exciting, informative, snarky, and very likely fabricated tales of life as an american expat in london

the fine art of sitting still

by Jen at 9:02 am on 12.01.2007 | 4 Comments
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

i don’t know exactly when i stopped believing in god – i only know that one day i suddenly noticed the absence in my life. and when i took a good look around, it turned out he’d been gone for a while.

i grew up nominally catholic. my mum (protestant) and my dad (catholic) dutifully took us to church every sunday, trying to inculcate in us the deep abiding faith that has both comforted and strengthened them throughout their own lives. our church was a real hippy-dippy church, rooted in activism and social causes and rejecting the more sexist tenets of the catholic doctrine. (i remember quite clearly that they used to have laywomen deliver the homily [shock! horror! that a woman might speak on the "word of god"!] until they got their knuckles rapped by the diocese.) so my initial grounding was a good one, and even if i never really believed all i was told, i never held it against them either. i never felt the need to rebel against a message i mostly agreed with. love one another. turn the other cheek. thou shalt not kill. to my mind, these were all the teachings of a wise man, worthy of veneration, even if his wisdom had been twisted to the purpose of the powerful throughout the centuries. j.c. as a profound philosopher who espoused kindness and tolerance? yes. son of god? not so much.

but even as an adult, i got something out of it. i attended church somewhat regularly when i lived in new york, not out of any sense of obligation or fear, but because i found it enjoyable. the tradition and ritual were soothing, calming and it was like turning over a fresh leaf every sunday. i would reflect on where i’d been less than kind, re-commit myself to try to be a better person in the coming week, and find encouragement in being part of a community of people who felt the same. i never felt brainwashed or sheep-like. it was a very rational kind of faith – in separating the myth from the message, i believed because i chose to. it was nice to imagine a “higher power”. it was nice to feel there was a purpose to life. it was nice to feel not-alone.

after i moved from nyc, however, i only attended church sporadically. never really found a place nearby that i liked, never really tried to. i got caught up in the crumbling of my first marriage for a long time, and my esteem took some hard knocks. and then september 11th happened. i remember going to a service shortly afterward, wanting to find some assurance and peace, and instead of feeling strengthened, i felt hollow. i was sending out prayers reflexively into the universe, and there was nothing in return. whoever i thought had been listening before, was gone. september 11th didn’t shake up my beliefs so much as point out they were no longer where i thought i’d left them.

and i’ve missed faith. missed that feeling of inner solidity – that unfailing sense of peace and certainty at the core of everything. the idea of grace and a benevolent force that carries us through when all else seems meaningless. it felt good. for a while i really wanted to still believe, but part of me always knew i was faking it.

and then lately i stumbled back over buddhism. i first came across it in university (where i once considered doing a major in religion) and for whatever reason, as intriguing as it was, it didn’t connect. but as i begin to explore it now, years later, i find there’s some small string of my heart resonating with what i read and hear. something inside me nodding quietly. no god – yes. impermanence of all things – yes. karma and dharma – yes and yes. finding an end to the desire and pain and harm which block kindess and compassion and equanimity. someone once explained it to me as a light which is obscured by a thick layer of dust – these things are already there within us, waiting to be revealed once the rest is cleared away. and i’m nodding. this is what i believe of people’s innate nature, this is my worldview. this makes sense to me, and it is something i can test empirically myself. i don’t need to filter out bits i don’t understand or pay lip service to something i don’t believe. buddhism is a religion of practice. and lord knows, practice is something i am good at.

so i’ve been reading and listening. trying to learn how to meditate – the fine art of sitting still and being still within. anyone who knows me will know how difficult i find that – i am many things, but calm and quiet and still are none of them. yet perhaps those are precisely the things that i need the most. and since they don’t come naturally to me, i’ve been trying to practice. it’s heartening to know that even monks must practice. i’m in good company.

i am a fledgling in this process, all wide-eyed naivete with more questions than answers. but for the first time in a long time, i am finding that center again. the strength at the core of me that was always there, but long covered in dust. i am practicing sitting. practicing being and accepting. practicing quieting down the fear and noise that get in the way of my life. working to find a path through the dust to the light.

after all, practice makes perfect.

———-

in other news, heading to paris for the weekend, so will update when i return. haven’t been there since the deportation debacle of 2003, so should be fun (if very wet)!

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british by surprise

by Jen at 3:07 pm on 29.11.2006 | 2 Comments
filed under: classic, londonlife, mutterings and musings

i recently met up with a friend of mine for some drinks. it was the first time we’d caught up since my return from travel, and she had previously done a rtw trip herself, so there was a lot of reminiscing about places and experiences, comparing notes on memories and fun. eventually we got round to the topic of what it is like to come back to the u.k. after so long away, a process which, for lack of a better term i have been calling “re-entry”. like an astronaut coming back into earth’s orbit, readjusting to the weight of gravity, and having such an extraordinary experience but landing with a thump back into everyday life. in particular, getting used to being an expat again – a permanent foreigner rather than just a strange tourist passing through.

i’m eligible for british citizenship in just a few more months. it’s really astounding how quickly time has passed – seems only yesterday that i started this blog after finally getting a work permit that meant i could stay. but in march 07, i will have been here for 4 years – longer than i ever imagined, yet shorter than i could’ve thought possible. in particular, having this blog has enabled me to really explore my own experience, from a variety of different perspectives. but i’ve never stopped feeling like an expat.

the u.k. government says that i have proven myself sufficiently british to become a citizen. but even if i lived here 20 years, i’d never feel like a brit. is it right to avail yourself of the benefits of a system you don’t believe in?

what i have discovered, upon re-entry, however, is that i’ve entered a new phase in my london life. something i really never expected to feel – genuine affection for a lifestyle and culture which i can now claim as my own. in talking with my friend (whose husband is a kiwi) we came to the conclusion that there are several distinct phases an expat goes through.

first there’s the initial honeymoon phase – everything new is fascinating or quaint, exciting or curious. from learning to cross the street to becoming familiar with local brands, to figuring out the money and transportation, it’s all one big adventure where evry day you discover something new. my first trip to a grocery store was a revelation – all the novelty, all the choice! i thought i’d never tire of it.

the second phase is one of frustration – all the things you initially thought were charmingly quirky begin to grate on your nerves, and all the obstacles there are to surmount with living in a new country just wear you down. new lingo, new customs, new life – it’s all a lot to get used to, and constantly having to navigate your way in uncharted territory is so tiring. getting used to being paid monthly, trying to learn metric, not knowing where to buy pie tins or even if they have them here. you struggle to understand and be understood. the prevailing sentiment is one of “this country is so backwards/inefficient/confusing/generally stoopid” and it’s at this point you being to wonder just what the hell you’re doing here anyway when it would be so much easier to go home. and a lot of people do.

but if you make it through that phase, you enter into what i call “the uneasy truce”. sure some things about the country and its people are great, and some things will drive you mad. but you begin to see there’s real merit in how things are done on both sides of the atlantic, and you’ve decided, for better or worse, that this is where you will be for the forseeable future. you may not love it, but you’re part of it – and it becomes part of you. so you grumble about the weather and kvetch about the tube like a proper londoner. you settle in for the long haul and make your peace with the fact that there is no “dunkin’ donuts” coffee to be had, and that doing laundry takes 3 hours. you adapt and survive and even flourish where you’re planted. you make some friends and find yourself explaining to people back in the states that air-drying clothes *really is* more eco-friendly. you have your routine, you have your circle, you have your life. and it’s only when you find yourself surrounded by new people that you remember you are still a novelty, still have to explain your background and how/ why you’re here. you may fit into your everyday world, but the minute you’re out of your element, you are reminded you’re still a stranger here. and always will be. it’s a suspended state of tension, but you get used to it.

and finally there is (what i hope is) the final phase. one of a warm fondness and almost protective feeling toward those attributes and characteristics which you’ve come to embrace as a part of your home. it caught me off balance, this feeling of devotion upon returning. for all my moaning, it seems i have come to cherish this place in spite of myself. in hindsight, of course, it was bound to happen – you can’t voluntarily remain someplace without immersing in it, becoming permeated by it. or even more accurately, engaging with it as a part of your personality, as a friend, as a comfort. but that means acknowledging that it is a part of my happiness – and that brings a loyalty and responsibility to care for it. a willingness to give of myself, in return for what has been given. much like a marriage, i may always have a love/hate relationship with it – but i miss this place when i am not here.

to my utter surprise, i find i have an allegiance to this country, these people. and it took leaving to figure that out.

so i will take up british citizenship when it is offered. i may always be an expat, always an outsider looking in, but i have as much stake in this place as any “real” brit does. it’s become part of who i am, even without fanfare or ceremony.

really the oath and passport are just secondary.

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mindshift

by Jen at 9:38 am on 8.02.2006 | 3 Comments
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

a friend of mine has begun the process of buying a house. and she’s been feeling down because she’s been waiting for this for a long time, but none of the houses they can afford at the moment are the kind of house that feels like “home” to her. and i can completely identify with that, because i know that when the time comes, i’ll be the same way.

and i fell into the trap of cheerleading for her, trying to say things to make her feel better about the sucky choice she has to make, the decision to settle. trying to make her feel better about giving up on her dream. trying to smooth the path to downsizing her expectations.

of course you feel you *have* to say those things. because we all know as adults that you *can’t* always get what you want, and that sometimes you have to do a mindshift when the reality doesn’t match up to the dream, because otherwise we’d spend our lives miserably pining for things we can never have.

but would we? i begin to think about all the times i’ve given up on my high hopes of what i wanted, and instead consciously decided to be happy for the best i thought could get. what would have happened if i’d held out for nothing less than the ideal? we all convince ourselves that we have to be pragmatic and reasonable, and that sometimes we have to adjust our expectations because that’s what you do to live in the “real” world. but what if, what if, we were brave enough to keep our eye on the prize? what if second-best is really a test? what if it’s the universe’s way of syaing that those who would allow themselves to be placated with the runner-up don’t deserve anything better? what if everything you wanted was just around the corner but you always quit before you got there?

i don’t know. i think it’s impossible to know. and perhaps, ultimately that’s the difference between the idealists and the realists. i used to think myself squarely in the first camp, but as I get older i find myself visiting the second more and more. is that a function of age or cynicism? or do the two automatically go hand in hand? and sure, as the DL* says, “Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck”. I’ve personally experienced that many times. the difficulty is that it’s impossible to know the future, and who the hell wants to be on the side that encourages someone towards inevitable heartbreak?

part of me wants to tell my friend, “don’t do it – don’t buy any house you don’t absolutely love because you and your family deserve nothing less.” and part of me thinks that’s a completely untenable position to take, and only a fool would encourage that kind of thinking about something as real and concrete as buying a house. which would be doing her the greater disservice? but i can feel her bitter disappointment, and as a friend i just want to say the thing that will make her feel better.

i just wish i knew what that was.

___________________
* Dalai Lama – though it’s one of those internet attributions, so really, who knows?

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call of the open pavement

by Jen at 12:55 pm on 14.01.2006 | 1 Comment
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings, this sporting life

i am a runner.

i’ve been running since i was 14, and my friend nathaly and i just decided we’d start jogging down furnace brook parkway on saturday mornings during our summer vacation. I have no idea why we started that, and I certainly had no idea that i was embarking on something that would, over the next 20 years, consume me, frustrate me, addict me, enrage me, pain me and sustain me.

I have spent probably whole years of my life running. I’ve trained for 4 and a half marathons, rehabbed my knee twice from scratch, worn through countless of pairs of shoes, and sworn it off at least a dozen times. i’ve run in the dark, i’ve run at 4:00 in the morning, i’ve run in snow, i’ve run in 100 degrees fahrenheit, i’ve run when i was sick, and i’ve run til i’ve been ill.

there aren’t many things i would say i’m good at, but running is one of them. it’s one of the few constants in my life, the only thing i keep coming back to in spite of pain, sorrow, and mind-numbing boredom. because when it’s good, it feels really fucking good. like you’re gliding and you could just keep going forever. like everything is just completely fluid motion and your muscles and lungs and heart are all working together in synchronicity and it’s effortless cycling of energy that you draw from the air and the ground and it just flows through you like blood in your veins, and you could go faster and faster and never stop. like you are a conduit for turning oxygen into motion, and it’s the most natural thing in the world.

of course, it takes a helluva a lot of huffing and puffing to get to that point. there are days when it’s cold and your legs feel like lead and you immediately get a stitch in your side and it takes feats of supreme effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other. and you get sweaty and bored and chafed. and you have to go when it’s cold or dark or you have cramps or a hangover. there are plenty of days when i still have to fool myself into going running. when i promise myself that if i just put my running shoes on, i don’t *have to* go. of course, once they’re on, i feel too guilty not to go. mental trickery. really, that’s what most of it boils down to. stubbornness and mind games.

but when you can run 10, 15, 20 miles… you feel invincible. you feel strong and healthy and *pure*. like you’ve sweated out every toxin, and all your pores are open, and each individual cell in your body is alive. it’s an amazing feeling, and it’s worth every blister or runny nose or stomach ache. it’s easy to forget – i haven’t run in about six months (swore it off again) but going for a short run this morning, with the tunes pumping through my ipod and my rhythm in my stride, it all came flooding back to me, just why i do this.

in spite of all the ups and downs, or perhaps because of them – i’m a runner.

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obsessed

by Jen at 4:10 pm on 9.01.2006 | 2 Comments
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings, world tour

“working” from home today, and i have fallen into a deep well of travel blogs and rtw sites. the more i read the further away i seem to get from knowing where i want to go. i think that in order to figure out exactly what i want to get from this trip, i need to revisit the beginnings.

the roots go back to early 2002 – i was dating this guy (who, for anonymity purposes, we shall call here “p.”) who was headed on a trip to mount kilimanjaro (via london) for a month. i was incredibly jealous (and also, for reasons i can only chalk up to temporary insanity, rather attached at that point). i was missing him, and trying to pretend i wasn’t, so in a stroke of inspiration i started keeping a fictional round the world blog that i emailed to him daily. i spent hours at my work desk every day researching and writing, and scouring photographs, trying to make it as realistic as possible. i did white water rafting in the grand canyon. i went canoeing down the amazon to see the pink porpoises and trek through the rainforest. i hiked the inca trail to machu picchu. i climbed active volcanoes in hawaii. i dove in the waters of the galapagos islands and saw the worlds most ancient tortoise. i went to an elephant sanctuary in the himalayas. i went ballooning over the namib desert at sunrise. i saw the fjiords of norway, and the aurora borealis. not much *paid* work got done, but i was far too busy constructing my adventures to wallow in self-pity.

of course, i should’ve known the relationship would end in disaster when, after receiving my lovingly and painstakingly crafted project, his first comment was on how it seemed to be written from a very post-colonial point of view. and that, my friends, was the point at which he became known as “waste of space”.

however – i put so much time and effort into this little creative project that the idea of a round the world trip took deep root. but it wasn’t the kind of thing i thought could ever happen without the miracle of winning the lottery. not to mention the whole mindset is different – people in the u.s. don’t just drop out of society to go travelling. hell, people rarely take more than their allotted 2 weeks vacation to do anything. but coming over here, being surrounded by people whose raison d’etre is adventure, whose only purpose for living in london is to finance their travels… well, it’s an eye opener. these people work and save… and take off. and then work and save some more, to travel even further. suddenly, a round the world trip didn’t seem like such an impossibly difficult thing to accomplish. and meeting j… that’s when it all started to come together.

so i guess part of the purpose for this trip is to see some places before they change too irrevocably. places like cambodia and china and bolivia are quickly becoming hotspots. places like thailand and peru have already been “ruined” to some extent with the influx of western tourism. i’m not saying they’re not worth seeing – just that i believe it’s becoming impossible to view these places without the filter of the permanent influence of travellers. observing something fundamentally changes the nature of it, but add a dependence on foreign investment, and suddenly it is no longer “what it is”, but has become “what you want it to be”. you are no longer viewing that country’s native culture, but rather that country’s native culture in saleable form. globalisation is not, in and of itself, a purely evil or wonderful thing – there are both benefits and problems. but it does change things.

and the other part of this trip is to get in touch with that piece of myself that always identified with being a traveller. my first real travelling experience was as an exchange student to paraguay at 16. i knew almost nothing about the country before i arrived, and after the summer was over, i came back thinking very clearly “oh, okay, well that’s it then – i’m going to spend my life travelling.” i was certain that i would go into international development, and become a lifelong wanderer. my parents knew people who were career travellers – people who devoted their lives to the peace corps or missionary work. i thought for sure that i would finish university, do a stint in development, and then become a part of an ngo organisation that would send me to all kinds of places. it was so clear in my head that that’s how my life would be.

but alas, at first i took a liking to psychology, and then a new york boy, and “the plan” just kind of derailed from there. and in the meantime, real life has a way of intervening, and tying you down to things you never thought you’d need, but now would have a hard time doing without. but this is my chance to see the lifestyle and places i always thought i would be intimately familiar with – the adventures, the spontaneity, the languages. very few people can/choose to live that way, and this is my chance to catch a glimpse of it.

so i suppose that’s important to keep in mind as i plow through all this information, as fascinating as it is. while my trip will certainly not be complete without seeing the angkor wat, or the three toed sloths of south america, as ursula le guin once said, “it’s good to have an end to journey towards. but it’s the journey that matters, in the end.”

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relativity

by Jen at 8:02 am on 30.12.2005Comments Off
filed under: classic, holidaze, mutterings and musings

Once again the year is drawing to a close and I’m wholly uncertain as to where it went, except by the beautiful blur left on my brain. I’m regretfully forced to concede that the old chestnut about growing older that seems to hold absolutely true is that the less time you have the faster it goes, and though I don’t really feel very much older (with the exception of the increasing number of grey hairs, my one real vanity), I have a newfound appreciation for einstein – time is all relative, baby. it slows to a crawl when you’re waiting to marry the person you can’t wait to spend your life with. it flies by when you’re exploring a lush new country and husband on your honeymoon, or spending time getting acquainted with the miracle of your new niece. it flashes before your eyes when you’re tumbling head over heels down a mountain. it creeps when you’re counting down to the escapist adventure of a lifetime.

so time is relative – yet still we measure the events of our life in months and years. we weigh up each well-used year on the 31st december, and grant ourselves a fresh shiny one each 1st january. the symbollism resonates somewhere within us, and we like being able to tot up the sums. was it a good year? was it a bad year? in truth, no year is good or bad, but only the memories of the days that passed during that elapsed span that we use to define the distance of our planet’s trip around the sun. and by that measurement, there were far more good memories in 2005 than not.

but when you take relativity into consideration, time also measures distance. a year is the distance of the earth’s eliptical orbit within the solar system. that distance stretches differently around each event, each change, each memory. 9 months is the distance from anticipation to motherhood. a long weekend is the distance from fear of falling to utter exhilaration. 365 days is the distance from a first date to an “i do”. one day is the distance from the safety of ignorance to the vulnerable knowledge of fear. 5 months 2 weeks and 6 days is the distance from smoker to non-smoker.

time is elusive. the moments you want to capture slip through your fingers, while others imprint themselves for all the wrong reasons. you wish you could spend forever driving along the garden route as a happy newlywed, while you pray you never experience another day like the tube bombings again. you want to hold tight to the baby you won’t see for another year, and forget the dragging days of nicotine withdrawal that seemed postively endless. the precious time spent with long-distance friends passes far too quickly, but the weeks before a round the world trip take ages to crawl off the calendar.

this past year, time was all this and more. it was my marriage, my family, my travels, my celebrations, my friends, my fears and my daydreams. it was alternately far too slow and way too fast. it was major life changes and biding time.

and all in all, it was a pretty good year.

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pondering

by Jen at 11:54 am on 7.12.2005Comments Off
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

a few things i’ll never really understand:

the notion that british television is somehow superior to american. i’m here to tell you that it just ain’t so. unless, or course, your idea of “good television” is:

a) hour upon hour dedicated to pre-roman british history/birding/ww2 analysis/cookery

b) show after show doing a “top 100″ list. as in, “top one hundred sexiest television moments” and “top one hundred most shocking television moments” and “top one hundred most dramatic television moments”. do ya think there’s much overlap?!?

c) drama after drama with piss-poor production values. now I know that u.s. television is *overly* slick, overly glossy, etc…. but really, who wants to watch a show that looks like it was shot in super-8 with the next door neighbours as lead actors? and here’s a hint: if you’re on television regularly, you’re probably making reasonably decent money, so for god’s sake, go see a dentist!!! i appreciate that they look like real people as opposed to plastic mannequins, but if i wanted that much oral-hygiene reality, i wouldn’t be sitting in front of a television.

d) bad american sitcoms which only *just reached* the threshold number of episodes required to go into syndication. do you remember a show called “daddio”? neither do i. lucky thing i can catch up all 10 episodes over here!

e) “friends”, “friends”, and more “friends”. now, granted there are 10 years worth of episodes to go through, but when it’s on 4 times a day (i kid you not), you find yourself saying, “didn’t i just see this one last week??” even though I stopped watching “friends” in the u.s. after season 7 or so, over here, i was really excited to see it at first – it was soothingly familiar, funny, and eminently watchable. so it was on while i was getting ready for work in the morning, or making dinner in the evening. but now, it’s almost all that’s ever on. really. 24-7 friends. it’s sickening. and the sight of ross or rachel just makes me want to throw up.

f) randomness. on the off chance that something good *is* on, i can never remember when or where. trying to follow the television scheduling over here takes mensa-level feats of memory. because there is no frikken consistency. shows don’t come on at the hour or half hour. they come on at 10:15, or 7:55, or 3:22. and if you want to watch one thing which doesn’t end until 9:25, whilst the other thing you want to watch starts at 9:10, well then… you’re just shit out of luck.

so, no. british television is not all it’s cracked up to be.

i will also never get used to the british paranoia over electricity. i get cranky about it every year around this time, because of christmas lights. see, despite having twice as much voltage as the u.s., (240 compared to our measly 120), the british are terrified of it. this bizarre fear manifests itself in several ways, such as:

a) no outlets in the bathroom. you cannot plug in a hairdryer anywhere within 10 feet of a tub. there are separate “shaving outlets” in some homes and hotels, but you can tell they’re put there only grudgingly. so instead, the carpet in my bedroom is about three feet thick with shed hair, and lacquered with many layers of hairspray mist. this is infinitely harder to clean than just wiping down a bathroom sink. (unless, of course, you are unlucky enough to have a hideous *carpeted bathroom*, a unfathomable notion which sends chills up my spine, and sends anyone with a germ phobia right over the edge.) but allowing water and electricity in the same room is highly dangerous. as is, apparently, allowing cold and hot water to mingle from the same tap… but that’s another post.

b) every outlet has a separate switch, and many have fuses. that’s right – you have to turn the electrical socket on. there’s only so many times you can turn on the electric kettle (an invention, by the way, which is astounding, in that it completely flouts the aforemention water/electricity ban described above), come back 15 minutes later to find it stone cold because you’ve forgotten to turn on the outlet, before you just want to tear your hair out in frustration at the lengths of unneccesary caution these crazy people go to.

c) every plug has a fuse. the plugs here are gigantic, because they have to accomodate the grounding pin (the third prong which you see on some plugs in the u.s., but which is standard over here), as well as a fuse. Yes, if you open up the plug, there is a miniature glass fuse inside. just in case the socket goes haywire. lest you think i am joking about all of this, please read the “plug and socket safety regulation 1994″

d) which brings us to christmas lights. because light strings in the u.k. do not plug into each other, male to female, the way they do in the states so that you can unobtrusively light your tree in such a manner that the cords are almost invisible. nooooo, not here. here, the strings are closed circuits. so each strand is really a loop which doubles back on itself, ending in the clunky giant plugs I explained prior. so you either have to get 2 0r 3 reallllllly long double-thick strands of lights to cover the whole tree, affix an extension strip to the trunk of the tree to conceal all the plugs, or just let your tree go nekkid.

clearly, adults are not to be trusted with things that *turn on*. my entire life i’ve used electricity, and not electrocuted myself, or burned anything down. obviously, this is due to pure dumb luck.

and lastly, i will never understand the phenomenon that is robbie williams. but maybe i’ll save that one for another day.

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drive my car

by Jen at 1:40 am on 13.11.2005 | 2 Comments
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

Driving J to the airport this evening, a car pulled into a lane I was about to change into, eliciting a few minor epithets. J laughed at me and said, “you’re cute.” Which really irritated me.

See, J has never seen me drive. I mean he’s never seen me *drive*. He’s seen me sedately tootle along in other people’s cars. But he’s never seen me drive the way I drive for enjoyment.

to some people, swimming is second nature. for me, it’s driving. i love driving. i love feeling like the car is an extension of myself, and that ability to control something innately. i love that hyperawareness that comes with driving on the narrow edge between excitement and danger. I love deftly navigating the parked-up narrow streets of south boston and fighting my way into a too-small parking space. i love whipsawing the winding hilly back roads of the cape. i love opening up on an empty highway in vermont. i love taking corners too sharp and driving much faster than a good girl should.

i love a good song thumping through my solar plexus as my foot presses pedal to metal, windows open, road unfurling in front of me and the smooth vibration of a well-tuned engine under my ass.

it’s freedom and skill and thrill and escapism all rolled into one. i love to drive – and i’m good at it. whatever j might think. he doesn’t know how i *drive*.

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Je me souviens

by Jen at 12:34 pm on 29.10.2005Comments Off
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

if you really sat down to write about your life, how much would people not know about you? the parts you glossed over, or omitted from memory, or swept under that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach? the parts where you weren’t particularly pretty or sane, but without which, the you of now would never exist. they’re part of your skin, tattooed in your veins – imperceptibly indelible.

there are people who read my blog, who think i am very brave for writing about my personal life. trust me when I tell you it’s the telly-sanitised version. the real stuff of my living never gets put into words. the public me on offer is only the plastic shell that i want people to see.

why such introspection on a saturday morning? because sometimes closure drops into your lap when you least expect it. there have been people in my life whom i’ve lost touch with, whose role only makes sense in the rearview mirror. people who were there at a time and place where i was fucked up, or they were, or the world was just tilting at a strange angle and we both happened to be walking sideways together. and i’ve long since made peace with it, because even if it was never said aloud, i kind of always knew what happened and why, even if i didn’t handle it very well at the time. but you think about them when you hear a certain song, or the light has a particular bittersweet quality in autumn. and you wonder where they are now, what they’re doing, who they turned out to be. some people affect you in ways that you can only fully appreciate retrospectively. it’s true – some people change you. i know i’m being horribly mawkish, but i’m only on my third cup of coffee, so cut me some slack.

and then, the internet delivers news of them to your front door. through the miracle of google and bloggyology, and the little piece of software in wordpress that monitors in-linking and reports on who has seen fit to mention my little web corner. i opened up my computer to blog about vegetarianism, and instead found the answer i’d been looking for since i was 19. the pieces all fit into place now, and i can smile about it. i always knew… but now I know.

and if you happen to be reading: i’ve thought of you too, and i’m so glad you’re well. i hope that someday you’ll consider getting in touch, even if only just to say hello. because there are so few people in our short lives that actually ever matter. and you did.

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for piper

by J at 4:03 pm on 2.09.2005Comments Off
filed under: classic, family and friends

The Laws of Physics

You defy gravity
The inexorable pull of the world’s spinning
Has not yet creased your brow or
Settled its weight into your malleable bones
The earth spins on today
And leaves you unfettered

Asleep at the nuzzled breast
Peace smoothes your light cheek
Whispers formless dreams
In your shell ear
Bliss and milk
Wash away an easy tear
Beneath your wet lashes
a mist of knowing smile
swirls the corners of your mouth
You’re laughing at me
With your sly fearlessness

Fingertips precociously toying with air
Space and time stretch endless between them
Blushless toes dance an airy abandon
In time to a chorus of fluttering leaves
Pink oh! lips proclaim your arrival
The wind’s silent native tongue
Disguised as a soursoft yawn

Evening stars will fall
Your darkness holds no meaning
The sun will come again
You have no sadness at the daylight’s passing,
No quiet heartaches for unnamed longings
Restless yearning for the nebulous undefined
Fear to once again lay your desires bare to the jagged rocks
Of mundane disappointments and sharp shattered possibilities
You will feed your brave hopes every morning
And mourn their death on your pillow
But not tonight

Night stars will fall
A spangled curtain to signify the next act
The sun will come again
And there is no weariness in seeing it
Your shiny bouncing new sun.

The veil of memory dissolves like an early morning fog
And you will forget you once knew all this
You will become earthbound, a mortal subject to the laws of physics
Rain and granite and grass will claim you as their own treasure
But your toes will remember the dance, when they feel the trees echo
Long after you open
Your eyes.

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blue bayou

by J at 3:55 pm on 1.09.2005Comments Off
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

I will share a few memories of new orleans which are making me pretty sad right about now.

I first went when I was in louisiana visiting my friend beth. i was really good friends with beth – she was a borna and bred new yorker with a natural southern twang to her. we’ve lost touch now, but she lived there and i’ve been thinking about her a lot because i know she’s probably mourning her city right now. in any case, i went to visit her in nearby lafayette, and we decided to spend the weekend in n’awlins on the spur of the moment. she rounded up some friends-of-friends of hers, and we headed off over the river. we had no reservation, but ended up at this b&b straight out of a movie, with the dripping wisteria and the veranda and courtyard. we wandered the city aimlessly and she got a tattoo of a gryffin and a crescent moon (n.o. being “the crescent city”) just because we happened to walk past. we hung out with the locals drinking all night long, at this little den off the back off a wrought iron staircase, with candles and curtains and lots of strong rum, and when it got warm we went for a 3am swim under the stars, and spent the morning watching the sun come up over the mississippi. 24 hours that are as vivid as if they were yesterday.

i was so struck by it, that when i came time to celebrate my 30th birthday, i knew where i wanted to go. my friend jo and i spent a whole week there over christmas (my birthday being the 25th, hers being the 28th) and it was amazing indulgent excess. we stuffed ourselves on muffalettas and crawfish etouffee. we hung out playing pool and drinking and getting naughty with strangers on Christmas eve. we played scrabble in little cafes and wandered through graveyards. we had our fortunes told, did ecstasy and coke, drank the best water in the world at a little electricity-less bar lit only by candlelight, and danced our asses off in a corny 80s club. we took photos and made lists and walked all over creation. we stayed in a really grim hotel, and a really nice one. we committed one felony, and several misdemeanors. we bought fuck-me boots and got our hair did. we had cafe au laits and beignets at dawn by the river.

it was gothic and vibrant and noisy and atmospheric and fragrant and hectic and lush. weighty with history. effervescent with life.

and now it’s drowned. and the sorrows of the people are mingled with the waters of the delta, tears and river as one.

it will be reborn, and rise from the depths, in accordance with its history. if there’s any city where things can be certain of coming back to life, it is new orleans. ghosts are the life and the heart of it – nothing stays buried for long there.

but until then, my poor sweet city, may you have peace

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whiplash

by Jen at 9:38 pm on 11.08.2005Comments Off
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

it’s unbelievable how your sense of smell can just whip you right back to a particular time and place from out of the blue. this morning, i was walking down the street on my way to the tube, and suddenly got a whiff of perfume from the woman walking in front of me.

and suddenly I was 13 again. you see, for a while during puberty, i was obsessed with fashion magazines. i pored over them as if somehow i could become thinner, more beautiful through osomosis, just by reading them, or figuring out what the right outfit to wear was, or finding the perfect kind of makeup to hide my awkward ugly duckling stage. i thought there was some kind of magic in those pages, and i desperately wanted it to rub off on me, transform me into anyone but the gawky teen i was. and not just any regular teen fashion magazines. not “seventeen” or “ym” like my friends read. no, i read “vogue” and “glamour”, and particularly “elle” – which were largely just catalogue-sized advertisements for a lifestyle i couldn’t even begin to dream of affording. slick photos of the jewelry and tans and couture of the elite. yet i longed – not so much to look like the models, or wear the clothes… i probably couldn’t have put what i longed for into words, but it was undoubtably linked to a desire for comfort and confidence in my own skin. something which i wouldn’t find for many more years. something which, even now somedays, i have only a tenuous grip on.

and when i was 13, i still went to church every sunday with my parents. how very pedestrian, i know, but true. i was a regular churchgoer against my will. and after the service was over, my parents inevitably had some sort of coffee club or meeting to attend, or just wanted to hang around talking to their friends for hours about things i couldn’t have cared less about. as a 13 year old, i just wanted to get as far away from the scene of embarassment as quickly as possible. so i would ask my dad for the keys to the car, and i would go to the drugstore and spend $3 of my babysitting money on the glossy and seductive “elle” magazine, and go study it in the back of our family minivan, while waiting. waiting for my dorky parents to tear themselves away from the dorky church. waiting to escape my geeky suburban life. waiting to be free of the adolescent angst which i couldn’t even name but carried around with me in my spine everyday. waiting to be a swan.

the point of all this, is that “elle” always had a certain perfume sample in it with a very distinctive smell. i wish i could remember the name of it now, and i was more than half tempted to stop the woman this morning and ask her what scent she was wearing. but that smell this morning transported me from a 32 year old woman in London to a 13 year old girl in the back of a minivan in Boston, in the blink of an eye.

and it kind of blindsides you to know that you can suddenly feel that way again without any kind of considerate warning, with no control over when or where it happens. and it’s unnerving to know that our emotions only remain hidden at the whim of our senses and memories, that they can surface so suddenly and acutely, and that they’re only a whiff away.

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a wet and woolly week in mushypeas, mass.

by J at 12:40 pm on 27.05.2005Comments Off
filed under: classic, family and friends, travelology

back from my visit with my sis in mashpee. of course the entire time I was there, it was pouring and 50F (that’s 10C for you metric fans). and in spite of all the rain, it was still well nigh impossible to get sox tickets. the week was very low key as a result – all plans went out the window, since the weather was soooo not co-operating.

things i enjoyed:

american appliances. i did like 18 loads of laundry, just because i could. clothes that come out all fluffy and warm, and wrinkle free. it’s a good thing. miraculous. also, all hail the built in shower and dishwasher. long live mixer taps.

old navy. it’s rather sad that i get so excited about this, but cheap staples are apparently what passes for my fashion sense these days. gone are the good old days when i could drop a shitload of money on cute clothes. shifting priorities dictate that all clothing be sturdy, cheap, and multifunctional. old navy fits this bill to a tee. in fact, i am loathe to admit it, but i have not bought a single thread of clothing since the last time i went to the states. also, cheap shoes. footwear is just crazy expensive over here.

panera bread. a chain similar to what you’d expect if au bon pain crossed with starbucks, which makes it a guilty pleasure but they do amazingly delicious salads. i love salad like nothing else. mmmmm, salad.

star wars episode 3. saw this and enjoyed it much more than expected. but then again, it’s the payoff movie, so it really couldn’t go too far wrong.

american marlboros. they’re not the same here.

dunkin donuts coffee and good customer service.

peace and trees and cranberry bogs and quaintness and fried clams and beer. essence of cape cod.

spending time with the sis. seeing the family.

things i did not enjoy:

rain. more rain. cold. smoking in the aforementioned rain and cold.

the department of motor vehicles. there’s a long convoluted story there for another time. suffice to say vermont is the most ass-backward state in the union. don’t ever get a speding ticket there. especially doing 95 through a work zone.

being unable to drive because of vermont.

the incredible amount of “eating out” americans do, and the portions that could feed a family of four. i felt compelled to eat a lot. I put on a good 5 pounds in a week.

too much george bush. not enough peace, love and understanding.

insane amounts of choice. it took me ages to decide on anything, from the kind of toothpaste to buy, to what to watch on television. life should not be that hard.

big cars.

babies r us. went with kate to register for her baby stuff. what a fucking racket!!! brainwashing and excess to the nth degree. no one *needs* a 25$ babywipe warmer, or a 300$ stroller cum baby-s.u.v., or 160$ crib sheets. by the time i got out of there, i felt bitter and cynical about really cute babies, and that is saying a lot. i refuse to buy into that mentality. so i bought them a digital camera instead. very useful, but specifically *not* baby-oriented.

flight back was then delayed for an hour, i got seated between mister should’ve-bought-two-seats-so-i-don’t-have-to-completely-encroach-upon
-someone-else’s-personal-space-with-my-fat-ass, and mister dog-shit-breath, and surrounded by no fewer than 4 screaming children. *but*, i got through immigration in a breeze (yay for resident visas!) and customs did *not* go through my 8000 pounds of baggage with far in excess of the £145 personal allowance. brought back lots of clothes, food, and a queen size foam mattress pad (since i can count the number of springs in my back every night, and egg-crate foam covers don’t seem to exist here, but cost only 15$ in the states, tell me it wasn’t worth it??). of course, I then had to lug this shit all the way back from heathrow, up and down multiple sets of stairs, in 28C heat. sometimes i surprise myself.

not many pics, considering the lack of activities, but will get the few i do have up here soon.

off to nap now. nighty nite.

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death by poi

by J at 5:43 pm on 12.04.2005Comments Off
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

Took my first poi class last night.

FOr those of you unfamiliar with poi, they are weighted balls, covered in streamers, suspended by cords or chains from the fingertips, and derived from use in Maori dance rituals. They are also sometimes lit on fire, and used for “fire spinning”, a hypnotic display of dancing/weaving circles of flame. Last Halloween, while at a house party, I watched a guy do fire spinning, and said to my friends, “I’d love to learn how to do that”.

So for Christmas, Santa left poi in my stocking, and I (being the safety conscious girl that I am) decided to take a class for beginners out in Camden. Last night was the first lesson.

I’m thinking I may need a wee bit of practice.

I curse my mother and my maternally inherited lack of hand-eye co-ordination. I curse my clumsy, stiff, and unco-operative left wrist which rotates as smoothly as a ballbearing coated in tar and shards of glass. I curse the inventor of nylon streamers.

I am pretty sure I was the only one whose poi were actively trying to strangle her. My poi are sadistic as hell.

And I actually have a poi-related injury – a big ol’swollen and lumpy bruised knuckle, which I have no idea how I got.

It’s fun. But frustrating. More frustrating than snowboarding, because it looks so deceptively simple. At least with snowboarding, there’s the element of danger, and the adrenaline rush in between spectacular crashes. There’s not much adrenaline in hitting yourself repeatedly about the head while streamers are wound around your neck and tangled cords yank out great clumps of hair.

It must be hilarious to watch. I’d pay good money to see a video. My ponytail elastic kept flying across the room. I kept tripping on the streamers (dangerous, with my walking abilities pretty iffy at the best of times, certainly without charmed poi snakes binding my ankles together). Streamers entangled with another girl’s poi streamers. Errant poi sailing wildly into the wall, like a deranged fluorescent comet. Interspersed with huge chunks of time devoted to trying to unravel randomly created master-level nautical knots which have magically fused two poi into one giant nest of string.

However, I am sure that in no time I will soon be weaving and spinning like a pro. And then I graduate to fire!

In the meantime, I should probably invest in a helmet.

Oof

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wedding and wildlife

by J at 5:23 pm on 2.03.2005 | 1 Comment
filed under: classic, now *that's* love, travelology

So much to write about!

South Africa was amazing. We spent the first few days in and around Johannesburg, seeing family and friends, and catching up with life and all its changes. J hasn’t been back to SA in about two years, so there were lots of reunions. We spent a lot of time in and around Edenvale, which is where J grew up, and where a lot of his friends still live. We did errands and visited old haunts and had lazy lunches, while I tried to get a tan between air-conditioned destinations. We went to visit J’s Ouma (grandmother) and her family, and hung out all afternoon in the backyard playing cricket and jumping in the pool.

We spent our first weekend with J’s sisters and their families, staying by them overnight, the adults staying up drinking and talking, while 3 kiddies ran amok around their legs. We spent the next day at a nature reserve, which gave me my first taste of real African wildlife – lions and kudu and warthogs, oh my! We drove around the game area in a hot thick cloud of red dust, spotting animals shaded in the bushes, and being slightly disappointed they seemed more interested in staying cool than posing for action shots. We went into the nearby cave, which provided welcome relief from the heat, and stunning displays of stalactites and stalagmites, delicate yet massive. The best experience by far, however, was the opportunity to interact with lion and tiger cubs – like playful kittens (chewing on shoes, mock-fighting) but you can feel the latent power behind their oversized paws, and you can truly appreciate the incredible strength and agility they will have as full grown cats, when they will stalk their prey and swiftly go in for the kill. Unbelievable.

We had a low-key Valentine’s Day – our first, and I reminisced about the V-day exactly one year ago when our mutual friends were so persistent in trying to get the two of us together that they phoned me dozens of times during the evening while I was out at a party, and I finally agreed they could give him my number. The rest, as they say, is history. We spent the evening by a lake, having drinks and seafood and coffee in the warm evening breeze, talking about the past year and looking forward to the wedding.

We visited J’s Ouma Lina and Oupa Johnny at the care home where they now live – Oupa Johnny now 91 and senile, Ouma Lina 20 years younger, but with Alzheimer’s. They remain dignified and well looked after, and even though they hadn’t seen J in more than 5 years, they still remembered tales from when he was young, and were delighted to see their grandson.

Finally it was time to leave for Cape Town, as we were going down a few days before the actual wedding. It’s a loooong drive. 1500 km, which is about 14 hours driving straight through. We set out at 2am, watched the sun rise in the rear-view mirror, and spent many hours driving through the karoo – not quite desert, but not far off, with endless stretches of barren scrub landscape and only the smallest blink-and-you’ll-miss-it towns every few hours to break up the monotony. Yet this is the area the first intrepid Dutch farmers chose to settle, scrabbling an existence from the hard dry earth, and defending their homesteads during the Anglo-Boer War. My left arm burned in the passenger window, my back soaked with sweat. After an eternity, we came into the wine valley regions, with acres of vineyards and lush greenery nestled between the mountains. And finally, we hit Cape Town – with white sand beaches stretching all along the coast, and Table Mountain towering over the city below. We had a fantastic view from the balcony of our flat on Bloubergstrand, and it was easy to see this was the perfect setting for our wedding. We spent some time at the Victoria and Albert Waterfront before J’s family arrive (some driving, some flying), and then we all had a boerewors (traditional sausage) braai (bbq). The next day we took a drive out to the opposite side of the Cape, while the kiddies went to the seashore. We drove up Chapman’s Peak, past stunning views (and residences) along False Bay, stopping in the quaint fishing village of Hout Bay for some fish and chips and seal watching.

The next day was *the* day. We made a few phone calls and did some last minute errands during the morning – picked up flowers, picked up “something borrowed”, made copies of passports. I had waves of nervousness whenever I was standing still – general anxiety about a big event. One of my fears was allayed, however – the day was bright and *calm* (the previous few days having been extremely windy). We went back to the b&b in the afternoon and got ready – the minute I got dressed, all my nervousness disappeared, and I began to enjoy the beautiful weather and the anticipation. We arrived at the restaurant, with friends, family and minister following shortly after, and everyone had a drink while we discussed last minute details and did paperwork.

It was time – we all went down to the small patio adjacent to the rocks and waves. And there, with the sun setting, the mountain backdrop, the sound of the ocean, and J’s hand in mine… we got married. There was laughter and tears. We each wrote our own vows. It was beautiful and intimate and elegant and perfect, and I couldn’t have wished for anything better.

After the ceremony, everyone sat down to a gorgeous dinner, and free-flowing wine. A few brave souls made speeches. Kids ran haywire among the rocks. Everyone stayed into the evening, and left giddy and tired.

On our way out of Cape Town, the following morning, we headed across the peninsula to Boulder’s Beach in Simon’s Town on a special mission (for me) to see the penguin colony which lives there. It was hilariously entertaining, and I fell in love with the chubby, awkward little creatures. They may be effortlessly graceful in the water, but they are a live comedy act when on land. They were so close, I could’ve put one in my pocket if I wanted (and I did want to!) I must’ve peed myself laughing at how they hop/plop off rocks, or when they try to belly flop into the water but the tide goes out and leaves them face-down in the sand. And watching them try to climb over twigs and bushes was eye-wateringly funny. I really, really did love the penguins.

We drove to Mossel Bay, stopping off for lunch in Hermanus, which is famously the town where the whales come into the harbour from Sept. to Jan. We arrived in Mossel Bay, having made a last minute reservation at a b&b, which turned out to be a fabulously plush suite. We had a candlelight dinner on the deck overlooking the ocean, which was lovely and romantic, until the mosquitoes and spiders drove us indoors.

The next day was a bit overcast, so we didn’t hang around, but headed for Knysna, hoping for sun. A two hour drive turned into much longer – the scenery was absolutely dazzling and we stopped frequently to take pictures and explore. Scenic beaches on one side, dramatically green mountains and valleys to the other. Lagoons and gorges, crashing surf and blinding sun. We stopped in Victoria Bay to see the surfing, climbing around amongst the tide-pools playing with hermit crabs and looking for octopus. We stopped in Wilderness to detour through the lagoons and quaint houses. We stopped in Sedgefield to gaze out on the lakes and the Tsitsikamma forest. We arrived in Knysna in the afternoon, checking into our little lodges built to resemble treehouses. We drove out to the Knysna Heads, watching the tide come in crashing at the rocks. We went to the waterfront and had drinks while watching the sun set into a tangle of masts and glassy pools. We went to the beach and I got painfully burned on the back of the knees. We bathed in giant Victorian tubs screened by leafy branches. We had fine traditional South African cuisine, and we had too much Nando’s chicken till our bellies hurt.

We finally had to leave Kynsna, heading for Addo Elephant Park, via Port Elizabeth. I had signed up for a bungee jump off the Bloukrans Bridge – the highest fixed-point bungee jump in the world. I figured, if you’re going to jump, then *jump*. 216 metres is a pretty big jump. I was really excited to do it, but by the time we arrived, we were running out of time – it became a choice of bungee jumping, or elephants. There was no contest – I came to Africa to see elephants, though I was mightily disappointed when we drove away.

We arrived at Addo, and I could barely contain myself. We immediately headed out to the game area and I was straining my eyes for the elephants. There are 400 of them in the park, however they have roughly 150,000 hectares to spread out in, which means if they want to be elusive, they can. Cursing the wandering nature of, well…nature, we saw plenty of kudu and rooi hartebees, eland and zebras, when suddenly, we came around a corner and there they were.

Mama and baby, less than 3 metres away – just sitting there placidly munching, looking straight at me, as if they had been waiting for me to show up. They were gorgeous, just unbelievably beautiful. These giant, sensitive creatures fascinate me like no other, and to see them in their natural environment, (as much “in the wild” as they can be now, and still be protected) was a dream come true. Not behind zoo bars, not with someone riding on their back, but free to roam, and live among other animals. When we finally left the pair, we saw a small herd across a large field, when suddenly they broke into a run. Why, was unclear – the only thing in the area was a pair of fighting warthogs. But seeing a herd of elephants take off is quite a sight.

We spent several more hours driving – on the lookout for the lions and black rhino, but they’re notoriously difficult to spot, and we fared no better. We had dinner and returned to the rondavel to watch the watering hole just outside. Rondavels are basically straw huts, and while this was a nice rondavel, it’s still just a hut. Which means on climbing into bed we found big spiders under the sheets, and shongololos (gigantic millipedes) on the floor. Rustic. After we shooed them all out the door, we were lying in bed getting ready to turn the lights off, when we spotted the bat flying around high in the circular ceiling of the hut. There was some small debate over whether it was a bat or a bird, then some further debate about how to get it out, while it bashed confusedly into the walls and dove perilously close to the bed. While I actually like bats, I’m not eager to share my bedroom with them. A pillowcase? Ceiling too high. A broom? With all our dithering about, the smart little bat actually managed to find his/her own way out, and we were spared having to fling pillows at the poor thing.

The next day we headed off at sunrise for the 10 hour trip home. More karoo, more heat and boredom. We made it home, and the next day met up with some more old friends at the local sports bar to watch the Arsenal game, and ended up going out for the evening at what passes for a metal/goth/punk bar in Edenvale. It was a fun night, reliving the days when we used to care about how many holes our Doc Martens had, and who had the most holes in their body.

It was leaving day – we had some goodbye drinks with the family, and then everyone came to the airport to say goodbye. There was much confusion and back-and-forth over Jonno’s standby ticket, and in the end, he had to stay in SA another evening, while I ended up running for the plane. It wasn’t an ideal ending to the trip, but what can you do?

My impressions of the country? It’s an amazing dichotomy – a complete split between first-world country and underdeveloped nation. The cities are big and modern as any in the UK or US, yet, just outside them lie the ever-present townships, where people live in shacks made of tin, old billboards, tarps, and discarded wood scraps, many without electricity or plumbing. There are people who make a living by selling sacks of mangoes by the roadside, or metal trinkets, or wildflower bouquets. People walk long distances along the highways, because there’s no public transportation. It’s not uncommon to see small children begging in the street. Like a mix of Miami and Paraguay.

The new independence? It’s still very much a work in progress. Things are undoubtedly moving forward, yet racism is still visible to the naked eye. There is an obvious collection of older whites who fear they are losing power in the new independence to blacks. I never was completely comfortable with only ever being served by blacks. Cashiers and maids and petrol station workers and parking attendants and waiters are all only ever black. With 40% unemployment, surely this is no mistake. Among many, there is still a feeling of superiority because of the colour of their skin. There almost a patronising feel to the way in which they are sometimes spoken to. Is this a real reflection of the way things are? I don’t know – it’s only my impression.

Images that will stay with me: People in 30 sweltering degree heat wearing wool caps and jumpers. Eleven official languages, and spending ages searching for an English-speaking radio station through the Karoo. Mothers with babies wrapped to their backs walking with giant flour sacks balanced on their head. Baboons and monkey strolling across the road the same way a rabbit might here. The baby lion and tiger cubs. The sudden drama and force of a highveld thunderstorm, hail and torrential rain, and over as soon as it begins. The red dust that makes its way into every crevice and corner of the everything. The unexpected sight of an apple orchard in the mountains. The long white curves of a beautiful beach. The hundred year old mine dumps testifying to the riches of gold and diamonds plundered from the land, almost none of the money benefiting the South African people. The sad tale of the Zimbabwean cricket team, once a tour-de-force, now barely a contender whose players are politically persecuted. People napping on small patches of grass by the side of the road, or sitting on curbs watching cars go by. Table mountain by sunset. The beauty of elephants in their natural habitat. Trying to learn to pronounce, let alone understand, Afrikaans, with the guttural “g’s” and double vowels everywhere. The tiny little villages where schoolchildren walk home barefoot on boiling hot tarmac, and play in dry ravines, rarely seeing anyone or anything outside the main road. The security gates and alarms everywhere – visible fear of crime. People walking the street openly with guns. A little kid walking in the middle of nowhere through a thunderstorm. People walking with umbrellas to shield the sun. Cities and towns named Bloemfontein (bloom fountain), Ysterfarkesfontein (steel pig fountain), soetmelfontein (sweet milk fountain) – fonteins everywhere, yet not a fountain in sight.

There are a million more tiny moments which were memorable, and I could go on, but I’m not sure it’d mean anything to anyone but me. Whether my impressions and memories are mistaken or misguided, I can’t say, but they made up my collective experience of South Africa.

see the wedding and wildlife here

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hitting the slopes. literally.

by J at 7:49 pm on 10.01.2005Comments Off
filed under: classic, photo, this sporting life, travelology

spent a ski weekend in france, with myself, j, kerryn, tracey, and chris, which was just unbelievable. we left early friday morning, arriving in toulouse around 10, hired a car, and drove about 120 km to saint lary, at the foot of the pyrenees on the france/spain border. we dropped our stuff at the hostel we were staying at, and headed straight for the slopes, eager to try snowboarding for the first time.

the first mission was hiring equipment. the ski resort, like the region itself, was not actually much of a tourist destination, and although most everyone spoke fluent french and spanish, no one spoke a single word of english. our rather hilarious form of communication for the weekend, therefore, was pieced together from the smattering of french chris and i knew, and my extremely rusty spanish, and mostly consisted of bastardized spanglish, franglish, spench (an advanced technique combining spanish and french in the same sentence), and terribly bad mime. ddding to the mayhem, since the resort was purely for locals, there were few amenities for novices (like clothing hire, or lockers) and trying to decide if we rode “regulaire” or “goofy”, our french shoe sizes, and navigating unfamiliar protocols, made for many moments of unintentional hilarity.

after managing to hire equipment, get tickets, and suit up (looking extremely dorky in our totally unpractical jeans), we decided to take a crack at practicing ourselves before our tutorial lesson. on the low end of the nursery slope, we struggled to stand without having our feet fly out from underneath us, squealed in terror when we actually started moving, and either stopped by plopping down in a most undignified manner, or embarrassingly took out small villages of innocent bystanders before crashing into netting/trees/the carpark below.

finally, it was time for our lesson. our instructor, bless him, had massive reserves of patience, but a miniscule english vocabulary bank. which meant that he mainly had to resort to infinite repetition of a few key phrases to try to get his point across (”you must tuuuurrrrnn de bodie, and press wit you knee”, “look where you going, and flexxx”, “not turn de bird, but turrrrnnnn de bodie”). to his much-earned credit, he did managed to impart the very basics, keep a straight face as we fell time and time again on the button lift, and save the lives of several small toddlers on the hill, as we hurtled helplessly toward the petrified little cherubs.

after a humiliating, yet entertaining afternoon on the hill, we headed for the hostel, for a much needed hot shower (most of us now wearing baggy-assed sopping wet jeans) and some dinner.

the hostel itself was warm and welcoming, with an “our home is your home” philosophy, and a familial, communal feel. the rooms were warm and clean, the kitchen open to anyone at any hour, hearty group dinners with flowing wine and plenty of conversation, a lounge/bar for playing games or just relaxing after a long day on the slopes, and an open, trusting honour system for just about everything.

after a big dinner of soup and salad, fish and rice, wine and cheese, coffee and lychee fruit, we relaxed with a few beers and some rousing ping pong, before hitting the sack and falling immediately unconscious.

awoke the next morning just in time for the tail end of breakfast (bowls of café au lait, bread and jam, fresh fruit), put together some meat and cheese sandwiches on crusty bread for our lunch, and headed off for a second day on the slopes, stopping at a flea market along the way to buy some much-needed waterproof pants, and some gigantic “muffins”.

this time, we went to a second ski station in the same cluster, with more green slopes, plenty of practice space, and more services. after finally getting ourselves together, kitted out, and on the snow, we spent a few hours trying to master the tow rope and control a backside turn, we braved the chair lift leading to a much longer and steeper slope. it was quickly apparent that we had overestimated our skills, but we persisted, no matter how often we wiped out coming off the lift, how much our thighs burned from having to seesaw our long way down back-side, how many spectacular head-over-heels cartwheels we did. taking a short lunch break, we went again and again and again. i got really frustrated. baby slopes which i could easily do on skis, were a trial on a snowboard, and i was wishing wholeheartedly i had taken up the sport at 19, when i could bounce back with more spring. after initially feeling like it was coming naturally to me on the first day, i spent most of the second day slamming violently down at speed down on my coccyx. i got hot and sweaty, then cold. my joints felt like those of a 90 year old. i would pick up speed and relax into a turn, only to suddenly catch an edge and plow face-first into the snow. i forgot everything i had learned, and my co-ordination got worse as the day went on. in the last hour before the lifts closed, i took one melodramatic spill where my brain rattled and hat went flying off my head, leaving me having to perilously scramble/slide after it. it was at that point i decided i had had enough, and stormed off to the car (as much as one can storm in severe pain) to wait for the others to finish.

once everyone had re-assembled and told their most victoriously death-defying stories from the day, we headed into saint lary, where we decided to browse around the village bit, buying knicknacks, and eventually ended up having a big leisurely spanish dinner of paella and beer. finally arriving back at the hostel, we showered and headed to the bar, to have some spanish red wine and play yahtzee late into the evening.

the next morning we were up and packed early, passing around ibuprofen to stave off the worst of the aches and pains. after coffee and breakfast, we went back to the same slope, this time managing to hire better equipment (quick-release bindings!) and get out on the snow with a minimum of fuss. after a bit, we were all feeling a lot more confident – we headed for some longer and steeper runs, and had a bit of adrenaline rush going. i finally managed to lick my turns (so that instead of seesawing, i could now “carve” a bit), even managing to finally get the hang of the kick-turn move, and inordinately proud of myself for mastering something i had struggle so hard with. after that, it was soooo much more enjoyable – fewer falls, more control, less frustration, more pleasure. at our late lunch (crusty sandwiches, fruit and biscuits), however, it became apparent that chris had manage to really hurt himself, wrenching an ankle badly, and unable to continue. sadly, he had to retire to the car, while the rest of us tried to get in some last runs before leaving. eventually, reticently, we had to collect ourselves to go, so we returned the boards, picked up our bags from the hostel, settled accounts (the totals being amazingly cheap!), and headed for the airport.

after a surprisingly smooth journey home, i wanted nothing more than to fall into bed, only to discover instead, that whilst we were away, raging windstorms had slammed open our bedroom balcony door, smashing it, and leaving the room covered in glass and open to the elements. a disheartening end to the holiday, to be sure.

all in all, however, it was an incredible weekend, with gorgeous weather, lots of laughs and good times, and great friends. although my body is much battered and worse for the wear (beaten knees and elbows, arthritic joints, whiplashed neck and a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my tailbone – i feel like i’ve been through a tumbledryer full of rocks) it was a wonderfully fun trip.

view the action shots here

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i turn left, you turn right, on this one way stretch of life…

by J at 10:14 pm on 22.12.2004Comments Off
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

so this is the part i hate. blair and leeann leave london for good tomorrow, so went to have a “goodbye” drink.

I’m not used to this. I’m usually the one leaving, before I get left. I am usually the one moving on, before things pass me by. it’s easier that way – easier than feeling stuck, easier than feeling sad, easier than feeling left behind. it’s easier to change by choice, rather than necessity.

nothing on this little shiny marble stays still – and i wouldn’t want it to. I’ll never be one of those people who settle for tv dinners, who get sucked into the complacency of routine, who are happy to stay within the confines of their known world, their little goldfish bubble. still, I don’t deal well with externally imposed change – i know this about myself. and i know this is all part of the experience i signed on for. i’m just not used to being on the other side.

i’m happy for them – they’re going forward, not content to merely stand still. and we have plans, too – it’s not as if we’re putting down roots, pulling down the blinds, and starting our thimble collection. it’s just that when people you care about leave, it’s impossible not to feel a bit selfish about it. you want them to stay – for you.

that’s the transient nature of this ragtag group of expat wandering travellers that I call friends. they’re the people i have the most in common with, but the people i get to spend the least time knowing. it’s an ever-shifting, fluid collective, where people come, and people go. they’re inspiring and adventurous, full of world experience and easy-going by nature. they do the kinds of things i plan to do, try things i want to try. they are seers and doers and dreamers of life. and they accept me as one of their kind.

i just hate it when they leave. and i am still here.

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spillover

by J at 1:54 pm on 28.10.2004Comments Off
filed under: classic, this sporting life

Seven hours ago, one of my lifelong dreams came true.

You ask me how I feel? The answer right now, is I don’t know. How do you feel when something you never thought you’d live to see, happens before your very eyes? How do you feel, when the deep ache of a lifetime of grief, is suddenly, instantaneously released, evaporating into the universe? How do you feel when such a huge burden is lifted? When expectations of heartache are suddenly replaced with glee?

It’s surreal. In a moment, the whole landscape has changed, and everything is different. You’ve been so often to the depths of despair, it’s unfathomable that you’re suddenly on top of the world. It’s overwhelming, and draining, and blessedly disconcerting. I’m not complaining.

In the final innings, I was suspended in a state of disbelief. I couldn’t comprehend that it was actually happening. If you’d asked me how I would react with the final out, I would’ve told you insane screaming, jumping, uncontainable exuberance.

Instead, I cried. I cried for all the times I’d been reduced to tears before. I cried for all the fans who never got to witness their dream. I cried in sweet release of years of frustration, sadness, and confusion. I cried decades of pent up emotion. I cried for the fulfilment of inconceivable hopes and silent prayers. I cried because it felt good, and I cried because it felt right.

For once, in my years of fandom, I cried because I was happy.

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what i remember

by J at 7:31 am on Comments Off
filed under: classic, this sporting life

This is what I remember:

- Learning to throw a baseball at age 7 with my dad and brother in the backyard, in the sweltering heat of summer. Always overhand – I didn’t know girls weren’t supposed to throw. Catching pop-ups and fielding bouncing grounders in the uneven grass, learning not to be afraid of the ball coming at your face hard and fast, even after taking a few in the teeth. Swinging for the fences, choking up on the bat, and following through to make it soar. Oiling my glove, wrapping it around a ball with rubber bands, and sleeping with it under my mattress.

- Taking my glove to Fenway with my family at 9. We sat it the nosebleed bleachers, and packed our own peanuts and popcorn in a sack. The little transistor radio we brought sending out tinny updates to describe the plays we were seated too far away to see. Every foul ball seemed like it could be headed our way, and we wore our gloves for the entire game, with pure childlike optimism.

- My brother collected baseball cards. He pored over them and memorised them and organised them with the intensity of an ancient texts scholar. He could quote statistics at will, even if he couldn’t do long division. The Holy Grail was a Carl Yazstremski rookie card, and he tore open every new pack with the whispered prayer of finding one. He never did.

- Carl Yazstremski retired from the Red Sox in 1983, after 22 years in Fenway’s left field. I was 11. I watched him jog slowly and reluctantly around the field, shaking fans hands, waving his cap, tears in his eyes, to the thunderous adoration of 35,000 fans, who didn’t want to let him leave. It remains the classiest baseball moment i’ve ever been privileged enough to witness. He remains my all-time baseball hero.

- Yaz, Dwight Evans, Jim Rice, Jerry Remy, Carlton Fisk, and Dennis Eckersley. These are the men who inspired my lifelong love for the game.

- Listening to the games in the summer on the radio, on the porch, laying in the sun. I learned more about baseball with my ears than with my eyes. I learned to imagine the heroics being acted out in high drama on the grassy stage. I learned to appreciate the artistry and beauty of the game inside my head.

- A trip to Yankee Stadium with my aunt, uncle, cousins, to watch the Sox play New York. My dad bet my Long Island uncle that Boston would win, and we did. I was 12.

- In my first year of high school, the Sox made it to the World Series against the NY Mets. It was 1986, and I was 13. I stayed up late to watch, and the whole of New England was glued to the television. We were one out away from winning the title in Game Six. Champagne corks were popped. A routine groundball headed up the first base line to Bill Buckner. It should’ve been over with in seconds. Instead, the groundball hopped through his legs, into the outfield, into history, into infamy. Runs scored and we lost Game 6, and went on to lose Game 7. I’ve felt sorry for Bill Buckner ever since.

- In my early 20s, all five of us siblings got together and took Mum to Fenway for Mother’s Day in May. It was freezing and drizzling and our seats were terrible, and she loved every second of it. This became our annual Mother’s Day tradition.

- The Sox won the American League East in 1988 and 1990. I remember them getting swept by the Oakland A’s both times. I remember hating Jose Canseco.

- In 1999, we were in the ALDS against the Cleveland Indians. We had clawed our way back from being two games down to tie the series. I remember Game 5, where Pedro Martinez came in as a complete surprise from the bullpen with an injured back, and threw six no-hit innings which took your breath away. Pedro would become a Boston legend from that day forward.

- Following the 2003 ALCS over the internet, from my little room in my little flat in Peckham, London. The series was tied 3-3. The day of Game 7, I was in Paris, trying to sort out my work permit, which was slipping through my fingers. On my way back to London, I was detained at Immigration for 3 hours, stripped of my passport, and informed I would have to leave the UK immediately, possibly never to return. I was finally allowed back to my flat, shattered and distraught, at 1 am. I tuned into the internet feed of the ballgame, praying for some sort of redemption on what was arguably the worst day of my life. Pedro Martinez and Roger Clemens were pitching, but by the top of the 8th inning, the Sox had a 5-2 lead. Everyone expected Pedro’s work was done. But he came back to pitch in the bottom of the inning, and before you knew it, the Yankees had tied the game. It was 5 am. I’d been awake for 24 hours straight, and suddenly realised I could not stand to listen to the rest of the game. I was scared and alone and exhausted, and drained of every emotion possible, and the possibility of facing another devastating blow was just too much. I remember switching off my computer, knowing that if the Sox managed to pull off a win, my family would call and wake me up to celebrate, and that if the Sox lost, I would deal with the heartache and disappointment in the morning. I did not get a call from my family that night, and awoke in the morning to the sad news of yet another bitter defeat. No one understood my grief, and I never felt more alone.

- On our second date, Jonno and I broached the weighty topic of baseball. I remember thinking right then, that I had found a soulmate. I’ve found a partner for the other love of my life, and he and I will follow the Sox together, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health. No matter what happens, I will have someone to celebrate or commiserate with. No matter what happens, I will have someone who understands. No matter what happens, I have someone by my side for the ride.

I will remember tonight. Tonight, when dreams everywhere came true. When my team became the champions they were always meant to be. Fulfilling a destiny, inexorably bound to be theirs. Performing their craft with a joy and bumbling grace I’ve never before seen them exude. Playing for the love of the game. This is why I love baseball. This is why I love the Red Sox.

I will remember this.

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flying in the face of logic, history… and some would say fate

by J at 5:14 pm on 19.10.2004Comments Off
filed under: classic, this sporting life

I’ve been here before.

The swarms of butterflies in the stomach, the inability to sit still, nerves worn close to the skin. Many might say it was foolish to get so worked up over a game – but as children, we spend some formative years, watching those players who would be our giants. And they are special. Attachments develop (it would not be too strong to say bonds) with the heroes on the field, in whose place, you imagine yourself.

They do what we wish we could, and they excel in ways we can’t. They act out epic dramas in worlds circumscribed by known rules, where achievement is measured through hard work and dedication to honing one’s skill. They wear our passions on their sleeve, in good games and bad.

They are our surrogates for our own dreams, in ways both big and small.

And when they stand on the edge of achieving history, of becoming, for a moment which will be frozen for all of time, recognised as the greatest champions of the sport, *we are right there with them*. breath for breath, swing for swing. it’s not overstating the case. They are playing for us, and we are playing with them.

Tying your emotions to the fate of hometown team is risky, no doubt. Inevitably, we try to protect ourselves from the possibility of heartbreak. After all, games are defined by both winners and losers. But doing so only dampens the experience of what sport is all about. Dreams, passions, dramas, and heroes.

After all, only when you know where the bottom of the mountain lies, can you truly experience the thrill of the most dizzying heights. And the heights are there to be scaled.

In the end, one team has to win it all. And it could very well be yours.

You gotta believe.

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where there’s smoke… there are no bloody cigarettes, dammit!

by J at 5:32 pm on 4.10.2004Comments Off
filed under: classic, mutterings and musings

i quit smoking.

yes, you read right. I quit. not, “I’m trying to quit,” or, “i’m going to try to quit.” Past tense. fait accompli. To quote yoda, “do. or do not. there is no try.”

which makes it all sound so easy. In reality, if it were that easy, this would not be the third time I have quit. I have, in fact, done ths twice before.

The first time I quit, I had only been smoking for 3 years. I consciously (some would say self-destructively) took smoking up at the ripe old age of 19, when I was well and truly old enough to know better, and it’s probably no coincidence that I also had blue hair and a pierced nipple. What can I say, I was a late bloomer when it came to rebellion, and i took up smoking with a vengeance, no half-ways about it. I made up in enthusiasm what I lacked in gravel-throated experience.

And it was great. It got me through the awkward years of finding my way in new york, where i wasn’t sure what i was doing, or who i was doing it with. when I was old enough to be considered an adult, but too young to be taken seriously. it lent me gravitas in a city where being noticed takes supreme feats of effort, and where acting bored and jaded is a mark of sophistication. It passed the time waiting in bars for friends, attending bad art exhibitions, coffee breaks at minimum wage jobs.

I cultivated a sense of ennui, to hide my naked fear at being thought inexperienced/shy/dorky. Cigarettes were a critical prop in the facade.

Eventually, however, I got tired of *having* to smoke. I got tired of the chronic bronchitis which guaranteed me being given wide berth on the subway and necessitated sleeping in an upright position. I got tired of spending my meagre salary on pack after pack of cigarettes, or worse, “bumming” off friends. I got tired of standing in the rain/snow/sleet, pretending I was enjoying myself, rather than merely staving off a nic fit.

So I quit, cold turkey. My then-husband still smoked in front of me, trying to taunt and sabotage. Within 2 weeks I became unemployed and had to write my exams to finish my ba degree. A week later, my husband lost his job. I literally had smoking dreams, where I woke up pulling mightily on an invisible cigarette, full of guilt, the dream cigarette was so real and enjoyable. One memorable and distressed evening, I walked around for several hours with a cigarette in one hand, and a lighter in the other. And I still stayed quit.

I stayed quit for 7 years.

And then one day, I thought I could have *just one*. Which is how it starts for all of us addicts – smokers, alcoholics, shoplifters, heroin users. Whatever your fix, it always starts with one.

I wanted to be a non-addict. I wanted to be that person who has the occassional cig while they’re drinking wine, or has a cigar on holidays and special events. I wanted to have control. I refused to admit that I had a problem. For whatever reason, I can have exactly 2 sips of wine, and put the glass down – but I can’t have two puffs of a smoke and throw it away. I can go a whole 12 hour plane ride without craving heroin, but my hands tremble lighting a cigarette after they let me through immigration.

It’s a crutch – something to do when you’re bored, or hungry, or tired, or awkward, or upset. It’s not that I don’t need the crutch, because in a way, we all do. We all use a little something to prop ourselves up now and again – chocolate, a drink, shopping, chewed fingernails. We all have them, they’re just not all as easily identifiable as a lit cigarette.

And I guess I’ll just have learn to use a glass of wine instead.

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