1 adjective ( hotter |ˌhɑdər|, hottest |hɑdəst|)
1 having a high degree of heat or a high temperature

Berne wants me dead. This is what it looks like with its thirty something degrees e v e r y day. The heat is killing me, its dry and salty, constant and ironic. I cannot breathe without feeling choking and having lunch in the town is a bad, bad idea unless I want to die fast and could do so even on my way there. And I cannot do my jog after work; it would be like working out in a sauna. It is simply too hot for me.

2 hot good-looking, sexy, attractive, gorgeous, handsome, beautiful; archaic comely, fair. antonym unappealing.

I like to look up words and their numerous meanings in the Oxford dictionary my Mac has for me. I reckon it is an old habit from the times I was still studying linguistics.

So many other things can be hot besides the weather, don’t you agree. Boiled new potatoes with butter and dill. A good pair of jeans. I think confidence is hot. Age, in many cases. I remember my lexicology teacher, she was surely sixty and above but standing in front of us like a royalty, wearing perfect hairdo every day and giving all her lectures standing up. She had been a ballerina, she hated girls at the university who sat with their breasts lying on their desks and everyone was terrified of her. Although at the beginning of our acquaintance she pretty much hated me too, perhaps not because of my sitting but rather because of my selective attendance of her class, I started to enjoy linguistics and pretty soon began to consider her quite hot, really. Even now, years after, I am occasionally invited to have coffee with her at the little café close to the main building of the university. Now I know that she couldn’t have cared less for the fat girls; what she despised was their lack of confidence, as she interpreted them being afraid of her.

A week last Thursday I came back home from my house sitting mission and the bus arriving in Schliern I gathered my one hundred and one things and decided to wait until I was the last to squeeze through the doors. But then a young handsome guy, perhaps seventeen, with a sneaky hot smile in his chocolate eyes quite consciously stopped and gave me way. In return, I gave him one of my broadest smiles and stepped down like Queen Elisabeth from her carriage. I somehow remembered my lexicology teacher at that moment and the whole set of the above mentioned associations lined up in my head.

It is simply too hot, this is how being barbequed feels. Mac tells me that there are 136 entries in his Oxford found for „hot“.

Saturday, 23:30
Bern Bahnhof. I am waiting for my orange train to Worb where I am house-sitting my former Swiss home for two weeks when funny things start to catch my eye again. I have had a couple of beers with a couple of Estonian friends of mine but I do not reckon it’s the beers that make some things now seem bizarre but rather the whole day I have had.
23:32
The automatic doors open upon movement. There are some other late passengers in the waiting hall but I suddenly notice that the doors open without anyone being even near them. I hardly believe in ghosts and it is certainly the strong draft blowing down here but in a way it is really beautiful. Open and close. Open. And close. Open…
23:35
A man approaches the ticket automat next to my seat. He is carrying a tiny plastic bag. He opens it and takes out his wallet. He carries his wallet in a small white plastic bag! He gets his ticket and puts the change back to his wallet. He makes me so smile.
23:36
On my other hand there is a woman reading a book. She is about my age, has somewhat a transparent figure but all in all makes a pretty impression. I glance at her feet and realize her right foot is almost five centimeters shorter than the left one, you can see it by her shoes. The one shoe does not support her at all it seems, but she is still wearing high heels. I wonder if she can buy her shoes in different sizes…
23:40
My train is here. Just before I enter it, I see a teenage girl giggling with a boy. And I could swear she is wearing grey two-piece pajamas. I prefer to sit on the left side in the train. The author of the week is Knellwolf and I open his book of criminal short stories but it is difficult to concentrate.
Time Out.
It is quite remarkable how time has different measures in those two countries close to my heart. To Estonian calculations I am getting to a point where my great uncle – a proud Estonian, Ph.D. in Economics – tells me that if I were to study more I would be too old to ever find one to marry. Besides, according to him, men would not like one with a doctor’s degree anyway – too much for keeping at home. If that should ever go down to that – I am not going to give up one for another anyway and might as well stay single. Or in Switzerland, for that matter. (Joke)
Lunchtime.
The two Estonian guys come to have lunch at the house I am currently sitting. I cook around two kilos of spaghetti and at the table, a decision is somehow made that they will swim along Aare-river from Rubigen to Berne. This is what… 20 kilometres?
16:40
I take them to Postauto. I explain the driver why the two guys enter his bus wearing only swimming trunks. I myself take the backbag with all their belongings and we take a couple of pictures. We are told by somebody that it takes 20 minutes by river to Berne.
17:01
I enter the blue train from Worb to Berne. I love this Knellwolf - he has the sweetest crime stories, like the one where a daughter introduces her boyfriend to her father and the latter is disgusted by the 64-year old English hobbit that kisses his 27-year old beauty in public. He kills the boyfriend out of jealousy and rage. Some time later he then receives a fax from Lilian thanking him for helping her get rid of her problems - she is now the sole inhebitor of the late millionaire. She said she had been convinced all along her father would do that to his beloved daughter. I a bizarre way it is one of the most beauiful stories I have read.
17:45 or so.
I am in Marzili beach at Aare. According to our calculations, the guys should be here already. But they are not.
17:50
I realize I have forgotten their backbag in the train. I dial the infoline. Instead, fire department answeres. I hang up. I call Claudia. She tells me the right info line number and I finally get connected with the railway station. They tell me to call back in ten minutes. Guys are nowhere to be seen. I now have to wait.
Time Out.
In the country of great watches, time ticks differently. Here I am a girl hopping around in my office and feeling no pressure what so ever from the society to produce offspring. Quite to the contrary, had I to stand in Pampers line at Migros I would get the oh-so-young-looks. Do not get me wrong, I respect children but let me use the hospitality of a nation to still be one myself. Shit indeed - how could I forget the backbag!
18:00
The longest ten minutes in my life are over. According to the unfriendly railway man the backbag is back in Worb. Thank God for the honesty of the Swiss. I call Claudia again. This time I am getting worried about the guys. She tells me it must take at least an hour to swim from Rubigen to Berne. But even with that calculation they should be here by now.
18:30
Claudia tells me I should maybe have them announced by the loudspeaker. She also thinks I should perhaps do it in Estonian, this way it would not sound so embarrassing…
18:59
The guys arrive – wet, excited and cold. The water in Aare is 18 degrees. I am so happy to see them. They are happy to see me. They have been swimming for about an hour and a half. And they are still happy even if I tell them that I do not have their money, cell phones or shoes. I leave them in the sun to go for the backbag…
Time Out.
Time does indeed seem to have different dimensions. The dimension of expectations, for instance. In Estonia, the general formula seems to be if you do not do it now you are two years too late: the earlier the higher heels, the later at work the better boyfriend. The light must be bright and burn fast. Yet again – it is not always bad at all. Moving my towels and flippers out from the parents house when I was eighteen I was also granted a certain kind of security that as long as I have my hands, head and two blue eyes that still see I am alright – the stream takes me along to the real life anyway.
20:30
I am back. Marzili has closed at 20:00. There are two guys waiting for me on the street wearing nothing but swimming trunks.
21:00
Portugal versus Germany. We are having a fine dinner and drinking several beers to it.
23:25
I am waiting for my train to Worb in Bern Bahnhof. Weird things catch my eye.

About how sometimes you plan and sometimes it just happens.

Changing Plans.
I occasionally plan every step ahead: pencil in, make a note, set a reminder. But mostly it’s the itch… Call it a tick, a prickle, a tingle - sometimes it is just there. I am sure all of you have felt the desire to take this extra step over the edge and see what its like to fly. The urge that makes you do things people do not necessarily hold for reasonable. Or fun. Mostly, they then occur upon a total impulse – like leaving the country, going jogging, sending an sms to a random somebody at night, staying in bed with DVD-s while the whole of Switzerland is watching their national team play against the South Korea. /…/
Of course, the sms is usually sent to the current fancy. And this is never reasonable.

Age Itch.
I would like to believe that this special itch has something to do with my age. You know, like the almost-thirties, or the post-twenty-five-crisis period. You have always seen worse and everything seems very easy. I probably drive a lot of people around me nuts with my current no-problem attitude. I mean, how long can you stand somebody that passionately loves washing up every evening? And if it has nothing to do with me being 27 and a half then I do not know what it is.
On the other hand - I went to a concert the other day. Mendelssohn was thirteen when he wrote Magnificat. I cannot really think of a sound age a human can have.

Reoccurring Itches.
I went to this Cuban Dance Class the other night and watching my body taking as wild turns as a white sausage next to a muscular African can take I realized another itch had soothed. I was so relaxed I wasn’t even a bit distracted about the fact that I had bought new sneakers especially for this occasion and found out at the door that African is danced barefoot… Even if currently in a bit lousy shape – this girl can still dance. And I can always put the sneakers on the next time I feel an urge to jog. Happens regularily around once a month.

Itch Control.
I believe there is a wise Estonian proverb that says you should not make decisions in the evening, instead, leave them for the next morning. Surely the old Estonians did not know anything about modern planning strategies but back to the basics - you should not mess with important stuff after the sun has been on its highest. I am trying to keep that in mind when smsing at night. Blaaaaah, doesn’t really work, does it. And then you wake up in the morning and it is a bit embarrassing and you are a bit angry at yourself for doing it…

Plan Control?
My sister sent me an sms the other day and said her digital camera had gotten stolen. Later that night I casually went through my astrological calendar and I almost could not believe that actually, the Capricorns had been to pay extra attention to their belongings that day due to an increased theft danger… Could it be that if you looked for signs they would be everywhere to show you the way? Should you have your hair cut on a day the moon is in Scorpio because it makes them grow faster?

Take an itch.
A wise friend of mine always told me not to decide at all when a decision is hard to fall. And since I couldn’t decide how I wanted to spend my Friday night I went to bed with Mac and we saw around seven sequences of Scrubs instead of watching the Swiss play football.

And make a plan.
I will love my sister even without her camera and that’s what I told her. But she is coming to visit tomorrow and a camera would have been so nice…
I will still itch it now for some time and then make a plan for what I am going to do with my life or so. But at the moment I am just chillin it.

I think I will go to cinema tonight. Mhmh.

B.

"It's more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words, but rather short, easy words like 'What about lunch?"

Winnie-The-Pooh

noun.
the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities, esp. by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy.

I must say I am feeling better. The pain caused by high heels, dependability and sleepless nights has diminished. I am not the overworked and underbred goal-determined bitch anymore. I have noticed I can be funny, even to myself sometimes, and I am happy to kind of start new and welcome the good old pretty-witty uncomplicated me.

Just when you think you have successfully escaped from it all, rented out your flat (together with the turtle in it), come to a foreign country where no one knows you and where you could basically say what ever about yourself, like that you have seven sisters or that you are allergic to parsley just to avoid it on your plate, BOOM! someone unintendedly reveals the facelift by casually asking you if you are a control freak. While cutting parsley, by the way. (Just a side remark - I loathe parsley). Can it be that this me still shows? Or – could escaping from yourself be merely a fantasy and the reality be that you never change?

When I was a child and boys at school teased me for my curly hair my mother used to tell me that everything goes by – unfortunately also the good things. I have believed in it ever since and it is rather effective on really bad things like PMS or havig your (or someone else’s) heart broken.
The parsley-guy then asked me if I new what I wanted from life. (No, no hope for an ever lasting marriage, he is gay, you see). And you know what – I think I do know what I want. I want to be able to say just that. I want to have the liberty of suffering from slight burnouts and enjoy the escapism once in a while. I want to keep the control over not having control sometimes. I want to get my heart broken from time to time and I definitely want to always have people like the parsley-guy around to remind you who you really are.

The reality is, we have these fantasies about the person we could and should be but we are seen through eventually, no matter your postal address. And what the heck if I am indeed a control freak – as long as I am not bitchy, stressed out and very ugly, I might just go ahead and enjoy my escapism. And as long as funny and witty people like the parsley-guy bother to ask you complicated questions you should be happy.

Just a side remark – I freak out when I feel that my heart might get broken. And I only have one but a very pretty sister.

Bus Stories. Way To Work.

Eichmatt.
What I love about my work is that it is not my job to pick up the general phone and none of the Swiss who start living their lives at seven thirty in the morning have to get all upset about no one answering their calls. And this is my ticket for the ten-to-nine bus. Which, I sometimes miss. And everyone knows better than to call me before eleven.

Sandwürfi Friedhof.
Umbes nagu Liivaloopija kalmistu.
I take the number ten bus. Every morning we pass a window where a perfect Swiss house wife is hanging out blankets while the kids are drinking their Ovo. The seat I always get together with my Ray Bans make perfect conditions for comfortably switching off deep analysis of life. The yellow ones from last week have been changed for some flowery ones. The sheets, I mean.

Köniz Schloss.
A rather rough roundabout.

Köniz Zentrum.
After weeks of chewing nails I finally received The Letter to go fetch my Residence and Labour Permit Type B. I approached the counters for foreigners with it and greeted the guy with my most beautiful Bernese Grüässech announcing my wish to receive the blessed piece of paper. As requested in the letter, I had my passport ready, however, they did not care for it, simply wanted 90 Swiss franks. So this is how much the foreigners' identity costs in Switzerland. (Greetings to Stefanie and Christian). It was ten to five then, I remember, and I went to get a nutroll from Migros.

Brühlplatz.
An add proudly presents: We clean your blankets in only three hours! I wonder if the lady from the window ever uses their service. I mean, where else can you get them cleaned in three hours, right.

Station Liebefeld.
Field of Love. Field of Respect. Fair-Play Field. Newspaper-to-Bed Ave. Flowers-Just-Like-That Park. Partners-In-Laugh Alley. Cannot-Live-Without-You Milky Way. Wagen hält.

Hessstrasse.
Ssssssshit. Forgot to throw the old flowers to compost.

Dübystrasse. Weissensteinstrasse.
At the bus stop of one of them there is a small sad-looking Electroladen. Every morning the guy there has one of his TV-s switched on. The other day we were all staring at Beyonce through the window. She is not bad, actually.

Eigerplatz.
Last Saturday I had decided to take the Moonliner after leaving the utterly boring Dampfzentrale. Quoting the kings – if you do not know where to go out in Berne, go home. How very wrong I was not following the worthy advice! I kept myself busy deleting old smses for a half an hour until the night bus finally came. Brr.

Monbijou.
Press the button for stopping. (I wonder if the drivers get some kind of counselling because of the mental problems they have from the peeeeeeep every three seconds a day).
Another mental note still to the last Saturday’s stop: the Swiss cannot party. But I am very fond of the employment culture.

Hirschengraben.
I do not understand the people who use the escalator as stairs. They were made to serve you a piece of the very luxury you need for your morning ritual at the Stadtbachstrasse. Just like the Jura coffee machine at the office.

My PC tells me to Ctrl+Alt+Del. Let’s rock.
B

There are three kinds of regrets in my experience: about what you should have said, what you should have done and what you should not have done.

Just before last Christmas I was shopping in London with Nurr and when we entered another clothes' boutique in Oxford Street, I saw a woman trying on an breathtakingly gorgeous white coat – it suited her perfectly and made an astonishing view. Until this very day I regret that I did not compliment her on how good she looked in it. I should have said it.

There is a gallery I pass every morning I go to work, the Dobiaschovsky's. About three weeks ago they opened an auction exhibition and one could see handsome gentlemen stepping in for a glimpse and old couples entering the house of the wealthy holding hands. Every morning for those three weeks I felt like entering this dusty and bourgeois gallery myself. I never did and when the show finally closed this Monday, the pain of regret over the lost opportunity was significantly vast. I should have done it.

I once was in love like a fool and he was determined on going out with me, too, I always said no knowing it was the right thing to do but feeling I should have said yes and when I finally did (say yes), I knew I still should not have, because due to several complicated reasons – most of them now seem ridiculous – we could not have been together and it was one whole set of regrets. What a pity that you cannot reverse regrets.

One of the most important men of wisdom in my life (next to my two brothers, my best boy friend, Mike, my ex-boyfriend and my best friend's ex-boyfriend) is definitely my father. He once told a thirteen-year old me that I should never go out with a guy out of pity because it is a cause for regret. Although at the time his words remained vague, I never really forgot this remark. I guess if I had ever acted against my father's advice I would be married with two children now. *And knowing myself – be probably thinking I should not have done that.

Now how the hell are you supposed to know in advance how you will feel after saying something, like saying yes to a guy asking you for a beer? Sometimes I regret that I know what regretting something feels, because sometimes I feel I am simply afraid of ending up having to say I should not have done it. But what if it leads to having to say I should have? So I have decided to try it out and next time someone asks me the question of whether I was doing something that evening, I would go for that beer, at least I will have said it. You cannot reverse regrets but in my experience, you can always hope for the best. I hope the next guy does not make me feel I should not have at once.


*/The what are you doing tonight-philosophy/

You see, this is what I am talking about. Never mix an Estonian with Swiss (hypothetically speaking). While my ear hears banasch you swiss come and correct me. Which, naturally, is absolutely Swiss. Thank you, honey.

Blond

P.S. I am absolutely sure we used Sprite.