EN: New beginnings and tiny revolutions

19/7/2016 – Chiny, Belgium

Listening now: Saidah Baba Talibah – Revolution

Hey babes!

You might have seen that I changed the title of my blog (and all my social media, really) for CRLNVRVLT (if not it’s all fine, just pretend you did and I’ll do as if I didn’t perceive it). Also, I thought I needed to give you all a bit of an explanation about it (because I know you won’t be able to sleep anymore if you don’t understand why and I am very much worried about your rest, as you can see). Alright, let’s get started!

So it’s been a while that I wanted to make some changes on this blog. Since coming back from England, I felt like this wasn’t the right platform for me to express myself anymore, as -as you might already know- this blog was meant to be the tale of my life in London, as a capsule of that particular period of my life, somewhere behind the sea. Also, quickly, I figured out that the purpose of my blog would never be the same, and subsequently, I didn’t want to direct all my attention to the same audience -exchange students- focusing on my travel experiences.

For that reason, for a looong, long time, I was wondering if I should start a new blog all over again, or just completely  redo this one. Although at first the idea of a brand new blog attracted me, I quickly felt like I didn’t want to abandon my old one, which was still an important part of me. After all, somewhere behind the sea has been the testimony of the person I used to be, a part of myself that I need to acknowledge and still welcome within me, so I didn’t see why I should leave this behind me, as something I would be ashamed of.

Thus, for a moment I decided to expand the subjects I was writing about and change a little bit the look of this blog. But somehow, I still felt like this wasn’t enough, thinking that I needed a clearly more drastic refinement than just that. So here we go. This is the first of all the adjustments I am gonna do. Let that be a way for me to reintroduce myself to you, a fresh new start which will allow me to begin something new:

CRLNVRVLT stands for my full name (it’s basically my name without all the vowells). I felt really reluctant naming my blog after myself, as I thought that not only this would appear really self-centred and therefore probably less attractive to an audience, but also it would give too much a way about my identity and I must say that I appreciate a little bit of privacy while sharing my personal life and opinions on the web (I am full of contradictions, I know..). I hope the way it is now feels like a good compromise to you (at least it does to me, and at the end of the day, I think it might be the most important) and that you won’t have too much of an issue to memorise it (this shouldn’t be a problem, as you hopefully don’t have Alzheimer).

So from now on, this blog will be a way for me to talk about all the things that I absolutely love and despise. I will tell you all about what is going on in my head, in my life, in my kitchen, in my dressing and even in my library. I will talk about the music I listen to and the places I go. But most importantly, I will write about my life journey, often trying to figure out who I am for myself, sharing the experience of my twenty last years on Earth with you. Hopefully, this new approach of my blog will be more attractive to you, and will allow further exchanges between all of (yo)us. So don’t hesitate to leave a trace of your passage, commenting and sharing, here or on my different social media (if you’re so keen, you can even follow me, of course.. but then again, no obligation there, it’s just a suggestion if you fancy it):

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/crlnvrvlt/
Instagram: http://instagram.com/crlnvrvlt
Snapchat: crlnvrvlt
Pinterest: https://uk.pinterest.com/crlnvrvlt/
Spotify: felicidalegria (note that it’s the only platform where I didn’t manage to change my username.. but I’m working on that too!)

One last thing before leaving you: that would be really nice if you could suggest me some stuffs that you’d like to see on this blog.. Or others that just don’t interest you. Your feedbacks mean a world to me, and help me to improve and reflect on this blog (and your experience) very much. This said, I’ll see you soon for other tiny revolutions, until then, take care of yourself!

Much love ♡

CRLN.

 

EN: About inner wars

26/5/2016 – Rotterdam, Netherlands
Listening now: Chet Baker – Almost Blue

Here is a post about inner wars, the ones you fight within yourself for many years in silence, hoping that one day you’ll finally win. As I’m writing this, I can feel my heart beating wild and crazy. This is such a sensible, and obviously personal topic for me. Hopefully you’ll like it. If you do so, please like it and share it around you. Much love ♡

I was only 8 when my parents divorced. Resulting from it, my dad has been interned in a psychiatric hospital due to severe depression for a few months. Back in time, my parents lied to me, telling me that my dad would be working in Italy for a while. I guess they had their reasons to hide the truth, but never in my life have I been so angry and disappointed than the day I discovered their mascarade. It was the first time I felt truly betrayed by someone, and it happened to be by my parents. That exact same day, my mum took me apart, and told me how such a big, smart girl I already was for my age, and made me swear not to repeat it to anyone. So as I had no other choice, I promised.
There had been two times I failed to keep that heavy secret. The first one was the day I confessed it to my childhood best friend. Even today, I remember exactly the moment this happened, because it was such a huge deal for me. The first time I veritably opened up to her – and to anyone, really. I told her with my own words, my child, sweet naive words, that “My dad is in the hospital for people who are really, really sad”. And I still remember her reaction, a few days later, when she dismissed my talk, answering that her parents told her that there was no such thing. Today, I understand that her parents were trying to protect her. But back in time, you can only imagine how much I regreted not to have kept my mouth shut.
But life went on. I learnt to separate clearly what was going on at home – the strange illness of my dad and all the things that resulted from it – to the rest of my life. I established clear, distinctive boxes between all the different parts of me which, even today, I still have much trouble to transgress. There was -and is- what was going on inside me, and the rest outside, and I was very careful not to let any of my profound feelings get out in the external world. Also many times, I found myself crying all my soul at home for a while, before going out, displaying the big smile of the cheery, positive girl I was.

In order to exist by myself – so not through my dad’s sickness – I tried to distinguish myself from everywhere I belonged to. I guess that was my way to subsist in my parents’ minds, who were much preoccupied by their own problems. At school, I was a very good student – maybe even one of the best. I took drama lessons in order to have a stage where to express myself and played piano because my dad liked it so much. I was the girl every parent could have dreamt for. Never causing troubles, and so responsible. From outside, you wouldn’t have even tell that I was dealing with so much back in time, and guess what? That was exactly the point.

Sometimes,  I would have a break, the chance to play or sleep over at a friend’s house, being able to take some distance from the madness. But this would mainly act like a mirror, underlining the gravity of my own situation. Because unlike them, there wasn’t any happy parents who loved each other at mine. No dad to be angry at me if I didn’t do my homeworks, nor to read me a story before sleeping. On my lucky days, I could only hear his distant, sleepy voice over the phone. So while being reminded of his absence, I felt every time a bit more alienated from my friends, who couldn’t understand what i was going through.

But one day, I let it all go. As my educator wanted to force me to eat my lunch, I started to burst into tears, telling her that I wasn’t hungry since my dad was in the hospital. For the second time, I felt the colossal weigh of guilt falling all at once on my shoulders, as it seemed to me that I betrayed the promise I made to my mum once again. Coming back home that day, I was so shameful that I couldn’t even look at her in the eyes.

Not being allowed to talk about this disgrace with anyone and hearing other children (and even adults) making pun about psychiatric hospitals, while insulting each others of being insane and disabled, I thought for a very long time that this was exactly what mental illnesses were about: being crazy. As a child, I internalised that message, burying deeply inside me this perception of depression as a weakness, something to be ashamed of. Something so inglorious that I had to hide it from everyone.

So little by little, I started to fear becoming like my him. I was so anxious about catching this strange, nameless disease that would make me feel so much sadness inside my heart. This sore that would make me become so instable and extremely mad for no reason, or laugh with that weird expression that would even scare my own children. I started to fear that something was so rotten inside me that it would drive me apart from the people I loved. Also for years, I didn’t allow myself to feel unhappy. I believed that if I feigned happiness, then I would be a happy girl. But obviously that’s not how it works.. There was always this sadness inside.. This little bit of Caroline that still didn’t cope with the disappearance of her dad in her life.

Because even if he was a bit strange, aggressive and scary, he was still the guy who taught me how to ride a bike. He was the person with whom I found my first four leaf clover, started to drive a car and played cards with on rainy Sunday afternoons. He was the arms in which I would curl to have naps while watching Arte documentaries and the one who showed me how to make music out of a grass leaf. He was all that and so much more to me. He was my father.

Eventually, I got used to his absence, and accustomed to the fact of having to face all the challenges that life put on my way all by myself. And for a long time, it was doable. Until my accident. While hurting badly my head and facing physical damage from my fall, I started to find myself incapable to endorse any bad feeling anymore. I just couldn’t take it. It felt like my brain refused to absorb anything else, forcing me to let it all go. I was helpless. Slowly, but surely, depression found its way to me. I spent months curled up in a foetal position in my bed, not going out for days, unable to do anything but cry for no reason. More and more frequently, I went back home because it felt like it was the only place I did not have to deal with anything – not even myself anymore. It seemed that everything was collapsing around me. I was diving so deep that I felt submerged and suffocated by the weight of these dark years all at once. And just as I thought that things couldn’t get worse, my dad attempted to commit suicide.

Sometimes, I believe that you have to touch the bottom in order to be able to go back up to the surface. At the pinnacle of my vulnerability, I gathered all the strength I had left, and seek for help. If I am still not at a hundred percent at the best of my abilities, I can now see an end to that dark, winding road I took for so many years. I know this will be a long process, because I still have a few battles to fight before winning the war, but I am definitely ready to work on it.

My story is only a story among million others. 25% of the European population is suffering from either depression or anxiety every year. And more than a quarter of deaths in Europe are due to neuropsychiatric troubles. Yet, in 2016 people dealing with mental illnesses are still marginalised. The taboo linked to this condition is so powerful that some people feel ashamed to look for help. Asking for help isn’t a failure, it gives you a means to succeed. Don’t let the secret consume all your energy. Depression isn’t a sign of weakness, it occurs when people have been strong for too long. And if you don’t have any kind ears to listen to your story, nor a soft shoulder to cry on.. I’m here for you.

EN: Thousands reasons to be happy

27/10/15 – Rotterdam, Netherlands
Listening now: Tom Rosenthal – Going To Be Wonderful

Watch sunsets. Play piano and feel my fingertips getting warm. Listen to babies laughing. Dream. Smile to strangers. Discover new places. Meet people who understand me. Have real deep conversations. Go to the African Market. Cycle. Run in the rain. Laugh until it hurts. Sleep in the arms of somebody. Watch a really sad movies and cry like hell. Be positive. Go shopping. See poppy fields. Receive flowers. Have naipolish on my nails. Smell the perfumes of people I used to know. Dress nicely. Listen to good music. Share things with people. Learn new things. Walk in the woods and listen to the noise of dry sticks cracking. Eat sea fruits. Spend time with people I love. Decorate my appartment. Cut vegetables. Read a nice book. Travel. Listen to people’s stories. Understand new things about myself. Learn good news. Grow. The smell of freshly cut grass. Ikea ice-creams. Hear people talking portuguese. Dance. Listen to jazz music Admirate people’s happiness. Bookstores. Make projects about futures. Do something nice for some stranger. Embrace the unexpected. Take a long, warm shower. Watch people in train stations. Say yes. Long eye contacts. Feel sensual. Crack my knuckles. Beards. Have sex with someone I love. Feel connected to the present. Read old letters. Eat my mum’s dish. Sleep naked. Get wasted. Remember good moments. Change my plans at the last moment. Hear indie songs while waking up. Go to a concert. Cook apple crumble. Close my eyes and pay attention to all the sounds surrounding me. My studies. Clean my appartment. Smell fresh air. Meet someone I didn’t see for a long time. Take care of my stuffs. Write. Make smoothies. Hope. Dance weirdly when nobody’s watching. Scream of happiness. Eat a brunch. Take photos. Be lucky. Admire landscapes from the window of a train. Feel tipsy. Debate. Jump in puddles. Smell baking cakes. Babies clothes. Feel the warmth of the sun of my skin. Admire the trees changing of colours in autumn. Holidays. Wear red lipstick. Jump above posts in the street. Drink Caramel Frappuccino. Tease someone. Smell freshly washed laundry. Vintage clothes. Cut my hair. Go to the museum. Do stuffs with my hands. Perform a nice play. Interact with people. Watch old photos. Smile for no reason. Feel desired. See old couples in the street. Be amazed by people’s kindness. Find something in the street. Get kissed on the neck. Feel the wind in my hair. Walk with high heels. Eat salmon. Help someone. Surprises. Realise one of my dreams. Try new things. Love. Have a massage. Sing. Write letters. Receive letters. Eat soup. Go to bed early on winter time. Watch the stars. Admire the flashs of a storm. Be careless about serious things. Speak a foreign language. Hear bird singing. Drink Cappuccino with cream on the top while eating rainbow cookies. Take a bath. Listen to songs on repeat mode. Hear a classical song that I can play. The smell of the rain on the pavements after long, dry days. Get recognised for something I did good. The satisfaction of well-done work. Go to bed after a productive day. Eat mapple pecan. Know all the lyrics of a song. Swim naked in the sea. Act silly. Feel small and terribly human, going to the mountain. Remember memories I thought I forgot. Art Post-cards. Put energy on projects I care about. Wedding dresses. Very nice gifts. Unexpected moments. Forgive. Feel meaningful and important to someone. Listen to music in my bed. Maracuja juice. Sort out and classify things. Wear perfume. Feel pretty. Fruits salad. Feel warm when it’s cold outside. Find something I lost. Call my mum. Deep voices. Get lost in a new city. Watch one of my childhood/teenage series. Strangers complimenting me. Catch bubbles. Smell flowers in a garden. Be early. Thrift shops. Smell books. Feel excited about something. Imagine. People’s good vibes. Meet my friends’ parents. Street art. Men. See signals in things. Christmas songs. Babies smell. People cooking for me. Eat greek yogurt and cruesly for breakfast. Do lists. My mum reading fairy tales. Watch the news. Wear fancy dresses. Read magazines on the plane. Buy books. Change bed sheets. Feel relieved. Eat goyabas. Stand still on a very busy place. Feeling overwhelmed after performing.

 

EN: About love and other bullshits

23/5/2016 – Rotterdam, Netherlands
Now playing: Jack Johnson – Crying Shame

Sometimes, I remember the way he used to look at me. That time when he caressed all my curves in silence, ten thousand times maybe. The way he just used to kiss me tirelessly while I was sleeping, ’til I finally wake up. I also remember all those nights he slept next to me, hugging me and enveloping me of his tenderness. And all the stupid arguments and ridiculous fights. The manner we had to be constantly in opposition, but so close too each other in the same time. There was a kind of alchemy, a surprising magic in our story.

Almost three years have passed now, and in my head, it still seems that it was yesterday. But don’t get me wrong. I do not love that guy anymore. After mourning the remnants of a far too idealized relationship, I finally got over it. I realised that he wasn’t the bastard I used to think of, and most importantly, I wasn’t a victim of our history, as I pleased to present myself. Far away from that.

There was something really strong in taking this gap year in London. I guess that at some point, it allowed me to take some physical and emotional distance from all those small things that used to make me think about our (non-)relationship. I slightly began to forget him, living in the present -real- life, and not in some kind of nostalgic past anymore. I became very detached of it, thinking about it as one could think about its childhood: a pleasant, distant remambrance. The day I finally met that stranger in Brighton who wore the same perfume he used to, I wasn’t sad anymore, I just felt dreamy, recollecting fragments of our time together, full of positive vibes. My need of retrospection that day led me to write to him -again- but not with that desperate undertone and willing to get him back to me anymore; no, just to laugh about some old memories with somebody I used to know.

Sharing that moment with him led me to a deep call into question about the person I was back in time, and my responsability in the failure of our relationship. This was a huge change in my life. I started to reconsider the person I used to be, being very critical about my anterior insufficiensy in terms of honesty, and my unability to be just who I am. My lack of self-confidence made me fear the way I was perceived. I used to worry very much about how people -and particularly he- looked at me, trying to be someone I wasn’t. I played a role during such a long time that I ended up thinking I was this character. Travelling helped me with that too. It was like a second life, a possibility to start everything from the beginning again, discovering and embracing who I really was. Being truthful to my own person, I started to attract people who were similar to me, and with whom I could feel good just the way I was. My relationships started to be far more sincere and pleasant. There was no need to force anything anymore, things just came to me naturally.

It was also at that time that I started to make a selection in my relationships. I wanted to take as much distance as possible from all the things and people that made me feel bad, uneasy or anxious, so I did just that. I did a massive clear-out of my Facebook friends, keeping only the people who counted sincerely for me, and with whom I shared real things – I mean, not the willing to be fakely popular or to comfort myself about my own value through the number of couterfeit “friendships”. Some of them didn’t appreciate. Too bad.
This selection also led me to reconsider the relationships I had after my ex-boyfriend. I started to think about all these insignificant guys with whom I had meaningless relations. And once again, I felt sorry for myself to have to prove my worth this way. You know what I mean.. All these times you didn’t say no because you somewhat needed to fill up all this loneliness inside you. The moments you let some guys treating you like shit or using you as their objects only to feel desired (this said let’s make it clear.. I wasn’t a victim in that situation neither.. who’s used accepts to be so, and therefore also uses the other person). Well yeah.. To make it quite raw, I realised that hooking up with people I barely gave a shit about didn’t make me happy – at all. Apart from the fact that sex without feelings is -in my humble opinion- absolutely boring, it is also really bad for self-confidence. Also, I realised that I wanted be with someone that not only desired me, but also loved me (and not only for my vagina, if I may say) -which is, let’s be honnest, slightly different.

So that’s how I decided that I wanted/needed to be alone, thinking that introspection was necessary in order to give a deeper thought about all this crap and not to repeat the same mistakes all over and over again. That’s how I somewhat eradicated the presence of any men in my life, trying to avoid the drama I used to attract. In all my pretentiousness, I thought that travelling to Brazil allowed me to cope with my loneliness, as I realised back then that solitude was an intricate part of human soul, an insecurity shared by all of us. Far away, I understood that the fear of being alone was something common to humanity, and that factors such as having super cool friends, a lovely boyfriend or even children don’t change anything to that. Of course, it helps us not to be alone. But that feeling of loneliness, that we all try to forget, can be felt even when we are surrounded by huge crowds. For that reason I thought I had to learn and love who I was before being in any kind of relationship. Of course I was right, but what I failed to consider is that the fact of realising and understanding this things isn’t sufficient in itself to endure it without any pain. In other words, it’s not because you know that fire burns that you can’t get burnt anymore. That might sounds obvious, but it wasn’t for me.

That’s how in that beginning of autumn (actually I think that winter must be a more accurate word, but nevermind), I surprised myself thinking about old relationships. Not that I miss my ex-boyfriend anymore (I guess that I finally understood that we just weren’t meant to be together, after all..), but I do miss the sentiment of feeling loved and being in love. And in that concern, I must say that the cold here, multiplied to the orgie of romantic films and the excessive amount of time wasted on Pinterest tracking photos of gorgeous weddings and adorable babies didn’t help very much.

FR: 3 mêses brasileiros

12/6/2014 – Brésil (juin-septembre 2013)
La chanson du moment: Jason Mraz – I’m Yours

Bonjour tout le monde!

Au cas où vous ne le sauriez pas encore, je suis partie l’année dernière trois mois au Brésil de fin juin à fin septembre. L’idée de partir m’est venue après avoir doublé 5me secondaire. Comme j’ai raté mon année pour très peu de points, et que ce n’était finalement pas tant un manque de compréhension que de motivation et de travail, je m’ennuyais pas mal aux cours. Un jour, je suis restée plus longtemps en classe pour parler avec mon prof de physique du fait que j’avais doublé et il m’a demandé pourquoi je ne tentais pas de partir un trimestre ou un semestre durant mon année, afin de la mettre à profit. C’est vraiment cette discussion qui a été le moteur de tout mon voyage (d’ailleurs je ne l’ai jamais remercié pour ça.. je devrais!).

Il faut savoir que ma maman est Brésilienne (assim, eu sou brasileira também!) mais qu’elle n’a jamais vraiment parlé portugais avec nous, voulant couper tout contact avec le Brésil lorsqu’elle est arrivée en Europe. Soit. C’était donc une partie de ma culture qui me manquait, de ne pas connaître la langue et surtout de ne pas (ou peu) connaître ma famille maternelle. Après discussion avec ma maman, j’ai donc décidé de partir 3 mois durant mon année scolaire à la découverte de mes racines. J’étais normalement sensée partir après janvier, tout s’arrangeait parfaitement avec ma famille pour que je m’en aille, malheureusement, j’ai un peu merdé mon examen de math en décembre. J’avais donc des points à rattraper, et ça devenait difficile d’avoir le soutien de la direction dans ces conditions. J’ai alors décidé de partir dès la fin des examens.

La période avant le départ a pour moi été une période difficile. Entre mon projet de partir et la date de départ, j’étais tombée amoureuse de ce qui est aujourd’hui mon ex. L’attente de mon départ a beaucoup altéré notre relation, ce n’était vraiment pas évident de savoir que j’allais m’en aller, que l’on allait être séparés 3 mois (d’autant plus que nous passions notre temps ensemble à l’époque étant donné qu’il était dans la même école que moi et que l’on était tout le temps l’un chez l’autre). C’était très difficile, ça a été la source de nombreuses “disputes”, et je n’avais finalement plus trop envie de partir. La deuxième chose qui a été très difficile pour moi, est le fait que Céline (ma cousine et meilleure amie) partait en juillet pour l’Australie durant un an (elle y est toujours d’ailleurs.. mon chacal si tu lis ça, je te fais un gros bisou, tu me manques énoooooormément!), et que donc je ne la reverrais pas d’ici là. En y repensant aujourd’hui, je me rends compte que je me suis un peu sentie tiraillée entre l’envie de passer du temps avec mon copain de l’époque et de profiter de mes derniers moments avec elle, le tout en même temps que le stress des examens et de nos voyages respectifs.

Après avoir dit au revoir à mon ancien amoureux de l’époque et que mes parents m’ont donc conduits à Paris Charles de Gaule, je suis donc partie le 20 juin 2013 à la rencontre d’une famille, d’une langue et d’une culture que je ne connaissais pas. Ma maman s’est retenue pendant une heure trente de ne pas pleurer (encore aujourd’hui elle ne l’admet pas, elle a sa fierté, mais si tu lis ça, je sais pertinemment bien, Fabichou, que tu te retenais de ne pas verser toutes les larmes de ton corps!) et puis je suis partie prendre mon avion toute seule, fière comme un paon, direction Rio de Janeiro. J’ai de la “chance” en ce sens que ma famille est fort dispersée dans des régions tout à fait différentes au Brésil, et j’ai donc eu l’occasion de voir pas mal de choses.

1230081_651683828198144_194943764_nSi tu as bien suivi ce que je t’ai dis jusqu’ici, je suis partie fin juin au Brésil.. En plein pendant les manifestations, donc. Comme je l’ai déjà suggéré plus haut, je ne parlais pas la langue, ma cousine était partie faire sa révolutionnaire dans les rues de Rio, et c’est donc son parrain, avec qui elle vivait à l’époque, qui est venu me chercher à l’aéroport et avec qui je suis arrivée à l’appartement. Ne parlant pas du tout portugais et ayant quelques notions de portugais, je pensais que mon bagage en anglais me permettait d’aller où je voulais sans problème.. J’avais tord, hahaha. Les premiers jours, avec le jetlag, la fatigue du voyage (et des examens!) et l’accent carioca, je ne comprenais absolument rien, ou presque. En y repensant aujourd’hui, je me rends compte que le choc culturel et que le mal du pays m’ont rongé intérieurement pendant longtemps. Ainsi, sur les 12 jours que j’ai passé à Rio, j’en ai passé 4 ou 5 à pleurer seule, dans ma chambre, je ne mangeais plus (ou presque: une tartine ou deux par jour alors que je suis une véritable amoureuse de la bouffe, c’est pour vous dire), la seule chose que je faisais était pleurer sur mon sort, à me demander ce que je foutais là, pourquoi est-ce que je m’étais lancée dans une aventure pareille, à regretter mon conformisme, mes habitudes et bien sûr, mon ex-copain. Et puis ça a fini par me passer. Lorsque j’ai réalisé que j’étais en train de gâcher mon voyage pour rien, je me suis dit qu’il était temps de faire quelque chose. Je suis donc sortie, ai pris le premier bus pour Ipanema et j’ai couru dans la mer toute habillée. Je n’avais jamais vécu un moment aussi intense auparavant. Ca a été une véritable libération, un très gros soulagement. Et puis la vie a repris son cours, j’ai été faire un peu de shopping puis je suis rentrée à l’appart. Dans les jours qui ont suivi, j’ai essayé de profiter un maximum de tout. Je suis sortie avec ma cousine, j’ai été au cinéma, me promener dans la ville, j’ai été sur la plage.. Bref, j’ai essayé de rattraper le temps perdu. Je mangeais toujours très peu, mais je profitais vraiment de la vie à Rio. J’ai d’ailleurs vécu des moments incroyables.. Comme le jour de la coupe des fédérations (pour n’en citer qu’un), lorsque le Brésil jouait, et que, marchant dans la rue, j’entendais des milliers de personnes à 360° autour de moi lorsqu’un joueur marquait.

1452532_1428223447391790_851255383_nEnsuite, je suis partie à Teresina, chez ma grand-mère. De nouveau, ça a été un moment vraiment difficile pour moi, parce qu’il n’y avait pas grand chose à faire là-bas, que je me sentais fort seule étant donné que je ne connaissais personne de mon âge et puis surtout, personne ne parlait anglais là-bas, et peu de gens comprenait mon espagnol approximatif. Il était donc frustrant pour moi de ne pas pouvoir m’exprimer et avoir des discussions avec les gens avec qui je vivais. En plus de cela, ça a commencé à devenir très difficile avec mon copain, et j’ai eu quelques problèmes de santé à cause des médicaments que je prenais contre la malaria. De manière générale, je me suis donc pas mal ennuyée à Teresina (bien que j’étais suuuuuper contente de revoir ma vovó, mamie en portugais brésilien!). A cette époque-là donc, je me suis tout de même fait grande copine avec pleinnnnn de petites filles trop adorables (c’est bête, mais c’est beaucoup plus simple de communiquer avec des enfants, ils t’apprennent plein de vocabulaire de base, ne te jugent pas et puis j’ADORE les enfants!). Bref, une semaine plus tard, mes cousines et la plus grande des sœurs de ma maman sont arrivées. C’était mieux, même si mes cousines étaient fort jeunes (13-14 ans), je pouvais enfin parler un peu avec des jeunes. Et puis surtout, ça m’a fait énormément de bien de voir Fabiola, la grande sœur de ma mère, qui lui ressemble énormément, et qui avait quelques notions de français et d’espagnol. Avec elle, mon portugais a vraiment progressé.

1010061_398656433573358_123317210_nUne fois que la famille était réunie, nous sommes partis à la mer, à Parnaiba, dans notre grande maison de vacances. C’était vraiment super chouette, j’ai rencontré pleins de petits-cousins de mon âge super sympas avec qui j’ai passé de très bons moments. Il faisait super bon (à vrai dire, un peu trop pour ma pauvre petite peau de gringa, je me suis choppé une insolation) et la mer était super chaude (entre 25 et 30°c).. Le rêve quoi! J’ai passé des moments magiques avec mes cousines au bord de l’eau, qui m’ont permis de me ressourcer et d’oublier les tracas que j’avais avec mon copain. Ensuite, nous sommes rentrés quelques jours à Teresina, puis je suis allée à Camocim, une autre ville de bord de mer.
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Camocim est vraiment un super endroit.. Peut-être même un des plus beaux où j’ai été au Brésil. Je n’en garde malheureusement pas un bon souvenir, car Camocim correspond à la période où mon copain m’a quitté. J’imagine que ça a été dur pour tous les deux, car je refusais tout simplement de lâcher l’affaire et de voir la vérité en face. Le même jour, ma tante adorée, Fabiola, s’est fait quitter par un petit blog-trotteur avec qui elle est restée 5 ans, pour exactement les mêmes raisons et dans les mêmes conditions.. (quand j’y repense, je me dis toujours que c’est tout de même incroyable, cette histoire est invraisemblable!) On s’est retrouvées dans le même état, et ça nous a vraiment rapprochées. Mais même si c’était chouette d’avoir quelqu’un avec qui en parler, ce n’était pas toujours évident parce que l’on se portait mutuellement vers le bas en nous rappelant nos propres expériences et émotions.1235342_1416120391935429_1498043459_n

Après être allées Camocim, nous sommes retournées quelques jours à Teresina, et puis il était déjà l’heure de dire au revoir à mon amour de vovó.. Comme toujours, nous avons beaucoup pleuré et puis je suis partie avec ma cousine et ma tante à Brasilia avant de prendre l’avion direction Roraima. C’est à Roraima (aka Boa Vista) que j’ai passé le plus clair de mon voyage. C’était vraiment sympa, même si la ville était assez petite. Je suis beaucoup sortie à des soirées reggae avec ma tante, avec qui je suis devenue très proche. J’ai visité pas mal de trucs et on a même passés quelques jours au Venezuela. C’est aussi à cette période-là que je me suis remise à manger.. Beaucoup, énormément, trop.. J’avais perdu approximativement 5kg après avoir été à Rio et Teresina.. Et je suis rentrée avec facilement 5 à 8 kg en plus que lorsque je suis partie.. Faites le calcul. Paradoxalement, je n’aime pas du tout la cuisine brésilienne (mais alors là pas du tout!), mais ma tante adaptait sa cuisine pour moi et donc je me suis remise à manger.
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Le voyage touchant à sa fin, j’ai de nouveau passé quelques jours à Rio avant de prendre l’avion de retour. J’ai revu ma cousine.. Qui était époustouflée par ma progression de portugais. J’étais tout de même passée de ne pas savoir parler du tout la langue locale à pouvoir tenir une conversation et comprendre tout ce que l’on disait. Personnellement, je suis loin d’être satisfaite du niveau de portugais que j’avais (et que j’ai pour le moment), mais je savais que ce n’était pas en partant 3 mois que je serais bilingue. J’ai donc comme projet de retourner au Brésil un an après mes études (et peut-être même d’y rester, mais point de précipitation!). J’ai profité à fond des derniers jours qu’il me restait, j’ai été me balader à vélo dans la ville, j’ai fait du shopping, suis sortie, j’ai été sur le Christ Rédempteur, vu un coucher de soleil en rentrant de soirée sur la plage de Copacabana, bref, je n’aurais pu rêver mieux.

1377232_1421483908065744_1509206269_nEt puis est arrivée l’heure de rentrer.. En ce qui concerne le trajet de retour, une chose est sûre: je n’aurais pas dû me cramer la gueule la nuit précédente. Je sais que l’idée peut paraître attrayante, profiter de sa dernière soirée, marquer le coup, tout ça tout ça.. Mais je ne possède pas toutes mes facultés lorsque je suis saoule. Une fois dans le taxi, je me suis rendue compte que j’avais oublié d’imprimer mon boarding pass, et que je ne savais pas à quel terminal je devais me présenter. Arrivée à l’aéroport avec mes valises énormes que je n’étais absolument pas capable de porter seule, je me suis retrouvée coincée à la douane parce que j’étais mineure et tentais de quitter le territoire sans mes parents. Mes capacités linguistiques légèrement freinées par l’alcool, j’ai eu beaucoup de peine à leur expliquer que oui, j’étais Brésilienne, mais mes parents vivent en Belgique (alcool+fatigue de la veille+stress=very very bad trip!). Une heure plus tard, lorsque j’ai ENFIN réussi à passer la frontière, et que je me suis trouvée dans l’avion, j’étais absolument incapable de parler un seul mot d’anglais (pas pratique quand on voyage avec la British Airways..) A passer trois mois à tenter de m’exprimer puis à parler portugais, mon cerveau était tout ramolli et j’ai mis beaucoup de temps avant de pouvoir reparler anglais, allemand et espagnol. Enfin bon, une fois dans l’avion avec la gueule de bois, c’était juste horrible, d’autant plus que toi-même tu sais comme les sièges sont inconfortables dans un avion.. Après 24h de trajet escales comprises, je suis enfin arrivée à Paris Charles de Gaule. Le taux d’alcool dans mon sang a dû tomber d’un coup, parce que lorsque l’avion a atterri, j’ai réalisé que mon voyage était terminé, et je me suis mise à pleurer comme un torrent! Je n’avais juste plus aucune envie de rentrer..

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Le retour a été très difficile, d’abord parce que j’ai repris mes habitudes scolaires dès que je suis rentrée, sans aucune transition (alors que je sortais presque tous les jours au Brésil), et puis ensuite parce que j’étais épuisée à cause du jetlag. J’ai mis plus d’un mois à me réadapter et j’ai carrément dû prendre des cachets tellement c’était difficile physiquement de tenir en cours. Bref. Mis à part ça, encore aujourd’hui, le Brésil me manque énormément. Bizarrement, parfois j’ai l’impression que cette expérience est comme dans un rêve.. Comme si les souvenirs qui y sont liés ne m’appartiennent pas totalement. Et pourtant, ce voyage reste encré en moi très profondément. Il a été ma première grande séparation avec tout ce que je connaissais, et aussi un moyen de me rapprocher très fort de ma maman, qui a été mon plus grand support durant tous mes moments de déprime, ainsi que de ma famille et d’une culture brésilienne méconnue jusque là. Je suis donc éternellement reconnaissante envers toutes les personnes qui m’ont permis de vivre cette expérience incroyable.

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