What to make of the Winter Blues?

I wrote this post a few months ago, and never posted it. I didn't think it was perfect, so I wasn't happy to put it out into the world; entirely reflective of my mindset during that time. The endless pursuit of perfection kills all genuinity.

January has been going on forever, and the magic of European winter has worn off. Prospects of job hunting, flat hunting, and new friend hunting is starting to wear me down, and I am determined not to become a victim of hopelessness. There is nothing to do but to wait this long winter out, to find little pockets of warmth and joy. I am but forced into a reflective state. 

Over Christmas, I spent 10 days in Norway, travelling from the North to the South. It was so beautiful and completely incomparable to anything I have ever seen. Isolated, untouched (is anything in this world really untouched?), and unthinkable for some to live in such temperatures. Naturally, Norway becomes an idealised, imaginary state, free from the perils of the human condition. A utopia, in the complete opposite sense that the New Zealand is. Both places are isolated, either by climate or physical distance. Stories are told about someone’s friend of a friend who visited. The people are tight-knit, dislike tourists, and nature is valued above all else. You are taught to appreciate, and learn from the people who have adapted to these lands. I do not feel at home, but I could, in an odd way. 

The cold holds many secrets, and has a lot to teach, if you are willing to listen. Bundle up warm and venture outside. Succumb yourself to Nordic time. You never know what you might discover. 

Hannah <3

Things to get you through a European Winter

So begins the start of European winter, although it is technically still Autumn. How very cold and wet it is in this beautiful country, and how hard it will be to boost morale through the shivering! To survive (already) the coldest winter I have ever experienced, I prescribe for myself:

• To read: A Spy in the House of Love, Anaïs Nin

• To drink: Zoete Spaanse red wine

• To listen: This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody) - 2005 Remaster, Talking Heads *
  * in fact, any Talking Heads song could substitute here

• To have: A crush, and her warm hand to hold through the night

• To wear: Mittens, and one of those cute headbands to go over your ears

• To host: A dinner party, to cook and make mess with all of your friends

• To use: A digital camera, to cherish all of the sweet warm moments which will get you through such dreary temperatures <3

I suspect I will need to follow up on this post, considering how endlessly long this Dutch Winter is predicted to be. Many more morale boosters to come!

For now with love, Hannah

My trip to the septum-piercing convention

A month ago I went to an Ethel Cain concert, in Utrecht, just outside of Amsterdam. This was something I booked in my first two weeks in my new city, in a spiral of loneliness and displacement from my home and my beautiful community. I promptly got distracted, and forgot that I booked the tickets, until two days before the concert. How very typical of me. 

Two days before the concert and I am feeling very stressed. I no longer need a future event to keep me going, the thought of going to a concert by myself is terrifying, and I can't name a single song from Willoughby Tucker, I'll Always Love You. I no longer resonate with the character that is Ethel Cain, such as in Preacher's Daughter. I try to resell my tickets, but of course I have left it too late. 

So, like everything, I suck it up and decide to make the most of it. I get ready in 20 mins, I'm wearing my favourite Party Girl outfit, which although cute, is not really Amsterdam practical appropriate. An older man mutters what I can only assume is a slur at me. I suppose there is always a silver lining to having a sub-standard understanding of Dutch. Is it really offensive if you don't understand it?

I am so nervous, but I go on my way to the concert. Unsurprisingly, it is incredible. Ethel Cain delivered an excellent performance, and her use of religious symbolism felt liberating in the face of an increasingly conservative world. The show was a slightly sacreligious celebration of queer joy as a beautiful rebellion against fundamentalism, and her voice was so incredible that I had goosebumps. My nerves melt away, and I feel completely free by myself. Plus, I really get the new album now. 

My top three songs from Willoughby Tucker, I'll Always Love You:
1. Fuck Me Eyes
2. Waco, Texas
3. Dust Bowl

On reflection, how silly of me to be scared to go to a concert by myself. I have learnt so much from moving across the world alone. I am growing and living and learning and finding strength in myself. The me from my first blog post would be proud. Such a short time it has been, and how much has changed. How lucky I am to be in this beautiful new place, as a beautiful new me!

Love from NL, Hannah

Top 11 things to do alone in an Amsterdamian Park

1. Bask in the sun! Don't freak out about the rubbish in the grass. 

2. Read your book. Current read is: All the Lovers in the Night by Mieko Kawakami. 

3. Think about who you are, and your place in the world. Consider your past selves, and the various people who have made you who you are, past and present. This is a favourite of mine. 

4. Eat a Dutch sandwich (what makes it Dutch?), a supermarket pastry, or a piece of summer fruit. Accidentally slurp so loudly that people turn to look at you. 

5. Perpetuate your distrust of all men. 

6. Annotate the book you have already read.

7. Reapply sunscreen. Think about skin cancer.

8. Journal! Be careful not to litter. 

9. Smoke cigarettes you don't really like. Ironic, considering point number 7.

10. Think about learning the language. Procrastinate learning the language. 

11. Nap (with caution - see point number 5). 

You can find me at Sarphatipark any day, sickeningly busy with the above. 

Love always, Hannah.

Will pretty privilege be my savour or destruction?

I have spent the last week in Sydney, staying with family. This has truly been a journey in itself, and on Thursday I decided to take myself on a little escape to the Blue Mountains. The trains were free that day, the rain had stopped, and it was shaping up to be my perfect day trip. I had a plan to see the Mountains, get a sweet treat, and turn straight around again. 

My Swedish man, who climbed over the barrier to get closer

 to the water. On reflection, he was definitely showing off. 

Instead, I walk to the Mountains and they are so beautiful, I get inspired to hike. I see there is one for 1-1.5 hrs, and I think, perfect. I am filled with unjustified confidence in myself, I can walk this in 45 mins. Touch grass, be home by 5pm. I walk and it's beautiful. I am having a wonderful time. I meet a Swedish man with very intense blue eyes. He likes to stand very close to me, and at one point he implies we should be holding hands. He is a rock climber, and has a slight ego. But he is kind, and I am not worried.

We take a wrong turn. What was looking like a 45 minute walk has turned into over two hours, and the track onwards is now closed. We decide to keep walking, down a valley and up the Mountain another way, to go around. He thinks it will be fun.

I have eaten barely anything, and begin to get exhausted. We are stopped by an Australian man, who tells us that the new track is also closed. We can go around, but it will take even longer. They start to argue about whether we can go or not, and I regret all of my life decisions. My phone is on 1% and I am catastrophizing. I am going to have to go by myself with the Australian man, and will probably die here, either through physical exertion, or he will kill me, in this giant mountain range. At least it will be a beautiful setting. 

Eventually I convince the Swedish man to turn around with me, and the three of us walk back together. We walk up so many stairs that my legs will still shake the next day. I am so exhausted that I think I am going to vomit and am sure I will need to be helicoptered out of this place (this does not happen). 

The view I will die to.

In the end, we have hiked for 4 hours. My Swedish man invites me back to his hostel for tea, and I respectfully decline. On the train back, my phone dies and I have three hours to consider the actions that led me to that point. Did I have lucky girl syndrome? Was pretty girl privilege my savour, or my destruction? Do I just know too many instagram terms that include the word girl?

Did this chance meeting of the Swedish man lead me to safety, out of the Mountains, or would this journey have never happened without him? Is it better to be pretty, readily saved by a man, or better to be ugly, and potentially avoid the situation altogether? In the end, this is a pointless question, as until women no longer need to rely on their appearances as social currency, there is no winning in this equation. The only lesson, really, is no more solo hiking for me. 

Always learning, 

Hannah <3

A love letter to Wellington's Botanic Gardens

At the start of last month I moved from my beautiful city. I will miss, mostly, my precious best friend, but to think about it breaks my heart too much, and I am writing this on notes app on the sidelines of a children’s football game, surrounded by incredibly aggressive Australian dads. So not an appropriate venue to cry for her (again). 

Instead, I write a love letter to Wellington’s Botanic Gardens. At least once a week for two years, I would walk to the Botanical Gardens, get lost amongst the winding paths, and find myself along the way. Nothing was grounding like the horseshoe bend, the duck pond, or the frangrance garden. Nothing could save me from my overactive mind, a corporate induced mental crisis, or the violent sunday scaries, like the comfort I could find in the botanical gardens.

My precious highlights:

My favourite bench:

Malcolm and Dee Ross, whoever they were, have a special place in my heart. I also love their secret garden, and how blessed and special I am to be able to share with them. Their bench has given me the gift of quiet reflection for me on many an occasion, a place to hide away and remember my spirit and mind. This is without a doubt, my favourite place in Wellington. I hope Dee and Malcolm know that it is their love makes it so. *

* I have a tendency to bring my dates on walks, and I like to share my favourite places. So my serene memories of the bench are admittedly, slightly altered, as have shared a secret kiss or two in Malcolm and Dee’s secret garden (oops!)

* Malcolm and Dee's secret garden is in the Horseshoe Bend. Do with that what you will.

The bamboo garden / Glenmore St Meadow:

I have only ever been to the bamboo garden once, but it was magical. I went with a dear friend, and we stood in the filtered sunlight and talked about our dreams. I mentioned on the off hand that some of the broken bamboo would make for good incense holders, and unbeknownst to me, they went back later to get some, and made one for me. It was a very special day. 

The Bronze Form:
I would walk past the Bronze Form every day to uni, and everyday I would look at her, magnificent, and misunderstood. She is so special to both me and my best friend. Her solitude, untouchable but beautiful. Intense in her metal sculpture, but graceful, feminine nonetheless. She is strong, and she is inspiring. She stands and watches over Thorndon, our old home, and takes care of us. I will miss her. 

This is her: https://www.sculpture.org.nz/thesculptureshtml/bronze-form


Wellington and its gardens has been so good to me, and so I write this, a devotion. 

With love, Hannah

Confronting my parasocial relationship with the dental receptionist

I haven’t been to the dentist in three years. Not because I get particularly worried about the dentist or for any real reason in particular. Really it just seemed unnecessary, didn't exist in my day-to-day reality. 

I write this in the waiting room, the radio squeaking out washed up pop music. I've always loved a reception waiting room. When I was a little girl, I used to spend half an hour every week, waiting for my brother at his appointments. I would read the Women's Weekly, Hello, Creme Magazine; anything I could get my hands on. Nothing brought me calm like sitting in the perfectly warm waiting room, pop songs quietly playing on the radio, eating up gossip about some American couple's cheating scandal. I've always loved a liminal space and this was bliss. 

Anyway, today is slightly different. They've taken away the gossip magazines, a girl's best friend, and the music doesn't quite hit the same. Now I sit here in anguish, waiting to see the girl who I met in the library two years ago. Our friendship lasted for approximately two hours but she lives on in my MindPalace. I follow her on instagram and my best friend and I call her Freaky Nature Girl. 

I am called through to the dentist's room (I have to leave my safe space) and I am introduced (again) to Freaky Nature Girl. Worse, she is no longer the receptionist, she is the dental assistant. She now knows I have not been to the dentist in three years.

I giggle a lot. She is very pretty and I am very nervous. The dentist asks me if I am scared, I say no, and he wonders why I have cancelled this appointment three times already. If only he knew. 

Alas, I have perfect teeth. At one point the dentist makes Freaky Nature Girl hold a mirror over my shoulder so I can 'demonstrate' my flossing strategy. Apparently this is abnormal (comment ur flossing strategy below). She congratulates me on never having had a filling. Nothing bad happens. Sometimes its important to confront the things which feel big, which you may have made big in your beautiful mind. In reality, nothing is ever as big as it seems. It might just cost you $140 for some exposure therapy, and dental validation.

Hannah <3