Things I have not written about

Coldplay’s amazing concert on the 28th of March.

My trip to beautiful Istanbul and Gui’s trip to LA.

Waking up at 06:30 in the morning for two weeks to take Carolina to school. (If there is hell and I end up there, they will have me waking up at 06:30 every day.)

Closing quarters in the company during the economic downturn.

Being down and disappointed and, then again, being self-motivated for no reason but the blue skies in Dubai.

..................

But I do have to come back to write about Coldplay. Anything that makes me feel 17 instead of 37 is worth writing about.

Play Artist

It has just downed on me that I live in the future. That’s right. I live in the future of my childhood, when people talked in video-phones, and ate things ready from small boxes or bags, and flew to space, and drove flying cars.
Granted; cars don’t fly yet. But pretty much everything else is amazingly similar.

I wake up early. (Ok, just rarely, but it is known to happen.) It’s 8:30 and I put on my turquoise and brown bikini’s – not the nasty Brazilian type, but the ones with huge bottoms, to match mine – and head to the community pool. I stretch my beautiful matching towel, lie down, put on my miniscule ear buds connected to a really diminutive device that plays over four thousand songs with amazing stereo quality, besides displaying photos and movies, and get my phone. And my phone is future itself: thanks to it I check on all my recent emails, reply to some, read documents, exchange text messages with my team, access the web. Actually, I do my early check-in for an upcoming trip to South Africa. I work. And I’m by the pool. I feel like one of the Jettisons.

But what really brought this up to my mind was today’s lunch time.
I got into my great new car, connected my iPod, pushed a little button in the wheel panel, and commanded: Play artist Matt Nathanson. A beautiful and artificial female voice confirmed: now playing artist Matt Nathanson. And it started.
I always knew this was coming some day. I actually voiced it to my mom, when I was little, that one day I would be able to work from the beach – and no, I was not picturing selling fried fish and beer. But now it has happened, I can’t seem to stop being amazed by it.

Now all I’ve got to do is wait for the teleportation.
It might take some time until it becomes commercially viable, but who knows how long my generation will live with current genetics advancements. And then, who will need flying cars anyways?

The Cars Soap-opera

Next month it would have been three years; three very short, very fast years with my beautiful Nissan Murano. But this also meant the warranty was about to expire. It was time to look for a new love.

A Nissan Murano makes you wonder why anyone would ever look for another car. Its design is gorgeous. Its engine, award winning and so powerful it makes such a big car fly. It’s the safest car in its category: safer even than Volvos. Who cares about Aston Martins, Maseratis, Ferraris, Porches, when you have a Murano? Yes, love is blind.

Last Wednesday I finally left it behind, parked on the side street of the Ford dealership. It took them only two days to sell it. I wonder who is the lucky bastard who got it... It was the first time in my life that I suffered for leaving something material behind. I even spent the next few days looking at every pearly white Murano on the roads hoping to see it again, like a lost boyfriend from a different time, from my lost youth. It made me feel like a teenager again. Not such a good feeling.

However, after five whole days without a car waiting for HSBC to act as a competent corporation, and almost loosing my license in the process of getting another car registration – if you ever considered driving in the shoulder in Dubai, think again! – I got my new car. My dark grey Ford Flex.

This would sound like a perfect happy ending. However, I had ordered a dark grey Flex with a pearly white ceiling (they look a bit like giant Mini Coopers, if they had an offspring from a marriage with a Range Rover), and they delivered it with the dark grey ceiling instead. I should have killed someone and demanded the car I had booked. However, I liked the one they gave me so much – even though it looks a little less funky – that I decided to keep it. It still looks like a pimp’s car, with its different ambient colours and jazzy design. It absolutely rocks!!

When I set in its sporty black letter seats, connected my iPod (it comes with a special bay for it) and automatically synchronized my Blackberry, I though I had died and gone to heaven. This car made the Ayrton Senna within me meet with my inner super nerd. I’m so happy. It also placated my inner Santos-Dumont, since it feels as big as a plane in its seven-seater glory.

However, when another three years pass by – and I know they will come and go far too fast for our own good (yes, you are getting old too) – I will let this one go more gracefully. No matter how cool it is this new car of mine, the charm and magic of a first love lost won’t be there anymore.

Sandy

Something dusty this way comes... Another sand storm day in Dubai.
Silica snakes swiftly sliding over the asphalt.
Masked and curved construction workers dragging their frames through incomplete buildings.
Everything inexorably changed into incoherent shadows.
Brownish skies. Greyish moods.
Frustrated tourists hoping for emerald beaches and umbrella drinks under the sunshine.
A girl dreaming of a bluer weekend in Fujeirah, where the sand is warm, and cosy, and most welcome.

Festival of Literature in Dubai

This last three days I’ve experienced direct contact with some of the most brilliant minds roaming this little blue planet of ours. At least when it comes to English literature.

Some of them have surprised me with their great sense of humour, so distinct from their favourite subjects; their chosen genre.
Some have demonstrated to be more interesting than their own work.
Some have given me new purpose, along with a sense of urgency.
Some have scared and amazed me with their genius.
Some have made me feel worthy. Some have made me feel ordinary.
None have failed to amuse me.

Kate Mosse and Victoria Hislop convinced me there could still be time. According to Victoria: plenty of time!
Philippa Gregory and Peter James showed me how thorough research could make up for my lack of genius.
Along with Robin Sharma, they taught me it should be fun, loads of fun.
Wilbur Smith convinced me it is all about writing for myself: if I love it, maybe some other people will do too.
It seems Karin Slaughter shares his opinion. Both believe we should also write within the genre we like reading the most.
Claudia Roden showed me culture can spice up things.
Robin told me to fall down and get back up as many times as it takes. Victoria told me that to try, fail, try harder, fail better, trump never even trying.
And, in the end, if I don’t think it is good enough, Karin reminded me that I don’t really have to show it to anyone. :)

So, I have had the greatest of times.

However, I can’t help but wonder: have I enjoyed it so much because I am an avid, compulsive reader, or really because writing is my thing? And if so, why the hack am I not dedicating serious time in my life to do it?

I have conflicting feelings about it. I started writing poetry when I was around eight years old and have won my first literary competition at eleven (By the way, who even reads poetry these days?). Yet, I am now almost thirty seven and I have not written a novel. And, if I had, there is a big chance it wouldn’t be good enough to be published. Proficiency in writing does not mean one can come up with deep, interesting, captivating characters; or gripping, compelling, intriguing plots.

The good news, taking on a different angle, is that some great writers have published their first novel after they were forty years old. So, maybe there is time then. All that remains to be seen is whether there is also talent, discipline and enough luck to have a publisher like all the strings of words before “The End”.

For now, I’m contented by the whole experience and the amazing view of the Dubai Creek outside the large windows of the Intercontinental: the grey undulating sea blown by the sand storm and underlined by the swinging Dhows.

Lost in Translation

I can write. In Brazilian Portuguese, that is.
So this blog is an experiment to see if I can do some decent writing in English too. (Important point: I said 'decent'. Not funny or amusing. That would be a big stretch right now.)
At this point, I must confess I am sceptic about it. However, if I never attempt some actual writing in this language, I will ever be no better than mediocre. I might still be no better than mediocre two years from now, but I will have tried and, even though this scares the hell out of me, I will know that I will have perished fighting.