On The Record Store Steps

There was a time when record release dates were posted up on a wall near the check-out in music stores, and you would read about them in magazines, papers, or hear about them on the radio. I religiously wrote down the release dates for the bands I loved, and marked them off in my calendar, waiting impatiently to make my way down to the FNAC, or HMV or Tower, or that little record shop in a side street in Peterborough, depending on where I lived at the time. I still remember counting down the days until I could run to the FNAC in Grenoble to buy Hole’s Live Through This. I was on holiday near Nice when Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged was released and made my hosts drive us to the nearest record store so that my sister and I could buy our own copies (and no, they didn’t understand why we needed our own copies because we were 16 and 14 and lived in the same house - it still seems normal to me, I wasn’t sharing MY Nirvana with anyone). I practically held my breath for months waiting to hold a copy of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds And No More Shall We Part in my hands (and still listen to it with the same feeling of wonder 18 years later). There was always the anticipation, and then the bliss of listening to an album in full, with no distractions. I try to recreate those feelings, but it doesn’t happen as often anymore… Maybe because of age, but more likely because everything is so readily available nowadays. I have so many memories with music, so many memories where an album is playing and I have a CD booklet in my hands, reading the lyrics and looking for more information on faces, pictures, between the lines. And these memories are so often tied to a record store: physical edifices in many different places that so often housed my dreams and thoughts.

All through the early to mid 1990’s we would meet up on the steps of the FNAC in the middle of our city of Grenoble, France. It was our unspoken meeting spot, one by one we would arrive after school: smoking, chatting, quiet, upset, euphoric, full of teenage angst and need, shy and assertive in a way only teens are. All dressed in various shades of black and band T-shirt’s and Doc Martens and lace dresses, long hair, and pierced noses; all coming from different schools and places. We would look at each other and step inside, finger through the same CD racks, preview a few albums, look at the concert listings, and walk back out again, sometimes a purchase in hand, but most often too broke to buy anything, mental notes of a list of most needed albums to get with next month’s allowance. We would hang around the metal and indie sections, picking up the same albums week in week out, wondering whether they were worth spending money on. I’m still so glad I never bought the Candlebox album, and just settled on the single, but I remember picking it up so many times and wondering if it were worth my money or not. Then again, I really have no need for the Cannibal Corpse and Deicide albums I bought back then: some purchases were not made with longevity in mind. Others still lift me above the clouds and stabilize my heart, years later, like Siamese Dream or Disintegration or Tender Prey. I play them on my phone through a Bluetooth speaker or through large headphones and they still punch me in the stomach in the same exact way they did the first time I listened to them. Gone are the overused and stretched thin cassette tapes and battery-operated Walkman. I no longer have the stereo with the three disc rotator that played only Tom Waits, Tim Buckley, and Bob Dylan for all of the months I spent writing my thesis. But we do still have a record player, and I appreciate how easy it is to just plug headphones into my phone and stream the years of music in my library. That said, there is (was?) nothing like a record store where no one bat an eyelid if you spent hours and hours browsing through the aisles.

A few (many?) years later I worked in a small office in Putney in London, and often spent my lunch hour walking around the smallish HMV on Putney High Street, now closed (that word is the recurring theme in this essay). I jumped on Gwen Stefani’s first album when it was released there, and tried to force myself to love it, even though I hated it and didn’t understand what happened to her and her music (I still don’t). I fell in love with My Chemical Romance thanks to that store, as well as the NYC bands that would later become a huge and real part of my life while I stomped around the Lower East Side night after night. When I bought The Bravery’s album in 2005 I would never have thought that not long afterwards I would be watching Amy Winehouse smack one of them in the face outside of Darkroom late one night (early one morning). That girl’s punch was as strong as her voice, and that guy deserved the bloody nose she gave him. And Interpol... It was thanks to Interpol (and my friend Lynn who randomly read something in an interview in a magazine) that I met my best friends, people who I still talk to all the time, even though our streets have changed and our bars have become something different. Pianers is the only one still there, but all of our late night footsteps and giggles and tears still echo through the basements and the bars on Ludlow and Orchard. From the little HMV on Putney High St Interpol’s sound quietly followed me to NYC that year, and a little later I bumped into it again in Tower Records on Broadway.

Antics, their second album, was released in 2004, but I had only actually listened to Turn On The Bright Lights before I moved to NYC. I’ve moved around a lot, most of the time alone, and my way of finding myself in a new place is to look for my “points de repère”*: music stores, statues, and book stores, and then walk an invisible thread through all of them. I made Manhattan mine by walking up Broadway through Union Square, through Bryant Park, skipping over to Fifth Ave, and going straight through to Central Park. Most of the time I had no idea where I would go, but I knew what I would find: home in music and books and the photos that I took along the way.

I would walk into Tower Records on Broadway and head for the back, checking through the new releases first, and then have a listen to some of the featured albums to pass the time. One August afternoon, a few months after moving there in 2005, sweating in the NYC humid heat, I decided to stick around enjoy the pleasant AC for a while, and listen to at least one track on all of the albums playing on the self-service players. I left with two albums that day, and hopped back on the 6 at Union Square, grabbed a sandwich at Subway on 116th St, and rushed home to my tiny apartment on First Avenue to listen to the music. The albums were Interpol’s Antics and 30 Seconds To Mars’ A Beautiful Lie. I remember feeling my heart open and soar, lying on that bed that wasn’t even mine in my slightly furnished apartment in the city that is my home of homes. I shed a tear when that Tower Records store, as well as all of the others, closed the following year - there weren’t any other music stores around that held the same feeling, atmosphere, and real love of music for me. There was still the Virgin Megastore on Union Square, which remained until 2009 I think, but it never felt the same too me. Maybe that one was just too big? I used to buy DVDs and CDs there, but it wasn’t a place I wanted to hang out, not like Tower, or Dimple Records in Sacramento.

Dimple Records... The one record store that always reminded me of Empire Records, the same type of staff, the same look, the same feel I imagined when I watched the movie. In June 2000 I set foot in the US for the first time in my life, joining my mother on her pre moving to Sacramento house searching trip. During those 5 days in 100 plus degree heat I fell in love with a grumpy cockatoo who for some reason took a liking to me, watched my then husband Trent Reznor perform from a few feet away, hugged a few palm trees, and visited several Dimple Record stores. (Funnily enough I’ve seen NIN perform twice in my life, and both times happen to have been in Sacramento. After all these years of coming here to see family, and now living here, it still doesn’t feel like home in the way NYC does, but it has given me Tower, Dimple, many a Cure single, and NIN live). I have a whole collection of Cure CD singles, often imports, which I found at Dimple; PJ Harvey, NIN and Nick Cave singles, as well as random second hand box sets I wouldn’t have found elsewhere. As soon as you would walk in to a Dimple the scent of incense would hit you in the face and bring me personally straight back to 1994.

When I heard Dimple was closing down this year, I popped over there one hot afternoon with my family, wondering if I would find anything, wondering if it would be my last time in a real record store. It was full of people and my children had no intention of letting me actually browse the racks of CDs, so we left, promising ourselves we would be back. I haven’t been back, and it’s too late now. My memories will always be here, and I will miss the smell, and the joy of finding something you couldn’t have found elsewhere, but I regret not making that last visit. My children already love music, create their own playlists, and ask about specific songs and bands, and it does make me sad that they will never find refuge in music stores like I did. But at least they still have the music. We all still have the music, and that is something that will stay with us forever.

Of course there have been other record stores in my journeys: the one in the mall in Nahariya, Israel, where I spent the little money I had on a Tori Amos double CD and forced all of the other kibbutz volunteers to listen to it. There was Easy Street Records in Seattle with some dear friends, where I bought a second hand Nirvana box set and a hoodie which now belongs to my other half. A few days before that I had been singing songs in Viretta Park next to Kurt Cobain’s house, spending the 15 year anniversary of his death with people who had loved him as much as I did. There was Other Music in NYC where I bought an album or two, and another place in Seattle where I found more PJ Harvey while thinking of Layne Staley. Layne and Kurt were never far from my thoughts during that trip. They aren’t far from my mind a lot of the time.  Ten years later I still imagine Seattle to be my music haven, record stores holding strong, despite their disappearance elsewhere. Maybe it’s time for another visit, another song under the bridge, another afternoon on the bench where I wrote my name?

And then there was OCD, how could I forget OCD? I was rifling through a box of odds and ends the other day, looking for photos for our Día de Muertos ofrenda, and instead I found about three OCD cartes de fidélité (loyalty cards), all dated around the years 1999 and 2000, all with three or four stamps in them, each stamp indicating a purchase. I sold some CDs to them when I was in dire need of cigarette and wine money too, but I definitely spent more than I received in terms of cash in that store… I think my friend Jerome worked there at some point, and I got my tongue pierced in the shop next door. I think it was next door? 20 odd years later and the streets in my memories are a bit disheveled, one resembles the other a little bit too much. I know I could still walk them blindfolded after all these years, but when I look at a map it confuses me. It’s been time to go back home for many years, I know that. Next year in Grenoble, London, New York, Nahariya maybe? Let’s trace a line between record stores and cities and visit one by one in our minds, just as I have done with these words.

I’ve been writing this essay all summer, adding little bits and pieces here and there as they pop into my mind, memories and music bound together in my head, and all I can now think about is 1994. 1994 wasn’t the year I discovered my love for record stores, nor was it the year I first fell in love with music (I think I was born in love with music), but it was a pivotal year, for me, and so many songs are rushing through my head. I think it’s time to bind this one up with a song and start a new memory story on a clean page… I will always miss the smell of dust, of discovery that record stores often welcomed me with, but thankfully the music will always be with me in my heart and my ears and my hands.

*(personal) landmarks

Unraveling the Snowball

I wandered off down memory lane last night, a little trapdoor under the carpet, a rabbit hole again. What started it off this time? Somehow reading about the scene on Ludlow St in 2005 led to me thinking about 1994, and tap tap tap a few minutes later a face, a memory, oh my gosh it’s you, and you, and you… Another half-written memory, another playlist revisited and another story to tell.

Writing this book is HARD. I hesitate between telling myself that I have been waiting to get all of these pieces out of my head, journals, and off of my laptop forever, and telling myself that no one wants to read hundreds of pages about me. That’s a little boring, no? But really it’s not all about me… I’ve lived in some really special places at some really special times surrounded by some really special people, so maybe someone would be interested enough to buy a copy, to read a few pages?

I keep adding and deleting and realizing that a story is missing and another is too much. Some years I wrote a lot more than others, and I keep finding loose sheets of paper, scribbles in a park on a lunch break, emails to myself from 2001 or 2015, and notes and post-its stuck to postcards. I have to decipher them, connect the dots… Where was I, who did I love, what was I listening to? Was it vodka, whiskey, coffee, or sobriety? Was it film, digital, phone, or all of the above? Was it Doc, Frye, or barefoot?

Do I publish 600 pages of stories, memories, moments in time? Do I divide it into two? Chronological? Random order? Poetry sneaking through the pages? With Spring Comes Hope was straightforward: a beginning and a place to finish. Of Hearts and Sea Glass is a brick, a cloud, and a marble, or maybe a snowball, rolling, rolling, rolling, collecting layer after layer of thickly packed snow.

You tell me… Are you interested in England? In France? In Israel? In NYC? Are you interested in music scenes, depression, sex, drugs and rock n roll? Are you interested in heartbreak and happiness, facts, autobiographical fiction, real people with fake names? Are you interested in the ocean and the stars, writers and dreamers, lost souls and barefoot wanderers? Are you going to be upset if you recognize yourself? Are you going to be hurt if you don’t appear? Couldn’t give a shit either way? My writing is often impulsive, spur of the moment, a sudden image flashing from my memory unraveling a string through time, words rushing to get out, to convey that one moment. It’s that song that takes you right back there, every single time, a punch in the gut while it rains stars over your head. When it happens I have to drop everything and grab what I can, writing, typing, dictating, because once the string has unraveled she floats off downstream, just another pearly drop in the water.

I stood on the beach in Nahariya in 2003, and the streets of Oakham in 1995. I walked through Place Grenette so many times I could still do it with my eyes closed, the same way I walked down Orchard St in 2005 or in 2014. I have stepped into the Red Sea, the Mediterranean, the Pacific, and my beloved Atlantic, toes touching sand, fingers shielding my eyes as I looked out over the water to the end of the world. I’ve walked up mountains and through deserts, lived in the biggest of cities and the smallest of villages and places in between. I have loved many and probably been loved by many, often letting it all flit through my fingertips. And right then, typing those words, Catch starts up in my head, and immediately the feeling of sitting in the passenger seat next to my best friend, zooming down the New Jersey Turnpike towards our skyline, cigarette smoke and dreams, wind tying our hair into knots. Our freedom was the city, nooks and crannies filled with stories upon stories upon stories. I still smell the Bakers Oven across the street and dream of soft éclairs and baguettes from the boulangerie next to Stendhal. I try to treasure all of these memories, because I am so afraid that one day they will all disappear into a black hole.

Are you interested? Am I writing this for me alone? For you? For my children? For no one in particular? I don’t know. But it will be done soon, another month or two of editing and it will be done, as long as I know where to start it and where to cut it off. Words for days, stories for years, it will all come together soon.

In the meantime, if you want to help me choose a cover for Of Hearts and Sea Glass, as well as read some previously unpublished snippets over the next few weeks, add your email to my mailing list (see below). I don’t email often, but I promise it will be worth reading when I do! <3

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Where Is Home?

Where is home? I don’t know, it has changed so many times over the years. Sometimes it changes over the space of a day. You know, home is here, or home is there. Home is everywhere! But where is home really? I spent many years wondering this, yearning for somewhere else, nostalgic, homesickness just another part of my everyday emotional pool. I put my hands in, try to wash it away put there she is, wrapped around the reflection of the New York skyline or the Vercors mountain range. I close my eyes and there it is, my old boulangerie, the smell of freshly baked baguette right there in my nose. Or sometimes it is the bar on Orchard Street, the sounds in the walls when you walk open the doors, cool air, dried glass rings, the comforting smell of old beer that never goes away. Other times it is the churchyard in England, moss-covered tombstones, and names that have long since been forgotten by most. And then I imagine myself walking barefoot down the hill to the little beach on the Mediterranean, a mile or so from Nahariya, a few more from Akko. Home was leaving one home and landing in another, even when I had never been there before. Home was a suitcase in one hand and a cigarette in another, $200 in a bank account and a new life wherever I laid my head. Home is and will always be where I feel safe, happy, and with those I love.

The smell of rain on the warm pavement in the middle of the summer, a couple of swallows flying for cover into the eaves above my bedroom window, and the sound of the breeze rustling through branches and leaves, that is home. England in the summertime is home. Right there in the village where there is one main road and a few smaller ones, and two churches, the bells ringing on Sundays in time for the morning service. England is also the little room at the top of the building, with the grand staircase leading down to the rest of the apartment, cooking smells coming from the kitchen, the fire crackling in the living room. Home is the warm, thick quilt on Nana’s bed, watching television in the evening because I was allowed to stay up later than my sister. England is also living in London on next to nothing, writing poetry on my lunch break in Putney by the river; dreaming of Israel and California while wandering through the streets of Streatham. England is my first home, the home where I was born, and where I have returned to many a time. England is the comfort, the warmth, but also the grey and the dark. England is living as a working class family under Thatcher in the 80’s, but England is also rolling hills of green beauty and old, old pubs with real ale.

The unseasonably warm breeze cutting through the November air, leaves falling red, yellow, brown to the ground, but still t-shirt weather when yesterday we were in winter coats. Home is the Mistral whistling through the mountains into the valley, a city where the blue sky is tainted by brown pollution, nestled down between different mountain ranges. Vercors, Chartreuse, Belledonne: that is where I am from. France is nights spent sitting on the statue of Berlioz singing songs with a bottle of rose in my hands, hand in hand with my best friend, running through the cobbled streets causing havoc. Home is ivresse, home is warm bread and brie, ravioles baked in the oven, and countless espressos sitting outside en terrasse, no matter how hot or cold it is. Home is the relentless snow in the summer, and the snowcapped mountains in the winter. Home is opening your window shutters every morning to be greeted by the foot of a mountain, looming up into the sky, faces in the rocks, trees that turn with the seasons, somewhat oppressing, mostly a safety blanket. Never a real sunset on the horizon, sometimes I missed that, but those beautifully dramatic thunderstorms made up for it twice over. Dancing in the rain, happy faces, a kind of freedom from everything. Home is teenage years and metal and grunge and goth and friendships that last forever. Home is the most beautiful language in the world.

The smell of 5am in the spring, early morning jogger passing late night last caller, city that never sleeps: that is home. New York City, the place where so many dreams go to die, where so many dreams go to shine, is my home. A decade of decadence, a decade of wonder, of ups and downs and squiggly all arounds: a home that I never expected, but the home that I always craved. So many boots worn into the ground, uptown, downtown, Brooklyn, Queens, bridges and tunnels and subways and ferries. I can still find my way there blindfolded, the city sounds music to my ears. City sounds at night put me to sleep now, silence keeps me awake, ears craving the soothing sounds of sirens and cars, loud beats and voices travelling below my window. Home is the smell of laundry, bakery, trash, and stale beer all on the same block. Home is where love waxed and waned, and finally fell straight. Home is where my daughters were born, where the eldest took her first steps, and where life took a different turn. New York City: city where I lost and found myself over and over again, falling, crawling, standing up and walking tall. Home that haunts my dreams and my daydreams. Homesickness is the strongest with this one.

And now, home is here in this little city, capital of such a big state. Boiling hot in the summer, damp in the winter, wedged between desert and mountain, I suppose it is home. Home because we have a home, and home because my family is here. I still wander the streets like a stranger, one foot on, one foot off; looking for places we can make our own. We live in the bustle, but it is quiet, and we walk everywhere, every day. Past the Capitol where laws are passed and protests are held, through the gardens where each tree proudly displays a name and a history, up, up towards the real bustle, figuring out where we belong. I have known Sacramento on and off for 17 years and she appears to be struggling. Growing, but not fast enough, streets a mess of new and tumbledown, not enough room for the residents, K Street an image of the US that no one wants the world to see. Old Sacramento has my heart; the rumble of the wooden sidewalks as the stroller rolls over the slats, Evangeline’s beckoning us inside, memories of centuries lingering in the alleyways. I learn to love you, new home, the place where my son was born, but we will not be staying, our plans have many more horizons ahead of them.

Laced in between those homes are other homes, temporary stays that became more permanent, and forever etched into my mind. Barefoot walks to the edge of the moshav, running around the kibbutz at night… The little house in the suburbs, the place where I learnt what prejudice really meant, being spat on because I wasn’t blonde and didn’t speak Dutch. Biking to school, rain or shine, learning a new language in the space of weeks, months, little brains like sponges, watching, absorbing, listening. I still smell the Prasad in India, the overpowering smell of flowers on the tomb in the early morning, a perfect quiet, no one to bother me while I wrote and sketched. Sterilized water in containers outside of the rooms, perfectly crafted vegetarian meals, and people from all walks of life, a moment in time, ships passing through the night. That balcony in Barcelona, summer moon shining through my cigarette smoke as I listened to Cat Stevens and dreamed about coming back home, because those streets reminded me of home, of France home. My life is formed by a pattern of homes, all tracing backwards and forwards, down hills, over mountains, with many, many flights between them.

One day we will make our home somewhere else again. Another country, maybe one I have never resided in before, maybe one that I already call home. The wind has a tendency to turn and cast me off into all types of directions, heart first, the rest following right behind. If there is one thing I have learnt it is to never wait for something to happen, instead one should grab ahold of it and not let go.

Words of Reflection from 2005

I don’t remember writing this. But I do remember the exact moment that this was written, my first late summer in NYC, my first taste of that magical month of September when you can finally breathe again. I didn’t really act on my thoughts right then, I’m still waiting for my writing to pay for that beach house, but I remember that girl so well. She isn’t all that far away really, still there, still me. She used to push herself to do things she found uncomfortable (move to a random city in a foreign country where she knew absolutely nobody for example, although that was easier than going out of the house and walking into a bar by herself sober). She used to wonder why she was so often alone, and then would refuse the advances of men all the time. She held on to nostalgia (still does), and dreamt far ahead, of days when there wouldn’t be a need to hustle anymore. She wasn’t innocent, and had seen things other would never see or experience already. She, me, would often sabotage everything for herself before it even began, or would pretend that certain things were more important than others (doing well at work vs being happy and free). I don’t regret anything, but stumbling on this folder full of 2005 journal entries, and especially this one, made me realize all the more why I need to finish what I started many, many years ago.

There is a big reason why my blog is all over the place. I started it in 2003 before I went off to Israel for what ended up being over a year and a huge moment of change in my life. Over the years it evolved into a place where I force myself to post writing that would otherwise stay locked up on my hard drive or my written journals forever. Of course, I want people to read what I write, to react, to talk to me about it, but at the same time I can’t force anyone to. I’m terrible at marketing and I couldn’t sell myself to save my soul, so I most likely won’t be ever buying a beach house with my writing. But sending some of my most personal writing, poems and stories out there into the big wide world is something that I have told myself I will do for decades. And I promise myself this year it will happen. With Spring Comes Hope was my first step into this lake, dabbling my toes, and with Of Hearts and Sea Glass will be a full on dive. In the meantime I will continue to share some of what I write with the world via my blog. It doesn’t have a niche or a certain topic, but it’s my home on the internet.

Here you go, the ramblings of a lonely 27 year old, ready to settle her roots in a new country, but not entirely sure where her roots are anymore. All content, apart from names that I have removed, has been exactly copied from when it was written in 2005.

Saturday September 4th 2005

Although still hot during the day, the evenings are cooling down. Now I can sleep with a cover again, instead of rolling around all night, sweating… Most days I feel like I haven’t slept in months. Most mornings I wake up before dawn, worrying about something or other at work. I think it’s time to get some sun as I am paler than I have been in years.

I feel so lonely. My life feels fulfilled on a few levels: my job, my own place… But I miss my friends, I miss flirting, drinking, dancing, dressing up, emotions, emotions, emotions. I want to share my bed with someone again. And I seriously need to erase the [ex boyfriend] demon for good. He needs to go. I need closure because he’s not going to come back. I don’t break my promises, but it’s difficult when the other person forgets so easily. It’s over [ex boyfriend]. I can’t give you my heart anymore, I’ve tried for too long now. You’ll never ever find someone like me, and whether you regret that or not doesn’t even matter anymore.

All those men in my heart, and he’s the only one who sticks. I can still remember his touch on my body, I want to forget and remember at the same time.

I want to lose control again – down a bottle of vodka, sleep with a random guy who keeps complimenting me, dance all night, feel free free free again. I’m young. It’s time to start living again. I feel like I haven’t been doing that since I left Israel. I’m setting my roots down again. I know the pain of ripping them out, but it’s worse when I just stumble along day by day, just surviving. It’s time to be alive again. See, do, hear, feel. No more walls again. Just me and my life. My friends will always be here, and now it’s time for them to come to me. And time to make new ones in this city. Time for real hugs again. Time to remember how things are for real.

[Close friend] will be here in a few weeks and I’m really looking forward to it. Having a friend here, sharing my little haven with someone else, partying and talking and walking and sharing and drinking and smoking and giggling and smiling and crying.

I have to put [ex best friend] behind me too. I’ve given so much in the past, and there have been so many times that it’s been thrown right back in my face. But I will never stop giving because that’s the way I am. Her spirit was just not free enough. Maybe I was just too wild but sorted at the same time. I can take on so much, I can deal with it all, and she obviously couldn’t. Tant pis, ce n’est pas si grave a la fin, n’est-ce pas? Life can be strange at the oddest times, you just have to get up and leave it behind. Some things just cannot be fixed however hard you try, as sad as it is.

I remember sitting on the wall next to the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco in the background, smoking a cigarette, wind blowing, running up to hug the sailor statue, singing out of tune in the truck. I remember lying on my bed in Sassenage dreaming of Kurt. I remember tickling [friend] in l’Ile Verte, talking about everything and nothing. She never left, she just got older and maybe a little wiser. Yes, me. Remember going to school and running off to Champollion with [great friend] every break? Stalking men we had never spoken to before… Pine’s Friend, Pine, Bog… Nirvana, Hole, PJ, Candlebox (well that one song). 11 years ago. Who would have thought that at 27 I would be living in New York?

One day, when I finally get my act together I will tell the story to all. The one about the young and shy girl who overcame (maybe) her tragedy and found herself. I wish I would stop making excuses. I don’t need the house by the beach to live. My writing might just buy me that house one day though. Forget your fears and just go for it.

I don’t want to say goodbye to anyone or anything. Not even au revoir. Not anymore. Enough is enough.

Young Heart, Old Soul

Compiling and now editing my next book, tentatively titled Of Hearts and Sea Glass, has been a bit of an arduous process, mainly because it's very autobiographical, and I am naturally a nostalgic person. It stirs up a lot of memories and feelings, some of which I am happy to wander through again, others not so much. I edited this piece this morning, previously published on Life With My Little Duck, a view into my early 20's and some of my travels... 

Young Heart, Old Soul

In my world the devil dances and dares, To leave my soul just anywhere, Until I find peace in this world, I’ll sing a song everywhere I can, Just too young to know anymore. – Tim Buckley, Sing A Song For You

You know, I always thought that you turned 18 and there you were, an adult. All of a sudden the skies would open up with the knowledge you would need to understand everything around you.

Yeah, that doesn’t happen at 18 and it doesn’t happen at 21 either. Nor at 24.

I’ve been walking around the city recently, it some sort of a blur. Sylvia Plath is doing my head in and I can’t run away from her, not until I have finished my thesis anyway. I listen to the same few albums turning round and round on my record player, twirling round and round on the spot and wishing I could just click my fingers and disappear into a void.

I feel so bloody depressed.

Everything is in little pieces, little compartments surrounded by bigger compartments, and I shove each and every little component into its own neat little box, walking through a fog and pretending to reach out, but with no real zeal. I lost most of my spark somewhere between 9/11 and the twentieth time I read The Bell Jar. I go out some nights, wander over to the bars we all frequent, already drunk, and dance round and round, twirling to the sounds of The Cure and Bauhaus, wishing that I could be someone else, somewhere else. Those are paradoxically the moments when I feel the most free, hiding behind my “ivresse”, unafraid of myself and ridding myself of the fear of actually reaching into the future to become who I always imagined I would become.

And then comes that interminable nausea, the one that locks me into myself and gives me panic attacks, so that every time I take a step forward I end up taking two more backwards again. I can live with my timidity, but I can’t live with the inability to count on alcohol to give me the courage I need to be myself. I stand by the river, breathe in the stink and shout into the wind, feeling the bridge sway beneath my feet. Yes, I’ve contemplated jumping off and letting the cold water pull me away, but I don’t even know where I would want to be pulled to. All I know is that all of my life there has been this constant dream of just disappearing, taking off to never return, recreating myself somewhere else. It’s laced into my stories and my poems, dripping from the words I write every day in my journal and I honestly believe that one day it will just happen. I will snap and then be gone. It’s hard to manage the fear of having to compromise and this overwhelming need to shout from the rooftops I EXIST.

I need to get away from here, and I need to leave this cocoon behind. I love my friends, I love them with all of my heart, and I love this country that has become my home, but I need to be able to step out from the shadows and find the path or the paths that I need to take. I used to feel safe here, but the safety is beginning to strangle me, and this depression is getting worse and worse. Every morning I have to mentally prepare myself for the outside world, but the walls have crumbled so much and I don’t have the energy to rebuild them. I am too vulnerable and without my inner strength I won’t make it much further. I have to move away from my comfort zone and take that leap into a new world. What is there here for me right now anyway? Years and years of studying something I lost interest in a while back? Teaching in some random school hundreds of miles away from my home? Or just sitting her, stifling under my self-created and inflicted bell jar?

It really is time to go.

And all I ever wanted was the simple things, A simple kind of life. – No Doubt, Simple Kind of Life

It’s amazing how much difference a year can make. Last year I was treading water, breathing in the same recycled atmosphere, living in the shadows of my mind and wondering why I felt so trapped. Now I am sitting in the afternoon sun on my multi-coloured beach towel, contemplating the shiny Mediterranean and admitting to myself that there are times that life can seem pretty perfect. Or at least not as complicated as I was making it be.

I tried to stick it out back home, and then I tried to move closer to my family again, but neither option worked out for multiple reasons. So, instead of just going to London and aimlessly walking around searching for a job that I didn’t want, I chose Tel Aviv, the Israeli desert and finally a kibbutz up near the Lebanese border. You know what I discovered? I discovered that inner strength that had carried me through my childhood lifting me up again. I discovered that I could be a natural leader instead of pretending to be a follower, and I discovered that while running away may not always be the best solution, it is always an option.

Probably because I ran towards myself rather than away from myself.

I am made for kibbutznik life. I love the work, the freedom. I love the volunteer house and the volunteers. I love our routine and I mostly love that I feel like I can be me here, ME with a big, fat capital M. I can’t stay here forever, and I will never be able to stay here forever, but I can stay here for now and that is all that matters.

The parties, the love, the friendship, the family, the walks to the beach, the train rides down to my family in the desert. Learning and speaking Hebrew and passing for Israeli wherever I go. The market shuk every Sunday after work with the colourful clothes and the serve yourself falafel stand in the centre of town. Dancing in the rain and touring Egypt on $200, memories that I know will be stamped into my brain for the rest of my life. I’m in love, in love with a country, in love with a boy (maybe) and in love with life. This was the jolt I needed to wake me up; this was the change I never really knew I needed.

It’s so warm here, and time passes more slowly, we sit around sipping coffee and tea, smoking endless cigarettes and pondering on life and love and friendships. Friendships are made fast and firm, bonds created over the manual labour and the long nights of vodka and dancing. We are all here for our own reasons, but these are now the people I would trust with my life. I can’t ever imagine never seeing these people again, not talking to them every day or laughing about the silly things that we get up to when drunk. This is the life that I have always wanted, simple, but I also know that it’s only a halfway house really. I can’t stay here, not unless I make some drastic choices in my life, and I’m not ready to make any permanent choices now.

Israel has taught me to accept that sometimes you cannot control the outcome, and as frustrating as it may be, there are other solutions, other places to go, other lives to live. Our world is so huge and full of people, cultures, history and things to learn that I need to use the dead ends in my path as signs to go find another direction. I am no longer scared of myself or of what I can accomplish in my life if I put my mind to it. I am lucky enough to have choices and places to go. I am free, so why create a prison for myself?

In the meantime I will continue to enjoy the warm sand in my toes and the sun on my skin, waking up before dawn and sleeping way after midnight, watching the stars light up the expansive sky, guiding me to the extent of what this world has to offer me.

Always the same, nothing ever changes, English summer rain seems to last for ages. – Placebo, English Summer Rain

Have you ever felt like you make one choice after another and it becomes a chain reaction of sorts, pulling you one way and another? I’m twirling on one toe, pushing myself faster and faster but willing the world to stop for a minute so that I can catch my breath and my balance. London has served its purpose, a place to tiptoe through while looking elsewhere. Every time I lay my head on my pillow I think of elsewhere, every time I write a poem by the river on my lunch break I dream of where I want to be, and every time I walk the same steps back home I wonder how I am ever going to leave. London is comfortable and foreign, we speak the same language but I see further than the end of the day. I’m sure others do too, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for spring to arrive, year in year out.

I walk over to the corner shop and buy my Sunday papers, reading them in bed with a pot of coffee and a pile of toast and butter, reading stories that I wish I had written, and staring aimlessly at the screen of my new iBook hoping to squeeze just a little inspiration out of my apathy. My housemates are wonderful, there are a lot of comforts in my life here, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough will it?

This is why I am off to New York City next week. I have never been there, I have never really even dreamt of going there, but I am still going there. A new job, a new life and another choice to be somewhere else. Ever since I left France I haven’t been able to find that one place where I really feel I belong or at least that one place where I belong and where I can actually stay. Visas and documents may stop me from staying somewhere, but they won’t stop me from looking for my home.

I’m 27 now and although I have experienced more than many, I still find it hard to believe I am actually an adult. Yes, I arrived in London with no place to stay and no job and within a week I had both. Yes, I have a job with responsibilities and I pay my rent on time every week. Yes, I have orchestrated my own move to NYC with no idea where I am going to live or what to even expect when I get there. Yes, I have traveled extensively on little to no money. And yes, I even managed to get an MA before I left France. But I still feel like that shy little girl is right there, just below the surface, waiting to pop up at any given moment. She makes me second guess every move and makes me doubt everything I say. The only way I can make her go away is with vodka and I still haven’t learnt how to get past that stumbling block yet.

I’m sure there will be enough vodka for me in NYC. I just hope I won’t lose myself in that big beating heart of a city. Or maybe that is just exactly what I need to do?

Ramblings: From Milan to Rome, via Venice and Florence

While I have considered the US (first NYC and now Northern California) home for the past 11 years, and was born in England and lived in The Netherlands, France will always be my home. It’s the country where I grew up, and I think in French as often as I think in English. I have to admit though, that even though I lived in Grenoble for all of those years, I never actually made the effort to travel to Italy! Just a couple of hours away by car and train and I never set one foot over the border. The closest I came to being in Italy was when I spent a few days on a ski resort that a close friend’s father managed (La Rosière), but due to my immensely unfabulous skiing skills I never made it over the hill to Italy. It wasn’t until I flew back to France on holiday in late 2006 that I decided to trek around Italy, and only then really because I was traveling with a friend who had never been to either country. Over the space of a little more than a week we went to Milan, Venice, Florence and Rome, and I really regretted never having been before!

After a few days in Paris and a few more with some of my friends in Grenoble we climbed onto a train in Grenoble’s Gare Europole and made our hungover way towards Italy (there wasno way I was leaving the Mark XIII sober in Grenoble, never happened before and I had to keep up the tradition). We had to change trains in Chambéry and from there jumped on a TGV that took us through the Alps to Milan. Train rides are my absolute favourite forms of transportation: they are comfortable, don’t cause travel sickness, comforting and roomy. I can read on them, look out of the window, sleep, eat, not worry about making toilet pit stops because there is a toilet in every wagon, and usually just spend the time thinking about life in general and imagining stories. Train rides are a great time of reflection for me, and I have traveled far and wide on different trains. Trains fares in France were already pretty expensive at the time (especially when you opted for the TGV), but they were very affordable in Italy, so that’s how we made our way around the cities. As always, everything was kind of by the seat of my pants… Hotels were booked the day before or day of and plans were made as and when we arrived. This has always been my mode of travel, as you can see in previous chapters (Aswan, Kibbutz, Barcelona).

The train ride to Milan was beautiful. I grew up in the Alps, mountains surrounding my home town, and it’s a view I miss on a daily basis. The train took us right through the mountains (literally), scaling around and through rock, over lakes and bridges and snow, finally dropping us off in Milano Centrale Railway Station. We took a little cab to our hotel, a non-descript room within walking distance from anything that we may have found interesting, and went in search of food and coffee. While the city is stunning with its cobbled streets, towering edifices and beautiful station, I found the city atmosphere itself a little cold and maybe even stand-offish. Then again, maybe I was also a little overwhelmed, going from what I considered my home town in France after a few years away straight into a country where I didn’t speak the language. Trying to find my footing so to speak… In any case my coffee was fantastic, my Panini delicious and the Duomo (cathedral) was absolutely breathtaking (and most likely still is). I wish I had had a better camera with me at the time, because I would have taken so many gorgeous shots!

I found that Italy was full of beautiful people, but Milan especially. A city populated by the gorgeous and the rich. Of course many places can look that way to the outsider, but that was the feeling I walked away with. It was however a lovely place to stroll around in the evening, choosing a place to dine at and another place to get dessert. It was also not the cheapest place to be, and because Venice and Florence were the two cities I really, really wanted to visit we got a one way ticket to Venice the following day without even booking a place to stay. We figured it would be easy enough once we got there! I highly recommend arriving in Venice by train as the views are amazing – Venice really is that city you imagine, the one you see in the movies and you get a great first overview of the city in a train.

The history of Venice is fabulous! Tiny islands connected by rivers and lagoons, buildings built on water, with foundations of wood and stakes. A city that has been in existence from as early as the 5th century! My active imagination conjured up images of a Shakespearian city: I would see Iago popping out of dark alleys and boats laden with gold chugging down the side streets (streams), pretty princesses and handsome soldiers strolling along riversides. My own idea of Venice wasn’t so far from reality really – Venice is visually just gorgeous. We found a lovely double hotel room right by the station and wandered around the streets, taking everything in. Venice is so quiet and quaint, no cars, just boats and gondoliers, just lots and lots of winding streets, bridges, canals and tiny waterways. The houses are so special, some ancient, some majestic and some both; windows decorated with hanging baskets looking across tiny bodies of water right into someone else’s window. I can imagine how easy it is to have a conversation with someone across the water, neighbours separated by a stream rather than a road. I love that everything is walkable, or accessible via some form of boat – even the ambulances are boats in Venice!

I can’t speak for someone who actually lives in Venice year round, but as a tourist everything seemed to slow down for us there. Just walking around and taking in the atmosphere, the people and the sights were exactly what I needed right at that moment in time. When I read through my journal the feeling of calm permeates through my etchings, and I can still see myself sitting at a table on a small piazza, enjoying an espresso and watching the world go by. I remember walking along the water and then suddenly arriving at the Piazza San Marco and being surprised at how busy and loud it was compared to the rest of the city. I do think that the relative quietness and affordability of everything was mainly due to the fact that we were there in the beginning of December, and while the weather was pretty mild and sunny it was nowhere near as packed as it probably is during the summer. In any case the Piazza San Marco was bustling with people and awe-inspiring in its beauty. From the Biblioteca and the Doges Palace to the statues of St Theodore and the Lion of Venice, and all of the intricate architectural designs in between, there was so much to feast our eyes on in the square. I would love to go back now and take hundreds of photos of pillars and walls and stones. We walked away from the piazza through tiny streets, peering into shops and restaurants, looking at menus and souvenirs and wondering where to go for dinner and lunch and breakfast.

One of the things that I was actually disappointed with during our first few days in Italy was the food. I’m a huge fan of Italian food and practically live on pasta, but most places we came across tended to cater towards tourism and presented the same menus in different formats, the same pasta dishes over and over again. Venice ended up being the one city where we only had one decent meal, and that came about after we really walked off the beaten track down some deserted side streets. I had baked gnocchi and it was absolutely divine, so good that I can still imagine the taste of it today. Other than that our meals in Venice were nothing to write home about, although my travel partner, not being the vegetarian I am, tried the black inky spaghetti dish which was more memorable in colour than taste really. It did give us the incentive to be a little more adventurous in our restaurant choices and to move away from the more popular areas towards more “local” fare.

Before we left Venice we made a stop at the Peggy Guggenheim Collection Museum on the Grand Canal, taking in some of her beautiful artwork (Picasso, Pollock, Calder) and the gorgeous garden full of statues. There are other museums that we probably should have taken time to visit too, such as the Doges’ Palace and the Museo Correr, and these are the type of things that one sometimes misses when traveling without really doing a ton of research on each location beforehand… I suppose you gain in surprise but sometimes lose out too. All part of the adventure though!

The train from Venice to Florence took between two and three hours and by the time we arrived in the rolling Tuscany hills the skies had begun to open and we arrived at our hotel soaking wet and ready to just stay there and not venture out again. Obviously we didn’t as there was no way that we were going to pay for room service, and miss out on seeing the city that I had dreamt of for years! We decided on two days and two nights in Florence and I was adamant about fitting in as much as physically and mentally possible. Even if the rain was pouring from the heavy grey clouds. It did end up clearing up for us when the sun started to set and we walked over the Ponte Vecchio, amazed that it was still standing in all its Medieval glory, diamonds and rubies peeking from the windows of the little jewelry shops along the sides. Big iron fleur-de-lys adorn the pillars, reminiscent of monarchies and times past. Florence feels old, ancient, dark and somewhat gloomy in its history; seeped in memories of times when life was more difficult. While the Tuscan countryside was so green and inviting, Florence felt slightly foreboding, but I suppose that was mainly due to the winter showers and dark hotel room that we were staying in.

Foreboding but completely breathtaking. Layers upon layers of tremendously intricate architecture and artwork, paintings and statues; homes that could have housed any a Shakespearian character, blending all the colours of Tuscany together, warm browns and oranges and terracottas. The streets were narrow and windy and all seemed to lead to the cathedral, stoic in its absolute grandeur. Florence was exactly how I imagined it would be, and even more. We drank wine sitting outside a restaurant and talked about life, imagining living in Italy rather than in NYC, ate some pretty delicious dishes and had to stop ourselves from touching Michelangelo’s David in the Galleria dell’Accademia. And for some reason we must have watched an Italian music channel or European MTV in the hotel because whenever I hear Muse’s Starlight I immediately think of Florence. And Tuscan pastries.

Florence to Rome takes less than two hours on one of Italy’s frequent fast trains, but Florence’s main trains station becomes a bit of a hellhole with people trying to get on and off trains from both ends, pushing and shoving as if each train is the last on earth. I recommend getting a train out of there at an off-peak hour, especially if you are traveling with luggage. We had already booked a hotel room in Rome in advance and were looking forward to dumping our stuff off and discovering the city that everyone talks about. Rome wasn’t the highest point on my list before we started the trip but by day one there it became my favourite. Rome reminded me of Paris, my beloved Paris, and we spent our days there running around the streets and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. Rome became the real holiday where we just let loose and had fun. We stayed at the Angel Hotel which was perfectly located for everything that we had planned on accomplishing (not far from San Pietro and right by the Tiber). Breakfasts of croissants and espresso out by the river for the next four days!

I always find that the best way to explore a city is on foot. This can lead to interesting walks, like the time when I thought we could walk back into Cairo from Giza, but most of the time it really helps find one’s footing and sometimes some lucky surprises. We walked a lot in Rome, visiting all the main sights, but also finding our favourite places to be and returning there. Our “safe” spot became a restaurant in the Piazza Navona, where we spent a couple of evenings drinking wine, eating dessert and chatting to the servers who came from all over the world. We got some great tips from them, as well as from two elderly science professors who entertained us during an entire meal (I actually just found one of their cards in my journal; he must have given it to me when we were chatting!). Piazza Navona was a lovely place for congregation, centered by the gorgeous Neptune fountain and with views on the Baroque church Sant'Agnese in Agone. The outskirts of the square are surrounded by restaurants and bars, and it took us a few not-so-great meals to pick our favourite (and even though I kept the cards from all of them I can’t remember the name of our favourite). Again though, we found that the food seemed to be less pleasing the more popular the area.

During those four days, we walked and walked, and ate, and walked some more. I finally got to see the Sistine Chapel and was in tears… The beauty and the amazing preservation of so much artwork! The Vatican is an interesting little place. For some reason I had always imagined a lot of priests running around in robes, but it was mainly full of clusters of tourists which shouldn’t really have come as much of a surprise. St Peter’s Basilica is stunning, colossal, and the atmosphere is unlike anywhere else that I have been… Kind of a cross between the hush of a cathedral and the drone of thousands of whispers with a back drop of deep and dark history. If I remember correctly the Pope (or it could have been a cardinal) was supposed to come out to speak that day, but we didn’t even try to stay. You can’t really avoid the crowds of pilgrims and tourists at the Vatican, and it’s always a struggle for me to push myself through these types of things to actually experience what I want to experience. The Sistine Chapel was worth it.

We walked around the Colosseum and the gardens, imagining sitting inside and watching gladiators battle it out until the bitter end. We found the Trevi Fountain and pushed through the crowds so that we could throw coins in and make a wish… I still remember the wish I made and am quite glad that it didn’t come true, although it has made me think about a lot of things and how different my life would have been from then onwards if it had come true. We strolled around Trastevere before making our way back to our trusted Piazza de Navano, explored Campo di Fiori and got drunk at an adorable bar called Jonathan’s Angels, ran around the streets jumping on people’s mopeds and on benches, laughing and singing. We ate pizza and pasta and gelato, drank many a bottle of wine and many an espresso. I put my hand in the Bocca della Verità, and was actually a little scared something might pop down and bite me, Indiana Jones style. I sat on the Spanish steps several times and dipped my fingers in every fountain we passed, making wishes everywhere. Rome was another revelation for me, like Barcelona a little later, a city of peace, of noise, of old and new, of fun and games and of a lot of reflection. I would love to go back again, ten years later, and revisit the same places and possibly find others that I missed the first time around.

Milan – Venice – Florence – Rome and back to Paris again, a little over a week of Italy. Ruins, churches, ancient cathedrals, God people and tourists, locals and local foreigners, old people, young people and everyone in between; tiny cars and mopeds, cheap, fast trains and wooden boats, pasta and more pasta; rain, sunshine and gloom, wine by the bottle, hundreds of espressos and a lot of walking. The Italy that I remember was a place of beauty, happiness, friendship and reflection.

Ramblings: Memories of Poland

There was Poland before the wall came down and Poland after the wall came down. And the only difference in time was a year. The first time was in the late spring of 1989, the second the summer of 1990. I was 11 and 12 those years and always very perceptive to what was going on around me, even if I didn’t speak the Polish language, or really even the language of adults.

My stepfather was born in a Polish refugee camp in England in the early 50’s. His parents were born in a part of Poland that doesn’t exist as Poland today, but in the beginning of the 20th century it did. When Stalin and Hitler signed their pact the land became Soviet, and all Poles were “displaced” to Siberia in cattle trains. On their release they had nowhere to go as their homes belonged to others, and trying to get them back would have most likely meant death. So they went wherever they could… Some stayed in the USSR, others joined the Polish Army that had been recreated outside of occupied Poland, some found themselves back in Poland, some ended up in refugee camps as far as Africa. England, in need of enormous rebuilding and restoration aid after 1945 welcomed the refugees with open arms. My stepfather spoke only Polish until he started school and realised that he actually resided in England! He had many stories to tell about his childhood and his family who were in England, Poland and the US amongst other countries. While we did do a little sightseeing during our two trips to Poland, they were mostly journeys to visit family that my stepfather, and his nearest family, had not seen in years, even decades. *

The whole family in front of the van that picked us up from Poznan

We spent both holidays in a tiny little village called Rodowo, which can be found in the north of the country, south-east of Gdansk, equal distance from both Poznan and Warsaw. The nearest town that I remember going to was Prabuty, and it isn’t too far from the town of Malbork. I’m quite familiar with village life as I was born in a very small one in England, and spent a lot of my summers as a teen living and working in one. Rodowo was (and still is according to Google Earth) tiny: farms, a small church, a village shop and a school with one main road.

Walking around the fields

The first year we went to Poland we traveled by train. We lived in The Netherlands at the time, Apeldoorn, and took a night train from Hengelo to Poznan. Europe was still divided into two sections, West and East, and visas were required to go from one to the other. We traveled in a 6 seat cabin, the seats becoming beds, 5 of us (two adults, three children) and I feel like the trip took days, although it was most likely about 12 hours. I have always loved traveling by train, watching the world go by from the window, imagining myself running alongside the train, jumping over hedges and fences, peering into houses and skimming over bodies of water. Train journeys can be very relaxing and enjoyable. This one was just that until we got to the East German border, when the train came to an abrupt halt and all cabins were searched one by one (and I still remember how scary and brusque those guards were, a lot less relaxed than the West German ones). We were there for ages, waiting. And then again just after the West Berlin stop, when all of a sudden the train became full to the brim with passengers carrying heavy bags, laden with things to sell back home. The narrow hallways of each wagon were full of people standing; the journey to the toilet at the end of the row became a mini obstacle course, clambering over people, bags and boxes. When we arrived in Poznan we climbed out of the window and were helped down by people waiting to board the train, it was easier than trying to get out through the hallway and carriage door. This was my first exposure to the “East”. It still amazes me how two sides of a continent could be so different, all because of the way they were governed. And this was on the very tail end of Communist rule in Eastern Europe – Solidarność flags were flying everywhere, and that summer for the first time in decades Poland would experience significant governmental changes. The Berlin Wall came down about half a year later, and with that the USSR’s last fingers were removed from the East. I now wish I had been a little older and able to fully understand the revolution that was happening in Poland while I was there!

Me, Dylan and Karli hanging out on an old wagon

A year later we flew to Poland, Schiphol to Warsaw, which also happened to be the first time that I had ever flown anywhere. It was a lot less eventful than the trip the previous year, and the changes in the country were already quite visible, at least in the cities and towns. Rodowo was still the same really: quiet, small and undisturbed.  I think the changes I noticed the most were the availability of things (things being items that as Westerners we were so used to seeing in shops that we noticed the lack of them while traveling). While in 1989 items such as jeans, American cars as well as the actual ability to BUY were coveted, in 1990 Capitalism was already infiltrating the country rapidly. I can’t imagine how strange it would have been to go from the austerity of Soviet Communism to Western Capitalism without any real preparation time. I remember that people thought that we could just buy anything without any worry; it was as if the “West” was full of golden opportunities and consumer items, which in a sense wasn’t entirely false, just not completely true either. We were treated as royalty by my stepfather’s family in Rodowo, but because we were family, not because we came from Western Europe. In my mind Rodowo was a place untouched by time, moving along at its own pace, and I suppose it is still quite similar today (although I do hope that the farmers are able to use more up-to-date machinery!). Polish hospitality remains second to none in my mind – the way my stepfather’s family took us in and looked after us was just wonderful, leaving me with a lifetime of memories.

Karli and a gaggle of geese

After living in (big) cities for many, many years, I remember waking up in Poland as something so very special. The warm sun rays coming through the window, the sound of birds chatting away, the occasional shout, moo of a cow or the noises of a tractor heading out into the fields. Cioca (aunt) Monica bustling around, preparing breakfast for us, and a feast it was, every single day. I doubt that these were everyday breakfasts, but they were made for us every day and I still remember how amazing the honey was, straight from the beehives, spread lavishly on the warm, freshly baked bread. I would move there in an instant, just for a taste if that again! I never was much of a meat-eater, even at that age, and even though I’ve been a vegetarian for nearly 20 years now, I still remember actually enjoying the kielbasa on the farm. And the taste of freshly milked cow’s milk, warm and creamy, so good that you were quickly able to get over the smell of cow and down it in one go. Homemade butter on warm bread. My gosh, I even ate some of the chicken that Cioca Anja had killed in front of us earlier in the day, bravely watching her behead it, averting my eyes away from the bucket that it was draining in after the fact. The food on the farms was plentiful, wholesome and delicious, everything was fresh and mostly homemade, even the cheese. A lot of vodka was also consumed, even in the morning, Wujek (uncle) Tadek would have his shot before going out into the fields, but obviously I didn’t partake in that at the time (although I did develop a taste for Polish vodka quite a few years later).

Stroking the peaceful cows

Despite Rodowo being a small village there was so much for us to DO. I spent a lot of time doing my favourite thing in the world, reading, in the fields by the farmhouse, or running around with my sister discovering the barns and the fields, talking to the cows and chasing the dogs. There were pigs and hens and horses, and so much land to roam around on. If you have never spent hours sliding down haystacks then I really recommend it (don’t wear shorts though), as well as running through corn fields and getting slightly lost. I don’t recommend falling in cow patties (as my sister did), or jumping into a field with a bull, but they are also interesting experiences in hindsight. Cioca Monica and Wujek Tadek’s son Rysek also lived on the farm, as well as his son Adam. Rysek was (is still most likely) an amazing traditional Polish wood carver, and he would create beautiful sculptures and statues out of simple logs of wood. He made us all one each, mine of course being the only different one, painted in black. He was trying something new at the time and I told him how much I loved it, so it became mine. He was one of my favourite people in Poland; he always had time for us, and always seemed so happy and carefree. Adam was also wonderful and loved playing with my little brother Dylan, and if I remember correctly Dylan adored him. Dylan was only just 2 years old when we first visited Poland, but I think he remembers a lot of both trips. I’m so thankful that my mother was such an avid photographer from an early age and documented so much of our lives. It really helps to relive moments when you capture a shot of yourself right there, and there are quite a few of me walking through the fields, lost in my thoughts.

Me, Karli, Dylan,Magda, Malgosia and Piotr

Cioca Monica and Wujek Tadek’s farmhouse was both very, very old, and modernized enough to have all the features of comfort that you need to live (modern plumbing, electricity etc). There were no showers, but then again, most older houses in England didn’t have showers at the time either! You couldn’t have too many electrical devices running at the same time unless you wanted to blow a fuse, but that wasn’t anything strange either. While there was a toilet in the house, there was also an old outhouse made of wood by the pig sty that most people seemed to prefer. Maybe because it was away from the house? A little bit of peace and quiet from us kids running around and creating mayhem? Who knows! Maybe it was just a quiet place to sit and read the paper without anyone bothering you… I do love old farmhouses and would love to live in one one day.

The picture with the famous Andzej (see below)

We made friends with the children of the village, even though we didn’t speak the same language. Fun is a universal word, and we had loads of it, running around everywhere together. Małgosia, Magda and Piotr were our main go-to kids as they were Anja’s daughter and niece and nephew (the same lady who killed the chicken with her bare hands and gave us the fresh cow’s milk), and we got up to so much mischief with them! We hid eggs in the field and waited until they had gone rotten and smashed them, running away from the stink in hysterics. Touching the electric fences and jumping with the shock was another favourite pastime, as well as playing hide and seek in the barns. Karli and I found Cioca Monica’s boxes of old clothes in the attic of one of the barns and spent a day playing dress up and making up plays. I only remember warm, sunny days, but I’m sure there were some days of rain too… On one of our visits we went to a nearby lake where we jumped around in the water and grilled kielbasa and where I also learnt what a leech was and how to get rid of them (I think the incident actually happened to my poor sister, not me though). Now thinking of it, Karli had more than enough little traumas while we were there… She stubbed a toe pretty hard and a doctor put a cast on her leg, right up to her knee. And then someone decided that it was completely unnecessary and it was sawn off right there in the farmhouse. I can’t imagine that that was a very safe procedure, but she luckily still has all of her toes!

Karli, Malgosia and me hanging out by the lake

There was a gorgeous boy there, his name Andzej, and we communicated via smiles and signs. He would ride around on his bike and just looked older and more interesting than the others. One day he asked me to go for a ride with him on his bike, and being too shy I said no. Of course he then asked another girl and I wanted to kick myself… Ah the fickle nature of young love. I made my mother take a photo of him so I could look at it when we got home, and imagine marrying Andzej and living in Rodowo on our farm. When I look at it now he looks so young, as young as we all were then. Kids playing in the fields, running through the corn and chasing the chickens. I even tried my hand at actually milking a cow and collapsed in a fit of giggles when I couldn’t do it.

Cioca Monica and Dylan

The village church was small, but still lavish from what I can remember, or maybe just lavish from all of the beautiful flowers that were everywhere. There was a service every day, late afternoon during the week, and I recall going quite regularly… I was christened Church of England but had been receiving a Catholic education at the time, and was a little confused about what I believed in. Churches still help me to gather my thoughts even today, and I think it was mainly a time for me to have a little space and a little calm. Being the oldest of three, with two siblings who were a lot louder and more rambunctious than myself, as well as being sensitive to the ups and downs of our family life at the time I think the respite was often needed. And thinking about it now, my father had only died a year or so before, so I must have liked to seek solace in something more powerful and bigger than the little 11 or 12 year old that I was. We participated in the First Communion celebrations for the kids in the village and also in a tradition where we were dressed in traditional Polish clothing and walked through the village throwing rose petals at designated spots along the way. While I’m not religious in any shape or form I have a soft spot for traditions and there were some lovely Polish ones that I adored around different holidays. Traditions are kept going strong in all Polish immigrant families across the world, and it’s wonderful to see them passed down generation to generation.

Dylan and Olga playing in a haystack

Both of my trips to Poland were over 20 years ago and while some of the memories are as clear as day, others are slightly hazy, and for some things I had to dig quite deep into those memory drawers. I didn’t remember a trip into Gdansk until my mother reminded me of it, and I have a slight recollection of touring the school in Rodowo, but I don’t remember why we did it. Maybe there was some interest in us living there at some point? On our second trip my stepfather made the journey into the Soviet Union, to see family that had stayed there, and there was so much trouble getting visas and travel permits beforehand. Nowadays it’s hard to imagine entire families being displaced across the world, sometimes even letters or packages not getting through borders. It’s difficult to imagine not being able to do a quick Google search and find a family member online, or not being able to Skype or FaceTime across time zones. But less than 30 years ago you couldn’t even visit the USSR without a visa, without most likely being followed and checked out and documented somewhere in the system. And if going there was hard enough, getting out was even worse. These trips didn’t involve extensive sightseeing of Poland’s famous cities, but they did help me learn about the everyday life in an Eastern European country, and also about how strong family ties can be, even when borders and time make it difficult, even impossible to communicate with each other. 

One day it would be lovely to go back and visit, or at least find out what has become of all of the wonderful people that made these holidays so magical.

Roaming the fields again

*There are many, many stories of Polish displacement in the 1940’s, stories of pogroms in what we now call the Ukraine against Jews and Poles, stories of slave labour in Siberia and stories of refugee camps. Many of these stories have never been told and are just passed along to family members. Many of the people who experienced these atrocities are not here anymore, or are very, very old. For more information you can check out this website on displaced persons here, or on this site here which explains how many Poles arrived in the UK after the war.

Ryszard Rabeszko's wonderful wooden carvings, still with us today here in the US.

Ramblings: Working in the Kibbutz Dining Room

When I got back from Israel in 2004 I spent a few months in California and managed to put many memories down on paper for future reference. I am so glad I did as reading through them brings me a lot of happiness amongst the waves of nostalgia. Here is the description of a typical day working on the kibbutz for me (slightly edited from the original that I jotted down over a decade ago). I kept the tense as it was when I wrote it because it immediately took me right back there. All of the Hebrew is transcribed as I understood it and all of the people mentioned are real. This is the second and definitely not the last piece on my stay in Israel (the first one, On Kibbutz Evron, can be found here).

There we are in front of the Dining Room, at 6am on the dot, on time as usual even after the few frustrating minutes of trying to round everyone up so we can go altogether (Nick’s “I still have to brush my teeth aye Kitkat, I’ll meet you up there” still resonates in my ears to this day).

“Boker tov!”

“Good morning, boker tov.” Vica, Vova, Doron, Sasha, Ofer, Ganit, Marina, Rami, Zoran, Motti… No Ronen yet because Ronen is always late.

First things first, a dash (I’m talking 6am after four hours of sleep dash) to the hot water machine for a polystyrene cup of strong, sugary tea. And into the kitchen I go with Isabel. For anyone who thinks a kitchen should be the warmest place anywhere, it isn’t in Evron. In the winter the water in “our” sink takes 10 minutes to heat up and cold air comes through all the top windows, but in the summer it becomes a lovely respite from the burning sun. Vova dumps the crates of vegetables to be cleaned next to the sink (although before Vova was promoted to manager I had to carry those crates by myself and my back hated me for it!).

One of us goes to get the plastic containers while the other starts on the vegetables; red peppers in halves or thirds, cleaned and placed on the tray; spring onions cut, cleaned, piled on the tray; white onions peeled, cleaned, halved and put on the tray (done with the obligatory latex gloves because I learnt my lesson the first few days- onion smell does NOT go away even after prolonged and multiple washes); tomatoes washed, checked, into containers; cucumbers the same procedure; parsley cut, cleaned and put out next to the lemons in the food area of the Dining Room.

Zivouv (“around”), my favourite job, going around the outside of the Dining Room, sweeping up cigarette butts and other miscellaneous garbage, changing the bins and cleaning the “station”. This has to be done before breakfast, so outside I trot while Isabel cleans and fills the napkin holders. It’s my favourite job because I get to sneak in a cigarette while working as well as take advantage of the gorgeous morning feeling that only a kibbutz by the sea can conjure up. Revi has come in (I love her; she is one of the people with whom I became good friends while working on the kibbutz).

7:25 (I always try to nab us an extra five minutes on our thirty minute break) and off we go to breakfast. Two slices of bread, one halva spread, a bowl of porridge and a “latte” from the machine (sometimes pancakes, sometimes French toast, on Thursdays an omelet). I love Israeli food, but I could only bring myself to eat vegetables in the morning during my last few months on the kibbutz. Although to this day I still don’t know how people can eat raw onions at 7am…

My breakfast goes down in less than 15 minutes, giving me the chance to do the most important: smoke 2 cigarettes with my coffee outside on the little wall.

8am: my turn to clean tables while Isabel finishes the vegetables for the next day. The Dining Room is full, all the volunteers except for Isabel, me and the two dishwashers (one being Michal, whose regular job was dishwashing) eating at “our” table, the factory workers at their usual tables, school kids, kibbutzniks, everyone chattering away, while I clean up table after table, giving the coffee and the dishwashing areas an occasional wipe, chatting to people here and there, taking a cigarette break by the dishwasher from time to time. At around 9:15 am the place starts to empty and I start to sweep excess crumbs up from around the tables, waiting for those last people to leave (and they are always the same people!). Then comes the best part of the morning: I grab a bucket of soap and splash it over “my” part of the floor, hose it down, scrub it with a brush, bring all of the water into the drain and “dry” it with a big cloth. And unless I want to hear Vova yelling at me in Russian, I had better not forget to clean the drain! There is something so cathartic about throwing buckets of water on the ground and scrubbing things clean.

Isabel is cleaning and filling the oils and then off we go on our break. It’s sunny today but not too warm. I run to the computer, check my mail then go to my room, make my bed and listen to Galgalats for a while.

10:40am- time to walk back up there, cigarette in mouth, fast stride right back up to the Dining Room. Cigarettes, lighter and keys are left on the shelf by the dishwasher and one of us goes to get a trolley from behind the kitchen while the other peers at the food on our “vegetarian” cart. The usual diet chicken and diet meatballs, most of which disappear directly into the Tupperware containers brought in by Esther for the Vaticon and by the kindergarden teachers; and then some sort of quiche, and (thank goodness no falafel or pizza today- it’s crazy when we have to serve either one of those!) and mushrooms covered in cream sauce. Isabel brings clean plates to put on the trolley, a bucket of clean water and some clothes. I peer over to see what Marina is serving on the meat counter- chicken legs, goulash stuff and other dishes. Then I go round the other trolleys, diet vegetables, rice, pasta, the same selection of salads as there is every single day, and some kind of jelly-like thing for dessert. Right. Rice and carrots again for me today.

We stand and serve the early people together. Vova is sitting behind us reading the paper, Doron is hovering, checking the salads, and Revi is occasionally smiling across the food area to me from her place at the computer. At 11:30am Isabel takes off for her lunch break (tomato salad) and I serve the high school kids, replace what needs replacing and clean the food trolleys when needed.

Serving hummus on the "vegetarian" cart

“Vova, I love this song, turn it up!”

“Beseder. But promise me…”

“What? Oh no, I get it. No!”

“Just one kiss!”

“No!” (laughing).

At noon Isabel replaces me, I grab a tray and my food, my coffee coin and I go to Revi. Mustn’t forget my receipt- must watch that food account! However will I be able to put my friends’ food on my account if I get to 300 shekels at the end of the month? It’s funny how the meat-eaters always end up going over their limit before the 25th, while the vegetarians never do… I eat at the volunteer table, but in 15 minutes I’m done, get my coffee and drink it outside while smoking.

12:30pm. Isabel goes off to clean tables while I finish serving on the vegetarian trolley.

“Ma ze?”

“Pashteda pitriottes”

Surprisingly enough mushroom quiche doesn’t seem to entice many people. Not much of a steady flow today, so I chat to Vova and Doron. At 1pm Vova helps me take the hot trays out of the trolley (“they’re too hot and heavy for me Vova!”) and I push it back against the wall. Out comes the hose and I spray the trolley down, scrub it, rinse it and wipe it down, then clean up the excess water. I sneak off for a cigarette break by the dishwasher before attacking the big plastic things in the kitchen. Ofer smiles at me, and without me even having to ask he goes to get a big trolley and empties the plastic containers of the leftover trays of food. Yet again I pull out a hose and hose the things down, after pulling them around the drain. They are scrubbed, rinsed and put back into place again, ready for tomorrow’s food in the morning.

The Dining Room in Evron

Time for another cigarette break and a latte from the machine. I can’t help it if I finish fast! I nip into the Kolbolit to get my daily supply of chocolate (those “4Plays” are delicious, both the regular and the white chocolate ones). I replace Revi on the meat counter for 5 minutes while she goes to the loo (i.e. cigarette break) and serve some of the later high school kids.

“Ma ze?”

“Ze of, ze bacar”

“Anni lo rotsa.’

“Bevakasha!”

Isabel joins me for a cigarette by the dishwasher and then I start refilling and cleaning the coffee area for tomorrow. We are out of Nescafe and hot chocolate so I go and collect some more from the big storage room. All the Dining Room workers, except for Revi and Tuti, are just finishing their lunch breaks, so I chat to Tuti for a few minutes, finish cleaning the soda/water dispenser, fill the hot water tank and sweep round the coffee, and as nearly everyone has left the Dining Room I grab the bin bags, the dustpan and the brush and head outside to do zivouv. It takes me about 15 minutes to change the five bins and collect the cigarette butts, leaves and other garbage all round the Dining Room. When I get back inside it’s 2:20pm and Isabel is just finishing the tables, Doron and Vova have started cleaning the floor. We clear up our stuff, tell Vova we’re finished and he sends us off home. We’re lucky, but only because we work hard, because we never finish after 2:30pm (all of the other volunteers finish around 3pm).

After collecting out stuff, shouting goodbye to everyone and getting our sweaters we set off down to the Volunteer House, going into the Volunteer Office to say hi to Ina before plonking ourselves on the couch, taking our shoes off, putting on music, smoking a cigarette and waiting for the guys to get back.

One example of a regular days work in the Dining Room. I worked there regularly because I asked and was asked to. Most volunteers were rotated around the different jobs, but I liked the fact that I had a regular job; I was given my own responsibilities and daily chores. The atmosphere in the Dining Room was mostly one of fun; we always managed to have a laugh… Gossiping with Revi, running away from Sasha, laughing with Vova, chatting with the guys in the kitchen, pulling faces at Rami, chatting with Ronen. The work was not intellectually challenging, but I really enjoyed it, and my Hebrew went from non-existent to a lot better because I really tried. One day I will learn properly! It’s difficult to describe communal living to someone who has never experienced it before, as there are so many things that are part of the whole experience. It is not for everyone, but it was very good for me. To this day it was one of my favourite jobs and I would do it all over again in a flash if I could.

I smoked a lot of Noblesse Lights during my time in Israel if you hadn’t noticed after reading this.

Ramblings: Falling in love with Barcelona

There have been many places that I have dreamt of visiting, places that I have researched and put on my travel wish list and places that I have never really had any interest in visiting but ended up in anyway, and there are those places that I didn’t really think of and that blew me away the moment I arrived. Barcelona is one of the latter, such a special city located in a gorgeous part of the European continent, a little island to itself in the north of Spain. I haven’t been anywhere else in Spain, so I cannot compare it to Madrid or Seville or another city, but Barcelona definitely seems to have a heart and soul of its own, beating to its own rhythm in the heart of Catalonia.

I’ve been to Barcelona twice, both times thanks to a previous job that I had. The first time I was only there for a few days and didn’t really get to see much apart from the office, a few restaurants and bars and the hotel. The second time I was there for 2 whole weeks and stayed in an apartment about 10 minutes from the beach (on foot). What a difference it made! While I spent a lot of time working in the company’s Barcelona office during those two weeks I also had time to discover the city. I’m by nature shy, part loner and part extrovert, and I have no problem doing things alone, even exploring a city whose language I don’t really speak very well at all. While I had no issues butchering Hebrew when I lived in Israel, I still understand spoken Dutch when I concentrate, and I still have no problems switching between English and French without a thought, the one language I actually spent time learning at school, Spanish, has never come naturally. I suppose I feel like I should actually really speak it by now, but don’t and I feel embarrassed. During both of my stays in Spain my interactions with the “locals” was really kept to a bare minimum due to my inability to just try in case I sounded stupid and my fear of being really annoying by asking people if they spoke English. I’m glad that I made friends with some of my colleagues who showed me the best places to eat lunch, and took me out a few times at night. I did spend a lot of time alone, exploring, and I thoroughly enjoyed it!

The second time I was in Barcelona I was sober and therefore not too interested in the nightlife, which, from the little I did experience, is quite amazing. Walking through the cobbled streets at night reminded me of France: laughter coming from bars, different styles of music pumping from each side of the street, cafés open until the early hours and groups of friends hanging out on steps, chatting the night away. I assume that southern France and northern Spain are quite similar in several aspects, as this wasn’t the first time that I was drowned in a mix of homesickness and nostalgia for the country that I still call home.

My company’s office was located right by the Plaça de Catalunya with its beautiful statues and fountains. The apartment I was staying in was in the Sant Marti area, and while there was a metro station nearby both locations I preferred the 30 minute walk in the mornings and evenings, walking under the Arc de Triomf every day and enjoying the warm air, the city smells and the people watching that I could do along the way. The soundtrack to those days was a lot of BRMC, Psychedelic Furs, and mainly the White Stripes, and a lot of dreams about moving back to Europe and picking a slower paced and less stressful life back up there. Whenever I hear a White Stripes song I am still transported right back there, the early morning mist, a certain sense of grandeur and freedom. I wrote a lot during those two weeks, sitting on the balcony in the apartment, watching the full moon rise and listening to the sounds of the night, smoking cigarettes and writing poetry. At the time I felt that Barcelona helped me figure out a lot of little knots that had made their way along my path. Now I feel that it was a combination of being somewhere that was foreign but familiar as well as being really alone for a few weeks. I think I will always maintain a quasi spiritual relationship with my memories of Barcelona.

I love good food, like anyone, but I’m not a foodie. I could live on pasta and olive oil for a week without any issues. I like simple things, but if you cook an extravagant meal for me I will most likely rave about it for weeks (as long as it’s vegetarian and corresponds to my annoying and picky texture eating tastes). I had no issues with the food in Barcelona, it was easy to order, there was a lot to choose from even for vegetarians and most food I ate was delightfully fresh and well prepared, and super cheap. I LOVE tapas, always have, and love how they make eating out super easy and fun. And Spanish tortilla is just fabulous – who doesn’t love eggs and potatoes anyway?! I think my favourite meal of both trips was lunch in a simple restaurant not far from the Plaça de Catalunya, tucked away in a side street, 3 courses for less than 10 Euro, plat du jour (or Spanish equivalent) that contained a vegetarian option for each course, fresh juices and delicious desserts. It reminded me of how important it is to take time for each meal, relax and enjoy the food and company. I was really happy to find a Lidl on my walk home, so that covered breakfast and dinners and I found a sandwich shop where I was able to order a delicious brie on baguette sandwich in a mix of English and Spanish. Living in NYC, and now northern California, for so long, I have always missed grabbing a “café en terrasse”, a perfectly made espresso, and sitting out on the street, watching the world go by. On my first day off that is exactly what I did, on the way up to the Park Güell, ordered a café, a croissant and sat at a table, contemplating life and my life.

I really didn’t do much research on Barcelona before I went (something I often lack doing with any kind of travel, making for some missed occasions but mainly some amazing discoveries), but discovered the beauty of Gaudí’s work after randomly walking past the Casa Batlló. Gaudí’s architectural designs and artwork maybe classified as Catalan Modernism, or art nouveau, but for me they depict the existence of another world that we can’t see, full of fairies and butterflies and beauty. His creations are scattered all over Barcelona, but if you don’t have enough time to track them all down, then a visit to the Park Güell is a must. I spent a few hours wandering through the park, marveling at the colours, turrets, twists and turns and imagining all kinds of stories and fairytales in my head. Located on a hill, you get a great view of Barcelona and the sea, and while it can get pretty packed with tourists, I am really glad I made time to visit it. It reminded me that everything is possible in this world, and that we all have something to give, and leave behind, be it physical, fluid or a formless legacy. La Sagrada Familia church also provided me with breathtaking inspiration and emotions, in a way that only an amazingly designed religious edifice can (and I am in no way religious in any form). I lit a candle there for my father as I do in most places that I visit.

I also spent a lot of time wandering through the Gothic Quarter, getting lost and going round and round in circles. Walking through the small, cobblestone streets, surrounded by looming old buildings. Shops and bars, art galleries and restaurants populate the busy little streets and it was lovely strolling through them, backing up and laughing at my inability to find where I had started from. I walked around the area both in the daytime and at night and ended up using the GPS on my phone a couple of times (I had a humungous phone bill on my return!) – but that was only because I was too shy and embarrassed to ask for directions. Silly, I know. There is something quite satisfying though, about walking both aimlessly but with aim along unknown streets, watching people go by and making up stories about their lives and their day, admiring balconies with blooming flowers and growing herbs and imagining life in one of those apartments. There were so many moments during those two weeks in Barcelona that I contemplated moving there and creating a new life for myself amidst those streets. Changing my name, running away and being someone and somewhere different. Barcelona had a real effect on me, and while it took a few more years after my return to make some real changes, it did help me put a lot of things into perspective. I think spending time alone in a new city does help promote a certain kind of self-reflection.

I love the beach and there was no way I was going to miss going to the beach in Barcelona. After being conditioned to NYC and Long Island beaches for a few years I forgot how the atmosphere is different on Mediterranean beaches. I walked to the Bogatell beach as it was the closest to the apartment and found a spot by myself between the water and the beach volleyball area, and set myself up for a few peaceful hours of music, sunbathing and swimming. I’m not keen on swimming over waves, so I was really looking forward to swimming in the calm Med, but it was actually pretty choppy that day! After my initial surprise it was lovely to feel the warm water over my skin, and to swim out a little and look at the beach from the water. On my next beach trip the water was as calm and peaceful as I remembered it from my days in Israel, and I spent a lot of time in swimming around. I was kind of taken aback when people came up and talked to me on the beach though (hence my US beach remark because everyone really leaves you alone there), and felt a little uncomfortable at times. In my opinion it’s better to go in a group or at least as two, but that’s just me. Oh, and I remember worrying about a beach volleyball landing on my head, and then one actually landed super hard on a sunbathing woman’s stomach so I ended up moving away from the beach games. The walk along the boardwalk up to Barceloneta beach is quite lovely, especially if you can grab a sunset en route. There really is nothing like a sunset on the beach, always breathtaking, one of those consistent acts of nature that never lets you down and makes you feel so tiny and so important all at once. All in all the beaches are city beaches and if they are lacking in beauty and cleanliness they make up for it in pure convenience and entertainment. Living within walking distance of a beach, whether on the sea or ocean, east or west, has been a lifelong dream of mine. One day we will make it happen.

I started writing this wondering if I would remember more than that feeling of never wanting to leave and I have surprised myself by digging up all the love I felt for Barcelona while I stayed there. I love how warm and welcoming the city is, how calm and energetic, how she continues to embrace her language and culture, while accepting everyone with ease. Merci, Barcelona – I hope to be back one day to search for more Gaudí, take more and better photos, and to eat your delicious food. Some days I feel like I am moving further and further from the places that actually feel like home.

A collection of (awful) Blackberry and (OK) digital camera photos can be found HERE.

After I finished writing this piece I dug out my journal from the late 2000’s from one of our boxes and realised that the Barcelona I documented on paper is the exact one that I remember. I will post the entries in a separate post this week).

Ramblings: California, here we are!

We have arrived! After a few weeks of stress, packing, working through a list of endless tasks that needed to be accomplished before we left, planning without really having a plan, we have made our way to California. And while that part seemed hard, the hardest part really starts now with job hunting and house hunting and getting settled in an area that couldn’t be more different to NYC. Neither of us have a license, and I’ve actually never learnt how to drive so that’s going to be a major task that needs to be accomplished. I have already taught myself how to install a car seat properly, both rear facing and forward facing, so I’m kind of a little proud of that! I have to admit that I’m actually a little scared of driving and even more so of driving with the girls in the car, but that is a fear that I am going to have to get over because otherwise we will be stuck at home for forever. Luna loves car rides now and Aurora hates them, just like Luna did at her age. Hopefully she will grow out of that soon enough.

I think we were all a little shell shocked when we arrived last Sunday. We spent two nights in a hotel on the Lower East Side and tried to see people and places as well as rest all at the same time and it ended up being extremely chaotic and tiring and a huge upheaval for the girls. I’m sure the owners of Dorian Gray will be adding a sign stating “no children allowed” after our few hours there last Saturday as we managed to turn the place into a kid’s play area and breastfeeding station. Thank you to everyone who came out to see us and to those who contacted us – I’m sorry if I couldn’t chat for long or was a little unresponsive, but I really, really appreciate all of your messages and words! I had told myself that I had really detached myself from the city already, but that wasn’t really true. I think I will always love NYC and will always consider her home. Sometimes you just need to make choices that help you move onwards and upwards and I think this was one of them.

We boarded our flight at 8:30pm, and luckily JetBlue have direct flights from NYC to Sacramento. There is however a federal law that doesn’t allow more than one child under two in one seat section, due to there not being enough oxygen in case of an emergency. So we were seated on the same row, but with the aisle in between us. As the flight wasn’t too packed we ended up having 6 seats to ourselves which sounds awesome, but when you have one toddler who only wants to nurse and an infant who had to nurse on take-off we really needed to be next to each other. Luna was OK while we were taxiing to take-off but that took forever and the moment we actually took off she started to scream and fight Cesar… I could already hear all of the poor passengers’ thoughts, but luckily one of the flight attendants came over and allowed us to switch kids mid take off. After that Cesar moved over with Aurora and the rest of the flight was completely uneventful. Luna actually slept longer than she usually does without waking and Aurora wasn’t fussy at all. We were absolutely exhausted though, and it’s not something that I would do often. Traveling with one now seems like a piece of cake, two is OK if there are two adults, and I really don’t know how people travel alone with two tiny kids!

Of course, as soon as we arrived I got a horrid cold that has made me feel like a zombie for the past 5 days. Then Luna got it and now Aurora seems to be a little under the weather. And for the first few days the weather wasn’t too good, but now winter has said goodbye to California and spring has come in with a blast! This is the California that I’ve always considered “my” California: bright sunshine warm and then hot on my skin, palm trees in gardens and streets, blue, blue skies and the smell of warmth and fresh soil, and occasionally skunk. I can’t wait for the trees to blossom and the oleander to flower and for the ground to feel warm on my feet. I can’t wait for us to settle, find jobs and eventually have our own little house with a yard. We have so many dreams and it’s going to be exciting to make them all become reality, one by one.

My mother’s new house is beautiful. She’s only been here for three weeks now but she has managed to make it feel like a home already. Joey has met his new friend Muffin and I think he is trying to befriend her, but Muffin isn’t having any of it right now! She’s just a grumpy old lady anyway and he seems to have realised that it’s best to just leave her alone and maybe she will come around at some point. In any case he has settled in like the cat king he is. He may even get to venture outside at some point, we will see how I feel about that when we have settled into our own place. My sister’s home is also gorgeous and it makes me so happy to see her all settled in her own cozy place. Both Cesar and I love her neighbourhood – it’s quiet but still walking distance from shops and restaurants, and very close to the downtown area where Cesar will most likely be working. Houses are a little more expensive there, but I suppose we would be saving in gas and would only need one car there, so that’s good. At the same time there are not that many rentals going. So we will see! Not going to get ahead of myself yet! But I would really, really love to live within walking distance of amenities.

The girls are settling in more or less, as I expected Luna is having a harder time than Aurora but she is getting there. She has already learnt how to unlock and open all of the doors in the house, find her way to me from our room, and she has the most gorgeous play room to play in with tons of toys. Now if she would just start talking to me again instead of saying “eh eh eh” that would be great!  Sometimes it feels like every time we make a little progress we do something that causes a regression. All I can really do is continue to provide her whatever comfort she needs so that she feels ready to communicate via all of the words that she understands and can say. It didn’t really help much that she has had this awful cold too and barely wants to eat any food and wants to nurse around the clock. We will get there; it’s just a matter of patience and perseverance.

I’m going to finish off now and try to post this today. I need to get back into writing every day again – the past three weeks have been an insane whirlwind of tasks and packing and arriving and settling in, and I need to find my own routine and gather up my inspiration again. I have a long list of travel posts to write as well as a few ramblings and as soon as our belongings arrive I will be able to start on some photography posts again too. Nothing like a few palm trees and early spring blossom to inspire one to document in photos!