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!