Journeys #2: The Fickleness of Memory

When leaving to go on a trip, I have in the past taken a notebook, pen, camera and the all important guidebook. The guidebook for the trip to the UK was my memory. I picked places I liked, a couple of places I had never been to and a place I felt I should visit.

As a student, the A303 was the scenic route to the south west and Plymouth, or the way you took if your car was stuffed full of luggage or just plain crap. The trip I remember the most was in a crap car that was stuffed with luggage. A friend from London had been given her mother's old car. My friend had never driven on the motorway and had prudently found herself a co-driver for the trip back, (except he didn't live in London, he lived in the boo hoos, but I'm digressing). Anyway, the co-driver had also never driven back to London and was rather looking forward to the trip, the high point of which would be that we would pass Stonehenge.

And so off we went. It was raining, but that was not unusual, and I was squeezed into the back between all the luggage.

Co-driver Phil got us all excited about Stonehenge. If we made good time we could even stop and visit! When I was a kid, midsummer news reports were always about how many druids had run around naked hugging the stones during the solstice. Maybe the druids weren't naked and maybe they were only hugging the stones to stop themselves getting arrested, I don't exactly remember.

It continued to rain and it seemed that the car had a top speed of forty miles an hour, or something ridiculous. As we crawled towards London, ideas of visiting slipped away, along with the Pub lunch we had planned. But then through the rainy haze, the grey stones loomed up in the December gloom and we pulled over and Phil ran off to find out how much the parking and entry fee was. When he came back with a long face we knew the £7.37 we had between us was not going to be enough. We sat in the car (not using the windscreen wipers because they didn't work very well) and munched on our soggy sandwiches looking at Stonehenge through the rapidly steaming windows. Until I had this rather uncomfortable feeling. I stopped chewing and put a hand under my bum. My eyebrow raised and I hoisted myself off my left bum cheek. I lifted the right bum cheek. 

"What are you doing?" Phil asked as my feet dug into his back after having done a complicated manoeuvre to turn myself around (remember I was stuffed into the back).

"It's raining in the car!"

My wet bottom thoroughly ruined our communion with the stones and it was decided that the leak would be less leaky if we were moving. And so that was the closest I ever got to Stonehenge.

And as we tootled along the South Coast this August, I was beginning to wonder if that was as close as I would ever get. You see this time I figured, my memory, the GPS and Google Maps would be enough. I didn't bank on us having no phone reception and therefore no Google Maps, I forgot my memory was poor and the GPS needed a better address than the A303.

"What's the nearest town?" The Frog asked.

"Mmm..."I dug deep. "I think that in Tess of the D'urbervilles, Tess kills the bad guy and then runs away with her lover and she falls asleep on the altar at Stonehenge. And then she gets caught and hung!"

The Frog was giving me looks.

"Salisbury! They are in Salisbury."

"Stonehenge is in Salisbury?"

"No, Tess is in Salisbury, Stonehenge, is off the A303."



After we had visited, the Frog asked me my impressions now that I had finally got past the fence. "It's smaller than I remember."

Journeys

Prelude
There has been an idea brewing for a long time in my head. Really, if I trace it back all the way, there probably is a little seed of it in Sirens. Anyway, the story needed a setting and eventually I settled on somewhere in Cornwall. It was either there or somewhere way up high in Scotland, and even though writing involves delving into the imagination I didn't feel comfortable massacring a Scottish accent or the scenery. Besides, I've been to Cornwall a fair few times, whereas I have never been to the coast of Scotland.

Meanwhile, there was another process of decision making going on: where should we go on summer holiday. Every summer Paris empties during the summer months. The roads are chock-a-block with overstuffed cars full of bored kids and distressed pets, as each family heads off to the same place they have been going to for years. I am not French and have created my own tradition of enjoying the peace and quiet of Paris in August, but this year it was not to be. Yet there was still a part of me that was baulking at the idea of being part of that French tradition. At one point I may even have stated extremely vehemently that we were not going to blooming Arcachon again. We even had a crazy idea of going to San Francisco. We did lots of research and even told people we may go there. And then the volcano blew.

No, no, it didn't stop us from travelling at all, but somewhere in all the extra info about the Eyjafjallajökull volcano I read that the last time it blew there was a spot of global warming over northern Europe and there was an unusually hot summer. Clutching at this straw, I suggested going to the UK for our hols. 

Movement 
It was fitting that the day we drove onto the moors it was raining. It's not that it was often raining when I went to Dartmoor. In fact my memories are mainly sunny with one extremely foggy, snowy day. No, it was right because it fit the image I had in my head. An image that I had completely failed to express to the Frog. It was high up, flat, the flora was different, the trees were different, there are tors (which I had to explain) and ponies. It was beautiful and savage. But I knew there was something that I was completely missing in my pitiful descriptions. The colours, the smells of course, but there was something else. 

'Stop here,' I announced because there was a place to park and a herd of sheep and goats grazing. We got out the car, woke up the sausage and wrapped her up in her rain coat and began walking towards the Tor. On the way I took some pictures, laughed, waved my arms around at the moor, avoided the sheep, goat and cow poo, and slowly I realised what it was that I had missed. 

'That's what is so different! It's the ground!'

'The moss?' 

'No, yes! When you walk.' 

It's like walking in a pair of brand new Doc Martens. You know, that day when you walk around carefully avoiding all drawing pins (difficult in my profession) and you try to bound higher each step. And yet it is infinitely different, because no matter how wild or cold or covered in sheep droppings, the ground in Dartmoor invites you to lie down and roll around. It's like the most perfect mattress you could ever have. 


We didn't do it though, our toes got a little cold, and our ears began to tingle as the wind whistled by and we sought the refuge of the car. We climbed higher and higher and eventually the sun broke through revealing a beautiful view down to the Burrator reservoir and on our left we spotted a sign for Badger's Holt. 


'Cream Tea!'

Jaisamler Jaunts

Perhaps it was the insanity of the driving or the monotony of the scenery: a rush of scrubby, sandy landscape broken up by women in brightly coloured saris balancing improbable loads on their heads, oh and the odd camel, but I slept through the Great Thar Desert. We were deposited in the middle of what seemed like a building site where the road seemed to end with our hotel at the end of it. At night the garish lights of the ‘Artist Hotel’ were like a beacon in the darkness guiding us towards shelter.

During our two and a half days in Jaisalmer I discovered that I could read maps. It’s kind of a handy skill to have in a place where street names are dispensed with and there seems to be no rhyme or reason to town planning. The Fort hangs precipitously over the town, concealing the chaos of clothes, book and fabric shops that fill it’s every corner bathing it in cacophonous colour. The mob of bored salesman and rickshaw drivers in the main square watch cows jostling with each other; only the high pitched scream of a sari clad Indian woman raises them out of their torpor to throw water over the otherwise docile creatures. Streets weave away to little doorways filled with mouth watering smells which lead up to breath taking views. From above there is a hint of a Jain Temple or the Royal Palace peeking out at you.

My memories of Jaisalmer and the Havelis below the Fort are like gliding back to a time when Princes wooed the most beautiful Princesses in all the land on their trusty camels. Acrobats bounced precariously on the tight rope, while musicians beat out a syncopated rhythm, the strange high pitched string accompaniment weaving in out of the beat. I could also imagine the women in the Jaiwana (women’s quarters) spying on the proceedings on the other side of the intricately carved stone screens. The further you wandered away from the Fort, the closer you came back to the modern day of Gin & Tonics and rampant consumerism: Special offer, almost free. Buy this shirt to make your man more handsome. Bedspread, good for two. And there was conflict; the khaki uniform tucked into heavy black boots was forever present reminding us that the Pakistan border was only 150 kilometres away.

Jaisalmer was also filled with disparate characters, most of them staying at the Artist Hotel it must be said, but there were a few that we bumped into in the Fort. The little British/Israeli girl who obviously recognised my British tone from three tables away and came to share her sequins and holiday anecdotes with us; Then there was Tog-mei the Tibetan ex-Buddhist monk who taught me how to make a singing bowl hum while making Estrella and I tea and giving us blessings. I couldn’t resist purchasing a bowl and although I did make it sing in a way that its vibrations seemed to come from all around and radiate through me, since, all I have managed to do is make a scraping noise which drives Tibo to distraction.

So the Artist Hotel is unsurprisingly in the middle of an Artist colony and Artist’s being what they are, we could be woken by the sound of traditional Rajasthani music at any time of the night. Likewise we could purchase the best Malai Kofta ever (a kind of doughy ball of vegetables and fruit in a yummy sauce) or bus tickets at any time. It seemed that Anna the chain smoking Austrian who sent the boys out for her cigarettes, tissues and what nots, all in a huskier and huskier voice that kind of made you want to tell her to quit smoking, was also ever present. Anna’s husband Wolfgang, who put a look in every now and again, was also a bit of a chain smoker and quite partial to leather trousers. Now the temperature does drop quite dramatically as soon as the sun goes down, but well, let’s not go into too many details about Wolfie’s trousers. Sister Mary and Sister Benedicta had been working on a children’s mission outside of Jaisalmer and were due to leave the next day. Mary pointed out the important articles in the newspaper, why the leader in Gujarat was a dangerous, untrustworthy character and that we weren’t far from the Pakistan border. Sister Benedicta asked us if we had tried the lassi. The nuns were replaced by red-haired Dalan. She was the kind of character who ignored all the previously established personal spaces and conversations and had you showing off your cheesy Indian lighter to the Austrians, with its flashing lights and, ooh, look at this bit, a torch! She offered to marry the manager and promised to tell us the best jewellery store in Pushkar. She laid her life story on the table before bedtime and we knew we’d never see her again in the morning as we waited outside the hotel as the sky turned rosy blue and we waited for Aman the manager to take us to the bus stop.

Culture Shock

As we left Delhi on Christmas Day, I remember looking up into the deep blue sky and seeing Falcons circling overhead. I find those birds so majestic and graceful, yet this was in such complete contrast to the chaos that reigned below. I wondered if any of the madness reached up to their currents. Inside of me there was a king of longing to be part of those currents too, to escape this madness. Maybe somehow my wish was communicated to the evil Greater Fog demons because our flight to Jodhpur was delayed for four hours.

It may sound crazy, but in a way it was almost a relief to be surrounded by plain white walls and newspapers in ENGLISH. There were advertisements that boasted Indian faces, but the slogans the world over say BUY, BUY, BUY. I realised that for the first time in a long time I was suffering from culture shock. I settled into my orange bucket seat, flicked through the Indian newspapers that were almost similar to British Papers, but just not so, and gave myself some time to reflect, breathe and kind of smiled.

There is a wonderful paradox about culture shock. The negative side was like a slap across the face when I espied McDonald's and realised why people are comforted by the sight of it in other countries. Further down this dark road was when I began to question my 'traveller mettle'. It's not as if it's the first time I've flown across the globe before. No, it isn't! But it is the first time I've stepped onto the subcontinent. And that's when the smile began to spread. Those hours of delay had allowed me to soak up the 'difference' and left me longing for more. I was now impatient to wanted to get to Jodhpur. I had a third Fort to visit, presents to buy, things to see.

We rolled into the Blue City just as the sun was setting and the Christmas lights were beginning to twinkle. We sat on the hotel roof top peering into the darkness at the silhouette of the Fort hanging off the cliff edge and then decided to amble to the market. I sniffed vibrantly coloured spices from my childhood, which made me wish that I cooked a little more nowadays. We wandered into a textile emporium and even though they spread their intricately embroidered wares before us they seemed as lethargic about selling as we were about buying. Being in Rajasthan was enough for us that evening, we had stepped through the magic doorway to the land of fairy tales.



Images show a lesson in mixing Garam Masala at the spice stall in Sardar Market and the Clock Tower in the Market Place.

Foreigner in a Foreign Land

On Day two, Estrella and I stepped off the Shatabadi Express at Agra Cantonement Station in a relative state of blissful calm after our cups of Assam tea and Indian breakfast. This state of zen lasted a matter of seconds before being shattered by the blasting sound of horns and the crowd who instantly surrounded us like, well flies to... you know. "Where you going? Where you going?" The crowd demanded to know. Estrella and I looked at each other in mild bemusement and what with it being just gone 8 am in the morning I answered truthfully. "This way." I pointed to the prepaid autorickshaw booth directly ahead of me. This was a major discovery of the day. In its simplicity and honesty, my answer left all the drivers completely frozen in their state of confusion.

Another major discovery of the day was my status. It's not that I objected to paying ten times more than an Indian. I accept that there is a disparity of resources around the globe and I happen to live in the land where paying 14€ t0 see a 'Wonder of the World' is reasonable. It wasn't even the fact that although it said clearly on our ticket that we should get a bottle of water and 'shoe covers' that we then had to go back and ask for them. It was the fact that I had to ask in big bold letters for a 'foreigner' ticket.

Maybe it's because I was at a formative age during the height of Political Correctness, or maybe it's because I have lived the last eleven years of my life in this state and have never felt it to be an issue, but I found it kind of ... wrong. I suppose in a way it signaled to me an attitude: it seemed to underline a curious aspect of the national psyche. There was even a special term for Indians who have tried greener grass: Non-resident Indians (NRI's). I'm not sure if I've put my finger on what that word meant to me, but I think it's something to do with it being an ex British colony. I've felt it in Mauritius and Belize. No two places deal with it in quite the same way, but let's face it, neither Belize or Mauritius gained their Independence amidst such a sea of blood as the disasterous partition of India and Pakistan (the consequences of which are still being felt today). The fact is that in one word; 'Indian', the whole of their history seemed to be encapsulated and in the words 'Foreigner' and 'NRI' we were firmly given our part in that history. Yet I also realise that this interpretation is my own.


In actual fact I never felt unwelcome. Far from it, a day trip to Agra is to be plunged straight into the country's tales of passionate romance, deception and rivalry. From Shah Jahan who was driven by the death of his second wife Mumtaz to build a tomb of exquisite beauty, to Agra Fort where Jahan's conniving and power hungry son imprisoned him. Is the Baby Taj (Itimad-Ud-Daulah) any match for the Taj Mahal's devotional beauty?

We finished off the day on the Taj Express where we made our final discovery: seat numbers. They are kind of optional, but with a shrug of the shoulders and a blank expression anything can be sorted out with the minimum of hassle.

The photos show the south gate through Taj Ganj, the Taj Mahal, Itimad-Ud-Daulah and the Palace at Agra Fort.

Dust and Delhi

Like my stuck washing machine, it seemed that the words to describe Delhi just wouldn't come out last week. But really, all I can say is that it's like no other place I have been before. At night you are engulfed by the most profound darkness. The world around disappears into a dusty, dimly lit twinkling impression. I arrived at night and when I left the hotel room the following morning, it was like stepping out into a mystery that was about to be made starkly clear.

Delhi is a multisensory experience. At the end of the day, I almost felt as if I was wearing it; that the dust had impregnated itself into my every pore. The volume of the city rang through my head leaving no space for private reflection. Though completely surrounded by hoardes of people I felt completely alien within the crowd.

The experience of a day in Delhi left me, the seasoned traveller, reeling. I am used to hopping onto a form of transport in one country and getting off in other. Despite different culture, language and climate, there are certain constants. There are ATM's at the airport, there are taxis at the airport, you look in your guide book and you follow the map. It's not that these things were not there in Delhi, it was just that to find these constants you had to fumble through a curtain of chaos. After a while it became apparent that the chaos could be drawn back. It's true that the tuktuk drivers hurtled around as if they had a permanent death wish, but the fact was they got you from a to b (with a few extra grey hairs). I never found a plaque that announced a street name, but if you told people Arakanshar Road, they flew over pot holes to get you there.

And once I realised that to describe India is to forget the constants and allow yourself to be transported to another world, the words began to gush out.

*The photos show scenes around Chandi Chowk in old Delhi, the Red Fort and the Jama Masjid - the largest Mosque in India.

Thoughts, Temples and Tombs - A whirlwind tour round Rajasthan

So as the last hundred or so photos upload and the first load of washing churns away, I'll begin my first post of 2008...

Introduction

Midnight's Children, An area of Darkness, The God of Small Things, various other Salman Rushdie novels, various Indian school friends as I grew up, a Punjabi friend who travelled around Mexico with me once, an engagement party a long time ago, Friday night curries, a small handful of Indian students over the years, the 12th edition of the India Lonely Planet; up until two weeks ago that was my experience of India. None of which prepared me for what I was about to experience.

My first impressions began to be formed before I even arrived. As we boarded the plane at Moscow seat numbers became optional and one person's act of change caused a wave of seat swapping and mass rearrangement of overhead luggage. My eyes grew wider and wider as the chaotic scene unfolded before me until I too was asked to change seats. From then on I expected everything to continue to be chaotic.

On the surface India does appear to be chaotic. As we passed the clock tower in Sardah Market, Jodhpur our driver said placidly: "Oh look, elephant." And we replied equally calmly: "So there is." A few seconds later it registered that I had never seen a bloody elephant wander by me and I madly scrambled for the camera. The thing is by then we were already acclimatised to the fact that as we negotiated the weaving streets of India, as you turned each corner you could be confronted with a hoard of tuktuks (autorickshaws), a cow just sitting in the middle of the street chewing calmly and ignoring the cacophony of klaxons around it. Dogs milling about and puppies running after the teats of their mother. Town traffic could range from bicycles with the most amazingly huge loads, rickshaws, autorickshaws, ambling pedestrians, cows, dogs, horses, camels and well, elephants.

The other thing that hit me straight away was the level of noise. I remember my eyes popping open at 4 am, I think it might have been Jaisalmer and wondering what had woken me. As I listened I realised that for the first time since I had arrived it was silent.

That impression was swiftly followed by the volume of people. India's population is just over 1 billion and is set to overtake China by 2035 to become the world's most populated country and boy can you tell. There are people, people everywhere. So many people that it was only when we began to hit the smaller towns that we began to notice the amazingly vibrant colours of the beautiful saris. And then the next thing hit us; women are virtually unseen on the streets of India. We saw them in the fields, we saw them perched precariously, sitting side saddle on the back of a motorcycle, we saw them with their scarves carefully covering their faces, but we saw them because amongst the male dominated crowd we were looking for them.

Aaaachtuk - another sound that filled our days from morning to night. As the clearing of the throat began, we would locate and identify the hawker himself for these men can break world records as they hurl their spit about. You really didn't want to be in the line of fire.

And finally as the trip drew to an end we began to realise how everything we planned had worked. We had ordered tickets, the tickets had come through. We asked for taxis and bus tickets, they came through. We were in a bit of a pickle booking a hotel in Delhi for our return there, the hotel manager where we were staying organised us an alternative in case we couldn't find anything. As we waited for our guide to turn up on the last day, the autorickshaw drivers introduced us to the locals and advised us to call the guide again and again: "Because sometimes people book the tour, but then they don't show up, so you have to call to say you're here." Nod, nod, nod, that funny wiggle of the head which is particular to Indians and can mean anything in the shades between yes and no.

I came to realise over the course of the trip that India was like a haze of different intermingling layers, the past and the present merging together, it's histories never forgotten. It was as magical as I thought it would be, it was as startlingly different as I never thought it might be.

Culture Week

After living in a place for a while it tends to become as familiar as a favourite pair of jeans; there are bars and restaurants I like to go to (mainly all up the road), I have my favourite walks and the culture that I so craved after Madrid and it’s Golden Triangle of three museums fade into the background. At the beginning of this summer I couldn’t remember when I had been to museums or stuff like that. Admittedly I’ve had my head shoved so far up my laptop these last couple of years that it’s been hard to extract it, but the combination of a nice long holiday, a friend visiting and a need to fill spare hours with something other than someone else’s fiction has drawn me out (and I explored the cupboard of crap and found my teachers card which gets me in free to a number of museums.)

First stop was the Palais Garnier or Opera. The first time I saw the exterior of the building was when I was running around it trying to find the Roissy bus. It’s a fantastic place to meet with its capacious steps, but I couldn’t tell you what the inside looked like although I had probably read about it or heard or something, but yep, the auditorium ceiling is most definitely Chagall.

The rest of it is a bit difficult to describe, it’s a mixture of styles which if you ask me seem a bit ... kitsch. I loved the opera boxes though and all the different little areas on that floor where one could meet secret lovers (that’s what happened in the early 20^th century, isn’t it?) And I tried to imagine myself in some floaty ball gown in the hall of mirrors that tried to emulate Versailles.

Actually I guess what I really like about it is that for as little as 7€ I could actually go to an opera and waltz around and pretend to be some high society Paris demoiselle in those halls and corridors.

Next stop was the Lizard Lounge which is some trendy bar in the Marais that I’ve never been to. We went for a Spoken Word event. I liked the sing song at the end!

Followed by the Pompidou; I actually have always loved the Beaubourg as the locals call it. I just like that Modern Art doesn’t allow for that middle of the road reaction. What do you think of these? You see, you can’t say, ‘Mmm, it’s nice...’

But while there I realised that I had NEVER been to the Picasso Museum. Moi, who claims to worship the man, who whenever I am asked to name five geniuses starts with: Picasso, Einstein and Marquez and then because I recognise the gender stereotype spend half and hour scratching my head trying to find two women to balance it out.

Now the best thing about the Picasso Museum is that as you follow the signs there are little café’s every two steps and there is one on the corner opposite this little park that does gorgeous CAKE! Actually I wouldn’t recommend that one because it was quite expensive, but surely one of the other eleven are more reasonable. Ok that wasn’t the only best thing.

And then as Ms Maru left to go and get her bus to the airport I realised that I had forgotten the one museum I wanted to go to all summer- Quai Branly! Duh! I think it was something to do with the little bundle that has finally gone to sleep on the chair opposite after spending the morning parping like a goddun (I don't think anyone has noticed that I've slipped in another bit about the ...)

Wash it Away

When you go away on a trip there is always a certain level of expectation. On this trip the only thing I expected was to hate camping and when we arrived and it was raining nothing changed there. When I woke up freezing in the middle of the night I continued to hate camping and when breakfast was crap I still hated camping.

But something changed in the middle of the week and even though my face is excruciatingly sunburnt, I lost count at fifteen bruises and one of my finger joints looks gross, I have had a great time. I feel like this year more than any other year I have achieved something.

Without fully being aware of this I travelled into the heart of the ‘montagne’ region of the Tour de France. It’s my favourite bit of the Tour de France, where there is the most spectacular scenery and the crashes and I was there. It’s as fabulous as it looks on the telly and I would recommend that everyone go there.

I finally dealt with capsizing which I have managed to avoid every year for the last five years. Although after the third time, my idea of dealing with this was finally to swim away very fast (in my ever so slow way) and get out the lake and vow never to capsize again.

My legs were not shaking uncontrollably when I went to abseil off the edge of the cliff. Maybe it was because we soaked up the mountains and watched the gliders taking off and riding the currents. Maybe it was because the tiniest thing on earth who had sobbed her homesick heart out on the first night advised me to not look down and not be scared.

I was right at the front of the raft when we went into the rapids. After my fabulous show of ‘scardey catness’ the day before I was challenged: “You won’t go to the front when the instructor tells you Miss V.” I was there before anyone else!

I explained very laboriously why a protest is not something you do for the benefit of someone else; you do it because you believe in it.

I didn’t have very many showers and someone told me that my hair was curly. I had never considered that this was something that I hid until Siobhan asked me if I had actually seen my hair. The mirror in the tent was tiny and one second you could see something and the next the wind blew and you could no longer see the bruises on your bum to put the arnica on, so no I hadn’t seen the fact that my hair was growing outwards with each minute of the day. But what it symbolised was that for five days I got Paris out of my system.

Sometimes it’s good to do something completely different, to let that sail fall on top of you again and again and again and not care; to laugh out loud. To let that icy snow flow wash over you, breathe in the pine air. Swing back on your plastic chair and look at the stars. Watch the mountains appear from the mountain mist in the morning as you stagger down for your morning pee. Let that rain wash it all away.

And now it’s time for a bath, a take out and a nice glass of wine.

five hundred and twenty five thousand and six hundred minutes

May

The Cow Parade came to town, I started blogging and I met Shameless, Minx, Marie, Debi and Skint for the first time.

June

I completely fucked up booking my ticket to Bali and decided that this was my favourite Eiffel Tower pic. Funny that’s not the one that’s printed and put on my wall.

July

I found a new flat, got attacked by moths, washing powder and various other things. France got to the final of the World Cup and lost (I didn't post about that) and I tootled off on holiday.

August

I returned from holiday with fantastic toes and discovered as I moved that I had a lot of STUFF.

September

I reminisced about KECAK.

October

I fell in love with Julian Barnes and was cruelly silenced.

November

I remained cruelly silenced as my modem lights continued to NOT blink, my phone continued to NOT have a dial tone and France Telecom tried to lead me to an early grave.

December

The Fifty Word Challenge was issued. Glad it wasn't a competition because I still can't decide on my favourite

January

I came 4th in The Clarity of Night's Silent Grey short fiction competition. How many times did I mention that one?

February

I went to Berlin and fell in love with this little guy below. And THIS post is the one that draws more new visitors to my site than any other. I won't write the title again because frankly I'm in shock at the amount of people searching for this and I don't want to repeat the incident again!

March

Matt at Turbo Art interpreted me and that little Minx in Cornwall outed me. Bloody cheesy photo.

April

I went to Lyon and saw Shameless's play (well the one he did the music for) and Tacky Rover where I belly danced (not) and got mad at tourists and Sego and Sarko got through to 2nd round of the presidential elections (see below)^.

May 1^st

122 posts later A Wanderer in Paris celebrates one year today.

In the past year I’ve made some bloggy mates, learnt not to do the horrendously long posts I did at the beginning, written poetry again (I’m not saying it’s any good, but I’m gonna keep on doing it), written loads and seem to have cut down on swearing in the blog posts (so I thought I'd catch up today!). It’s been great. Hope to carry on seeing you guys

Happy ONEIVERSARY to me!

Play Days

I have very clear memories of me as a three year old sitting cross-legged in the front row. I can’t remember what was said to me or if I even understood - at that stage I was still this weird little French speaking kid – but I knew that something special was happening, that everyone was excited, that we were being given a treat. It was a Punch and Judy show. Apparently in 1947 Middlesex County Council had this to say about the shows: "No more Punch and Judy shows at school treats! The Punch show is brutal and totally unfit for the innocent eyes and ears of children". I have very little recollection of what happened after that. I was sprayed with water, it was incredibly loud, it was violent, I hated it and I’ve hated Punch and Judy shows ever since. So I was none too pleased when the Queeb I was travelling with felt that as we were experiencing all things ‘Lyonnais’ that we should go to a Guignol show.

Ok I knew that Guignol was not Punch, but he did have a stick in his hand. And ‘Gnafron’, Guignol’s best friend, had a bit of a hooked nose. Although there is a hazy link between Punch and Guignol via a shady Italian character called Pulcinella who dates back to the 16th Century, Laurent Mourguet based his cloth hand puppet on his pal who cried out: “C’est guignolant,” whenever he liked the puppets, hence the name Guignol.

I tried to distract the Queeb by getting our magic horoscope from the machine outside the shop where Guignol tickets were advertised, but there was nothing I could do to put her off; we had to go. So, we had some lunch, we took the Funicular up to Fourvière. I wondered: is it a particularly French thing to stick a hideous building on top of a hill? The Basilica Notre-Dame de Fourvière is an amazing variety of architectural styles that just ends up looking ridiculous. And then if the outside wasn’t bad enough you then push open those great big heavy doors and OH MY GOD; someone went a little wild with the gold in there. We had to wander around very slowly and see it from every possible angle just to see if it had any redeeming features. Nope, there weren’t even any gargoyles, just pastiche.

Then we had to go and see the Gallo-Romano Amphitheatre. That was pretty cool. We had one arrow pointing left another pointing right so went straight ahead and there it was. We bumbled around; me exploring all the different nooks and crannies (I like doing that sort of thing) and then the Queeb pointed out the time, almost time for the Puppet show.

Now I’m beginning to realise that I have a fair few phobias. Where most people seem to make do with one or two I seem to be collecting them as time goes on, so really it’s time to face some of them down. No? We paid for our tickets, were shown to our seats and I settled down; kind of. I never took my coat off, you know just in case I had to get up and run out. And eventually the play started…

M. Poivert came out and introduced us to the beautiful streets of Lyon. “It’s much nicer than those horrid polluted streets of Paris. N’est pas Queeb and Miss V?” Hey! I sat up. Then he started going on about Marseille probably being more polluted, but Lyon had the nicest boys and maybe Queeb and Miss V would find nice men here in Lyon! The story turned out quite sweet, Guignol’s childhood sweetheart Madelon was back in town as was a thief who liked bright shiny gold. I learnt that in Lyon kids are called ‘gones’ and at the end when we were invited to do a backstage tour, the puppeteer waxed lyrical about Lyon while on his left hand Guignol was as animated as ever.

So I guess in the end it wasn’t so bad, it might even be considered a highlight, what with my name being dropped right at the beginning of the play and all. The puppets were kind of cute, the theatre was nice in a kitschy puppet kind of way, and I loved the café across the street.

I have added the label photos and I will post photos when I get home, but meanwhile I'm just kind of floating about thinking I should be working, but I'd kind of like to post about Lyon some more!

The Unedited Highlights: A Verilion in Lyon

So here’s the deal. I had a great weekend in Lyon. I faced childhood fears head on, I hunted for lions, I traipsed through many a hidden secret passage. I loved things, I liked things and some things just made me perturbed. I would recommend that you all go visit and there’s no excuse because it’s only two hours away from Paris (if you live in Paris). But... as usual ... faced with the prospect of writing reports or just writing last week I ... eh ... somehow did both. And then my head exploded in those two hours there and those two hours back from Lyon, so I have to scribble it down NOW, tonight, before the week takes over. So here are some completely unedited highlights. More to come soon...

Mmm those six days of emptiness are rapidly filling up, what with catching up with posts, emptying cupboards, cleaning flat, clearing stuff out, waxing, packing...

Who knocked down the wall?!

In November 1989 a mere six weeks after cutting loose from the family home to discover student life I already had somewhat of a routine. Around one o’clock I would wander into the TV room off the JCR to find my friends if I hadn’t had classes with them. We would chat quite a bit and then around one thirty a kind of hush would settle as the familiar first bars of Neighbours filled the room. On this particular day the TV room was unusually full and kept filling up and what made it even stranger is that all heads were turned to the TV screen and we were silent, dead silent. I don’t know what was going through everyone’s heads as we watched the scenes of East Germans and West Germans partying in front of the Brandenburg Gate, but I had a lump in my throat and I knew I had just watched the tide of history change: I had just watched the Berlin Wall came down. Seventeen and a half years later I would discover what actually happened on that day.



We were wandering towards Gendarmenmarkt when a red woolly hat attached to a rather elfin figure bounced by braying “Free English Tour” at the top of her voice. We looked at each other wearily and kept up our pace of gentle amble when she turned back again: “I’m not kidding, it’s a free tour, in English, come and join us.” We still wondered what the catch was, but we were now in Gendarmenmarkt and she had launched into an explanation of this church and that church and why church and what church and she was kind of amusing and I was the only person in the whole group who had seen “Run Lola Run” (apparently there are many scenes filmed there), plus the crowning glory of this whole tour was ‘How the Berlin Wall came down by mistake.’ “That’s what it said at Checkpoint Charlie.” I mused. So we decided to tag along and hear the whole story.

Tucked up in corner of the Alte National Museum opposite the old Parliament building that is now being torn down because it’s full of asbestos, our red hatted guide from New Berlin tours began. She gave us some background, how Hungary had opened up its borders earlier in the year, how the Monday night protests began in Leipzig, how the East Berliners were waiting for some momentous change, but instead all they got was Erich Honecker vowing that the wall would stay up for another hundred years. As opposition grew and Honecker was replaced by Krenz, the state became aware that they had to do something and that’s where Günter Schabowski comes into the picture.

Our guide’s story went something along these lines: apparently Schabowski had run some newspaper back in the day and he was chosen to host the GDR’s second only Press conference. The problem with Schabowski was that he was a bit fond of a tipple or two and come the morning of the press conference when he was due to meet with the other officials where they would discuss freedom to travel, Schabowski was nursing a momentous hangover instead. During the meeting SED officials discussed relaxing freedom to travel, discussion being the operative word. When Schabowski turned up for the otherwise rehearsed and prepped Press Conference he had no idea what had been discussed that morning. As he went into the press conference he was handed a paper that (so the story goes) he shoved into this pocket.

And so begins that historic press conference. Schabowski reads for two hours or so about sock production going up here and bolt production going down here and the East German journalists ask their well rehearsed questions and apparently everything is fantastic in East Germany. That is until one foreign journalist gets a bit bored and sticks his hand up and asks: “What about freedom to travel?”

Mistake number two takes place right then, Schabowski reaches into his pocket and pulls out that document, he misses the great big red TOP SECRET letters and answers. “Yep, East Germans have freedom to travel.” Apparently it didn’t quite say that, it said that the state would discuss freedom to travel everyday ad infinitum.

Next journalist sticks his hand up (they are now well off the script) and asks: “Including East Berliners?” Schabowski can’t find any reference to East Berliners in his TOP SECRET document, so he just says: “Yes.”

Journalist number three sticks his hand up and asks: “When?”

Schabowski’s skim reading skills are thrown into turmoil as he searches vainly for a date, but the only date he can find is the date the meeting took place at the top of the document. He may have also noticed TOP SECRET at this stage, but we will never know. “Effective immediately.”

And the rest as they say is history, or rather it was her story (with a fair amount of poetic license on my part).

And that’s the thing about History; historical knowledge is gleaned from what is written, what is said and what is preserved. I enjoyed the New Berlin version of events and although half the tour group appeared to be asleep, I’m not sure any of us walked away thinking it was gospel truth (at least I hope not). We read The Story of Berlin version of events (see photo below) and I found some articles on wikipedia and answers.com. I also found this article on Earthling Concerned here and a transcript of the November 9th Press conference here. I think in the end that it’s pretty clear that Schabowski didn’t quite know what he was saying on the day; whether he alone can be credited with causing the fall of the wall is questionable. What is interesting though, is that Schabowski later heavily criticized East Germany.

Love at First Sight

I'm back from my few days in Berlin and I have to say that yes I fell in love at first sight. I looked up and there he was clicking away, his arms wide open in a protective manner. He looked all warm and cuddly as the cold north wind ruffled my fluffy white ear muffs and I... oh I just felt all gooey inside. I knew then that my life would never be the same, this man was going to have a lasting effect on me.

Later that afternoon after smiling coyly at him whenever I could I discovered that the fall of the Berlin wall and reunification had almost been the end of him. As the west set about modernising and unifying, he was replaced by a most boring upright figure, who in my opinion just doesn't cut it. But the East Berliners, now used to protesting stood up for my little friend and nowadays he delineates the old east and west borders instead of a huge concrete wall. Where my friend stands was the east and where he disappears was the west.

I hope you like him as much as I do!

It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside...

All my bags are not packed and I am not ready to go. In fact I haven't even quite worked out how to get to the airport yet. I'm on half-term, or ski break as it is known on this side of the channel. Everyone has packed their ski's and ski jackets and health insurance and is heading off to the pistes, although I suppose I should qualify that everyone. Jane has gone to Africa, several of my friends are going nowhere (although Colleen now probably wishes she was going somewhere as her long list of things to do has now doubled and includes a mammoth trip around Paris to every art supplies shop I know so that she can find me cellophane; rolls and rolls of it) and I'm going to Berlin, where - as I told Estrella this morning - the BBC world weather site said it was going to be: FUCKING FREEZING. I don't quite feel like I'm on holiday yet. I also have this rather foreboding feeling that somehow this journey is going to be horrendous. And frankly you can't really blame me, the last time I flew I spent hours and hours in a airport terminal. And today I'm going from Orly.

In six years in France, I've only flown from Orly three times. The first time was to go to Nice for a conference. The flight was at 5am, so I couldn't really tell you whether it went well or badly or anything about it, because I slept through the whole experience. The second time was to go to Corsica. The Corsican flag depicts a curly haired man with his white head band flowing behind him. It's always reminded me somewhat of pirates, or corsairs. The check-in line to get onto the flight to Bastia also reminded me of pirates, or rebels or a bunch of extremely crazy people. There were several desks open but the idea of queuing was obviously a particularly British construct. It was more like a loud babbling crowd with boxes being passed to and fro overhead, bags that were large enough to hold bodies being checked in and many many screaming children. This was as close to chaos I would get to until the next time I passed through Orly. The fact that my luggage and I eventually got checked in and I eventually got on the plane seems incidental, that the chaos continued on the plane was perhaps indicative of the kind of place I was about to visit, but that would be another post, right now I'm trying to explain my bad feeling about Orly.

On return from Corsica, I watched as the luggage carousel stopped moving and security guards tried to shuffle us backwards away from ... what was it? A black bag? My bag was black! No, mine was black and green wasn't it? I couldn't quite remember it was new, but I was fairly sure it wasn't that one. Perhaps it was the fact that I had just come back from Corsica and was surrounded by Corsicans, but when the bomb squad arrived I jostled closer and closer to the red and white tape like a lot of other mad people around me. Yes, the bag could have been dangerous, yes I could have been blown up, but in the end it was a rather disappointing 'Poof' and a plume of smoke. There were no socks flying in the air or underpants draped over the face of bystanders. I was surprised afterwards that the security had let us stand so close. Maybe it was a regular occurence after Corsica flights. Nobody came screaming through the terminal shouting: "You've blown my dirty knockers up!" It was all a bit bizzare.

A year and a bit later I found myself in the airport again. There was a partial strike by the luggage handlers, so partial that the airport hadn't even bothered informing the general public; but as we stood in the check-in queues and watched people climbing over the conveyor belts and trying to haul bags manually we became a little suspicious. Still despite the obvious evidence that our luggage was going nowhere they kept gleefully checking us in and handing out boarding cards with over optimistic boarding times and we pootled off to the gate.

I was going to Morocco. To help me get into the mood of the claustrophobic and over stimulating souks they packed five plane loads of passengers to Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt, Libya and oh who knows where into one little terminal. We couldn't move, we couldn't sit, we didn't know what the hell was going on and every time a poor man from the airport came out with his clip board he barely managed to make it through the crowds with his shirt on his back. Eventually they closed the gate doors with us on the other side. Various delegations of women were sent in packs to plead and howl at the gates and gradually after a few hours lists were produced and names were called and certain people got through. At this point the Grandmother's began fainting and occasionally that worked to get them through too. When we got through three hours later we were told by one rather vexed airport employee that this particular day was one of the busiest days in the summer, that they had overbooked flights to leave from the airport anyway and with or without the strike it would have been chaos . On arrival in Morocco, my partner's luggage didn't arrive!

I've flown from many airports and even though I quite hate Heathrow, it still ain't as hateful as Orly. Even though CDG is the strangest airport I've ever been to, it still ain't as strange as Orly. Even though Mexico was a pretty disorganised place, Benito Juarez still wasn't as disorganised as Orly. Now how the hell do I get there?

The Year Ahead

I’ve decided I hate flying, I hate airports and terrorists have won the war on terror. My poor little red suitcase has returned with a few more war wounds, my shampoo gave up the ghost and exploded and I sat in a catatonic state in Heathrow airport for too long yesterday.

BMI have somehow made the whole process of checking in painless by getting rid of people and having an avatar on a computer screen. From there on in it all goes horribly wrong. I merrily tootled off to departures and then started following the queue back from departures that zigged this way and zagged that way and zigged... look it was just blooming long OK. So after an hour in that queue with people frantically trying to squish all their liquids into this tiny little freezer bag and me staring at my little tub of Vaseline and wondering how can anyone get that much make up on one face anyway we then get to the x-ray machine. Oh bliss – take your belt off, your coat, your shoes – would it not just be easier to turn up naked?

And then it all got peaceful again. I bought three different types of cheddar; I got a cup of tea and a flapjack. I stared through the mist at the grey green hills of the environs of Dublin, I wished the planes would get out of the way, which to be honest they did and I squinted over at the departure screen. After much squinting I realised that yes, that was my plane delayed until 11.45, but some slow counting in multiples of ten on my fingers and I figured out it was OK, just. Sitting on the plane having lost my window seat to a mere infant who would otherwise have been separated from her family and being told we couldn’t take off until 12.30 I then realised that all hope of being at home by 5 pm was lost.

On landing at Heathrow I followed all the signs at break neck speed and it was like popping back through the wardrobe after being in Narnia. Hey this is where I was last Friday, there’s the hideous smoking room, there’s the check in, there’s the man who showed me how to check in, there’s ... Shit I’m going to have to take my boots off again. And then I tried to accept I wasn’t going to be home by 5 pm, but I still must have looked very very sad when I went to the ticket man at BMI because he gave me a WINDOW seat in one of those big seats up near the captain!

And finally we landed at Terminal 1 of CDG. On home ground at last, yeah! Terminal 1 is like the set of a bad 60’s sci-fi movie with it’s white pebble dash walls and rounded pod holes everywhere and the travelators that go down and up and down and up and then the criss crossy escalators that are actually outside the circular terminal, but inside the circle and finally, finally the moment I’ve been waiting for: THE TAXI RANK. I could almost hear the hosts of angels singing ‘Alleluia!’ Due to the one wayness of my road being the wrong one way from the airport I was still happy to be getting out at the corner of my street and sprinting up the last bit, following the bin man in, lugging the case up the last few steps, keys in the door and then yes, yes, yes, yes ... MY SOFA, with sleeping bag already curled up on it. It’s good to be home.

Yeah I left the Paramount hotel in Dublin at 9 am yesterday and got home at 7.30 p.m. That’s 2 hours shy of a London to Singapore or to Mauritius flight. I’ve travelled from one end of Mexico to the other on buses that took less time than that. I’ve been in a Polo whose top speed was about 75k per hour (top max) and it still didn’t feel like I was going nowhere because oh yeah, I did spend the majority of yesterday going NOWHERE.

So what I was going to write and say was: HAPPY NEW YEAR to you all. It’s going to be a good year. I can feel it, it may be a year where I should just stay at home, but it’s going to be a good year.

PS Thanks to Susan and Minx for your special messages.

Shop till you drop

2nd August 2006

Ubud is definitely the place to do this, but first we spent the morning trying to plan our next move. Wayan – Ketut’s wife – informed me that our route via Gunung Batur (a volcano which will feature more later) was not the best. We ummed and ahhhed and booked things and cancelled things. Estrella came up with some alternative routes and then Ketut turned up and sorted out our Bali light trip. Driver to Amed with a wee tour thrown in, a hotel booked and all this in time for us to go and sample another of the restaurants down cheap street. The toilet was out back through this labyrinthine family compound and you needed a guide to find it, but man the food was good.

So with full stomachs and wallets we hit the streets of Ubud. Shopping tally? Estrella? Well this could be difficult cos boy that girl can shop: there was definitely a skirt, some trousers, a couple of tops and then I start to lose count. Kim: wedding present, a couple of pictures and a wedding outfit which was a whole experience of wrapping her up, unwrapping her, pinning her up, tying knots here and there and then just to make sure she gets it right on the day a whole step by step photo shoot. The shop assistant was well into the step by tiny step so in the end I had to pretend I was taking the shots. Me: two barong pictures, some cushion covers, a pair of trousers which could probably fit me and a couple of friends in and a nice new ring to replace the one that got too big and the one where the stone fell out.

Exhausted by the last few hours Estrella and I stopped for a fruit juice and a few moments to plan how we were going to pack all this shit, sorry I meant stuff. Meanwhile Kim went all the way down Monkey Forest Road to the Monkey Forest to commune with the nice friendly monkeys. She returned a wee while later with two more sarongs and the promise of two for one mojitos. It turns out they were a drink and snack all in one, lovely bits of mango and lashings of rum (yum). The girls had ginger ones.

So after our penultimate running of the gauntlet with the barking dogs of Ubud, we packed, checked our departure time, settled the bill and somehow ended up in the same restaurant as lunchtime. Well you know you can never get enough of a good thing...