6 interesting foreign phrases to describe your lockdown life
Last month, nobody could stop talking about the Finnish concept of Kalsarikännit, “the feeling when you are going to get drunk home alone in your underwear – with no intention of going out.”
It summed up lockdown perfectly, all the while showcasing the beauty of the Finnish language and making Friday evenings getting peacefully sozzled all the more appealing and accepted.
But the Finns aren’t the only ones with quirky, quarantine-appropriate concepts. The Italians, for example, refer to rekindling an old flame as ‘reheating cabbage’ – not exactly the image you had in mind when contemplating sliding into your ex’s DMs, eh?
And in Hungary, a nagging spouse is, somewhat colourfully, an ‘indoor dragon’. How many of you have your own ‘indoor dragon’ to contend with at the moment?
I can’t guarantee these will come in handy on future backpacking adventures or city breaks, but here are six foreign terms that aptly describe the #lockdownlife.
For when you’re feeling lazy
It’s totally fine to not be doing a lot at the moment. Remember, there is a pandemic going on – so even if you feel like you should be baking enough banana bread to feed the whole of Yorkshire or running a half marathon every day, it’s also fine to be a couch potato – or ‘pantofolaio.’
- Pantofolaio
You can use the Italian term ‘pantofolaio’ to describe a couch potato or homebody. A noun first used in the 19th century, it comes from the word ‘pantofola’ meaning ‘slipper’.
An example in action:
“Ho provato a farlo uscire, ma è diventato un tale pantofolaio.”
“I tried to make him come out, but he’s become such a homebody!”
It’s difficult to be anything but a couch potato at the moment – so why not look the part? If you do fancy upping your slipper game in true ‘pantofolaio’ style, apparently >slider slippers are all the rage right now.
- Fiaca
‘Fiaca’ comes from Lunfardo, a slang that originated in the late 19th and early 20th centuries in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It’s used to talk about “the feeling or state of being bored, idle, slothful of unmotivated” and when we use it to describe a person, we’d translate it as lazybones, layabout or bum.
An example in action:
“Qué fiaca que tengo!”
“Man, I feel like a slug today!”
This is something we’re all experiencing: trudging from bed to desk to fridge and back to desk, flicking through Netflix to find something binge-worthy, all the while ignoring the towering inferno of work, emails and deadlines piling up. ‘Fiaca’ is the ultimate killer of productivity.
For describing relationships
It’s a weird time for relationships – both romantic and non-romantic alike. Some haven’t seen their parents or partners or friends in months; others might find themselves house-sharing with an ‘indoor dragon.’
- Házisárkány
This is a Hungarian word literally meaning ‘indoor dragon’ and used to refer to a nagging, restless spouse. If you’re not used to sharing a house with your significant other, tensions might be high during this period. It may be you find yourself (or your partner) morphing into a mythical beast, breathing fire upon seeing plates piling up in the sink or socks strewn across the floor.
An example in action:
“A házisárkány soha nincs megelégedve.”
“A domestic dragon is never satisfied.”
Catch Budapest describes it as “a harmless joke” and strongly recommend that we keep treating it as such.
- Cavoli Riscaldati
The Italians use ‘cavoli riscaldati’ (literally meaning reheated cabbage) to talk about “a pointless attempt to revive a former love affair”. According to Christopher Moore, author of In Other Words, it comes from a proverb:
“Cavoli riscaldati né amore ritornato non fu mai buono.”
“Neither reheated cabbage nor revived love is ever any good.”
Interestingly, some parts of Italy use ‘minestra riscaldata’ or ‘zuppa riscaldata’ (reheated soup) instead of ‘cavoli riscaldati’.
Essentially, the idea is that nothing will ever taste as good when reheated. How many of you have thought about reaching out to your exes during lockdown? Snap. But now all I can think about is how I deserve much more than just reheated cabbage. Maybe some Waitrose kale or pretty pink lettuce from Harrods instead.
For those early mornings and late nights
Arguably, we’re probably saving a lot more money by not buying as much coffee during lockdown – but that doesn’t mean to say we’re drinking any less.
- Tretår
‘Tretår’ comes from Swedish, literally meaning a ‘threefill’ – a second refill of a cup of coffee. Hardly surprising the Swedes have a word for this – according to the Telegraph, they were the sixth biggest coffee drinkers in the world in 2017.
Language Insight says ‘tretår’ is likely to be used on a Monday morning to help kick off the working week.
Despite no longer needing to get up at 6am and commute for two hours, my caffeine intake has sky-rocketed during lockdown. I’ve upped my daily dosage from one to two and sometimes three cups to get me through the day.
This is down to a mixture of boredom, comfort (everything just feels cosier when you’re clutching a hot brew, doesn’t it?) and also because it’s from my own stash and therefore free. Knowing how much I must have saved by not forking out on overpriced lattes on Tottenham Court Road makes my Nescafe taste just that little bit better.
- Nedoperepil (недоперепил)
‘Nedoperepil’ is a past tense verb used by the Russians “to say that someone has drunk more than they should have, but still less than they could have (or wanted to)”, according to Lingua Lift.
Searching for further clarity, I also consulted Wiktionary: “to have too much to drink, but to be unsatisfied and want to drink more; to be drunk, but not blacked out (literally, ‘to underoverdrink’)”.
If you’re out in a bar and the barista refuses to serve you, you can say:
“Но я же недоперепил!”
“But I haven’t yet drunk as much as I can!”
Seems like the perfect balance, right? Merrily sozzled but not sozzled enough to pass out and not remember anything – plus, it doesn’t always result in a hangover. ‘Underoverdrinking’ could very well become the nation’s new pastime.
The fact Russia has a word for this is mind-blowing – and to be honest, not totally surprising.
A nod to travel
Thoughts of lemon groves and clifftop towns
Come flooding in like siren calls
Music to my ears, anguish to my mother’s
The word interrailing instils a jolt of excitement
A pang of yearning
It shocks me on this tube
And I sizzle under it’s electrical wave
Sicilian lemons and towns perched atop cliffs
Inked a teal blue
Etched in a haze of mythology
Parting the blue with our flippers
(There’s an “our” in this solo travel tale?)
There’s rusty coral smirking at the bottom
Fish wide eyed and grinning from fin to fin
I’m poised on the edge of adventure
And every reminder of Europe
Every soot saddled tunnelled journey
Makes me long for it even more
Those Sicilian lemons
That castle in Ischia.
Reminiscing
I thought of that cup
The one I bought from Ikea, all greenly gold and new
The one I drank my morning brew in
The one that saw coffee swish within its China skeleton
Like a dinghy at water park.
My lips fat and swallowing, teeth chinking against the sides
It took us months to get through that giant bag of Costco coffee
The beans floated to the top, never ending
And everyday I’d start my morning with that pastel green cup
Finger my iPad
And wriggle my way into consciousness.
Planes, trains and automobiles
People rush to shove their bags overhead Like a herd of wildebeest and you’re mufasa.
They prance and prowl about in this tiny aisle, knocking you sideways.
Before reaching far-flung corners of the world,
They’ll fling their luggage tags at you,
Run over your big toe
And elbow you in the cheek, arm or collar bone
Without any sort of apology.
Overhead space is like prime real estate
Because we’ve got so much stuff,
So many creams, so many serums,
So many outfits and hair products
A ball of mad capitalism.
Tall, quick-footed parents step over you to claim their space,
Older lemon-faced ladies moan at the lack of legroom,
Children sit scared in their seats and tap away on their Samsungs.
And the stuff piles up, high above our heads,
Weighing us down both here and there.
A winter weekend last year
We cosied up to eachother in
European buses and craft beer bars.
We took snow-freckled paths around
the city, and the rain spat its lovely
juices at us in Barcelona – wet and
wintery, I hoped it would never end.
Then we sidled up to one another
within the chalk-coloured walls of a
boutique b&b. They threw in a hot tub
and we threw off our clothes.
Dancing streets, bustling beer bars
and the dimlit lights of taxis and
tourists swarm around us. Protests
were staged, and I felt awkward
watching… I’ve never fought for
anything before and I guess that’s a
good thing.
New Orleans
We plodded down south in his red little car, the sun spewing its rays onto the chipped windscreen and me with my knees bent, resting against the dashboard, inches from my eye sockets.
Rolling into New Orleans listening to a mind-bogglingly awful podcast about American diabetes, we took shelter in somebody’s shed at the bottom of somebody’s garden. We were greeted by air conditioning units (thank Christ), a fluffy queen-size mattress and a bathroom whose toilet hung onto the wall by a thread. The previous guest, a beastly cockroach perched in one of the shower creases, had to be escorted out somewhat forcefully.
Beads of sweat covered me during those first few days in New Orleans. A boozy tapestry of dim-lit bars, brightly-coloured beads and dirt-ridden vagabonds met us at the entrance to Bourbon Street. Locals and party-goers chugged slimy-looking cocktails out of red plastic cups and then tossed them into the gutter, narrowly missing the little black boys’ feet.
They banged on upturned buckets and cones in a bid to hustle a few cents and I myself stopped alongside them a number of times, watching the sweat pouring from their brows to their noses and soaking their lips.
As we meandered down this hellish time capsule where street boozing and pissing in alleyways is par for the course, somebody hurled a load of beads at me from a raucous balcony and Boyfriend went berserk.
When the fire in his eyes finally died down, we sipped Amaretto sours in a quieter pub and watched a jazz ensemble empty their lungs into the pores of their instruments. We stumbled across voodoo stores with eerie dolls peering from the windows and great big sinister lettering plastered around the walls. We didn’t go in, I was a bit too afraid.
And then we capped our nights with feasts of authentic Jambalaya, orgasmic and unparalleled. Rice flooded the plate, shrimps tossed and turned beneath a sea of salty veg and silky meat. We made our way home, bellies full and lips moist, and then headed to Nashville.
talking to my pillow. 