I would try to convince you that I have been too busy to write lately - indeed, I try to convince myself frequently. But the truth is that I have been lazy and hesitant.
Laziness could easily be equated with a complete lack of motivation. Hesitation refers more to a fear that the trip is over. All is done, and should I choose to write about it I will quickly run out of travel stories and be left with nothing. Can you hear the violins playing between my sobs of despair?
I am now back in Sydney, and have been for about a month. I haven't told many people about this. In fact, there are very few people who know that I am back in Sydney, and this is mainly because I haven't had time to catch up with anyone. Lame, I know.
I flew in about a month ago, had a day of rest, and have since been working full time in various jobs (a few days in a warehouse, a few days for a kitchen and bathroom company doing marketing, a few days doing some research for a private school - all for family and friends). On top of that have been endless family engagements, from birthdays to farewells to many many Christmases. I haven't had the time of day, let alone the time to do anything that I would have liked to do.
But the biggest saving grace of the holiday season is, hopefully, some additional time. The warehouse work is quiet, the kitchen and bathroom company is closed. And now that the Christmas weekend is drawing to an end (there has been 2 parties per day Christmas, Boxing day, and today), I may actually have a few hours here and there to relax and catch up with life.
I am in the middle of attempting to buy a motorcycle, and have my eye on a half-decent ZZR600 which currently resides in Campbelltown. I need to see it again, but am quite confident that this will be the bike that I buy.
I am also house-sitting a bit for some friends and family - this isn't so much a favour to them, but more a reprieve for me and a chance to have some time and space for myself which I can mould in whichever way I choose.
So now I will be able to chase down and catch up with many things from which I have fallen behind. Friends, definitely. This blog, hopefully. Some riding, beaching, bushwalking, reading, relaxing, swimming - I guess we'll see.
I have a new mobile number which, for obvious reasons, I won't publish here. But if you'd like it, please get in touch by email or message on this blog and I will happily pass it on. I'll be online here and there, but at the moment there are too many things needing to be done that don't involve a computer.
All that being said, I do hope to catch up with everyone and everything soon.
Starting now.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Time is of the essence!
No time left on the campground wifi, so I will keep this short.
Am on the south coast of France, just south of Nice near a town called Antibes, camping with my lady.
There have been some bike problems which have given my confidence and my wallet a double hit, so plans are up in the air - this isn't such a bad thing. Might end up somewhere around St Tropez tomorrow.
I hope it doesn't storm tonight like last night... Thunder is extra loud in a tent.
Will try to write again properly sometime soon, but if not will catch up on the adventures when back in London town.
A bientot!
Am on the south coast of France, just south of Nice near a town called Antibes, camping with my lady.
There have been some bike problems which have given my confidence and my wallet a double hit, so plans are up in the air - this isn't such a bad thing. Might end up somewhere around St Tropez tomorrow.
I hope it doesn't storm tonight like last night... Thunder is extra loud in a tent.
Will try to write again properly sometime soon, but if not will catch up on the adventures when back in London town.
A bientot!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Preparation, Anticipation
I've been quite busy lately.
Within the past 3 weeks I have finished up at my two workplaces in Edinburgh, packed up my house, taken my parents on a tour of Scotland, loaded my house into their car, ridden my motorcycle down to London, and am now about to leave London early tomorrow morning.
Destination: France.
The preparation has tired me, but even more exhausting has been the anticipation. Nerves, anxiety, excitement, objectivity, subjectivity, stress, eagerness - all are thoroughly tiresome activities, never mind the additional practicalities of packing, prepping KC, budgeting, mapping, etc.
I take the 10am ferry from Dover to Calais tomorrow morning, and from then on am in a completely foreign world. Exciting and nerve-wrecking all at once.
I will be camping my way down the eastern border of France, meeting my parents in Dijon for final fun and farewells, before picking up Ms M from Nice Cote d'Azur Airport. From there it is on to Corsica, and then to infinity and beyond...
Or so the loosely-constructed plan goes.
Connection with the outside world may well be minimal. I hope to take the time to write some posts, but will have scarce access to the world wide web, and will rarely be in reach of a powerpoint for my wee writing companion.
I know I am due to write a fair few emails to people awaiting replies from me. For now, unfortunately, my sincerest apologies will have to suffice. I will write to you as soon as I have a chance.
And I will try to publish here as regularly as is possible.
Until then, I bid you all a fond adieu, au revoir, bonne journee!
Merci beaucoup!
Within the past 3 weeks I have finished up at my two workplaces in Edinburgh, packed up my house, taken my parents on a tour of Scotland, loaded my house into their car, ridden my motorcycle down to London, and am now about to leave London early tomorrow morning.
Destination: France.
The preparation has tired me, but even more exhausting has been the anticipation. Nerves, anxiety, excitement, objectivity, subjectivity, stress, eagerness - all are thoroughly tiresome activities, never mind the additional practicalities of packing, prepping KC, budgeting, mapping, etc.
I take the 10am ferry from Dover to Calais tomorrow morning, and from then on am in a completely foreign world. Exciting and nerve-wrecking all at once.
I will be camping my way down the eastern border of France, meeting my parents in Dijon for final fun and farewells, before picking up Ms M from Nice Cote d'Azur Airport. From there it is on to Corsica, and then to infinity and beyond...
Or so the loosely-constructed plan goes.
Connection with the outside world may well be minimal. I hope to take the time to write some posts, but will have scarce access to the world wide web, and will rarely be in reach of a powerpoint for my wee writing companion.
I know I am due to write a fair few emails to people awaiting replies from me. For now, unfortunately, my sincerest apologies will have to suffice. I will write to you as soon as I have a chance.
And I will try to publish here as regularly as is possible.
Until then, I bid you all a fond adieu, au revoir, bonne journee!
Merci beaucoup!
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The importance of the senses
I crave tangibility. More than anything, I crave something tangible.
I have known this all of my life, but at certain times it becomes much more apparent. Tonight I am thinking about planning a motorcycle trip - there is so much fun to be had in planning. And for me, that fun begins with a map.
A map is a representation of all the places I want to see and go to, and all the places in between. More than that, a map is a representation of all that will happen along the way. The distances represented on a map can be equated to time spent covering those distances. And time can be equated again to experiences, Experience. A map is important, it is the first mental step before the physical steps can begin.
And when I can touch that map, draw on it, pick it up in my hands, feel it against my fingertips - it is then that I can truly feel and know the significance that it implies. I can plan as much as I like using web applications like google maps, and they are great. But for me the route does not exist without tangibility, and I can't touch a google map. Or smell it or taste it or hear it or see it in the full three visual dimensions that exist in this world.
If the map isn't palpable, then how can the roads and routes and plans that it represents be any more real to my senses?
I am reminded tonight of something that I learnt in an English class when we were studying Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos.
Our teacher posed:
Why is the format of this book so important? Why does it matter that it is letters? What does this signifiy?
Stumped, we responded with predictable answers - it allows him to write in the first person, helps develop characters, add some sort of credibility to a fictional narrative - none of them incorrect.
But, she asked, how do we feel when we receive a letter in the post? Is it not somehow infinitely more special than getting an email, or even a phone call from the same friend? It is the tangibility that is important.
With a letter in our hand we can connect more intimately to the words that it contains. We can screw it up in disgust, cry tears all over it, hold it to our hearts and sigh. We can smell the paper and imagine the person who wrote it, and know that they also held this paper at one point, know that they too had a chance to feel, smell, taste, hear and see what we are seeing as we experience this letter in the real world.
Complete experience - experience that is emotional, physical and psychological - begins with tangibility.
I need a map.
I have known this all of my life, but at certain times it becomes much more apparent. Tonight I am thinking about planning a motorcycle trip - there is so much fun to be had in planning. And for me, that fun begins with a map.
A map is a representation of all the places I want to see and go to, and all the places in between. More than that, a map is a representation of all that will happen along the way. The distances represented on a map can be equated to time spent covering those distances. And time can be equated again to experiences, Experience. A map is important, it is the first mental step before the physical steps can begin.
And when I can touch that map, draw on it, pick it up in my hands, feel it against my fingertips - it is then that I can truly feel and know the significance that it implies. I can plan as much as I like using web applications like google maps, and they are great. But for me the route does not exist without tangibility, and I can't touch a google map. Or smell it or taste it or hear it or see it in the full three visual dimensions that exist in this world.
If the map isn't palpable, then how can the roads and routes and plans that it represents be any more real to my senses?
I am reminded tonight of something that I learnt in an English class when we were studying Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos.
Our teacher posed:
Why is the format of this book so important? Why does it matter that it is letters? What does this signifiy?
Stumped, we responded with predictable answers - it allows him to write in the first person, helps develop characters, add some sort of credibility to a fictional narrative - none of them incorrect.
But, she asked, how do we feel when we receive a letter in the post? Is it not somehow infinitely more special than getting an email, or even a phone call from the same friend? It is the tangibility that is important.
With a letter in our hand we can connect more intimately to the words that it contains. We can screw it up in disgust, cry tears all over it, hold it to our hearts and sigh. We can smell the paper and imagine the person who wrote it, and know that they also held this paper at one point, know that they too had a chance to feel, smell, taste, hear and see what we are seeing as we experience this letter in the real world.
Complete experience - experience that is emotional, physical and psychological - begins with tangibility.
I need a map.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Level Up!
Sunday, 23rd August
5.45am
ODO 17,250mi
Alarm. Breakfast. Pack up. Gear up.
6.45am
ODO 17,250mi
Gear on, bike started, pulling away.
7.00am
ODO 17,255mi
Fuel stop 1, chat with the attendant who is at the end of her shift and hoping to catch some sleep before watching the F1 later in the day.
7.10am
ODO 17,260mi
Heavy rain. Visibility very low. Bike is lurching, power delivery extremely uneven - misfiring? Starving for fuel? Electrical problem? Unknown. Still running? Yes. Continue. Soldier on. Distance remaining to Ruislip, London 390 miles.
7.30am
ODO 17,275mi
First drops of cold water seep in to clothing, body begins to shiver slightly.
7.45am
ODO 17,290mi
Motorway, 70-80mph. Heavy rain continues. Power delivery problems persist. Begin talking to motorcycle, urging, encouraging, romancing.
8.35am
ODO 17,340mi
Cross into England, A74(M) becomes M6. Rain continues.
8.45am
ODO 17,355mi
Fuel stop 2, Southwaite Services (between Carlisle and Penrith). Petrol for the Suzuki, jam donut, coffee and a stretch of the legs for the rider.
9.50am
ODO 17,400mi
Rain stops. Suzi and I are discussing names for her. Nothing concrete yet, but we're getting there. 250 miles to London.
11.00am
ODO 17,475mi
Fuel stop 3, Knutsford Services (yes, really). Early lunch, chain lube and fuel for my steed. Beginning to thaw out, still slightly damp.
12.00pm
ODO 17,520mi
Sunshine. Smiles.
1.30pm
ODO 17,610mi
Fuel stop 4. Call London to check directions. Completely dry, sunshine is warming. Tear wet weather pants climbing back on, but it doesn't matter now.
2.15pm
ODO 17,650mi
Arrive Ruislip, London. Slide off, stretch legs, greeted by plenty of sunshine and a very kind offer of help from friends. Watch closely as Suzi is carefully pulled apart, greased, lubed, re-sparked, and fixed up. She sounds great, and I feel grateful.
A ride across London to meet more friends, with bike and rider both sounding happy, although rider is now due for a tune up (terrible singing inside helmet).
Mission accomplished. Safely, reasonably comfortably, and with confidence regained.
Thanks for reading. And for all your support after my previous post of hesitation and doubt. A moment of weakness that has since been rectified thanks to help in various forms from friends and family, as well as an 850mile bonding session with KC. We decided on the name on the way back up north, twisting through a gorgeous hilly backroad across the Scottish border, sun shining down, engine humming away, miles passing easily.
Next mission: purchase a camera to document the fun.
5.45am
ODO 17,250mi
Alarm. Breakfast. Pack up. Gear up.
6.45am
ODO 17,250mi
Gear on, bike started, pulling away.
7.00am
ODO 17,255mi
Fuel stop 1, chat with the attendant who is at the end of her shift and hoping to catch some sleep before watching the F1 later in the day.
7.10am
ODO 17,260mi
Heavy rain. Visibility very low. Bike is lurching, power delivery extremely uneven - misfiring? Starving for fuel? Electrical problem? Unknown. Still running? Yes. Continue. Soldier on. Distance remaining to Ruislip, London 390 miles.
7.30am
ODO 17,275mi
First drops of cold water seep in to clothing, body begins to shiver slightly.
7.45am
ODO 17,290mi
Motorway, 70-80mph. Heavy rain continues. Power delivery problems persist. Begin talking to motorcycle, urging, encouraging, romancing.
8.35am
ODO 17,340mi
Cross into England, A74(M) becomes M6. Rain continues.
8.45am
ODO 17,355mi
Fuel stop 2, Southwaite Services (between Carlisle and Penrith). Petrol for the Suzuki, jam donut, coffee and a stretch of the legs for the rider.
9.50am
ODO 17,400mi
Rain stops. Suzi and I are discussing names for her. Nothing concrete yet, but we're getting there. 250 miles to London.
11.00am
ODO 17,475mi
Fuel stop 3, Knutsford Services (yes, really). Early lunch, chain lube and fuel for my steed. Beginning to thaw out, still slightly damp.
12.00pm
ODO 17,520mi
Sunshine. Smiles.
1.30pm
ODO 17,610mi
Fuel stop 4. Call London to check directions. Completely dry, sunshine is warming. Tear wet weather pants climbing back on, but it doesn't matter now.
2.15pm
ODO 17,650mi
Arrive Ruislip, London. Slide off, stretch legs, greeted by plenty of sunshine and a very kind offer of help from friends. Watch closely as Suzi is carefully pulled apart, greased, lubed, re-sparked, and fixed up. She sounds great, and I feel grateful.
A ride across London to meet more friends, with bike and rider both sounding happy, although rider is now due for a tune up (terrible singing inside helmet).
Mission accomplished. Safely, reasonably comfortably, and with confidence regained.
Thanks for reading. And for all your support after my previous post of hesitation and doubt. A moment of weakness that has since been rectified thanks to help in various forms from friends and family, as well as an 850mile bonding session with KC. We decided on the name on the way back up north, twisting through a gorgeous hilly backroad across the Scottish border, sun shining down, engine humming away, miles passing easily.
Next mission: purchase a camera to document the fun.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Rethinking the next level
I think, re-reading that last post, that I might have an idea of what is missing at the moment.
People.
At the moment I am completely on my own in Scotland. With my marvellous Ms M on holidays with her father, I am left with no one within a 500 mile radius who knows me, regularly engages with me, or cares mildly about what I want, need, desire, plan to do.
If someone was here perhaps there would be another mind to bounce off. I could build my excitement either by seeing it mirrored in another's face, or by vehemently opposing another's doubts. I would have some genuine measuring stick of what this might mean.
Instead I am completely on my own in this right now. Which is perhaps the reason that I chose London for my first big trip, rather than a more scenic Scottish route - I know people in London, people who know me. People who might have a genuine interest not in the nature of the trip, but in what this trip is for me.
So now I find myself questioning this need for a mirror. Can I actually do something like this on my own, or do I need that measuring stick of others, that nod of approval (or even frown of disapproval) from those around me? Do I need this trip to mean something to the people in my life, or will I be able to find meaning for myself within myself completely independently of anyone else?
Where has all my confidence gone?
I need to go searching for it, because rumours abound that there is a great reward for the one that finds it.
People.
At the moment I am completely on my own in Scotland. With my marvellous Ms M on holidays with her father, I am left with no one within a 500 mile radius who knows me, regularly engages with me, or cares mildly about what I want, need, desire, plan to do.
If someone was here perhaps there would be another mind to bounce off. I could build my excitement either by seeing it mirrored in another's face, or by vehemently opposing another's doubts. I would have some genuine measuring stick of what this might mean.
Instead I am completely on my own in this right now. Which is perhaps the reason that I chose London for my first big trip, rather than a more scenic Scottish route - I know people in London, people who know me. People who might have a genuine interest not in the nature of the trip, but in what this trip is for me.
So now I find myself questioning this need for a mirror. Can I actually do something like this on my own, or do I need that measuring stick of others, that nod of approval (or even frown of disapproval) from those around me? Do I need this trip to mean something to the people in my life, or will I be able to find meaning for myself within myself completely independently of anyone else?
Where has all my confidence gone?
I need to go searching for it, because rumours abound that there is a great reward for the one that finds it.
Next level
Now I have the motorbike.
And now I need to go back and reconsider why.
For some strange reason I find myself petrified. I have taken to comparing it in my head to actually buying my tickets to travel in the first place - it is a significant amount of money, which signifies an even more significant starting point.
I'm not sure which risk scares me more - what I have to lose (financially, emotionally, physically), or what I might have to do in order to gain as much as I hope to from this experience.
Enough babble.
I bought a motorbike. That's right, I finally bit the bullet and just bought one. Which could be a problem in itself - my impatience has led me to buy a fairly second-rate machine, with obvious patches of rust, and plenty of problems of its own.
Character, some might say.
In any case, I do not, as yet, feel any great connection with the bike.
It is exactly what I was after - a cheap, 10 year old Suzuki Bandit 600 with low mileage, which I can afford to insure and which should be comfortable enough to ride reasonable distances.
It has been down the road at least once in its life, and looks to have been mildly neglected by previous owners. It would take a fair amount of work to get this bike riding as good as it probably should.
But nae buther laddies and lassies.
She is currently having her brakes worked on by a mechanic (yes, I am paying a mechanic to work on it in the absence of friends and tools to do the work myself).
Then I take her for a quick jab down South, to London, just to see how she handles over a reasonable distance.
Test run pending, I will plan a route shortly thereafter, pull together some gear, and hopefully indulge in some selfish sojourning down unknown sidetracks in distant Europe.
You see, even as I type that I seem to have doubts that I will make it here. It feels as though something is going to go wrong, something will intervene and stop me. Or is that just my natural hesitationn speaking, my cold wet soggy Scottish feet? How much do I want this?
I will let you know once I get a chance to escape from this place of hesitation, this place of necessary comfort, this place of indecision. I will let you know how I feel once I get out and ride the bloody thing!
Wish me luck please. I think I might need it.
And now I need to go back and reconsider why.
For some strange reason I find myself petrified. I have taken to comparing it in my head to actually buying my tickets to travel in the first place - it is a significant amount of money, which signifies an even more significant starting point.
I'm not sure which risk scares me more - what I have to lose (financially, emotionally, physically), or what I might have to do in order to gain as much as I hope to from this experience.
Enough babble.
I bought a motorbike. That's right, I finally bit the bullet and just bought one. Which could be a problem in itself - my impatience has led me to buy a fairly second-rate machine, with obvious patches of rust, and plenty of problems of its own.
Character, some might say.
In any case, I do not, as yet, feel any great connection with the bike.
It is exactly what I was after - a cheap, 10 year old Suzuki Bandit 600 with low mileage, which I can afford to insure and which should be comfortable enough to ride reasonable distances.
It has been down the road at least once in its life, and looks to have been mildly neglected by previous owners. It would take a fair amount of work to get this bike riding as good as it probably should.
But nae buther laddies and lassies.
She is currently having her brakes worked on by a mechanic (yes, I am paying a mechanic to work on it in the absence of friends and tools to do the work myself).
Then I take her for a quick jab down South, to London, just to see how she handles over a reasonable distance.
Test run pending, I will plan a route shortly thereafter, pull together some gear, and hopefully indulge in some selfish sojourning down unknown sidetracks in distant Europe.
You see, even as I type that I seem to have doubts that I will make it here. It feels as though something is going to go wrong, something will intervene and stop me. Or is that just my natural hesitationn speaking, my cold wet soggy Scottish feet? How much do I want this?
I will let you know once I get a chance to escape from this place of hesitation, this place of necessary comfort, this place of indecision. I will let you know how I feel once I get out and ride the bloody thing!
Wish me luck please. I think I might need it.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Priorities...?
How strange.
My desperation for a motorbike has taken over, so much so that I am not allowing any time at all for blogging. I have been working every waking (and often sleeping) hour of every day (and night) possible to make this happen. And I am getting closer.
Ironically, this has meant that I have begun to neglect this space. Ironic, because a part of me wants the motorbike so that I will have more to write about here.
I still do have things to write about, and I will try to wring them out when I next have a moment and a portion of energy to spare. It has been 3 months!
I have since been to Dublin, fallen in love with Croatia, and made an hilarious cousin into an amazing friend on another jaunt into the Scottish countryside.
In the mean time, check out someone like Carla King for a preview of what I hope my next adventure might be like. She's a pretty cool solo biker chick, who writes as well as she appears to ride.
My desperation for a motorbike has taken over, so much so that I am not allowing any time at all for blogging. I have been working every waking (and often sleeping) hour of every day (and night) possible to make this happen. And I am getting closer.
Ironically, this has meant that I have begun to neglect this space. Ironic, because a part of me wants the motorbike so that I will have more to write about here.
I still do have things to write about, and I will try to wring them out when I next have a moment and a portion of energy to spare. It has been 3 months!
I have since been to Dublin, fallen in love with Croatia, and made an hilarious cousin into an amazing friend on another jaunt into the Scottish countryside.
In the mean time, check out someone like Carla King for a preview of what I hope my next adventure might be like. She's a pretty cool solo biker chick, who writes as well as she appears to ride.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Upcoming...
Dublin, May 2-4.
Croatia (Zadar + possibly an island?), May 13-20.
Then no holiday days left from work. Or money to spare. But I think its worth it!
Croatia (Zadar + possibly an island?), May 13-20.
Then no holiday days left from work. Or money to spare. But I think its worth it!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Ich bin ein Berliner!
Speaking English first is a very handy skill to have. It is rare that you will visit a place where English is not understood by at least one person in the immediate vicinity (admittedly I haven't ventured far off the beaten track).
But it does come with an inherent set-back. Most of the people whom I have met that speak English first speak nothing second. I fall quite painfully and from a great height into this category, and I hate it.
I don't speak any other languages. If an Italian, an Indian, an Arab or an African approached me in the street for help, I would be relying on their English skills in order to provide some assistance, because lord knows they haven't a hope in hell with me.
It is something that I have almost come to resent about myself and the majority of English-speakers that I meet along the way. Especially those who espouse the view 'Why should I learn another language when everyone can understand me?'
The classic example is an American traveller whom I met in Berlin, describing an encounter that he had with a beggar in Rome. Pleading with him in Italian, this poor woman received the reply (in the harshest of Chicagoian accents) 'Woman, if you can't even beg in English then you ain't worth my time. Learn English if you want my money.'
I had to hide my frustration with this huge-sunglass-small-tshirt-tight-jeans-wearing boy by taking a large bite of bratwurst and chewing ferociously so that he wouldn't see my teeth grinding.
Until I asked myself - am I no better than he is? I can't speak Italian. Even when I tried, most of the time Italians don't understand me. And let's not even begin with my French, Spanish or German. Yet most Italians (and French and Spaniards and Germans) that I met could understand my English. I wonder how much of his English that beggar-woman understood?
There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. I found myself staring wide-eyed at a colleague of mine recently when she switched from English to fluent French when she realised that the person with whom she was speaking hailed from Paris. I found out later that she spent a year in Paris, and could also speak Spanish from time spent in Spain, and some broken German from a few months as a correspondent at a German newspaper.
Whilst now that the novelty has warn off her skill is less a topic of admiration and more a ground for practical joking (There's a call for you, and its someone German. No really. I swear. Yes, they only speak German. I would never lie to you!), I still find myself in awe of anyone with an English-speaking background who can speak a second language. Not even fluently - even just an understanding and a few broken spoken sentences are enough to earn my surprise and respect.
But it does come with an inherent set-back. Most of the people whom I have met that speak English first speak nothing second. I fall quite painfully and from a great height into this category, and I hate it.
I don't speak any other languages. If an Italian, an Indian, an Arab or an African approached me in the street for help, I would be relying on their English skills in order to provide some assistance, because lord knows they haven't a hope in hell with me.
It is something that I have almost come to resent about myself and the majority of English-speakers that I meet along the way. Especially those who espouse the view 'Why should I learn another language when everyone can understand me?'
The classic example is an American traveller whom I met in Berlin, describing an encounter that he had with a beggar in Rome. Pleading with him in Italian, this poor woman received the reply (in the harshest of Chicagoian accents) 'Woman, if you can't even beg in English then you ain't worth my time. Learn English if you want my money.'
I had to hide my frustration with this huge-sunglass-small-tshirt-tight-jeans-wearing boy by taking a large bite of bratwurst and chewing ferociously so that he wouldn't see my teeth grinding.
Until I asked myself - am I no better than he is? I can't speak Italian. Even when I tried, most of the time Italians don't understand me. And let's not even begin with my French, Spanish or German. Yet most Italians (and French and Spaniards and Germans) that I met could understand my English. I wonder how much of his English that beggar-woman understood?
There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. I found myself staring wide-eyed at a colleague of mine recently when she switched from English to fluent French when she realised that the person with whom she was speaking hailed from Paris. I found out later that she spent a year in Paris, and could also speak Spanish from time spent in Spain, and some broken German from a few months as a correspondent at a German newspaper.
Whilst now that the novelty has warn off her skill is less a topic of admiration and more a ground for practical joking (There's a call for you, and its someone German. No really. I swear. Yes, they only speak German. I would never lie to you!), I still find myself in awe of anyone with an English-speaking background who can speak a second language. Not even fluently - even just an understanding and a few broken spoken sentences are enough to earn my surprise and respect.
When JFK proudly proclaimed 'Ich bin ein Berliner!' to a cheering crowd in West Berlin, 1963 he earned (perhaps belatedly) a small amount of ridicule from the English-speaking world. In a rather abstract way, this phrase can be taken literally to mean 'I am a jelly donut' (although apparently it did not sound this way at all to the adoring crowd assembled on the day, and Kennedy's message rang loud and clear). And I admit that I used to have a giggle now and then when I saw it in history.
But really this is the sort of effort that we should all be making. Language is culture, and so often we travel not just to see places but to experience different cultures. You cannot experience a culture without at least attempting to speak some of the language. You cannot connect with people unless you show a willingness to understand the basis of their country.
Whilst us English-speakers might be at a disadvantage in that it is not really necessary for us to learn another language to get by, we need to be reminded every now and then that it is necessary for us if we want to travel completely and genuinely.
My girlfriend's fantastic French flatmate loves speaking English and has moved here (to Scotland) so he can practice everyday. Now he can not only travel to, but also connect with the English-speaking world as well as the French-speaking world. He can (metaphorically speaking) not only pronounce 'Je suis une personne française' (or something like that), but also 'I am an Englishman, I am a Scot, I am an Australian, I am an American, etc.' These are the broad horizons that I crave, and I hope to have them within my view one day in the near future.
Learning languages should not be feared, or seen as an unnecessary hobby. It is something that I aspire to, and hope to make the time to embrace so that perhaps one day I can also proudly stand in a room of jelly donuts and announce that I, too, am one of them.
My girlfriend's fantastic French flatmate loves speaking English and has moved here (to Scotland) so he can practice everyday. Now he can not only travel to, but also connect with the English-speaking world as well as the French-speaking world. He can (metaphorically speaking) not only pronounce 'Je suis une personne française' (or something like that), but also 'I am an Englishman, I am a Scot, I am an Australian, I am an American, etc.' These are the broad horizons that I crave, and I hope to have them within my view one day in the near future.
Learning languages should not be feared, or seen as an unnecessary hobby. It is something that I aspire to, and hope to make the time to embrace so that perhaps one day I can also proudly stand in a room of jelly donuts and announce that I, too, am one of them.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Poor, but sexy
Or so the recent advertising campaign goes...
I have been struggling with writing this post from the moment we flew back in to Edinburgh. And not for lack of inspiration.
Berlin is amazing. There really is something incredibly sexy about a city that has been rebuilding and renewing itself for over 60 years... Something dynamic, something very vibrant and alive. Berlin is the embodiment of a city with a truly genuine lifeforce that exists and breathes at the core of every building, every park, every citizen of this magnificent town.
So no, inspiration is definitely not a problem.
We spent an entire day on a cycle tour of the city, stopping to take in pieces of history (from Babelplatz, where Hitler held book burnings, to Checkpoint Charlie, where Russian and American tanks faced off through a small gap in the Berlin wall, all the way back to the Brandenburg Gate, which Napoleon's armies marched through in 1806), enjoy a beer and a bratwurst in a beer garden, and soak in some of the glorious weather that graced most of our trip.
There was a day of sunburn out in Potsdam, ambling between a series of beautiful palaces set in a sprawling manicured park which was just beginning to burst with the life of Springtime.
The Jewish Memorial for victims of the Holocaust moved many to tears, and left us silent for an age. Stories of misery and daring escapes sparkled in my mind as I walked through The House at Checkpoint Charlie, a museum dedicated to the people's struggles against (and through and over and under) the Berlin Wall.
My stomach enjoyed every moment of the fine international cuisine, as did my wallet enjoy the reasonable prices offered for great food and friendly service to match.
And the sunshine... Oh the sunshine! I spent 4 of our 6 days in just a t-shirt, with a very light jumper for the mornings and evenings. In fact, we spent almost 2 hours of our first day in Berlin just dozing on the grass in front of some of Berlin's finest old buildings, watching students stretch out with books, basking in the sun's warmth, and listening to the loud singing of some young Italian tourists.
You see, there is just so much to write about! And then there is the city itself, regardless of our travels.
A city that is almost 800 years old, which has served as the capital city of some of the world's most influential nations - from the proud Kingdom of Prussia, to the powerful German Empire, to modern-day Germany - Berlin is a city with a unique history and an enrapturing story. The Brandenburg Gate hosted Napoleon, saw the return of successful Prussian armies, farewelled troops of the German Empire into World War I and II. The Reichstag survived through the tumultuous times of the Weimar Republic, only to be gutted by a fire during Hitler's rise to power at the head of the National Socialists, and then stood dormant, powerless, watching the rapid rebuilding and then the devastating destruction of the city around it as history took her course. Potsdamer Platz was once Europe's busiest traffic intersection before it was practically cleft in two by opposing ideologies occupying opposite halves of one city.
And still the people of Berlin survived. Berlin's wounds are fresh, and her scars are deep, and the pain of the past is visible everywhere you turn. But the scars are beautiful, the wounds are closing over, and the pain is healing, leaving behind a trail of character, learning and progression. And today the people of Berlin continue, shaped by an incredible past, and moving forwards in an equally unique direction.
Anyone visiting Berlin would find themselves filled with inspiration. You could walk the streets of Berlin blindfolded and still come home with stories to tell. You could block out all the sounds of the city and still return singing the praises of one of Europe's most special places.
But how do you even begin to do it in such a way that does justice to this strangely encompassing experience?
That is the thing about Berlin. It is an experience. And there is no way that words or pictures, alone or combined, could do it justice. I cannot think of a single medium which can convey the soul-touching energy of Berlin.
All I can do is beg of you, each and every one of you, please, please visit Berlin. Actually no, don't visit it. Berlin isn't a place to be visited. It is a place to be challenged, to be given a chance, to be congratulated, to be breathed in, to be seen, to be experienced. I can guarantee that you will walk away with something in return.
Berlin may be financially poor. But she really is oh so sexy, in all the best and worst ways.
I have been struggling with writing this post from the moment we flew back in to Edinburgh. And not for lack of inspiration.
Berlin is amazing. There really is something incredibly sexy about a city that has been rebuilding and renewing itself for over 60 years... Something dynamic, something very vibrant and alive. Berlin is the embodiment of a city with a truly genuine lifeforce that exists and breathes at the core of every building, every park, every citizen of this magnificent town.
So no, inspiration is definitely not a problem.
We spent an entire day on a cycle tour of the city, stopping to take in pieces of history (from Babelplatz, where Hitler held book burnings, to Checkpoint Charlie, where Russian and American tanks faced off through a small gap in the Berlin wall, all the way back to the Brandenburg Gate, which Napoleon's armies marched through in 1806), enjoy a beer and a bratwurst in a beer garden, and soak in some of the glorious weather that graced most of our trip.
There was a day of sunburn out in Potsdam, ambling between a series of beautiful palaces set in a sprawling manicured park which was just beginning to burst with the life of Springtime.
The Jewish Memorial for victims of the Holocaust moved many to tears, and left us silent for an age. Stories of misery and daring escapes sparkled in my mind as I walked through The House at Checkpoint Charlie, a museum dedicated to the people's struggles against (and through and over and under) the Berlin Wall.
My stomach enjoyed every moment of the fine international cuisine, as did my wallet enjoy the reasonable prices offered for great food and friendly service to match.
And the sunshine... Oh the sunshine! I spent 4 of our 6 days in just a t-shirt, with a very light jumper for the mornings and evenings. In fact, we spent almost 2 hours of our first day in Berlin just dozing on the grass in front of some of Berlin's finest old buildings, watching students stretch out with books, basking in the sun's warmth, and listening to the loud singing of some young Italian tourists.
You see, there is just so much to write about! And then there is the city itself, regardless of our travels.
A city that is almost 800 years old, which has served as the capital city of some of the world's most influential nations - from the proud Kingdom of Prussia, to the powerful German Empire, to modern-day Germany - Berlin is a city with a unique history and an enrapturing story. The Brandenburg Gate hosted Napoleon, saw the return of successful Prussian armies, farewelled troops of the German Empire into World War I and II. The Reichstag survived through the tumultuous times of the Weimar Republic, only to be gutted by a fire during Hitler's rise to power at the head of the National Socialists, and then stood dormant, powerless, watching the rapid rebuilding and then the devastating destruction of the city around it as history took her course. Potsdamer Platz was once Europe's busiest traffic intersection before it was practically cleft in two by opposing ideologies occupying opposite halves of one city.
And still the people of Berlin survived. Berlin's wounds are fresh, and her scars are deep, and the pain of the past is visible everywhere you turn. But the scars are beautiful, the wounds are closing over, and the pain is healing, leaving behind a trail of character, learning and progression. And today the people of Berlin continue, shaped by an incredible past, and moving forwards in an equally unique direction.
Anyone visiting Berlin would find themselves filled with inspiration. You could walk the streets of Berlin blindfolded and still come home with stories to tell. You could block out all the sounds of the city and still return singing the praises of one of Europe's most special places.
But how do you even begin to do it in such a way that does justice to this strangely encompassing experience?
That is the thing about Berlin. It is an experience. And there is no way that words or pictures, alone or combined, could do it justice. I cannot think of a single medium which can convey the soul-touching energy of Berlin.
All I can do is beg of you, each and every one of you, please, please visit Berlin. Actually no, don't visit it. Berlin isn't a place to be visited. It is a place to be challenged, to be given a chance, to be congratulated, to be breathed in, to be seen, to be experienced. I can guarantee that you will walk away with something in return.
Berlin may be financially poor. But she really is oh so sexy, in all the best and worst ways.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Get outta town!
Since our return to Scotland in January, we have essentially been living in the same three or four streets for almost 3 full months. Life involves scampering from home to work to home, with an occasional stop at a cinema, cafe or pub. I didn't realise how depressing it was until about 6 weeks of the same old search for safety, coveting the comfort of the inviting indoors (how's that for alliteration!).
In the past few weeks I have come to fully appreciate the validity of the age-old cliche of a city 'coming back to life'. I have witnessed this phenomenon with my own eyes. The nicest part about the transition from winter to spring so far hasn't necessarily been the weather itself (although the lingering warmth of proper sunshine fills my heart with proper joy), but more the change in people.
Winter is a time when we feel as though there is no option but to hunker down, wrap up and try to outlast the extremes of nature. It is rather like a battle forced upon us - be it a fight against the wind and ice on your unfortunately-necessary walk to work, or a tussle with the creeping cold clutching at your toes as you huddle under the (seemingly thin) blanket at night.
There was nothing to do but to fight it and survive.
But Spring is the returning of choice.
People here can now decide for themselves whether they want to rush to work in a lighter jacket, or mingle a little longer and try to lap up the sunshine; we can now choose whether we would rather wear socks to bed and kick them off in the night, or have cool toes until the bed warms as we doze off in comfort.
It is the choice alone that seems to be making people so much happier. I know for a fact that some are still choosing to spend their time indoors, close to a radiator or a warm oven, or in their favourite coffee shops, waiting for the full-fledged fun of summer - and they are happy just knowing that they could still step outside and it wouldn't be so bad. But others are choosing to linger a little longer in the streets, still wrapped in jacket and scarf, but smiling as the sun touches their face or watching mesmerised as the light dances off windows and puddles and the glasses and jewellery of people walking by. And they are happy that they can now linger, that they can now look up and smile, and can still go home to the comfort of a cosy chair and a cup of tea. You see, in winter we don't even have the choice of looking up - to risk your chin rising from your chest is to risk a blast of freezing air running unabated down the front of your jacket.
Now that it is Spring we can look each other in the eye again. Or not, as is our choice.
Yesterday Spring presented us with a choice - we could remain sheltered in our three streets of Edinburgh, knowing that we were never far from the safety of a warm drink or the calm of a cafe. Or we could grab at the sunshine, step out of the beloved comfort zone, and make something more of the day.
Needless to say, we chose the latter. Our Saturday trip south to Roslin (including the Rosslyn Chapel, Castle and Glen) was wonderfully refreshing, and is hopefully a good indicator of times to come, times which include better weather, more travel and much more choice.
In the past few weeks I have come to fully appreciate the validity of the age-old cliche of a city 'coming back to life'. I have witnessed this phenomenon with my own eyes. The nicest part about the transition from winter to spring so far hasn't necessarily been the weather itself (although the lingering warmth of proper sunshine fills my heart with proper joy), but more the change in people.
Winter is a time when we feel as though there is no option but to hunker down, wrap up and try to outlast the extremes of nature. It is rather like a battle forced upon us - be it a fight against the wind and ice on your unfortunately-necessary walk to work, or a tussle with the creeping cold clutching at your toes as you huddle under the (seemingly thin) blanket at night.
There was nothing to do but to fight it and survive.
But Spring is the returning of choice.
People here can now decide for themselves whether they want to rush to work in a lighter jacket, or mingle a little longer and try to lap up the sunshine; we can now choose whether we would rather wear socks to bed and kick them off in the night, or have cool toes until the bed warms as we doze off in comfort.
It is the choice alone that seems to be making people so much happier. I know for a fact that some are still choosing to spend their time indoors, close to a radiator or a warm oven, or in their favourite coffee shops, waiting for the full-fledged fun of summer - and they are happy just knowing that they could still step outside and it wouldn't be so bad. But others are choosing to linger a little longer in the streets, still wrapped in jacket and scarf, but smiling as the sun touches their face or watching mesmerised as the light dances off windows and puddles and the glasses and jewellery of people walking by. And they are happy that they can now linger, that they can now look up and smile, and can still go home to the comfort of a cosy chair and a cup of tea. You see, in winter we don't even have the choice of looking up - to risk your chin rising from your chest is to risk a blast of freezing air running unabated down the front of your jacket.
Now that it is Spring we can look each other in the eye again. Or not, as is our choice.
Yesterday Spring presented us with a choice - we could remain sheltered in our three streets of Edinburgh, knowing that we were never far from the safety of a warm drink or the calm of a cafe. Or we could grab at the sunshine, step out of the beloved comfort zone, and make something more of the day.
Needless to say, we chose the latter. Our Saturday trip south to Roslin (including the Rosslyn Chapel, Castle and Glen) was wonderfully refreshing, and is hopefully a good indicator of times to come, times which include better weather, more travel and much more choice.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Navigating the doldrums
It has been cold in Edinburgh for as long as I can remember. The last time I wore just some short sleeves to protect me from the elements was in Barcelona, two and a half months ago.
Without any form of private transportation, it makes it difficult to escape in any way. Sometimes it feels like the city and the weather are holding us all captive - those of us lucky enough might get out and chase some sunshine on the weekends, but the rest of us stay put, lying a bit dormant, navigating the doldrums.
Soon winter will be over, and we'll get out and about once more. Until then, I must make myself content merely dreaming of warmer times past, and even warmer times to come.
Photos from Malaysia were of a great help to me in maintaining the dreams...
Without any form of private transportation, it makes it difficult to escape in any way. Sometimes it feels like the city and the weather are holding us all captive - those of us lucky enough might get out and chase some sunshine on the weekends, but the rest of us stay put, lying a bit dormant, navigating the doldrums.
Soon winter will be over, and we'll get out and about once more. Until then, I must make myself content merely dreaming of warmer times past, and even warmer times to come.
Photos from Malaysia were of a great help to me in maintaining the dreams...
Monday, March 9, 2009
Upcoming
Berlin, early April
Dublin, early May
Motorcycle tour in early autumn? A dream or a possibility?
Dublin, early May
Motorcycle tour in early autumn? A dream or a possibility?
Monday, February 23, 2009
What we leave behind
My mother always used to emphasise how much more enjoyable travelling becomes when you have an understanding of history. I think this played an important role in nurturing my fascination for information on times long (and not so long) past.
Whilst the UK has been an excellent historical experience, Rome was the first true eye-opener for me. Never before had I been confronted in such a way with relics of another age. Even living almost in the shadow of an 800 year old castle in Edinburgh could do nothing to prepare me for the deeper, longer and more thoroughly impressive shadows cast by 2000 year old cities lying in ruins before me.
'It is true that the Romans stole a lot from the Greeks - especially in philosophy and culture. But this is not to say that they produced cheap imitations of Greek social institutions; the Romans often took Greek ideas and built on them until the result was Roman perfection. This is never more evident than in Roman architecture.'
This is a paraphrased (and Anglicised) version of the opening blurb given by our Italian tour guide whilst we sheltered under one of the many archways of the Colosseum. It was pouring rain, and tourists were busy dodging shady-looking Bengali men chasing them with 'Cheap umbrellas! I give you good deal!'
All that I could think about was the history that lay literally beneath my feet. How many people had sheltered themselves beneath this colossus in the middle of an ancient city? If I could have travelled back in time over 1800 years, who would I have found standing in exactly the same position as I was then? What would they have looked like, what would they have been thinking? Would they have been as awe-struck by this amazing feat of human ingenuity? Would they have known that I would be standing in their place in 1800 years time? Would they have known to be proud of this structural feat?
'Romans tended to appreciate the Greek architecture, but did not appreciate the limitations that it presented. As the Greek structures were limited to square shapes, their height was also severely limited - there is only so much weight that the top of a square can bear. So the Romans invented the arch. The archway distributes the weight far more evenly, and allows for structures as tall and magnificent as this one - still standing proudly in the middle of a city that has changed endlessly around it; still striking awe and wonder in the eyes and minds of each and every person who sees it for the first time.'
After spending five days completely immersed in the enduring beauty left by a civilisation that perished over a thousand years ago, I was left with two thoughts predominating:
After so much time with my mouth gaping, would I still remember how to keep my bottom jaw from dragging along the ground?
After a thousand years, what would be left for our civilisation to be proud of? What have we produced that would last ages beyond us and give future generations as much as what previous civilisations have left for us?
Back in London for Christmas, I began searching for some sort of a sign that our epoch in history would provide an equally enduring mark as the Roman era did. Circling the Gherkin whilst looking for Spitalfield Markets on the East side of the city was as about as inspiring as staring across Circular Quay at the Toaster in Sydney. I was gradually resigning myself to the fact that there won't be much left behind when our time here ends and the next great period in the history of the world begins.
And the more that I thought about it, the less I liked this. I wanted to be a part of an era that I could be proud of. I wanted someone to be standing in my footsteps in 2000 years and wondering who I was, what I was thinking, what I looked like. (Me, me, ME!)
Somehow I doubted that a building like the Montparnasse Tower (which I wish I hadn't seen whilst) in Paris would last a few measly centuries, let alone making it through multiple millennia.
As all hope was about to disolve into complete despondency, I made my first visit to the city of Barcelona and saw my first Gaudi.
Antoni Gaudi's architecture is beyond words.
Only Gaudi managed to assuage my growing fears that my peers would leave nothing behind.
Gaudi was an architect who would push all engineering boundaries in order to live out the inspirations that he saw in nature. His designs not only paid tribute to the natural world in their style, but also attempted to incorporate a philosophy of natural living in their functionality.
For example, sitting under the branching pillars of the Sagrada Familia (Gaudi's unfinished masterpiece - an enormous Gothic cathedral which is still under construction), you get the same feeling of peace and tranquility as you would from sitting under the protective canopy of an ancient forest. I was sitting, effectively, in the middle of a construction site, yet I still found myself wanting to open my eyes wider, sink deeper into the floor, speak in whispers and ingest the very essence of the room. It was truly inspirational.
It is an intense experience.
Not even pictures can do it justice. The only way anyone could possibly come to appreciate one of his designs is to go and stand right in the middle of it and try not to forget to breathe.
Without dwelling too much more on the experience which is (apparently) beyond description (so why do I keep trying to describe it?), I just wanted to briefly return to my mother. The same mother that told me to learn history so that I may better appreciate the nature of the world around me.
For that lesson, I am eternally grateful Mother Dearest. It is because of you that I undertook a quest not just to enjoy the world, but to see it in a light that improved my understanding of it, in a light that showed me not just the ways to enjoy, but also why it is something to be enjoyed.
What I couldn't quite figure out is why it was so important to me that we leave behind buildings or constructions for the history books - why were the places important? Aren't the stories about who we are enough?
By chance I picked up a book along my travels from an amazing bookstore in downtown Seattle. Originally a gift for another, I found it in my suitcase on my return to Edinburgh and, having nothing else to read, decided that I would flick through the first few pages: The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton. In it, I found my answer...
"Belief in the significance of architecture is premised on the notion that we are, for better or for worse, different people in different places - and on the conviction that it is architecture's task to render vivid to us who we might ideally be."
We will be defined in history not just by the stories that we leave behind, but rather by the physical context in which those narratives can be found.
I hope that my story is found in a thousand years buried deep inside a building designed by a genius like Antoni Gaudi.
Whilst the UK has been an excellent historical experience, Rome was the first true eye-opener for me. Never before had I been confronted in such a way with relics of another age. Even living almost in the shadow of an 800 year old castle in Edinburgh could do nothing to prepare me for the deeper, longer and more thoroughly impressive shadows cast by 2000 year old cities lying in ruins before me.
'It is true that the Romans stole a lot from the Greeks - especially in philosophy and culture. But this is not to say that they produced cheap imitations of Greek social institutions; the Romans often took Greek ideas and built on them until the result was Roman perfection. This is never more evident than in Roman architecture.'
This is a paraphrased (and Anglicised) version of the opening blurb given by our Italian tour guide whilst we sheltered under one of the many archways of the Colosseum. It was pouring rain, and tourists were busy dodging shady-looking Bengali men chasing them with 'Cheap umbrellas! I give you good deal!'
All that I could think about was the history that lay literally beneath my feet. How many people had sheltered themselves beneath this colossus in the middle of an ancient city? If I could have travelled back in time over 1800 years, who would I have found standing in exactly the same position as I was then? What would they have looked like, what would they have been thinking? Would they have been as awe-struck by this amazing feat of human ingenuity? Would they have known that I would be standing in their place in 1800 years time? Would they have known to be proud of this structural feat?
'Romans tended to appreciate the Greek architecture, but did not appreciate the limitations that it presented. As the Greek structures were limited to square shapes, their height was also severely limited - there is only so much weight that the top of a square can bear. So the Romans invented the arch. The archway distributes the weight far more evenly, and allows for structures as tall and magnificent as this one - still standing proudly in the middle of a city that has changed endlessly around it; still striking awe and wonder in the eyes and minds of each and every person who sees it for the first time.'
After spending five days completely immersed in the enduring beauty left by a civilisation that perished over a thousand years ago, I was left with two thoughts predominating:
After so much time with my mouth gaping, would I still remember how to keep my bottom jaw from dragging along the ground?
After a thousand years, what would be left for our civilisation to be proud of? What have we produced that would last ages beyond us and give future generations as much as what previous civilisations have left for us?
Back in London for Christmas, I began searching for some sort of a sign that our epoch in history would provide an equally enduring mark as the Roman era did. Circling the Gherkin whilst looking for Spitalfield Markets on the East side of the city was as about as inspiring as staring across Circular Quay at the Toaster in Sydney. I was gradually resigning myself to the fact that there won't be much left behind when our time here ends and the next great period in the history of the world begins.
And the more that I thought about it, the less I liked this. I wanted to be a part of an era that I could be proud of. I wanted someone to be standing in my footsteps in 2000 years and wondering who I was, what I was thinking, what I looked like. (Me, me, ME!)
Somehow I doubted that a building like the Montparnasse Tower (which I wish I hadn't seen whilst) in Paris would last a few measly centuries, let alone making it through multiple millennia.
As all hope was about to disolve into complete despondency, I made my first visit to the city of Barcelona and saw my first Gaudi.
Antoni Gaudi's architecture is beyond words.
Only Gaudi managed to assuage my growing fears that my peers would leave nothing behind.
Gaudi was an architect who would push all engineering boundaries in order to live out the inspirations that he saw in nature. His designs not only paid tribute to the natural world in their style, but also attempted to incorporate a philosophy of natural living in their functionality.
For example, sitting under the branching pillars of the Sagrada Familia (Gaudi's unfinished masterpiece - an enormous Gothic cathedral which is still under construction), you get the same feeling of peace and tranquility as you would from sitting under the protective canopy of an ancient forest. I was sitting, effectively, in the middle of a construction site, yet I still found myself wanting to open my eyes wider, sink deeper into the floor, speak in whispers and ingest the very essence of the room. It was truly inspirational.
It is an intense experience.
Not even pictures can do it justice. The only way anyone could possibly come to appreciate one of his designs is to go and stand right in the middle of it and try not to forget to breathe.
Without dwelling too much more on the experience which is (apparently) beyond description (so why do I keep trying to describe it?), I just wanted to briefly return to my mother. The same mother that told me to learn history so that I may better appreciate the nature of the world around me.
For that lesson, I am eternally grateful Mother Dearest. It is because of you that I undertook a quest not just to enjoy the world, but to see it in a light that improved my understanding of it, in a light that showed me not just the ways to enjoy, but also why it is something to be enjoyed.
What I couldn't quite figure out is why it was so important to me that we leave behind buildings or constructions for the history books - why were the places important? Aren't the stories about who we are enough?
By chance I picked up a book along my travels from an amazing bookstore in downtown Seattle. Originally a gift for another, I found it in my suitcase on my return to Edinburgh and, having nothing else to read, decided that I would flick through the first few pages: The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton. In it, I found my answer...
"Belief in the significance of architecture is premised on the notion that we are, for better or for worse, different people in different places - and on the conviction that it is architecture's task to render vivid to us who we might ideally be."
We will be defined in history not just by the stories that we leave behind, but rather by the physical context in which those narratives can be found.
I hope that my story is found in a thousand years buried deep inside a building designed by a genius like Antoni Gaudi.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Re-visions
I've been thinking lately - yes, this may come as a surprise to some of you. And there are some instances whereby I would really like to be able to convert these thoughts into written words, and, more importantly, into some sort of discussion on occasion.
The first obvious place to turn would be to my blog. Oh Internet, with your endless space for mindless musings! At first look your Shores seem clogged with lost souls selling their thoughts for cheap thrills, but then again isn't your coastline of the infinite kind?
It is a bit scary that an infinite coastline can appear to be crowded.
Which made me return to my initial posts, and to my original intentions when beginning this blog. Really, the title says it all: The Adventures of Ham.
This is supposed to be a blog about adventures. The adventures of Ham, to be precise (Ham being a shortened version of Hamish, me). I think this blog needs to see a return not to more adventurous writing, but to more writing about adventures. About travels, about the world, about interesting happenings, places I have been and people that I have seen.
I haven't forgotten that my very reason for travelling was to 'gain some world perspective' - and this blog should still reflect that perspective that I am supposed to be gaining from the above-mentioned adventures. But 'adventures', 'adventure' and 'adventuring' shall remain the focus.
Therefore I am proposing two motions (proposed by me, seconded by myself and passed by I):
1. That I have more adventures, and spend a little more time sharing, in this blog, the adventures that I have already had, and;
2. That I may begin a second blog, which will focus more on the nurturing of perspective. I say 'may', because this motion only makes it a possibility, not a definite.
In line with Motion 1, I hope to begin writing about my initial forays into Europe in a little more detail in the very near future, and share my potential plans for future adventures.
Regarding Motion 2, I will begin experimenting with the idea of taking up more space on the proverbial beaches of the internet. Being an idealist, I need to give careful consideration to whether or not I can muster the effort required to fully utilise this second space. If I can justify it, begin it, and maintain it, then I will include a link to it in a future post on this blog.
So please, stay posted. And please, don't be afraid to leave some feedback!
More adventures to come...
The first obvious place to turn would be to my blog. Oh Internet, with your endless space for mindless musings! At first look your Shores seem clogged with lost souls selling their thoughts for cheap thrills, but then again isn't your coastline of the infinite kind?
It is a bit scary that an infinite coastline can appear to be crowded.
Which made me return to my initial posts, and to my original intentions when beginning this blog. Really, the title says it all: The Adventures of Ham.
This is supposed to be a blog about adventures. The adventures of Ham, to be precise (Ham being a shortened version of Hamish, me). I think this blog needs to see a return not to more adventurous writing, but to more writing about adventures. About travels, about the world, about interesting happenings, places I have been and people that I have seen.
I haven't forgotten that my very reason for travelling was to 'gain some world perspective' - and this blog should still reflect that perspective that I am supposed to be gaining from the above-mentioned adventures. But 'adventures', 'adventure' and 'adventuring' shall remain the focus.
Therefore I am proposing two motions (proposed by me, seconded by myself and passed by I):
1. That I have more adventures, and spend a little more time sharing, in this blog, the adventures that I have already had, and;
2. That I may begin a second blog, which will focus more on the nurturing of perspective. I say 'may', because this motion only makes it a possibility, not a definite.
In line with Motion 1, I hope to begin writing about my initial forays into Europe in a little more detail in the very near future, and share my potential plans for future adventures.
Regarding Motion 2, I will begin experimenting with the idea of taking up more space on the proverbial beaches of the internet. Being an idealist, I need to give careful consideration to whether or not I can muster the effort required to fully utilise this second space. If I can justify it, begin it, and maintain it, then I will include a link to it in a future post on this blog.
So please, stay posted. And please, don't be afraid to leave some feedback!
More adventures to come...
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
And a spoonful of sugar.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Take a step to the left...
There is one particular, consistent phenomenon that always, without fail, will inspire road rage in me. Even pedestrian rage in these car-less/bike-less times.
Inconsistency.
I can't stand inconsistent drivers. Or walkers for that matter.
I came to this realisation on a long stretch of road somewhere between Brisbane and Sydney, just after I got my P-plates and was riding on the back of a screaming 250CC sportsbike going just a little bit quicker than I should have been (given that the speed limit for a P-plater is 90km/h).
Not much quicker - I was probably averaging about 95km/h. But I was wanting to get home. I had just spent a wonderful weekend with my darling friend from Queensland in a muddy, soaked tent in Byron Bay at the East Coast Blues Festival. I had a dinner to be at that night, but was still a good few hundred kilometres from the warm shower and the change of clean clothes that I needed before I could take my place at a dinner table in a nice restaurant with my cousins from New York.
I have told this epic many times before, so will spare most details.
I wanted to be going 110km/h. I was going 95km/h because 110km/h would have placed me somewhere in the back seat of the Holden Commodore in front. Anyone who has driven the Pacific Highway north would know that there aren't often overtaking opportunities, especially when you are on a small-engined bike which you're already pushing hard. There just wasn't the power beneath my bum to zip around the car without getting hit by that oncoming semi.
So come the overtaking lane (a welcome sight if ever there was one), I twisted the throttle and watched the needle slowly creep up towards that magic 115km/h mark which would put me past this Commodore and let me cruise at the wonderfully tempting 110.
Deeming that I had enough speed to move out into the lane beside and make my dash for freedom, I checked my mirrors, my blind spot, indicated and went for it.
I was gaining slowly on the Commodore. The needle was at 105. Drew up level at 110km/h. Just a little bit more and I would be far enough in front to claim this road ahead as mine to command!
At 112km/h I noticed something curious. The Commodore was pulling away from me. At 115km/h (at which point my engine was verbally protesting with the vigour of a young child being smacked by an angry parent) the Commodore was clearly in front again. Try as I might, I could not make up those few more metres needed to squeeze in front.
At 118km/h (with not enough riding experience behind me to maintain those speeds on a rattly little ZZR250), I resigned. But don't mistake my resignation for disappointment. I pulled in behind the Commodore, tucked down below my fairing, and congratulated myself on reminding the driver that this was a good road with a speed limit of 110km/h and absolutely no reason not to be doing it. Home was feeling closer already.
As the overtaking lane ended and I made myself comfortable cruising along at the wonderous 11o, my thoughts drifted ahead to the warmth and comfort of home and friends and family. As much as I love being on the back of a motorbike, highway riding is not very inspiring. And the ZZR is not known for its comfort on long, solo journeys with stops only to refuel.
What's this? In my comfort has my hand twisted a little more? Have I edged above 110? Why am I needing to suddenly pull on my brakes and drop back from the boot of the Holden in front?
I checked my speed. 95km/h.
Why?!!?!
Sign post on the side of the road: Next overtaking lane 3km.
I read: Next chance for revenge and a quick trip home 3km.
In 3km time I tried again to zoom past this annoyance. In fact I even took a run up at it, beginning my run a good 300m before the overtaking lane - you need a bit of a headstart when competing with an engine literally 20 times the size of your own.
To no avail. The Commodore sped up to about 125km/h, successfully staying ahead of me, before dropping back to 95km/h once we were back to a one-lane road.
We danced like this another 3 times before the Commodore's empty fuel tank or the driver's need for fast food proved to be my saviour.
In all my attempts I did get close enough on one occasion to see the driver. I don't even think he had registered my existence. He definitely wasn't trying to speed up and cut me off on purpose (you know if someone is driving with ill-intent towards you when you are on a motorcycle). This just furthered my frustration.
He wasn't doing this on purpose. He was just an inconsistent driver. And at the end of our tango, I found myself fuming at being stuck behind this tonne of inconsistency for a 60km stretch of my ride home.
In a similar way I can't stand to be stuck behind people who stagger all over a footpath, following no clear direction, offering inconsistent speeds and then absolutely no warning when they decide to stop in the middle of a crowd.
This is becoming an even more apparent problem in these colder times. Footpaths in Edinburgh can be as slippery as a snake's smooth stomach, especially after a dump of snow overnight. Maneuvering around obstacles is difficult, negotiating the quickest route to work when you are already running 10 minutes late is tricky enough without having to calculate for the errant and erratic movements of aimless wanderers.
To add to it all, I have inherited the Northern tendency to walk with my head down, minimising weather exposure to my all-too-vulnerable neck and chest. And to keep snow out of my eyes. More than once I have looked up to find that the person in front of me has stopped to pull a phone from their pocket, or greet a friend in the middle of a packed, narrow, icy city footpath.
This problem could be easily solved with a set of simple pedestrian rules which encouraged consistent, predictable movement in high-traffic areas at peak times. For example maintaining a constant speed, or checking one's blind spots before stepping suddenly at right angles across three lanes of pedestrian traffic to look in a shopfront window.
I am learning, however, that the world is an extremely inconsistent place.
And that sometimes unpredictability is as intriguing, exciting and thrilling as consistency can be comforting.
That doesn't make it any less frustrating!
Inconsistency.
I can't stand inconsistent drivers. Or walkers for that matter.
I came to this realisation on a long stretch of road somewhere between Brisbane and Sydney, just after I got my P-plates and was riding on the back of a screaming 250CC sportsbike going just a little bit quicker than I should have been (given that the speed limit for a P-plater is 90km/h).
Not much quicker - I was probably averaging about 95km/h. But I was wanting to get home. I had just spent a wonderful weekend with my darling friend from Queensland in a muddy, soaked tent in Byron Bay at the East Coast Blues Festival. I had a dinner to be at that night, but was still a good few hundred kilometres from the warm shower and the change of clean clothes that I needed before I could take my place at a dinner table in a nice restaurant with my cousins from New York.
I have told this epic many times before, so will spare most details.
I wanted to be going 110km/h. I was going 95km/h because 110km/h would have placed me somewhere in the back seat of the Holden Commodore in front. Anyone who has driven the Pacific Highway north would know that there aren't often overtaking opportunities, especially when you are on a small-engined bike which you're already pushing hard. There just wasn't the power beneath my bum to zip around the car without getting hit by that oncoming semi.
So come the overtaking lane (a welcome sight if ever there was one), I twisted the throttle and watched the needle slowly creep up towards that magic 115km/h mark which would put me past this Commodore and let me cruise at the wonderfully tempting 110.
Deeming that I had enough speed to move out into the lane beside and make my dash for freedom, I checked my mirrors, my blind spot, indicated and went for it.
I was gaining slowly on the Commodore. The needle was at 105. Drew up level at 110km/h. Just a little bit more and I would be far enough in front to claim this road ahead as mine to command!
At 112km/h I noticed something curious. The Commodore was pulling away from me. At 115km/h (at which point my engine was verbally protesting with the vigour of a young child being smacked by an angry parent) the Commodore was clearly in front again. Try as I might, I could not make up those few more metres needed to squeeze in front.
At 118km/h (with not enough riding experience behind me to maintain those speeds on a rattly little ZZR250), I resigned. But don't mistake my resignation for disappointment. I pulled in behind the Commodore, tucked down below my fairing, and congratulated myself on reminding the driver that this was a good road with a speed limit of 110km/h and absolutely no reason not to be doing it. Home was feeling closer already.
As the overtaking lane ended and I made myself comfortable cruising along at the wonderous 11o, my thoughts drifted ahead to the warmth and comfort of home and friends and family. As much as I love being on the back of a motorbike, highway riding is not very inspiring. And the ZZR is not known for its comfort on long, solo journeys with stops only to refuel.
What's this? In my comfort has my hand twisted a little more? Have I edged above 110? Why am I needing to suddenly pull on my brakes and drop back from the boot of the Holden in front?
I checked my speed. 95km/h.
Why?!!?!
Sign post on the side of the road: Next overtaking lane 3km.
I read: Next chance for revenge and a quick trip home 3km.
In 3km time I tried again to zoom past this annoyance. In fact I even took a run up at it, beginning my run a good 300m before the overtaking lane - you need a bit of a headstart when competing with an engine literally 20 times the size of your own.
To no avail. The Commodore sped up to about 125km/h, successfully staying ahead of me, before dropping back to 95km/h once we were back to a one-lane road.
We danced like this another 3 times before the Commodore's empty fuel tank or the driver's need for fast food proved to be my saviour.
In all my attempts I did get close enough on one occasion to see the driver. I don't even think he had registered my existence. He definitely wasn't trying to speed up and cut me off on purpose (you know if someone is driving with ill-intent towards you when you are on a motorcycle). This just furthered my frustration.
He wasn't doing this on purpose. He was just an inconsistent driver. And at the end of our tango, I found myself fuming at being stuck behind this tonne of inconsistency for a 60km stretch of my ride home.
In a similar way I can't stand to be stuck behind people who stagger all over a footpath, following no clear direction, offering inconsistent speeds and then absolutely no warning when they decide to stop in the middle of a crowd.
This is becoming an even more apparent problem in these colder times. Footpaths in Edinburgh can be as slippery as a snake's smooth stomach, especially after a dump of snow overnight. Maneuvering around obstacles is difficult, negotiating the quickest route to work when you are already running 10 minutes late is tricky enough without having to calculate for the errant and erratic movements of aimless wanderers.
To add to it all, I have inherited the Northern tendency to walk with my head down, minimising weather exposure to my all-too-vulnerable neck and chest. And to keep snow out of my eyes. More than once I have looked up to find that the person in front of me has stopped to pull a phone from their pocket, or greet a friend in the middle of a packed, narrow, icy city footpath.
This problem could be easily solved with a set of simple pedestrian rules which encouraged consistent, predictable movement in high-traffic areas at peak times. For example maintaining a constant speed, or checking one's blind spots before stepping suddenly at right angles across three lanes of pedestrian traffic to look in a shopfront window.
I am learning, however, that the world is an extremely inconsistent place.
And that sometimes unpredictability is as intriguing, exciting and thrilling as consistency can be comforting.
That doesn't make it any less frustrating!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Genuine all-rounder
"What a start for the young racer Hamish on this cloudy Edinburgh evening! He's been looking strong all season so far, this fresh face to the world of pedestrian racing shows great promise for the future"
"That he does Barry, that he does. Look at his form, weaving a path straight from the start line... I look at him and I think to myself 'There's a man with a mission, there's a man with a mission'"
"I think you could be right there Mick, he's the type of racer that has nothing but the finish line in mind right from the word 'Go!' That being said, conditions are a little tricky this evening..."
"That they are Barry, that they are. Its a cold one tonight in Edinburgh, road surface is a little slippery, yet young Hamish has still opted for the slicks"
"Yes, I'm not sure if that is a move showing youthful recklessness or is it mere naivety...?"
"Well Barry, you know as well as anyone how hard the adjustment can be for a Southerner..."
"Mick, if you're referring to my horrendous first season of snow racing, I suggest you change the-"
"Jeez, look at that bold overtaking manouvre! He's really striding out now, no concerns for the icy conditions! He's got a fine weave on him this boy, a fine weave"
"Let's just watch that back again... The rear foot sliding through on those smooth slicks underfoot as he deftly cuts across with a big leading left. That's bold with a capital B, Mick"
"Bold is right, Barry, but what's this... What's this?! Could it be-?"
"Snow!"
"Oh and its really coming down, Barry, pouring down. Cats and dogs me ol' mum'd say, cats and dogs. I wonder if this is going to force this young racer to have a change of race plan?"
"Ooooh! Well, with the way he's sliding about now heading down this slight rise in the track, I think he might need to review his game strategy. He's still showing some resilience in his face, but Mick if you check the clock, his pace has definitely been affected"
"Understandably so, its really coming down Barry-"
"Yes Mick, you said that, we get it, its snowing"
"Oh! Oh! Big slide! Oh he was lucky to retain his balance on that one, skill had nothing to do with it."
"You're right Mick, this is just recklessness. I know he is inexperienced in the snow, but he is not showing anywhere near enough regard for the conditions out there today. And still persisting with those slicks, surely its time for a change?!"
"Well Barry he's nearing the pits he is, we'll see soon enough if this kid has more brains than balls..."
"I certainly hope he does, for his safety's sake, Mick. This could turn ugly."
"There we go Barry, sure enough, the youngster's pulled himself into the pits for a quick restock of supplies for the rest of the evening."
"Straight into the kitchen for some food supplies for his dinner over at the finish line. Oh and some of his girlfriend's clean washing too. But let's see if he removes the slick leather shoes in favour of something with a little more grip..."
"The shoes are off, but what is that he is reaching for...? I don't believe my eyes... Are those-?"
"Dunlops?! But nobody races on Dunlops! I thought they weren't even available outside Australia?!"
"That is definitely a pair of imported Dunlops, black Dunlop Volleys to be precise. Well this is an unprecedented move from the inexperienced young antipodean, Barry."
"Surely they aren't made from the right materials for this type of race-conditions, Mick. I don't want to pre-empt disaster for this promising racer, but I can't see anyone pulling off a brazen move like this one."
"I don't know about that Barry, I don't know, this boy isn't any fool. You know I hear that Dunlops are quite versatile - shoe of choice for even roof tilers back in Australia."
"You're not trying to tell me that you think this is a smart choice are you, Mick?"
"All I'm saying is that I'm not saying anything just yet, Barry. Not saying anything at all. I'm going to wait this one out and see what happens."
"Well you won't be waiting for long. He's on his way out of the pit lane, down the stairs and back out into the weather to rejoin the race. Let's see how his Dunlops fair in this proper Northern weather."
"I can hear the pessimism in your voice, Barry. But his first few steps are looking ok so far. Look at that, even better than ok... He's upping the pace, Barry, getting quicker and quicker."
"Impossible! I... I-! In my 30 years in pedestrian racing I have never-!"
"Well seeing is believing Barry, seeing is believing. Look at that kid go! I believe I am going to have to go out and find a pair of Dunlop Volleys for myself, I am. Amazing stuff. Amazing shoe!"
"Quite extraordinary indeed Mick. Who would have thought..."
"There we go Barry, sure enough, the youngster's pulled himself into the pits for a quick restock of supplies for the rest of the evening."
"Straight into the kitchen for some food supplies for his dinner over at the finish line. Oh and some of his girlfriend's clean washing too. But let's see if he removes the slick leather shoes in favour of something with a little more grip..."
"The shoes are off, but what is that he is reaching for...? I don't believe my eyes... Are those-?"
"Dunlops?! But nobody races on Dunlops! I thought they weren't even available outside Australia?!"
"That is definitely a pair of imported Dunlops, black Dunlop Volleys to be precise. Well this is an unprecedented move from the inexperienced young antipodean, Barry."
"Surely they aren't made from the right materials for this type of race-conditions, Mick. I don't want to pre-empt disaster for this promising racer, but I can't see anyone pulling off a brazen move like this one."
"I don't know about that Barry, I don't know, this boy isn't any fool. You know I hear that Dunlops are quite versatile - shoe of choice for even roof tilers back in Australia."
"You're not trying to tell me that you think this is a smart choice are you, Mick?"
"All I'm saying is that I'm not saying anything just yet, Barry. Not saying anything at all. I'm going to wait this one out and see what happens."
"Well you won't be waiting for long. He's on his way out of the pit lane, down the stairs and back out into the weather to rejoin the race. Let's see how his Dunlops fair in this proper Northern weather."
"I can hear the pessimism in your voice, Barry. But his first few steps are looking ok so far. Look at that, even better than ok... He's upping the pace, Barry, getting quicker and quicker."
"Impossible! I... I-! In my 30 years in pedestrian racing I have never-!"
"Well seeing is believing Barry, seeing is believing. Look at that kid go! I believe I am going to have to go out and find a pair of Dunlop Volleys for myself, I am. Amazing stuff. Amazing shoe!"
"Quite extraordinary indeed Mick. Who would have thought..."
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
From K-rations to C-rations
I think I might release a cereal called the Credit Crunch. The list of ingredients would read: dust. Hey, its free!
Some advice from comrades in arms battling a wavering UK economy and scrimping on every cent:
Credit Crunch Latte - "Pour some milk in a glass jar, heat in microwave. Take it out, put the lid on and shake till your arm goes numb. Add to a small amount of instant coffee paste (cheap German brand from Lidl/Aldi) and stir. Credit Crunch Latte."
Credit Crunch Munch - "Hamish, I'm so hungry! I end up eating all my wages!"
"Carrots. A chocolate bar costs 59p (AUD 1.50), a packet of crisps costs 45p (AUD 1.10). An apple costs about 20p (AUD 0.45). The solution is carrots. One carrot costs 10p. Eat as many as you like. By as many as you like I really mean one."
Poor man's pasta - "Place some cheap pasta in boiling water and boil until cooked. For protein, add can of drained chickpeas (39p) or grate small amount of cheap cheese and stir through. Pinch of dried herbs for cheap flavour."
C-ration fuel - "Open a box of cereal. Eat some. Walk."
Vegetable soup - Really, do I need to say any more?
Credit Crisis Saturday - "Instead of going to parties, work at them. You still get to dress up (as a penguin), you still get to drink (out of people's dirty glasses at the end of the night), you get fed (no really, they usually feed you!), and you get paid. What a night!"
Guess what I'm doing tomorrow...
Some advice from comrades in arms battling a wavering UK economy and scrimping on every cent:
Credit Crunch Latte - "Pour some milk in a glass jar, heat in microwave. Take it out, put the lid on and shake till your arm goes numb. Add to a small amount of instant coffee paste (cheap German brand from Lidl/Aldi) and stir. Credit Crunch Latte."
Credit Crunch Munch - "Hamish, I'm so hungry! I end up eating all my wages!"
"Carrots. A chocolate bar costs 59p (AUD 1.50), a packet of crisps costs 45p (AUD 1.10). An apple costs about 20p (AUD 0.45). The solution is carrots. One carrot costs 10p. Eat as many as you like. By as many as you like I really mean one."
Poor man's pasta - "Place some cheap pasta in boiling water and boil until cooked. For protein, add can of drained chickpeas (39p) or grate small amount of cheap cheese and stir through. Pinch of dried herbs for cheap flavour."
C-ration fuel - "Open a box of cereal. Eat some. Walk."
Vegetable soup - Really, do I need to say any more?
Credit Crisis Saturday - "Instead of going to parties, work at them. You still get to dress up (as a penguin), you still get to drink (out of people's dirty glasses at the end of the night), you get fed (no really, they usually feed you!), and you get paid. What a night!"
Guess what I'm doing tomorrow...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
