【義大利·Praiano+Minori】中文在英文之後
“My dear friend, I am writing this post to again show you my appreciation for helping a stranger like me. “
Travel is like life. You make foolish mistakes sometimes. Before I talk about how Gabriel came to our rescue, I’d like to explain how the bus driver sent me on a bus that took us to the top of Ravello hill.
We booked a hotel called E Poi Ravello. So you see how easy it was to mistaken the location of our hotel to be Ravello instead of Minori to which Gabriel (and later his entire family) carried our suitcases.
When we were dropped off at the top of the hill and the bus driver simply refused to communicate with me. I quickly googled the distance from where we were to Minori. It was about 29 minutes by foot. I was warned by a taxi driver that there would be stairs. But I decided to give it a try anyway. It can’t be all stairs.
Nevertheless, I was so wrong and ended up being completely soaking wet like a Chinese saying: “a pathetic dog falling in the river”. I didn’t know how much longer I could last with only my flip-flops on.
The rest is history as Gabriel walked by and asked me if I needed help. I know it was a lot to help and yet I didn’t have the chance to treat Gabriel and his family some drinks. I still feel pretty much mortified.
旅行就像人生一樣,我們都會愚蠢犯錯。我們三人聽從了上一班巴士司機的建議搭上了一班往Ravello的車。下車後發現我們在山頭,旅館在山腳下。如果搭車回去再轉車可能要浪費兩個多小時,所以我決定照著估狗地圖向下走半小時應該會到。
然而分次提著三個箱子走了不到四分之一都是階梯的路,我發現自己錯的離譜。但是心想該不會一路都是樓梯吧?於是硬著頭皮向下走到將近一半時,我已經全身濕透,手腳都有些發抖了。
這時我的救命天使經過,好心地問了一句要不要幫忙提。我說箱子真的很重,這樣不好意思。他所沒關係,他可以幫忙。我欣然接受。沿路聊起天來。
他是個廚師,帶著廚藝四處旅居工作。這次跟家人一起出遊,明天就要離開這裡了。因為旅行的關係他認識了現在的女友,下週就要去見未來的岳父母。聽著他的經歷,不禁令人羨慕。年紀輕輕28歲就已擁有許多經歷。
我們走走停停沿途俯瞰欣賞山谷海灣美景。也許這將會是我此生最難忘的景色之一。我也將永遠記得跟義大利人有多麼難溝通啊!
#西歐國家裡只有義大利西班牙和葡萄牙不太說其他語言
#義大利的生存法則就是沒有法則可言
appreciation post for friend 在 Aki小秋 Facebook 八卦
“风,听从我的呼唤!”
嘿大家好σ`∀´)σ
這個禮拜六就是CF4了哦!
大家準備到怎麼樣了呢(´・ω・`)?
小秋姐姐也是和往日一樣在修羅哦~(゚д゚≡゚д゚)
同時這個post是想尋找CF4時姐姐Day2的一天助理哦!(ㅅ˘ㅂ˘)
由於真正的Aki姐是糊塗又有點傻乎乎的所以需要一個助理來照顧姐姐(・ω´・ )
小秋姐姐會提供當天的門票和食物作為小小心意喲 |柱|ω゚)---c<` д゚)!
有興趣的話可以pm我們了解工作內容(´ΘωΘ`)
還有還有!
有預購的朋友記得檢查信箱喲!
-JoJo
“Wind, hear my command!”
Hey everyoneσ`∀´)σ
This Saturday will be the day of CF4
How's the preparation going(´・ω・`)?
Aki Oneesan still working hard on it as always(゚д゚≡゚д゚)
And this post is also finding a helper to assist Aki Oneesan at the CF4 day2(ㅅ˘ㅂ˘)
Because Aki Oneesan is clumsy and very Kizuna Ai so that we're finding someone to assist her(・ω´・ )
Aki Oneesan will provide the ticket of that day and meal too as a small token of appreciation |柱|ω゚)---c<` д゚)!
If anyone is interested feel free to pm us for more information(´ΘωΘ`)
BTW for those friend who made a preorder please check your email~
-JoJo
==================================
遊戲:王者榮耀
角色: 小喬 CN Aki
摄影: RoRo Ming
助手: Jobana Joestar
摄于:2019年2月21日
Game : Kings of Glory / Honor of Kings
Character: XiaoQiao by Aki
Photographer : RoRo Ming
Helper : Jobana Joestar
appreciation post for friend 在 Red Hong Yi Facebook 八卦
An incredibly beautiful, sad, brave, wise, inspiring post by Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg. Early this year, I read her book 'Lean In', a book encouraging women to achieve their dreams and ambitions, and was so grateful it was written for such a time as this. I especially loved her chapter about David being so supportive of her. I'm still stunned by all that's happened to them.
Here's to beating the heck out of Option B.
Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days. Judaism calls for a period of intense mourning known as shiva that lasts seven days after a loved one is buried. After shiva, most normal activities can be resumed, but it is the end of sheloshim that marks the completion of religious mourning for a spouse.
A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: “Let me not die while I am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayer before losing Dave. Now I do.
I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as well.
But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.
And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.
I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.
I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.
I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.
I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.
I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.
I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.
I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word “sorry.” To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.
For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the elephant.” Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.
At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.
I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.
I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.
I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.
I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He put his arm around me and said, “Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.”
Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end to grief . . . and there is no end to love.” I love you, Dave.