2. something that frustrates 3. (Psychology) Psychol a. the prevention or hindering of a potentially satisfying activity b. the emotional reaction to such prevention that may involve aggression
Obviously it really is getting to me because even trying to find the definition to cut and paste – is … frustrating!
So R would be telling me now in her gentle voice to breath – deep breaths, this is when I feel like I am going to start hyperventilating!
Why? Why? Because after this fabulous idea of – hey let’s take off, sooth the heart, ease the mind, give a little back to me, be nice to yourself has turned into a very frustrating…
Oh – it has only been about 19 days… breath – breath…well, whatever! 19 days of …frustration!
I have never, never found it so hard to find accommodation before in all my travels. I have applied for probably 30-40 apartments, studios, house-swaps you name it.
This was going to be my be all tell all – how do I do it?
And I would share, now you have my secrets. Instead you get to hear me rant and rave – is it me or does everything happen a little bit slower and differently in France?
After reading travel narrative after travel narrative of people whinging and whining – about their various travel stories, I used to think – gee – get a grip you are in another country and you need to take on board the differences of culture etc.
I am not even there yet and I want to run up the Eiffel Tower and scream, can someone find me a bloody apartment and stop asking me all the details I have already given you and how many days I want to stay when I have already told you that and just book it DANO!
(Sorry for non-Hawaii -5-0 initiated)
Gustave Flaubert was quoted about his writing:
(The writing is becoming) more and more impossible … I’m like a toad squashed by a paving stone, like a dog with its guts crushed out by a shit-wagon, like a clot of snot under a policeman’s boot, etc. —
OK maybe I am not that frustratedbut …
Maybe James Reston sums my situation up a little better:
(The reporters are still) running around like blind dogs in a meat house —James Reston, New York Times/The Changing Guard, February 22, 1987
Every night I sit here in my tiny little office searching, sending out emails, calling them with my bad French.
They will check with the owner and get back to me in at least 24 hours (and forgetting the time difference) – 37 days and counting.
Maybe I will take the fur after all. I might need it. It may become my bed and doona.
So what was I saying about coming with me on this journey … this journey of hell more like it.
Maybe I should go to the Gold Coast instead.
