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.