Việt Womện

XXVII

There is a deep moan inside of me; a dull ache right in the pit of my stomach. My whole being is yearning for the country I’ve just returned from:

Việt Nam.

***

I know I could go into depth and describe what I’ve experienced in meticulous detail (for instance, how much better bananas taste there or how the colours of the country shine brighter than anywhere else). However, I'm sure you can get a decent impression of that through Google. Instead, whilst traveling, I felt the urgency to write about the fantastic Vietnamese people and their culture. There is a lack of coverage in Western media; in fact, embarrassingly, I had no idea that the country was still communist until I decided to go there. I had the impression that Vietnam remains a mystery to many of us, so I’m going to try and lift the veil in a couple of blog posts.

In view of International Women’s Day I decided to put two special women I talked to into the spotlight.

Huyền is one of the sweetest young women I’ve ever met. She currently works as an operations manager and a tour guide or, more like, a brilliant entertainer for the tourists who visit the Phong Nha-Kẻ Bàng National Park in the Northern part of the country, an overnight train ride away from the capital Hà Nội. It’s a small community here, with about 1,000 people living in the village right on the edge of the vast jungle. There are a lot of beautiful caves in the park, two of which my group explore together with Huyền, a fellow tour guide and three park rangers. I’m stunned by the unspoilt beauty of nature but I’m even more amazed by our cheeky female tour guide.

Huyền's open-mindedness is unparalleled among her fellow countrywomen; her English at a level where she can joke around with tourists (and the Vietnamese love a joke!) To her, being open-minded means that she has a lot of Western views about life. In the evening, Huyền takes me and some other European guys to rent one of the private Karaoke rooms in the village. Locals love singing together and we are surprised how many Western pop songs there are to choose from. A massive sound system blasts our katzenjammer back at us but we enjoy every minute of it.

In her early twenties, Huyền essentially has to get married if she wants to be an accepted member of society. Women get hitched from an early age (16) and when you reach 25, your mother will worry day and night that you’ll end up as a grey spinster. Huyền also tells me about the difficulties Vietnamese women face when they’re left by their husbands: ‘It's hard to re-marry and dating someone else in public can cause problems within the local community.’ The choice of a solitary or a secret love life? Condemnation of progressive thinking? Sounds to me just like what happened to women in Europe before the wave of emancipation rolled over our Western communities in the 60s.

Huyền has another example for me. ‘A friend of mine had to marry a guy who got her pregnant. He just wanted some fun with her and now she is expected to live with and look after his family as well as her child. She’s very unhappy but there’s nothing to be done. I wish I could help her.’

I ask Huyền whether she would ever consider marrying. ‘A woman’s life ends when she marries. I don’t want to lose my independence. Also, having children means losing your youthful, slim body’, she says and grins mischievously. My guess is that more than half of 23-year-olds in Vienna or London would agree with her. This is Vietnam, however, and conservatism is still highly valued among people, even in more urban communities.

A visit to the Vietnam Women's Museum in the capital gave me a good impression of what big role tradition still plays. On one hand, there are extensive ceremonies connected to religion, weddings and child birth but on the other hand, many women have had to overcome their role of being a housewife and mother and work long days in the cities to support their family. Most of them can be seen walking along the busy streets hoping to sell fruit. They only get to visit their family in the countryside every other weekend.

Mai*, another female tour guide who grew up in Ho Chi Minh City (the previous name of the Southern Vietnamese city is Sài Gòn), tells me that her family has been putting pressure on her to get married for a long time. At almost 30-years-old, she’s way beyond the usual marital age, but she and her boyfriend have made the conscious decision not to say “I do” until they have kids because they simply don’t see the point in it. We meet Mai in a more Southern national park, where she is taking care of a German group travelling north. She impresses me with her fluency in German, which she studied at university, and even more so with her wish of visiting Germany this year.

Having saved up money for her visa, Mai is already bracing herself for a bureaucratic ordeal which will take up a few months. ‘You need to have at least an equivalent of roughly £20,000 in your bank account so that the government can expect you to be able to buy a return ticket. With an average monthly wage of roughly $220 only very few can afford this luxury. We learn from Mai that many Vietnamese haven’t even travelled around their own country, let alone neighbouring Cambodia, Laos and Thailand for which the Vietnamese don't need a visa. ‘We often work 28 out of 30 days a month to make a living. There is hardly any time or money left for visiting places.’ 

The next obstacle for visa applicants is an invitation they need to obtain from someone in Europe (which Mai fortunately got from people she became friends with on one of her tours). The government then conducts a detailed interrogation about your relationship to these people. Mai is facing several “interviews” before she will finally (and hopefully) receive the visa. I have my fingers tightly crossed for her .

Mai answers my question regarding whether it’s possible to speak openly about personal political views in her country with a cynical snort. ‘My friends and I often joke about how you shouldn’t be saying this or that or you’ll be locked up. You simply cannot speak your mind here, not even in English. People can report you so you’ve got to be careful all the time.’ 

This makes me read up on Vietnamese re-education camps that the government generously “provides” for dissidents. It’s a bleak reality the Vietnamese have been facing since the North and South of the country were reunited in 1976. Huyền and Mai are, however, part of a new generation of women who might want to shift things around a little. Even if it's not a political change then perhaps their shared views create an impact on how young women want to shape their own life in future.

In my next blog post I’ll be talking about how, decades after the war ended, tourism has been creating a new set of jobs, and how the Vietnamese are masters at making a living.

*Names changed for political or other reasons, please see: https://www.hrw.org/asia/vietnam

Splitting Your Soul

XXVI

Last night I woke up from one of those dreams that feel realer than real. I'm an infamous dreamer anyway because I'm usually able to remember all the weird stuff my mind is digesting at night. I was watching my ex-colleagues through a window, working away in their office. Even though I didn't recognise the place I longed to go in there and be part of the team once again; I wanted to belong to a group of people who strive for the same goals. Then I dreamt of various friends of mine who I was saying goodbye to. There were cloud-like streaks of sadness all around me, but I couldn't escape; I never can. Eventually, the dream changed again and sent me abroad to an exotic country. 

***

If you ever have nightmares you know the feeling of waking up all sweaty and experiencing extreme relief that you haven't been killed (or killed someone yourself). I wouldn't describe last night's dream as a nightmare; It was definitely a strange one, though, because I was breathing hard and within seconds I realised that all of the stuff I'd seen in my dream had actually just happened. I have left my job, I am going to leave my London friends behind and I'm off on an adventure to Vietnam this Sunday, before moving back home to Austria.

Our flat is now pretty much empty, except for the boxes that have been packed full to the brim with our things that we've accumulated over the years. We arrived here with three suitcases full of clothes, so how are there now over ten boxes, waiting to be shipped? Last month I had to part with roughly fifty books because I could only take the most valued ones to Austria. I will never say a bad thing about hoarders again.

And then there was our goodbye party last weekend. Celebrating with the people we've grown to love was heart-melting and wonderful, and it reminded me so much of 3.5 years ago when I left my friends behind in Vienna. When I look back at my older blog posts from 2013 I can see how distraught I was, to begin with. Making new friends and settling down in a new country can be as terrifying as it is inspiring. Things have changed, however. I have changed, and somehow, embracing this change made me grow up. I managed to build a new life in this city. And I have now finally split my soul into two pieces; one that belongs to Vienna, and one that will stay here in London. 

Split souls are magnificent yet dangerous things. They can tear you apart or implode if you're not careful. There is a constant desire to be present in both places, so you will never feel quite at ease. When you are in one city you will always miss people, traditions, and habits of the other city. Nevertheless, isn't it something special to have several homes in this world that you can always come back to? I'm proud to have become a proper Londoner. The city has shaped me as a person and it will continue to haunt me in my dreams (and so will my friends if I don't visit them regularly!)

There's only one thing left to say:
Thank ye London, for all you've done. 
I will be back soon.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

XXV

Dedicated to my European friends who have left Britain or continue to live there. Good luck to us all.

 ***

The UK government's announcement today has certainly brought back vivid, yet dark memories from last year.

On the morning of June 24^th 2016 I woke up in my tent at Glastonbury Festival and the first thing I did was check the news on my phone. What none of my friends or colleagues had expected actually happened - the majority of British people had voted to leave the European Union. As we walked to fetch some water we overheard plenty of people swearing and moaning (their hangovers not being the main cause, in this instance). The news were spreading fast and wherever we went, Brexit seemed to be the only topic. Glastonbury appeared shattered that morning and I was, admittedly, too. The world as I’d known it had ceased to exist overnight, or at least some of my hopes and visions for the future had.

I’d grown up believing in the European Union and its values. The school I attended made sure to teach us plenty about it. This basic education and further lectures at university made it obvious to me how beneficial it was, despite all its problems and necessary improvements. Nevertheless, I realised back then that a lot of people weren’t happy with the institution. In fact, the populist Austrian Freedom Party and certain media in my country had launched a crusade against the EU, ridiculing its decisions and subsequently distorting less educated people’s views.

Unfortunately, I have not had the pleasure to make use of the European study exchange programme Erasmus (mostly due to my degree being Russian language studies) but I certainly benefitted from it in other ways. While studying in Vienna, I met interesting Erasmus students from all over the continent (and one of them was so fascinating that he ended up becoming my partner). The encounter with other Europeans changed me as a person because I opened up and started to experience the benefits of the European single market. This single market guarantees the free movement of goods, capital, services, and people – the "four freedoms" – within the European Union.

The internal market ensured that my British partner could work in Vienna after he had finished his degree. It also enabled us to move to London three and a half years ago. Naturally, living in London has not been a walk in the park throughout. Moving to an entirely different country probably never is. The first two years were hard enough before I found a permanent job I enjoyed. Working and living with Brits and many other European nationals has, however, been a fantastic opportunity. It’s one I wouldn’t miss for the world. I hope that living in this melting pot of cultures has also made me a more tolerant person.

Having experienced the uproar of my fellow (British) Londoners after the referendum I felt reassured, at first. Everyone kept telling me that obviously, they wouldn’t just deport us, being useful and tax-paying and all that. London is not the crux of the problem, though as people in the city are used to migrants who helped to shape London in many ways. Regions that are further away from the “Golden Belt of London” (and have therefore not enjoyed the benefits from the EU as much) have been more sceptical of the institution. What they (want to) see is that people from other parts of Europe come to the UK to take away their jobs. The knowledge that there is widespread fear of immigration has been exploited by many populist parties in recent years, and it was, of course, ruthlessly exploited by the Leave Campaign. The anger directed towards London due to its status as a magnet for the majority of business in the country, combined with the vote against “the establishment” and the common human habit of finding a scapegoat in foreigners probably led to the decision to abandon the EU back in June 2016.

The result felt like a punch to the stomach. As a European who is employed by a British company meant that my future here has been clouded in uncertainty. Many non-British friends of mine have since applied for either British citizenship or permanent residency. The application for this residency alone is 85 pages long and it takes at least half a year to obtain it. There have been many cases of people in the media who have been denied this residency even though as Europeans, they should not even have to worry about it, having been guaranteed the right to stay when they came here. Europeans who have been here for 15 years or longer are seriously anxious that they might have to relocate – and what if one partner is British, the other Austrian, like in my case? Will the British government provide me with the right to stay here after the country leaves the EU in 2019? The Prime Minister has been extremely vague about that, arguing that they can’t guarantee anything because they need this card up their sleeve to negotiate a good deal with the EU.

Up until this morning, when Theresa May delivered her speech, speculation on the government’s plans had been rife. Now that we’ve established that the Tories want to “build a truly global Britain”, and Mrs May is going to ensure a hard Brexit, having ruled out membership of the European single market, it seems that I have made the right choice. I admit that my decision to leave London has not merely been influenced by Brexit. The horrendous rental prices of London will not allow me to climb up on the real estate ladder for another ten years. However, the idea of going back would not have been sparked like that in the first place, had Brexit not happened. My partner’s industry has already taken a hit due to Brexit and so we decided it was financially safer for him to accept a job in Vienna. I won’t be eligible for a permanent residency for another 1.5 years (+ 6 months waiting time) and so I can’t be certain that I will be allowed to stay here after Britain departs from the EU. Forgive me, but psychology has established security as a basic human need.

It is a real shame that British children of the future will not experience an open, European-oriented Britain as we've known it. I have learned to love this country and particularly the unrivalled openness of the city of London. Somehow it feels wrong that my departure has to be such a sudden one, leaving behind a great job and people who have truly grown on me. What is worse is that going home doesn’t mean that uncertainty is going to leave me and my partner completely. We are already dreading finding out whether he will have to get a visa to stay in Austria. Thank you very much, Mrs May, we know you're just ensuring the Best for Britain, even if it has to become an offshore tax haven or a colony of Mr Trump's great American Empire.

Should Auld Acquaintance Therefore Be Forgot? I do not think so. I sincerely hope that Brits of today will remember and relate to future generations what it was like to be close to their “continental” neighbours and perhaps, in a future, dystopian world, they will decide to re-join the great project called “European Union”.

Our Adventures in the Cotswolds or ‘Oh my lovely Kotzwald’

XXIV

‘I only had a couple of drinks last night.’

Dan Courtney

***

This time my blog will have to dive down into the depths of black humour and I apologise in advance. For those of you who have quite a vivid imagination I advise stopping at the point when you feel the vomit surging up your throat so you can make a run for the toilet in time. Another option would be to place a bucket right next to you. Anyway.

1. This is us in bed, on a Sunday morning at 7 am. We have booked a train that will be leaving Paddington Station at 9.30 am. The train will take us to a nice place in the Cotswolds region where we are planning on cycling for the day and staying in an Airbnb over night. Thanks to Bank Holiday Monday, we will be cycling the next morning as well and return to London in the evening. Sounds amazing, doesn't it? 

2. Now, there is a slight issue with this plan. Dan has been to a school reunion the night before and come home in a rather "happy mood". Whilst I am putting on my cycling clothes I observe him taking his time to get to stage 1 (out of bed). Somehow I feel that there is a tiny chance that I will have to go cycling all by myself.

3. After having had a glass of water, Dan has to pay the toilet a short visit. Having known Dan's stomach for quite a while, I am quite good at judging the degree of his hangovers. He's definitely had too much beer or whisky - outbursts like this only happen if his intake of 

alcoholic gluten the night before has been too high. This means that he might be curling up in bed for the next five hours. So much for our 'romantic' trip together.

4. However, it seems that I have underestimated my hero. A pale ghost, he packs his rucksack (who knows what he's stuffing in there) and follows me out into the grey Sunday morning. London can be dangerous on a bike when you are sober so you have to put extra caution into your actions when this soberness is slightly, erm, blurred. Slowly, ever so slowly, we cross London from Southeast to Northwest, a journey of about an hour when you have to wait for a tortoise cycling behind you.

5. Paddington Station is crowded with people and whilst I'm enjoying my breakfast bagel, Dan is hunched over his bike and trying to focus on the station clock and the train times.
‘Breakfast?’ I ask him, munching away.
‘No thanks, later mebbe’, he declines politely, trying to avoid smelling my delicious salmon-fried egg bagel.
Finally, there it is - our first train that will take us to Swindon. Due to space restraints I will have to refer you to picture no. 3 again. Just imagine the whole thing on a train.

6/7. Please note that after the change to a regional train in Swindon, I have to make yet another reference to picture no. 3. As I feel sorry for not supplying you with more image material, here's a photo of Dan posing on the train, pretending to be OK.

Every nice train journey has to come to an end at some point. This is when the actual fun starts. We are cycling through beautiful, wonderfully peaceful countryside. The rapeseed is in full bloom, distributing its intensive, artificially sweet smell. 

The blue sky is interspersed only by a few clouds, reminding us of the sheep below who are roaming the scrumptiously juicy meadows for the greenest grass and yellow buttercups.

I can't compare these endless landscapes with anything but my inner image of Middle Earth. I want to change my bike with one of the horses that are watching us from their pastures and jump over the streams.

Living in London means dealing with constant distractions and air pollution from cars and busses. The Cotswolds are only 1.5 hours away from the capital but at first I couldn't quite comprehend what a different world it was.

8. How wonderful then, when the only noise you hear comes from the chirping birds, our bike chains, the wind in the trees and ...
Oh wait.
How could I forget that someone's stomach is still not sorted and we have to have regular breaks next to the underbrush. Moreover, the pace of our journey still hasn't improved from our London crossing, so I make a decision. It's time for a Coke break.




9. I don't know how, but Coca Cola always sorts Dan's terrible hangovers out in the end. We are roasting in the sunshine in the back garden of a cafe in Tetbury. I can finally have normal conversations with him so we discuss which route to choose. Don't think that I do hangover-sitting like that for free. Oh no, it comes at the price of a fine dining experience and while I'm slurping my ginger beer, I'm already looking forward to the pub later on.

Before I leave you all with my utmost recommendation that cycling trips should not start with a heavy head, randomly packed rucksacks and constant ‘toilet’ breaks, here are some more lovely pictures of the Cotswolds. 

*This photo was taken on the next day (Monday).
The problem with people is that they never learn from their mistakes.

‘And anyway, you're not from here, why don't you go back to where you've come from?'

XXIII

‘And anyway, you're not from here, why don't you go back to where you've come from?’

*

The world is changing, and not in a good way. This statement might seem far fetched but I'll explain what I mean in a bit.

First, let's start with this little episode that happened to me and my boyfriend on the way home from the pub the other day. There's a little boat moored in the docks close to where we live. Up until a few months ago it used to be "England's Only Boat Pub" with regular karaoke nights. The only time we went there we didn't stay very long, probably due to the drunk middle aged people everywhere. Since it closed down a couple of years ago we've never seen anyone on board, until a few days ago, when the boat was occupied by a few squatters. They put up a pirate flag and a sign explaining that they are using the empty boat as their home.

Having grown up in Austria, where houses are occupied regularly, I'm more than used to such a scenario. I can't say that I completely agree with people doing that but to be honest, in my opinion they can stay until they're kicked out by the owner. As long as they don't damage anything I don't see any harm, and understanding the precarious London living situation obviously helps.

At any rate, as we were walking home from the pub, we heard shouts coming from the boat. A naturally human sense of curiosity urged us to walk on. A middle aged woman was yelling at someone on the boat. We were only able to gather the words '... and I'll be your worst fucking nightmare!!' before she stomped around the corner and hurried past us. At the same moment, a man shouted at the occupants: 'You'll have something big coming your way!'

Wide-eyed, we looked at each other but kept walking so as not to get involved. However, at that moment, a woman in her early thirties, who was looking down from her window, asked the man why they had to be so horrible to the occupants. 'Mind your own business, love, will ya?', was the response she got. At this point we were slowing down properly to listen to the full argument.

'Why are you swearing at them?' the young woman asked. She had a slight accent and dark hair which made us think she might have been southern European. 

'Why does it concern you, you silly girl?' The middle aged woman had apparently come back. Together with the man they were now focusing their irritation on the young woman who had dared to defend the occupants. 

'But they are not doing any harm', the young woman objected.

'This is our community', the man shouted. 'We used to go to this pub, you know? We care about it. They're on the boat illegally!'

Now they were yelling at her so much that the young woman's voice was drowned out. The last sentence we heard before the two buggered off was 'And what's it to you anyway, you're not even from here! So why don't you go back to where you've come from? Like everyone else around here!'

*

In the light of the recent presidential elections in Austria (we just escaped, by the skin of our teeth, a right-wing president which might not have been the best for a country with our past) and the emerging monster of Brexit (the referendum on whether Britain remains in/leaves the EU will be held on 23rd June) I am more than alarmed by such an outbreak of oral violence. It's not the first time I've seen the unpleasantness of xenophobia but it was usually from a distance or on TV/YouTube and never in London.

Since I've moved here, this city has been so generous, so embracing, particularly for foreigners like me. As a European citizen, I'm very happy to be able to live and work here and I pay taxes just like anyone else; however, the referendum has revealed a lot of people who think differently. "Those Europeans", and "migrants in general", "take away our jobs". This is, of course, the usual argument for people who don't inform themselves. It's so much easier to blame someone else for their problems and unfortunately, politicians and media know how to stir up sentiments.

So here we are again, in the first quarter of the 21st century, with the right on the rise in several countries including the United States. The scapegoats are different to what they were roughly 70 years ago, but the arguments aren't.

This Is Ours Now

XXII

Once again, I woke up at 3 am because of this terrible, supposedly stress-related rash. I had scratched myself whilst being asleep so I decided to soothe my skin with some aloe vera cream. Having dragged my sleepy self to the bathroom, I stared at the mirror, all moody and blurry-eyed, and opened my thick turtleneck jumper to apply the cream. What was that? Was I still dreaming? No, it was definitely there and even though I had never seen one before, I recognised it immediately for what it was: a creepy-crawling, turd-brown and horrid bed bug, sneakily trying to escape from its finished work on my sore cleavage. After I had overcome my initial shock, I hurried to brush off the vermin. Panic-stricken and horrified, I screamed in a high-pitched voice I didn’t even know I possessed, threw my jumper onto the floor on top of the bug and trampled on it like an elephant. When Dan came into the bathroom, pissed off for having been woken up, I looked up at him in horror. I lifted an edge of my jumper to show him the bug corpse. However, there was no brown splotch, no sign of a squashed vermin – the bastard had successfully escaped my stampede. 

This was the last night in our first London flat.

***

When it comes to finding a place to live in this city you will soon find that people have similar experiences to the one described above. There is never a shortage of exotic pets such as mice, bugs and flies which will make your life not happier but definitely more exciting. And it's not only those you have to share a house/flat with - it's people from all over the world. We have been living with Italians, English, Spanish, Belgians, Portuguese, Nigerians, South Africans and Mexicans and this only over a period of two years. When you get on with your housemates you will find yourself celebrating pre-Christmas with Roast Turkey, playing charades or having BBQs and house parties in summer. Alternatively, you could be going on a holiday to Lisbon together. I find it absolutely fascinating how people from such different backgrounds with completely dissimilar views of life can still hang out with each other, become friends and manage to live in a very confined space.

As nice as this experience has been and as much as I have loved being reminded of my student life, I am also extremely happy that this period is now coming to an end. Dan and I are finally daring it: we are going to move from a room that is roughly 13 square metres to our own 1-bedroom flat with a massive lounge. Austrians would probably not understand what kind of a big deal this is. Just to give you an idea, rents in London are so high you are forced to share a flat with other people. That is, if you don't have an extremely well-paid job or aren’t a professional DINK couple (double-income-no-kids). 

Even so, it means that you will have to cut back on other expenses and save everywhere you can. It is painful considering that you could get a huge uber-modern flat in Vienna's best districts for the money we're going to pay for just one bedroom. But hey - it's the price you pay for living in this great city, and we do live only 30 minutes away from the city centre.

Having dreamed about having my very own place for seven years since having moved out from home I already have a list of things in my head what I want to do with this place - how I want to personalise it and make it feel like our real home. No more coming back to an untidy kitchen with flies circling over unwashed saucepans, no more waking up at 4 am when people are returning from a night out, no more waiting half an hour for the bathroom when you really, really need the toilet. Instead, I'm looking forward to extensive weekend breakfasts, long games nights and dinner parties with friends and, to show that we are not that old and bourgeois, massive house parties where we get absolutely smashed and find the flat in ruins the next day.

I cannot wait for having a place other than my bed to sit down on to read a good book, for building up my personal library, for getting back to band practice and recording sessions. Also, it will be amazing to know where things in the kitchen are stored away. This sounds so mundane and unimportant and I have always laughed about my parents' habits and attitudes. Apparently, I have aged substantially in the last few years and found this is actually vital to lead a comfortable life. Just to put things into perspective, I'm still up for adventures and I loved my flat mates, but somehow I'm just sick of this complete mess around the house which you don't even bother with when you're a student.

Finally, and what cannot be ignored, is the privacy you get in your own place. Visitors won't have to stay in a cold lounge any longer which I've always felt embarrassed about. Jamming won't disturb anyone as quickly, and neither will the fact that we'll be walking around naked at any time of the day. 

O home sweet home - I'm embracing you with all my heart.

***

This blog is dedicated to all my former flat mates.

To Mama, Papa and Mike, who had no other choice than putting up with me as a flat mate for 19 long years.

To Alex, my first voluntary flat mate; the tidiest and chattiest of them all.

To Roisin, the most musical and fun flat mate there ever will be.

To Jules, the flat mate with the best bar keeping skills.

To Bernie, the most easy-going flat mate.

To Nieves who provided us weekly with fresh falafel.

To Josue, the chili and coffee lover.

To Bridget: thank you for the wonderful chats.

To Ine whose Charade skills I admire.

To Fabrizio, who made sure the house smelled of fish or chicken and introduced us to the real prosecco.

To Claudia, a flat mate you definitely want to party with!

Special thanks go to Ralf, who accidentally provided me with the title of this blog and who’s kind of lived with us when we had our band. Good old times. Never to be forgotten.

And finally, to Dan, who will now be putting up with my good and bad habits all by himself. 
(At least I don't have to watch the Fails on YouTube any longer.)

Why not have a .... near-death experience?

XXI

‘Get a bike. You will not regret it ... if you live.'

Mark Twain

Me, cycling in the safe English countryside, on a better day.

It's quarter past four on a Saturday afternoon. Imagine a crossroads near London's centre. One road leads from the Southeast towards London Bridge, the other road from the South towards Tower Bridge, hence called Tower Bridge Road. There is quite a lot of traffic but it could be worse. Now let's have a closer look on the road. Can you see the female cyclist going along the first road, approaching the crossroads fairly quickly? She sees the green traffic light ahead of her and goes for it, hitting the pedals hard. She enters the crossroads whilst the lights are still green.

'I am fast, and I will get to yoga on time. It feels good to finally be able to get to places quicker since I've bought this amazing road bike! It's still green. Let's be quick. What's that? A car. No indication so it will be going straight. No, it's not. It's turning. It's turning and blocking my way. Fuck.'

From up above we can see a black car that is supposedly going straight but then turning right at the very last moment. The driver doesn't seem to be noticing the female cyclist coming towards the car, wanting to continue straight. Unaware, the driver completes its turn.

'I can see it all before me. The pain, the crash, me lying on the floor. It's all so very clear. The mess it will cause. The broken bones. Hurting for ages, not being able to live a normal life. Crutches. Whatever. I curse loudly. My brain reacts as fast as it can to keep the damage low. It tells my hands to pull the brakes like they've never done before.'

The inevitable happens. The cyclist crashes into the back of the car, just as the car has turned and blocked her way. The handle bars slam into the cyclist's stomach, bending them to the right. The young woman falls off the bike, landing on her knees and hands. Like in a trance, she crawls and makes it to the middle of the road to the pedestrian island and lies down on her back. Cyclists and pedestrians, who have witnessed the accident, are approaching.

'What's just happened!? This can't have happened, can it? I'm on the floor and where is my bike? Where is the car? There's people around me, taking off my rucksack, asking me if I'm OK. I can't breathe, something is pressing into my stomach and I pull up my T-shirt. No bruises, so far. I tell them my name. Someone is calling the ambulance. Fuck. I've just had an accident. Was it my fault?'

The driver of the car and her boyfriend have parked their car in a side street and ask if the woman if she is alright. She finally gives them her name, holding her stomach; breathing hard. She is grimacing, apparently in agony; her face as white as chalk.

'My breathing gets easier but I feel terrible. Cars are driving past but friendly-looking people are there, looking after me. I am sorry, I say. Feeling embarrassed. Yes, I think I'm fine. I can walk. I walk to the pavement with my helpers whilst we are waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Was it my fault? What do I do if the car is ruined? What's going to happen? Are the police going to come, too? This is so surreal. The woman next to me, a fellow cyclist, tells me that it wasn't my fault, that she's seen everything and put down the number plate of the car. That it will be alright. A weight drops off my shoulders.'

People have carried the woman's bike across the road and put her rucksack next to her. One of them offers her a bottle of water; she accepts gratefully and drinks. Still pale from the shock, she leans against the fence, then sits down. An ambulance arrives and two paramedics get out, checking if the woman can walk and then helping her inside the ambulance.

'Will people look after my bike? Yes, the police are there now - I can see them questioning the driver through the window. I am checked through by the lovely paramedics. Blood pressure is fine and the pain in my stomach is getting better now. Blood sugar levels are OK, too. Only my knees are a bit grazed. No need to go to hospital, thank God. I will be fine. I will live. Realising the meaning of these words makes me shudder. I could have died today. If my brakes hadn't worked so well the crash would have been worse and I could have hit my head or broken my neck. Bloody hell.'

***

Yes, this woman was me and the accident happened just yesterday. I wanted to write about it while memories are still fresh and emotions are still high. The shock has finally worn off now. I've never had an accident like that before and it made me realise several things: 

Firstly, London is a terrible place to cycle in but this accident could have happened in any city. It won't make me stop commuting on my bike but it will make me even more cautious. It means that I will never again trust any other road user but myself.

Secondly, people in London are great. If you need help you can be sure you will get it immediately.

Finally, all these petty little things we complain about are so meaningless. I love my life and the people in it and I want to embrace it all. As I have only this one life I'd better start living every day as if it was my last.

The message to my fellow cyclists in London is: PLEASE TAKE CARE! Eight people have already died this year and I could have easily been number nine. Please follow the link for further reading on how dangerous cycling in London really is:

http://www.theguardian.com/cities/2015/jul/09/women-cycling-infrastructure-cyclists-killed-female