J'avais Deux Amours

Quote: This night, you will sleep in cheese. (Vincent, on the subject of lingering odours.)

So I finally made it back to Paris and was lucky enough to meet up with Nicole again. I had come across her, if you will remember, in a crépery in Doucier on my grand ride and, as it happened, she was passing through Paris just when I planned to - she on her way home from Malaysia and me on my way to the Alps. We stayed for a night at her cousin’s apartment and then for three nights with her friends, Vincent and Julie.

I was glad to be back. The last time I was in town I stayed for one night only and saw almost nothing, for which I was determined to make amends. Specifically, it had been niggling me that I didn’t take the opportunity in the Summer to drop in to the Musée d’Orsay. I love the masters of impressionism and I had a yearning, cultivated over the course of years, to see them properly and in all their glory.

After wandering along the Champs Elysée for a pleasant hour or so on our first morning, Nicole and I, on an opportunistic whim, popped into the Musée de L’Orangerie. After charming a guard into letting us in for free, we entered the room of waterlillies - the same scene at four different times of the day, depicted in huge works covering the four walls of the elliptical room that was designed for the purpose by Monet himself. It takes a while to take in, but eventually you just float off into them in a sort of white buzz, which I’m pretty in to.

The second and third days saw us at the Louvre and Versailles, respectively. I say the Louvre, but what I really mean is the foyer of the Louvre (where the pyramids meet). There wasn’t anything I particularly wanted to see inside and I don’t believe in forcing these things, so we opted for some tea instead at 12 euros apiece. Versailles, on the other hand, was a great success, though the gardens and Marie Antoinette’s private dwellings, which I’d particularly wanted to see, were both closed due to the weather.

This guy, by Takashi Murakami, fits right in at Versailles. No idea why; he just does.

That night, the one preceding my last day in Paris, I prepped for the big boy. I think seeing the Musée d'Orsay was one of the key reasons why I came to Europe, so it was with trepidation that I began researching the night before. I scrolled through cyber-galleries of Klimt and Courbet for a while before discovering with a shock that most of the Monets had been relocated to a temporary exhibition at the Grand Palais and that tickets to it were long-gone. Annoying, but I consoled myself that I could still see some peaches by Manet and Degas and that all was not lost.

We rolled up at 9:25 in the morning, but it didn’t open until 9:30, so we popped (plopped) over the road to a cafe and I had some coffee while Nicole scoffed her first crépe of the day. We then re-made the sodden trip, giggling smugly at the lack of tourists here at such an exceedingly early hour, before discovering that it didn’t open on Mondays.

“Aww,” I laughed, as Nicole smiled timidly at me.

“What do you want to do?” She asked.

“Cry,” I joked. “Why don’t we head over to Le Marais for an early lunch?”

Le Marais is in an historic quarter of the city with some cool little streets that I was keen to see, as well as a cafe/bookshop called La Belle Hortense - one of Nicci’s recommendations from ages ago. We also decided to go to the Picasso Museum there, which, for a hastily made plan B, I was pretty excited by. We took a couple of trains, which went fine, but came unstuck at the other end, getting lost on the short walk to the cafe. After an hour or more of walking through the snow and sludge we finally found it, only to discover that it, too, was closed.

“Son of an arse!” I cursed in French.

“Cul,” responded Nicole, automatically.

“Eh?”

“‘Cul’. You said ‘coup’”

“Yes. Fine. Thankyou, but godddamn it! This is ridiculous.”

We had another coffee and a crépe, respectively, and decided to go find Picasso. After another half hour’s freezing search we found it, and to our delight it was open on Mondays, but, it soon became apparent, not until March, due to renovations.

I took a deep breath, and decided my French wasn’t up to it. Even I had a crépe this time.

We headed home to dry our feet and to prepare for our final night - a brief walk and climb to the top of Montmartre and an excellent dinner at Chez Ginette, which was all spiffing. To wander the streets of Montmartre is really to step into the classic, imagined Paris. It was particularly lovely that night, standing on the frosty steps of the Basalique du Sacré Coeur watching the fog rolling over the city below us. At the restaurant I had a pavé de boef with foie gras. It was the first time I tried foie gras, but I don’t think I’ll have it again. Lovely taste, but not good enough to justify the awful things you have to do to the geese to get it.

So there you have it. I wouldn’t say Paris was a success, but I wouldn’t call it a failure either. I guess I’ll be back in the Spring to see D’Orsay. And I guess I’ll plan things better.

Heartfelt thanks go to Nicole, her cousin, Anne-Laure, and Vincent and Julie for their generosity and for their company.

Merry Christmas and best wishes to all,

Michael

Huzzah!

But first, here are some hazy shades of Winter:

In other news, in spite of bloody awful market conditions over here, I've landed myself a rather juicy internship at the Social Market Foundation, a think-tank with very good connections to Whitehall. It begins on the 4th of January, running for about two months, and it seems I'll have a very good degree of freedom regarding what research project I come up with. I'm pleased as punch, and best of all, I get to wear my new suit past Westminster every morning! (Try it yourself and you'll know what I'm talking about.)

(ice cold)

Best to all,

Michael

London Calling

Quote: Ex-English cricketer in a spot interview, on being asked for his views on assisted suicide: “I think people should do their own thing.”

So I’ve been living it up the English way for a month and a half or so, but have lots of traveling in the pipeline, so I thought it might be a nice time to jot down a story and a few thoughts on London.

View from my balcony as Winter steals in

 First of all, I’ve finished up my brief spell of working, which has been quite nice. I had to finish due to all this travel I have planned. (I’m off to Paris for a week on the 16th and then I’m spending some time on the ski slopes with Gab, Nic and co. in the French Alps for Christmas.) Also, I’d earned about as much as I wanted to (enough to make the trip possible) and I was damned if I was going to let my travel job get in the way of my traveling. (Most significantly, the Ashes began, with play starting daily at midnight.)

In addition to all this, I didn’t like the blokes running the shop. I got on very well with everyone I was actually working with in a day to day sense, as well as the actual customers (“Really? Well, you speak excellent English for an Australian”), but with the upper management, so to speak, there were some issues. First of all, I didn’t like them paying next to nothing and then treating their workers as if it was a privilege to be working there. I was told when I arrived that I’d be paid six pounds an hour initially, which would go up if I made it past a ‘trial period’ (of indeterminate length). However, on my first day, it became apparent that this was not the case. The three guys that had been working the longest - at least two years apiece - were all earning the same minimum wage, despite two of them now playing managerial roles. Not a good start.

Secondly, there was a petty, passive aggressive stance taken by these upper managers. Criticisms would not come directly from them, unless they were the sort of wishy-washy things that there is no reasonable response to. I remember one occasion when I had asked the owner, who had just entered the shop, if there was anything in the van to be brought in. He responded that I should show some initiative. Not being sure whether that answer was in the positive or not, I asked again, “so, does that mean there is something in the van?”

A message was passed on (via several links) to me the next day that I should show more respect.

Fundamentally, there was a clash of philosophies (and egos). The workplaces where I’ve done best in are the ones that take as starting points that everyone is equal, albeit within a hierarchy, and that the guiding principle is that there is a job of work to be done and everyone will get in and do it (together). I am unaccustomed to (and apparently unwilling to acclimatise to) workplaces where there is a class system and one player can criticise without being criticised.

I could go on, but you get the point. I made a series of arrogant gaffes, some intentional and some simply stupid (said unthinkingly to the manager upon a sudden, humorous realisation, “you know, on hour, I’m earning less than a quarter of what I was in my last job?”) all of which resulted in my services no longer being required.

Not that I intended to be still working by now, but it’s like the break-up game; I would have preferred to have got in first and done it on my terms.

Oh well. I regret nothing. And the beef bourgignon, followed by pears poached in red-wine, that Mark and I had for dinner tonight was delicious.

London: watchful

More importantly, London: I love it and I intend to live and work here properly (as a professional) at some point. There’s a great energy here that’s complex and understated. I said a few months ago that Berlin promotes itself. Well London doesn’t and it never has. No-one says how great London is the way they do Paris, Barcelona, New York, etc. They say the weather’s rubbish and people hate each other (which is true).

The reason for this is that London has never had to. For a huge period of time, London was the centre of world power. It was both unassailable as an Empire and isolated geographically. A famous English headline once read ‘FOG IN CHANNEL  - CONTINENT CUT OFF’, which says a lot. It also speaks a lot about the English Dream - to be resplendently aloof (read isolated and unassailable) as a person, which is a dream I’m pretty taken in by, even if I see the pitfalls.

My teeth were always sensitive to the cold

The second wonderful thing about being here, which I don’t think you can quite get anywhere but London, is connecting to the language. It’s one of the things I like most about my heritage and, in my opinion (and also, I’ll admit, Jeremy Paxman’s), the great gift of England to the world. This country, historically at least, doesn’t boast many visual artists or great composers, but from Shakespeare to Gervais, it does boast wordsmiths. Language is so crucial. It’s how we define ourselves and explain, like, instantly which community we belong to and where we fit in that community. That's true everywhere, of course, but in London, this tapestry of accents, intonations and syntactical showmanship is alive and wriggling.

Oh, and I have a football team. Turns out I support Tottenham.

I think I’ll come back after the wedding in India, and I might even come back after the wedding in April. When it will be warmer.

Best to all,

Michael

Bum Trip II (Guest Post)

(Or 'The Revenge of the Short, Fat, Balding Ticket Inspector')

Ah Paris. Beautiful Paris. Nothing wrong with Paris. Not at all. Except the metro. It's a bit seedy and untimely. And maybe the catacombs. They're a bit unusual. But oh, what a beautiful place. History and sandstone mixed inspiringly into one. Not an eyesore in sight.

Wake up on time - bags packed. What better way to spend one's last day in Paris than by exploiting one's EU passport - allowing us to see the Rodin Museum (and therefore the auspicious Thinker statue) for free? We get bowls for breakfast, rather than needing to use glass cups.  We're even out by 10 - the earliest this week!

It is generally known that clouds with a puffy, white and relatively horizontal in its disposition are normal clouds. It is also generally know that clouds with a darker base are pre-empting a storm. The taller and darker the clouds - the worse the storm will be. The first sight of the dark clouds on any trip are normally ignored with a wave of the hand - "They'll pass over."

The metro required 3 changes with a heavy backpack and requiring an hour in duration. Half of our last morning in Paris - gone! And to what? Seedy individuals, metro stop signs and Assassins Creed
3 adverts. But hey, at least the city is beautiful, right?

The winds pick up - all of a sudden things seem a little on edge. The champagne and cheese slinks away into the basket.

"The Rodin museum is closed!?!?"

Correspondents in the field

The museums of Paris (except the Louvre) close on Mondays - rendering my passport useless. A man drops a box of wine - smashing it onto the floor, wine gushing into the gutter like water during a downpour. It’s the single moment that one realises the storm will probably not pass over - the awkward realisation that the wind has changed direction, and the clouds have somewhat materialised to pin you in the middle. But you think its still recoverable - the day's still young. But you still start packing away most of the things in preparation for a quick dash to the car.

It's okay - we still have some post to do. There's even a post office down the road. We write down what is needed - 'Can I please send this package- normal post - to England?. Thankyou very much! :)' I mean it has worked previously - days before at the train ticket office, the TGV train ticket for today - the 15th - is reserved with relative ease. The woman smiled at the smiley face and asked for the unusually high 25 euro reservation fee.

'No,' she says, 'it's an international ticket you see.'  Fair enough, that makes sense I suppose.

'It must go regular post - just put it on the weigher over here.... That will be 10 euros," the man from the post office says.

The money jingles as the other ten euros are given as loose change. A pain - but no matter, it can go in the coin purse. 'Now just go to a newsagents, and you will get an envelope...then it will send'. That's another thing that is wrong with Paris. They don't have envelopes in post offices. Paradoxical and absurdist one must admit - but nonetheless, we still have time.

We head over to Champs-Elysees. The Arc de Triomphe, the centre of the cityscape beats like a heart - enthusiastic tourists spread around the city to lose their audacity at the Louvre and return days later to repeat the process. We decide -being THE major street- that the Lapost will surely have envelopes.

"No," the man with the awkward green shoes says, "go to Monoprix - down there."

He points directly downwards, to his feet

"No. Get a box." 

Another problem with Paris - the people seemingly don't understand the concept of pointing to indicate direction - pointing merely gives cryptic messages left for the tourist to decipher. But hey, at least the city is beautiful, right?

We decide to split - I'll walk up, Gab'll walk down. Endless walking. No dice. Walk back.

"Oh, it's just across the road," she says.

We walk in - we search for what seems like hours. I approach the counter - the manager, in cheap suit and tie is there. He must know - right?

"No... Not here. Go to the post office."

"They just  sent me here"

"No."

We continue our search - at last, success! Well sized, brown envelopes. We walk back to the post-office. Well, its taken nearly an hour all up, but it will be done. Packaged, addressed, stamped. I re-approach the man with the awkward green shoes.

"No."

"Why not?!?"

"It's too thin... I can't send it"

"I have a whole packet - I'll put it into 5 envelopes"

"No. There's another post office just left of monoprix. Go there".

That's another problem with Paris. The people in public positions are very unhelpful.  But hey, at least he didn't point this time. We walk speedily there - our train is for the 15th at 3:25. We walk in - "Its fine. Just put this onto it." She takes the sticker from my hand and puts it onto the parcel and off it goes.  So the package is off to the UK. We've wasted our last morning, but hey, nothing's perfect, right?

We get back to the hostel and head to the train station. A beggar, who's knees are facing the wrong direction, 'stands' like a dog, knees protruding behind him, palms on the floor,  barking for spare change. We've made the train in good time - even managing to get rid of some of the ridiculous amount of change to get a coffee. That's another problem with Paris - having coffee is like doing a shot of vodka. It's all in espressos. But hey - at least you’re doing coffee shots in a ridiculously beautiful building, right?

Storm. n. A disturbance of the normal condition of the atmosphere, manifesting itself by winds of unusual force or direction, often accompanied by rain, snow, hail, thunder, and lightning, or flying sand or dust.

Nic considers the arse-end of travel

The sun cannot find its way through the clouds. It’s dark, extremely windy. The rain lashes through your jacket, soaking you. You left your escape too late. The car was twice the guessed distance, and it now looks like someone's thrown you into a pool fully clothed.

Train to Brussels Midi. Number 4664. Platform 8 - making it with 20 minutes to spare. The man directs us to our seats - carriage six. They are extremely comfortable. Its almost unfortunate that it's only an hour trip.

"Tickets please".

The ticket collector is fat and balding. But hey, no one's perfect right? In any case, nothing could possibly go wrong. We've just written the 15th into the pass - having learnt a wise lesson from Bum Trip Part I.

"Its the wrong date. It says the 12th"

The collector grabs the passes, placing them into his briefcase. Bile rises. Anger hits its peak. Naturally, one begins to argue. He's unwilling to listen. Every last detail on the ticket is identical - the time, the train number, destination. All except the date - the 12th. We show him the message, protesting how we wrote the 15th - it couldn't possibly be our fault.

"No."

That's another problem with the french. They all speak the same. "No" ..."No" ..."No" ...There's no extension to the 'o' sound. It’s cut short. Uncaring. Lifeless.

" How much?"

" 98 euros. Each."

"We don’t have that money"

"Pay by credit card."

"We've paid 25 euros to book the ticket. This is ridiculous."

"No." 

We have but no other option. We pay the 100 euros each - virtually all the money that we've accumulated by staying under budget throughout Paris. Gone. Instantaneously. Apparently we're accountable for checking the tickets - even though it says in clear writing '15th' on the paper we wrote the booking for. Suddenly the smiley face with 'Merci beaucoup!' is a lot less joyful.

There's an old saying. "When it rains, it pours."

And don't you forget it.


Nic Cholerton
Paris, France
November 15, 2010

Letter from America (Guest Post)

Well, friends and family, the world may not be the oyster it once was, but I can still taste the tabasco …..and where better to do so than the US of A.

It was a two week stint OS, the prospects of which had been looming over the preceding months. I was concerned about my ability to not only get through the performance physically, but to switch from stay-at-home mum to the impassioned performer, battling with the stage's bastardised reckoning of man and God. No measly topic.

Adding to the mayhem, the weekend before we left, Ben and I suddenly decided to move house, so, amidst a sprall of boxes and without the familiar reference of home, Monty had his first week away from his Mum. He and his Nana permitted each other's company for the week, but he wouldn't accept expressed milk. However, he quite happily starved until I returned home in the evening.

I, on the other hand, felt free as a bird walking into that dance studio. I'd had a year off, and was ceremonially greeted with a cheer by my fellow dancers. Embarrassed, my breasts immediately started leaking everywhere. The homo-sexual men (who made up all but two of us) were horrified.

So, on the Monday we headed off. The flight ahead was 27 hours: Melbourne to Sydney, Sydney to LA, (get through customs), LA to Chicago, Chicago to Albany. I couldn’t believe I was going to attempt this with a five-month old. We worked pretty solidly at keeping him happy and, thankfully, Monty made it without trauma. Co-passengers congratulated us as they streamed past.

Troy, where we were performing, is straight out of a Martin Scorsese film. Quite literally. Though so well preserved from the 1950s, it’s now pretty much only a relic of a town. All except for its Rensselear University where they have the most wiz bang theatre in all of America (currently), where we were to perform.


After a day’s rest, my first call was a rehearsal/group swim in the university pool, after which we snuck into the gymnasium (classic, with running track) and while students shot hoops as our back drop, we danced the luscious ballet of the greek gods. Monty watched on.

Day 2 Ben had the stage looking special, and we were ready to start getting the show together.

Monty spent the theatre remount backstage with his babysitter, Rosabell. So in love they were, we had to pay her to give him back. Then still, she gave him a few of her own children’s toys. They squark in Spanish. I'd peep my head in to see him on the way past, wearing my various costumes. Then for the performances he and Ben watched from a special quiet box. 




It's an interesting experience performing this particular show in America. A great portion of the work is an ode to the Jones Town Massacre, but its aspect on cult in general has for me an American twang. As I perform it I feel a sadness, or rather a mellow unity with the spirituality of these people. I must say, Americans do tend to 'get' the work. At any rate, it's funny performing in our put-on American accents, to Americans.

I think we did well. It had been hard for us to re-find the work, but I think we were in charge of it, rather than it running ahead out of our reach as it had felt during rehearsals. The choreographer was gushing about my performances, so I felt my job done. The morning after closing night, I slept a good long way on the train down the Hudson River to New York City, knowing the task no longer loomed ahead – and confident that I hadn't lost it after all.

We spent five nights in NYC, in a privately rented apartment in the East Villiage, Manhattan. Ben's brother, Adam, flew up from South America to spend the holiday with us. He met Monty for the first time and they found themselves instantly compatible. 

Ben hadn't been to New York City before, so we spent the days ticking off the lists of must-sees. I'd say the highlights were the Gugenheim, the matzo ball soup from Katz Deli, a walk through the real Brooklyn (not white-artsy Brooklyn), watching a class of Jewish Orthodox kindergarteners (be-decked with budding side curls and all) with their Rabbi on their excursion to the Statue of Liberty, and, well, just that completely characterised enthusiastic and impatient, ever churning energy that is New York City.

It was definitely time to come home when it was, though, and the return flight extravaganza was the last test before life resumed its at-home normalcy. I held Monty at my breast for the whole 30-odd hours and my arms got really sore - but it was worth it. I'm sure Monty thought so too.

I hope you've enjoyed my rendition! It's been hard to catch seconds alone to write, but nice to pretend I'm still on the road with you bloggers.

Great travels to all, and don't go having babies!!!!!!

 

Clair Cisterne
12 October, 2010

Frankfurt

Went to Frankfurt today. (Just normal, but I thought I’d mention it.) I had to pick up a bassoon from Mr Puchner for Francesca.

I woke up at quarter past five to catch my ten past eight flight, which you might think is overdoing it a little, but it wasn’t til I found some free internet on the express train from Paddington to Heathrow that I realised that my plane wasn’t leaving Heathrow, but rather London City Airport on the other side of town. I arrived at Heathrow terminal one, insulted its mother casually, crossed the platform and got on a train back to Paddington. There I took a forty pound taxi ride over to the correct airport, bought a coffee, threw it away, and boarded my flight.

The countryside around Frankfurt is charming at the moment. All the leaves are changing colour and embarking and it’s all very peaceful.

Strangely for such an affluent part of Germany, no-one seemed to speak much English, so I had to get by in patchy phrases, like “ein fur Russelsheim Hauptbahnhof, please,” und “Wo ist der shit-hause?” But I managed ok.

Beethovenstrasse, where the Puchners have been producing fine instruments for 113 years

In other news, I now have a British mobile and the number is 07 856 280 711. I’m carrying three phones now and am starting to feel a bit like a drug dealer.

Best,

Michael

Design For Living

A Review

“Look it’s perfectly simple, or at least it should be. I love you. You love me. You love Otto. I love Otto. Otto loves you. Otto loves me.”

Andrew Scott, Lisa Dillon and Tom Burke as intertwined lovers Leo, Gilda and Otto

Noel Coward’s Design For Living concerns itself solely with words and their ability to seduce. Stripped back to just the words, the play would lose nothing, for the setting, characters, story itself, are merely vessels for the utterances that they contain. The play is an expression of Coward’s love for himself, and all those that can summon words at will and who are thereby part of his world. Director Anthony Page, in his current production at Coward’s own Old Vic Theatre, not only comprehends the significance of words in this whimsical work, but is skillfully meek in his ability to allow the dialogue to take centre stage.

The drama is set in the 1930s and follows the struggles of three lovers trapped in an emotional menage a trois as they come to grips with their situation. She is an interior decorator. He is a playwright. And he is an artist. All of them are in love. Really. While this immediately marks them as societal outsiders, the more important distinction that raises them above the other characters (and their banal morality) is a shared mastery of language. Wielding the power of words, or “talking nonsense” as it is described to the characters of Coward’s world that lack this power, places the lovers above all others and, like Greek gods, they are beholden only to those of their own elevated rank. Indeed, those denied words are denied life itself. As the title suggests, in a world where the only currency is words, those without them lack the ‘design for living’.

The play purposefully employs an awkward, obvious structure, with little real dramatic ‘action’. Each of the three acts are placed in a different city - Paris, London and New York, respectively- and in each act, one lover goes through two tests. The first is to deal with the tormenting ascent into professional success, and the second is to be torn asunder from the other two lovers, which is to say words, which is to say life. Each is then drawn back into the fold and the emotional and sexual triangle that is so repulsive to outsiders, but so inexorable to insiders. The dramatic progression is painfully laborious, (which will doubtless repulse audience members outside of the joke as it does characters who are), but the three leads are to be applauded for injecting something approximating emotional journeys into a play that is not concerned with the traditional dramatic idea at all. Our interest, of course, is not with their journeys, but rather with the sweet nothings that a smiling Coward is whispering in our ears.

Similarly, the supporting cast is impressive in their ability to draw life into badly drawn sketches of characters. While one could criticise the obviousness of the servants’ disdain, which is, at best, vaudevillian, given the two levels of character that exist, this seeming theatrical mistake is again exactly correct. Their thoughts should be obvious, their movements clumsy and their jokes clown-like. They cannot be part of the joke, and the self-awareness along with it, that the wordsmiths and audience share.

Fittingly again, Lez Brotherston’s set is necessarily simple, elegant and awkward. There is one room in each act in which the action takes place and while the three visages are opulent to be sure, the purpose of the play is not forgotten. Each room is spiritually hollow. Be it a shambling artist’s studio in London, a townhouse in Paris or a lavishly moneyed New York penthouse, the setting is lifeless. It is as if the physicality of the space is almost embarrassing when compared to the richness of the parallel world that inhabits it, in the conversation between lovers.

Strangely, the tawdry affairs comically depicted here capture more exactly my own experience of seduction than any stock standard love story ever could. The feeling, for me at least (I will divulge), is something like the tense moment of realising a heist. My elation is heightened, or rather dwarfed, by the feeling that I have stolen something, or achieved something that was never mine to achieve. It is the fascination of one’s own power and the shocking thrill of catching one’s self wielding it.

Coward shares this thrill, and is aware of it. Like Shakespeare before him, he has fallen prey to the fantasy of seducing someone utterly with words. As Shakespeare’s Puck simpers in the final lines of a play on the subject of the same fantasy, ‘think you have but slumbered here’. One can reach out and grab hold of the rich, fatty smugness in the words, in which the Shake crows unashamedly at his seduction; a lover that is all-powerful, completely irresistible, and who knows it. Coward inherits from his eloquent predecessor not only the love of words and a fascination with the heady power that accompanies them, but also the cock-suredness and lazy indulgence of a lover under his own spell. We are a plaything in his fingers and can only hope that he will give in to us as we gave in long ago.

Design For Living is a masterful production of a work by a powerful wordsman that leaves one raggedly wishing for more.


Design For Living is showing at the Old Vic Theatre until November 27. It runs for three hours with two twenty minute intervals.

Michael Peters
London, October 2010

Two Letters (Guest Post)

Dear Mother,

Life here is tough.

The mud comes up to my knees and stops me sleeping. Gab has drowned - can no longer go on. I can’t go on much longer either. I bend my head, about to give in to the sorrow. A voice whispers on the wind; “Chicken or fish for supper?” My tears break out.

We were deployed two weeks ago. The cold was unbearable - gad it was cold. Our first stop was Marlborough, a small country town southwest of London and the home of Nic's grandparents, Robert and Clare Napier. We disembarked from the shuttle and were frog-marched across the inhospitable territory of daisy-covered fields, riddled with enemy sheep and ferocious face-eating cows. We continued this way for some time, scouring canals and surveying the landscape from the heights of the downs. It was a gastly place. A criss-crossing of truly horrific and hostile plants which, if caught on the sleeve, could rip a man's arm clean off.
 

The barracks in which we are being held are by way of a torture chamber. We are required to get up at the horrendous hour of ten o’clock each morning without fail. We are then fed a measley three-course meal (the terrible home-made strawberry jam and marmalade included) which we are forced to live on for the next three hours until we must consume another banquet while held at gunpoint of course. The dinners are too painful for me to speak of. They are a truly horrifying choice of roast duck, gammon and the local fresh trout (caught that morning by our host).

That’s all I can speak of for now before complete mental breakdown. Will write again when find strength to go on. Give my love to the fish.

 - Nic and Gab

 _

  

Hey Everyone,

Yeah, as seen above we’ve had pretty easy sailing. We spent two weeks here touring England in the lap of luxury. We then trundled off to Ireland for a week where we stayed in University of Limerik with a friend of mine. The Irish are crazy and drink like they don’t want to live. It was great!

    But to be totally honest it’s not been all cherry-flavoured-chunks-of-goodness. We (‘we’ as in ‘gab’. Nic’s been vomiting on most transport while resenting my ability to sleep anywhere at anytime) have spent vast amounts of time sleeping off the night before or just generally doing nothing. For example, yesterday we spent the day holed up inside some art-students share-house in Cork watching Beauty and the Beast. I regret nothing.

    Really the worst part about traveling is that you’re the one doing it and you’re still as moody and insecure as you were at home You’re still not some hot-shot-jet-setter with money and charisma flowing around them like the water round Mickey Mouse in Fantasia. And just to make this clear, there are always funny stories and situational dramas spotted around the whole adventure but in between these episodes is lots and lots of sitting around trying to be organised for the next thing you’re supposed to be planning to do.

  I’d say the best thing we’ve experienced so far is the range of interesting characters we’ve met. Also trying to imitate local lingo is fun and apparently hilarious to the person you’re trying to imitate.

   Anyways, we don’t really want to bore you with a list of the things we’ve done. If you want to chat or hear the stories, shoot us an e-mail telling us that Sydney still loves us and we’ll get back to you asap (gabriellepeters@live.com).

Xoxoxoxo ttyl brb wtf gtfo bffl,   

Nic and Gab

Swings and Roundabouts

Well it’s me again. (Don’t worry, Gina still features early on.)

I’m so into that last photo on the last post that I thought I’d indulge you with a couple more.

Cool colours, huh?

All persons walking in Petersfield in groups of more than one will be shot

And also, just to set the record straight, here is my beardy beard. It’s not Chopper. It’s not Ivan Milat. It’s not Major General from Pirates of Penzance. It’s 18th Century Russian aristocrat (obviously).

The shot is taken in my new apartment, which warrants some explanation. I arrived in London and went to a nasty, but cheap hostel. There, I chatted to a few people (also cheap and nasty) who, like me, intended to find apartments and jobs in London. They had, to a one, found it very difficult. One of them had been trying on both fronts for two and a bit weeks without any success at all. I was a bit put out by the conversation, but it was nothing compared to waking up the next morning to find that my wallet was gone. I sleep with it in the front right pocket of my jeans on me when in hostels, so I must have been pick-pocketed while sleeping. Rough.

As is standard when I am annoyed, I bought some cigarettes and went to a cafe. Barely had I sat down, but a kindly looking woman smiled at me. Hoping for someone to commiserate with, I offered her a seat and a cigarette. She gave me a quizzical look, explained that she owned the place and then sat down anyway and took out her own cigarettes. I explained my predicament and after talking for about fifteen minutes she volunteered the idea that, seeing as I was a good sort, I meet a good friend of hers, who might like to have me as a housemate. Fifteen minutes after that she drove me there and introduced me to Mark, a fifty-something-year-old conductor. And then she left.

Mark, as it turned out, was also on the way out, so he gave me a set of keys and then he left. I sat down on my bed in the silent house, not really knowing what to do next. However, four days later I’m still not dead, so I am (as I so often am) more than a bit indebted to a kind and trusting person instead.

People won't get pick-pocketed while sleeping when I run this place

Rent is 75 pounds a week and the apartment is on Shirland Rd, pretty much bang in the middle of London. This is ludicrously cheap as the apartment is lovely.

The next step is getting a job. I have a trial shift at a cafe on Portabello Rd (10 minutes walk from home) next Tuesday, so fingers crossed.

However, my bank card is gone. Could you all please give my dad a call and ask him to check his email asap so as to cancel the card? I can’t work out a way to do it on the net. Seriously, everyone call him. (I’m looking your way, whoever keeps reading me in China.) Also, does anyone know how I can access my money now?

Best,

Michael

Georgina! (Guest Post)

Hello all, if you don’t know me, I’m Gina, one of Judith’s twenty (?) grandchildren, and consequently Michael’s cousin. Michael has coerced me into writing a guest blog about my travels so far. I suggested that I only write about the weekend I spent with him, but he seemed to think that people would want to know what I had been up to all year. However, if you only want to hear about Michael (and I won’t blame you, he’s much more interesting than me) skip down to the last paragraph.

My year began arriving in London on the 2nd of January to sub zero temperatures, wind and snow! The weather was so atrocious, that both the trains and most of the schools in Southern England were cancelled for a week (my childhood dream). The unexpected extra 5 days in London were exciting, but finally arriving at Dunhurst and being able to unpack my international sized suitcase was a welcome relief.

I suppose that Dunhurst is best known, as related by me, for having the children of the rich and famous. I have told anyone that will listen that Jude Law’s son goes to Dunhurst, and consequently I have had a few relatively long conversations with Jude himself. To say that this was the climax of the year would be very sad, but it was definitely a highlight. Other students of note include the nephew of Helena Bonham-Carter and Noel Gallagher of Oasis’ daughter. When I tell people I’m a GAP student at Dunhurst they often nod their head and say “oh a gappy, that’s great”. However, from further research I honestly don’t think anyone knows what Gap students do, and fair enough, I’m still working it out and I guess it changes from school to school. From my 9 months of experience, I can say we do something in just about every area in the school. We act as an extra pair of eyes for supervision, of legs, for helping with P.E. and games, of ears for answering reception phones and of hands, for stapling and photo copying calendars, address books, reports, newsletters......the list goes on.  The work is pretty easy and although stapling and photocopying can be psychologically damaging when things don’t work (I’m not even joking, it should be addressed in OH&S), my brain has remained pretty dormant for the year. The absolute best part of the job is the holidays. The English school year includes a lot more holidays than the Australian one (It feels like it anyway). They have 3 weeks between terms, and 9 weeks for the summer, As well half term breaks, where they decide they’ve had enough about half way through the term, and take a week off! This arrangement works nicely for me, and come the holidays I have been jet setting off to nearby Europe!

The 9 weeks of the summer holidays went by very quickly, starting with a smaller than usual family holiday with my mum, Nat, Fran and Jacq in our epic wicked van adventure! The week and a half of road tripping up to the Lakes district was fantastic with highlights including; a Camelot theme park, visiting Pemberly, Beatrix Potter enthusiasm, fabulous singing and navigating in the back seat of the Wicked van, and a freezing cold swim and photo shoot in the lake! After a few days of mother daughter bonding in Yorkshire, including singing “Wuthering heights” by Kate Bush in the moors, I piled onto a Topdeck bus, along with 39 other girls and 6 boys, for a trashy, 18 year old Gap student tour of Europe. The trip was superb with a mixture of fun filled days of sightseeing in the sun (a welcome relief from the cloudiness of England) and tipsy nights of ridiculous drinking games and extremely cheap and nasty vodka. My favourite part of Topdeck was probably sailing for 3 days in the Greek Islands. During the days there was nothing to do except lie in the sun, drinking in the Vitamin C and beautiful sea breeze, as well as stopping in the middle of the Mediterranean for a swim!

At the beginning of our 5 hour hike through the Swiss Alps, going the opposite direction to every other hiker

The third and last instalment of the summer holidays was solo travelling with my friend Claire. We braved the summer crowds and heat in Pompeii, where the tourists were everywhere and the heat and dust almost overwhelming. However, we were prepared with our homemade sandwiches, giant water bottles and €4 wide-brimmed hats purchased in Naples and explored the day away, avoiding the big groups. We caught an extremely uncomfortable overnight train to Sicily, and our first day there was not a fun one, full of sleazy Sicilian men. However, once off the streets (and with the most unflattering and unrevealing clothes we could find) Palermo was actually quite nice. The cathedral and Norman palace there were stunning with spectacular mosaics. The beach was similarly beautiful, except that there were a trillion people there! The best part of the third instalment was going to La Tomatina in Valencia, Spain. One hour of getting Tomatoes hurled at you, and being drenched by the industrial strength fire hoses was definitely an experience. My favourite part of the day, was after the tomatoes had all been thrown and the locals came out of their houses, equipped with hoses and buckets, and began hosing down the festival goers. We finished the summer with a week in Barcelona, which I plan to move to in my future life where I am a millionaire!

Claire and I at Pompeii just before my camera ran out of battery

I want to end by giving a brief account of my weekend-and-a-bit with Michael because, after all, this is his blog. Apparently, Michael’s original plans were to surprise me by arriving in London, travelling down to Petersfield station, making his way to the school and arriving at reception demanding to see me. Thankfully Gab ratted him in out, so I had time to prepare and plan things out. When he arrived on Thursday I had to look twice before I was sure it was him, he’s grown some bizarre facial hair that makes him look like a skinnier brown haired, Chopper Reid cross Major General from Pirates of Penzance. Friday night was wet and cold, and after abandoning a trip to London, we saw a movie in Portsmouth with the French assistant Marrine. The unexpected highlight was the pub we went to whilst waiting for the next train to Petersfield, where everyone was in fancy dress, the majority were cross dressed and we danced the night away with male nuns and men in leather stripper outfits. Saturday brought a trip to Winchester and a crazy night out in Petersfield  where we were on the verge of being kicked out of the karaoke bar for singing the likes of YMCA, Barbie Girl and Down Under!

The three Dunhurst Gaps, avoiding the inevitable mud of Petersfield

My Special thanks goes to Mum, Jacq, Fran, Nat, Michael, Gab and Nick for visiting me over in the rainy country that is England, and making my long stay a little more homely.

Georgina McKenzie
Petersfield, UK
3 October, 2010

Belgium (with respect to Wordsworth)

Composed 20 Miles from Tintern Abbey, On Visiting an Old Friend During a Tour, October 1, 2010


Three years have past; three summers with the length
Of three summers! and again I see
These blue hills, rolling from their mountain-heights
With no inland murmur of water or doubt.
Behold again this bright and lofty gaze
That on a warm scene past impressed
Thoughts of a more secluded scene, but
Had no strength to fling and flopped
Into the dark repose of night.

The day is come when I repose
Here under a sloping ceilinged roof, and view
These plots of well-tilled earth, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their full, ripe fruits,
Are clad in nothing, and lose themselves
‘Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These lively woods run wild where none
Are judged, but rather loved in turn by
Simple animals and vagrant dwellers.

Though long absence has not been to me
I feel the stern gaze of blue mountains that
I cannot see, but know have grown old
Too early and hardened into cold blue rocks.
And as I left with twinkling eyes and wondered
If we’d speak again I think of love and warmth and
Want only for adventures beyond the reach of the
Wise and old for they know nothing, but what they
Remember from a youth that is spent.

Sarah

Bit of a selfish one, folks, but it is my party, don’t you know.

My sincere thanks go to Sarah, her boyfriend, Sam, and their housemate, Valerie, who put me up for quite a few nights and were lovely hosts. I believe they did the same for Georgina a month or two ago, so I am, once again, indebted to some very generous people.

Best to all and stand by for a guest post or two from some fellow travelers whom you all know well,

Michael

Amsterdam

Coolest guys we could find in Dresden

Lost: Another towel (fortunately I have one of those large, middle-eastern-style scarves though)

Found: Another four kilos (yep, I’m a chubby-chub)

Anyway, what I meant to say (before my bum trip) was that after leaving Berlin, Michael and I rocked around Dresden for a while. We didn’t know where the good places to go out were, so we drank cheap beer on the streets before following the coolest looking people we could find, going to whatever venue they went to. This proved to be very effective.

We went from there to Bonn, which, in comparison to the awesome east of Germany, is rich and dull. Everyone has money and would like everyone else to know that.

And from Bonn, Michael went home to Sydney and I trecked on, alone once more, to Amsterdam.

One of my lovely photos of Amsterdam

Amsterdam is a city of bridges (there are over a thousand) and bikes (there are over a million billion). While it doesn’t boast spectacular panoramic views, it settles instead for everywhere being really interesting. In fact, the most fun thing to do there is just wander round and get lost. I think my record was about six hours during which I had no idea where I was.

I also had a good time with Pat Schneider’s Berkely mate, Emilie, hanging out at a sort of bohemian cafe/pub in one of the richer suburbs of Amsterdam. When she found out I was planning on

View from Emilie and my cafe (and from everywhere else in Amsterdam)

skipping dinner for financial reasons, she determined to take me out somewhere, right up to the point when she realised her wallet had just been nicked. She called her sister, who lived nearby, to borrow some money, but her sister had just had her wallet nicked as well. I bought Emilie dinner and gave her fifty euros to get by on. Not sure if I got done there. Probably should have said my wallet had just got nicked.

 

That's all for now.

Best,

Michael

Bum Trip

Just accosted by a guard on the train from Amsterdam to Gent, Belgium. Gave him my ticket, which he took. Apparently I hadn’t put the date on it yet. I hadn’t put the date on it the last four times I had used the ticket either, but nobody had so much as mentioned it then. I advised him of this. He advised that those trips weren’t on this train. He advised that I must buy a ticket. I advised that he was holding my ticket. He advised that I hadn’t put the date on it. I asked to have the ticket so I could put the date on it. He advised that I must buy a ticket. “To get my ticket?” “To get your ticket.”

I wanted to punch his face.

“I’m not buying my ticket. I’ve already bought my ticket.” “Then you get off at the next stop.” “Fine. Give me my ticket.” “When you pay for a ticket.” “How much is a ticket?” “Fifty-four euros.” “No. Give me my ticket and I’ll get off at the next stop.” “You come find me at the next stop.” He put the ticket into his pocket. I spat in his face and gripped his hair in my fist. I thought about bashing his face into the wall, but, oddly self-conscious, decided against it and released my fist, doing nothing. (Actually I went back to my seat.)

As the train slowed I jumped up, saddled up my pack and set out to find him. Standing on the station I asked for my ticket. “No. When you buy the ticket.” “I’m getting off. Give me my ticket.” “No.” He had got back into the train now and I had no choice but to force my way back on also, huge pack behind me stopping the door from closing. He tried, weakly to shove me back, but immediately moved backwards as I boarded and the train pulled away. “If you have a complaint you can make it at a station,” he ventured. “I can’t make a complaint while you have my ticket.” “You must buy a ticket.” “I have a ticket.” “Not a valid ticket.” 

“How much?” I inquired, suddenly cool. “Sixty-seven euros.” “It used to be fifty-four!” I threw my toothpick on the floor. “That was before the Hague. We have gone past the Hague now.” “Funny how you didn’t mention that before,” I spat, the anger rising in me physically again.

I wanted desperately to hit him but he gave no opportunity. He was passive in every way. He had a fat flabby body (larger than mine) and the fat around his jowls made his weak chin look nonexistent. On one side of his face he carried several moles and on the other a large ugly earring. Punching him would do no good. My fists would sink into his soft flesh maybe three times before his soft eyes would even react and I would be storming back to my seat before his pudgy little hands rose to defend himself. But the adrenalin raced around my head. I could feel it dancing millimetres below the surface of the skin on my face in my temples and jaw. I paid him the ticket, asking if he liked his job and whether he enjoyed the power of his position, but nothing sunk home. No rise at all. I felt smaller even than before. Ridiculous to fight this stupid man. Like hitting a child. Like hitting a girl.

Bum trip.

Berlin

Quote: “I already have an opinion. I don’t need to hear yours.” Michael, on why he doesn’t read the Sydney Morning Herald anymore


I arrived in Berlin to meet Michael, along with all my clothes (joy!), my laptop (oh sweet relief!) and my ipod (oh burning ecstasy!), but Michael was immediately distracted by some bad news:

Berlin's pretty cool (but it also knows it).

I was told by a lot of people that I’d love Berlin. In fact, I can’t think of a single person that said anything bad about it. I arrived, therefore, with  mixed expectations. Universal recommendations don’t sit well with me. (I didn’t really like Smells Like Teen Spirit and, try as I might, I just can’t get into The Wire.)

However, I couldn’t help but be excited by the historical elements of the city. Judith Kaye, a few weeks before I left Sydney and on my request, had given me a list of European highlights. She had prefaced it with the shrewd comment that it was intended for someone “interested in places where power had been wielded”. I’m not sure if I’m exalted or insulted by this insight into my personality, but I do agree with it. Berlin excited me as a place where power has been won and loss, and most specifically by Him, that (indeed, the) great villain of the 20th Century. The details of how reparations would be made for World War I might have been hammered out in Versailles, but convincing a nation that they deserved more and that they could have it happened here. All those speeches in beer halls, all those quiet, backroom conversations, all those hundreds of thousands of machinations - political, economic, social - all culminating in Hindenberg, finally and against his better judgement, handing Hitler the reins of power, not anticipating, even then, the scope of His intentions or the boldness with which He would pursue them, they happened here. This is where Stillenacht had happened and where He had declared World War II open for business (with a lie). And somewhere amongst this sprawling mess of graffiti-covered streets and train lines was a small plaque in a quiet parking lot, noting that this was the place where His body had burned. It was a heady feeling entering Berlin, even after all these years.


I arrived at the hostel at about 11 at night, put on a fresh shirt (for the first time in three weeks) and Michael and I went for a walk to see what we would see and I will admit now, finally, on my first night, that Berlin is, as my sources had universally informed me, a young person’s paradise. We were living in the east and the streets at this late hour on a Thursday night were brimming with young, hip szene-sters, decked out in the clothes that marked them out as belonging to that scene or to this one.

5 minutes walk away from the hostel, I search for the East Side Gallery

We didn’t go out that night, but we did the next three. Rising at midnight from bizarre late-evening siestas we joined the thronging masses on WarschauerStrasse, finding cheap food and cheaper alcohol before stepping onto trains filled with the same buzzing crowds, all on the way to hidden clubs around the city. I remember sitting next to a pretty young girl in a train one night who had a little dog in a handbag (and who I think was smiling at me), when all of a sudden five big lads, dressed in leather and chains and stinking of spirits and old tobacco, and each of their accompanying enormous rotweillers boarded our carriage. The five dogs immediately caught whiff of the petite hand-bag pooch and, as one, made straight for it. They were restrained by the German boys ripping them bodily out of the air using the chains around the dogs’ necks and slamming them against the wall at the end of the carriage where they had just entered. I won’t pretend that I didn’t flinch, but I maintain that when five big sets of fangs launch at you out of the blue, it’s not an irrational move. The girl not only flinched, but got the hell out of there, taking shelter at the other end of the carriage, while the boys started leering at her boisterously from where we sat.

“What are they saying?” I asked Michael, not taking my eyes off the now placid dogs milling about my legs.

“They reckon that their dogs may be suffering from, uh, temptations of the flesh,” responded Michael, laughing.

I leaned back and took a sip of beer, determined not to be phased by the incident, and glanced around at the other commuters who, to a one, happily drank and laughed along with us as we rattled on together.

Well of books at the Berlin Jewish Museum

We arrived home at about eight each morning after dancing the nights away and generally chasing down any shenanigans there were to be chased. Eight in the morning, I felt, was not so bad an effort, but we were outdone every morning by the nude Germans staying in our dorm. Without fail they would saunter in drunkenly at ten or eleven, get nude, smoke cigarettes and then go to bed, waking only if their awful, one-colour-jump-suit-clad girls came round to smoke and drink beer with them. How were they doing it? Where were they going? What clubs pushed that hard? There were always the sex-clubs, which did go well into the morning, but they really didn’t seem the types; huge, young, fresh-faced Aryan lads, with not a stitch of leather or latex between them (though, I realise now, not a stitch of anything else either). We never found out.


After three days and as the weekend wound down, we decided that a break was in order and that seeing Berlin in the daylight may be worthwhile. We visited (amongst other things) the Jewish Museum, in which the stories are told through the architecture and spaces themselves. We saw the Topography of Terror, a great outdoor exhibit, located in the remains of the cellar of what was once the SS Headquarters. We avoided Checkpoint Charlie. And then we got drunk again.

Michael considers life in a world that just don't make any sense

And I didn’t see Hitler’s plaque. I wanted to. (I still do.) But I agree with the Communists who made the decision not to put anything to speak of there. I agree that it shouldn’t be a shrine. But it still drew my thoughts for much of the time I was there. I want to see it, though I can’t imagine what I’d get out of doing so.

Berlin has historical depth, but at the same time it’s right up to date. It’s edgy and knows that it is. It promotes itself as edgy, like a punk that hasn’t put out an album yet (but it has). But that’s really what I like right now. In ten years, I daresay that I’d rather go have a bit of a lie-down, but right now I could spend a long time in Berlin, going to the same clubs, listening to the same music, getting drunk and scrounging cigarettes from the same girls, waking up at three o’clock the next afternoon to hang around quietly eating super-cheap pizzas and doner kebabs, waiting to do it all again. I’d like to think that maybe I will.

Thanks this week go to Michael for getting my luggage from Budapest to Berlin for me and to Charles and Nichi for some top-notch recommendations for eats and sights in Berlin.

Best to all,

Michael