I spend, I would say, a minimal amount of time fantasizing about what life would be like if I was fabulously wealthy. Especially these days, when by no stretch of the imagination can I complain about my lifestyle relative to 98% of humanity. On Sunday I indulged a little bit, though. After a quick breakfast wherein Elvis and I managed to overlap in Amsterdam - a real treat since after the week in Rome I didn't think I'd see him again until my next visit to Canada - I had a couple of hours free before catching my train on to here (southern Germany). Being hugely pregnant, I didn't spend them high. Novel.
Instead I went for a great big walk to Java Eiland and had my little "If I were a rich man" fantasy. I couldn't live in Amsterdam for the same reason I couldn't live in Brussels - shitty, shitty weather - but if I were a rich man I'd have a pied-a-terre there, and that pied-a-terre would be on Java Eiland. So close to Amsterdam, close enough to walk your luggage to and from the station, but so far. On a fucking island. Full of modern architecture and imposed green spaces. With all the damn boats.
Oh fuck, do I ever wish the F-word would just come here, where people give a bit of a fuck about things being nice, and that I didn't have to go back to Australia. The experiment has run its course. Australia is too far away. Fine. I get it. I understand. And yet here we are, with my ticket un-traded-in, because I make a lot of money there and because we bought a house. I need to quit fucking whining about this because everything is rolling out with the efficiency of a model German automobile factory but when I'm here I'm so much closer to my family - even the fucking West Coasters, what with the Pacific being so big - and . . . and . . . I need to go eat. Second trimester hunger overwhelms all angst.
Instead I went for a great big walk to Java Eiland and had my little "If I were a rich man" fantasy. I couldn't live in Amsterdam for the same reason I couldn't live in Brussels - shitty, shitty weather - but if I were a rich man I'd have a pied-a-terre there, and that pied-a-terre would be on Java Eiland. So close to Amsterdam, close enough to walk your luggage to and from the station, but so far. On a fucking island. Full of modern architecture and imposed green spaces. With all the damn boats.
Oh fuck, do I ever wish the F-word would just come here, where people give a bit of a fuck about things being nice, and that I didn't have to go back to Australia. The experiment has run its course. Australia is too far away. Fine. I get it. I understand. And yet here we are, with my ticket un-traded-in, because I make a lot of money there and because we bought a house. I need to quit fucking whining about this because everything is rolling out with the efficiency of a model German automobile factory but when I'm here I'm so much closer to my family - even the fucking West Coasters, what with the Pacific being so big - and . . . and . . . I need to go eat. Second trimester hunger overwhelms all angst.
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