Healing Qualities of Music

Why I am consistently amazed at how freeing music can be, I'll never know. Each time it happens, I always think: "Yes, this is what life is about!" And then I promptly forget it until the next time...So, now I'm making sure to write it down.
You see, the thing is, we allow everyday life to barge in and grip us by the throats. It gives us a shake and says, "Don't you know this is reality!? Come on now!" And there we are, trembling at the horror of it, forgetting all the things that make us happy and carefree.

It has been a busy few months here; hectic, sometimes unfulfilling, and often frustrating. So, it was with great joy that I went to see a tribute band play last night - time to let my hair down and indulge in some music. That they are tribute band to The Band and Bob Dylan's music, well, indulgence on a platter, really.

Over the last month I've been so focused on other things (namely trying to settle in a new country...oddly preoccupying) that I've rarely picked up the guitar; though sacrilege in itself, I've also hardly listened to music. It has only been when I'm speeding in trains hither and thither that I've been able to put on my headphones and listen. This last week, over the Christmas period, I discovered loads of great music through Amazon's free music deals. It was such a joy to just sit and listen to new music.

That being said, listening to old favourites is equally soothing. On my most recent foray, I put on what I like to call my "travel songs" - a sort of justification for the life of wanderlust I lead. Two of these are "Into the West," and "Brother Wind" by Tim O'Brien. I met him many years ago at a Folk Festival; a pleasant fellow and such a talented musician. I've devoured all his music since. Anyway, I sat there in the train with a silly grin on my face because I knew, that once again, I was doing what I was meant to do. I have listened to these songs on so many occasions when I was unsure of my decision to "take to the wind" as it were, and each time it has worked out. Nice to be reminded.

As I stood listening last night to The Band's songs being breathed into new life by the tribute band, with me singing along to my favourites, I finally felt reinvigorated. The same shocking feeling as previous times of "Golly, this is the life!" passed through me.  Maybe I don't get out to concerts enough...Anyway, my point is that music is something I desperately enjoy - both the playing and listening of it. It is always such fun to watch a live band, to see how they play, to feel their energy, and to hopefully take a part of that joy of music home with you.

I think part of it is that music has a certain healing quality. It puts things in perspective. Cans things be so monstrous if good music can still be played? It brings all types of hope: can I learn that riff and better my own guitar playing? Beautiful lyrics that whisper of shared experiences; moving melodies that speak their own language that needs no translation.

The ironic thing is that music is part of our everyday lives: we hear it in the car, on advertisements on television, radios at supermarkets, some youth's blaring headphones, damaging their hearing before they even know how to listen, elevators - truly everywhere. And yet, I think it is only when we participate actively with it - that is to say, becoming involved in the music by listening and allowing it to change you in some way, be it mood or whatever, can we really appreciate it.

So, let your troubles slip away - take ten minutes (about two and a half songs!) to listen - I mean really listen to some music, whatever strikes your fancy - and see where it takes you.

My Top Three Films of 2013

Cinemas, theatres, concerts, art galleries, and so on, are all great places to escape from the world a bit. Visiting these places were regular occurrences for me when I was living in Cambridge, England. To lose oneself in a painting or within the depths of music is almost a sort of preservation method. Being able to get away "from it all" and turn the mind to something else besides the drudgery of the everyday is something I both need and relish. To celebrate art in all its wonderous forms is a lovely thing.

For me, the cinema is almost a weakness - much like bookshops. I can hardly pass one without going in. When I travel I usually make a point of checking what films are playing, as foreign cinemas can be quite fun! (Especially when you realise only too late that the entire film has been dubbed...thank you, Germany...). With a cinema, I prefer the small, independent types that are usually cosy and slightly funky. 

Now, here are some of the films that I saw in 2013; I hope you will indulge me by reading on - you never know, there might be something for you! Here are my top three:

Jagten (The Hunt): I will admit I am somewhat obsessed by all things Scandinavian...However this Danish film is incredibly well done. It left me thinking back to it for weeks. The acting was superb and Mads Mikkelsen did a great job in this difficult story. It isn't an easy film (and not because of the subtitles), but the subject matter. Mikkelsen plays a teacher, Lucas, who is accused of indecent actions in a kindergarten. The child who told the lie (yes, the audience knows the entire time that it isn't true, which makes it all the more painful to watch his journey), is the daughter of Lucas' best friend. In a small community, the rumours and mistrust spread like wildfire, and Lucas' life begins to spiral out of control. The film is riveting; true to Danish filming style, the landscape is bleak, and scenes understated. Aficionados of Scandinavian films/tv series will recogonise a few faces.
(I did actually see this in Dec 2012, but it was released in most of the world in 2013...)

The Great Gatsby: I would categorise this as the most surprising film of the year. I went in to it with a "well, we'll see..." feeling, since I loved the book and the first film with Robert Redford (Redford in a cream suit...what's not to like!?). Typical of director Baz Luhrmann, the film had been spiced up with modern music, and in the trailer it looked as if all the debauchery in 1920s New York was being let loose at Gatsby's party. (Which it probably was...) So, I was nervous to say the least. It could be good, or it could be a mistake. For me, it came somewhere in the middle - neither brilliant, nor a mistake, just somewhere happily in between. The casting, I think, was inspired - Leonardo DiCaprio did a wonderful job as Gatsby, and Carey Mulligan played Daisy, Gatsby's former lover, very well indeed. The film is beautifully shot, but the costumes rather hit you over the head, screaming, "This is the 1920s!" Still, beautiful clothes, and anyway, I'm a sucker for well dressed men and jauntily set hats...The modern music somehow worked, and I left the cinema feeling relieved - it hadn't been ruined, merely reinterpreted in a pleasing way. (Unlike the catastrophe that is The Hobbit...)

And finally, perhaps the best for last:

The Book Thief: I saw this film on a cold evening in Washington DC in a lovely little cinema on E Street. I had just come from the Holocaust Museum, making this film all the more poignant. I had read the book years and years ago - the style is odd, and the story dances along an unusual time line, but I flew through it, enjoying it very much. So, as always with books that have been made in to films, I was slightly apprehensive.
With a great cast, the story follows a young German girl called Liesel (the book thief), just before the Second World war, and through the wars years. The story is narrated by the lovely deep timbre voice of Roger Allam - the narrator is in fact Death, which is such a unique perspective. Geoffrey Rush is wonderful as Papa, but the two children who play Liesel and her best friend, Rudy, by far stole the show. They will be ones to watch out for in the future of film-making! What struck me most in both the book and the film is how reading and writing are so important for Liesel, and how she uses this as a weapon. It's as if reading allows her to hold on to humanity. She learns the power of words from Max, the Jewish man they have hiding in the basement. The story is a tear jerker and leaves you thinking - this film really shows the humanity of people... and how it shines through in times of dire inhumanity.

So, these are my top three for 2013 - they are closely followed by Django Unchained (Tarantino doing what he does best!), Star Trek: Into Darkness (Benedict Cumberbatch is a villain with the loveliest voice since Alan Rickman in Die Hard); also Summer in February, mainly for Dan Stevens wearing lots of woolly jumpers and it being about Cornwall's school of painters. And 2013 isn't over yet - I still have more films to see that have come out recently!

I'd certainly recommend these however, and encourage you to see them. If you have seen them, I would be interested to hear your take on them!

Terschelling: A Windswept Island

Windswept beaches and dunes

It is with some alarm when, being unfamiliar with a seafaring community, that people describe the weather in terms of wind. It brings about sudden and terrifying visions, I must say. In the village here on the island of Terschelling one might often hear the word, windkracht, which literally means "wind strength."

What they are referring to is a scale that was devised in the early 1800s - the Beaufort scale. Apparently, it came about because one sailor's take on the breeze can be quite different from another's. It is a subjective thing, I would agree. So, Francis Beaufort devised his scale to make a standardized way of recording the weather out at sea. The scale ranges from 1 - 12: 3 being a 'gentle breeze', 6 being a 'strong breeze', 9 being 'strong gale', and 12 being 'hurricane force'. In my last post, The Power of the Sea, I shared photos of from the storm that hit in the first week of December. That storm was categorised as windkracht 9. Here was the weather report for that particular storm - Terschelling is to the right of the number 10 in the top of the coast. As you can see from this map, most of the North Sea was 9 or 10 - 'strong gale' and 'whole gale'.

(I can't help but think of a man saying in a posh accent, "Yes, the wind is rather strong today.")

Drenkelingen Huis (Drowned Man's House)

Anyway, the point is, on a coastal island, the wind is always blowing. It is a rare day when the wind is still. This week, I had the luck to be driven out onto the beaches to the far end of Terschelling. Islanders call it "the hook". Once past the high dunes there is an area called "The Bosplaats". It is a nature reserve of salt marsh, dunes, and beach. Without the protection of higher sand dunes, it is a desolate, weather-beaten place. Especially in wintertime.

Centuries of wind and water have shaped the coastline of the island, and it is constantly changing. Here too, inland streams form with the rising tide, changing the interior of "The Bosplaats" daily. Huge communities of birds live in this area, nesting and feeding on fish from the sea. Seal colonies can be seen resting on sand bars in lower tides. It is almost like another world on this end of the island. (Which, considering Terschelling is only about 34 km (21 miles) long, is impressive).

The "Hook" at the end of the island

 Centuries of storms have also left the island surrounded by shipwrecks (jolly exciting!), and sometimes bits and pieces wash up on shore. Near the Drenkelingen Huis (Drowned man's house) we saw the stump of a tree that was hundred's of years old - that part of the beach had once been forest, and that single stump was all that remained. It was black and smooth, like petrified wood; slowly, it is being reclaimed by the sand and sea.

What I found so thrilling about the end of the island was that it seemed so empty and barren, like a wasteland, and yet it was brimming with life. We saw more birds there than anywhere else along the coast line. There were also tracks, further in the dune, of wild cats - "Dune Cats". They were, appropriately, following the tracks of rabbits...

Heading homewards along the beach

As ever, I respect the weather so much - even more so on an island stuck out in the middle of the North Sea. Out here, there is no getting away from the power of both wind and wave. The combined force of these two over the years has created a new landscape: one that is rugged, austere, and exposed.

It is also incredibly beautiful...

The Power of the Sea

When I was in my early twenties and living in Australia, I went one day to the beach with some mates. Not having grown up around the ocean, I was terrified of it. (Plus, in Oz, everything will probably try to kill you...jellyfish, sharks, undertows, spiny urchins). But with no shark sightings that day, the safe zone set up between the flags flying merrily, incredibly hot lifeguards just in case, and encouragement from my friends, I went in. The waves were 7 or 8 feet high (small waves for that beach), but I learnt quickly the way to bob about in them and how not to lose my swim top. As my confidence grew, I felt able to try what my friend was doing - jumping through the wave as it rose. No worries.

As you might have guessed, I failed miserably. The wave hit me directly in the chest and sent me under to be pummelled mercilessly by fresh waves. I knew they would go out again, so didn't struggle (luckily, as there would have been no point), and allowed myself to be half drowned. When I did surface, nose and mouth full of saltwater, swim top askew, and glasses half way out to sea (which were promptly rescued by one of my quick thinking friends), I suddenly grasped just how powerful water is.
Under the rush of the waves, face pressed into the sand, and unable to move, it was as if a large hand was pushing me down and down. Dragging and pulling at me, the ocean roared and crept into every corner, and wrapped me in its warm swells with terrifying intimacy. If it wasn't for logical reasoning, I would have thought I was about to die. And people do this larking about in the waves for fun?? I walked away humbled and overwhelmed, suddenly understanding why hurricanes, tsunamis and rivers in spring are such devastating things.

This week, many years later and on a different continent, I got another up-close look at just how powerful water can be. Northern Europe experienced a low pressure system; within low pressure systems, air rises, and over open water it allows the sea to sort of bulge. This storm surge, combined with heavy winds and uncommonly high tides, can be bad news for coastlines. On the island of Terschelling, situated in the North Sea off the coast of the Netherlands, these squalls are no strangers.

Frothy sea

Since the island is well prepared, having built the harbour wall a long time ago after a particularly bad storm, people here tend to just batten down the hatches and watch eagerly as the tides begin to rise. It's the sort of weather than makes animals and small children go nuts. Horses are frisky, the dogs run in circles as if they've gone mad; birds squawk incessantly in the most annoying fashion, and the children seem to be more hectic than normal. We all could feel the storm coming, and that in itself was exciting!

It began on Thursday with heavy winds whipping the sea into a fury. By the evening, as the high tide was coming in, the jetties were being covered, and soon the road would be under. It was 2.81 metres higher than normal high tide, as I understand it. (That's just over 9 feet!) By 11pm, when the tide was at its highest point, half the village was out looking at the water. It was incredible to see something transform before your eyes - a harbour suddenly underwater, and the shivering thrill as water rushed up to the walls, and seeped through sandbags. In the dark and cold, feeling the strong wind in my face and hearing the whoosh of waves rushing in to claim the higher ground, I understood once more just how powerful water is.

I've grown to love the sea (from the comfort of land...) but I fear it and respect it more than anything else in mother nature. Have a look at some of these photos and see what I mean:

Sea rising to the walls

The harbour going under water

Sandbags at the ready

Sinterklaas

In The Netherlands there is a celebration on December 5th and 6th called Sinterklaas. A sort of alternative Christmas in the way of gifts and songs. It is based originally on the feast day of the patron saint of children, Saint Nicholas (Sint Nicolaas), who later became the figure on which Santa Claus in the States was based.

The story goes that the Saint came by boat to the Netherlands from Spain, bringing with him his mischievous, Moorish helpers, Zwarte Pieten (Black Peters). And this continues today, with Sinterklaas arriving at the end of November, making his way across the low countries, visiting each town. Wearing red cape and white, flowing gowns underneath, Sinterklaas arrives on his grey horse, Amerigo. The children sing traditional songs to welcome him, and the Zwarte Pieten hand out sweets and gingerbread like cookies called pepernoten. (There are huge debates currently raging about Zwarte Pieten: if it is politically incorrect or offensive. Most Dutch people think the debate is ridiculous. However, they've come up with a PC reason for Zwarte Piet - poor old Piet is covered in coal dust from the fireplaces when delivering gifts...)

Sinterklaas on Amerigo with Zwarte Pieten on Terschelling

As soon as Sinterklaas is in the country, children put one shoe by the fireplace or back door at bedtime, usually with an apple or carrot for Amerigo, in the hope of a sweet or coin in return. Only if they've been well behaved, of course. On the 5th the small gifts are opened, brought in a huge burlap sack by a Zwarte Piet (or Papa!). Little poems about the receiver are usually written with the gift - these can be sarcastic and often poke fun. Sometimes the gifts are packaged in funny ways (called a surprise, pronounced "surprees"). It is a fun time, and not just for the children!

What I really like about this holiday is that there are loads of songs and there is a real "togetherness" in the whole spectacle. It is also quite creative, with poems, surprises, and music. Now it is also a huge thing on television, with live coverage of Sinterklaas' arrival, and programs especially devoted to games and song.

Traditions vary across the Netherlands and Belgium, but this is essentially what happens during the beginning of December, as far as I understand it. So, Prettige Sinterklaas, allemaal!

Rooms to let...

Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let...fifty cents.
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but..two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.

-Rodger Miller, King of the Road, 1964

Usually, I wouldn't have considered myself a sucker for punishment, but here I am again, looking for a new home in a new country. You would think I'd have learned the first few times, but no, I'm pigheaded like that. Because, you see, trying to find a flat or room in a new city, in a new country, using the metric system (metres!?), and in a different language is, frankly, bloody hellish.

All the excitement of the prospects of a new place with new people seems to ebb away with the drip from the cracked sink in the "room", the questionable stains, and caution of, "oh yeah, watch your head." And that is just the beginning! House hunting isn't fun in any country (or perhaps I'm doing it wrong...?).

Moving to a new country is never easy - there is so much you have to research, things to think through, flat or room to find, bank account to set up, and perhaps worst of all: job to find. However...this is also why it is the most exhilarating, terrifying, and enjoyable thing.

People always say to me, "Gosh, you are so brave to do it." I never think about it in terms of bravery, it's just moving to another country after all, people do it all the time!  I'm one of the the lucky ones that understands the lingo well enough and has family down the road to stay with. What I have come to realise, however, is that it does have to do with conviction and confidence. You desperately need to want to make it happen, otherwise, you'll be back at where you started from, and that isn't really an option. The only thing worse in my mind than failing is being back at where I started. Then I would have achieved nothing. (Some might say I haven't, in this day and age when love and money seem to mean everything and nothing.) This is where that pigheadedness comes in handy....

The beginning is the hardest - when the excitement mingles with the disappointment and frustrations. And it isn't just about finding a room either; it's about finding a place where you will fit in, a place where you will happy. This may apply to the room or flat, to the city you've chosen, the people you've suddenly met. The panic sometimes hits after seeing a particularly bad place that looks nothing like the photo and when the price has magically doubled. What have I done? I've left everything and everybody...oh hell, I'm crazy for doing this.

This is natural. And we are crazy, those of us that do "up sticks" regularly. We leave everything we've ever known, to settle in a new country for the sheer joy that we can. There are some of course (I call these the organised ones), that go to new countries because of jobs. They live in nice flats, their children go to International schools, they have lunch on golf courses with fake grass. It's brilliant.

But, in that cosy equation there is none of that panic, doubting of sanity, intense relief of finding a half decent place, or the learning curve that comes with it. That recognition of achievement of something important. The first time around this was really tough, and it is now (why am I doing it again...?), and I'm sure it will be the next time too, but goodness me, you sure know you are living. I have grown so much and have learnt so much about myself - to trust my gut, to try to keep patience (and we know how hard that is...), and to perhaps have faith. I'd love to have the nice flat and the jet setting job and the kids and the husband with a background of white sand beaches, but I don't. I've got the tougher road, and I love it. It is my life - all my own, and I get to make of it what I will.

So, I'm feeling impatient and frustrated, and I have certainly been doubting my sanity, but I know it will sort itself out. Maybe not right now, but soon enough. Hell, this is the "easy" part. I've got to find a job next, and that is a much bigger task. But do you know, the honest truth is, part of me doesn't even care. Yes it is hard, and it sucks, and it makes you want to sit in bed drinking tea all day - but I am living. I worked hard for years and skimped and saved and went without so I could do this now. I'll work again, somewhere, and I'll skimp and save, and I'm sure I'll do it all over again. We are, as humans, creatures of habit after all.

It feels great to wake up everyday, to take that first breath before the panic of reality and the world's pressure set in, and think "I am living." It's crazy and wild, irresponsible and lonely; it's unsustainable and heart-rending; it's tangible and real so that you can almost taste it. It is life. I wouldn't change that for the world.

Like the hobo in the song mentioned above, I'm one with means by no means and I'm "king of the road." I'm richer by far for my experiences, and I wouldn't want it any other way. For all my complaints on the frustrations of moving to a new country, I would say to you, "try it, please - push your boundaries and experience something different", but I know we can't all be irresponsible. Perhaps I would say that it can be done though, and one is often better for having made the journey than not at all. It doesn't mean you've got to move to outer Mongolia, but a new adventure closer to home may be an option. Who knows, your state might have trails to be explored, mountains to be climbed, sea to surfed, etc.

All I know is, I've got it all waiting out there for me - it's time to go discover it!

Reflections on DC

I know, I know...for a travel blog (or something of the sort) I've not done very well at keeping up while travelling. Too busy walking myself into the ground and racing around interesting sights, as usual. But excuses aside, here's what I thought about my weekend visit to DC:

Washington DC, the nation's capital, is an iconic city. Many films and tv shows have been set there, so lots buildings are easily recognisable. Flying into Ronald Reagan airport was amazing. It was like coming into the back yard of the Pentagon. I flew in at night time, so all of town was lit up. Craning my neck, I could see the Washington Monument, the Capital building and the Potomac River, amongst other things.

I took the metro into the city centre, dropped my increasingly heavy and cumbersome bags off at my youth hostel, and set off. I walked first to see the White House (of course). It was neat to see, all lit up, but I must say that the building next door to it, The Old Executive Building is far more impressive architecturally. From there I walked down to the WWII Memorial and went along the long path to the Lincoln Memorial. I just wandered from there really, enjoying the city and coming across places like the Ford Theatre (where Lincoln was shot), the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building and passing lots of official looking buildings. (Next time, I want to go to NCIS ... give a shout out to television's favourite Special Agent...)

WWII Memorial and Washington Monument under heavy skies

Capital Building

The next day was a busy one. I made a bee line for the Capital Building. It is probably the most impressive building in Washington (in my opinion) and gorgeous to boot. I had hoped to go in, but you aren't allowed to take food, and I wasn't about to throw away my entire day's rations. (So, word to the wise, go at the end of the day, or don't bring food or water with you!) I went instead to spend many enjoyable hours at the Smithsonian museums: The Natural History Museum and American History Museum. I saw the Hope Diamond at the first, but left fairly quickly as it was full of screaming children and mums ready to strangle them. Besides, the Natural History Museum in New York is much better (again, in my humble opinion).

The American History Museum was delightful. I spent many hours there seeing all sorts of wonderful, random Americana. Bob Dylan's leather jacket, the first Apple Mac, The First Lady's Inaugural Ball gowns, and George Washington's writing case were highlights for me. The American spirit captured in a four-floored museum; wonderful.

National Archives

The other highlight of the trip was going to the National Archives to see the Declaration of Independence, Constitution of the United States, and Bill of Rights. They are set in a sort of semi circle, with informative boards explaining it all. We visitors sort of shuffled along, taking turns. I was behind a man and his son, and the boy said, "I can't read it at all, Dad, can you?"
He had a point - the writing was so looping and faint that it was a real struggle to make it out in the low, protective lighting.

"We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union..."

The man had recited this first bit for his boy from memory as they moved on. I remained, finishing his recitation under my breath. Then, I was in front of the Constitution myself - the words I had just remembered there, in the flesh, as it were. I had been made to memorise the Prelude to the Constitution by my 8th grade history teacher. He was a brilliant teacher, and while memorising presidents and studying the Bill of Rights isn't really all that interesting at 14, I will never forget it.

At this point, in the 8th grade, I was not yet an American citizen. True, living in America is all I could remember, all my friends were American, my favourite food was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches - but on paper, I was not an American. I could never answer properly the question, "So, where are you from?" Nor could I ever really fit in ("Hey, your accent is funny!"). But there, at 14, I got an insight to this wonderful, young, powerful, great, unique nation.

Anyway, my point is that it was a great opportunity to explore the nation's capital, to admire the buildings and think of all the great things that take place behind their doors. Politics aside, a democratic nation is a wondrous thing.

After so many years spent away from this great nation, it was nice to feel so close to it again - to feel I was a part of it, as I had done in my 8th grade history class. And now, I've got the paperwork to prove I am a part of it all! I've voted many times and written letters to my Senator; I've queued up for hours in the cold to meet Presidential candidates - and those are moments I cherish. Freedom is a responsibility like any other, and it is ours to be a part of shaping the future.

Crossing Borders

There is a moment when handing your passport to Border Security when you think briefly, "My God, they aren't going to let me in." It's only a moment, to be sure, but a terrifying one at that. My most terrifying instances are when I come back to the USA once a year: after waiting in the queue for an hour, I hold out my American passport and an overly cheerful security person will stare me down (while remaining cheerful, mind), and ask questions like,

"And how long have you been out of the States?"
It's in the computer in front of you... "Er, one year and three days...I live in Europe."
"And what do you do there?"
Words...I should be speaking words...but I'm so tired...Oh hell, they aren't going to let me in are they?
"Er...work...?"
"Ok ma'am, and where have you flown in from today?"
Today? What is today? What time zone is this? Bloody hell, where HAVE I flown in from?
"Um...London...no Reykjavik...I have my ticket somewhere..."
"Lucky you! I have always wanted to go!"
You work in an airport....how much closer can you get!?
And with a broad grin the security person will hand me back my passport and say the loveliest words you can hear when your body can't recall what hour it is meant to be on, you are starving and want breakfast (or is it dinner?) and can hardly remember your own name: "Welcome home, ma'am. You have a good day now."

God Bless America.

Tomorrow morning I have to cross the border from Mexico back into the States. When I did this trip previously four years ago, I flew in to Phoenix, smiled merrily at the security person (it's America, after all!) and this person looked at me so closely and stared so menacingly that I nearly jumped out of my skin. The last time I had been scrutinised so closely was in Australia when the bloke said, "Ya gonna have to git yer boots off, mate." I beg your pardon? But, to be fair, it was just because I'd just come from a rural area. They don't want other countries' cow shit. (And who can blame them, really?)

Needless to say, I'm terrified. I'm never like this when I go to Sweden (well, they're just too lovely to bar anyone from their wonderful country anyway), and the only other country to ask stupid questions is The Netherlands (probably because I go there so often). However, when I'm a citizen of the country I'm trying to get into, I really worry, "Will they let me back in?"

I've got dual citizenship, so twice the terror. Splendid. It's not so bad in the UK - I honestly don't think they even look at my photo or name, they just see 'British Citizen' and wave me through with a grunt. They certainly don't ask stupid questions. Can you imagine, "So, where've you been, love? Had a nice holiday then? Jolly good, well, here's your passport; cups of tea are available at baggage reclaim..." Honestly, I would pay extra just to hear that.

Part of this terror of re-entering the US is this unfounded fear that I'm not a proper American. True, I've lived there since I can remember, went to high school football games, and patriotically celebrate the Fourth of July every year (fireworks and bbqs - brilliant!) - however, I'm an immigrant and didn't become an American citizen until I was 18. They might not want me back! Or they may ask me to explain the meaning of Thanksgiving when trying to get through security...!

Wish me luck!

Poirot's Curtain Call

The genre of police detectives and murder mysteries is one of the most popular in books, television shows, plays, films, and even games. Perhaps of all time. It is likely that I will dive into this area a few times, as I'm mildly obsessed with the crime genre. (Who doesn't like a good murder mystery?) Today, however, I want to talk about Agatha Christie's famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot.

Christie once said this about Poirot, "Why, why, why did I ever invent this detestable, bombastic, tiresome little creature?" After about a decade of writing Poirot stories, she tired of him, and much like Conan Doyle and his Sherlock, wanted to kill him off ages before the clamouring public would ever allow. During the Second World War, she wrote Curtain, Poirot's final case and popped it into a bank vault to be published when she could no longer write. (It was published in 1975).

We first meet Poirot in Christie's 1920 novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. From thenceforth, he appeared in 33 (!) novels and over 50 short stories. Agatha Christie was known as "The Queen of Crime." Many of her stories follow a similar motifs of posh people at dinners or weekend shooting parties (of which, Poirot is usually one), where someone dies of poisoning; then the Will is read out and reveals that the snobby son has been cut out...dun, dun, dun... But it works, you see! She is clever and interesting in her story telling. I have correctly guessed but a hand full of murderers in her stories (I've read nearly all of them), so she must be doing something right.

Old Cataract Hotel, Aswan

 I love the places she takes Poirot and her readers: not just Devon, London, or the English countryside, but the Middle East, France, and other parts of Europe. Again, I've had the great fortune to visit some of the places she writes about, which for me enhances both occasions - the reading of her story, and the visit to that place.

For example, earlier this year I was able to visit Egypt and had lunch in the very hotel Agatha Christie stayed in - The Cataract Hotel in Aswan (and where Poirot stays in the novel, Death on the Nile). My travel companion was good enough to indulge me, and we listened to David Suchet (the actor who plays Poirot) read this novel on audio book as we travelled up and down Egypt. Christie was mentioning places in the novel that we had just been to! As I say, it really made the story all the more exciting.

It was similar when on this same trip, we went to Petra in Jordan. Although, I have given The Orient Express a miss as it is far beyond any normal person's price range. I've been to where Christie spent much of her life in Torquay, Devon. There is a small museum there, and it was wonderful to see some of the first manuscripts. She was an incredible woman, a great traveller, and a prolific writer.

And now, to David Suchet, the brilliant actor who has portrayed the character of Poirot for over 24 years. He has performed every story that Poirot has ever appeared in, even the stage play, Black Coffee. Quite an impressive feat. He plays the character to perfection, having closely read the details Christie provides in her stories. 'The Radio Times' magazine has an article here, that may be of some interest. The precision Suchet brings to the character of Poirot is truly remarkable.

I was lucky enough to be in "Row A" at the Apollo in London and saw Suchet up close and personal in a wonderful performance. It is incredible that a man with such presence and deep timbre can transform himself into, "That funny, little Belgian," as many other characters in the Poirot stories describe the detective.

These are stories I read over and over again - partly to see where I went wrong in guessing "who-dunit" the first go round, but also because I love them. My favourites are Death on the Nile, Dead Man's Folly, and some of the early short stories with Captain Hastings and Inspector Japp. The most surprising of the collection that I've ever read is The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. One of those that leave you in frustrated disbelief long after...

Tonight is the very last television episode, ever, ever, of Poirot, and I'm very sad to see an end of an era. It has been a great achievement by Suchet and the writers of the television episodes. For me, my memories of reading Poirot mysteries (which I much prefer over Miss Marple, Christie's other long running character), are summer days reading one after the other in quick succession; of watching the television series, I remember curling up on cold nights and enjoying a "jolly good murder," and spotting actors before they were properly famous. I've been putting off watching the final episode this evening - I always hate goodbyes. Tissues at the ready, methinks, and a raised glass to "the little grey cells." Farewell, Monsieur Poirot...

On reading Hemingway

At the beginning of A Moveable Feast, Hemingway reassures himself,

"Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. 

All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."

This isn't the first time that I have found inspiration in Hemingway's words, nor will it be the last, but today this passage seemed to jump off the page and slap me around the head. As some of you know, I'm currently half way through my second novel, which is frightening and exhilarating all at once, and I took reassurance from these words.

I first read Ernest Hemingway, a much loved American author, when I was sixteen or seventeen. Reading A Farewell to Arms was no more than continuing that pretentious teenage thing of reading all the classic books you can, merely to say you've read them and to seem well read amongst your friends. The only good things about this annoying teenage habit is that a) you do actually become well read and b) you sometimes stumble across an author you will love. And so it was for me.

Hemingway has this wonderful succinct, clipped way of writing. Writing to the point, as one might think, speaking gloriously of drinking and far off places, and of women, love and sport. He was a man's man - brimming with machismo and physicality. Gun-wielding sportsman, fisherman, soldier, lover, traveller, heavy drinker - he lived fully. Machismo is something nowadays we mostly eschew; the dominating male is not something to necessarily be admired, but with him, I secretly love it. Much has been said about Hemingway, much has been studied, and many opinions have been shared, and they are all available on the Internet for you mull over later on.

After reading that first novel, I devoured his collections of short stories and very slowly began working my way through his other novels. Whenever I come to a story of Hemingway's, if I've read it before or not, I am always immensely pleased at how much I enjoy the sheer beauty of his writing. Often I stop reading and gaze into space, thinking about what I've just read. He does that - makes you think, which is why I love his stories. They are so...human. I find them so inspiring, and it usually isn't long before I've put pen to paper again myself, waxing lyrical with eagerness.

He writes about places that I've had the good fortune to have visited - bull rings and mountains in Spain, canals in Venice, the Boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris. But he also writes of places I dream about, such as Africa. I think my favourite story, if I were to pin one down and say, "Yes, definitely this is the one you must read if you can," would be The Sun Also Rises.

Whether writing about sport, love, the harsh reality of relationships of men and women, or death (in the afternoon or otherwise...), Hemingway draws his reader in, and he does it so brilliantly with dialogue! You begin to think about things more and wonder at the curious nature of it all.

I once became so involved in For Whom the Bell Tolls that at the end of it, when the outcome was so sad and frustrating, I went off in a huff for nearly an hour, grumbling I'd never read Ernest bloody Hemingway again. Poor Robert Jordan: after 500 pages, and then...well, the point is, Hemingway's writing makes one think, feel, and leaves one pensive.

The only other author that is positively irritating like that - you know, offing characters after a million pages of invested interest, is D.H. Lawrence, the other great literary love of my life. His writing too, is distinctly human - the thought process is so interesting, and seeing it written down in prose is wonderful. Moving an entire story along through this medium: brilliant.
James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ford Madox Ford too, in my opinion, all use this way of writing - it make me wiggle my shoulders in delight, snuggling deeper into my chair and switching the brain On. Interestingly enough, they were all in Paris at the same time during the early '20s and were mates.

In this latest novel that I was reading of Hemingway's, A Moveable Feast, he writes about his time in Paris with his first wife when he was 25, fairly successful as a journalist, but struggling as a writer of novels. What I particularly like, is firstly that I can relate, being the same age and filling pages; but secondly that he talks about these other writers and artists that he knew then. His descriptions of these men and women allow us a look at the other, more intimate side of our favourite authors. Rather like looking through a small window at what life might have been like for these people, this génération perdue. 

I could go on and on for ages ("Why, you already have!" I hear you say) about Hemingway and my favourite stories of his. I can't really express myself eloquently about how much I admire his writing, but I suspect what I really wish to share is how delightful rediscovering and reconnecting with a favourite author can be. If you get a chance to read Papa Hemingway, short story or novel, translated or in English, please, please do. I rather think he's got something for everyone...

Alamos: A weekend outing in southern Sonora, Mexico

Hitting the road again without having to pack specifically for a flight, wait hours and hours to get on said flight, to then catch a delayed bus or train, to finally walk 3 miles to the place you want to actually go is, in a word, nice.

This weekend we set off in the car on a four hour journey to southern Sonora - past mile marker 98, out of the "free zone," into real Mexico. With the day stretching before us, we left the coast behind, bumped through Yaqui territory, got temporarily lost in Ciudad Obregón (I was in the front seat, and therefore on map duty and had to steer us through some side streets, but we did it!), and finally stopped in Navojoa for a quick break.

From Navojoa, which I found to be surprising pleasant and clean, it was 40 minutes down a straight road to Alamos - the end of the line. To enter the town, one must go through large gate portals. Then it was up a steep cobblestone road to the place we were staying. I'll just quickly say that is was a lovely place, but we spent the first two nights without much sleep thanks to millions of dogs and cockerels that carried on throughout the night, and the gardener who really thought sweeping at 6am was the best use of his time. So, enough said on that, and onwards to Alamos.

The property we were on, surrounded by small farms, had stunning views over the town and mountains. It is a small town, so we were able to walk everywhere. After an early dinner, we wandered in to town to see what it had to offer. Or rather, I did, as the parents had been here in springtime and wanted to show it to me. The cathedral and plazas were beautifully lit up, which made the place glow. It reminded me forcefully of Spain. To link the two plazas, there is what they call the "kissing alley." In the old days, the kissing alley used to be clothed in darkness and it was where the young things used to congregate for a bit of fun.

The view from our road in Alamos

Church of La Purísima Concepción, Alamos

Alamos Mansion from 1600s

Alamos was founded in the 17th Century, by Coronado himself, after discovering silver. It became one of the wealthiest towns in the area, and is the northernmost tropical deciduous forest in Mexico. Quite stunning to go from desert to temperate forest so quickly. It was lovely to sit in the plaza and watch people go by. Lots of families gathering and children running about. During our trip we visited the museum, which was very informative and interesting, and also took a 'Tour of Homes' which allowed us to see some of the original mansions built after the silver boom. They've been renovated and are lived in now, but the history and style is mostly still there.

They used to say there were more people on horseback than cars, but lots of this changed in the mid - 90s. It is still, however, a charming place: an old colonial, Mexican town, that has a long history of cattle ranching, silver miners, wars, and revolution. I was glad to have seen it, as it was nice to see a slice of Mexican history that is unique. The further south we went, the more I liked it, and look forward to one day seeing a lot more of this fascinating country.

View of Alamos from Mirador

Guy Fawkes Day

Remember, remember! 

The fifth of November, 

The Gunpowder, treason and plot; 

I know of no reason 

Why Gunpowder treason 

Should ever be forgot!

This famous English children's rhyme can be traced back to the late 1800s, but the actual Gunpowder Plot took place a lot earlier. On November 5th, 1605, our man, Guy Fawkes, was caught guarding barrels of explosive underneath the House of Lords in London. To celebrate that the king, James I, had survived this attempt on his life, the whole of London lit bonfires and made merry. And thus, a tradition was born.

It's a most curious holiday. In "the old days" children used to gather old clothes and make an effigy of poor old Guy, which later they would pop on a bonfire. Families and neighbours would get together to burn wood and rubbish they had collected specifically for the purpose. Nowadays, celebrations are controlled by local councils, and while you might get away with fireworks in the back garden, bonfires usually aren't allowed. 

Bonfire at Midsummer Common, Cambridge UK

In Cambridge, England I'd go every year down to the large park, Midsummer Common. There is usually a small fair, loads of vendors selling all things greasy, and hundreds of people. The night begins with fireworks, which are spectacular of course, often reminding me of the American tradition on July 4th, Independence Day. (Only, on July 4th it is warm and usually dry, unlike most Bonfire nights which are cold, wet, and muddy...) After the fireworks display, the huge bonfire is lit. It is so large that often the crowd has to move back a bit because of the heat. 

Fireworks at the Cambridge Bonfire Night

Another November 5th tradition that I practise each year is watching the film V for Vendetta. It is based on the graphic novel written by Alan Moore. Set in dystopian London, the story centres on V, a sort of vigilante, who wears a Guy Fawkes mask to keep his anonymity and track down his enemies. These enemies are essentially the people now running the government, as they had him imprisoned years earlier during the uprisings. He was nearly killed, and now he is taking on the police state with the help of a shorn Natalie Portman. A surprisingly good film, and one I would highly recommend. (Hugo Weaving is quite dreamy...or at least his voice is, in this film.)

The Guy Fawkes mask is often used by protesters and demonstrators; perhaps most famously in the Occupy movements. Remarkable, isn't it, that after hundreds of years, this tradition of bonfires and "Guys" is still going strong, and has influenced much of modern culture.

This year, I am unfortunately not in England at the moment, so I am missing out on all things bonfire and fireworks. My soggy chips and too strong tea from the vendors at the Common will just have to wait for another year! 

Living: Full Time Positions Available

Do you know, I think I've just realised how living life to the fullest, doing the things you really love to do, and trying to cram it all into each day is really a full time occupation. ("Ya think," I hear some of you say...).

I've had the great fortune and opportunity to take a sort of sabbatical these past few months. It has allowed me to travel, play great quantities of music in the form of gigs, read the mountain of books that have accumulated over the years, write fiendishly, and get healthy. All the things that I love. However, trying to pack that in to each day of the week is surprisingly difficult. (I am NOT complaining, by the way, merely making an observation.)

Henry David Thoreau said, in his wonderful book, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods, "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover I had not lived."

I read this when I was a teenager (which feels long ago, now!) and it stayed with me. I think perhaps the idea of going off to live in a cabin and having some peace and quiet, thank you very much, was what appealed to me more if I'm completely honest.  Being able to wake up each day and have the mere purpose of living. Which of course, is what we all have, but do we realise it? The daily slog grinds us all down at some point; work becomes monotonous and unfulfilling; home life is increasingly stressful, and so on. But to live with purpose and enjoyment of things is what we all strive for, I imagine. How to sustain this, though?

I don't have an answer to this, unfortunately. We are constantly left feeling, "Ah, I wish I'd had more time to do this today," whether it be more time to sleep, read, play video games, a second pint with friends, talking with family, etc. Honestly, I thought when I began this "sabbatical" that I would have heaps of time and get loads done. I believe myself to be quite organised, and even so, I'm left journalling at the end of day feeling, "Golly, where did the time go? And I've hardly done a thing!"

With only two weeks left before heading back to Europe to begin anew there, this feeling is more pressing. So, perhaps I haven't done everything I wished to do, but I have enjoyed living the day to day. For that I am grateful, as I realised I was doing things I loved. And doing what we love makes life that much easier. I would say, taking a few minutes a day to just "be" - to be quiet and listen to oneself, to take in things around us, to put away the bloody iPhones for half a minute, would be beneficial in so many ways.

Taking a risk, a chance, doing things on a whim, doing things that aren't necessarily "smart" by all accounts - for me that is living. It is hard - sometimes it really doesn't work as one would hope - but I am never actually left disappointed. I realised this recently - all the choices I have made in my early twenties have lead me here, and I wouldn't change it for the world. I don't regret a single moment, and that in itself is extremely satisfying.

So, living is full time occupation, there is no doubt. (And no, I don't mean breathing and consuming what we need to remain alive - I mean actively making a life, being useful members of society, pursuing dreams...living purposefully.)  It should come first on our agendas. Jobs, commitments, hobbies are all a part of it - but it is how we do it that perhaps makes it worthwhile or not.

Think of it as an advertisement: Full time positions for Living Purposefully available immediately. And the best part about this job is, it is made specifically for you.

Día de los Muertos

This weekend, here in Mexico, has been cause for celebration. Día de los Muertos or Day of the Dead is a fascinating tradition practised in much of Latin America, and I thought it would be interesting to find out a bit more about it. Essentially, it is a celebration honouring the death of the ancestors, remembering their lives, and bringing families together to pray for the souls of the deceased. 

Here in San Carlos, it began on Thursday evening, October 31st (All Hallows Eve), with the rather unfortunate adoption of the American custom of Halloween: young kiddies dressed up, going around the gringo neighbourhoods asking for sweets. But Friday, November 1st (All Saints' Day) is when things really began. Skulls are a common symbol of the holiday, with masks and sweets in skull and skeleton shapes.

Figurines in a local shop

Another famous symbol of the holiday are the Catrina figures (La Catrina), believed to be based on the goddess, "Lady of the Dead."
I rather like the scene depicted in the photo below, of a procession of skeletons through a square.  (Next to a scene of the birth of Christ...?)

For sale in a local shop for the holiday

Families prepare altars in their homes, or shrines to deceased family members, offer the skull sweets and marigold flowers, as well as the favourite foods of the deceased. By November 2nd (All Souls' Day), the families have moved on to the cemetery to clean and decorate the graves of their loved ones. There, they have more of the offerings, candles, photos of the deceased, and their favourite foods. Stories and funny anecdotes are often told. It is, as I understand it, a way to entice the souls to visit so that they may hear the prayers of the family.

Fascinating stuff. What struck me the most about this popular Mexican holiday was the importance of family. Getting together as a family to remember family. What may seem slightly morbid (parties in the cemetery? Picnics on graves?) is actually a very respectful tradition.
The families stay up all night. Children also get to hear all the stories about great-grandparents or old uncles, or more tragically, older brothers or sisters that they may hardly remember. Musicians wander through the cemetery playing favourite songs. It truly is a celebration.

Perhaps why I like the idea of this holiday so much is that, like many people nowadays, my own family is scattered across the globe. We often reminisce about family members since passed, especially on their birthdays, but it isn't quite the same as all getting together once a year for a three day event, celebrating their lives.

At any rate, I shall sit here today, under the Mexican sun, and remember my family. I shall perhaps leave the skeletons and such to those more accustomed to it though...

National Novel Writing Month

National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo is, as described by themselves, "Thirty days of literary abandon," in the month of November. How jolly! Three years ago I found myself sitting in a rather draughty room in Cambridge, England, twiddling my thumbs, as it were. Having just moved to a new city in a new country, been unsuccessful in the general slog that is a job hunt, and read all the books I'd brought with me, I did the best thing I could do: listen to my mother.

Having sent me the link ages ago, she encouraged me to start writing a novel. Please, take it from me - always listen to your mother. I signed up (free) about a month before it kicked off and started researching frantically. Writers always have ideas stockpiled, laying forgotten in the back recesses of our brains, and after a summer of short stories, it was time for the real deal.

Now, how can one write a novel in a month? I hear you ask. Well, as the creators of the challenge said..."literary abandon." It does require a good deal of self discipline. Writing an average of 1,500 - 2,000 words a day will you get you to the minimum 50,000 word threshold. (Which, as any University student can tell you, is easy as pie - you can knock out1,500 words and still make it down to the pub of an evening.) It doesn't matter if it is rubbish - you're writing and that is the important thing. What else is December good for?  Editing and reworking of course! (Christmas is so overrated - editing is much more productive, in my biased opinion...).

Anyway, you don't need me to convince you, the chaps over at NaNoWriMo will do that (really, they are most encouraging). You can write a novel or a screen play, or even a collection of short stories. It is up to you. We all have busy lives, of course, and the idea of writing a novel seems daunting, naturally. But who doesn't love a creative challenge?

The novel I wrote three years ago was about a detective in WWII England in Cambridgeshire - I had so much fun writing it, not least of all because all the research was right at my fingertips. It was a great way to learn more about my new adopted hometown as well. Plus, as many of you will know, I'm slightly obsessed by all things WWII, especially the Home Front. Two friends very kindly read it once the new year came around, and then it sat in folder on my computer for three years. Last month I put aside my reservations and sent it off to a publisher, where it is no doubt now collecting dust.

Currently, I am writing a second novel (continuing the story of the Detective). I enjoy the challenge that writing a long story brings - developing characters and their unique voices, being pedantic about historical accuracies, creating a setting and developing plot lines, and so on.

So, if you feel like taking the plunge and setting yourself a creative challenge, join NaNoWriMo and enjoy the process. You might well surprise yourself. And hey, even if you don't listen to your own mother, listen to mine: write a novel this November!

Beginning to accept modernity

Hallo! Are you surprised to see me here...on a BLOG? Yes, me too. Not one for jumping on latest trends, I am rather late to the game, so please excuse any mistakes.

When trying to decide on what to write about in a public sphere, after already journalling by hand daily (did I mention I'm old fashioned like that?), working on a novel, writing short stories when the fancy takes me, and not to mention composing songs on the guitar, I did wonder if I'd have anything remotely interesting left. Well, we shall soon see, I suppose.

The beauty of blogs is perhaps that people from all over the world can "tune in," and being an avid traveller, this was an appeal. Loyal supporters of my music might be interested in new material I'm working on, others may be curious in the random places I often turn up in, and some may find my experiences in these places useful for their own adventures.

This is not to say that I'm trying to write a travel blog, but merely attempting to share impressions, ideas, and to convey the joy that travel can bring. (Oh dear, sounds rather like a travel blog after all, doesn't it...hmm.) The ubiquitous "they" have said that music is a global language, which I firmly believe, so perhaps this foray into the modern world of writing will be a way of discovering new places through the eyes of music. As a citizen of the world and a musician, I see boundless opportunities in this.

I have had the great fortune to live all over the world and travel extensively, and now the journey can continue on here. No doubt, I will also now and then go "off topic" into areas that I am equally passionate about, such as films, books and all things WWII Europe. Certainly, I have a story or two to tell, so come join me!