Tuesday, March 31, 2009
new blog
If you want to keep following my footsteps and find out all the about "the commonest events", come and find La Via Da Qui - The Way From Here.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
da qui, la traccia punta in tutti i sensi
// from here, the trail leads in all directions
"I want to live ever as to derive my satisfactions and inspirations from the commonest events, every‑day phenomena, so that what my senses hourly perceive, my daily walk, the conversation of my neighbours, may inspire me, and I may dream of no heaven but that which lies about me."
‑ Henry David Thoreau
A wise woman once told me that to wander is a good choice. My instincts agreed, so for the first time I set out on an adventure with no clear goal, not knowing what I hoped to learn.
When one wanders the world, one discovers not the world, but oneself. The act of peeling back the layers of the places I've seen and the people I've met has made me more calm, more tolerant, kinder and happier and more pliant. I worry less and I contemplate rather than think. I am more brave, less wary but more aware, harder to irritate, less materialistic (but I still like stuff), more of a dreamer but better tethered to the foundation of reality. I have far less direction but am far more certain of the path I am treading.
In my time away I've missed four things; the silent majesty of my land, the nurturing fellowship of my people, and the deep myriad colours of a life lived among them. Also, my washing machine.
Over the coming years I know that I will leave these things behind time and again, to travel further and further into the many worlds that make up Earth. I want to see the Amazon, Russia and especially Siberia, maybe India, Bolivia, Peru, return to see more of Morocco. I'll wander through China and Japan and tiny countries whose name nobody knows. I'll meet strange people and speak in strange tongues and try strange fruit. I'll unearth more and more of the world's ancient mysteries to compare their different hues, never forgetting that they are all made of the same dust. I will gradually perfect the art of travelling, but I will always come back.
Travel is an incredible thing; it answers questions buried so deeply within you that you never thought to ask them. Since I was young, I have looked to the horizon wondering where life's greatest adventures lie. After wandering the earth for all this time I finally have the answer;
life's greatest adventures are found at home.
"I want to live ever as to derive my satisfactions and inspirations from the commonest events, every‑day phenomena, so that what my senses hourly perceive, my daily walk, the conversation of my neighbours, may inspire me, and I may dream of no heaven but that which lies about me."
‑ Henry David Thoreau
A wise woman once told me that to wander is a good choice. My instincts agreed, so for the first time I set out on an adventure with no clear goal, not knowing what I hoped to learn.
When one wanders the world, one discovers not the world, but oneself. The act of peeling back the layers of the places I've seen and the people I've met has made me more calm, more tolerant, kinder and happier and more pliant. I worry less and I contemplate rather than think. I am more brave, less wary but more aware, harder to irritate, less materialistic (but I still like stuff), more of a dreamer but better tethered to the foundation of reality. I have far less direction but am far more certain of the path I am treading.
In my time away I've missed four things; the silent majesty of my land, the nurturing fellowship of my people, and the deep myriad colours of a life lived among them. Also, my washing machine.
Over the coming years I know that I will leave these things behind time and again, to travel further and further into the many worlds that make up Earth. I want to see the Amazon, Russia and especially Siberia, maybe India, Bolivia, Peru, return to see more of Morocco. I'll wander through China and Japan and tiny countries whose name nobody knows. I'll meet strange people and speak in strange tongues and try strange fruit. I'll unearth more and more of the world's ancient mysteries to compare their different hues, never forgetting that they are all made of the same dust. I will gradually perfect the art of travelling, but I will always come back.
Travel is an incredible thing; it answers questions buried so deeply within you that you never thought to ask them. Since I was young, I have looked to the horizon wondering where life's greatest adventures lie. After wandering the earth for all this time I finally have the answer;
life's greatest adventures are found at home.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
cold sake from a jar
Tokyo lived up to very few expectations. It wasn't a huge culture shock, there weren't crazy little cosplay girls dressed up in the streets, there wasn't a crazily busy atmosphere, but there were some surprises.
The first impression of Tokyo is the opposite to what one expects. On arrival I was immediately struck by a few things; the subway system is huge and expensive, the food is of extremely high quality and the city is strangely quiet for a place so populated.
Tokyo is one of the most densely populated places in the world. It boasts a famous intersection through which three million travel each day and a subway station that sees so many commuters that conductors have to push people into the trains like rugby players. Yet the place is so quiet that it's eerie at first. Horns are not honked unless in absolute necessity. People talk quietly or not at all. The Japanese are sweet and helpful and terribly polite of course. They look shocked, confused and slightly terrified when someone crosses the road without waiting for the little green walking man. Being surrounded by so many tiny little polite people made me feel like a big galumphing elephant.
I spent my time in Tokyo wandering through each suburb, marvelling at how distinct they all were. Harajuku is where the cosplayers hang out - young people who dress up with a lot of face paint and crazy clothes. The locals complained about them so there are very few these days but for a few years they were a major tourist attraction. Teenage girls shop in Harajuku's streets, surrounded by cute little animals and pink stuff and street signs that look like bags of lollies.
Roppongi is for the nightlife, the high class shopping and the sushi. (There are parts of Tokyo where sushi cannot be found.) Shibuya and Shinjuku are busy, neon lit, full of shopping centres for more young girls and streets full of cars that all behave themselves. Asakusa is the old Tokyo, harking back to the Edo period, old temples and shrines, traditional restaurants, streets that lack skyscrapers and radiate an aura of calm. Tokyo's fake food street is also here - the city is famous for its fake food which acts as a menu in most restaurants. In fact, fake food chefs complete a two year diploma before they are allowed to sculpt these perfect renditions of a restaurant's meals.
The Craig boys (Jason and Jonathan) joined me for the last two days of my stay and together we explored the delights of cold sake from a jar, eel gizzards, plum pancakes, the tuna auction at Tokyo's fish markets, the Soy Bean Festival to celebrate the end of winter and, most importantly, the necessity of wearing a surgical type mask over one's mouth in the interest of fitting in.
Tokyo is a place that cannot be discovered by a white face in a short time. Stories abound of locals taking foreign friends on strange tours of underground sex clubs, secret and ancient restaurants, deep into the culture of Tokyo that can be glimpsed at every corner but never focussed on for long. Like the rest of Japan, there is a feeling of strange magic surging under all the polite bows and quiet feet.
The first impression of Tokyo is the opposite to what one expects. On arrival I was immediately struck by a few things; the subway system is huge and expensive, the food is of extremely high quality and the city is strangely quiet for a place so populated.
Tokyo is one of the most densely populated places in the world. It boasts a famous intersection through which three million travel each day and a subway station that sees so many commuters that conductors have to push people into the trains like rugby players. Yet the place is so quiet that it's eerie at first. Horns are not honked unless in absolute necessity. People talk quietly or not at all. The Japanese are sweet and helpful and terribly polite of course. They look shocked, confused and slightly terrified when someone crosses the road without waiting for the little green walking man. Being surrounded by so many tiny little polite people made me feel like a big galumphing elephant.
I spent my time in Tokyo wandering through each suburb, marvelling at how distinct they all were. Harajuku is where the cosplayers hang out - young people who dress up with a lot of face paint and crazy clothes. The locals complained about them so there are very few these days but for a few years they were a major tourist attraction. Teenage girls shop in Harajuku's streets, surrounded by cute little animals and pink stuff and street signs that look like bags of lollies.
Roppongi is for the nightlife, the high class shopping and the sushi. (There are parts of Tokyo where sushi cannot be found.) Shibuya and Shinjuku are busy, neon lit, full of shopping centres for more young girls and streets full of cars that all behave themselves. Asakusa is the old Tokyo, harking back to the Edo period, old temples and shrines, traditional restaurants, streets that lack skyscrapers and radiate an aura of calm. Tokyo's fake food street is also here - the city is famous for its fake food which acts as a menu in most restaurants. In fact, fake food chefs complete a two year diploma before they are allowed to sculpt these perfect renditions of a restaurant's meals.
The Craig boys (Jason and Jonathan) joined me for the last two days of my stay and together we explored the delights of cold sake from a jar, eel gizzards, plum pancakes, the tuna auction at Tokyo's fish markets, the Soy Bean Festival to celebrate the end of winter and, most importantly, the necessity of wearing a surgical type mask over one's mouth in the interest of fitting in.
Tokyo is a place that cannot be discovered by a white face in a short time. Stories abound of locals taking foreign friends on strange tours of underground sex clubs, secret and ancient restaurants, deep into the culture of Tokyo that can be glimpsed at every corner but never focussed on for long. Like the rest of Japan, there is a feeling of strange magic surging under all the polite bows and quiet feet.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
inauguration blues
"New York is a blue state, nobody here was responsible for inflicting that man on the world."
The inauguration of Obama was a big deal, obviously. People braved temperatures well below zero to watch it live, there were car pools and buses and even limos available for hire from NYC to DC, party style with cocktails and music to pass the time. I decided that wandering down to one of the local venues that was screening it would be good enough for me, so at 11:30 I followed the crowd past Ground Zero toward Trinity Church, clouds of frozen breath sailing behind us all but a feeling of exuberance in spite of the cold.
The Church was full long before I got there but a group of people nearby welcomed me into their fold and together we went to an underground pub which had tv screens and - more importantly - beer. In typical New Yorker fashion they were friendly, asked me a ton of questions about my trip (one girl wanted to know if I was on my walkabout - nice job Baz Luhrmann) and they took it in turns leaning over to explain to me who various political players were and why their involvement in the ceremony was or wasn't a controversial choice.
Obama stuffed up the swearing in a little. The guy that gave him his lines added a few too many in there at once, most likely on purpose as they are apparently not on the same side of politics. Nobody minded, everybody loves him enough that there was a bit of a laugh and then it was forgotten. At the official announcement of the 44th president the room and indeed the country erupted into cheers.
"America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship... let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."
As expected, Obama's speech was superb.
"On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord."
It's funny, there is a lot of fear in the US and especially New York about terrorism. Bush's supporters have all said that he saved the US from further terrorist attacks. But walking down the streets in Harlem or Brooklyn or Chelsea or even Manhattan, it wasn't the terrorists I was afraid of, it was the locals. No matter how black their president is, how much strength their economy manages to regain, or how many times they 'say something' when they 'see something', the people of America need to realise that the greatest threat to the US comes from her own population. The election of this president seems a great step in the right direction, but I hope he isn't expected to do it all on his own.
I kept my thoughts to myself and after the speech was over, I left my inauguration buddies and went to a nearby discount store to buy clothes of green and gold for Australia Day. God may bless America, but I thank God I was born in Australia.
The inauguration of Obama was a big deal, obviously. People braved temperatures well below zero to watch it live, there were car pools and buses and even limos available for hire from NYC to DC, party style with cocktails and music to pass the time. I decided that wandering down to one of the local venues that was screening it would be good enough for me, so at 11:30 I followed the crowd past Ground Zero toward Trinity Church, clouds of frozen breath sailing behind us all but a feeling of exuberance in spite of the cold.
The Church was full long before I got there but a group of people nearby welcomed me into their fold and together we went to an underground pub which had tv screens and - more importantly - beer. In typical New Yorker fashion they were friendly, asked me a ton of questions about my trip (one girl wanted to know if I was on my walkabout - nice job Baz Luhrmann) and they took it in turns leaning over to explain to me who various political players were and why their involvement in the ceremony was or wasn't a controversial choice.
Obama stuffed up the swearing in a little. The guy that gave him his lines added a few too many in there at once, most likely on purpose as they are apparently not on the same side of politics. Nobody minded, everybody loves him enough that there was a bit of a laugh and then it was forgotten. At the official announcement of the 44th president the room and indeed the country erupted into cheers.
"America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship... let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."
As expected, Obama's speech was superb.
"On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord."
It's funny, there is a lot of fear in the US and especially New York about terrorism. Bush's supporters have all said that he saved the US from further terrorist attacks. But walking down the streets in Harlem or Brooklyn or Chelsea or even Manhattan, it wasn't the terrorists I was afraid of, it was the locals. No matter how black their president is, how much strength their economy manages to regain, or how many times they 'say something' when they 'see something', the people of America need to realise that the greatest threat to the US comes from her own population. The election of this president seems a great step in the right direction, but I hope he isn't expected to do it all on his own.
I kept my thoughts to myself and after the speech was over, I left my inauguration buddies and went to a nearby discount store to buy clothes of green and gold for Australia Day. God may bless America, but I thank God I was born in Australia.
temple m
Every now and then something happens on the road that you haven't sought out but are glad to find. Our night at Temple M was one such event.
Couch surfing tends to make travel more social. At one of their events I met an Aussie girl who was living in New York and who invited me to a violin recital at a place called "Temple M" in Harlem. New Yorkers will tell you that Harlem is where the scary black people live. Considering I'd spent an hour the previous evening in a Harlem laundromat, listening to these allegedly scary black people have one of the most intelligent and respectful racism discussions I'd ever heard (while various lads took it in turns talking to me about Australia, the book I was reading and helping me operate the washing machines), I figured I was safer with the scary black people than with the overly suspicious, nervous twitchy white people. With two friends from the hostel in tow, I wandered through the dark, gloomy, smelly streets of Harlem, arriving finally at the mysterious Temple M. It didn't look like the jazz club we were expecting, it looked more like someone's home and when we pressed the single 'm' on the doorbell, we realised that's exactly what it was.
The professor from Back to the Future answered the door. Honestly, the same hair and everything, except this was the French version. He told us that we'd missed the recital but there were still some people inside and we were welcome to join them if we'd let them share our wine. In we went.
Temple M is the dream of the Back to the Future guy. He moved to New York many years ago and bought a huge, freezing, rundown apartment on a dodgy street in Harlem. Being somewhat of an aesthetic, he collected a group of friends and together they restored the place into a beautiful, open, warmly decorated mecca of peace. Antique floor rugs, a large area for the various performances and classes that take place there, books upon books, stunning French furniture and beautiful floorboards - the place was imposing yet welcoming and incredibly comfortable. We felt instantly relaxed in the company of our welcoming and happy new friends.
We stayed long past midnight, dancing around the living room waving colourful flags designed for that purpose, laughing at the Mr Bean style dancing of one of our new friends, drinking and commenting on the terrible Californian wine, talking about whatever we felt like and swapping phrases in our respective languages. By the time we left, we were breathless, laughing, delighted at what we'd discovered in such an ugly part of the city and chatting to each other about what this or that person had said. It was a beautiful night with interesting people and a prime example of what people love about New York - the anythingcanhappen-ness of a city so full of people and grit and life.
Couch surfing tends to make travel more social. At one of their events I met an Aussie girl who was living in New York and who invited me to a violin recital at a place called "Temple M" in Harlem. New Yorkers will tell you that Harlem is where the scary black people live. Considering I'd spent an hour the previous evening in a Harlem laundromat, listening to these allegedly scary black people have one of the most intelligent and respectful racism discussions I'd ever heard (while various lads took it in turns talking to me about Australia, the book I was reading and helping me operate the washing machines), I figured I was safer with the scary black people than with the overly suspicious, nervous twitchy white people. With two friends from the hostel in tow, I wandered through the dark, gloomy, smelly streets of Harlem, arriving finally at the mysterious Temple M. It didn't look like the jazz club we were expecting, it looked more like someone's home and when we pressed the single 'm' on the doorbell, we realised that's exactly what it was.
The professor from Back to the Future answered the door. Honestly, the same hair and everything, except this was the French version. He told us that we'd missed the recital but there were still some people inside and we were welcome to join them if we'd let them share our wine. In we went.
Temple M is the dream of the Back to the Future guy. He moved to New York many years ago and bought a huge, freezing, rundown apartment on a dodgy street in Harlem. Being somewhat of an aesthetic, he collected a group of friends and together they restored the place into a beautiful, open, warmly decorated mecca of peace. Antique floor rugs, a large area for the various performances and classes that take place there, books upon books, stunning French furniture and beautiful floorboards - the place was imposing yet welcoming and incredibly comfortable. We felt instantly relaxed in the company of our welcoming and happy new friends.
We stayed long past midnight, dancing around the living room waving colourful flags designed for that purpose, laughing at the Mr Bean style dancing of one of our new friends, drinking and commenting on the terrible Californian wine, talking about whatever we felt like and swapping phrases in our respective languages. By the time we left, we were breathless, laughing, delighted at what we'd discovered in such an ugly part of the city and chatting to each other about what this or that person had said. It was a beautiful night with interesting people and a prime example of what people love about New York - the anythingcanhappen-ness of a city so full of people and grit and life.
Monday, January 19, 2009
dumpster diving in the big apple
Those of you who are into reading left wing literature or offbeat magazines will have heard of the Freegans by now. They are a group that started (I think) in New York and can now be found across the globe, in any city that leaves its commercial rubbish on the streets for collection.
I had read about the Freegans some time ago, so when my couchsurfing host Kate invited me to a Freegan tour on a freezing Monday night, I accepted with enthusiasm. The tour began at a Vegetarian Cafe, from where we scoured the streets for cafes, supermarkets and - the Holy Grail of Freeganism - bakeries. In the early evening, each of these places discards the day's out of date produce (in the case of bakeries the products are usually fresh from that morning). In the interim between the trash going out and the rubbish trucks collecting it, the bags are left on the streets and with the weather several degrees below zero, it was perfectly refrigerated.
We started at a supermarket and put all the food out as a display to show how much we found. There were tomatoes, limes, several punnets of gourmet hummus, tubs of yoghurt, bread rolls, bunches of herbs and even a beautiful collection of tulips and some pink carnations. In ten minutes of rummaging through the bags we had enough food to feed all twelve of us for several days.
The next few shops yielded similar results until finally we arrived at the bakery. Chocolate and blueberry muffins, bagels, rolls, apple turnovers and meat bondas were added to my shopping bag.
By this time, we were frozen. My fingers and toes were throbbing with what I was certain must be the onset of frostbite, but I had in my possession enough gourmet food to last me for the entire ten days I was to spend in New York.
The only mild irritation was the inevitable hippy speech. Apparently by going through rubbish for free food we are able to 'remove ourselves from the system of oppression'. Yes, feeding the world is all one giant system of oppression. As they say in Team America - "there are these corporations, and they're all corporation-ey". The consumers who refuse to buy limes because they have a spot on them have nothing to do with it. The only way I managed to wrest control of my tongue enough to keep it quiet was by reminding myself that it would soon be tasting the delights of free food - free not only in the monetary sense but also in the freedom from oppression sense. How wonderful.
www.freegan.info - worth a look
I had read about the Freegans some time ago, so when my couchsurfing host Kate invited me to a Freegan tour on a freezing Monday night, I accepted with enthusiasm. The tour began at a Vegetarian Cafe, from where we scoured the streets for cafes, supermarkets and - the Holy Grail of Freeganism - bakeries. In the early evening, each of these places discards the day's out of date produce (in the case of bakeries the products are usually fresh from that morning). In the interim between the trash going out and the rubbish trucks collecting it, the bags are left on the streets and with the weather several degrees below zero, it was perfectly refrigerated.
We started at a supermarket and put all the food out as a display to show how much we found. There were tomatoes, limes, several punnets of gourmet hummus, tubs of yoghurt, bread rolls, bunches of herbs and even a beautiful collection of tulips and some pink carnations. In ten minutes of rummaging through the bags we had enough food to feed all twelve of us for several days.
The next few shops yielded similar results until finally we arrived at the bakery. Chocolate and blueberry muffins, bagels, rolls, apple turnovers and meat bondas were added to my shopping bag.
By this time, we were frozen. My fingers and toes were throbbing with what I was certain must be the onset of frostbite, but I had in my possession enough gourmet food to last me for the entire ten days I was to spend in New York.
The only mild irritation was the inevitable hippy speech. Apparently by going through rubbish for free food we are able to 'remove ourselves from the system of oppression'. Yes, feeding the world is all one giant system of oppression. As they say in Team America - "there are these corporations, and they're all corporation-ey". The consumers who refuse to buy limes because they have a spot on them have nothing to do with it. The only way I managed to wrest control of my tongue enough to keep it quiet was by reminding myself that it would soon be tasting the delights of free food - free not only in the monetary sense but also in the freedom from oppression sense. How wonderful.
www.freegan.info - worth a look
Saturday, January 10, 2009
diamonds on the emerald isle
You've heard certain stereotypes about Ireland and the Irish. The Irish hospitality, old guys in pubs with white beards, rolling green hills, fantastic landscapes, small fishing towns and wooly Aran jumpers. With chatty pub owners, shop staff calling my hostel for me when I was locked out, and happy, comical voices everywhere, the stereotypes seem to be holding true.
My first three days on the isle have been spent driving around with my two new friends Miki and Beatrice. Miki is my mini, a free upgrade courtesy of the guy at Thrifty. Miki is bright red, has six gears and a lot of grunt. In spite of Beatrice's best efforts to take us along Ireland's boggiest roads, Miki hasn't failed to get me home safely. Beatrice is my GPS navigator, I've named her after the woman who guides Dante through Paradiso. She has no sense of humour, a tendency to sound disparaging and likes to take us on some very unusual routes, exasperatedly announcing "recalculating" every time I pass her 'turn off' having decided that a thirty centimetre wide country road isn't the best way to get to a major city. She even suggested that I drive off a cliff into the ocean from where I would allegedly be able to see the Cliffs of Moher ‑ poor Miki had to reverse half a kilometre along a boggy country road when I got suspicious and checked my final destination. Still, Beatrice gets us there in the end and has treated me to some truly beautiful roads that I would never have attempted if I'd been relying on a map.
Each day in Ireland has become steadily more beautiful. On the first day I drove along the Dingle peninsula and then crossed through Connor Pass, arriving at the Ring of Kerry. Dingle is Europe's westernmost town and it's a charming place on the bank of the Shannon River. From Dingle, the drive towards Connor Pass was life‑threateningly beautiful. The water on my right was so smooth that the reflection of the clouds made me wonder if the world had turned upside down. The shapes of hills chasing each other across the horizon unfolded in endless, perfect pale blue and Miki steadfastly held to the road while I haphazadly twisted the steering wheel around the river's curves. The Connor Pass followed, a zigzagging road through mountains that brought me out at the start (or end) of the Ring of Kerry.
I only did half of the Ring; frankly I got bored. It was over populated, over developed and over rated, so somewhere around Valentia Island I turned back and made my way home through the rain. My expectations had been low so it wasn't a disappointment, the rest of the day was so full of verdant beauty that I didn't feel let down.
I could go on to describe the impressive limestone of The Burren, melted into the shape of a cowpat over green hills shimmering in the sun, or the this‑reminds‑me‑of‑Victoria angles of the Cliffs of Moher, or the spiralling heights of the Connor Pass, or last night's frost as thick as snow that lasted all throughout the day and lined the roads like a pathway of tiny diamonds; but you'll either get jealous or bored. Each day has brought amazing sights and my only complaint is that the Irish don't build verges on their roads so it's rare that I can stop to enjoy the view properly. They're pretty matter‑of‑fact about the beauty they live amongst, as I suppose many of us are in Australia.
I've seen some amazing places on the trip, but Ireland is the only country I've visited that strikes wonder across my gaze the way Australia does. It glows with an undeniable radiance ‑ it's no wonder her people can't even complain about the cold without sounding cheerful.
My first three days on the isle have been spent driving around with my two new friends Miki and Beatrice. Miki is my mini, a free upgrade courtesy of the guy at Thrifty. Miki is bright red, has six gears and a lot of grunt. In spite of Beatrice's best efforts to take us along Ireland's boggiest roads, Miki hasn't failed to get me home safely. Beatrice is my GPS navigator, I've named her after the woman who guides Dante through Paradiso. She has no sense of humour, a tendency to sound disparaging and likes to take us on some very unusual routes, exasperatedly announcing "recalculating" every time I pass her 'turn off' having decided that a thirty centimetre wide country road isn't the best way to get to a major city. She even suggested that I drive off a cliff into the ocean from where I would allegedly be able to see the Cliffs of Moher ‑ poor Miki had to reverse half a kilometre along a boggy country road when I got suspicious and checked my final destination. Still, Beatrice gets us there in the end and has treated me to some truly beautiful roads that I would never have attempted if I'd been relying on a map.
Each day in Ireland has become steadily more beautiful. On the first day I drove along the Dingle peninsula and then crossed through Connor Pass, arriving at the Ring of Kerry. Dingle is Europe's westernmost town and it's a charming place on the bank of the Shannon River. From Dingle, the drive towards Connor Pass was life‑threateningly beautiful. The water on my right was so smooth that the reflection of the clouds made me wonder if the world had turned upside down. The shapes of hills chasing each other across the horizon unfolded in endless, perfect pale blue and Miki steadfastly held to the road while I haphazadly twisted the steering wheel around the river's curves. The Connor Pass followed, a zigzagging road through mountains that brought me out at the start (or end) of the Ring of Kerry.
I only did half of the Ring; frankly I got bored. It was over populated, over developed and over rated, so somewhere around Valentia Island I turned back and made my way home through the rain. My expectations had been low so it wasn't a disappointment, the rest of the day was so full of verdant beauty that I didn't feel let down.
I could go on to describe the impressive limestone of The Burren, melted into the shape of a cowpat over green hills shimmering in the sun, or the this‑reminds‑me‑of‑Victoria angles of the Cliffs of Moher, or the spiralling heights of the Connor Pass, or last night's frost as thick as snow that lasted all throughout the day and lined the roads like a pathway of tiny diamonds; but you'll either get jealous or bored. Each day has brought amazing sights and my only complaint is that the Irish don't build verges on their roads so it's rare that I can stop to enjoy the view properly. They're pretty matter‑of‑fact about the beauty they live amongst, as I suppose many of us are in Australia.
I've seen some amazing places on the trip, but Ireland is the only country I've visited that strikes wonder across my gaze the way Australia does. It glows with an undeniable radiance ‑ it's no wonder her people can't even complain about the cold without sounding cheerful.
ireland taster
Ireland is bad for internet connections, so while I have a lovely gushing post about how beautiful it all is sitting on my phone, I can't get any wifi to upload it.
However, I have just spent 5 days driving around County Clare and have seen some of the most beautiful and unique landscapes ever. God knows how I managed not to run off the road. My camera card is full of photos of pretty mountains and lakes and stone age monuments, most of which aren't that interesting (landscapes are so hard to photograph) but some of which will end upon my wall at home.
Home - I'm really looking forward to getting there and to seeing you all again. If I didn't have such awesome cities as New York and Tokyo ahead of me I'd be feeling pretty impatient for February, but there's plenty of excitement yet to come.
Anyway, am doing well, arrived safely in Cork and am heading up to Dublin, Wicklow, Waterford and places like that.
Proper post to come whenever the Irish invent wifi.
However, I have just spent 5 days driving around County Clare and have seen some of the most beautiful and unique landscapes ever. God knows how I managed not to run off the road. My camera card is full of photos of pretty mountains and lakes and stone age monuments, most of which aren't that interesting (landscapes are so hard to photograph) but some of which will end upon my wall at home.
Home - I'm really looking forward to getting there and to seeing you all again. If I didn't have such awesome cities as New York and Tokyo ahead of me I'd be feeling pretty impatient for February, but there's plenty of excitement yet to come.
Anyway, am doing well, arrived safely in Cork and am heading up to Dublin, Wicklow, Waterford and places like that.
Proper post to come whenever the Irish invent wifi.
Friday, December 19, 2008
my millinery course and what really drove the hatters mad
There's a silly little theory that hatters went mad because of the mercury they once used. It's a huge lie; I could sniff mercury all day and be driven less mad than I was by the felt fibres that settle on your nose and itch you. I've been searching most of my adult life for a creative talent to match my creative urges, trust me to only be good at something that is expensive, requires materials that are hard to source, and itches!
Felt fibres notwithstanding, the week spent making hats was one of the most fun things I've done on this trip. There should be at least three days a year cold enough in Perth for a felt hat so my time wasn't wasted at all.
Our Central Saint Martins instructor Ian Bennett...
...right, Now that just won't do. You weren't impressed at all were you! Now, Central Saint Martins is London's most exclusive fashion and design school. It's a very big deal for a student to be accepted by them. Of course, I paid for the privelege but we'll just gloss over that shall we. Ian Bennett has worked for Stephen Jones who is the second most famous milliner in the world, as well as Phillip someone who makes hats for the Queen. THE Queen, not Queen the band. Ian has his own shop in the Oxo Tower on Southbank. The important thing to note here is that you are terribly impressed and interested and I am really rather special and wonderful for knowing such an Influential Person In London. So, let's try that again;
Our Central Saint Martins instructor Ian Bennett (this time I can hear you all saying "Oh my god! THE Ian Bennett? THE Central Saint Martins?! Yes, yes, I smile condescendingly and sip from my glass of champagne while waving my hand around impatiently. I am terribly important these days and travel in Distinguished Circles).
Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes you were being impressed about Ian. Well done. I was expecting him to be a self important, intimidating fashionista but as it turned out, he never name drops (I found out about Stephen Jones and the Philip guy from his website) he has cool tattoos, wears a funky bike helmet with sequins on it and is incredibly down to earth, (haha that sounds a bit contradictory doesn't it, but he is, I promise) endlessly patient, cheerful and entertaining. Thanks to him, the week was a huge amount of fun and we all learnt enough about making hats to be able to do it ourselves at home.
The first day was spent walking around London, being taken to the various stores that stock felt and trimmings (such as feathers, flowers and the like). It was depressing because I know I'll never find anywhere like that in Perth but it was still fun.
Day two was spent blocking our felts. This is when you choose a wooden block shaped the way your hat will be. The crown and the brim are blocked separately.
After brushing stiffener over the felt, we steamed it to make it pliable and pulled it into the approximate shape of our block, then steamed it some more and pressed the felt down until all the creases were out. After this, it's left to dry overnight. Next, the extra bits of felt were cut off, wire was sewn around the brim, the brim and crown were hand stitched together and the petersham ribbon was sewn around the inside of the hat. Then the feathers, sequins, flowers and whatever else go on. Given that my hats are going to spend a lot of time on planes, I kept that stuff simple.
I made three hats, one of which still needs a little sewing done on it. My favourite, a petite little pirate hat in maroon, was ready on my birthday so I wore it out that night with Chris (who I am staying with) who took me to a bar with some friends of his. It was a very cool birthday present from me to me.
On flickr, there are some photos of the hats in various stages below along with the end results. I like the red one best while the pink one was just made of some leftover sinamay that another student gave me, just to learn to work with sinamay (it's like straw and a lot harder to use than felt).
The hat making week was great, but don't all go expecting new hats ‑ the blocks cost several hundred dollars each and have to be shipped from Melbourne! I suppose I'll just have to be fabulous on my own.
Felt fibres notwithstanding, the week spent making hats was one of the most fun things I've done on this trip. There should be at least three days a year cold enough in Perth for a felt hat so my time wasn't wasted at all.
Our Central Saint Martins instructor Ian Bennett...
...right, Now that just won't do. You weren't impressed at all were you! Now, Central Saint Martins is London's most exclusive fashion and design school. It's a very big deal for a student to be accepted by them. Of course, I paid for the privelege but we'll just gloss over that shall we. Ian Bennett has worked for Stephen Jones who is the second most famous milliner in the world, as well as Phillip someone who makes hats for the Queen. THE Queen, not Queen the band. Ian has his own shop in the Oxo Tower on Southbank. The important thing to note here is that you are terribly impressed and interested and I am really rather special and wonderful for knowing such an Influential Person In London. So, let's try that again;
Our Central Saint Martins instructor Ian Bennett (this time I can hear you all saying "Oh my god! THE Ian Bennett? THE Central Saint Martins?! Yes, yes, I smile condescendingly and sip from my glass of champagne while waving my hand around impatiently. I am terribly important these days and travel in Distinguished Circles).
Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes you were being impressed about Ian. Well done. I was expecting him to be a self important, intimidating fashionista but as it turned out, he never name drops (I found out about Stephen Jones and the Philip guy from his website) he has cool tattoos, wears a funky bike helmet with sequins on it and is incredibly down to earth, (haha that sounds a bit contradictory doesn't it, but he is, I promise) endlessly patient, cheerful and entertaining. Thanks to him, the week was a huge amount of fun and we all learnt enough about making hats to be able to do it ourselves at home.
The first day was spent walking around London, being taken to the various stores that stock felt and trimmings (such as feathers, flowers and the like). It was depressing because I know I'll never find anywhere like that in Perth but it was still fun.
Day two was spent blocking our felts. This is when you choose a wooden block shaped the way your hat will be. The crown and the brim are blocked separately.
After brushing stiffener over the felt, we steamed it to make it pliable and pulled it into the approximate shape of our block, then steamed it some more and pressed the felt down until all the creases were out. After this, it's left to dry overnight. Next, the extra bits of felt were cut off, wire was sewn around the brim, the brim and crown were hand stitched together and the petersham ribbon was sewn around the inside of the hat. Then the feathers, sequins, flowers and whatever else go on. Given that my hats are going to spend a lot of time on planes, I kept that stuff simple.
I made three hats, one of which still needs a little sewing done on it. My favourite, a petite little pirate hat in maroon, was ready on my birthday so I wore it out that night with Chris (who I am staying with) who took me to a bar with some friends of his. It was a very cool birthday present from me to me.
On flickr, there are some photos of the hats in various stages below along with the end results. I like the red one best while the pink one was just made of some leftover sinamay that another student gave me, just to learn to work with sinamay (it's like straw and a lot harder to use than felt).
The hat making week was great, but don't all go expecting new hats ‑ the blocks cost several hundred dollars each and have to be shipped from Melbourne! I suppose I'll just have to be fabulous on my own.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
just a number in a production line
London and her intensity, her crowds, her traffic and her unmistakable 'fragrance'. I'm staying in a hostel so huge that I am merely another number on a production line. Nobody will remember me when I'm gone, nobody will even notice except for the cleaner who will change the linen on my bed. This week, the hat‑making week, I don't mind. Next week I move to a friend's place as his flatmate is going away for a few weeks. This will save me about a thousand dollars so that's pretty cool.
Munich improved, as places often do once you've decided you don't think much of them. My last day started in traditional Bavarian style; my hosts served me weissbier and weisswurst ‑ white beer and sausage, Bavarian specialties. We had a great breakfast together and I learned all sorts of things about Bavaria, such as the fact that legally, beer is not considered to be alcohol, but is in fact classed as food. I nearly cancelled my plane trip when they told me this! Starting a day on beer and sausage is great fun but it did leave me feeling like I needed a good walk. I wandered down the road, through a park where little kids rode sleds down newly snowed‑upon slopes.
Reaching the bottom of the other side of the hill I found myself following a small stream lined with the tiny garden shacks that you see everywhere in Germany. I followed the path for about half an hour until I came to another path along a bigger stream which eventually became a river, I was in some kind of nature park, the traffic noise sucked into oblivion high above me, the snow crunching under my feet and the ducks commenting to each other on how cold their bums were in the freezing water. I did a few practise snowball throws and hit my target three times, which shocked me so much that I missed the rest of my attempts. Eventually I tracked down (haha) a train station and found that I was now in zone 4 and it would cost me 5 euros to cross the 2 zones back to my street! I felt terribly smug as we went through several stops, then when I got home I couch potatoed for the rest of the day. Finally I farewelled my generous hosts and jumped on the plane to London.
Ah, London. I love it and hate it more each time I come here. The close knit buildings cocoon you in their dark colours and the people bump into you from everywhere. Things are slowly becoming familiar, I even have my own oyster card for the tube. With each visit, people here seem to be nicer and I wonder if it's my pre‑conceptions that have altered or if I'm just running into a lot of foreigners this time around! My first day was spent visiting favourite haunts; Angel ‑ because I know where everything is, Carnaby Street and Kingly Court ‑ because my favourite shops are there, and this time around, Desigual, the Spanish clothing store that is the sole reason I have managed to refrain from buying any clothes for the last 4 months, saving up for a spree there.
Tonight in the bar at the ex‑courthouse "Clink" hostel, boys are making penis shapes out of balloons, christmas lights are flashing, and I am having a night in so that I'm fresh and inspired for my week of millinery. In Kingly Court tonight I heard some girls comment on another girl's hat and when she told them she'd made it, I took it as a sign that my hats are going to be AWESOME.
And if they're not, I'll send everyone photos of someone else's hats instead.
Munich improved, as places often do once you've decided you don't think much of them. My last day started in traditional Bavarian style; my hosts served me weissbier and weisswurst ‑ white beer and sausage, Bavarian specialties. We had a great breakfast together and I learned all sorts of things about Bavaria, such as the fact that legally, beer is not considered to be alcohol, but is in fact classed as food. I nearly cancelled my plane trip when they told me this! Starting a day on beer and sausage is great fun but it did leave me feeling like I needed a good walk. I wandered down the road, through a park where little kids rode sleds down newly snowed‑upon slopes.
Reaching the bottom of the other side of the hill I found myself following a small stream lined with the tiny garden shacks that you see everywhere in Germany. I followed the path for about half an hour until I came to another path along a bigger stream which eventually became a river, I was in some kind of nature park, the traffic noise sucked into oblivion high above me, the snow crunching under my feet and the ducks commenting to each other on how cold their bums were in the freezing water. I did a few practise snowball throws and hit my target three times, which shocked me so much that I missed the rest of my attempts. Eventually I tracked down (haha) a train station and found that I was now in zone 4 and it would cost me 5 euros to cross the 2 zones back to my street! I felt terribly smug as we went through several stops, then when I got home I couch potatoed for the rest of the day. Finally I farewelled my generous hosts and jumped on the plane to London.
Ah, London. I love it and hate it more each time I come here. The close knit buildings cocoon you in their dark colours and the people bump into you from everywhere. Things are slowly becoming familiar, I even have my own oyster card for the tube. With each visit, people here seem to be nicer and I wonder if it's my pre‑conceptions that have altered or if I'm just running into a lot of foreigners this time around! My first day was spent visiting favourite haunts; Angel ‑ because I know where everything is, Carnaby Street and Kingly Court ‑ because my favourite shops are there, and this time around, Desigual, the Spanish clothing store that is the sole reason I have managed to refrain from buying any clothes for the last 4 months, saving up for a spree there.
Tonight in the bar at the ex‑courthouse "Clink" hostel, boys are making penis shapes out of balloons, christmas lights are flashing, and I am having a night in so that I'm fresh and inspired for my week of millinery. In Kingly Court tonight I heard some girls comment on another girl's hat and when she told them she'd made it, I took it as a sign that my hats are going to be AWESOME.
And if they're not, I'll send everyone photos of someone else's hats instead.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
