tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58562126155141079072023-11-15T22:46:14.229-08:00Through The WardrobeRosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-24983963696969474352013-09-27T04:11:00.003-07:002013-09-27T04:11:35.706-07:00This blog has a new home at travellerschange.comHi! Thanks for stopping by.<br />
<br />
I've updated my look. My new blog can be found here: <a href="http://www.travellerschange.com/">http://www.travellerschange.com/</a><br />
<br />
<br />Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-2247821338539407182013-07-31T10:26:00.000-07:002013-07-31T10:26:06.700-07:00What Travellers Share“It’s a shame you can’t keep them.” I said. “It’s a shame the most amazing people I meet, I meet when I travel and because they’re travelling, because I’m travelling, it doesn't last.”<br />
<br />
“But that’s their beauty.” He replied. “Their beauty is in their flight. They wouldn't have wings if they weren't in motion.”<br />
<br />
And that’s what defines a traveller: the motion.<br />
<br />
It’s something about knowing it won’t last that makes you open up. You didn't know each other before and you might not meet again, so it all has to happen now. You have to tell the person you’re with how you feel and think because otherwise it will stay inside, unsaid and unshared.<br />
<br />
And in that moment, how you feel and think can be however you want to feel and think. You don’t have to be who they expect you to be. Someone you've only just met doesn't expect you to be anything at all. And so you share who you are on that day, in that moment. The person who is a little bit different to all the days before and all the days after.<br />
<br />
But part of you did came before and part of you will carry on after. And so you share it all. You share where you've been and where you’re going, because if you don’t share it now, with the person in front of you, you’ll be miles from anyone who knows. You’ll be lost.<br />
<br />
You share being lost. You might think that you’re sharing directions or tips, prices, names of places to go, ruins to visit, histories of countries, cafes to sit in, bars to drink in. But you’re sharing being lost. You’re sharing that you don’t know, that you couldn't possibly know.<br />
<br />
You might try to take something back from the unknown. To keep a shell you found, a bracelet you bought, a tattoo you got, a photo you took. But you can’t, really, take it back. It will lose its life if you try. <br />
<br />
You can’t take the place home with you, so you share it with the person there. You’ll forget it once you've left. You’ll forget what it tasted like; you’ll forget the exact feeling of the hammock on your bare legs, of the ache in your muscles, of the path under your feet. And because you’ll forget, because you’ll forget the names, you’ll forget what you did in those hours where you didn't do anything, because you’ll forget it, it has to be lived.<br />
<br />
You have to look at the world around you now. You have to share what you see, the details that you would miss, the language of signs that gives the place its meaning. You lend each other foreign words. And more than once, you lend each other your tiredness, your frustration, your confusion. And then you take it back, because one moment of awe erases it all.<br />
<br />
You share a sight, or a sound. You share your thoughts or your bodies. You share nights in and nights out. The slow days, and the ones where you don’t sleep. You share the height of a mountain, the distance of nowhere, the cold of the sea and the heat of a campfire. You think you share the happiness you feel when you travel, but you really share who you are. Because it’s not only happiness you feel when you travel. You feel it all. You laugh and shout and sing and scream and dance and sleep and smile and cry and grieve and long and feel peace and fear and strength and helplessness. You don’t feel happiness when you travel, you feel life.<br />
<br />
You are life. Life moving and moving, in circles as it does. The movement through hellos and goodbyes, through arrivals and departures, through day and night, through growth and decay. And that’s what you share. You share life.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-52333952940282570482013-07-17T13:00:00.000-07:002013-07-17T13:00:01.356-07:00How to make a decision in a world with so much choice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Dy38cGCH6ze8BD98x57toDh-_BWMp3UGYZx0K9lMVA5h5K28YAvP-MaXeZn_CKgNwl3QVJxKUMIGQSUds9hE9mMRkm3leQ0wFgndWiQMTMNZAqV4s8NXD7z2LdWJe6Uv1ea1SXmAkz_z/s1600/SAM_7258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Dy38cGCH6ze8BD98x57toDh-_BWMp3UGYZx0K9lMVA5h5K28YAvP-MaXeZn_CKgNwl3QVJxKUMIGQSUds9hE9mMRkm3leQ0wFgndWiQMTMNZAqV4s8NXD7z2LdWJe6Uv1ea1SXmAkz_z/s320/SAM_7258.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
In Ted Talks, Barry Schwartz discusses The Paradox of Choice. He comments that the more choices we have, the harder it is to choose. Some of us become paralyzed by this choice and are unable to make any decision. When we do choose, we’re less likely to be happy with what we have, because we can imagine the alternatives we didn’t choose. The more alternatives there are, the higher our expectations. The more likely that one of those options must be perfect.<br />
<br />
Schwartz claims that the secret of happiness is this: low expectations.<br />
<br />
Well, I don’t see how I can ask for less choices please. When I stand in the wine section pretending I know anything about regions and grapes and bottle shapes, I can hardly say: could you just hide a few of them?<br />
<br />
There’s no escape from decision making, or from choice. So there has to be a way to turn it to your advantage. Maybe you have to throw away the idea of the “right" choice and instead have fun with how many wines there are to taste, how many types of food to try, how many countries to visit, how many people to meet.<br />
<br />
Then again, some decisions you can only make once. Those are the ones you should think about. Are you going to talk to that person? Or let them get off the bus. Are you going to end something that’s not working, knowing you can’t then get it back?<br />
<br />
But even these decisions can be remade. Not in the same place, with the same person. But with someone else on another bus, another person, another place, but the same thing: opportunity.<br />
<br />
What really counts, are the decisions you make over time. The ones that add up to how you spend your time, your life. To quote from the film Cloud Atlas:<br />
<br />
"Our lives are not our own. From womb to tomb, we are bound to others. Past and present. And by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future."<br />
<br />
To see Barry Schwartz on Ted Talks click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VO6XEQIsCoM" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-54909252791819658682013-07-16T01:58:00.000-07:002013-07-17T15:21:18.370-07:00A Romance with Travel: The Night In Florence<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmcpU3dEz_9h_HWRzYGKTOjk0mAQ6hRtoDTYx8LmawXGQiVkF01e_F2dLTTeGAud3kFsunWyVi6lcumECKsAVSf3ziTxLQMVnaCqYqu0YsEkFgl09zmUz_IqaGs4eVzP-Y-a5LnO0SpvNl/s1600/P1040964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmcpU3dEz_9h_HWRzYGKTOjk0mAQ6hRtoDTYx8LmawXGQiVkF01e_F2dLTTeGAud3kFsunWyVi6lcumECKsAVSf3ziTxLQMVnaCqYqu0YsEkFgl09zmUz_IqaGs4eVzP-Y-a5LnO0SpvNl/s320/P1040964.JPG" width="213" /></a>Sometimes I decide I am through, forever through, with travel.<br />
<br />
I had spent a beautiful weekend in Rome with someone I had left behind in England. The cost of travel was seeming pretty high. (And <i>au pairing</i> had mostly brought cleaning up food and soil and oil and having plates thrown at my head.) So after three delayed trains in a row, I ended up stuck in Florence for the night.<br />
<br />
I know, it sounds like a good thing. But not after Rome, not after seeing him again.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wandering out of the station with the intention of finding a
hostel, I bumped into this guy. Well, he stopped me asking where he should go
next. Then said, 'wow, you have such presence.' At which point I was already
thinking, ‘will you just fuck off? I’m heart broken.’<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I asked him how old he was he said 17000 because I live
every day as if it’s ten years. I asked him again and he said 3, because I
never stop asking questions and the world is new. I said will you get to the
fucking point, and he said 19. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pretty much the same thing with asking him his
name:‘I don’t believe in names as they tie you to an identity’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He also made his
own clothes as he thought we should express ourselves more freely. It was some
kind of long dress that had an elegance and looked quite Eastern, as well as
filthy and in desperate need of a wash. He also had shoes that were too big,
and I might have thought he was homeless, except that he had a macbook pro.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’d come to ‘<i>Italia</i>’ (I’m pretty sure ‘<i>si</i>’ and ‘<i>Italia</i>’
were his only Italian so he insisted upon using them constantly) to get a pen
handmade by someone who promised to do it if he wrote an important essay with
it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said one and only one interesting thing: Apparently ants use significantly more energy than we do (20 times
more?) and yet they have no damaging impact. His explanation: clearly the Fourth Dimension. He then went on to write in reverse to show me the new 4D language he was forming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I ended up wandering through Florence at night with
him.<br />
<br />
Him and a Portuguese guy who we met when he stopped us in the rain by saying, ‘Look! That’s
where the cloud stops! I’ve always wondered where that happens…’ <br />
<br />
The Portuguese guy
actually seemed fairly down to earth, minus his really annoying question to
nameless guy: ‘So you like philosophy; does that mean you smoke weed?’<br />
<br />
And there was a girl from Rome. The Portuguese guy's temporary girlfriend. They would break up when he went to Venice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the four of us went to ponte vecchio at night, and there were the
padlocks. I don’t care what other people say. I think
they’re cute. Each of them is where someone has said to someone else, ‘I care’.
And that’s beautiful. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was pretty but I was trying to get back home after my Roman
adventure. I’d done Florence another time, my head was spinning from the guy I'd left to travel,
and I just wanted today to be yesterday so it could be a little less raw.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there was Roman Girl blabbing on about, ‘where chance
meets chance… destiny is at the crossroads’ meanwhile Too Much of a Twat for a
Name Guy was sounding like he was being laid. ‘Oh yeah! Oh wow! Ahhhhhh! Where
chance meets chance!’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around 4, through the rain, I made it back to the
train station. No Name still following. He took it up again, despite my
insistent and explicit Not Interesteds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIghQQxixv_XX3x8QvlCjSJgWdTWQGkUOoAcefqSrFgKgeCBimTMCjfuE1MtTdByVBFBJgrdJQk1NAKBNeOhgjhYVP8koS_IiBrZG6cOthemSkGI9s7AeYCgZHLxVIkZ5CQKXoJCPZaBH0/s1600/P1050002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIghQQxixv_XX3x8QvlCjSJgWdTWQGkUOoAcefqSrFgKgeCBimTMCjfuE1MtTdByVBFBJgrdJQk1NAKBNeOhgjhYVP8koS_IiBrZG6cOthemSkGI9s7AeYCgZHLxVIkZ5CQKXoJCPZaBH0/s320/P1050002.JPG" width="320" /></a>‘Am I not courageous enough for you?’ <br />
<br />
Well, I've never been asked that before.<br />
<br />
I got the train and had all of half an hour's sleep before going straight to another day of 4 crazy Italian boys.<br />
<br />
And still, I didn't break up with travel.<br />
<br />
<br />Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-68044828779893239462013-07-05T13:33:00.001-07:002013-07-08T08:24:55.100-07:00Things I Miss About Travel: A Very Indefinitive List<div>
Not cooking unless I wanted to</div>
<div>
Drinking horchata with ice cream</div>
<div>
Falling in love, constantly, with everything</div>
<div>
Learning new words</div>
<div>
Not knowing where I would spend the night</div>
<div>
Laughing at how stupid what I'm doing is</div>
<div>
Thinking that people who spend years travelling are normal</div>
<div>
Listening to 80s music on old school buses</div>
<div>
Being a stranger (and all the questions that came with it)</div>
<div>
Speaking to strangers (and all the answers and even more questions that came with it)</div>
<div>
Not having a plan</div>
<div>
Not feeling like I should have a plan</div>
<div>
Being in places I'd seen photos of</div>
<div>
Seeing petrified waterfalls (well, one)</div>
<div>
Not going home when I was meant to</div>
<div>
Meeting people who do what they love</div>
<div>
Replacing "goodbye" with "until the next time"</div>
<div>
Getting perspective on how much I have</div>
<div>
Moments of kindness from strangers</div>
<div>
Huge acts of kindness from strangers </div>
<div>
No one caring if I only have 3 tops</div>
<div>
Not having a mirror</div>
<div>
Coincidences</div>
<div>
Trying to get to know someone from scratch</div>
<div>
Sharing who I am with people I barely know</div>
<div>
Change: constant and unstoppable</div>
<div>
Learning what I can do when things don't work out</div>
<div>
Reading about travel <i>whilst</i> doing it</div>
<div>
Rarely having to be anywhere "on time"</div>
<div>
Spending all day in a hammock</div>
<div>
Spending all day walking around a new city</div>
<div>
Spending all day in the sea (or on top of it)</div>
<div>
Being slightly less pale</div>
<div>
Pinching myself and thinking: I'm so lucky to be where I am right now</div>
<div>
Not thinking in pounds or dollars or euros but a currency I'd never heard of before</div>
<div>
Waking up for sunrise</div>
<div>
Watching the world through a bus window</div>
<div>
Celebrating Christmas in the jungle</div>
<div>
Riding on the top of buses</div>
<div>
Trying to understand what the hell is happening around me</div>
<div>
People wearing tops with English slogans they don't understand</div>
<div>
Getting wolf whistled (it gives me an excuse to get self righteous)</div>
<div>
Following other people's crazy whims</div>
<div>
Following my own crazy whims</div>
<div>
Surrendering to the unexpected, the inconvenient and the irreplaceable </div>
<div>
Being in the moment</div>
Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-2882335809590719792013-07-05T12:49:00.002-07:002013-07-08T08:16:38.079-07:00A Political Party...Nicaraguan Style<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxHGPxnaDvO8WDkg-RhSlwxf7BRUeG8c45rGPgE5tgiQJCc1z_Zhe6WZ6IgK9S23b9_Msqaw5vrLk74LMGguQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
<br />
Buses full of Nicaraguans travelling from one town to the next to hear politicians speak (from the FSLN)...and then there was dancing. Lots of it.<br /><br />I'm sure this is the cure to political apathy.<br />
<br />Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-15587322834680767422013-03-14T17:21:00.001-07:002013-03-14T17:40:50.720-07:00Miradas Introspectivas<h2>
</h2>
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
A Pictographic Exhibition</h4>
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://sphotos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-prn1/p480x480/544290_10200723709832382_1724532164_n.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Photo: Muestras de expo. " Miradas Introspectivas..."" border="0" class="scaledImageFitWidth img" height="240" src="http://sphotos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-prn1/p480x480/544290_10200723709832382_1724532164_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artists Jaime Mastranzo and Guadalupe Sum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"I like to paint from nothing. To have a blank page.
That's how children draw. Not from direct observation but from their
reality. In the moment, spontaneously, subconsciously. With sincerity."<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I met Jaime in Granada, Nicaragua, in the middle of a
poetry festival. I liked him the moment we started talking and he let
one thought fall from another with such insight and observation. Which
is funny, because his figures don´t have mouths. They express themselves
with their eyes, or at times, their music.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We met again by chance at a concert in Xela,
Guatemala. He was sat beside one of the figures I'd seen in his drawings
- his friend Jafael. The three of us went to the park where Jaime and
Jafael took it in turns with the guitar.<br />
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
In the drawing, Jafael has
lines of movement and energy that come from him and his guitar and
reverberate throughout his surroundings. As he played, three drunk men
who had been asking us for money gathered around and started clapping
and dancing. One by one they each gave him a coin. Then they all hugged
each other, drunkenly sharing some truth of brotherhood.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's how Jaime paints - not just with technique,
but with life. His reading, his living, his experiences all pour into
his art.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As we head to the gallery, I notice
he's holding a book called Oceano Mar. Then there it is in his work -
the sea. Turquoise is his favourite colour - I see both his travels and
my own painted within it. Water colours capture the fluidity of a life
lived in motion. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGt3HQ5ejRaPCTgCzjFy96KLQK82njg-Y6vJ85Nmdn8CGsZHSLJeSDwBCODTIwwlIfiayMVaTVgikx12lUjhXmLEAhIKxQbyNIJkft-Ci1Sxx6_3jKu5FQKeU5Vy2F-benTeJgkdSIfeP/s1600/Jaime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGt3HQ5ejRaPCTgCzjFy96KLQK82njg-Y6vJ85Nmdn8CGsZHSLJeSDwBCODTIwwlIfiayMVaTVgikx12lUjhXmLEAhIKxQbyNIJkft-Ci1Sxx6_3jKu5FQKeU5Vy2F-benTeJgkdSIfeP/s320/Jaime.jpg" width="240" /></a>But throughout the recurring images of travel - sea,
boats, different types of architecture - is the grounding of home. The
houses beneath the gazer, the small town on a boat, the six stars that
represent his family, the trees that show the roots of a rich Mexican
history and culture. </div>
<br />
<div>
And the image throughout it all - a spiral, a shell.
Jaime says he's interested in semiotics - in the language of signs. The
shell represents time. It's a movement inwards or outwards depending
upon the gaze. It has a connection with the rest of the world. Its part
of his obsession with fractals - segments which contain the whole. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For me, this simple form ties together his work.
It's a balance I find myself trying to make - between movement and
stillness. It's a home you take with you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jaime
Mastranzo's work can be found in exhibition Friday 15th March at 18:30,
3 Ave. 7-35, Zona 1, Quetzaltenango (Xela). His work will be shown
alongside that of the Guatemalan artist Guadalupe Sum whose work aims at
capturing the magic and mystery of the city.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-88110078049219560772013-03-12T14:57:00.000-07:002013-03-12T15:04:39.616-07:00Nothing To Lose<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAq2_MS1NDy7jYCErI08BsYjegVkMQLCWgNSv0w94Xi-cFYu98TUYZBsoxfkQZXj70o87BFDJSFx0pwpRiTzmkn31GAXLlk44iSDNBUEzqsCCsM4l2c7AlLYnqrcGQJmRArspju-qVL2cC/s1600/SAM_7094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAq2_MS1NDy7jYCErI08BsYjegVkMQLCWgNSv0w94Xi-cFYu98TUYZBsoxfkQZXj70o87BFDJSFx0pwpRiTzmkn31GAXLlk44iSDNBUEzqsCCsM4l2c7AlLYnqrcGQJmRArspju-qVL2cC/s320/SAM_7094.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Welcome, Poets of the World' Graffiti during <br />
Granada's poetry festival</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have this travel philosophy of pack light and don't take anything you couldn't handle losing.<br />
<br />
After months of snail pace travel, this theory gets put to the test. I'd been working, spending weeks with the same people and knowing where I was spending the night. In other words, not much movement. In other words, not so much packing up and moving on with all those opportunities to lose something along the way.<br />
<br />
End of February arrived and I left my job at the reception of Sonati in Leon. I'd read in a guidebook that you'll fall in love with Granada but leave your heart in Leon. I hadn't fallen for anywhere, and yet, leaving Leon was like leaving a part of my heart.<br />
<br />
For 5 months it had been my reference point. The place to come back to. The place to tie together the other places. Home.<br />
<br />
It was night when I got to Granada. I stepped off the bus into the brightly coloured streets, the sound of music and the feel of water somewhere in the air. At last I fell for Nicaragua.<br />
<br />
And then, following a darker image of Granada's children sniffing glue and a refreshing stop on the island of Ometepe, it was time to go.<br />
<br />
Costa Rica - San Jose - Heredia - La Fortuna<br />
Nicaragua - Granada - Cosiguina - Chinendega<br />
Honduras - Choluteca<br />
El Salvador - San Salvador - Costa del Sol - San Salvador<br />
Guatemala - Guatemala City - Antigua - Xela<br />
<br />
March has brought a splurge of Spring craziness. Its been go go go and some wonderful stops along the way.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angry Snake</td></tr>
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Like the two metre long snake that blocked my path and had me scared witless in the cold and rain after I'd gone for a short stroll from the hotel spa. It had me stood there talking to myself about how fast snakes could be, concluding probably not very. They don't have legs. Then I got into a debate with a rock about whether or not I should throw it before deciding I didn't want to end up in an it's you or me situation with a venomous snake.<br />
<br />
Or the family who welcomed me into their house when I got lost in Northern Nicaragua. The next morning we went to pick jocote (a small green or red fruit that's served with salt).<br />
<br />
Or the family who welcomed me into their house when I got lost in Northern El Salvador. I should probably stop getting lost tho'.<br />
<br />
Or the truck driver who gave me a ride across a country, discussing culture and politics and history and religion - what religion do we have in my country? Many, I reply. Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity... It's pretty diverse. Like here. He replies. We have the Christians and the Catholics.<br />
<br />
And all along the way I get asked: ¿Solita? Alone? Aren't you scared? And the truth is, yes I am. But scared like skiing where you know you'll make it the the bottom somehow and have a lot of fun along the way. You just have to face down the mountain at each turn. You have to let go for moments to keep your balance.<br />
<br />
So I made it, from Costa Rica to Guatemala. Beautiful Antigua that knows it. Small Xela with its cool cafes, its 30 Spanish schools and something magic that escapes me. And before I prepare for a final land crossing into Mexico, here are some of the things I've lost or left behind along the way:<br />
<br />
3 tops<br />
2 pairs of shoes<br />
Moisturizer<br />
Make-up remover<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antigua, Guatemala</td></tr>
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A bracelet that took me hours to make<br />
A pair of earrings I bought in Leon<br />
A pair of earrings I bought in Morocco<br />
All my make-up<br />
Tweezers<br />
A pair of jeans<br />
A book by Iris Murdoch<br />
A wealth of beautiful people and places<br />
A flight home<br />
<br />
And here are some of the things I've gained:<br />
<br />
A sweater<br />
2 pairs of shoes<br />
Coconut oil from Granada<br />
2 pairs of earrings from Antigua<br />
A drawing of someone blowing dandelion clocks on rooftops from a Mexican artist<br />
My new favourite Spanish word: <i>escalofrios</i> (goosebumps)<br />
A French book called A Treaty On the Immensity of the World<br />
Photographs<br />
Memories<br />
Freinds<br />
A ticket to go home by boat<br />
<br />
The truth is, no matter how light you pack, you always have something to lose. It's sad when it's friendships or places that steal your heart. But along with the flow of items through my backpack, is a flow of life. Parts of myself I've left behind that I don't need anymore. New parts I've picked up. And more than anything, I'm not so afraid of it - that rushing tide of coming and going. I know it goes both ways. I know that with the next turn life will reveal more of her riches. And with such a small amount of things, I've never felt so rich.Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-11085603563340295212013-01-12T20:17:00.000-08:002013-01-12T20:17:48.037-08:00The Pineapple Christmas TreePeople had been asking me for weeks: How long have you been travelling for?<br />
<br />
The first few times it was confusing. What do you mean <i>travelling</i>? Which might seem like a strange reaction from an English person in a hostel in Nicaragua, but the past couple of months hadn't really felt like travel. I'd been in the small town of Tonala in the north of the country. No one's heard of Tonala, and why would they? It's a very self-contained community. People trade among themselves. Every window is a shop and every back yard a farm. Not the kind of place I would normally choose to travel to.<br />
<br />
Mid December arrived. Tonala was behind me.<br />
<br />
'Will you miss it?' someone on the bus had asked.<br />
<br />
'No.' I replied without hesitation, thinking of the one rubbish bin at the edge of town that was the only survivor of two attempts to install bins to tackle the litter, and the second to last night when my host dad had tried to kiss me. Both sum up the experience.<br />
<br />
The few weeks since in Leon had been something else. Leon I would miss. Its people, its <i>comedors</i>, its colonial buildings on crumbling roads. But it was time to leave. The plan: cross Nicaragua and three more countries to get to Palenque in Mexico for a hippie celebration (or a Rainbow Gathering) of Baktun.<br />
<br />
I was travelling with an Alaskan. It didn´t take me long to realize how much cooler it is to be from Alaska. When we introduced ourselves, I would say England, followed a lot of the time by 'it's in Europe' and Kevin would say 'Alaska' to which people would really get excited. <i>Do you eat walruses? Do you have water holes with magical healing properties? Do you live in iglus?</i><br />
<br />
It took us 26 hours on a chicken bus to arrive in Guatemala City.<br />
25 very uncomfortable hours.<br />
7 of which I preoccupied myself with whether or not I could say I'd been to Honduras. I'd seen some dogs and some trees. I'd got the stamp in my passport. I'd eaten a local dish of tortilla made with cheese in the dough and served hot and melted ...and as I was later told, actually from El Salvador.<br />
10 of which were unnecessary waiting for made up reasons.<br />
An hour of a filmed drug search,<br />
The driver's attempt to jump ship...<br />
and a few hours of actual driving.<br />
<br />
In Guatemala we headed straight for Antigua. It was another world. Clean cobbled streets, pastel colour houses, intensely coloured artisan work, and music and documentaries in the streets. We were interviewed by a TV crew when sampling the local cuisine. What does it taste like? They ask as I bite into the disappointingly cold banana in chocolate sauce. Mmmmm. I say, unconvincingly, blinded by the light they're shining.<br />
<br />
By the second day I feel some how done with Antigua's perfectness. I want something more gritty. And more importantly, The Hobbit is out. So off to Guatemala City. After the slight glitch of iphone being stolen on one of the infamous Red Buses, Kevin's attempt to retrieve it as I get off with the bags, the bus driving off with him inside and a still iphoneless reunion, we make it to a shady hostel in the city.<br />
<br />
An artisan shows us the way, offers us cereal in crisp packets, and it's all going ok. We buy camping supplies, watch The Hobbit... and then realize nearly $2000 has gone missing from Kevin´s bank account.<br />
<br />
Police reports, embassy visits and failed MoneyGram attempts, make getting out of Guatemala the first thing on my list of priorities. In a long chain of bad luck, we under estimate the distance and miss the last bus to the border. There are five of us by the side of the road including a girl and grandmother who are going to Mexico in search of her father.<br />
<br />
Eventually we hitch a lift with a man who turns out to be a Guatemalan football player. Striker, he tells me shortly before hitting a dog. I didn´t mean to, he shrugs, as we drive off with the sound of its dying yelps behind us.<br />
<br />
The border is closed. The girl and grandmother cross anyway. Me and Kevin are a little surprised. You can do that? We ask someone if we can cross anyway too. Yes! They say encouragingly. And when we come back? Oh, no, you won't be able to do that.<br />
<br />
So, accepting the situation, we get out our makeshift camp gear: two tarps and a mosquito net. Locals start telling us enthusiastically about Sam. He's from England too so apparently I should know him. He also spent the night on the border. They ask where we traveled from but have never heard of Nicaragua. At last we lay down in our tent, hug our bags towards us and then burst out laughing at the absurdity.<br />
<br />
Fast forward hours of bus rides, long dirt tracks and more waiting. Hello Rainbow! Or rather we get there at midnight and find ourselves experiencing the most intense culture shock yet. Through the dark a girl throws herself on us for the world's longest hug, or as it was called, some positive energy sharing. Then we're in an old school bus where people are smoking hash from an apple, and a man is playing guitar with nothing but a jumper tied around his waist and everything hanging out. The ceiling is covered with writing like the MLK quote 'we must live together as brothers or perish as fools' as well as lines like ´knowledge is bliss' and the very sage advice 'don't play leap frog on a unicorn'.<br />
<br />
But the next day comes with the discovery of free coffee, free chai, free chocolate, free food and free things that aren't quite so legal. A swim in the river, a dance by the fire, some incredible massages, music and lots of singing later, and even the near flooding the night of solstice just leaves me with a feeling that everything is right with the world.<br />
<br />
And all the sharing... so much sharing. Mostly in a good way. Except for when I ask how much a pair of earings cost and someone patronisingly takes me to one side 'Honey, this is your first rainbow, isn't it?' It turns out I can only exchange. I like this in theory, except what it really means is that I have to use my money outside of the camp to get something to exchange for the thing I really want. But the result is me spending much more time thinking about what I can give than what I can get - which isn't so bad.<br />
<br />
Then somehow it's Christmas and we're in the jungle. It doesn't feel like Christmas - we're in the jungle. Something has to be done about this. I resolve to make a Christmas tree. I tie together some thick palm branches into a tripod, put leaves in the gaps to give it shape and then more leaves for colour, hmmm...orange peel in place of baubles?<br />
<br />
As I'm working, I realize part of me is waiting for compliments. When they come I feel good. When they don't I feel bad. Climbing onto someone's shoulders, I place the top of a pineapple as a star. While I'm gone for another round of massages, music and skinny dipping, someone adds lights to the tree. As it gets dark and the path gets busier, more and more people stop to look at the tree. Some of them say thank you. Others wish me a merry Christmas. Most don't say anything at all to me. They either simply stop to look, or walk by.<br />
<br />
On my present free Christmas, I have a mini epiphany: That's why we give and receive. That's why we create. It's nothing to do with the person making or giving. It's the hope that someone might enjoy what has been shared.<br />
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<br />Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-52441886413144974332012-12-08T11:30:00.000-08:002013-07-05T13:37:03.706-07:00Welcome to Nicaragua<br />
<br />
In Leon - Nicaragua´s second largest city - I had no doubts. It was crumbly in places, but it was interesting. There was colour and art on the walls. There were places to visit and cafes to sit in. I was where I was meant to be.<br />
<br />
Then I reached Tonala. A small town an hour from Chinendega. No roads, no cars, no one passing through. The skyline was gorgeous - palms, papaya trees, bananas hanging over bridges.<br />
<br />
But it took me three days before I could see it. My eyes couldn´t escape the dirt ground. The rivers of water from the houses filled with rubbish and dead rats. And the smoke from the burning plastic.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Oi76Vr0EswygyvUZGpvWKX_sASBIaZpjNMtwmnwKks5bqW1aG2_kRuiyz64QgqViABhPHLn_rbf_Wpnuvg08g7rwCIUZUuFUJgMbRK4uU6P746r27btsTpWxdGiYjqMEKustUMQF0WyW/s1600/SAM_0260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Oi76Vr0EswygyvUZGpvWKX_sASBIaZpjNMtwmnwKks5bqW1aG2_kRuiyz64QgqViABhPHLn_rbf_Wpnuvg08g7rwCIUZUuFUJgMbRK4uU6P746r27btsTpWxdGiYjqMEKustUMQF0WyW/s320/SAM_0260.JPG" width="240" /></a>I´d always believed poverty is the result of how much we´ve screwed people over. The cultures and people we´ve destroyed for land and gold. The governments we´ve corrupted for more of the same.<br />
<br />
But life is too interesting to be so simple. This town has a rubbish collection twice weekly. That´s more than my hometown. And yet they literally kill themselves by burning the plastic. Outside the school was a pile of chairs three times my height - all broken by students. And one of the rooms had more holes than wall - all broken by students. A Casa de Cultura had been built in the town and wrecked within weeks. The organisation Plan had stopped building toilets in the schools because they got vandalised. And I was getting endlessly frustrated with myself for not being able to understand. But I couldn´t.<br />
<br />
Then someone suggested that it wouldn´t look so bad if we hadn´t half imposed ourselves. Plastic with a culture used to banana leaves that rot, ends up with streets full of litter. Living in a house with a dirt floor wouldn´t feel the same way if there wasn´t a TV showing mansions in the States.<br />
<br />
Anyway, ´progress´ is slowly ambling into town. Palm roofs are being replaced with iron. Roads are being built. Electric pumps installed. And the continuous reconstruction - the classroom above was being rebuilt when I left.<br />
<br />
I´m glad Tonala is behind me, but I have no idea what is ahead of it. Maybe I´ll go back someday, but for now I´m happy to be taking a break. In a hostel called Sonati in Leon, where bottle caps don´t clog the rivers but have been turned to art on the walls.<br />
<br />
Good bye Tonala - I hope you´re classroom walls last a little longer this time.<br />
<br />
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<span class="st"><br /></span>Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-73799302999356791052012-11-14T02:39:00.000-08:002012-11-14T02:39:00.673-08:00The Vain Traveller: ClothesOne too many bottom-of-the-rucksack-outfits has led me to rethink my packing. Unlike my last trip, this time I am not going to delve into the hostel's bin to retrieve a pair of some stranger's shorts which turn out to be far too big and have a broken zip (but which I wear anyway).<br />
<br />
It's time to review some of the highs and lows of my travel wardrobe.<br />
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<h3>
Blending In</h3>
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1) Without a doubt, sunglasses at night is always a good idea.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNo09GOfnJP46gV2qKc4x0GjHCnIRdxBJeFslkGdtWA-8mOAMI0mhkLFC46mxX_WYQZynXw4uoDWDSCcqDdO-fUd0tldTxCIsaLX4JiyVQ-qq2rZq6L5sBnSWzDeD2ilRJuEWXWMOt1FMb/s1600/Sunglasses+at+Night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNo09GOfnJP46gV2qKc4x0GjHCnIRdxBJeFslkGdtWA-8mOAMI0mhkLFC46mxX_WYQZynXw4uoDWDSCcqDdO-fUd0tldTxCIsaLX4JiyVQ-qq2rZq6L5sBnSWzDeD2ilRJuEWXWMOt1FMb/s320/Sunglasses+at+Night.jpg" width="240" /></a>This formed part of an incognito disguise where me and an American friend assumed fake identities. We were very convincingly French until entering a bar we got out our IDs. Ah well, it avoided any more Americans insisting that in their culture they kiss strangers on the lips.<br />
<br />
2) The short skirt however, is always a risk. In Portland, Oregan, (a supposedly liberal and forward thinking city) a man started shouting at me as I waited for a bus. He told me that he knew my dad was a policeman and I could tell him that he (the shouting man) wasn't going to sleep with me, so he (my dad the policeman) should stop sending crack whores (me) to come and see him.<br />
<br />
3) Don't even joke about being rich. (I once did that in Paris and my sarcasm went right over their heads as my purse went right out of my bag).<br />
<br />
<h3>
Adding Style</h3>
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1) Every traveller needs appropriate headgear. I mean, with all that wearing the same clothes business, you need something to jazz it up. Plus pants give you special powers.<br />
<br />
One of the best moves I made here was accidently buying a fur hat back when I was a vegetarian. It was so warm and soft.<br />
<br />
2) Never forget to pack a razor. Unless you want someone to confuse I need to <i>shave </i>with I need a <i>shower </i>and offer to take one with you. Which I might have taken up, if I hadn't been so long without a razor.<br />
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<br />Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-8995460949078803772012-11-06T03:29:00.000-08:002012-11-06T03:29:00.716-08:00A Guide to Dixie1) Go to a state fair. To watch the pig racing is reason enough. Or maybe to try the deep fried butter if you don't value your arteries.<br />
<br />
2) Be prepared to only use one faculty of your taste buds: sweet.<br />
<br />
3) Learn to love the accent. Especially the pronunciation of the word <i>cement</i>.<br />
<br />
4) Become a Panthers fan. And if you find 'football' boring, tailgating spices it up.<br />
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5) Do you prefer your pulled pork with a vinegar or tomato based sauce? Pick your answer very carefully. It could cost your friends.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Carolina Blue Garden<br /></td></tr>
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6) Boys do boy things, girls do girl things. Boys live with boys, girls live with girls. But if your foreign, not used to these rules, and end up in a house with the opposite sex, it turns out drinking lots of beer and eating lots of meat is actually quite fun.<br />
<br />
7) Don't romanticize the Appalachian Mountains. They're beautiful in Autumn, but they're also very cold. And after a road trip where you've eaten nothing but Cook Out... you're more likely to return looking like an Elk, than excited that you've seen one.<br />
<br />
8) Sweet potato ice cream, sweet potato pasta, sweet potato anything... you can find it!<br />
<br />
9) If you find yourself at a barn dance, don't be surprised if it's organised by a Christian society to distract people from drinking.<br />
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10) When it comes to Christmas, no amount of Southern hospitality or pumpkin pie is going to make up for an English person's craving for Mince Pie.<br />
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Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-91265074682785909022012-09-27T09:31:00.000-07:002012-09-29T04:42:56.976-07:00The Vain Traveller: Hair<br />
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I was recently given some cringe-worthy travel advice: <i>dye your hair</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4j26EtDd2uO6ApzaSuF0SVUyzzz79R4E0kQRf7hpyjJoyI9BtL6E0ZzXuIx8P7J7M0auT002Lxx_zgcZcTjwQnl5Ev0LPH1ApWtI4HSI-eAFQ1hHUbWL07ZccA-7pREdek-33Vaz8kzC/s1600/Black+Swan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4j26EtDd2uO6ApzaSuF0SVUyzzz79R4E0kQRf7hpyjJoyI9BtL6E0ZzXuIx8P7J7M0auT002Lxx_zgcZcTjwQnl5Ev0LPH1ApWtI4HSI-eAFQ1hHUbWL07ZccA-7pREdek-33Vaz8kzC/s200/Black+Swan.jpg" width="172" /></a></div>
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1)<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Never have I found blonde hair to be a problem when
travelling. (People I meet tend to overcompensate for the ‘dangers’ of me being
a female traveller, the result being I get a lot of help). <o:p></o:p></div>
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2) In Nicaragua, or anywhere else in the world, never will
I ever pass for Latina. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My initial reaction was pure self-righteous scorn. Then I
got thinking… how about if not standing out as much makes me look a little more
local? How about if I could pass for <i>half</i>
Spanish? How about if it gets me in touch with my ‘black swan’? And then the
cosmetic industry’s foundation: How about if changing my hair changes me?<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so I did it. I dyed my hair darker.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Later that day I got harassed by a group of fourteen year
olds in Bristol’s Victoria Park. After ‘can I have your number?’ failed to work
and I bent down beside my dog, I got the oh-so-romantic chat up line:</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘If I shit, will you pick it up?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gotta lurrve Brizzle. Surprisingly (I mean, come on, have
you seen this face?) that was the first time in a lifetime that I have received
any interest while walking the dog. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Then evening arrived and I went to my Spanish/English
language exchange. As I was talking to an Argentinian man, the light hit my
hair. ‘Wow, your hair is so blonde! Is it your natural colour?’ I tell him my
actual colour is in fact lighter. His heart visibly breaks. But by the time I
get home, I find his comments all over old photos of me on Facebook.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIwxOxJQq61NXhrK3cLqNKp9SpveEsjq3fS2DxrD0AeMjboJ73eOWwGK9Mw10QKlVay9Zac2rAkjfdGC6KGndqcP0iOeEw4lOVXxOprdyRGL9GYJAjRn44JhM7U6zuWzsoQAVxVC_6-pE/s1600/Vanity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIwxOxJQq61NXhrK3cLqNKp9SpveEsjq3fS2DxrD0AeMjboJ73eOWwGK9Mw10QKlVay9Zac2rAkjfdGC6KGndqcP0iOeEw4lOVXxOprdyRGL9GYJAjRn44JhM7U6zuWzsoQAVxVC_6-pE/s320/Vanity.jpg" width="276" /></a>Conclusion: I guess I have to wait until I’m in Central
America for the real verdict. But for now, I think getting malaria tablets
should have ranked higher on my To Do list than dying my hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-68198946790112735802012-09-19T04:38:00.000-07:002013-02-16T23:45:51.945-08:00Lose Yourself<a href="http://contactmcr.com/projects/festivals/lost-found/" target="_blank">Lost & Found</a> is an artsy performancy festival in Manchester. It's aim? Inspire people to engage with the city around them. Below is my writing on a poster up around the city.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU36EOz4BQDlkbxwO2S6dLphW9UtgOZqsABu9ffBqTjEtFjQ3FR5BscOK6EiU6iR5I0i1yzfoHnj8h9aj2LE3Av3Uye00qAahPe2EVeHxJFTdE_2GhvwdDZ2nuupVWEo4Fbd7ShRHa81WB/s1600/Lost+and+Found.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU36EOz4BQDlkbxwO2S6dLphW9UtgOZqsABu9ffBqTjEtFjQ3FR5BscOK6EiU6iR5I0i1yzfoHnj8h9aj2LE3Av3Uye00qAahPe2EVeHxJFTdE_2GhvwdDZ2nuupVWEo4Fbd7ShRHa81WB/s1600/Lost+and+Found.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
(I would like to point out my intention was for it to actually look like a map. I feel like "ceci n'est pas une pipe." would have had a different meaning if it really wasn't a pipe.)Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-81128067666704504622012-09-11T05:06:00.001-07:002012-09-27T01:41:57.735-07:00A Crash Course in Italian<h3>
The World in the Palm of your Hands</h3>
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In the car from the airport I wonder why I’m talking to the
woman whose family I’ll be staying with. Not because the conversation is bad,
but because she’s driving. She’s driving and apparently oblivious to the fact
because she keeps taking both hands of the wheel. Apparently talking without
hands just isn’t an option.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The more I realise this in Italy, the more I realise how
useless all my verb conjugations are. The thing is, Italians don’t seem to get
that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aHZwYObN264" target="_blank">hand gestures</a> aren’t universal currency.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<h3>
Love Birds</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbx-i56WblA2aPS8RMrWcA0_q-lTGFbYRJsVztNgvlje21j7yMCbTcaDJ3YvZamkDCddQ9SWdffbDOUKQXU9cbz9jN0m9hTQwSMZ3h2atTO8-k_N2ystgMGxUG9Qz1j1FXX6_H_t73DMPC/s1600/Relationship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbx-i56WblA2aPS8RMrWcA0_q-lTGFbYRJsVztNgvlje21j7yMCbTcaDJ3YvZamkDCddQ9SWdffbDOUKQXU9cbz9jN0m9hTQwSMZ3h2atTO8-k_N2ystgMGxUG9Qz1j1FXX6_H_t73DMPC/s400/Relationship.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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An Italian man asks me in Italian if I’m in a relationship, exaggeratedly
bashing his index fingers together as if that clearly translates the question.
I smile at this, then answer his question with a no. Which confuses him,
because I shouldn’t be smiling, I should be getting myself an Italian. I bite
back my response about having left an Italian to come to Italy, as I think this
will just confuse him more.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<h3>
Was that 'Angry' or 'Hungry'?</h3>
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As I've noted before, these two words are the same for Italians - both in how they say them and in meaning.</div>
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But I will give them credit for adding some humor to any tense situation with <i>The Dance of The
Angry Italian</i>. It’s just beautiful to watch. It starts with the
exasperation of the hands in prayer being shaken at the offender, then the hand
gestures get wider as the problem escalates until finally the arms fall down by
the side, palms up, with something between force and laziness: <i>I give up with you.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
NB: Go <a href="http://www.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://wannareadyou.com/assets/images/italiangestures1.jpg&imgrefurl=http://wannareadyou.com/rude-hand-gestures-in-italy.html&h=700&w=700&sz=103&tbnid=FcREuOcv07dk5M:&tbnh=94&tbnw=94&zoom=1&usg=___JIv-Q93Y96uTpduJ9rrOkrGKME=&docid=dmFCXWWRhbTVGM&sa=X&ei=MO9hUPOGJoqb0QXVnoHIAg&ved=0CEMQ9QEwAw&dur=3098" target="_blank">here </a>for more insults to throw out in your next argument. Which if you're in Italy will be soon.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGDkyVf9gTK2YeeX6X8wy_ZcTbdDQypTgKxSs-tEAfMdnUi6rd1GgBNbd5bWxPpzvE-BGcYtdRgi9jCj1gKeMdBfYaroiOFkz8WmlFf81muzgi0ssA318D7_KwYDDd8jZmbU6nsMWhGzw/s1600/Angry+Italian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGDkyVf9gTK2YeeX6X8wy_ZcTbdDQypTgKxSs-tEAfMdnUi6rd1GgBNbd5bWxPpzvE-BGcYtdRgi9jCj1gKeMdBfYaroiOFkz8WmlFf81muzgi0ssA318D7_KwYDDd8jZmbU6nsMWhGzw/s400/Angry+Italian.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<h3>
Something Fishy Going On...</h3>
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Sometimes though, I really think a few mirrors could fix the
problem. If they could just see what they were doing, then surely some of it
would stop. One of these moments takes place between a couple I meet in Rome. A
friend of theirs disappears for a moment and they look at each other. Next
thing I know, they’re stood side by side looking like a pair of fish playing
the piano. I stare in utter confusion until I remember my Italian lesson. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8-X3Z-YwnsodPUZAIks9BXa8Vqy2iYNYuU3wyPANgnJoNtgF1SEY4dZTXFR_uMYoAzuRtWcewOoUZe-5TByB3SW183wqFMREV-NlK4j_NAnPr-rE5NPe2W-hB-edj3V0Lucvz9EXxiLl/s1600/Underhand+business.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8-X3Z-YwnsodPUZAIks9BXa8Vqy2iYNYuU3wyPANgnJoNtgF1SEY4dZTXFR_uMYoAzuRtWcewOoUZe-5TByB3SW183wqFMREV-NlK4j_NAnPr-rE5NPe2W-hB-edj3V0Lucvz9EXxiLl/s400/Underhand+business.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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‘Underhand business!’ I proudly shout. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Which is a bit like staring at a waving hand and saying to
the person waving at you ‘I believe this translates as… <i>Hello</i>.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
The Italic Font</h3>
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One day I ask an Italian why I’m struggling so much. Being a
graphic designer he explains it in the following way:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI3ezL89-r5S2CJ5ct0kMnLIwhTIYRb9NJnbtjYKrLBxUwASamDjkVtjhjvggI7IXkWz_sYCPO4NdkvY6VNFgkIWzAsBxjk6SmkJ56jbdb1M0sHEmlTbSCpcVJ1SIYF9-uHIojBgVje_op/s1600/Pisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI3ezL89-r5S2CJ5ct0kMnLIwhTIYRb9NJnbtjYKrLBxUwASamDjkVtjhjvggI7IXkWz_sYCPO4NdkvY6VNFgkIWzAsBxjk6SmkJ56jbdb1M0sHEmlTbSCpcVJ1SIYF9-uHIojBgVje_op/s320/Pisa.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Origins of the Italic Font <br />
(image by professional graphic designer)</td></tr>
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‘There is a reason why it’s called <i>Italic</i>.’ He throws an arm upwards with a diagonal flick. 'We like to elaborate. To embellish our words. To add character!...But you English. No. You are like this.' He stands rigidly with his arms by his side. You are from Bristol? Like the <span style="font-family: "Gill Sans MT","sans-serif";">Gill
Sans</span> font. You're probably a slim.’ Before I get all pleased about my weight
despite how many gelatos I’ve eaten, I remember he’s talking fonts. He means my
gestures have less presence.</div>
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Determined to prove him wrong, I’ve taken on trying to use
my hands when I talk. The problem is, I can’t keep telling everyone there’s
underhand business going on. So I’m writing my own font by using my hands in
any and every way possible, giving every elaborate flick I can.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLRm4M3PJhdYpDp2yhqyH-UOZVSYoA6egAu22eqZEn2Aq5u6RXRiJ0mMfrtlQGouQZBxdq-dV4gHrEqRjs8xFMgzY2p783OhrMyS4iSwPz6q1PGjp2ORJ6Tk5JP7QZAl0-cd-EUqS1uRF/s1600/Grandma+Graffitti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLRm4M3PJhdYpDp2yhqyH-UOZVSYoA6egAu22eqZEn2Aq5u6RXRiJ0mMfrtlQGouQZBxdq-dV4gHrEqRjs8xFMgzY2p783OhrMyS4iSwPz6q1PGjp2ORJ6Tk5JP7QZAl0-cd-EUqS1uRF/s400/Grandma+Graffitti.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Of course it looks
completely unnatural. Like watching your Grandma graffiti.
But I so want to be… <i>Italic</i>.</div>
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Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-78574566976654425302012-06-08T17:38:00.001-07:002012-09-27T01:43:02.357-07:00Travel without a Camera: Berlin to Prague<br />
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Photographs capture your memories. They’re how you share
moments with people who weren’t in them. They give you something to keep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcClB3zl_emIxumyqg6zrScPJ6q9oVLuPrB5WtgeSd6JEoseKU8geBEepciJDZc1AhplACdwlObvdBGNmPSxnOUvJ4SqAqXewDn46jpL0TKTgqV84DNUfk6KfWZhBcJs46XoIi2ViXStm7/s1600/P090612_01.02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcClB3zl_emIxumyqg6zrScPJ6q9oVLuPrB5WtgeSd6JEoseKU8geBEepciJDZc1AhplACdwlObvdBGNmPSxnOUvJ4SqAqXewDn46jpL0TKTgqV84DNUfk6KfWZhBcJs46XoIi2ViXStm7/s320/P090612_01.02.jpg" width="240" /></a>But as I think of my favourite photos, I realise this isn’t
quite true. There’s that photo of my mum as a child buried in the sand, the one
of me as a toddler in the sink, the one of my great grandparents outside their
house… They’re a way of sharing, but those will never be memories for me. Only
images and whatever imagination has added. Whatever they meant at the time is
lost on me now.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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As for the places I’ve been…I like the photos of me with the
people I’ve met. But the photos of the landmarks can be found online. And the
photos of my discoveries miss the act of discovery.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You can’t photograph smell or taste. You can’t photograph
the way your legs feel after running up steps and you can’t photograph that
feeling inside when a view opens up that you weren’t expecting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m thinking of Prague. The steps I’m thinking of lead up to
the gothic cathedral. When I reached the top, the city opened up beneath me.
One of the reasons I remember this moment so well is because I remember
thinking: <i>If only I had a camera</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The truth is, I don’t remember exactly what I saw, even
though I remember looking for a long time, trying to absorb every detail. What
I <i>do</i> remember though, is being glad that
I was there.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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If I had a photo, I wouldn’t have had that moment. I
wouldn’t have thought so much about all that I was getting from that moment
that a camera couldn’t. I wouldn’t have enjoyed it so much at the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I have a camera, I often notice
something, take a picture and move on. Without my camera, I was under no
illusion that I could keep those places.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisq40HCvsYesON8BhfivrKyM07KFXes449T-7vSnssWqP-hFqcHdU2QdMQsijB73tXFlsbjlMJBXZBInN794hQVxj4VeJNyWryjSQFmkXA70MZSMMYctOzTb4NuT_S56fUBo8ya9JdUV-w/s1600/P090612_00.58_%5B01%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisq40HCvsYesON8BhfivrKyM07KFXes449T-7vSnssWqP-hFqcHdU2QdMQsijB73tXFlsbjlMJBXZBInN794hQVxj4VeJNyWryjSQFmkXA70MZSMMYctOzTb4NuT_S56fUBo8ya9JdUV-w/s320/P090612_00.58_%5B01%5D.jpg" width="240" /></a>The funny thing is, I remember that trip so much more
visually than any other, because I was so aware of each sight I couldn't capture. I remember how the life ring with the ropes perfectly
framed that museum in Berlin. I remember the blue and pink pipes that looked
like they were from a Roald Dahl story. I remember Dresden at night and the
lampposts that looked like they were made from icicles. I remember the graffiti
on the wall outside the hostel in Prague – the Mobius loop of trucks and tanks
that spoke of the city’s continuous cycle through destruction and rebirth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember the mirror at the bottom of the stairs in the
Kafka museum that makes you feel like you’re falling upwards.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is where I stop and see that by remembering, rather
than looking, I have to access these images through the chain of memories
surrounding them. That mirror in the Kafka museum wouldn't have been half as
unnerving if the city outside had been bathed in sunshine.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Instead I’d spent the whole day walking through pouring rain
with a heavy bag, no umbrella, nowhere to stay, and not a penny of the national
currency. In this state, the strange architecture looked like it was clawing
the sky and at last the twisted workings of Kafka’s stories made sense.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0TgWX3KDCYEBHuMHRqVLfrU1f2CRm_35BuxZ6WZArDddLk_JfqOMiQNlCr6EDYzDO46-X64G_I_dikVEKeRKysM2Dm6wdjHNQo-b4nhZswEE4FXqMS95ycGAYY6hv9cRY31oaoc98qZGv/s1600/P090612_00.57_%5B02%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0TgWX3KDCYEBHuMHRqVLfrU1f2CRm_35BuxZ6WZArDddLk_JfqOMiQNlCr6EDYzDO46-X64G_I_dikVEKeRKysM2Dm6wdjHNQo-b4nhZswEE4FXqMS95ycGAYY6hv9cRY31oaoc98qZGv/s320/P090612_00.57_%5B02%5D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Other moments, like sitting on plastic chairs on an ugly
concrete balcony outside a large hostel in Berlin, would never have made a
photo at all. And yet drinking cheap red wine with Israelis and a German as he
decided to raise the somewhat sensitive issue of genocide, was so much more
memorable than sections of the Berlin wall arranged like postcards near Checkpoint Charlie.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So will I go without a camera again? Maybe in a year or two
as my memories fade I’ll change my mind, but for now, no regrets. A diary is
far more important. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-23537649702422174162012-05-02T08:26:00.000-07:002012-12-08T11:35:31.433-08:00Fly Down to Mexico<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_ulAo1nFg5gN5S1qtHhrTU4tE0zSz1tVBhMqYxiYT1JzHqSBpPdbreINcjPUSpKYVT9J6TZNrAP1lgvgztIgqJERVIGGc1ziEWL1BMe2KKXla5j4rDDoVicOqtUZX8e7lEKQn8LQiSRz/s1600/san+Cristobel+Baloons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_ulAo1nFg5gN5S1qtHhrTU4tE0zSz1tVBhMqYxiYT1JzHqSBpPdbreINcjPUSpKYVT9J6TZNrAP1lgvgztIgqJERVIGGc1ziEWL1BMe2KKXla5j4rDDoVicOqtUZX8e7lEKQn8LQiSRz/s320/san+Cristobel+Baloons.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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20/12/11: All is not going to plan. It just so happens, to
my surprise, that in Mexico, they speak Spanish. I tell people I love their
laxative instead of their accent (an easy mistake to make). They tell me to stop
molesting them. At first horrified, I search through my dictionary and find
reassurance that I’m not about to be processed by the Mexican legal system for
sexual harassment. This comes as a relief to someone who is tired after having spent
last night in Orlando’s airport terminal trying to speak Spanish to a young
woman from Columbia as she tried to convert me to Mormonism. She then hid
beneath her jumper with her bible as the cleaner proudly informed me that McDonald’s
stays open until 3am. Phew. <o:p></o:p></div>
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22/12/11: After having come close to calling my mummy to
drop by and pick me up, things take an upward turn. Yesterday I cycled through
a jungle looking at Maya ruins and at last managed to get out some cash. So I
can now eat. I write this from a beautiful old building still being decorated;
I had tequila with grapefruit on the way over, walking past the sea. I compose
an ode to morning alcoholism. I’m where I want to be.<o:p></o:p></div>
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25/12/11: Apparently jelly is a typical Christmas desert. I ate it last night with my makeshift family that had come together on the beaches of Progreso (swimming not recommended, barbecues for a recently retired vegetarian, highly recommended). After our Christmas jelly, we went out to dance along the streets. There was an Italian who spoke to me in Spanish and at last I understood. The language made sense. I could speak it. But more importantly, I discovered something better than tacos: banana dipped in <a href="http://www.nutelladay.com/nutella-recipes/" target="_blank">nutella</a>. Warning: for the unsuspecting consumer, infatuation with the chef is a likely
side effect.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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26/12/11: I need to plan where I’m going, where I’m turning
back, what I need to see. I want to swim in a <a href="https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=cenote&hl=en&safe=off&rlz=1C1SKPC_enGB348&prmd=imvns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=AVChT7TMI6nE4gTt-bCPCQ&ved=0CD4QsAQ&biw=1366&bih=634" target="_blank">cenote</a>. I want to go to the ruins
on the rocks of Tulum. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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28/12/11: The year is nearly at a close…what have I learnt?
Two kinds of doors, two kinds of paths…two ways to look at a situation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEjhOo9fiztYIXZVcV7yOjHqPYod0AND7rfixIB8HyffLeNZNQBUYRXk4MBiJMxg5fx5wt7nnWZa82HFQ6Rt4WomQ1wjjVp-ShmownkL3x7UUF0OX1eAPZ-fQ0WoWutJ1Hsy2nmmZCOE0Z/s1600/Top+of+San+Cristobel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEjhOo9fiztYIXZVcV7yOjHqPYod0AND7rfixIB8HyffLeNZNQBUYRXk4MBiJMxg5fx5wt7nnWZa82HFQ6Rt4WomQ1wjjVp-ShmownkL3x7UUF0OX1eAPZ-fQ0WoWutJ1Hsy2nmmZCOE0Z/s320/Top+of+San+Cristobel.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View Over San Cristobel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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30/12/11: I’m on the bus to San Cristobel. I stopped writing
the last entry when my hammock neighbours said hello and then yet again my
world changed. Especially after the mushroom tea. A voice of wisdom told me ‘Be
where you need to be and you’ll meet who you need to meet’ as the burning logs
began to move and the shadows became snakes. The day after I swam beneath a
waterfall and spoke to a Mexican about health care and education and crime. He
wanted to live in Mexico. And I’d let myself be fooled into thinking they were
all desperate to cross the border anyway possible to reach the Promised Land.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3/01/12: First entry of the new year, being written on an 18
hour bus journey. No toilet on board. I plan my life. Someone behind me throws
up. I pick apart what I’ve learnt and how I can be the person I want to be. I
try to grasp the moments I left in the last place. I realise I keep writing in
the in-between moments. I’m not capturing the moments themselves. They have to
be lived.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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04/01/12: In white sands, turquoise waters and coconut trees
beach paradise, and I want to be elsewhere. Last night I slept in a hammock,
freezing cold as I wrapped myself in dirty, sweaty clothes after having been
chased along the road by a Mexican man on a bicycle with a hole in the crotch
of his jeans shouting ‘Quieres novio?’ (want a boyfriend?) <o:p></o:p></div>
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05/01/12: Perhaps the cold last night weakened my immune
system. I appear to have been struck by a severe case of travel snobbery.
Symptoms presenting include: thinking that somewhere is too touristy (hey, I’m
not a tourist, I’m a <i>traveller</i>), and
inwardly tutting every time someone gets out their camera (still bitter that I
lost mine). I decide my Spanish is suffering, as I ignore everyone around me,
and resolve to return to Merida. <o:p></o:p></div>
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08/01/12: Last day in Mexico. On the bus here I was told
about a man who started out with a red paper clip and made one trade at a time
until he ended up with an island. Now I’m back in the town where I began. I
feel I should have something profound to say about Mexico. About how the
journey along side streets to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zapatista_Army_of_National_Liberation" target="_blank">Zapatista </a>university with mud walls, or the
strange church with no pews where they drank coca cola to cleanse their souls,
or the cenotes where tree routes and sunlight fall down through holes into
caves of electric blue water whose light reflects off rocks, left some deep
impression. But I can’t make anything coherent. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Its beauty isn’t a clean, straight forward one. There’s a
lot of mess and car fumes. But there’s the beauty you stumble across– the court
yards, and the places where the disorder gives birth to something. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim98rHKFh7_jFKdbOamxqZcu2bTzeFygezRBaE6dAkfH1DdguVC4O6GIEyLMqmalTCFTBypVfIXZb8Cp-bdzmomuTURPKLwJJ-j2903p2Bn1BM_xmBW9TnrdID0LcFv9nHV72f6Id_dthF/s1600/San+Cristobel+Church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim98rHKFh7_jFKdbOamxqZcu2bTzeFygezRBaE6dAkfH1DdguVC4O6GIEyLMqmalTCFTBypVfIXZb8Cp-bdzmomuTURPKLwJJ-j2903p2Bn1BM_xmBW9TnrdID0LcFv9nHV72f6Id_dthF/s320/San+Cristobel+Church.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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The colonial buildings and Maya ruins and cheap new
buildings with palm trees surrounding them and loud music blasting out from
tacky clothes shops and the mountain views of San Cristobel and the thrill of
dancing salsa and the deep poverty and a large middle class and in some ways it’s
not all so different from the States except for I felt freer here and less of a
need to prove myself through success and more of a need to learn from, build
upon, value and get to grip with the relationships I form.<o:p></o:p></div>
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14/01/12: On return I confess to a friend that I carelessly
lost my camera near the beginning and spent too much time making out with Joses
(well, two – one of them had a moustache and some hot salsa moves) or chasing
Italians, when I should have been getting to know the culture. He wisely assures
me: there are many ways to get to know people. One of them is with your mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-23336692423770425502012-03-16T03:51:00.000-07:002012-09-27T01:43:46.760-07:00My First Stolen Traffic Cone<br />
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Starting out in life Icona had many dreams about how her
future could be.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDewuVhF6CgZqeoScLG3FgIsInfzn3HZG4mxgLhRqg_-fQyxQ5CHPvgJloLxBSKtgHA-YuRwHJNvkmqQczraqEGgmjHDUOrZgZ7KU6E2Nfo6s_1SFeOTUoLHsGfmWVa6LVQjG70sZUNdXY/s1600/Icona+mountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDewuVhF6CgZqeoScLG3FgIsInfzn3HZG4mxgLhRqg_-fQyxQ5CHPvgJloLxBSKtgHA-YuRwHJNvkmqQczraqEGgmjHDUOrZgZ7KU6E2Nfo6s_1SFeOTUoLHsGfmWVa6LVQjG70sZUNdXY/s320/Icona+mountain.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nod6uGdOI4Y1YiAUmUH1CND5L-sgzube5shjJewL6JmZibcvuiigOdU7opj4H7-bRtmxLfV7uIixobwR43-SzKVvE619P8frRemiLcD7j44U58JPF0Yd9H-idUWeSBgMP8tTXph_TP4_/s1600/icecream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nod6uGdOI4Y1YiAUmUH1CND5L-sgzube5shjJewL6JmZibcvuiigOdU7opj4H7-bRtmxLfV7uIixobwR43-SzKVvE619P8frRemiLcD7j44U58JPF0Yd9H-idUWeSBgMP8tTXph_TP4_/s200/icecream.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc5bcmyBMAV68nfopOr4PmEDh-606hgPdMOstpWS6A7XDsZmlNN92A2xy6R9VmEj84nNDGIvmtcgFWOr9YIxDKlI4W3Wj9Q8lW8T20XvtypAmvert7mVeHx50qVOK4Cro-aFGGo63irEZd/s1600/Icona+wish+number+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc5bcmyBMAV68nfopOr4PmEDh-606hgPdMOstpWS6A7XDsZmlNN92A2xy6R9VmEj84nNDGIvmtcgFWOr9YIxDKlI4W3Wj9Q8lW8T20XvtypAmvert7mVeHx50qVOK4Cro-aFGGo63irEZd/s320/Icona+wish+number+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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But life as a cone was not easy. Adolescence hit her hard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9OgMgT5WF_8GZ0zG32cZJt6xQkiqd5Rb8CZhidKJ9xIDA4pDaJlJpZqpgroYgc8ScWgbONcBpyqWdHiG0i-RJD2mCvxKuird7Pe1y4Xr-HKm0NOS6qAHQIi5ZybANiM8wCtjkcFrqAYl/s1600/adolesence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9OgMgT5WF_8GZ0zG32cZJt6xQkiqd5Rb8CZhidKJ9xIDA4pDaJlJpZqpgroYgc8ScWgbONcBpyqWdHiG0i-RJD2mCvxKuird7Pe1y4Xr-HKm0NOS6qAHQIi5ZybANiM8wCtjkcFrqAYl/s320/adolesence.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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She kept working the streets. Using her body night and day. The
stress took its toll. When we found her she was on top of a bus stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHApsL2Et87Z9H5oaTDN_DKaNHoeU9NXn1fF7s0MTuvd03Ag3s6flQsThmiPd7oODsksYoLC20aEJZJqRRZF179wr8Melg9fy5mriyTCG0Gmn3X7eJ7_gipOkw0pHzDbnJ3jz0H9f_3IW/s1600/bus+stop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHApsL2Et87Z9H5oaTDN_DKaNHoeU9NXn1fF7s0MTuvd03Ag3s6flQsThmiPd7oODsksYoLC20aEJZJqRRZF179wr8Melg9fy5mriyTCG0Gmn3X7eJ7_gipOkw0pHzDbnJ3jz0H9f_3IW/s320/bus+stop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Here comes the happy part of the tale. WE RESCUED HER! She
took her first ever ride on the tube. The lovely man at the barriers didn’t
even make her pay.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For the first time in her life, Icona had a home. She slept
in a bed (the flowerbed). She was fed breakfast (by the squirrels).<o:p></o:p></div>
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Alas, such blissful happiness could not last. She had
dreams, big dreams.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So one morning she packed her bags. She was off to Sweden to
form a band…<o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlnv8ujwDEOzbCJmDvWOrDGdY933PLP6p4pTox3od2C9L5jv9VEg-8733hKe1ajdFLaBK8z1VPlBhCrmQXP0OtbLuM11ob8J_BjMnk-xVW5YpfrAnJy8lpT_bv_BUa7fiKnPbPU3T2FDZ/s1600/Iconapaint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlnv8ujwDEOzbCJmDvWOrDGdY933PLP6p4pTox3od2C9L5jv9VEg-8733hKe1ajdFLaBK8z1VPlBhCrmQXP0OtbLuM11ob8J_BjMnk-xVW5YpfrAnJy8lpT_bv_BUa7fiKnPbPU3T2FDZ/s320/Iconapaint.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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The End<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-82580267516070264982012-03-13T02:21:00.000-07:002012-09-27T01:44:08.646-07:00London for a Londoner<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="text-align: center;">I made myself an alter ego. Meet Tourist Girl:</span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2MAJpc4bZu_05YuOGwJoyVkJz19Y3xEI_ICUxUqu4_tkQjmxTKobrWOHcvmbtAKA4RPzVg7o6AEXRPeVmPkifcoZ283n6SLeSMqbw4eARKjgCExMDrLVLWd4p_zc0QEJMb38ygK7m5IXc/s1600/Tourist+Girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2MAJpc4bZu_05YuOGwJoyVkJz19Y3xEI_ICUxUqu4_tkQjmxTKobrWOHcvmbtAKA4RPzVg7o6AEXRPeVmPkifcoZ283n6SLeSMqbw4eARKjgCExMDrLVLWd4p_zc0QEJMb38ygK7m5IXc/s400/Tourist+Girl.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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While Tourist Girl roams the city with her time freeze power
(a camera) and gets excited by silly details (oooooh! A telephone box! A Real
One. And it’s red!) the rest of us see it as it is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41et32VkZblRfwtDgEJU4jAELNabIeC2TIODum0F8zT26DsVZiwj9nfrWvhY4mtmm_BH8sed7u_wTPvpOMJO7zepyC1Qz4vV1dpg1CMpzqQeqL_mYduKCbqycY1McYqcN1WGELcDZtXxt/s1600/P310112_02.04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41et32VkZblRfwtDgEJU4jAELNabIeC2TIODum0F8zT26DsVZiwj9nfrWvhY4mtmm_BH8sed7u_wTPvpOMJO7zepyC1Qz4vV1dpg1CMpzqQeqL_mYduKCbqycY1McYqcN1WGELcDZtXxt/s200/P310112_02.04.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretend Red Phone Boxes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Instead of looking at the Big Ben and going ooooooh! A
CLOCK! The rest of us walk by, to get somewhere, quickly, very quickly because
we’re very important and are far too wise and apathetic to get all excited by
clocks because they’re big and phone boxes because they’re red.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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But through all my hardened London ways, there was something
I liked about their childish delight. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So I sent Tourist Girl out to explore. She went on the <a href="http://www.theoriginaltour.com/" target="_blank">opentop bus</a> and admired the sights.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I realised the tickets cost £26 and bought some wine
instead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is Tourist Girl gaily frolicking along Hampstead Heath:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NB_5-B-IPa97r8XdnjSaqRLaoDBhdVtrw52Gv6W_pJkprrOjfzlnO-JcRORzPFJn-Lw5Jl47B3OB1AeUSBHDDSnSqNazLULPzTKj3o_bOY67CD8SkjHwrVL5X1HBTnGeEa3faoOJJ1xp/s1600/frolick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5NB_5-B-IPa97r8XdnjSaqRLaoDBhdVtrw52Gv6W_pJkprrOjfzlnO-JcRORzPFJn-Lw5Jl47B3OB1AeUSBHDDSnSqNazLULPzTKj3o_bOY67CD8SkjHwrVL5X1HBTnGeEa3faoOJJ1xp/s320/frolick.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is me writing essay draft number 214:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQWVgM6Njjuw7R0ihiyaj75Z790Fm8Ya8ekosW274hY4VCIAEjlQqdS6LCjN05rY8bHhQD8HoIQhR7LejNVKsp4DHlhxSRlQ0Pb14EgughsuGPPItsb-_A93OwzwPPtBHax_yIpjYSy4A/s1600/P060312_22.59_%255B01%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQWVgM6Njjuw7R0ihiyaj75Z790Fm8Ya8ekosW274hY4VCIAEjlQqdS6LCjN05rY8bHhQD8HoIQhR7LejNVKsp4DHlhxSRlQ0Pb14EgughsuGPPItsb-_A93OwzwPPtBHax_yIpjYSy4A/s200/P060312_22.59_%255B01%255D.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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For a few weeks I let Tourist Girl put on a French accent
and wear a detective style trench coat, while I sat at my desk, busy as usual.
Tourist Girl’s adventures slowly crept more and more into my thoughts until I
found myself wondering, briefly, how people would look at me if <i>I</i> was wearing a cloak (…hmmmm). Or how
people would react when I told them what I did for a living (what? You’re a
superhero whose biggest power is getting excited by phone boxes?).<o:p></o:p></div>
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I knew it wasn’t going to work. But I wasn’t going to let a
simple matter like that stop me. I donned the robes of Tourist Girl.
Translation: I wore what I always wear and used my phone to take photos.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I soon realised that everyone who lives somewhere explores.
I had to rethink my plan. Things weren’t looking good. The open top bus company
was ignoring my attempts at ticket forgery, and my French accent was all too
quickly met with <i>Ah! Tu es Française? Moi aussi!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_v1sEE3P5urXS4x8AAxxR1suJE3PfsE_su1R3q1EKpqd7glppiUgWn4rCaRhuR5ruuVav0PXWYNs2HNw8spnpDH_XMuG2aylvFi7m6Gc9QKlgbmeik7hRzDLRmpSgrunoPxSq86iEBG2/s1600/P160212_15.51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_v1sEE3P5urXS4x8AAxxR1suJE3PfsE_su1R3q1EKpqd7glppiUgWn4rCaRhuR5ruuVav0PXWYNs2HNw8spnpDH_XMuG2aylvFi7m6Gc9QKlgbmeik7hRzDLRmpSgrunoPxSq86iEBG2/s200/P160212_15.51.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fleet Street</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Then I struck gold. I could explore the places I walked by
every day. Again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The doorways beckoned. I went into the original <a href="http://www.twinings.co.uk/" target="_blank">Twining’s </a>teashop. Again. And with my camera, it was quite literally a different place.
Tourist Girl had the power of making rooms bigger, of putting portraits on the
walls that hadn’t been there before, of seeing strange teas that weren’t in
boxes, of being excited.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ncb3YTgg5lW_0sArg0ZM9e_rloEebdw-FkV6411Wu02z9QTh0JGcdJs41BcEUHAKwpJSxu7Ae9w8VNKwNhyLjugvf6LX_1Gi4vKOssSxaQGOVGFR7KNT_dLzMda1qtiV-vLYsKo2H3Mn/s1600/P070312_14.56_%255B02%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ncb3YTgg5lW_0sArg0ZM9e_rloEebdw-FkV6411Wu02z9QTh0JGcdJs41BcEUHAKwpJSxu7Ae9w8VNKwNhyLjugvf6LX_1Gi4vKOssSxaQGOVGFR7KNT_dLzMda1qtiV-vLYsKo2H3Mn/s200/P070312_14.56_%255B02%255D.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Dunstan in the East</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Art Galleries were no longer just the paintings, but the people looking at the paintings, faintly disturbed by me following them. Tropical gettaways magically appeared in the heart of the city. People got annoyed with me for standing on the wrong side of the escalator. (oh dear. I forgot the word and just had to type ‘stairs that move’ into Google).<br />
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Then again, Tourist Girl wasn’t really Tourist Girl. I
couldn’t shake that all the places had memories. I couldn’t, much as I wanted,
be free from the pressure of deadlines and work in the way Tourist Girl would
be. Neither could I get excited by red phone boxes. Even though they were red.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But I had super powers Tourist Girl could only dream of.
Super powers like not confusing the words Hungry and Angry. Unless for Italians
the two really are the same.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Instead I mix <i>leyendo</i>
and <i>liando</i> to proudly inform my
Spanish housemate I’ve been rolling joints all day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Which leads me onto the final twist in this happy ending –
in London, the world comes to you:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdHN-TT8vpWBzjCXyIV3RBOPQ-N2btioCNpgxACOroIeUSdZlB9JQrEdXkKYEoMqakuNdt_zq8BhVIgZAU-kIW8KhLuUKBffY6hQDRbdv6rtbO-6xUHk2iKJBSgNijSYzRI8JQCrF1NKBc/s1600/P070312_14.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdHN-TT8vpWBzjCXyIV3RBOPQ-N2btioCNpgxACOroIeUSdZlB9JQrEdXkKYEoMqakuNdt_zq8BhVIgZAU-kIW8KhLuUKBffY6hQDRbdv6rtbO-6xUHk2iKJBSgNijSYzRI8JQCrF1NKBc/s200/P070312_14.21.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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The End<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0London, UK51.5081289 -0.12800551.350006900000004 -0.443862 51.6662509 0.187852tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5856212615514107907.post-62272809221531632282012-03-05T21:01:00.000-08:002012-09-27T01:50:48.152-07:00Morocco: The Making of the Wardrobe<br />
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It would be lovely if the wardrobe was just some kind of
metaphor. Of course, being a literature student, the whole damn world is a
metaphor. I can’t do anything, or say anything, or think anything, without
automatically picking it apart in the most useless of ways. The result being
terrible jokes that only you understand – hence the invention of the
literary-joke-self-high-five.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, this wardrobe is an actual wardrobe. No, not the one
in the books. The one in my room. That’s not to say I literally go into my
wardrobe, sit there and use my map, camera and phrase book to explore my coats.
But I did try and build <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Narnia_(world)" target="_blank">Narnia </a>in my wardrobe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6v0Mp_JPSzmx_oxazLc39e0xtTCwJaID3IS8aDf4L19me1x4ErmutAoOvC596Z_zWVsDuoTpOU7JC9QWYp01ImBSu5EshUcinnus3ieRqxxFJKMDVvvMc2euA2R7oGMulniNegDLTMEO/s1600/100_0309.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6v0Mp_JPSzmx_oxazLc39e0xtTCwJaID3IS8aDf4L19me1x4ErmutAoOvC596Z_zWVsDuoTpOU7JC9QWYp01ImBSu5EshUcinnus3ieRqxxFJKMDVvvMc2euA2R7oGMulniNegDLTMEO/s320/100_0309.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Method: run into garden and pull branches off trees as it
pours with rain and neighbours watch in horror as you have what looks like a
full blown nervous breakdown (it isn’t, quite) run back inside and calmly
arrange the latest additions to your wardrobe while housemates stand awkwardly
in the doorway unsure of how best to broach the subject of your sanity, before you
proceed to cover the floor in paper as you sit in a corner cutting out paper snowflakes
(ice is preferable, but only practical if you’re practical to the point of
combining your wardrobe and freezer). For stylish finishing touch, replace lamppost
with fairy lights (unless you’re wardrobe/freezer is also your dog’s litter
tray).<o:p></o:p></div>
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After I had completed the above itinerary, I sensibly
dressed in fur coat and hat to sit in my wardrobe. See, I said I didn’t use map
and camera. I didn’t say I didn’t sit in my wardrobe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This behaviour can only be described as a rather unfortunate
by-product of the week that came before. I guess we all have different ways to
cope with post camp blues. Mine was a rather deluded method of escape, that
didn’t take me very far.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So what drove me to do this? <a href="http://www.lonelyplanet.com/morocco" target="_blank">Morocco</a>. Apparently they put
something in the mint tea.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKutDG2VCeqwydxpfcA4rbYS7diaoUlTaDjaGu6CnkcuvXPgw9Gu672U4zL6GflFkjJaHs5mmiu3MobJ14yb6T9EsrYB330iCYCji_DEUOUuGEgrG0NMLYVVq-CO2DRWhpNhWT1Vmfsgpa/s1600/100_0019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKutDG2VCeqwydxpfcA4rbYS7diaoUlTaDjaGu6CnkcuvXPgw9Gu672U4zL6GflFkjJaHs5mmiu3MobJ14yb6T9EsrYB330iCYCji_DEUOUuGEgrG0NMLYVVq-CO2DRWhpNhWT1Vmfsgpa/s320/100_0019.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Scratch that. They put something in the country. It was my
first time travelling alone, out of necessity rather than choice, and I quickly
realised if travel could be likened to the <a href="http://kidshealth.org/teen/your_mind/problems/addictions.html" target="_blank">addictiveness </a>of smoking, then
travel alone is the ecstasy, the crack cocaine, the heroin, of travel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My week began with a fairly awkward self-introduction to a
couple of English girls, my age. It ended with a near deadly trip on the back
of a stranger’s motorbike. In between, I talked to Moroccans over tea in the souks,
swam through rainbows in a waterfall and learnt the joys of being so terrified
at night that you go and sleep on mud benches next to Frenchmen who’ve been
travelling for two months without changing their clothes, then as morning comes
you sneak off quietly so that you can prepare your face of Intrepid Explorer
Who Fears Nothing and No-one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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See what I mean? Not a healthy addiction. For all I know I
could end up like the Frenchman, only society would find my first flush of
facial hair less socially acceptable. Anyway, that was that. I was hooked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The thing is - I found something there that I was never going
to find in my wardrobe. (No, not porn – that’s under my bed.) I found this
sense that it didn’t matter what was in my wardrobe (illegally imprisoned <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0564215/" target="_blank">fauns</a>,
if only). <o:p></o:p></div>
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For months I’d been more and more neurotically defining
myself by the things in my room – the books, the musical instruments, the
clothes. But there, through the wardrobe so to speak, I remembered or realised
or recreated a self that wasn’t based upon any item. That’s when I discovered
that away from my room and routine, was a sense of accepting myself and being
accepted by others for who I was. The Road (NB: should get one of those in my
room) was peaceful beneath all the discomfort. It was home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01556275318004688041noreply@blogger.com0