Cruisin’ Part 2

After our adventure in Morocco, we return to the ship, pretty tired. The sea is rough and Mom becomes slightly green around the gills. I help her with her sea sickness; I’ve been there before. It is a satisfying feeling, to mother your own mother. It helps me feel in some small way that I am giving back all her nurturing and love over the years.

Big Cathedral

The next morning we arrive in Cadiz. According to many historians Cadiz is the oldest settlement in Western Europe. The city is on an island and has been built upon over the many millennia. Originally it was settled by the Phoenicians some 900 years before the birth of Christ.

We visit the old ruins which has the foundations of a Phoenician temple. More interestingly though are the ruins on top of it; that of a roman hospital and temple to Apollo. Apollo was the father, quite literally, of medicine.

The myth goes that Apollo fell in love with a beautiful human woman and became her lover. However, she married another human on the sly. Apollo, mad with jealousy, killed both of them and ripped his child from her womb. That child, who I’m assuming would have been pretty pissed off at his dad for doing such a dirty deed, became the god of medicine and today, the medical profession still bears his logo: the snake twisting around the staff.

Ruins from the Roman Temple

The Romans believed this temple had many medicinal purposes. Beneath the temple were tidal basins and the cures they practiced were based on the tides, times of year and interestingly enough, the dreams of patients. The doctors bathed the patients in the sea waters and then put them to bed. The patient, probably tired from hours or days of travel and of course their own ailments, slept. And slept. They were supposed to dream of Apollo and the cure he would give them. This would give the physician direction on what to do next.

Of course the Romans left eventually, another group took over, and then the Moors arrived, building on top of the roman temple. And it continues….Cadiz is a beautiful, old coastal town, its architecture coloured by the many invasions; each invading culture dropped its own flavor on top of the older one, subverting the former’s power. But clearly, the Cadizians maintained some of the older culture and there is something distinctly pagan about Cadiz, with its many apothecary shops and interesting shrines.

Cadiz's water fort.

My favorite place has got to be the causeway that stretches out a good kilometer out to see ending in a beautiful ocean fort that protected the harbor. Obviously the Cadizians didn’t do too much protecting; they were constantly being overtaken by empires, eventually ending up as part of the Castillian principality.

Cadiz benefitted hugely from the Spanish exploits to the Americas; many merchants made Cadiz their home base and the merchant quarter is dripping in wealth. Blue and white tiles cover the buildings and the designs are rich. The churches also sing of the wealth there; with gilded baroque designs.

I couldn't figure out how to change this picture...sorry.

One church has a beautiful statue of Mary of Magdalene; her eyes brim with tears and the tears stream down her face. It’s a truly impressive statue.

We eat some tapas and some gelato, as is our habit and we are all sad to leave Cadiz. It has a vibe, ancient in origin…you ge the sense that the Cadizians would be more than happy to be cut off, finally, from the rest of world, happy to sun themselves, fish and live off the sea.

The next day we go to Lisbon, which is almost completely opposite to Cadiz in every respect. Its sprawling, modern and bustling in comparison. Lisbon was razed to the ground by a gigantic earthquake in 1755, so everything was pretty much built since then. It’s a port city and the capital of Portugal. Portuguese is deceptively easy to read; it looks like a mixture of French and latin. But trying to understand it’s an entirely different prospect. There are a great deal of shhhhhes and slurring in the language; it almost sounds vaguely Russian. But the Portuguese area very friendly to Americans and make every attempt to accommodate our bad Portuguese.

Cadiz...I haven't uploaded my Lisbon/Valencia photos yet.

We take a tour bus around half of the city and wind up near the World Expo 1998 (hey do they still have these anymore?) area. The buildings are brand new and it appears to be a bit of a ghost town. It is asad to see such modern buildings and infrastructure go unused by the populace.

We eventually get to the old town in Lisbon, which is stunning. We walk up to an old cathedral, which only as the bare infrastructure left. There is no ceiling, just blue sky. The cathedral was built around the 13th century and the sculptures reflect the conquistadors and knights of days past. I don’t think I have ever seen a more beautiful cathedral.

Inside is a museum which houses some interesting antiquates, including mummies from Egypt and Peru. And the graves of several kings and queens of Portugal.

Lisbon is certainly not as sunny or wealthy as its larger neighbor Spain, but it has a certain activity to it, a laid back atmosphere.

We sit in a restaurant and eat a huge plate of seafood, with crayfish, octopus, and fillets of fish pilled high, steaming on the plate. It’s delicious (I love seafood) and gets quickly devoured by the three of us.

Back to the boat for a sea day. I usually spend sea days relaxing, reading, sunning and exploring the ship. It’s a lovely break in the schedule and I enjoy the day of rest thoroughly. That night was our last gala night, which meant dressing up. In the restaurant, there was much celebration and dancing…I’ll say one thing for the Italians, they know how to make an evening lively!

In the morning, we take a tour of the kitchens by our English host Sean. Sean, who is actually English, resembles one of the members of Monty Python (no not Michael Palin or John Cleese; his name escapes just now…). The kitchens are immense and we meet the executive chef, who looks surprisingly young for someone who is responsible for feeding 4,000 people a day. It all looks very ordered and calm but I suspect as soon as we leave, Paolo the executive chef, will turn into an Italian Gordon Ramsey and start swearing at the Indonesian sous chef.

Pretty flower...

In the afternoon, we head off for Valencia. I have to say that in the bussing, I wasn’t terribly impressed with the city. It looked cold, industrial and modern. But once we got into it, the 300 bell towers, with their domes covered in cobalt blue shiny tiles, won me over.

The city had a lovely exhibit of four churches being refurbished. The churches, all built either on the former sites of old Mosques or Mosques changed over into churches. The baroque period was clearly popular with the Valencians; not only are the cathedrals covered in marble but so are the sidewalk, the noble houses and the post office. It’s like Queen Marie-Antoinette threw up all over Valencia.

The exhibits were clearly a big deal for the city; they had decorated the sidewalks with a baroque design for visitors to follow the path. What a brilliant idea! We easily navigated our way to the four churches, spread out through the city.

The churches we visit are beautiful though and every possible service is covered in designs, whether they are cherubs, ivy or grapes. The ceilings are covered in gold overlay but one, the Church of Is a light baby blue with white carvings. We pass two nuns in full black and white habits that look like rejects from the Sound of Music. I thought nuns didn’t go for the full costume anymore, preferring a more modern costume. Clearly not. It makes me think what a life of quiet spiritual reflection would be like. A life without men might be quite peaceful but then again, probably deeply boring.

All these churches makes me reflect on my own concept of religion and spirituality. As we pass by the painting of the saints, I contemplate poor St. Bartholomew, who had his skin removed. Or one poor saint who was boiled alive. John the Baptist who was beheaded. Another stoned to death. St. Paul who was crucified upside down. One sculpture of a saint held her own disembodied breasts in her hands (OMFG!!!! WTF????) I don’t think I would be willing to lose the twins for religion, sorry.

Eddy (remember Eddy, my friend from Scotland) and I had a long discussion about whether or not people have souls (and I think we talked about snails having souls too). Mostly I just disagree with Eddy because I know he secretly enjoys the argument; Eds is a man of science and I’m sort of a religious and philosophical a la carte person. I take a bit of everything from everywhere and give it a go.

I guess I believe that there is an aspect of the divine in all of us, so therefore all religious and philosophical belief systems have a bit of divinity. Except fruitarians; I think those people are a bit daft. Anyway, I think arguing over religion or using science to confirm anything about god or spirituality is a waste of time. I’m a big Humist that way; belief will always be stronger than logic and you can’t change someone’s belief, even if pesky things like facts get in the way.

Anyway, so I like old churches; the feeling of communal worship. I appreciate the hard work, dedication and historical context of churches. Because people couldn’t read, art and artifice served to teach the people. And so we have the amazing works of art to look at today.

DOME!!!!  Slightly more impressive than the Church of Mike's Dome.

In the predominately secular world we live in now, it’s good to see that once people believed in mystery. That a man could really be born from a virgin and heal the sick and raise the dead, only to be resurrected three days later after a cruel death. That a saint could walk half a kilometer without her head. That a 14 year girl in France could hear the voice of God and defeat the English. That salt water and a dream from a sun god can cure your raging case of Chlamydia (no I don’t have Chlamydia…in fact the Travel Doctor lady called me up before I left and said “Wow! You don’t have Chlamydia! Everyone has Chlamydia!”…ah travel doctor lady, you provide me with endless hours of entertainment and paranoia.)

Certainly in my own life, things have happened to me that I can’t explain through scientific means or maybe I just chose not to explain them. But I am certainly grateful for every twist of fate and every mishap or missed or badly scheduled appointment that turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Kitty in Cadiz...I think he's agnostic.

It’s all very mystical and awe inspiring. That belief that somehow, if we were good people, honest, hardworking, paying our little money to the church, it would all turn out okay. Unless you were a witch, Native American, Phoenician or a Protestant, of course (for old school 18th century Catholics only).

Then you’re screwed.

Cruisin’

Okay, I cruise. I know, its not like me to be a cruiser but I got into it after my first cruise.

My first cruise was for my honeymoon; it was around the Hawaiian Islands and as a bonus, we got to go to Kiribati (Fanning Island).

That was by far my favorite cruise because the whole concept of being on a big boat was new to me and I had an excellent travelling companion.

But I have found cruises have a diminishing return effect; the first is always the best usually and then it goes downhill from there.

This is my fourth cruise; I went to the Greek Islands/Croatia in 2007 and in Alaska in 2009. To be perfectly honest, I don’t really like cruises that much anymore. Sure it was exciting at one point but with the same type of entertainment, food and cabins, it gets a bit tiring. Plus you never get to spend as much time as you want to in one place (unless said place is Skagway). I spent more than enough time there.

The Roman version of AMI stadium.  When are the All Blacks Playing?

Honestly after the Alaska cruise, I wasn’t excited to return to a boat. But a couple things excited me about this cruise. The itinerary (Spain, Portugal and Morroco) just sounded cool…I’ve never been to any of those countries before and I really wanted to see them all. And it was a good excuse to spend some time with my parents. Mom and Dad like cruises; it’s easy for them and for me to find plenty of things to do.

Malaga streets

So far, the boat has been a bit of a disappointment but the destinations are anything but. We went to Malaga yesterday. Malaga is a beautiful portside city with a HUGE cathedral in the centre. The Moorish influence is clearly seen in the architecture and design of the place. We climbed up to the Citadel structure in the centre of town and got a wonderful panoramic view of Malaga and the surrounding area.

I enjoy the city; there are many little streets that open up into plazas, lovely little tapas bars and life everywhere. It was Sunday, so people were out in their Sunday best, having a drink after church.

One good thing about this cruise is its gym and spa. I go there every morning (YES I DO! I’M NOT LYING) and do a bit of a workout to start my day. I did yoga one day but found it hard to concentrate whilst gazing at the gorgeous Hungarian instructor who, I’m pretty sure, digs dudes. I mean, he’s that beautiful, he just has to be. Sigh…

Anyway, I did poke my head in at a singles event, I’m embarrassed to admit. I was more curious than anything; right now is the wrong time to gain a boyfriend, even for the length of a cruise. The only person there was an 60 year old Italian man who vaguely resembled an umpa loompa (Can someone please reference the spelling for me???). He saddled up to me and started speaking in Italian.

“No, signor, Americano.”

He used a hand gesture and walked off. Phew. I walked off quickly before any other Roald Dahl characters came my way (even Johnny Depp in a bob couldn’t keep me there…did anyone else find him creepy in that movie?).

The whole boat is filled with Italians; they dominate the boat. This makes this cruise, hands down, the liveliest, most chaotic cruise I have ever been on. There is a constant opera going on at the customer services desk. No one has a concept of lines or queuing (living in New Zealand, land of the organized queue, this can be quite frustrating). But the dance floors are always filled and there are actual younger people on the boat.

On a cruise, even though there are 3,000 guests, the same people pop up over and over. Like mullet body builder guy and weird accent lady who complains all the time (pretty sure she is English). There is angry old French dude, the kiwis from Auckland (why do I always get seated next to kiwis???) and the two Italian glamour grandmas. These people pop up every time I venture to the upper decks.

The ship itself is an ode to Italians; its gaudy as hell, with huge chandeliers, gold couches and marble floors. Not really to my taste but fun to try on, like those times you go to Ballanytynes or Macy’s and try on the sequin covered dresses or for the dudes, test drive a car you can never afford nor want to own.

Today, we went to Morocco but didn’t linger in Casablanca as we had an all day date with Fez, Morocco’s artistic capital.

After a pretty lengthy bus ride out there, when we got Morocco 101 by our tour guide, Abudullah, with our driver Muhammad "Cous Cous". Hilarious. Everyone was excited to explore the old city, where souks (markets) and craftsmen abound.

We entered the first souk, which was mostly a food market. The smell of meat and clotted blood was enough to cause me to hesitate but I thanked the many deities I pray to (hey it never hurts to get a second opinion) for my experience in Namibia. Namibia had prepared me for intense poverty, bizarre food, a total lack of health and safety and interesting hygiene choices. The smell reminded me instantly of Namibia and I carried on. Others in group struggled.

In the souks, you wouldn’t know if it was night or day. The small streets are like a black widow cobweb; completely without structure or logic. There are over 800 little streets in the old city and you can easily get lost in the mayhem.

All work and no play make Donkey a dull boy...

Depressed donkeys pass you by in the streets, laden with water bottles, tanned leather and large metal tanks. The donkeys are pushed, kicked, yelled at and generally mistreated by many of their handlers. Clearly, if you are a real asshole in this life, you end up reincarnated as a donkey in Fez.

Occasionally one would go on strike and end up alone, triumphant, with its load eschewed on top, but happy to be free, even for a few minutes.

In the souks there are so many cats and little kittens and the Fezites clearly have affection for their cats, as they feed them raw meat and small fishes in plates on the side of the streets and pet them lazily. Beggars also line the streets; Mom gives money to the women because the women often get beaten if they don’t bring any money home. Dad gives to them because he feels it his duty to aid the widows or other needy older single women.

The day is packed with visits to craftsmen and of course everyone is trying to sell us something. Of course we get ripped off but we decide two things. One: we only buy scarfs from the guilds and beautiful beaten bronze plates and in both cases are actually making the artwork there and not in China. Two: we figure that these people work pretty hard and well, we will enjoy the stuff we got.

So yeah, we got taken.

Lunch was excellent. It was served in the old Minister of Defence’s palace, which is now a restaurant. There was a wonderful local band playing local Morrocan music and delicious Moroccan cuisine that included cous cous, vegetables, meats, and wonderful spices. The wine was even good. Our guide, Abdullah, told us that the Morrocan muslims were very tolerant of all lifestyles, including alcohol consumption. They grow their own wine in fact and import it to France.

This picture alone makes me want to give up meat entirely.

After lunch, we visited the tannery. The tannery is unlike any place I have ever visited. We were taken up to shop where we could overlook the whole thing, which was exposed to the open air. We were all given sprigs of fresh mint to breath to mask the awful smell (kind of like in a morgue putting Vicks Vaporrun in your nostrils before the dissecting begins). Large round pots, the size of three men, littered the street below like a honeycomb. The pots were filled with different colored natural vegetable based dyes; reds, oranges, yellows, blues, purples and white. The men waded in the large pots, soaking the hides and swooshing it around the colorful water. The dyes are made from various local flowers, vegetables and herbs.

Several people struggled with the intense smell but I think it’s good to be exposed to what really goes on. I believe strongly that we have isolated ourselves too much from our food and the way our clothing is made and we rarely see the reality; the animal and human cost of what we consume. Going to a place like Fez brings us all back to earth and reminds us that someone suffered and animals die to sustain our lifestyle. Watching the men below waist deep in the heat and dust and colored liquids, covered in colors from the vats…many of these poor souls seem to have a permanent hunch from working there.

The Fez version of Haylar

We then went to the local weavers and purchased a few nice shawls. The souks are filled with small shops but we focused our attention on the actual makers of the product. We visit some ancient Mosques, which are amazing in the detail, age and design elements of the structures. Every surface possible has a design or an inscription. It’s a work of passion and a clear labour of devotion for the people of Fez.

Our final stop on our tour was the ceramic workshops, for which Fez is famous for. I wish I could buy and take things home to my new house but sadly lack of space in my luggage prohibits such luxuries. We watch the pottery being shaped; Fez’s clay is gray, unlike the rest of Morroco’s which is red. This helps the design, as blue glazes (another thing Fez is famous for) is applied. The designers have no pattern they follow; simply their own eye, the memory of designs past, and their own creativity.

The whole operation is filled with young men; not a single woman works there except to help us with the toilets and behind the counter. The men work hard on mosaics, creating works of art through micro destruction of tiles. Not a single worker was seen wearing safety glasses. Those workers who make mosaic pieces of many designed are especially vulnerable as they labor at chipping out the art pieces hour after hour.

We leave Fez behind and enjoy three hours on the bus; watching beautiful Morocco fly by. The place is dry but not like the Sahara; it’s a scrub land. The king planted forests throughout Morocco and now large trees dot the landscape in a neat grid like pattern.

The current king clearly has a fan in Abdullah. He recently made it mandatory for everyone in Morocco to go to school until age 16. He also banned polygamy and women now have 32 seats in Parliament (about 10 percent of the sitting body). The changes in policy mixed with the Moroccoan people’s eye for craftsmanship has attracted buyers and manufacturers in droves from around the world. The labour is cheap and the products are good quality, unlike other developing nations around the world.

The tannery at Fez.

Morocco feels pretty safe too but I wouldn’t want to navigate the Old City of Fez without a guide or at least some string to ensure I would find my way out of the small street mazes again.

We returned to the boat, tired, dusty but happy. The smell of the souks lingers in my hair and I wash it multiple times, wondering when I will get a chance to return and explore the dark nooks and crannies of Fez.

Topless Chicks (Welcome to the Rivera)

Nice is a beautiful little city, no doubt about it. You can see the wealth everywhere; people are dripping in Ferraris and Fendis…it’s like the last Sex and the City movie, a bit garish. In fact it’s a little too much wealth for my comfort actually.

On the black stoney beaches are four poster beds with mosquito nets hanging romantically from the tops. There is a lot of glitz and gold but it’s hard to feel any real heart of the city, unless you go to the Old City.

The Old City in Nice is where Italy and France meet and make everyone who loves one or the other happy. There are beautiful red, orange and cream building, tempting little alleyways, sidewalk cafes and little gilatorias everywhere. One the street is a man playing a violin and his partner is playing an acoustic guitar and singing. The restaurants are a lovely mix of Italian and French cuisine.

Mom and I eat a wonderful meal (Dad was sick in the hotel room) and for dessert, we went to the gelato stand. I had my favorite; cinnamon icecream. I first had it in Cinque Terra, in the Italian Rivera, three years ago and have searched for it ever since. It’s not a popular ice cream but its wonderful, creamy and spicy.

We sun ourselves on the black rocks and dip our feet in the water. It’s not cold but not particularly warm either. There are bevies of topless women everywhere and I feel dumpy compared to the tall, blonde and brunette tanned women laying out happily, revealing what god gave them. I feel like I’m the only red head for miles…

I fell like my style has always been pretty girly and not terribly sophisticated at times. I need to change that up a bit; I’m a divorcee (well for all intent and purposes, one more year to go!); I should dress in black more. Be more sophisticated…maybe take up smoking and cocktails (oops! Was that a martini in my hand? Already there!) and take a young Spanish lover named Jesus or something (maybe I’m thinking of another older divorcee…).

There’s nothing wrong with a bit of sex appeal but I’ve just either played up my cuteness (let’s face it, I’m not pretty or beautiful, I’m adorable, it’s a curse…) or played to other ehem assets. I’ve always been a bit of a “what you see is what you get” and on the low maintenance side (I haven’t blow dried my hair all trip.) But now I feel it might be time to wear eye makeup. Take up tango dancing. Saying less, listening more. Build a bit of mystery around me. The nice thing about traveling and about moving around a lot is that you can start from scratch again. You don’t have to always be who you have always been. You can be different. And maybe on second thought, blogging isn’t so good for the mystery…

Anyway, Nice is a good place to relax and just people watch. When you walk down the streets, you hear lots of different accents…a lot of American and pasty British people (my apologies to all my British friends, but you should all know by now that you are a pasty race).
My parents and I stayed in a student-esque hotel, with large holes in carpets and a dubious elevator that I secretly thanked all the deities I know each time the door creaked open (I took the stairs mostly). Thanks Pele! I know you only do volcanoes, but I appreciate you going out of your comfort zone for to get that elevator door to open.

Now, I’m usually a pretty unpicky person when it comes to staying places; I’ve slept in some very interesting locales and I try not to judge too much. But we paid a 100 euros for a pretty sad place. And it was with my parents…the fact that I picked the hotel, mainly on price and location, did not get me in the good books with my two favorite people.

But they took it in stride; Dad can’t get angry about that stuff, it’s not in his genetic capacity because it was cheap and Mom just laughed.

We got to the train station the next day to take, what we had read up on, was to be a three hour train ride. It took about 5 and half hours. At the point in my travels though, I can’t get impatient about anything anymore. I just can’t be bothered about those things. Plus the train ride was fantastic!

The Italian Med has much more to offer than the French one, hands down. Beautiful red, orange, pink and cream villas perilously perched on gravity defying rock formations. Little villages in valleys that end in golden, sandy beaches. The ocean is so clear; you can see the large stones metres down in the water.

And the language is beautiful…People always marvel at French but I have to say, I prefer Italian. It’s a language that speaks to me more; you have to use all of your mouth (lips, tongue, teeth…that weird flap of skin under your tongue) to speak it. It’s amazing the sounds that come out of the Italians mouths.

You can tell instantly the difference between Italy and France. France is all about QUALITY and sublime, perfected experiences over millennia. The cheese, the wine, the train stations, the buildings…there is an air of perfection and logic about the French systems. Everything works, everything makes logical sense. People know what is going on and they tell you, quite happily, if you don’t know.

In Italy, it’s not like that. Everything is a bit mad; there is chaos all over the show…but a chaos that everyone here understands and you don’t. The train stations are filthy and trains are rarely on time. It can be frustrating at times, but if you just go with it, it’s fine. There are no announcements on the trains about what the next stop is…you just have to wait in suspense, hoping that you can move you and your parents and all the bags out of the train car before the door shuts and you end of Rome or Milan.

But in the chaos is total calm, a complete surrender to the things around you. The Italians don’t really seem to be too interested in controlling much (except the Mob, they like to control everything). Things just seem to work, without too much fuss and new construction or toilet paper. Life just happens for them, easily. No wonder they annoy the French; the Italians make living a pleasurable life look so….easy.

I appreciate a good deal of chaos; it’s my nature. I thrive well in the unknown and unorganized. I like living unplanned mostly because I don’t trust plans at all anymore. I find that when I make plans, God or Pele or Shive or whoever laughs at me and completely changes them. So I have become an evolved appreciator of chaos. But I also appreciate hard work as well; I think in order to get something out of life, you should have to work hard at it. Nothing in life that was worth anything ever seems to be easy (at least for me) and honestly, I do enjoy a bit of blood and sweat now and then.

In Savona, I feel the same warmth in my dusty old heart that I did in Edinburgh; that sense of childlike wonder and pleasure of just walking down the street and taking all the sights in. I feel like I can breathe in this little, tiny seaside town nestled in a small valley, looking out at the ocean. It’s a place of peace and pleasure; the food, the sun, the sand and streets.

The food is wonderful; a passionate slathering of sauces, pastas…no dish, even ordered on the same day, the same thing, is ever the same. It’s all thrown together and somehow, it just works. Or not, I guess.

I remember in March I got the daft idea of taking a Med. cooking class with my friend Tynan*. Poor Tynan; we were so inappropriately matched cooking buddies. I hardly remembered any of the ingredients and just sort of throw stuff in, while Tynan, having been brought up a tidy and good kiwi boy, had everything ordered nicely (even if he did forget an ingredient or two. Hey nobody is perfect).

One time, he asked me for two table spoons of basil. I grabbed a hunk of fresh, crunchy, basil and threw it in his dish.

“Um…are you sure that was two table spoons?” He looked at me, a bit appalled.

“Sure, why not?”

Later I felt bad; Tynan probably wasn’t used to my Laissez-faire way to cook or my attitude, which has always been, with cooking, about having good ingredients, throw them together and see what happens. He had come here to learn and I was still just improvising my own thing, rarely reading the recipe, making huge errors all the time. I can be a pretty frustrating bitch.

It’s probably because I mistrust plans. I don’t have amazingly intricate plans about my life anymore, like trying to take over the world through the domination of the coffee market in Papau New Guinea (but now that you mention it, it might not be a bad idea…) or anything.

I think my philosophy now is to work hard, jump and hope I land on something soft. Preferably not just my ass, although its getting pretty soft because of all the pasta I’ve been eating! Maybe I should just subcontract my life to the Mafia; they might be able to plan better for me and only take a 15 percent cut…

*Name has been changed to protect the innocent friend.

Mind the Gap

When I was in Syndey in March of this year for my birthday (THANKS MOM!), I was walking home one night to the Metro Station. I was listening to my music and rocking through, when I misjudged the walking rhythm of the woman in front of me and my left leg fell through the crack between the train and the platform. Look, I’ve always been a bit of klutz.

As I desperately flailed to get my leg out, the train made the sound that it was going to leave. I was panicked; I didn’t want to lose my leg and I had no one with me; I was completely alone as Mom had flown out the day before.

The train was stopped right before it left and some friendly Australians helped me out. We sat in silence for the rest of the ride and when they left they called back,
“Don’t do that again, mate.”

Thanks.

Today, as I watch France roll along on the train, I think about our gaps in perception and how we change. The perceptions of a child are so different than from the perceptions of an adult. And with the change of perception comes changes of relationships and relating. Like the last blog that I wrote about my grandmother, who felt responsible for me when I visited and as such, was more authoritarian in nature than a softer, sweeter grandmother. That was my perception as a child based on a few encounters that weren’t as positive as I’m sure either of us would have liked.

But I also remember the Meme who watched all the episodes of the Thornbirds with me and who braided my hair almost every day I was in France. I remember the woman who would walk with me in the gardens or in the woods behind her house too.

I think the hardest part about ageing, at this stage of my life, is the concept of authoritarian figures changing and sometimes needed our help instead. It’s a shift in dynamics.
The other day, I sat next to Meme, holding her soft hand, she recounted to me the stories of her childhood. Meme had an Aunt, Aunt Asounta (T’Sounta for those of us in the family), who helped nurse her through a childhood illness, pneumonia, which was very serious before antibiotics.
She spent three months with T’Sounta. T’Sounta was an incredibly tough woman; one day she went to my grandmother, who was nine at the time and said,

“Right, no more French and Italian…now we speak Spanish!”

My grandmother didn’t know any Spanish. But she learned quickly. T’Sounta had married a Spaniard and wanted to help Meme learn as many languages as possible. Meme can speak five languages: French, Italian, Spanish, English and German.

I remember T’Sounta; she was full of life and spunk; up till her mid eighties, she biked everywhere. At 80, T’Sounta challenged my father to a race; his car versus her bike. She beat him home and gave him a slap on the ass and said,

“I showed you, Ameriloush (slang for American).”

Meme said how strong and tough and autocratic T’Sounta was with her as a child. She also stated that every summer, she looked forward to the 20 kilometer bus ride to visit her aunt, but as soon as she got there, she wanted to return to her mother.

“No! No calling your Mom…you are here for one month…now Spanish!” Aunt T’Sounta replied (according to Meme).

Everyone loved T’sounta; she was brash, strong, a straight shooter and just plain fun at times. She loved a good laugh, her chickens and her family. And Meme adored Aunt Sounta, just like everyone else.

T’Sounta actually saved my great grandmother, Rose, from a life of servitude. When Rose was 12, her family lost their business and became extremely poor. Rose was shipped off to a family about 80 kilometers away to work as a nanny and house servant to a wealthy family. Every morning, she took the kids to school in a cart that she was strapped to and at night, she ate anything that was left over by the family.

When T’Sounta got a good job at a local factory in Italy, she looked at her family and said,

“Right, I’m off to get Rose.”

She walked 80 kilometres and found Rose taking the kids to school. The kids had a horse whip and were whipping Rose to go faster. T’Sounta took the whip and beat the kids with the whip, released Rose from her harness and brought her home.

Meme always appreciated T’Sounta, especially as an adult but when recalling childhood memories, she had a little fear of her. Just because we see someone as some way as a child doesn’t mean our perceptions doesn’t change over time about that person; it’s just how we saw them and I think it’s good to be honest about that reflection.

Now, I am not particularly good with children. I had a brief flirtation with babysitting at age 13 but struggled babysitting my cousins. After one particularly hard day with my cousins, I cried to my mother:

“Rip out my ovaries now! I don’t want any children!!! They are horrible.”

I’m sure my cousins felt less positive about me as well after that experience. But now, as adults, we get along fine. I love my cousins and am proud of them and think they are amazing people. How I see them now is very different than how I see them in my mind’s eye as a child. But it’s important to roll with the changes in other people and allow forgiveness.

We each have our own unique bundle of crap to deal and no one can really know what it is like to walk in each others shoes; thats why its impossible (but so tempting) to judge another's motivations or actions.

In the end, we all need to mind the gap between perceptions of people over time so we don’t get stuck in that gap and get stuck completely in the past.

Then we are in real trouble.

On a lighter note, Nice is Nice. This city is the city of sun and water the colour of Plutonium 238 (which, incidentally has the half life of 80 years...hey Dad, stop stealing my blog!!!!)

Okay, anyway...where was I...oh right...the train was amazing; the change into Southern France is pretty immediate; with its red tiled roofs. It reminds me of my Aunt Claudine's old house, which was a house I always loved.

There are vineyards as far as you can see and everyone is wearing light coloured clothing, the colour of Neptunium 237 (Dad, I said STOP IT!)....sigh...

S

Shout out to Pink Kisses!

Breakups suck, no one knows that better than me...but hey, here is a site that not only will help you through the breakup but help you take all the crap in the breakup, put in a sack with rocks in it and throw it in the river, in the process helping you become a better person. Which is, of course, the best part of a breakup.

Awesome site! Its also good for those who have friends going through a breakup, what to say, some stuff to buy etc...



Thanks PK girls, you rock!

Way Down.

"Way Down" N.A.S.A. feat. Barbie Hatch & RZA from Syd Garon on Vimeo.

I like this...sad story about gang warfare and a doomed love affair told by birds.

Famille

Before I leave Scotland, I just want to say how much I loved Edinburgh, again...I have to say, I was feeling morose in Iceland and even a little in Shrewsbury but it was in Edinburgh that I really feel like I turned a corner, emotionally and mentally.

It may have been the whiskey or Ben Nevis or Arthur's Seat or something else.  All I know is that when I stepped foot in the city, I felt my spirits lift and the forgotten, dusty organ of my heart felt like it fluttered awake for the first time in months.

I was more than a little sad to leave.

Anyway, it took about 10 hours on the bus to get to London, so it was dark when I saw Annabel.  Annabel is an old friend of about nine years.  She is fun, lively, and energetic...the world is her oyster.  She just got back from a two week trip to Spain and is enjoying her life in London thoroughly.  We started the night, as typical, at a pub where it all started off fine and then disintegrated into a girl fight over the Irish bartender (honestly I wasn't that keen really, but Annabel has a mad right hook.  I have the pictures to prove it).

The Highlands

We catch up, gossip and enjoy the night and then it was off to Paris to meet Mum.  I was a little sad, although excited because the part of my trip where I travel alone was over.  I have really enjoyed the past month catching up with friends and now its time to meet with family.

My mother, for those of you who might be unaware,  is a Frenchie.  She has lived in the states a long, long, long time but here is her home.   We catch up in Gard de Nord and she has arranged for a lovely hotel right across from the train station.  The neighbourhood is a colourful mixture with a motorcycle gang out front of the hotel that the police have to break up later that evening.

Before the real pain started on Ben Nevis

Mom spoke a lot of French to me as a little girl and I feel very fortunate to have spent a great deal of time there in my youth.  Paris is, as always, a busy place with street hustlers and tourist operators.  It can be frustrating sometimes when you speak French to someone and they answer you back in English.  The thing about France is that it can be intimidating, just like any place that you visit where you don't speak the language.  I understand about 30-40 percent of what is being said right but I still feel left out sometimes.

The language feels so familiar; like when you are dreaming.  It takes me a little while to feel confident enough to start speaking but I give it a go.  My aunties and grandparents are very understanding, as I slowly butcher their language.

Eddy, Mae, Christine, Eric, Sarah and Me...the survivors of Ben Nevis

We walk around the place and visit some of the best sites in Paris, but not too many.  The Louvre is shut on Tuesdays, which is a bit of shame.  Generally, we talk to each other about life, adventure and hair styles.

France will always be about my childhood; I remember long summer days sitting in my grandmother's garden, walking in the Jura foothills, eating Comte (cheese yum!) and visiting castles.  I connect with the countryside rather than in Paris because I have discovered that I don't like big cities as much as I thought I did.  And besides, Paris isn't really France, its too cosmopolitan, its almost its own nation.

In Paris, we meet up with my cousin Lucille; I have a LOT of cousins.  My mother has seven sisters, a brother and one half sister.  I think, all up, I have about 40 odd first cousins...so far almost 100 people are on this planet that are directly from Meme and Pepe (my grandparents).  Its a huge, beautiful, colourful family and the nice thing is that I always seem to have a place to stay anywhere in France or Switzerland or the U.S.

Lucille (who just celebrated her 20th birthday), Mom and me head out for a meal. Its okay but the dessert was a real showstopper.  Mom wanted to try the Grand Mariner crepes; we thought they would be flambéed so to burn of the alcohol. Mom, a pretty strict Mormon, waited only to find a warmed cup of the alcohol.  Assuming it had been boiled, she poured the stuff generously over our crepes.  It had not boiled...it was full on, alcohol and all Mariner...Mom looked fairly unconcerned as she said "Hey, whatever happens in Paris, stays in Paris..."

We get up and walk around the neighbourhood, going for our daily chocolate croissant (a Mom comfort food) and then head off to take the train to Auxerre, where my grandparents and two of my aunties live.  Mom takes me to the HUGE designer store that is called Le Gallerie Layfette...it has an entire FLOOR of shoes.  Its horrible for me, like taking a priest to a strip club.  I can't take one pair of any of these works of art with me to the Solomons....

It is wonderful to see my grandparents again; I honestly thought three years ago was the last time I would see them in this life.  They are older; Pepe doesn't do much anymore and Meme's has short term memory loss, but she is still active and happy.  

I spend the night over at my Aunt Mireille's place.  She makes me a lovely meal of tapas and cheese (I love LOVE french cheese) and chocolates from Becescon (my mother's home town).  It feels good to be in France with the family again.  It feels right.  

Its on odd thing, having two parents from totally different cultures.  And you can look at the pros and cons from a variety of angles.  One the face of things, you couldn't get more different than the cultures of France and the U.S. However, they both share one important passion: liberty or freedom.  And the French loves anyone who rebels against the English anyway...

Back to my point; I never felt very settled in the U.S., even as a child...not to say I felt any better in France but I related to the lifestyle, the desire to enjoy life in its simplest moments.  The French make an art form out of living well and its something I've always appreciated about my family.

Knowing you have a big, large loving family in France is truly a blessing.  So is the cheese...