I have tried for you: leaving Oman.

There were long days and short nights, sunny hot days and starry warm nights. 

There were sunrises and sunsets, all shades of pink and orange and purple and blue.

There was no rain, not one drop - all of it saved for a certain October week in St Malo, France.

There were tanned white-smiled people and paler white-smiled people, who welcome me on their team to take on a tiny bit of a much bigger challenge, who played by my rules, who showed me patience, understanding and trust.

There, I have been happy, I have been sad too. I have been happy again. 

I have asked questions, so many questions, and listened to answers, skeptical sometimes, amazed, most of the time. There still are things I don't get but it seems I understood the most important parts. I have grown up, matured, learnt, shared and taught.

Time has been scarce, and I haven't written one third of what I wanted to, so many ideas are still spinning in my head. I guess that's what happens when life gets in the way! 

I enjoyed every minute of the experience and maybe, one day, I'll put it all on paper.

Leaving was hard. I miss Oman and my life as it was then and there, but time has come to jump head first in a new chapter. Less sand, more snow. Oh well... At least I get to use my winter wardrobe this time!

I'll keep you posted!

I have tried for you: living in Muscat. Chapter 5, I like it here.

I used to hate routine. Routine meant being boring, and a grown up. Ewwww. Until recently, being a grown up was the last thing on my list. And then I decided I liked being one.

Here in Muscat, I live for my routine. I try and stick to a few things in my day which make me truly happy and comes 6 o'clock, comes my favourite time of day which I wouldn't miss for anything.

I try as much as I can to be outdoors, or at least out of the office when the sun goes low. It is at this precise hour we call in French "entre chien et loup", literally "between dog and wolf", which I am more tempted to rename "between pink and blue", as far as Oman is concerned. It is that very time when the heat balance gets inverted, when warmth doesn't come from up above anymore, but from down below, when the sun is being eaten by the sea, and the air suddenly becomes breathable, while the earth is releasing a day worth of accumulated heat and odors.

The sunset in Muscat lasts for long and the air is filled with the most amazing scents. Grilled meat, roasting flowers, fire, an earthy smell whirlwinds in the breeze. A great quietness fills the atmosphere, everything becomes peaceful at once, and suddenly every single bird around starts singing. It is the most impressive feeling, of peacefulness filled with what could be noise, but echoes as quietness.

At that very time of day, I am usually sitting outside a coffee, on a beach, taking it all in. I am in the middle of it, right now, looking at capoeira dancers, brown skins and white trousers, groups of kids and mums, fully clothed, swimming in the sea, Omani families taking a stroll and 4x4 driving past. The light is amazing, orangy-pink, with a hint of sadness. Yet another day has gone.

The temperature is dropping and the air becomes soft and light on the skin. The ground is now releasing the heat it has stored over the day, and my feet are burning through the sole of my shoes, radiating in my legs.

People turn into shadows against the sky. The big Mosque must be lit already, and soon I will drive across a Muscat getting ready for prayer, calling another day to sleep in the songs of the muezzins.
I embrace that time of day, every day.

I have tried for you: living in Muscat. Chapter 4, The food-shopping experience.

Welcome to LuLu

I am currently standing in the queue at "LuLu", where I have done my every-second day shopping. All the queues go back way into the central alley, it looks like I am in for a treat!

Food shopping in Muscat is quite an experience.

There are 4 major supermarket brands here, plus a few corner shops which I haven't visited as I am not feeling that adventurous enough yet. I find the supermarkets intimidating enough for now.

The most expat of all supermarkets is Al Fair. It is as close as you can get to Waitrose or M&S (or Monoprix, for the Frenchies), it is big, airy, clean and stocks most of the Western products, including incidentally loads of Waitrose branded stuff (more than I could ever buy on the island !). It is ideal when looking for ...eeeerm - a Western brand of bio-pot yogurt. To be fair, you can find anything anywhere, but Al Fair stocks most of the Western brands, and fancy, imported, "I miss home" type of food. Mainly, the place is safe, shopping is quick, shoppers are a majority of expats - and it is not many of them at once. Al Fair was perfect for the transition period between England and Oman, and still is a great solution for fresh salads and office lunchbox food. On a side note, it is quite expensive - food is not cheap in Oman and Al Fair makes sure this is never an understatement.

It has been 10 min since I started writing, my trolley has not moved an inch in the queues. 5 more people behind me. The man in front has 2 trolleys and is looking at me intensely. Yeay.

Next supermarket down the line is Sultan Center, which is not as nice as Al Fair but fairly clean at first glance, not too packed and close to home. Crazily expensive - a step up from Al Fair but not exciting foodwise -  or experience wise. I have given up on Sultan Center, although something tells me I will probably go back there again when the weather gets nicer, as it is at walking distance from the flat. I have never, to that day, walked any further than a 20 meters distance outside. They say I have to wait until November, or I will melt on the pavement. So I wait, and in the meantime, I drive!

I have just realised I am standing by the ice-cream aisle. Bummer. Haägen Dazs Phish Food anyone? Stu?! It will be melted by the time I get to the cashier, I might as well eat it now. Oh, it even comes with a spoon !

Luckily for the French bits left in me, there are 2 massive Carrefours, located in Muscat's busiest shopping malls. These Carrefours offer a broad range of French, English and Indian supplies - from cornichons to ready-to-cook popadoms, from Nutella to Jell'o. However, they are much closer to the UK idea of a "cash and carry" (French  -  grossiste Metro), where most things are sold in packs of 5 (e.g. 5 jars of mayo in one go - I know a Lucy who would be happy !), where rice comes in 20kgs bags (guess you need a dedicated rice closet in your kitchen, but at least the rice issue is sorted for the next 5 years) and chicken is sold in pairs, like shoes, but without the cardboard box.




And then, LuLu. LuLu is the Middle-East equivalent of Carrefour - except it is so much more glam' and glittz' and "wow, is it Christmas yet?"- from the outside, anyway. From the inside, both supermarkets offer the same customer experience: shopping is mainly in bulks, people-stareage is constant (and scary),  thus trolley accidents are frequent, population density is high, and amount of time spent shopping is wayyy too much.

Lulu stocks the biggest amount of products I have ever seen - most of them I did not even know they existed, goods are imported from Malaysia and India, as well as Lebanon, Australia, Europe and the US. They have the most scary range of fruit and veggies, from green-furry pink sea-urchin looking balls to pretty rose and green peary-appley things, and much more, with names like rambuttan, logan fruit, snake fruit, durian or dragon fruit. Excuse me - how do you cook it? Oh, I have to eat the skin as well? But it smells / tastes awful! Oh well.


The population who shops here is Indian in majority, multicolored saris for the not so many females, and traditional kaftan/linen trousers for the men. There are also quite a few Omani men and their kids, but hardly any Omani women. So it is a lot of white-dishdashes (the traditional male Omani long dress), a handful of black headscarves and abbayas (the long black dress worn by Muslim women), and the rest is Bollywood, bar the singing/dancing bit. A lot of shouting and running and nudging. It is intense.


Now down to 6 people in front of me, but still slightly more trolleys than people. Mainly Indian and Omani men, one Indian woman and one blond (expat!) man, with his blond baby daughter. Westerners are so easily spotted. Hint: they are the only men not wearing a dress and are usually more red than tanned.


At LuLu, people stare. By stare, I mean: stop, look at me, general body scan, eye lock, won't move until I have cleared their field of vision. Not so nice - even when you're used to it. It had me worry about my wardrobe choice for long minutes, as it often brings the feeling that I must be somehow disrespectful in the eyes of Islam. Thank God, Oman is not Saudi, and being stared at seems to be the worse that happens. However, I always, always avoid the place if I my knees and elbows are not covered, there is no wearing shorts or a tank top at LuLu, it would be social suicide. I also try and keep my head down as much as I can, but sometimes I have to reach something on a top shelf, and then I have to acknowledge all those glances at my person. In the end, it is all about confidence, and the more I shop at LuLu's, the better I get at it !

Apparently, people here stare at expats  because we are exotic. Sorry, but you people are exotic. You eat rotten muddy roots for pudding (this sweet Tamarind looks seriously yummy, doesn't it just?). Sorry, I will be sticking with Holland cherry tomatoes.


LuLu and Carrefour make me travel me further away than Oman, it almost feels like I am going shopping in India (or in the idea I have of India anyway). 4 weeks ago, I would never have ventured away from Al Fair. I have now started seeing LuLu as a personal cultural experiment, and I spend more time looking at people than worrying if people stare at me. I guess that's why It takes me 2 hours to fill my fridge for 2 days!


Made it to the cashier after 30 minutes queuing, we haven't exchanged more than one word, and two smiles - probably because he hardly speaks English, and it is obvious I speak no Arabic. Shoukran!
Me, my 5 bags, my un-funky fruits, my exotic knees and elbows are going home now !

I have tried for you: living in Muscat. Chapter 3, The Ramadan food "issue".

The Grand Mosque at sunset - the break of fast.

Another 2 or maybe 3 days to go before Ramadan is over in Oman. It is a relief, I can tell you, for those who fast, indeed, but also for those who don't.

The start of Ramadan was declared in Oman for the 12th of August by the Ministry of Endowments and Religious Affairs. The whole declaration is linked in my mind to a rather arcane story of moon-sighting that I am still trying to get my head around... and after reading pages over the internet, it still is very vague so I have decided not to go there, for your sake and mine. 

I was flying back to Oman on the 12th of August, and my first encounter with Ramadan was the Oman Air hostess's voice saying: "Welcome to Muscat. We kindly remind all non-Muslim passengers that it is forbidden to eat and drink in public places between sunset and sunrise during the Holy month of Ramadan. The outside temperature is 37 degrees, and it is 0930, local time". Had I been wide awake at that precise moment, I would have thought: "Can someone explain to me how am I meant to go through a whole month working in an office without eating, let alone drinking (water), during my waking hours? It is 37 degrees outside, you'd have to be crazy not to drink. Plus it is breakfast time. No way, it doesn't apply to me: I am no Muslim".

But I was still dozing, exhausted from the lack of sleep, thanks to the painfully early breakfast (notice the origin or the word - came as an epiphany to me - "break of fast") served on the plane - at 0300 am, right before sunset.

This was only the beginning. I was thinking it would be interesting, eyes-opening, and a fun experience to have. It turned out to be fascinating and definitely mind-broadening. Fun, not so much.

The company where I work being only young, there was no precedent and it took a few days to adjust and create a "Non-Muslim Ramadan-friendly zone" for us to proceed to our non-fasting ritual. The number of expats around decreases dramatically during Ramadan, and there was only 3 or 4 of us in the office. Nothing had been arranged yet, and for the first 2 days of Ramadan, we did not dare get on with the topic of lunch. We did not dare speak out loud about food, full stop. Oh, we were thinking about it alright, but just couldn't ask about the logistics without fearing of offending anyone. 

Off course, all public places - needless to say restaurants - are closed between sunrise and sunset. Going out for lunch was not an option. Supermarkets are open (for some seriously borderline sadomasochist reason - I shall write about this later), but where to eat the food? In the car? Forbidden. Some people even say that you could get denounced to the police by a keen citizen if seen. We could have gone home, but non-Muslim employees tend to have more work during Ramadan, because Muslim people finish their day at 2pm, which is when Europe is getting on with work - and we work with Europe on a daily basis.

So I experienced total fasting until 3 pm on day 1, and that was no fun at all. Another 3 and a half hours before sunset. How do they do it, I wondered. How do you not faint or fall asleep or just, simply, slip and grab a sip or a bite? They are used to it, trained from a young age (7 or 8 years old), is their answer. Past day 2, there is no complaining of hunger, no mention of food, they just get on with it. I still struggle understanding that answer - as I cannot get used to even the simplest restriction: not eating chocolate. How can you get used to not eating AT ALL for 12 hours? 

This aspect of Ramadan looks to me as one of Islam's utmost expression of a conviction - and is a convincing display of it - that one can fully control and resign themselves for the sake of their belief. It takes some serious willpower to go through 29 of those days and to keep going while being your normal, smiling, happy self - which they are.
On that very day, fasting made me upset, and angry, and not very efficient in my work. Not to mention the obvious, it also made me freakingly hungry and food-obsessed to the point of getting hallucinations. I did not eat my pen, but it got close enough.

On day 2, I locked myself in the bathroom and ate my lunch in 10 minutes sharp while sitting on the loo. I was feeling guilty as hell, but also laughing hysterically on my own, thinking about the situation, if someone was to see me at that precise moment. It was so not fun that it was almost fun. 

On day 3, one of my colleagues showed me an unoccupied office, that we could lock and once we had pulled down the blinds, where we could hide to eat. So I did, which was hardly fun but at least I could stay in my locked room long enough so I would not choke on my chicken and have to justify to the ambulance why I was eating during fasting hours. 

Even though I am no Muslim, I have learnt the few available excuses to justify myself if I ever was found drinking or eating in public - and I always have one ready when I am about to infringe the law. That's how scared I am.

By day 6, more expats were back in the office and we had set our private  quarters in one of the staff kitchens. 

Said kitchen has no doors, and every now and then, a Muslim walks in the room and sees us all around the table eating. This sight 1) is most probably making him craving food even more than he already was, 2) has a negative impact on the purity of his fast (something to do with him wanting food), 3) is making me highly uncomfortable. I always find myself blushing, trying to hide the food away and mumbling apologies. 

Ramadan makes me feel guilty, and am not even a Muslim. Eating food, speaking about food, thinking about food - how to deal with it? We talk a lot in the office, and I ask a million questions a day. However, I have been super careful with my questions on the fasting - I know how bad my cravings get when the word "chocolate" is whispered to me ear, while there are no supplies to be found anywhere. It is way worse for them, as they can't even find consolation in cake, like I do when chocolate is not available!

On a positive side, there has been no snacking in between meals. Even if, on a couple of occasions, I would have happily sprinkled my notebook with sugar and eaten each sheet like a pancake.

Oh, and they keep saying "Ramadan Kareem" as a greeting - which litterally means "happy fasting". Seriously? Happy? Me - not. Bring the food back !

I have tried for you: living in Muscat. Chapter 2, part 2, The air con diaries, the car issue.

Tanned feet before morning drive.

On the car, morning drive to the office.

Nail polish on my hands is drying off nicely, thanks to the built in naildrier - i.e. the AC fans located right behind the steering wheel, which provide just the right amount of air, at the right temperature. 

For a bit.

Then it gets cold, as in I-could-do-with-a-jumper cold (NB: it is 30++ degrees outside, they don't  do jumpers around here).

You see, as in every standard car, my AC has 4 gears and 4 positions. Gears range from 0 (= death by suffocation) to 4 (full blast, hairdrier effect as described in previous post).  Positions offered are face, feet, face and feet (sounds like the brochure for massages at a spa, but is far from, in reality), plus the useless windshield position. Then you can play with the red and blue settings (hot and cold, duh) - although I am still unsure why they bother with car heating in a country when it hardly ever gets below 20 degrees. Climate change anticipation, I guess.

I keep believing my favorite combo is gear 4, face and feet, blue all the way. 

It is essentially true when in the middle of a dramatic body overheating. I am then convinced I will never, ever manage to cool back down to a normal temperature and I make radical decisions: favorite AC combo on.

The favorite combo is available from switching the AC on + 3 min (at this stage, body temperature is getting close to maximum tolerance threshold), and is bearable for an average of 4 min. 

I then have to move down to gear 3 rapidly, as the fans in my face become rather annoying, plus my hair is flying everywhere - especially in my eyes, I can't see the road and start fearing for my safety. I really cannot afford  being involved in a car incident with a sweaty t-shirt on.

Down to gear 2 now. And feet only. Is it getting cold, or is it me? My hands are freezing.

Gear 1. Gosh, it's hot in here. 

Gear 2, face and feet. Too cold, again.

Since I have to wear trousers and a long sleeve top, I am indulging daily in the flip-flops/sandals footwear (my only allowed Muslim-friendly contribution to tan improvement on a week day).

Hey, I can't feel my feet anymore.

Quick glance under the wheel.

My toes are blue. Oh dear.

I am now a (dried) sweaty smelly person with blue fingers and toes. Note that I haven't made it to the office yet.

Every day I swear to myself: "(Scr*w the fashion police,) tomorrow, I am wearing socks with my flip-flops". 

It turns out I haven't packed any socks.

I have tried for you: living in Oman. Chapter 2, part 1, The air-con diaries.

Muscat. On a school morning.

6:30. My alarm clock goes off. Scenario one, I have left the air conditioning on overnight. 

I wake up being cold, very cold. I grab  the AC remote control from under my pillow, switch the thing off and hop in the bathroom. In the rest of the flat, the air is thick, hot and moist, pretty much like in the jungle. I return to my room after the shower, it’s still chillier here than anywhere else in the flat, I shiver, get dressed and go grab some breakfast in the sauna (slash) kitchen. Sauna? Indeed, the door leading from the kitchen to the only bit of “outside” (the washing machine room, a room where the arabic-style window isn't covered by a glass pane) doesn’t close anymore... because of the heat. I break out into a sweat. Oh dear. It will only be the first of many times today.

***

6:30. My alarm clock goes off. Scenario two, I have switched the AC off overnight. I wake up being hot, very hot, and sweaty (Who said "glam"? Someone said "glam"?). I grab  the AC remote control from under my pillow, switch the thing to 23 degrees and hop in the bathroom. In the rest of the flat, the air is thick, hot and moist, pretty much like in the jungle (my switching off the AC overnight probably didn’t help here). I return to my room after my shower, it feels like a reasonable temperature now, I get dressed and go grab some breakfast in the freezer (slash) kitchen. Freezer? Indeed, the door leading to the only bit of “outside” doesn’t close anymore, so sometimes we leave the AC overnight in the kitchen – basically cooling down outside as well as inside (our own contribution to reduce global warming. Joke. Except not funny). At least I can’t feel the overwhelming signs of a sweat rising. This could be a good day.

***

7:00. I put a lunch box together. Any attempt at cooking induces rise in local temperature, which will induce sweat break in return. Limit cooking to a minimum. Good thing I like salads. 

Have a yogurt for breakfast. And a pint of ice cold water from the water dispenser. Make it two pints.

7:20. Bathroom: hands, face and teeth. Factor 15 on. Skip the makeup because, gosh, who has time for that? 

Lunch bag - check, gym bag - check, schoolbag - check. Sunnies - check, double check.

7:28. Grab multiple bags and keys, switch all lights off, turn various AC units and fans up, or down, on, or off. Depends in which room, you see.

7:30. Leave the flat. The building hall is a good 5/7 degrees warmer than the flat, and the smells of remnants of our neighbours’ dinners mixed together make me nauseous. I am starting to feel not so fresh already. I haven’t even been outside yet. 

I take the stairs – my only attempt to exercise in 24 hours some days. 4 floors later, I reach for the outside door, take a deep breath and swing it open. 

Here we go. The tumble-drier effect hits me (warm and humid puff of breeze very similar to the one that submerges the individual opening the tumble-drier at the end of its spinning cycle). 

Welcome, sweat attack number 2.

7:35. I walk 6 meters to my car, it is already 30 degrees under the scorching sun. I am wearing jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt. I can feel beads of sweat rolling down my neck, and behind my knees. 

I feel gorgeous.

Open car, drag handbag, gym bag, lunch bag inside. Sit down, leave door open. Put car key in contact and switch engine on. Oh dear.

The radio screams. The AC fans blow boiling hot air at full blast in my face – hair drier effect, added to ambient heat of 40++ degrees. Hello, sweat attack number 3. 

Why do I make the same stupid mistakes every day? Every evening I leave the AC button pushed in when I park the car, so obviously, every morning it is pushed in when I start the car.

I turn radio and fans down, put gym bag in the back, handbag on passenger seat, lunch bag on the floor of passenger seat (explanation next time). Fold windshield sunshade away and throw it at back of the car. (Yep, sunshade – I know Dad, I wasn’t brought up to use this but it turns out that without it, my steering wheel would be melting and my fingers and palms would be burnt all over). Fold both sun flaps (or whatever they're called) used to hold sunshade in place. 

Plug iPhone in radio. 

Now is the time to apply nail polish, as I will spend the next 10 minutes without having to touch anything but the car wheel - plus said car has built-in nail varnish drier (explanation next time), so I proceed. Close nail varnish bottle, throw in handbag (do not leave in car or will dry instantly. Proven fact, from experience). 

Strap security belt. Screw the nail varnish up. Reapply a coat of varnish. (Note to self: strap the belt before getting on with the nail varnish, not after).  

7:50. Fans have cooled down and are blowing cold air. Soothing music is playing. Feels heavenly. 

Except I probably smell.

Glad I didn’t apply makeup because by now, I’d look like a melted Barbie doll.

Morning, sunshine. You have yourselves a lovely day !

I have tried for you: living in Oman. Chapter 1, Muscat is not a city, it is a motorway.

So big news, I have moved to Oman, but everyone knows this already. Oman is a smallish (same size as the UK!) country, in the Middle East, on the coast. Capital city is Muscat, where I live, which is a 4 hour drive from Dubai, and a 7:30 flight from London. A whole different world.

I have moved pretty much without notice, and essentially without any preconceived ideas, which is quite rare for me. I had in mind that I was going somewhere new, somewhere hot, somewhere where Arabic was the main language but where English was widely spoken. And indeed, I was going to that somewhere for a work mission that sounded awesome - luckily, it turned out to be exactly that, so all in all there was not much space allowed for pondering the decision. The Muslim part, I had blocked out almost completely. How have I done so, I can't explain to myself, but again, less than 2 minutes were enough for me to answer "yes" to the question "Do you fancy moving to Oman for a bit?", so fair enough, i guess.

I had pictured Muscat as a seaside Marrakesh type of city. Wrong, very wrong my dear. Muscat is a seaside motorway. The city is spread between 2 busy 4-way roads, spread over a good 1:15 drive, from the marina at the South (Sidab) to the airport up North (as Seeb). From what I have seen so far, the concept of pedestrians - or pavement, for that matters - is pretty much nonexistent. Oh, and as for the picture - notice anyone walking? No. This is not a pavement, it is a road ornament, duh.

Good news is, I don't have to drive for 1:15 everyday as I live in Azaiba,  10min South from the office. I hardly ever have to go all the way South to the Marina during the week. My longest drive on a normal day would be 30min, one way.

Bad news is, I have to drive at least twice a day, every day. As I said, there is no walking in this country in the summer.

Bad news, why?
Well, to put it mildly they drive like Italians around here. And don't we all know what that means.

I have this great new game called Russian Roulette Roundabout.

I play it every day, it is a lot of fun. I'll have to tell you more about it next time.

Roger and out for today, missing you all !

I have tried for you: Nigella's flourless chocolate brownie.

I have just received a text from my flatmate.
It says: "You make the best f***ing brownies ever. Thanks".
Just like that, out of the blue. Just when I was looking for a way to start this post.
Thank you, Flatmie, thank you big time.

So apparently I have the power to make killer flourless chocolated brownies. I'd like to say I agree on the killer bit, but I can't for the life of me remember what they taste like. I have been on a stupid protein diet for weeks now and chocolate brownies happen to not be on the authorized list. If I try hard though, I can remember the brownies being gooey, melting, rich and sticky. I remember the only way to eat them is eyes closed. I remember they taste better with every day that passes. I remember they are fantastic when just warm from the oven, and equally amazing after a few days in the fridge. I can actually taste them almost, and oh God, do I miss them. These are the Rolls Royce Transformers of brownies, the ones that always win all the votes, even from the most pudding-impervious personalities.

Nigella, the woman who is not afraid to put both her bare hands in the jar, has clearly opened the love market for me. The woman has found the recipe to melt a man's hearts (and a woman's, equally). My friend's husband told her he would marry me, for the brownies. My other friend Lucy said she would dump her boyfriend and marry me, for the brownies. My flatmate would kill for those brownies, and I know I can get my way anytime when bribing him with the said brownies. Actually, there almost always is a batch of them at home, to counter any possibility of domestic aggressiveness from his part. Oh, and they have been offered to appease the spirits of a really angry cleaner, who threatened to dump us. The story doesn't tell if she had the brownies, but fact is, she still is with us. I told you, they melt hearts.

I am gutted to report that these brownies are the easiest thing ever to make - which means I will soon loose my Unique Selling Point, but hey, I am no selfish cook.

The recipe can be found here, together with a million other yummy recipes. As per its name, it requires no flour, which has been replaced by almond powder, making them a sweet, melting, wheat-free pudding. I don't usually make a chocolate sauce with them, the brownies being rich enough on their own, thank you very much!

My personal interpretation to the recipe implies proper French cooking chocolate that I bring back from my trips home, and replacing half of the butter with salted butter. The best chocolate ever is the kraft paper wrapped Chocolat Noir Nestlé Dessert which I have never found in the UK to this day, but Morrissons stocks the traditional green chocolate block from Menier which is excellent. Also, I tend not to add the chopped nuts - although last time I made the brownie, I did put them in and Flatmie showed a great deal of appreciation towards the final product (hence the text earlier). I think I will try adding fudge or hokey-pokey next time... and I will let you know what happens then!

Next time you meet a guy you like, make sure to offer him some of those brownies. Hopefully, he will admit you are the only woman in the world who can make them. And he'll send you a text saying: "You make the best f***ing brownies ever. Will you marry me?".

I have tried for you: the Festival experience.

Yesterday, I came back from a Festival. I came back muddy, and tired, and happy, and tired, and really, really amazed.

I had just been on a 3 day sociological experiment. It was mental.

First, I saw Noah and the Whale perform live, and I fell in love - like I do, pretty much every other day. They were mind-blowing. They deserve a whole post, but it will have to be later.

Because, actually, first I saw a million people, average age 20 I'd say, perform live coolness. Apparently, there were only 55,000 of us there but it did feel like a million, not that I have been exposed to a crowd of a million individuals before, but that's how I had imagined it would be. 55,000 people is A LOT of people. Especially when you need the loo, but that's another post entirely (if I dare, one day. You, who have invented the portaloo, should have been off gardening on that day, or crochet knitting. It was a bad idea. I'm just saying).

So all these people in their early 20s made me feel old at times, and reminded me I was a stranger to their country. There was no such thing as Festivals in France when I was 18 - mind you, I am not that old - but my parents never thought of sending me and 15 of my mates camping on the other side of the country in a giant field where I would be wearing flowers in my hair and short short jean shorts, smoking all sorts of cigarettes and drinking cider from Carling paper cups. I would have loved it, I swear, if only I had been 5% as cool then as they all looked to me this week end.

On Sunday evening, we had this discussion with my friends about that one girl - 18 probably - who was coolness embodied. Blonde, curly frizzy hair, golden skin, lagoon blue eyes, looking like a refreshing 80's rock star. She seemed magnetic, even we couldn't take our eyes off her, watching the ballet of her (no less good looking) friends rolling around her. And then we wondered, how did that happen? When did those kids become so cool? We haven't quite had the same youth, have we?

It appears to me that this Festival was a lot about coolness, and a bit about music too. All the articles I had read in the magazines about Festival outfits suddenly made sense. That was it, I was there, I was part of it... (only 8 years too late). I made good use of my Hunter wellies, my worn out jeans, my festival hat and crazy sunglasses, I looked the part: I pretended I was one of them, and no one pointed out I was a fraud - so maybe I wasn't. I had an awesome time, but I kept wondering: what would it be like, if I was 18? How different? As well as trying Festival last week end, without a doubt I also tried envy.

I spent 3 whole days studying my little models and I loved it. I loved the fashion awareness, the daring color combos - free adaptations from the Jack Wills and Abercrombie catalogues, I loved the boys' hair dos and their stripy long sleeve t-shirts, the uniformity (conformity?!) of the outfits that made them look like they belonged together, I absolutely loved the "I don't care what I look like right now, because I know I look good" spirit. Being careless (in appearance) looked refreshing, but it can't believe is wasn't exhausting.

It was all new to me, very confusing but exhilarating. I want to be there again, but I am not sure if I can cope. And the camping, God no, please, I certainly cannot do that anymore (did I mention I manage to not camp during that Festival? All 3 night of it, sleeping in my own bed. Privileges of being an islander).

Pink was absolutely amazing, by the way. But she had no flowers in her hair, and I bet she was thinking too: how much fun would I have right now, if I was 18 and one of them?

First post ever: I have tried for you... Blogging.

Hum. Here we go. First time ever.
I have been thinking about it for weeks. Months. Maybe years. I have wondered, and wondered again, whether I could do it, stick to it, make it fun and worthy. And then I just thought, oh flute, let's give it a try.
Hum, so here we go, first time ever I am blogging.

Today, I have tried for you: blogging.
It feels a little bit like getting undressed at the doctor's, to be fair. It is quite uncomfortable, but I guess you get used to it, or not. I shall see. Also I have this weird sense of deja vu, the same tension as I had once, years ago, sitting in a shrink's waiting room, the pangs of anticipation in my tummy, without the box of kleenex on the side of the armchair and the old Elle magazine on the coffee table. Will I live up to the expectations? Will there even be expectations? If I am that lucky, I'll try not to disappoint.

I have got all those topics in my head, all those posts about the million things the team and I have tested over the last years, perfect marketing preys that we are. I did forget to write a tiny little word here: all those "English" bits and bobs we have tested. Cause you see, the team and I are French, and we do things a lot differently at home - so we like to think anyway.

I don't know if I will ever get to try blogging in French for you, but I think blogging in English could be good, cool even, if I can ever achieve that.