open diary with links to lebian ebooks

1/2/2010

Well here I am three days into the second decade of what to me still seems to be a very new century. Who am I, well I chose my pen name Ariadne some years ago, albeit on a different island than the one where I now live, at a time when I thought I had been abandoned. Since then as a part time denizen of various chat rooms I have been abandoned on numerous occasions but today I am happy to say neither my current cyber girlfriend, nor the lady I felt abandoned me all those years ago have disappeared from my life. However as I am naturally pessimistic about my ability to maintain relationships, the name is a constant reminder, and four weeks of almost continuous gales, hurricane, lashing rain and fog have kept me housebound and given time for introspection to replace retrospection. I am trying to develop a minor talent for writing so I felt the time was ripe to start a new diary, but one which I do not wish to remain hidden under my pillow. It is five years since I first set foot on this island, the most eastern of a chain of islands which are a part of Portugal, although with a devolved government. The purpose of my diaries is two fold, to relate some of the amusing and some not so amusing aspects of island life, and as and when appropriate my thoughts on such things as amuse, interest or upset me. As I have somewhat eclectic tastes, which include motorcycling, writing, gardening, swimming and snorkelling combined with a compulsive interest in people watching the content should be sufficiently varied. Had the weather been better I should have been riding one of my motorcycles today, having joined the local motorcycle club a short time before Christmas, and on Sunday afternoons can usually be seen trailing after the guys on the big sportsbikes and cruisers riding my little 125cc, clad in pink leathers and helmet, apparently the sole girl rider in the club. But today all I could manage was to struggle out to feed the sheep and chickens and place a few rocks on loose boards to prevent further depredations by the wind. However the wind and rain have had one minor benefit after two years of watching the rain water pour from the unfinished gutters of my porch, I bit the bullet went to town and found the requisite pieces that my building contractors had failed to provide, stripped cleaned and reassembled the gutter pipes. By a happy coincidence the excess water had given the local authority the opportunity to pollute our water supply with chlorine again, which meant either buying (horrible thought) bottled water or a journey by motorcycle in the rain to find an unpolluted supply. The answer was of course obvious, drink the rain water, which has the added advantage of reducing my water bill, coffee now tastes like coffee again, I feel smug, and neither I nor my motorcycle need to get wet.

1/4/2010

The Dia de Amigas is I suppose this islands sole acknowledgement of the rights of women to be allowed some form of enjoyment without the supervision of their partners. For most of the year, the bars and restaurants are usually devoid of single women, partly as a matter of choice for in the evenings the bars are usually thronged with unshaven men who watch football in the intervals between staggering outside for the obligatory cigarette. Hardly scenes to tempt even the most fervently heterosexual girl from more interesting pursuits, and in general wives and partners are not encouraged either except on the innumerable festas , feasts or festivals to a plethora of saints who grace the island with their presence. In the early evenings the braver ladies, myself included will venture into the quieter of the local bars for a quiet drink, in my case a bar in my local village run by a charming lady with laughing eyes, who tolerates my attempts to speak Portuguese in the local dialect, but then I am a foreigner and no doubt expected to be eccentric. All changes on the Dia de Amigas, when all bars, restaurants and clubs lay on events specifically for ladies, often augmented by dinners at the casas do pove, literally houses of the people, where food is provided in the gargantuan quantities demanded by Portuguese appetites., but where the entertainment is still male dominated and often includes over long addresses by the parish priest, being an agnostic with a limited grasp of Portuguese I may be the teeniest bit biased on this. The girls on the island do however take every opportunity to let down their hair and usually late evening sees us all gravitating to either one of the two clubs or the islands sole remaining disco, where troupes of angels, devils, warrior maidens, et al mingle with those of us who had neither the temerity nor the inclination to dress up. The Portuguese of both sexes are indefatigable party lovers and it is normal, one might say almost de riguer for these evenings to last until dawn. For my part the pleasure of being able to dance, and enjoy all female company and even the occasional caress makes these events a real delight, although totally innocent in comparison with those described by some of my bisexual and lesbian cyber girlfriends which do I must admit cause a mild twitch of jealousy. I should add that males are allowed to participate in these events the sole criteria being that they do so in drag, given the extremely macho and conservative nature of the Açorean male it is surprising that many do so. Although even when so attired they can not resist a demonstration of their male prowess, one of the less subtle being last years bar waitressman who sported a twelve inch long phallic bottle opener under her apron. Unsurprisingly lesbians and bisexuals wisely tend to maintain their anonymity in this machismo climate, and it takes considerable time and patience to discover that there are at least a few more enlightened ladies on the island, although as far as I am aware very few have gone so far as cohabiting. The day after the Dia all returns to normal, and social intercourse returns to its normal pattern of daytime coffees, coupled with the occasional house party. A strange place for a self avowed and overt lesbian to choose as her domicile but that as they say is another story.

1/21/2010

Hooray, the sun is shining, a rarity this January, last year at this time we were at the start of what proved to be an extensive drought, so I suppose that this is nature evening things out, although those in England who have been suffering from the unexpectedly high levels of snowfall may not feel quite so philosophical about life, nature and all. So why, you may feel entitled to ask, am I sitting here, (in bed actually, my favourite place for writing) and not out on a motorbike enjoying the sunshine, or at least tending to some of the manifest problems left by nearly a month of rain. The answer partly being is that I am waiting for the roads and grass to dry up a little, not necessarily the smartest idea I grant you, because on the last three occasions that I have done this by the time I was ready to make a move the rain had returned. The other reason is that within the lovely view framed by the patio door of my bedroom I can catch occasional glimpses of the most recent additions to my family, two baby lambs, a boy and a girl, just two days old who have been lucky enough to have been born on one of the better days, and to have a mummy who has a lot better idea of how to take care of them than I do. This morning she has brought them out of their pen for the first time, she kept them in all day yesterday which was windy with very heavy showers but now they are sleeping peacefully at her side while she solemnly chews the cud. Meanwhile their dad Punch has become a social pariah, and looks totally lost, completely excluded by Judy the ewe, his only consolation being to try to give my butt a playful (to him) butt when I go in to check on them or feed them. They share their paddock with a rooster and four chickens, usually quite amicably and are watched over by my adorable black Labrador bitch Freya who was also born in January, and was five years old on New Years Day. Meanwhile I, like a doting grandmother have been firing off emails and photos of the little darlings to all and sundry and have thereby got my knickers in the proverbial knot. The first person I mailed was my girlfriend, who was nearly as excited as I was, but who last night asked me what I was going to do with them, hence the problem. Let me explain, I bought two lambs last year, with the idea that they could help me keep the grass in check, at the time I had been persuaded to pay thirty euros a month to someone who cut the grass badly and infrequently. I named the lambs Suffolk and Punch, after a well known British lawnmower, those names lasted about a week, until we became friends, fatal move of course, but that’s me all over, so I changed the names to Punch and Judy. Punch is now big, ebullient (when not being ostracised by Judy) and easy to handle. Judy is far more circumspect (intelligent?) and a pain in the butt to handle, for those who like me are or were not well acquainted with sheep, they require regular maintenance, including manicures, Brokeback Mountain, this isn’t, although the sheep look like the same breed. This summer it became apparent that two sheep could not keep the grass under control, but there would probably not be enough grass to keep four sheep over the winter, I had contemplated buying another one or two in the spring and having one slaughtered and butchered in the autumn. Twin lambs are quite rare here, so as you can imagine, I was delighted when they arrived, but I hadn’t expected to be faced with such a difficult decision quite so soon. I like to feel I am pragmatic by nature, but faced with a girlfriend who is horrified at the thought of one of them being killed, and who has made it clear that my being too cowardly to undertake the task myself is hardly acceptable, I am suddenly caught between a rock and a hard place. It is quite difficult to find lamb, the meat that is on this island except at Christmas and Easter, so the thought of having my own lamb was attractive, but the thought of upsetting my girlfriend makes the appeal of either lamb or mutton distinctly less attractive. To cap it all I have neither the means nor the experience to dispatch a large woolly animal, my sole experience was with a chicken which I managed to decapitate by whirling it round my head, and then had to chase the headless fowl all round the garden, believe me all they say about headless chickens is true. Well at least I have nine months or so to decide, so will shelve as much of the thought process about this as my girlfriend will allow; I am not optimistic about this by the way, and spend the spring at least watching my babies frolic, not good practice for becoming a hard hearted murderess though, is it, watch this space.

1/29/2010

It’s Friday, and recovery day, am still being the lazy bitch and lying in bed with my laptop, it’s just past midday, and just to prove to myself I am not totally brain dead I thought I would share last night’s experiences with you. Yes, it was the Dia des Amigas again, although Ladies Night, would be more appropriate, nothing starts here much before ten pm, and as usual I was ready too early, just chatting inconsequentially to my cyber girlfriend to pass the time and keep my mind from the cold, which despite my fire, and the fleece I had slipped on over my frock was trying to turn my blood to ice. My lift arrived about five seconds after my girlfriend received a phone call, she, my lift that is looked remarkably unparty like but rattled something off in Portuguese and headed for the bathroom, emerging ten minutes later, looking radiant, she was complimentary about me too, although it must have taken me ten times longer, I rattled a few words of goodbye on my computer and we headed out into the cold. The cold permeated the start of the event, warming up was a slow process both physically and mentally, nothing happens terribly quickly on Santa Maria, from friends appearing, to being able to find a space at the counter to pay, but our group of four eventually arrived at our table, to join two girls who were already seated, embarrassingly one was my hair dresser who for reasons partly economic and partly climatic I had not visited to get my hair done for the event. The dining room at the chosen venue, the Hotel Santa Maria is cavernous, but crowded, the meal was buffet style served from two capacious side rooms and the food was both excellent and varied, contrary to the perceived belief amongst most travel writers Azorean cuisine is alive and thriving, it just doesn’t favour nouvelle cuisine, mainly because even lady Azoreans have fairly gargantuan appetites. Even by being extremely picky and avoiding all forms of potato and pasta my plate was still overflowing by the time I had completed a full circuit. Three of the girls at our table spoke good English but I was able to keep up with the general drift of conversation in Portuguese. I also found I knew quite a few of the other guests, and the relaxed atmosphere encouraged mixing. One unusual aspect of the evening for me was that following the main course there was dancing, and the first part of the floorshow, involving local men in drag emulating a beauty contest, which stimulated much mirth and several very earthy pranks. The sobremesas (desserts) were as usual varied and excellent, cream and chocolate being much in evidence and I was relieved that I had had the sense to avoid the potato and pastas earlier. Local table wine was included in the meal, and due to my choosing vinho branco, (white wine) I was left with a full bottle for my own consumption, an opportunity I accepted with my usual relish. At about this time one girl produced a very life like model of male genitalia in the form of plastic that sticks to other objects when thrown hard, this caused much merriment and was passed from table to table with appropriate comments before both it and another identical one ended up stuck well out of reach on the dining room ceiling. As I have mentioned before this event encourages fancy dress, native American Indians, and pirates were much in evidence, but pride of place in my book had to go to the relatively small group of devils, with their illuminated flashing horns, and incredible eye make up, I certainly could not have done that on my own, being mildly myopic so I usually avoid eyeliner and even applying mascara to my lower eyelashes is somewhat problematic. One of the devils reappeared at the club we meandered across to once the festivities were over at the hotel, she was the bassist with the local group, which was still going strong at 4:30 am when the last two of us from our party called it a day, which by the time we got home it nearly was. But by that time I had been dancing non stop for the best part of four hours, still a relatively novel experience for me but one which I confess I enjoy more each time. This event in many ways is just a warm up for Carnaval which starts on February 16th this year, rather like a week long alchohol Halloween for adults, but it certainly helps to brighten up this time of year.