Home sweet home

I have frequently talked about travel, the places I have been to, the things I have seen. I could set up my own version of trip advisor I have stayed in so many places. In the last few years, I have stayed in so many places, but it’s the sheer range that amuses me. When I first started to travel, whilst I was still at university, it mostly hostels. Sometimes this worked out rather well. I stayed in a hostel for three months in New York, just a few blocks from Colombia University. The real bonus of that was laid back group of people I could mix with.

However, it took the blackout across most of the North East of America to bring us together. I was working vampire shifts at the time, so it was hardly conducive to meeting people, other than at night clubs. Obviously without a functioning subway; there was little chance of going anywhere. Most of the residential buildings near Riverside Park are six stories high, and without street lights, it was almost impossible to climb the stairs, everyone spilled out onto the streets that balmy night. Most of the people staying at the hostel were seeking their first big adventure or career push and were hoping to make it there; it was up to New York, New York, New York.

That night was a welcome break, a chance to discover the dusk without the Neon Blue lights and bees’ nest of downtown. Many places that people stay on holiday, it is the building, the room the facilities that count, a chocolate mint on the pillow. In some ways, I never lost my love of hostels, even if I can afford far better places, the human possibilities for contact reaching from new friends to chats with new acquaintances, as opposed to an employee’s welcome.

I met two Swedish brothers up to tricks, who were very comfortable with a distinct lack of clothing. They would often answer the door in nothing at all, and I would stand there in the hallway whilst everyone could see them; I maintained ‘British’ eye contact. I think they were encouraged by the American girls. Often a night out would end up with one of the brothers kicking the other one out because of local success. I got to hang out with boys in a platonic way, I took the place of active observer and it was a great lesson in male behaviour which helped me when I became single. I also had a secret, that is, it was a secret I kept from him. It was an early twenties giggle, a secret in the playground, with only one person playing tag. I privately swooned over this modern Robinson Crusoe. He was probably the scruffiest man I have ever been attracted to, and probably the answer to why I don’t mind beards, not that I was ever that close to test out my theories.  Thankfully, on some occasions; I conversed with him at a level beyond bimbo. We would talk and watch the rats run from one pile of trash bags to the next. We established that the rats in New York have a healthy lunch. At other times, there was a guy from Seattle and he would play his guitar and we would all sings songs on the steps of the hostel, bottles of wine getting warmer in their brown paper jackets on the frequently airless nights.  On one occasion, we had to perform dares and I managed to get him to wear one of my bras, even if he did spoil it by wearing the bra over his top, it was hysterical.

I don’t think that the luxury of having now stayed at several fantastic five star hotels will ever wear off, but essentially, a building is a building, with concrete, bricks and glass, much the same as the next. In my professional career, I have been placed in villages, town and cities all over world, the quirky nature of which would surprise even Lady Gaga. I stayed in a small villa with a family in Sri Lanka for a research trip for my master’s degree. It was the first time I had witnessed third world poverty. It was easy to be fooled by the exotic location at first, but you soon come to notice things, and then forget them. Every day I would wake to the sound of competitive chants of the Islamic call for prayer and Christian calls for payer. I would be driven by the family to work shortly after a cold shower, at about 6am. The only part of their morning routine I could not manage was eating curry for breakfast. The mother would roll little parcels of curry and rice into newspaper for each family of the family. She always ate her breakfast upon arrival at work and I would buy little curried egg rolls. Every day before entering work, our bags would be checked for bombs, there was always the chance that someone else would plant bombs into our bags.

We would travel home on the bus together; I always knew when we were nearly home. I could smell the rubbish tip just outside where we changed buses in a dusty shopping village near by the family’s house. The bulls and cows roamed freely over the peak of the tip and grazed on whatever was not plastic or tin. In the village, we would pass an old man, he was black like a currant; he sat like a question mark in the passage way to the next bus stop. I had thought to give him money, but I was told he was most likely just a begging slave. I always noticed a lot of stares as we travelled on our way home, it was quite a site for the people in the village to see a white woman following a Sri Lankan woman. It was even more of a spectacle when I managed that journey with some set phrases by myself, just because I knew exactly where I was going.  I was very proud of myself when I made that journey home from Kandy and I didn’t even call the family to ask for help. Even to this day, I love trying to use local transport, as opposed to swanning around in taxis and tuk tuks. There were also evening rituals I came to love. Every day, it was job to scrap out a coconut to make milk for the curry, and in return, the mother would cut down a papaya fruit from the tree to make some juice for me. Out of respect for the family, I kept to the same spending habits, with the exception of one occasion when I had a foot massage. I begged the daughter not to say anything, but she did anyway. I felt so gulity that I felt obliged to give the mother one, I now understand why everyone makes such a big deal of the fact Jesus washed his disciples feet. Out of silent gratitude to the family, I tried to do everything they way they lived; it was only at the end of my stay when I found out that there was a hot shower in the master bedroom.

When I first arrived in Russia, I took a training course and was placed in a typical Soviet era flat at the last stop of the metro, some forty minutes away from Tverskaya. It was my first visit to Russia and I landed at 4am in the morning and I was taken to a flat with contrasting patterns of jaded orange and brown. After the fuzziness of travelling, temporary shelter in any colour scheme is well received. I awoke the next day to find my roommate and I were locked in by an unsurpassable iron door. Later that day, I went for a run and realised I had no idea which building was mine and I could not speak Russian; it took an hour to find my apartment. It was easier when I lived in the countryside; I lived in a gated community which was surrounded by little Russian, wooden cottages and a number of stray dogs baying for my flesh. I know what would have happened should I have ever been caught in the snow.

For one week in Austria, I was sent to work in a very small village where there is a major rail interchange. I had thought it would be a bustling town before arrival, but soon realised when all my colleagues were collected by local residents and not by taxi, that this was not the case. For one week, I lived in a convent, which could only be reached via a road, up a hill, through the woods which inclined so steeply, even a champion cyclist would have climbed down to walk. We were at the mercy of the punctual, routine of the nuns to provide for us. Every meal was served with a smile and attempts at German to show my gratitude and to provide entertainment. There were only two buses a day which passed the convent and after 7pm at night, the taxis in the village would not take passengers. 

It was an area of lonely magnificence, but when the light faded in the evening, I did not stay in the village centre long enough to become wolf food. The men and women were segregated in different wings of the building. I work in a male dominated industry and found myself all alone in the wing. My room was very pretty, with the old dusk of yellow on the walls and a patch work quilt; however it was stony quiet until morning bird song. At night time, I don’t think any number of crosses over my bed would have stopped my active imagination from believing that ghosts and Dracula were present in the dimly hallway to visit the bathroom. I would look back at every angle behind me, once was I spooked by one of the nuns, gliding in her long, white, night dress.

More recently, I found myself accommodated in a fort, and for the time being, it has cured my internet addiction, the walls were about a metre thick and telephone signal was impossible. My friends took some convincing that they didn’t need further details of my address, other than X fort and, “look up the hill, you can’t miss it”. There was a warren of dangerous tunnels, some of which could have led to my untimely death into a moat. Although perhaps no place was more aptly named than my residence in Ethiopia, Akaki. I had my own small apartment there and on my days off, I managed to take the taxi buses to the Addis Ababa, which was essential, there was nothing in Akaki. In comparison to the world outside our gate, I knew I lived in luxury, with an on- site generator, water and the odd shower. Every day, on the coach to work, I would see cardboard communities peer out of their boxes and plastic sheets, out popped people dressed respectably, fit enough to be a butler. At the weekend, I would watch the community come down to the river and clean their clothes and hang them by the riverbank. Even if the occasional wash in a water butt is not everyone’s idea of luxury or glamour, there was little to complain about, especially once an outbreak of diphtheria was reported nearby. There is probably only one more place that would be unusual to stay at, but I would have to be a very bad girl to have the Queen as my host and guardian.

Thriller night.

Autumn has to be one of my favourite times of the year. I love the change of colours and the wind blustering around. It’s probably the most romantic season of the year, if only for the fact, I’m not sweating, or running away from wasps and bees to actually concentrate being out in the fresh air. I actually find the wind exciting and refreshing, sexy and bewitching. I also like autumn because it’s nearly my birthday, Children in Need, bonfire night and remembrance Sunday. The only thing I don’t like about this time of year is Halloween.

It is just another ‘Hallmark’, festival, commercialised to sell terrible outfits and sweets, much the same as Valentine’s Day.  I have yet to buy anyone a card for that occasion. It’s because I am actually very scared of Halloween, and I don’t like scary films. It stems from watching Poltergeist 1, 2 and 3 at a very early age and now there are several things I dislike. For example, full length mirrors are the best toy available in the bedroom. However, I have only just grown out of the habit of turning the mirrors round in my bedroom at night. I similarly have a hatred of dolls, human puppets and clowns thanks to that film, the shop windows in Prague were the only thing that marred my trip in one of my favourite cities. Furthermore, for some years, I was convinced, even in the day-time that the tree round the corner from where I lived as a child, was going to eat me.

I watched an interview with John Landis recently, and he confirmed that watching scary films at an early age has a deep psychological impact. Even at a later age, scary films can have an impact. I went to see ‘I am Legend’, all by myself with the impression that it was a thought provoking film. I spent half of the movie with my hands over my face, only to remove them at the worst possible moment; I nearly ejected from my seat. As much as I was committed to attending all the lectures of my favourite lecturer at university, I couldn’t manage a viewing of James Cameron’s ‘Alien’. The only two scenes I have seen, by accident, is when the female alien prowls her lair, and when the alien protrudes out of Ripley’s stomach. Even though I am well aware about the facts of life, those images can’t help but overshadow my fear of ever giving birth. I’ll be taking the surrogacy option every time…… I’m also guaranteed to be asleep well before mid-night.

Belated wish

It’s a little bit late, and I’m getting a little too old for wishes, but here goes.

Dear Jim’ll fix it,

First of all, I would have really loved to have been in a Kylie and Jason video. I played with my little sister all the time. We would put our records on and dance around our bedroom; sometimes she was Jason, sometimes I was Kylie. We used to know all the dance routines; I usually played Jason because I could pick her up and spin her around. Although, she suited playing either one, on account of her blonde hair, even if she can’t sing. But then, I’m not sure how well either of them can actually sing. Obviously, time has moved on somewhat, Jason has very few of his feathered blond locks left and probably had all his teeth replaced due to his abuse of cocaine, and Kylie’s had too much botox to sing, it’s time to find a new idea.

Dear Jim, I would like you to fix it for me. I would like to be the star of a musical film scene, or a pop video just like Bjork’s, ‘It’s all so quiet’.  Since you’re now in heaven anyway, probably smoking cigars, maybe you can arrange something with Jerome Robbins. Something like, ‘America’ from Westside Story, a big production with lots of skirts swishing. I will spend hours learning,

I hope you can fix it for me.

Re-growth

I seem to have a knack of not being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A rather last minute change of plan meant that I made a quick dash to Glasgow just before the riots occurred. I’ve always thought that Scottish men are very manly. Indeed, Scottish men have been voted the manliest men in the world. I’m not surprised to hear that! Compared to my recent stay in Italy, it’s easy to see. I don’t think I saw anyone walk in the rain for fear of ruining ‘the look’. In Glasgow, I have seen a number of men running marathons on the street in buckets of rain. It’s actually quite an attractive look, but I noticed something else about these, ‘manly men’ which caused me to notice them. More and more men are growing beards and I think it’s set to spread throughout the UK. 

According to the Times, it’s a growing national trend, and all the cosmetic companies are in fear of losing their newly founded market.  I thought this new awakening and maybe fleeting attraction was merely the result of my monthly cycle. However, it seems I’m just part of a trend set by the depression; a polarization of the genders. Obviously all women wading through the depression are in need of a hero, I consider Barbie and G.I Joe (with a beard) as the best example of the new trend. The theme tune could only be sung by Bonnie Tyler. 

I have established there are five types of men with beards and facial hair. I’m not including the kind of bum fluff that Justin Beiber needs to shave. They are; trendy stubble, wild bohemian, elderly wisdom, distinguished gentleman and hobo scruff.

Starting with designer stubble, consider the example of Hugh Laurie in his role as Doctor House. Or if you’re not careful guys, there’s the gay stereotype, step forward George Michael. Or the unfeasibly and heart-breakingly handsome Tom Ford. But this is a sore point for me and my soft face. It looks attractive, but it’s akin to a child’s fascination with a hot plate on the cooker. It’s fascinating to see, it desires to be touched, but it’s bound to burn later, Sitting on the fence with facial hair just isn’t right, it should either shaved off to Gillette four-blade-precision, or grown just long enough to be soft. Even compared to the category of hobo scruff, it’s still my least favourite.

Of course, I wouldn’t be attractive to those sporting the hobo scruff style alla My Twit from Dahl’s’ ‘The Twits’. Thanks to Dahl’s story-telling, I’m still fascinated with scruffy beards and have been since my childhood. I always used to wonder if men with beards could store crumbs for snacks, the odd cornflake or crisp.

Although, this shouldn’t be confused with wild Bohemian, the most relevant example is Keith Farnel, a comedian from Ireland. I recently had the (mis) fortune to be picked on during his stand-up routine. I rather excitedly put my hand up when he asked the audience, “Who thinks they have the best job in the world”. I was thinking of the day job at the time, but I realised not many had put their hands up, either they were smarter than me, or just miserable. This type of beard is much neater and softer, the likes of which is seen on professional men, such as, lawyers, engineers, encouraged into the normality of 9-5, who would happily live without any of the prestige or money to be, well, a stand-up comedian and happy. I know such types from real life; you meet them in book shops, at poetry readings and in cool jazz music shops or music festivals.

The best example of ‘distinguished gentleman’ I can provide, given my current location, could only be Charles Rennie Mackintosh. This man has a restrained elegance, one that has gone out of fashion. I can only think of a few living examples. An old school friend of mine, even though he is younger than me, had these qualities, even at 15 years of age. This leads to me suspect these men enter the world with beards, moustaches and received pronunciation.

As for ‘Elderly wisdom beard’, this is usually only seen once a year on Christmas day or in the Worthington sweet adverts. Saint Nicolas, or at least the modern incarnation we all know and love, has a long, white beard. Although, ‘Elderly Wisdom beard’, is also worn by some real fruit cakes. Yet the effect is the same, not a single person would dare to question a man with a long white beard and a twinkle in his eye. After all, who wants to wake on Christmas day with a lump of coal in their sack?

Scat girl

It turns out I have been a little self-deluded. Like everyone else, I have a fantasy career that exists in an alternative universe, if I wasn’t doing my current job(s). I’d always imagined I’d be a jazz singer. I’d be singing songs from the capitol masters, something fun and bouncy or raw and tender, particularly, Peggy Lee. Or folk/jazz music from later on in the 70’s, from Brill House singer/song-writer, Carole King, deep, resonate and personal. But it appears, I’m not that deep, vocally of course.

It’s a little vain, but I only ever wanted to sing cool songs. I think it’s in reaction to some of my earlier musical influences. Some of which, were not cool, at least not at the time. I went to a school with a rather progressive head teacher and maths teacher. Instead of the usual stock of Christian songs, our assemblies were enhanced by the songs of ‘The Beatles’ and ‘Simon and Garfunkel’.  The Beatles are cool, but it must have been one of those moments in musical fashion that they weren’t.

My maths teacher’s handlebar moustache was not cool; he was in his element when my school celebrated its 25th birthday. All the pupils were required to dress up in vintage 60’s clothes for a school party. It was either that, or you were with the music teacher tastes, performing musicals. But only the real goodies and the brave took the solo parts in the choir. I was also a goody, but I was shy and I hid in the orchestra. It was certainly different from the musical influences I experienced at home….Queen, Guns and Roses, and Dolly Parton……… Somehow, I know all the verses to ‘When I’m 64’ and I’m a walking jukebox for the Queen music catalogue.

I’m deluded myself that I’ll get to sing the cool songs, I’m firmly with the goodies in Andrew Lloyd Webber land.  Even though he’s earned a score of Grammies, Tony, and Golden awards; writes fantastic songs for sopranos; and he’s popular and rich, but he’s not cool. I can reach a top A, but I can’t get down to the low notes. It’s been process of elimination, (and realisation), discovered from recordings and during lessons that’s left me sulking. I’ve lost my jazz superhero. It seems I either have to wait until I’m older, or consume vast amounts of doughnuts and chocolate.