Evening blog followers...
My rapid demise from a taxpaying, university educated, seasoned traveller to a dole bludging, unemployed teacher who is forced to lead a life of socialising, eating and watching copious amounts of dvds, has all and all made for a rather uninteresting lifestyle and certainly not one worth honouring with a blog. However, i'm doing it anyway baaaaby!
Although I thought my trials and tribulations would be solved upon return to the land of the free/English speaking, it seems that Chile was a mere prelude to the pains to come, and this week I feel the focus needs to lie upon the S.W's- Slow Walkers as they are more commonly known.
So there you are, in Westfield Chartwell, and all you want to do is make a purchase- (Insert purchase here), and then potentially head down to the foodcourt for a tantalising meal of some variety.
You head off in search of your destination, when suddenly BAM! You are stopped dead in your tracks by any number of people (and you only need about two for this to be put into effect), who are unwittingly hogging the entire walkway. The number of times that I have nearly done a "fall on top of and crush" combo because I have misjudged the speed (or "slow" as I like to call it) of these walkers is getting to the point of insanity. One of these days I'm going to wake up with a medical bill for some granny who I bodyslammed while simply trying to make my way down to Glassons for a 2 for $15 deal on the singlets rack.
Case and point in this here example- The other day at Chartys, I was involved in an escalator pile up. An escalator pile up you ask? Whats that? I'll tell you what. A simple escalator ride gone wrong is what it is, and all due to the slow paced mover at the drop off who is NOT keeping up their end of the good citizen bargain and is taking the escalator and life in general at 500metres per hour. Anyhow, the situation got messy, with myself and a number of other good citizens having to do the glide and spring- basically performed by firmly placing one foot on the solid floor at the end of the escalator and using this foot to propel yourself into a spring to either the left or right, to avoid a lethal pile up with the Honourable Good Sir Slow Walker who is still meandering off dead ahead. I'm glad to say in this Escalator Pile Up, or EPU as I call them, was only a narrow miss- I managed to perform the glide and spring with only centimetres to spare- God forbid if the Slow Walker had been wearing a woolly jumper.
This blog rant or brant, as it here forth shall be known by, is almost over, only before I go, know this. Before you go judging me and thinking that I am only targeting old or physically disabled people here with the slow walking conundrum, its necessary you know that I have seen people of every social class, ethnicity, religion, age, sex and physical ability commit this offence.
Remember, its not where you walk, its HOW you walk.
Hope you enjoy the first of the new-age posts, feedback would be a joy, even if its only to tell me you don't like it (haters, back off).
LOVE AINS xox
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Letters to Beth- A solo journey to Pucòn.
So apparently- in a fairly deranged state I might add- I started writing Bethany Pawson a letter once while I was on a bus on the way to Pucòn, in Chile, around the date of early September. Here-in lies the letter, plus any elaborations/ interesting details I had forgotten to add at the time.
Oh. Em. Gee.
Bethic, I had to write a special edition letter to you, stating the hilariously awkward events preceeding my even leaving my home city on the way to my Pucòn minibreak.
After having a sweet convo with my favourite local Entel (phone company) man, I jumped on a random bus into the city. Now heres Chile for you, the local city buses don't take you directly to the intercity bus station, infact they don't even take you to the street its on, they take you to a one way back road about 2 streets over. Awkwardly enough, I didn't even know where this street was, I'd never been there before but was keen to give it a shot. So here I am, bussing along, minding my own, when suddenly I wildly panic and think that I've over shot my mark and am waay past the termy drop off. So all of a dither I flap my hands at the bus driver and get off the bus, only to find myself in a dodgy area lacking in people but full of crumbiling plaster bungalows and a sea of beige apartment buildings.
I loiter, looking like a damn fool, for approx 3 minutes, while trying to figure out which way I should go,- maybe that beige building looks familiar, have I seen that crumbling bungalow before?? Eventually- after realising, no, that wasn't where I needed to be, I spied a man wheeling a trolley suitcase down the road and took off after him in a direction that I hoped would lead me to the land of milk and honey, or in anycase, the bus station. Keep in mind I had only a half hour until the last bus of the day left, and I had no idea of how far I was from the station. While I speed-walked, I entertained a fantasy about what I would do if I missed my bus. I decided there was no way I was to go home with egg on my face and a story of "I couldn't find the bus station and therefore am not going away for the weekend", so in the event of the worst case scenario coming true, I was to find a hostel in Concepciòn, and hole up there for the weekend. "yes" I thought to myself "Who would know? I'll buy a postcard with a picture of Pucòn on it, no one will know I haven't actually been..."
After a good 7 minutes of light jogging, I decided to go in for the kill and summoned all my courage, (and all my Spanish), and blurted out to a passing stranger "DISCULPE!, eeeer, es esta Callao? Nessecita el bus terminal por favor!" The woman looked shocked, I wasn't sure if it was due to my obvious lack of orientaion, or my poor spanish, or my sweaty brow, but it was clear that within seconds she had taken this poor wretch on as her own, and I was as good as in with a personal guide. She lead me on to some other street, and as we walked we talked, it even turned out that she knew enough English to ask me my name and where I was from, too which I was hesitant in replying to, least she got the idea all New Zealanders had such poor internal GPS situations as I do. She got me onto another bus, and then gave the driver instructions on when to release me from the bus, while strictly stating that in no way was I to get off earlier than the stop I was destined for. She then bid me farewell, and I could only stammer a classic "Gracias" at her kindess.
I finally reached my bus, and here you would think it was time to relax no? Well Beth, you couldn't be more wrong. Firstly some old guy, who was pretending (?) not to understand my Spanish, was sitting in my seat and wouldn't get out, so I had to go and sit somewhere else. For the remainder of that 4 hour leg I had to play hot potatoe everytime a new person got on the bus and claimed their rightful seat, while everyone else on the bus stared at me in contempt, the foolish gringa who doesn't sit in her allocated seat.
A wrong stop and a taxi later, I get on my connecting bus to Pucòn, where I put on some music to help wile away the hours before I reach my destination. A slow, haunting tune comes through my headphones, and the opening strains of "The deliverence song" from the Prince of Eygpt grace my ears. I'm not sure if you have seen the film, but it has a fantastic soundtrack, and I for one get very into my music...anyway, I found myself growing weepy at the saddening situation of Moses' mother, the fact that she had to give away her child like that, "wow" I thought as my eyes quietly filled with tears "I feel like now I can understand a mothers pain, to give up your child like that, why it would be awful!" I mangaged to keep my hormonal emotion under wraps, and thought I was away laughing, when suddenly "When you Believe" (from the same soundtrack), bursts through my buds, and I'm again swept away in an emotional river of tears as I think of the joy that the Isrelites must have felt at their long awaited freedom. When destination was reached, I slunk off the bus, still feeling quite ashamed at my hysterical outbursts of heartful emotion. I headed for the hostel I had booked, only to find that there was no way into this Fort Knox style wooden lodge. I fumed and despared at the gate, desperately trying to ring the number that Hostelbookers had given me for contacting this hostel. After about 5 minutes of standing awkwardly on a dusty sidestreet, an old man came up to me, said the equalvalent of "need help?" in Spanish, and then reached through the gate to open it, kiddie-lock style from the other side. I don't know if he had often seen other travellers struggle with the maximum security like fortress, or if he was just taking pity on a poor blonde girl who was obviously at her wits end, but it was a final kindness that Iwas truely grateful for.
Anyway Bethy, I must be off, I've made some English speaking buddies so I'm going to go and make my 80 cent pasta and talk to them about the pros and cons of South America. Can't wait to come home and tell you more about my trip!
Love
Ainsley xo
Oh. Em. Gee.
Bethic, I had to write a special edition letter to you, stating the hilariously awkward events preceeding my even leaving my home city on the way to my Pucòn minibreak.
After having a sweet convo with my favourite local Entel (phone company) man, I jumped on a random bus into the city. Now heres Chile for you, the local city buses don't take you directly to the intercity bus station, infact they don't even take you to the street its on, they take you to a one way back road about 2 streets over. Awkwardly enough, I didn't even know where this street was, I'd never been there before but was keen to give it a shot. So here I am, bussing along, minding my own, when suddenly I wildly panic and think that I've over shot my mark and am waay past the termy drop off. So all of a dither I flap my hands at the bus driver and get off the bus, only to find myself in a dodgy area lacking in people but full of crumbiling plaster bungalows and a sea of beige apartment buildings.
I loiter, looking like a damn fool, for approx 3 minutes, while trying to figure out which way I should go,- maybe that beige building looks familiar, have I seen that crumbling bungalow before?? Eventually- after realising, no, that wasn't where I needed to be, I spied a man wheeling a trolley suitcase down the road and took off after him in a direction that I hoped would lead me to the land of milk and honey, or in anycase, the bus station. Keep in mind I had only a half hour until the last bus of the day left, and I had no idea of how far I was from the station. While I speed-walked, I entertained a fantasy about what I would do if I missed my bus. I decided there was no way I was to go home with egg on my face and a story of "I couldn't find the bus station and therefore am not going away for the weekend", so in the event of the worst case scenario coming true, I was to find a hostel in Concepciòn, and hole up there for the weekend. "yes" I thought to myself "Who would know? I'll buy a postcard with a picture of Pucòn on it, no one will know I haven't actually been..."
After a good 7 minutes of light jogging, I decided to go in for the kill and summoned all my courage, (and all my Spanish), and blurted out to a passing stranger "DISCULPE!, eeeer, es esta Callao? Nessecita el bus terminal por favor!" The woman looked shocked, I wasn't sure if it was due to my obvious lack of orientaion, or my poor spanish, or my sweaty brow, but it was clear that within seconds she had taken this poor wretch on as her own, and I was as good as in with a personal guide. She lead me on to some other street, and as we walked we talked, it even turned out that she knew enough English to ask me my name and where I was from, too which I was hesitant in replying to, least she got the idea all New Zealanders had such poor internal GPS situations as I do. She got me onto another bus, and then gave the driver instructions on when to release me from the bus, while strictly stating that in no way was I to get off earlier than the stop I was destined for. She then bid me farewell, and I could only stammer a classic "Gracias" at her kindess.
I finally reached my bus, and here you would think it was time to relax no? Well Beth, you couldn't be more wrong. Firstly some old guy, who was pretending (?) not to understand my Spanish, was sitting in my seat and wouldn't get out, so I had to go and sit somewhere else. For the remainder of that 4 hour leg I had to play hot potatoe everytime a new person got on the bus and claimed their rightful seat, while everyone else on the bus stared at me in contempt, the foolish gringa who doesn't sit in her allocated seat.
A wrong stop and a taxi later, I get on my connecting bus to Pucòn, where I put on some music to help wile away the hours before I reach my destination. A slow, haunting tune comes through my headphones, and the opening strains of "The deliverence song" from the Prince of Eygpt grace my ears. I'm not sure if you have seen the film, but it has a fantastic soundtrack, and I for one get very into my music...anyway, I found myself growing weepy at the saddening situation of Moses' mother, the fact that she had to give away her child like that, "wow" I thought as my eyes quietly filled with tears "I feel like now I can understand a mothers pain, to give up your child like that, why it would be awful!" I mangaged to keep my hormonal emotion under wraps, and thought I was away laughing, when suddenly "When you Believe" (from the same soundtrack), bursts through my buds, and I'm again swept away in an emotional river of tears as I think of the joy that the Isrelites must have felt at their long awaited freedom. When destination was reached, I slunk off the bus, still feeling quite ashamed at my hysterical outbursts of heartful emotion. I headed for the hostel I had booked, only to find that there was no way into this Fort Knox style wooden lodge. I fumed and despared at the gate, desperately trying to ring the number that Hostelbookers had given me for contacting this hostel. After about 5 minutes of standing awkwardly on a dusty sidestreet, an old man came up to me, said the equalvalent of "need help?" in Spanish, and then reached through the gate to open it, kiddie-lock style from the other side. I don't know if he had often seen other travellers struggle with the maximum security like fortress, or if he was just taking pity on a poor blonde girl who was obviously at her wits end, but it was a final kindness that Iwas truely grateful for.
Anyway Bethy, I must be off, I've made some English speaking buddies so I'm going to go and make my 80 cent pasta and talk to them about the pros and cons of South America. Can't wait to come home and tell you more about my trip!
Love
Ainsley xo
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Bring back the Buns of Steel- special edition Ainsley pep talk on the experience of getting your A into G for summer.
I lie..
I never had Buns of Steel. Nor a Will of Steel for that matter. I DO have a cooking bowl that is made of steel, or some similar metallic material, which I have to say has been far too overused in the most recent of times.
BUT! (I've got one of those since being in Chile, the carbalicious diet is a sure way to plump up your cheeks) I did use to have a will for keeping in some sort of shape, as the positive metal and physical benifits always seemed to outweigh the negative. I used to get out there most days, busting a sweat in my leggings and oversized top, living the dream as a POWER WALKER, maybe even hitting up a wee Bums Tums and Thighs class at the local gym. Girls, I'm sure its not only me who thinks to herself around late September every year..."This is the year (inset name here), this is the year. You are gunna get out onto that beach, wearing a sly size 0, and everyones eyes are going to be at risk of being poked out by your rock hard abs.''
Why then, is it soooo hard to force myself back out there into the exercising world, after a short but devestating decent into a carb/refined sugur hell? Well I decided that I was time to MAN UP! And face up to this situation once and for all. Im not necessarily going to be melting all your faces off with my oiled up 6 pack any time soon, but i'm not going to lose this war with the $300 paso-for-6 bread buns from the store down the road either.
I've been back on the walking track every day for a week now, every morning I set out around 9.30 with the babies in pram, huffing and puffing as I walk on tiptoe, pushing them up the face of Mt Everest/the hill I live on. Its been sunny and I like to get emotional to the tunes on my iPod, Im not ashamed to sing outloud (I was however ashamed when a bloke started laughing to my version of ''under the sea''). So far im out there for about 30 mins each day, and even though it doesn't sound like much time, and even though its only been a week, I can already feel the difference emotionally and see the difference physically. I don't feel as nervous about leaving the kitchen for long periods of time like I used to (joke), and I don't beat myself up when I just can't resist that occasional bar of chocolate that makes its way into my shopping basket. I actually have noticed the cellulite that has NEVER graced my thighs before until this very year has certainly reduced to a less conspicuous level, which I am all but sacraficing a lamb with thankfulness about.
I guess what I am trying to say ladies, men, inbetweeners (do I KNOW any??..Lady G), is that if you too are feeling the post-winter downing on your bods is getting you down, don't let it. Get out there for a walk, or bust out the pilates DVD, dust of the gym membership card. Start small, and work your way up to it. It honestly makes you feel great, you know it does, and its just that intial step thats the hardest.
The only place I want orange peel is in my orange flavoured cupcakes. Which I'm going to make right now. Better make tomorrows walk a long one.
Big loves xxxx
I never had Buns of Steel. Nor a Will of Steel for that matter. I DO have a cooking bowl that is made of steel, or some similar metallic material, which I have to say has been far too overused in the most recent of times.
BUT! (I've got one of those since being in Chile, the carbalicious diet is a sure way to plump up your cheeks) I did use to have a will for keeping in some sort of shape, as the positive metal and physical benifits always seemed to outweigh the negative. I used to get out there most days, busting a sweat in my leggings and oversized top, living the dream as a POWER WALKER, maybe even hitting up a wee Bums Tums and Thighs class at the local gym. Girls, I'm sure its not only me who thinks to herself around late September every year..."This is the year (inset name here), this is the year. You are gunna get out onto that beach, wearing a sly size 0, and everyones eyes are going to be at risk of being poked out by your rock hard abs.''
Why then, is it soooo hard to force myself back out there into the exercising world, after a short but devestating decent into a carb/refined sugur hell? Well I decided that I was time to MAN UP! And face up to this situation once and for all. Im not necessarily going to be melting all your faces off with my oiled up 6 pack any time soon, but i'm not going to lose this war with the $300 paso-for-6 bread buns from the store down the road either.
I've been back on the walking track every day for a week now, every morning I set out around 9.30 with the babies in pram, huffing and puffing as I walk on tiptoe, pushing them up the face of Mt Everest/the hill I live on. Its been sunny and I like to get emotional to the tunes on my iPod, Im not ashamed to sing outloud (I was however ashamed when a bloke started laughing to my version of ''under the sea''). So far im out there for about 30 mins each day, and even though it doesn't sound like much time, and even though its only been a week, I can already feel the difference emotionally and see the difference physically. I don't feel as nervous about leaving the kitchen for long periods of time like I used to (joke), and I don't beat myself up when I just can't resist that occasional bar of chocolate that makes its way into my shopping basket. I actually have noticed the cellulite that has NEVER graced my thighs before until this very year has certainly reduced to a less conspicuous level, which I am all but sacraficing a lamb with thankfulness about.
I guess what I am trying to say ladies, men, inbetweeners (do I KNOW any??..Lady G), is that if you too are feeling the post-winter downing on your bods is getting you down, don't let it. Get out there for a walk, or bust out the pilates DVD, dust of the gym membership card. Start small, and work your way up to it. It honestly makes you feel great, you know it does, and its just that intial step thats the hardest.
The only place I want orange peel is in my orange flavoured cupcakes. Which I'm going to make right now. Better make tomorrows walk a long one.
Big loves xxxx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)