It's New Years Eve. At midnight the tears are usually brimming in my eyes, I get a mild bout of nostalgia and think back about the past year, which will never come back. Tonight at midnight I will probably be too busy serving beer or wiping up spilt champagne to have the time to think back, so I better finish off that now. By no means is this a complete recollection of the last year, just a quick recap.

Last year...

...I went to the Westfjords for the first time (yeah I know, I started at the wrong end, first Africa then the Westfjords.) And I liked it so much I went there again three weeks later. And I intend to go there again next summer.

... I also went to Denmark for the first time. I visited an old friend and found out that the part of my family living there is really nice. I will be going again to Denmark soon.

...I travelled a fair bit in Iceland, the annual trips to Landmannalaugar, Snæfellsnes, Þórsmörk and more. In outstanding company.

...I got my first gray hairs. To console me my hairdresser said that it was probably because of stress, not age, and pulled them out. Haven't seen any new gray hairs so I'm hoping for the best.

...My eyesight got significantly worse. I can not blame that on stress.

...My lovelife reached an all-time low. Most of the time it was nonexistent. I am not willing to blame that on old age.

...I was relatively mentally stable. Maybe that has got something to with the no-romance-down-to-earth way of living. I'd rather have my ups and downs, but mental health comes first.

...I came to the conclusion that I'm not going to be a teacher (I have a sneaking suspicion that the gray hairs had something to do with my former job). Please remind my when I start talking of teaching again.

...I contacted a few old friends and it was very rewarding. That is however not my forte and people are slip-slidin' away from my life. I can only blame myself.

...I met lots of interesting people, some nice people and a few special people that I hope I won't lose contact with.

...I learned a lot of Spanish.

...I did not fall in love. I can hardly say I even had a crush on anyone.

...I started to write a blog. I didn't think I'd stick to it, but I happen to like writing, even if it's just about everyday's humdrum.

...I went paragliding for the first time. One of the highlights of the year.

...I packed all my worldly possessions, except the stuff I carry around in my backpack. They are now in storage and I don't know when I'll unpack them. But when I do I'll probably be a Grown-up.

...I realized that I've got a fully grown collection of household belongings. And packing it took a lot of time. Kitchen utensils and paraphernalia alone took up a few boxes.

...I was an exemplary housewife. On Saturday mornings I baked wholemeal buns and cleaned the apartment, everything ready for brunch at 11 am. In my house solely homemade bread was served (except during exams, then I didn' t have enough time).

...I sometimes had way too much time on my hands and other times way too little. Idle time doesn't come at even intervals, nor in even doses.

...I read a few good books. The best ones I had already read before, my favourites being Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri, Mirage and Eye for an Eye by Bandula Chandraratna. Platform by Michel Houellebecq made me think. And I still haven't come to a conclusion.

...I finally bought a decent English dictionary. I don't regret it, I used it nearly every day.

...I saw a few good films. El Cielíto was my favourite, I liked Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Coffee and Cigarettes and I enjoyed watching Spellbound.

...I let my hair grow until it reached my shoulders. Haven't had hair this long since I was 15 years old. I realized why, I look better with short hair. Now I have short hair and I will for evermore.

...My financial status improved a bit. It will be worse when I come home in April though.

...I shared apartments with lots of people. Actually I don't even know how many. Lots.

...I gained some weight. And lost some weight. And gained some weight and lost some weight. And now I weigh the same as in the beginning of the year. I still weigh too much.

...I didn't make New Year's resolutions. I never do.

...I quit being angry about something I failed at. And being on good terms with the past is so much easier.

...I learned a lot of completely useless facts. I wasn't studying so I had to keep my brain busy so it wouldn't wither away. But focusing on something would be wiser. I'll try to remember that next year.

...I learned to appreciate my family even more.

...I went to Argentina and Chile. And learned a lot about South America. And am going to learn more.

...Lots of my friends and mates from school had children. I don't even have a cat. I don't even have a hamster. I don't even live anywhere. But my time will come, I guess.

...I got more freckles than ever before. Lucky that I think they're cute.

All in all it's been a good year. If I were to repeat it I would skip the first 3 months though.

Next year I'm going to take my vitamins every day, so that the rest of my hair doesn't come out. Not all nutrients can be found in bread and bananas and I am aware that my diet concists of nearly carbohydrates only. Which is not good. That will improve when I go home.

Otherwise I don't have many expectations for the next year, I will be travelling for the first 3 months, then go home and work. And decide if I'm going to be responsible and buy an apartment or just keep on lugging my stuff around in a backpack. Then the normal stuff; lose some weight, battle my inferiority complex, learn something new, travel a bit. A boyfriend might be nice, or even just a fling, or something. Maybe.

In another year I want to be able to look back and be willing to relive the year that starts now at midnight. Without skipping long stretches of time. If I live the coming year so that I would want to repeat it then I've done a good job.

Happy new year.

A friend of mine has been ranting and raving about fireworks lately, stating that they are dangerous, a stupid waist of money for something which only lasts for a few seconds. And I blamed him for being a spoilsport and thought to myself "come on you bore, live a little. How about enjoying the simple things is in the world for once? Not everything has to have a great meaning".

I rest my case. Last night 175 people died and 714 are injured because of a fire in a club in Buenos Aires, which started because of fireworks. The city is in mourning, no discos or clubs will be open tonight in respect of the families of dead and injured and it's the only thing on TV. The public blames the firefighters for not being efficient enough, the firefighters blame the municipality for lacking of funds and equipment, but it all seems utterly trivial when you see griefing people in the streets.

And this friend of mine is right, as usually. Today fireworks certainly seem like a dangerous stupid waste of money.

Arrg... the mozzies got me big time last night, the bites as itchy as hell! Focus on something else, focus on something else...

Like e.g. Brazil. Where there are more mozzies than in the rest of the Americas put together. I've heard so many horror stories about travels and travellers in Brazil, my nerves are getting a bit jittery. Two Israeli girls got shot a few weeks ago (unintentionally, but that doesn't make it any better), a guy I met got beaten up pretty badly, a few people I've met got mugged, cheated ect. I better keep my wits about me then. I'm going there in a month and I'm already looking forward.

Did you know that in Brazil fuel is made from sugarcane? No... well, I didn't either until recently. If you wanna read about it check this out: http://www.winrock.org/reep/canemain.htm and http://www.brazzil.com/2004/html/articles/jul04/p127jul04.htm.

Hah! Var að lesa moggavefinn og meðal fyrirsagnanna var að finna „Víða snjór eða hálka á vegum“, „Varað við stormi á Suður- og Vesturlandi á gamlársdag“, „Búið að moka Breiðdalsheiði og Öxi“ og „Hálka og skrafrenningur Holtavörðuheiði og á Vatnsskarði“. Múhahahaha...

Best að ég beri á mig meiri sólarvörn, betra er að fá freknur en sólbruna. Ég vissi að ég hefði tekið rétta ákvörðun þegar ég ákvað að flýja veturinn, jafnvel þó ég þyrfti ađ fórna jólunum. Sól, sól, skín á mig...

Had a great day. Went to the nature reserve on Peninsula Valdés, which is as the name indicates, a peninsula, that juts out in the Atlantic ocean. David Attenborough would have envied me of the day (but I believe he might have something else on his mind these days, poor guy). I saw Magellanic penguins, which were ungainly and clumsy but oh so cute, elephant seals and sea lions.

Since the elephant seal bulls have gone to the Antarctic everything was very quiet in the groups of pregnant females, they just sunbathed, wiggled their flippers and shovelled gravel and sand over themselves and others as a cooling method. Most of them too lazy to get up and cool off in the sea. Then wiggled their flippers a bit more, scratched their chests, sighed and kept on sunbathing. Nothing much to do anyway, just wait until they have pups to attend to. Imagine being a seal, then it's actually an asset to be fat. And you're still fit as a fiddle.

The sea lion colonies were not as peaceful, the air was thick with testosterone and the consequent cacophonous roars and macho show-offs, threats and fights (svona klukkan4-fyrir-utan-ball-í-Valaskjálf stemming (yes, that was Icelandic, but it's an untranslatable cultural phenomenum)). Even though the mating season is now almost over and it's settled who belongs to who's harem - jealousy makes the world go round. And when elephant seals happened to be basking close to the uproar they opened one eye and looked in the direction of the sea lions with "fergodsake keep it down, you spoilsports" written all over their pretty faces. Then sighed, scooped a bit more sand over them, scratched their chests and kept on enjoying the lovely yellow round thing up there.

But it was a very dusty day, so I'm off to take a shower. And tomorrow I'll go on a looong bustrip to Buenos Aires. Luckily I've got enough to read and a friend of mine sent me a mindboggling riddle which I intend to tackle on the way, he promised me that the puzzle has a legitimate answer and I'm stubborn as a mule. I've got 20 hrs. to kill so I better have an answer when I get to Buenos Aires.

Spent Christmas with a lovely family, who runs a hostel in a village called Trevelin, and the few other travellers they adopted over Christmas. Pretty similar to Christmas at home, Papá Noel even tracked me down so a present awaited me in the pile by the Christmas tree. Smart guy this Papá Noel. And I even bought Cadbury Chocolate Eclairs (the best sweets made outside Iceland, only Nóa konfekt is better) and got a new book to read on Christmas eve, just like home. Except people started to drop by at 3 am with felicidades and hugs and kisses, so we didn't go to bed until around 6 am, when all the red wine had been drunk, all the strawberries eaten and all the plates cleaned.

Am now in Puerto Madryn, dipped my toes in the Atlantic ocean today, will go and see penguin and elephant seal colonies tomorrow.

A song by INXS is being played on the radio. I feel like 12 years old again whenever I hear a song by them. I had the tape Kick (as in Audio Cassette) and played it again and again until my cassette player (a rapidly disappearing device used in the last century) ate it. Good ol' days.

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I got Christmas cards! They are waiting for me at home, will have to wait for a while. My lovely brother typed them for me when on MSN yesterday, it's cheating because in my family you're not allowed to look at the Christmas cards until late this evening, after opening the presents, while you are having gourmet coffee and yummy chocolates. But an exception was graciously made in my case. I've also had a few holiday greetings via email, thank you wonderful people, you've made my day.

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I spent the night in a Heidi's grandpa style hostel in the woods, run by a lovely hippy couple. And I had the dorm room, meant for 12 people, all to myself. Oh the luxury! It's the first time since I left home that I don't have to share my room with people who snore, or can't sleep with the window open, or can't sleep except with the light on... you know the spiel. I could see the moon and stars from my bed (lower bunk, for a change!) and so I wouldn't be lonely the cat at the hostel, old Cous cous, came crawling in to bed during the night and curled up on my pillow and purred in my ear. I wouldn't have been happier if a knight in shining armour would have showed up at my bedside. And this morning I ate my cereal on the porch and then took a long walk and waded in a nearby river, accompanied with the three dogs that were adopted to the hostel. The joys of staying in the country. And now I'm off to a mountain village called Trevelin where I'll spend Christmas.

Merry Christmas

It's mostly about Christmas - and for me Mr. Christmas lives in Iceland, so Icelandic only.
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Sundurlaus nostalgíufærsla í boði Kjötkróks.

Ég sit við tölvuna, hlusta á jólakveðjurnar og maula nýtínd kirsuber. "Landsmenn allir, til sjávar og sveita...", ég hef aldrei getað fellt mig við þegar er sagt til sjós og lands, til sjávar og sveita er mun hljómfagurra.

Í dag er Þorláksmessa. Og ég er í Argentínu. Ég hef bara einu sinni áður verið að heiman á jólunum, fyrir 4 árum var ég í Kenya um jólin. Og með "að heiman" á ég við annars staðar en á Jökulsá, hjá pabba og mömmu, þar sem ég fæddist (en það er páskasaga, ekki jólasaga) og ólst upp. Þar sem eldhúsið ilmar núna af hangikjöti og ajaxi og greni. Skatan er borðuð í Félagsheimilinu, í árlegri skötuveislu Kalla Sveins, svo skötulyktin yfirgnæfir ekki jólailminn.

Kallið mig kveif, en ég er ekkert hrifin af skötu, einu sinni á ári er alveg nóg fyrir mig. Það mætti halda að ég hafi verið alin upp á Kókópöffsi, ég er ekkert yfir mig hrifin af hnísukjöti, eða sel, eða svartfugli heldur. Eða gellum. Þarna er ekki við uppeldið að sakast, ég er sennilega bara gikkur að upplagi. Eini maturinn sem ég þvertek fyrir að láta inn fyrir mínar varir eru samt ORA fiskibollur í dós. Frekar myndi ég éta engisprettur (og var reyndar ekki fjarri því í Úganda, þær þykja herramannsmatur). Og lái mér hver sem vill. Karl faðir minn viðurkenndi fyrr á árinu að fyrrnefnd framleiðsla frá ORA hefði verið nokkuð oft á boðstólum þegar ég var lítil og mamma og Gúndi bróðir voru að heiman, þannig að þetta er grafið í undirmeðvitundina. Hmmm, þessi útúrdúr var í boði ORA og Kaupfélagsins.

Á Þorláksmessukvöldi fyrir 4 árum var ég nýkomin frá Tanzaníu. Það var eins og að koma heim að koma aftur til Kenya, ég þekkti Nairobi og vissi hvar allt var að finna, þurfti ekki að stanslaust að reikna muninn á kenyskum og tanzanískum shillingum og vissi hvar var óhætt að ganga um og hvaða götur ég ætti að forðast. Nairobi var eins og draugabær þar sem flestir sem höfðu ráð á fóru út úr borginni yfir hátíðarnar. Ég gerði hið sama og tók rútu til Kisumu sem er borg við Viktoríuvatn. Þar sem ég tók næturrútu voru nokkrar rútur í samfloti, annað getur verið varasamt. Á leið gegnum úthverfin sá ég fleiri jólaskreytingar en ég hafði séð samtals undanfarinn mánuð og ég raulaði í huganum "Þorláksmessukvöld er hátíð út af fyrir sig...". Til að stytta mér stundir sönglaði ég með sjálfri mér öll þau jólalög sem ég kunni - og þvílík ósköp sem ég kann af jólalögum. Og stundum meira en einn texta við hvert lag, ég var alin upp við Folaldið mitt hann Fák en ekki Rúdolf með rauða trýnið. Þökk sé tónlistarkennslunni sem ég fékk þegar ég var krakki (sem kom sér líka vel þegar ég þurfti sjálf að kenna tónmennt seinna meir).

Ég heyrði í gær spænska linmælta sykursæta súpermarkaðsútgáfu af laginu "Á jólunum er gleði og gaman" (Fúm fúm fúm). Hryllingur, allur vindur farinn úr laginu. Annars hefur mér alltaf þótt þar lag og texti eiga frekar illa saman, fúmfúmmið er of atorkusamt, þetta ætti að vera sungið á vorin, svona í stíl við "Vertu til". Þetta er svona hunskastutilaðkomaþéraðverki lag.

Annars er svolítið skrýtið (skrítið/skrýtið? Bæði rétt? Af hverju ý?) að heyra jólalög með snjóþema í löndum þar sem snjóar aldrei, nema í hæstu tinda. I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, Let it snow, Frosty the Snowman... listinn er endalaus. Kunningi minn var að kenna á vegum Peace Corps (sem heita núna Freedom Corps, hvað var að gamla nafninu!?) í þorpi í sama héraði í Kenya og ég. Hann var að útskýra 3 fasa efnis og hann var vanur að grípa til dæmisins um vatn, sem getur verið fast, fljótandi eða lofttegund. Ís, vatn eða gufa. Það mætti ekki miklum skilningi í bekknum, enda hafði ekkert krakkanna nokkurn tíman séð snjó. Ís, jú, en hann kemur úr frystikistum. Og frystikistur var ekki að fyrirfinna þar sem hann var að kenna. Hann endaði á að nota steikingarfeiti sem dæmi, það var mun auðskildara.

Eitt af verkunum mínum heima á Þorláksmessu er að festa forláta seríu, sem mamma eignaðist nokkrum árum áður en ég kom til sögunnar, upp á gardínukappa í stofunni. Það er ekki skemmtilegt verk og kallar á óhemju af límbandi og þolinmæði. Sennilega er það einmitt þess vegna í mínum verkahring. Mér þykir þessi sería alltaf fallegasta jólaskrautið og ég vona að ég verði alfarin úr hreiðrinu, verði búin að eignast eigin stofugardínukappa, þegar hún gefur upp öndina. Samt sem áður væri ég alveg til í að skreppa heim núna og festa upp skrambans seríuna.

Undanfarin ár hef ég keypt jólabók handa mér, ef svo illa skyldi fara að ég fái eingöngu sjálfshjálparbækur í jólagjöf. Mér finnst ég bara ekki þurfa á neinni hjálp að halda, ég er mjög hamingjusamlega einhleyp. Og kýs að lesa skáldsögur á jólanótt. Ég hef venjulega keypt einhverja djúsí bók sem mig hefur langað í lengi, einhverja bók sem fæst ekki á landinu og ég hef ekki getað réttlætt það að panta hana, nema "af því þetta er jólagjöf". Handa mér. Og ég held í hefðina, annað kvöld fæ ég jólabók frá mér. Ég límdi plastpokann aftur, svona eins og konfektbauk, svo að ég svindli ekki.

Ég hitti íslending í gær og við tókum tal saman eins og sveitunga er siður, eða þannig sko. Og íslenskan mín er enn til staðar, með hreim og svolítið rykug, en nógu góð til síns brúks. Ég held hún hafi verið geymd á hillunni fyrir ofan tímaáætlanir strætó, við hliðina á símanúmerum sem ég nota í vinnunni (þeim sem ég lærði áður en við fengum síma med spíddæali). Þetta er allt á sínum stað þegar á að grípa til þess, þó að ég haldi stundum að geymslan sé tóm.

En þetta fer nú að verða gott í bili, annars fer ég að skrifa í mig heimþrá.

Ég er stödd á sérkennilegum stað í Patagóníu ( já, þó ég sé hérna þá hefur nafnið Patagonía enn yfir sér einhvern töfrablæ, ég hef sennilega lesið Grant skipstjóri og börn hans of oft þegar ég var krakki), í bæ sem heitir El Bolsón. Hér býr samsafn af fólki með hugsjón sem flykktist hingað á sjöunda og áttunda áratugnum til að flýja heimsins amstur og angur og hefur lífsviðurværi sitt af að framleiða og selja lífrænt ræktað grænmeti, ávexti og hunang, heimabakaðar kökur og brauð. Lífið í bænum er afar afslappað, og hér er örugglega brosað oftar miðað við höfðatölu en annars staðar í Argentínu. Ef bara það væru seldar spesíur hérna...

Gleðileg jól

Þegar ég gekk heim á hostelið í gærkvöldi gerði ég svolítið virkilega heimskulegt. Mér til afsökunar þá er þetta ávani, eitthvað sem ég geri í hugsunarleysi.

Þetta var um miðnætti svo það var orðið dimmt, veðrið var stillt og fallegt, tæplega húfukalt (sem er einni klæðagráðu heitara en vettlingakalt) og himinn stjörnubjartur. Og ég, eins og ég á vanda til, virti fyrir mér stjörnurnar og horfði eftir norðurljósunum. Já já. Þau er að finna talsvert mikið norðar.

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"26 manns fórust í rútuslysi í Perú. Rúta fór út af fjallvegi í Perú í gær og... " Hljómar kunnuglega ekki satt? Skiptið út Perú fyrir Indland/Tyrkland/Úsbekistan... og 26 fyrir 50/100/150. Eða rútuslysi fyrir flugslys. Þetta er svona týpísk síða 2 frétt, takist með seríósi og mjólk, ekki gleyma lýsinu. Blandan myndar ónæmi gegn kvefi og fregnum af mannslátum.

Þetta er bara hver önnur frétt sem ég hefði alla jafna skrunað í gegnum án þess að meðtaka hana, en nú er Perú orðið hluti af "mínum heimi" því það fléttast inn í sögu Chile, sem ég hef verið að lesa undanfarið, og ég hef fyrirhitt marga ferðalanga á leið til/frá Perú, þannig að hún kemur við mig. Þetta er lítil heimur - og hann er sífellt að minnka.
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Ég afgreiddi jólakortin í gær, í ár verða engin handsaumuð eða heimaföndruð kort send. Fáir útvaldir fá reyndar kort (en ef þið eruð ekki í nánustu fjölskyldu eigið þið enga heimtingu á því) og ef þið fenguð jólakveðju en getið ekki opnað viðhengið þá svara ég kvörtunum. Kveðjan innihélt ca. gleðileg jól og farsælt komandi ár. Ég vona bara að ég sé ekki ad gleyma neinum... og þeir sem eru ekki með netfang fá enga jólakveðju í ár. Oh, hvað ég væri til í eina loftköku núna...

You Were a Little Naughty This Year!

While you're not likely to greet Santa with sucker punch...He's still not too jolly about coming to your house.You might get a small token from Mr. Claus Like some detox pills for your liver.

Were You Naughty or Nice This Year?

Well, that's a surprise. This year I thought I'd reached an all-time low in naughtiness. But I guess it's the thought that counts... ;)

I've fixed the guestbook so now you can post text there as well, also fixed links that didn't work and icelandicized the spelling where needed.
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I read an article in Buenos Aires Herald yesterday about maternal health. For lovers of statistics: in Africa every 16th woman dies during pregnancy or childbirth. WHO (World Health Organization) estimates the maternal mortality rate in the developed world as one in 2,800. The gap is very big. It's not merely a gap but a huge bloody crevasse.

On a personal note I'm more concerned about if I'll be able to have children when the time comes and I want to start a family, rather than if I'm risking my health and even life if I do so. But I'm one of the fortunate ones who was born in a country with a decent health care system.

The subject of World Health Day 2005 is maternal and child health, if you want to read more about it check out http://www.who.int/features/2004/great_expectations/en/

Nú er ég komin til Bariloche í sunnanverðri Argentínu. Það er eins og ég hafi hvergi farið, það er nýfallinn snjór í fjöllunum og undir glugganum mínum vaxa umfeðmingur og vallhumall. Það er kalt hérna þó komið sé sumar og þar sem daginn er farið að lengja þjóna jólaljósin ekki þeim tilgangi að lýsa nema yfir blánóttina. Jólunum ætla ég að eyða í litlum bæ sem heitir Trevelin og er skammt héðan.

An interesting conversation I overheard earlier this evening when I was packing my bag

A: Let's-keep-it-might-come-in-handy-later angel/demon
B: What-on-earth-do-you-need-that-for angel/demon

B: Why on Earth does she carry all those books with her?!

A: Ah, it's to serve the habit of reading every evening before she goes to bed. And a bit in the morning. And preferably a couple of hundred pages in between. It's a 23 tear old habit, it's very difficult to break. Can't teach an old dog new tricks.

B: Yes, but they are so bulky! And heavy! No person in it's right mind... and this one, this one doesn't even look interesting!

A: Oh, but it is! Who wouldn't be interested in the history of Chile? I mean, there is some brutal stuff there. Lots of action.

B: Well, I'm not a history buff. Does it go to the leave-it-behind or ship-it-home pile?

A: Ouch, that's putting me between a rock and a hard place! Where's the back-in-the bag pile?

B: That's reserved for practical things only. Sunscreen and underwear. And this book... it only has blank pages! What's the use of that?!

A: Ah, you see, it's a notebook. It's to write down interesting things she comes across, information and websites and stuff. And witty remarks told by the voices in her head. And look, it even has a few addresses in it.

B: Yeeees? And why aren't they saved on her email account instead? And addresses for what? Do remind me, when was the last time she sent a postcard, huh? Yeah, excactly. Thought so.

A: We're still keeping it, might come in handy later, when an idea for a novel pops up, or some groundbreaking idea or another. And it hardly takes any space. OK, listen, these two books can be left behind, but this one she hasn't read yet and we're taking this one with us, it's good for those nice second hand bookstores.

B: (mumbling) Never understood how you can run a business like that. Swapping torn old books for other tarnished old books. An if you insist on bringing the books along we have to cut down on the clothes section.

A: But clothes hardly take up any space! Look, they're even in a compressor bag, can be strapped down to the size of a fist! They get a bit wrinkled, I admit, but it's so neat.

B: What about these trousers... they look crap. Got ruined in the laundry weeks ago, they are creased beyond repair.

A: But it's the only respectable looking item of clothing she's got! Without them she'll always look like a scruffy backpacker!

B: Well, she is! And these trousers wouldn't fool a blind man. Chuck 'em?

A: Is there a donate-to-charity pile?

B: Not yet... guess there could be.

And so it went on and on. Sacrifices and peaceoffering were made. And now my bag weighs next to nothing and everybody's happy. The end.

I stumbled accross an old, torn copy of Newsweek, which I read at least every other week when I'm at home (and was a subscriber for some time, under the illusion that I was "reading it to improve my English" and ploughed through excrutiatingly boring articles on the economy in Taiwan or some other far flung places). I've missed it a bit while travelling, have only found the Spanish versions here. I know there are online versions of both Time and Newsweek, but it's not the same as curling into a ball in a comfy sofa and flip the pages in a lazy manner, trying to take in what I'm reading. In the issue from the 6th of December I read an article which... well, I wouldn't call it interesting but I understand so well what the columnist is talking about.

Welcome to my world... http://msnbc.msn.com/id/6594606/site/newsweek/

I've been trying to figure out what to do in the close Future (yes, with a capital F). I will return to my lovely job when I go back. And then what?

Sooner or later I'll start studying again, which frightens me a bit because that means staying put in one place for some time (if I were a man this would be called a commitment phobia of the highest degree) . And what to study... icelandic, english, spanish, linguistics, anthroplogy, tourism, literature, geography... the list goes on. I'm not thrilled about the idea of teaching, which eliminates a lot of job possibilities in most of the aforemented fields. I still haven't found out what I want to do when I grow up - so I just keep on postponing it.

Or I could save up for the dream trip, which takes over a year and covers a lot of countries and kilometers.

But while I wait for enlightenment I'll wander for a bit longer around this lovely playground, the world.

Si hoc legere scis, nimis eruditionis habes.

Here are a few photos from Argentina; http://www.flickr.com/photos/krumpa/ . They are un-photoshopped 1st editions, nothing great. I was going to make a photoalbum, but the photos are so monstrous in size that I've already exhausted my monthly uploading limit. Will figure something out - or just wait until I can do this on my computer in Buenos Aires. Enjoy.

An antihero afraid of heights was the first one to sign the guestbook. He will, as I promised, get a Chilean frog as rewards. The frog is not bound to turn into a prince, princess or any other blue-blooded figure (sorry Myrkur, I know you fancy the Swedish princesses but darling, you're not worthy of them. Besided I don't think anything less than a queen would do it for you). We all know that it's better not to pretend to be someting you're not - and so does this frog. But for all the folks that will from now on sign the guestbook - you will be rewarded with my sincere gratitude.

I just wanted to point out that there is a guestbook on this site and has been for a few days.

I know that the days of valiant princes are over (I have sampled the modern princes and I think we have let the standards slip a bit in the last two centuries or so) but nobody seems to have plucked up enough courage to be the first one to sign the guestbook. That also applies to you brave valkyries of the modern world.

Now, I dare you, do fight your shyness, don't hide in the curtains of cyberspace, admit that you read this. The first one to sign the guestbook will be rewarded with a Chilean frog (no guaranty given for any prince potentials to flourish).

It's cold in Valdivia. Cold cold cold. Well, not on an Icelandic scale, but on a Chilean scale. And I'm running away from winter, so I would appreciate nice weather, thank you. To give you an idea it's 18ºC cold, but of the damp shivering uncomfortable coldness variety, it's sleeping in serious-business jammies cold. Wearing sneakers and a long sleeved shirt during the day cold, or even *gasp!* a fleece sweater - as opposed to flip flops and skimpy tanktops. And since I don't carry pyjamas with me, there are more important things that take up the space in my bag, it means sleeping in my most seldomly-used clothes, which not necessarily happen to be the most comfortable ones. I do have a pair of wollen socks with me though, don't really know why I decided to take them along but I'm very glad I did (Annika, your grandma knits the best socks ever, thank you so much for that precious pair. They are second only to my grandma's socks, which are not of the cheery rainbow coloured sort but the icelandic practical type and too warm and space-consuming for a South America trip).
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I walked around town today, it's small and pleasant with lots of European styled houses and mansions, but few of them are old, most buildings got destroyed in a big earthquake in 1960. There was an influential immigration of Germans in Valdivia in the mid-nineteenth century and there are still lots of cafés in town that specialize in küchen and strudels.

The main market is at the riverfront, with the fishmarket closest to the water. It would be just another fishmarket if it weren't for the rolly sea lions that hang around and wait for handouts, not the least bit shy. The big lazy ones just lie there and sunbathe and grunt when the younger ones which are playing around in the water either come to close or get the best bites. The early bird and all that.

One of the uuu... interesting things I saw today was a billboard for the restaurant Parilla de Thor, which could be translated as Thor's steakhouse. The amusing thing is that Thor on the ad, tall and mighty as the image of Thor I'm used to, was dark skinned with a mustache and wearing a poncho. A bit like dyeing Pocahontas hair blond, cut it to a bob and dress her in jeans and a pink halterneck top. Hadn't I already been smiling then the image of mapuche Thor would certainly have done the job.

Am in Valdivia, a city about the size of Reykjavík but which seems more like the size of Húsavík. I guess a lot of it has to do with the fact that it's Sunday and on Sundays life appears to grind to a halt in Chile. I took the night bus from Santiago and could, for the first time since Argentina, see the stars, the starlight doesn't manage to penetrate the smog which covers Santiago, and Viña and Valparaíso to a point.
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When I woke up this morning I had entered another world. A world of lush vegetation, deep blue lakes, ancient forests and verdant farmland. Quite different from the desiccated monotonous cacti covered hills around Santiago.

The air was fragrant with damp grass and wood smoke and the morning mist (which is kasumi in Japanese, has such a beautiful ring to it) hovered above the ground like a white veil. Borders of the green fields, which are dotted with black-and-white cows, are lined with eucalyptus trees and the snow-capped volcanoes loom over the flatlands like attentive but strict guardians. They are a bit mischievous though and shake the earth every now and then, as to remind us that they still might have a few tricks up their sleeves.

Just one of the precious *sigh* moments.
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The hostel I'm at has a guest kitchen, so I've stocked up on groceries, oh how I've missed my cooking. For the next few days it's goodbye to the tiring diet of sandwiches yoghurt bananas sandwiches yoghurt bananas. And hello to the relaxed tranquility of Valdivia, reading, studying Spanish and daydreaming.

It has been a strange day, started by me waking up at 6.30 this morning during an earthquake of 5 on the Richter scale, with it's source about 60 kilometers from here. It's commonplace in Chile (I mean, how did you think the Andes got here? They sure aren't pennies from heaven), and every guesthouse and public building has got a "what to do in case of an earthquake" poster in the lobby. I soon fell asleep again, knowing that it was nothing newsworthy since the building wasn't evacuated and didn't wake up until the sun had half finished her day's work.
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For the first time I wished I had a special section on my blog secured with a password for a selected few, I've gotten so many indecent proposals today that I just... I... I'm lost for words. Would be fun to share the gory details with you, but I'm afraid my parents might read this ;) Now, after more than a month in the sun I could pass for a light-skinned Chilena, my hair is very dark (because I dyed it last week) and I'm wearing what seems to be the uniform for young women in Santiago, jeans and a spaghetti strap top. With sunglasses on ('cause "reading in the sun can damage your eyes", sure, then I would be blind by now) nobody sees the colour of my undefined-coloured eyes (blue/green/gray with yellow rings in the irises, around the pupils) so they don't shout out my outlandishness and yet, as I sat on a bench in a very family oriented park, I could not read my book for longer than 10 minutes at a time without being disturbed. I think there is an unwritten rule that single Chilenos can harass foreign women between 13 and 18 pm on Saturdays. And this is not flattering, flattering is when somebody turns around when you walk down the street wearing a skirt - and is still gentleman enough to skip the catcalls (or a raised eyebrow. Subtle is the key, my friends, subtle). This is just flat out annoying. Hrumpf. To quote Isabel Allende she once said when talking about her fellow countrymen that "Color prejudice is so strong that if a woman has yellow hair, even if she has the face of an iguana, men turn to look at her in the street". Well, I'm not even blond, so leave me alone.
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When I checked out I acted as a translator for a guy at the reception and a woman who shared the room with me, a white South African with a somewhat unpleasant aura about her (and I generally get on with all kinds of people without much difficulty) . She thanked me, all right, but then started to complain about the language barrier (then just travel somewhere else!) and ended by saying "they don't teach us languages in South Africa, only black languages". I (barely) managed to bite my tounge and not bark back that "black languages" were also languages, and very useful as that, if you live in South Africa. By "languages" I assume she meant european languages, well, she spoke OK English, which is, the last time I knew, a language. And she speaks Afrikaans too, which is also a "language" (although it sounds like children's Dutch with an extremely thick accent). Sometimes it's better just to keep your mouth shut and bitch about it later. All a bit weird after laughing at the politically correct stories yesterday.

Er að breyta útlitinu, á enn eftir að setja inn íslenska stafi og sitthvað fleira. Góðir hlutir gerast hægt.

If the Christmas frenzy in the (mostly Western) world is driving you nuts this is a good read for pre-adults and caretakers alike: Politically Correct Holiday Stories by James Finn Garner. I read it today, hilarious.

It has inoffensive, noncontroversial stories such as Rudolph the Nasally Empowered Reindeer, about Rudolph the angry young reindeer who became a union leader, stood up to the "overfed guy in the red suit" and demanded "a guarantee of no work on holidays" and "grilled him on such issues such as health care, paternity leave, profit sharing, and joint decision-making councils." In this book the children (pardon me, that should pre-adults) dream of "lentils and warm whole-grain breads", for what is a cup of eggnog "less than a poke in the eye to the dedicated vegans amongst us".

My favourite story is of the siblings who made a persun of snow who got the unisex name Frosty. When Frosty started to melt away because of the depletion of the ozone layer the siblings and all the families and alternative households in the vicinity decided to march on Washington. They got the attention of the media and actions were taken by the Government to reduce the emissions that were eating away the ozone layer.

All in all a bloody good laugh. Yes, I said bloody, deem me to an hour's work in community service. I also laugh at pervy, sexist jokes. And I generally find black men more attractive than asian men. So sue me.

If you need an idea for my Christmas gift next year the guy has also written Politically Correct Bedtime Stories and Once Upon a More Enlightened Time. Would love to read them too.

Went to a few museums yesterday, including La Chascona, one of Pablo Neruda's houses (http://www.fundacionneruda.org/home.htm). Also had fun riding funiculars and a 2000 metre long, fantastic cable car. Put me in any kind of machinery or flighing equipment that takes me high up in the air and I become 5 years old again.

Today I met the charming father and son Fernando Cruz and Fernando Cruz who work at Hotelling International in Chile and after much talk on hostels and reservation systems ect. we moved on to world politics and the afternoon flew by. And tomorrow I'm going to Valdivia, a lively city with plenty of history.

Wake up! You're Mr. Daydream! :)


Which of the Mr. Men characters are you?
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I guess I knew that already.

I surely didn’t see this coming, I’m blogging many days in a row. I was very hesitant when I decided to start this, afraid that I couldn’t be bothered to do this often enough and at first the words were a bit forced, a bit strained. Now they just come tumbling out and I don’t care if it’s about nothing at all. Me likes this verymuchindeed, it’s all about me, me, me. I now understand why people undergoing therapy are advised to keep a diary, it’s great to be the main character.
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I read a great book in the lazy haze that was over the city yesterday, Don’t Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight: An African Childhood by Alexandra Fuller. It's now on the list over my favourite books on whites living in Africa. Also on the list is Rules of the Wild by Francesca Marciano, a great novel which takes place mostly in Kenya and narrates the dilemmas whites living in Africa come across. Also on the list are the harsh and realistic Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee (Vansæmd in Icelandic), for a milder point of view I dreamed of Africa and African Nights by Kuki Gallmann, who has lived in Kenya since 1972. And of course Out of Africa by Karen Blixen (Jörð í Afríku). And there are lots more, if you're interested in the topic just send me an email.

A good book I read recently and takes place in South Africa, although the placement doesn't have much relevance in the story, is Entertaining Angels (Engillinn hennar Grétu) by Marita Van Der Vyver. I reallly liked the main character, and identified with her, she is however a bit older, a bit bitterer and a bit more cynical than I am. But she's a wild-eyed dreamer, which I can relate to, very well indeed.
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But this is how I read, like a thirsty person who gulps down a bottle of water without thinking it would be sensible to leave some until later I gobble books up. I swallow them in one bite, like the big bad wolf, then rub my belly and digest them. I often wish I were a slow reader, that I could make good books last for a long time, caress the pages with my eyes and let the story slowly seep in. No. I devour a good book in matter of hours.
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Now I'm reading Love in Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márques. I don't know how I've overlooked that book in the past, or shunned it rather, I knew it was there. When at the library I always walked past it and thought 'nah, later'. Well, I'm glad now that I hadn't read it before. And today I stumbled across a second hand bookstore with books in English, to my delight. Am going there tomorrow, the best thing is that they'll buy my used books, so I can to stock up.

Ég sé að ég verð að breyta þessari síðu, fyrir utan að ég er ekki búin að gera neinar krækjur þá er þessi æpandi framsóknargræni litur langt frá því að vera aðlaðandi. Ég lifði í þeirri blekkingu að þetta væri bara fagurlega grasgrænt, en þetta er alveg innilega framsóknargrænt. Framsóknarflokkurinn er almennt ekki skammaryrði í minni fjölskyldu en er það í mínum orðaforða. Annars ætla ég ekki að fara að tala mikið um pólitík hér, mér finnst ég alla jafna vita of lítið og fylgjast of lítið með til þess. Ég hef nú samt ákveðnar skoðanir í þeim efnum. Kunningi minn náði sér á flug í umræðu um pólitík í haust, hvessti á mig augum og spurði mig hvort ég kysi. Ég var afar róleg á yfirborðinu, passív væri sennilega rétta orðið, en hugsaði með mér "kýs ég?! Hvurslags eiginlega spurning er þetta? Heldurdu að ég sé alger gólftuska?! Ég hef nú barasta aldrei..." o.s.fr. En allavega... ég sé að ég get ekki beðið eftir rigningardegi til að fara í endurbætur á þessari síðu, þá get ég þurft að bíða ansi lengi. En ekki núna... á morgun segir sá lati.

I came back to Santiago today. Should have stayed another day at the beach in Viña, the city is like a ghost town because of the celebration of Immaculate Conception. Well, the celebration sure doesn't happen on the streets. And I don't see the reason to celebrate this, but I'm not a Catholic. I don't really see the reason to celebrate Whitsunday or Ascension Day either or all the other days when I don't really know what supposedly happened, but that's what you get when the church is affiliated with the state. I had to explain to a tourist on Whitsunday this year what was being celebrated and I had to think for a while before I gave an answer. I think the only people who really know what the case is with these days are old people and sunday schoolchildren. And priests of course. But what do I know, the highlight of going to sunday school for me was when the priest's wife read us a story. And I don't think any priest would call my faith Christianity, or any other religion for that matter. It's a mix-and-match; pick what you like but leave the rest. And on many things I don't even know what I believe. But I'm not here to anwer the big questions in life, so it doesn't matter. My favourite holiday is the very Icelandic First Day of Summer (in the end of April, while the ground is sometimes still covered in snow), now that's something worth celebrating!

For those who don't have a clue what I was on about in a previous post on the genocide in Rwanda you can read this; http://www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0107926.html, very concise information on Rwanda, or this; http://encarta.msn.com/encyclopedia_761560996/Rwanda.html, slightly more info. And notice the beautiful new flag, here you can read about what the colours symbolize; http://www.crwflags.com/fotw/flags/rw.html#descr (yes, I am a flagnerd, it's a rather specific field of interest). For more detailed info on the genocide you can read The Rwanda Crisis by Gerard Prunier (but it's very "dry", it took me days to get through it) and another good book on the topic is We Wish To Inform You That Tommorow We Will be Killed With Our Families - stories from Rwanda, by Philip Gourevitch. My favourite book on the matter is Season of Blood: A Rwandan Journey by Fergal Keane. I had that book years ago but left it at my then boyfriend's place and didn't have the heart (or courage) to contact him and ask for the book back. Will just buy it again when I get rich. Fergal Keane is one of BBC's foreign correspondents, he's also written the excellent Letters home. Just in case you needed something "nice" to read over the holidays...

Went to Valparaíso today. The main thing in Valparaíso is the harbour, it was a commercial centre for the entire Pacific coast until the Panama canal was opened and is still very lively. There's only a small strip of lowland behind the waterfront, surrounded by hillside areas where it seems only to be a matter of time when the colourful houses and rusted shacks tumble down the slopes. Most of the hills are a rabbit's warren of steep footpaths, zigzag roads and blind alleys, linked by meandering roads and lots of fun fun fun ascensores, or funicular elevators. Which I enjoyed immensely, since I am far from being afraid of heights. The congested commercial area, which is pinched between the port and the hills, is full of hustle and bustle (and did you know that the English word bustle is derived from the Icelandic verb busla, or splash? Just one of the countless useless facts that take up the space on my hard disc which was reserved for logical thinking) and is crawling with fine-looking men in uniforms because the Chilean navy has a base in Valparaíso. All this plus sunshine contributed to make it an outstanding day.

Oh, and I saw The Shoes today! I hate shopping, especially when I need to, but now when I don't need anything and am not buying anything because it means carring it around I see shoes everywhere. Shoes that I like. That doesn't happen everyday I tell you. I tried them on and they look beautiful - but I'm not carrying unpractical shoes around with me, plus they would get ruined by being crammed in my rucksack. But oh, they are The Shoes! Hmmm. I haven't found The Man and argue that there is no such thing, I'll just have to convince myself that there's no such thing as The Shoes either. Anyway, this wonderful pair of shoes were left behind in a shop in Valparaíso and I'm not going there again until maybe next time I come to Chile. And in the afternoon I bought books for 4 times the price of the elysian shoes, so no more spending. But I figured that the books will always live with me, shoes get worned out but I won't forget a good book. But have you seen Manolo's shoe blog (http://manoloshoes.blogspot.com/)? Now that's a serious shoe addict!

Ég fékk áskorun frá litla bróður mínum um að blogga á íslensku og ætla að gera eina íslenska færslu. Reyndar vorkenni ég engum að lesa einföldu enskuna mína, ef ég get skrifað hana þá geta flestir sem ég þekki lesið hana. Fyrir enskunni eru tvær ástæður; ég skildi tölvuna eftir í Buenos Aires og mér leiðist að skrifa íslensku á spænsk lyklaborð, sem kallar á að gera shortcut á íslenska stafi, og svo eru margir vina minna bara ekki læsir á íslensku.

Ég las á Moggavefnum að samkvæmt Sameinuðu Þjóðunum þjást rúmlega 170 milljónir barna af næringarskorti og að um 120 milljónir barna ganga aldrei í skóla. Þetta eru skuggalegar tölur. Og hvernig væri að við gerðum eitthvað í málinu? Segjum svo að 5 manns sem lesa þetta taki sig til og gerist styrktarforeldrar barns, t.d. í gegnum SOS barnaþorp (sos.is) eda ABC barnahjálp (abc.is), þá fækkar börnunum sem líða skort ekki bara um 5 heldur verða fjölskyldurnar sem þessi börn gætu eignast í framtíðinni líka betur settar. Og ekkert væl um peningaleysi; það geta margir látið 15-20 þúsund af hendi rakna á ársgrundvelli, við lifum í þvílíkum vellystingum og eyðum nú öðru eins í vitleysu.

Meira af skuggalegri tölfræði; ég las um daginn um rannsókn sem var gerð á vegum Félagsmálaráðuneytis Argentínu (eða sambærilegu batteríi) að 6 af hverjum 10 börnum í Argentínu lifa undir fátæktarmörkum. Hvernig er hægt að byggja framtíð þjóðar á þessum börnum? Það verður erfitt.

Today I've been travelling for a month. I feel like I've been here forever, home seems very far away and somehow just unreal. The best thing is that I've still got 4 more months to go!

I finally left Mendoza, which was about to become my Hotel California. I never know which day it is and was taken by surprise when I realized that December has crept up on me, but I guess November couldn't keep on going forever. In the centre of Santiago everything's about Christmas-this-and-Christmas-that , I thought I could bypass that frenzy this year. Well, I am boycotting Christmas and only very few, if any, will get a Christmas card from me.
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The Los Libertadores between Argentina and Chile is now my favourite border crossing. Not only is it set in a breathtakingly beautiful landscape, but the immigration process is also fast and efficient.

Chile's agriculture is free of all kinds of diseases which plagues the neighbouring countries and luggage is searched in case passengers have animals or any kind of agricultural products with them. On the way to the border you have to sign a statement declaring that you don't have anything of the sort with you. Of course I had forgotten that I had a bag of almonds in my rucksack and a frowning staffmember of the border control confiscated them, but I just played the dumb tourist and didn't have to pay a fine.

My least favourite border crossing is between Tanzania and Rwanda. It is also set in beautiful surroundings, where the Kagera river divides the two countries. When I crossed the borders it took a good part of a day. I took a matatu (minibus) from Kigali to the borders, where the border patrol went thoroughly through my backpack, in search of what I don't know, probably out of boredom since the Rusumo crossing is in the middle of nowhere and only two other people were crossing at the same time as I did, and they probably didn't look half as interesting as a mzungu girl travelling on her own. Then I walked in the blistering midday sun over the bridge to the Tanzanian side. There my backpack was, again, ransacked thoroughly. I was more at ease with that, since I could communicate a bit with the guards on the Tanzanian side in my broken Kiswahili, but in Rwanda mainly French and Kinyarwanda are spoken and I know neither. And do not feel compelled to do so. Surely French would be useful but there is a handful of other languages that I'd rather learn. After going through customs (which were two guys on either side of the bridge, sheltered from the merciless sun with the unmistakable blue plastic sheets from UNHCR) I went through immigration in Tanzania. The immigration officials didn't know where Iceland was and then came in handy the excellent design of the new Icelandic passports, which includes a map on every other page that shows the global position of the country. I am very thankful for this foresight in the design of the passports. This is not the only occasion I've had to use this very practical tiny map.

What made the day so difficult was not however the scalding heat and sunshine or the pole-pole (slowly-slowly, a Kiswahili term for relax, take it easy) acting of immigration and customs on both sides, but the fact that at this border crossing thousands and thousands of people died in the war in 1994. Some were murdered with machetes, hoes and other handy gardening tools, others beaten to death, or shot while trying to cross the river, which is not just another small creek but a roaring fierce flow of water coloured reddish brown of the rich east african soil. And some days got coloured red with blood of the people who thought that a new life would await them on the other bank of the river.

I had read a lot on the war when I was in Rwanda and the truth can be very harsh for a little girl from Iceland, travelling around alone with her belongings in a rucksack. Yes, ignorance IS bliss, but I prefer to see the world as it is. Because sometimes it can be really nice.

One day I want to go back to Rwanda and see how much has happened since I was there, because in spite of all some people I spoke to were quite optimistic 5 years after the war. In Kigali a lot of new buildings had risen and things were looking promising, refugees were returning home although there was often nothing to return to. But what happened can never be forgotten, it was to dear.

Now, that was a happy memory! On to other things.
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Just when I was getting used to the Italian-like accent in Argentina and had even mastered a bit of lunfardo, which is a porteño (porteños are people living in Buenos Aires) slang I go to Chile. And not only is the pronounciation different but the vocabulary too.

And when I had gotten used to and learned to appreciate the Argentine timings, siesta and all, I have to get used to the more costumary timings in Chile. And when I find out that the shop I was going to isn't open until 9 pm or that the restaurant I was going to closed at 10 pm instead of being filling up for dinner, I'm all at sea. The bars and clubs are open until daybreak here though, as in Argentina, but nobody goes there until 1 am at first.
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Santiago sits in a basin between two mountain ranges and a cloud of smog often hangs over the city. It was ranked the second most polluted city in the Americas in 2002 and some days the smog is so severe that schoolchildren are kept from participating in PE and older citizens are advised to stay indoors. It's a nice city though, with lots of colonial buildings and history. And lost and lots of museums, which I've taken much pleasure in.

A few of the exhibitions I checked out are a part of the huge Foto América 2004 (www.fotoamerica.cl/2004), and you can see a great one here; www.cuerpospintados.cl. And no, I am not spending my precious time and effort in mastering the making of links, that will have to wait for a rainy day, you can just use copy and paste if you're curious.
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One of the beautiful buildings I went to look at is the Municipal Theatre (www.municipal.cl). I figured that it couldn't harm to check how much tickets were for the concert the same evening, the Polish pianist Krysztoff Jablonski was playing works by Chopin, and well, a last-minute-worst-seats ticket was about one US $, so of course I grabbed the opportunity. The next day I played the same game, then Orquesta Filarmónica de Santiago played works by Brahms and Bartók. Wonderful, wonderful.

Yesterday was a concert in Santiago I would have LOVED to go to; adorable Norah Jones in all her charm. But for the price of a ticket to that concert I could have gone to 30 concerts in the Theatre. And I am budgeting. But she is so great, if I were more into women I'd be after her. That is, if Salma Hayek wouldn't want me.
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And now I am in Viña del Mar, north of Santiago, which is a very touristy seaside resort. And tomorrow, after all the museums and information I've consumed on the Pinochet era I'm going to be an irresponsible ignorant tourist, to the beach and sunbathe and do nothing at all. Maybe read some trashy novel or another with a happy ending. And eat ice cream. Sweet.

With my stomach full of steak and red wine flowing through my veins I'm searching the internet for a flight from Brazil to Costa Rica. It's ardous work and needs concentration and diligence and I'm not making any headway - or sense. I'm on a budget and have started to think that I might just as well fly to Columbia and travel through Panama to get to Costa Rica. I'm quite sure it's cheaper than to fly to Miami or similar only to backtrack to Costa Rica. But I will figure something out - I always do. But I might be in Rio during Carnaval! Yey! That is if the bad bad airlines of the world haven't eaten up my travel fund by then. And I've got a date! Well, it's in Uruguay and I won't be going there until January, but it's still a date! And the guy is really nice and handsome and... I'm not gloating, am I...? But that's enough of revealing news, mental note to self; never post a blog after more than 2 glasses of that lovely Chilean wine.