A salty dream

I am not sure if I actually woke up this morning.  I stretched and grabbed my basket and some funny colored money and went out onto a narrow pink street.  There were no cars or people, just a little road made of stones that declined just enough to draw me comfortably down it.   I popped out onto a little boardwalk with a merry go round and children playing on strange shaped swings. Behind them, a sparkling bright blue ocean lapped against a pebbled beach and brushed its soft shoulders against a menacing wall of stone at the base of several tall towers.  I walked along the wall with the a content and sleeping ocean on my right.  A fig tree stretched out from the ancient wall and at places large rocks emerged sharply from the bricks and morter.  It was as though the cliffs were slowly pushing their way through.


I crossed an arched wooden bridge and watched a little boy standing by bobbing red boats. He held a string with a piece of bread tied to one end.  Tossing the string out into the shallow clear water a shimmering school of fish followed the bread in swirls and clumps. They looked just like the magnetic flecks on an Etch A Sketch, pulled to your pen as you drag it across the surface.

I walked into an open area with a market.  Men stood behind fresh fish on ice, with long curled mustaches and deep thought wrinkles between their eyebrows.  Whole legs of pigs hung by the hooves, wheels of cheese were split open with flesh the color of cantaloupe.  Piles of figs and small bright red strawberries covered the tables.  I filled my basket with fruit and nuts and returned home to eat a plate full of these little treasures and whole sheep's milk yogurt.

With a content heart and belly my dream went on. I wandered back through the streets, past an old stone church and down to a beach hugged by the church walls on one side and another stone wall extending way out into the water like a jetty.  

I laid on my back in the warmest sun and coolest breeze.  The waters were quiet for me.  In the bowl of blue above me just the top of the old lighthouse came into view.   As I looked across the small bay, peach houses were nestled amongst the dark green hills.  The mountains were so close, I could swim across to them. They climbed steeply up into the wildness.

I walked out into the pebbled shore and my feet sank in deeply.  The little sailboats tickled the water.   The sea reached my waste but I could still see the fish, nearly a foot long looking at my toes.  Then I swam. Out into the harbor, with depths below and depths between me and the shore.  I flowed with the water past the church and lost sight of my basket.  I swam and watched the horizon.  I floated and watched my toes.  I spent an eternity.

As I moved back toward the small beach, a boy in a little fairy tale sail boat drifted by me, hand on his rutter.  He passed a few feet away. Looking at me for a while he finally said "bonjour"
and off he went into his adventure leaving me to mine.

When I awoke the next day, the little road was still at my door. My upper lip tasted salty and I realized this was not a dream.  This was Collioure.   

The old lighthouse, now a Catalan Catholic Church.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My breakfast from le Marche

The old fortress/castle on one side of the harbor

The walkway in front of the fortress wall

     

Cologne and Cashmere in Clifton

Lets talk about British men. Why not women, you ask? Because men have captured my attention more-their style and demeaner more pronounced.  Perhaps it is because women`s styles overlap across the western world due to the influence of movie stars and magazines and a general interest in fashion. Or perhaps it is because, my man is far away and so a little eye candy gets me through my day. Or perhaps it is because British men are distinctly sharp.

Even in jeans, men had nice shoes and expensive jackets.

British men are upright, tight and tucked. They are clean shaven, with crew cuts and collars. Their shoes are shiny and their sense of style something to be rivaled with. As an American woman, you have to look as good as your friends, but here you have to look as good as your man. The men have edgy bold glasses and soft knitted sweater vests. AND they are tall and sexy and fulfill a peculiar Cambridge fantasy, I didn't know I had.

Somehow they manage to look both intellectual AND successful something I think many American men fail at.  To me, monetary success with American men is inverseley correlated with intellectuality.  If your thinking big thoughts and opening doors your a nice guy who finishes last.   Taking your time to dress nice and think before you speak is not respected enough in American culture.





Of course, there are many kinds of men in England as well as the U.S. who don't fit this; just like there are many species of plants that make up a landscape.  But from one landscape to the next there is still a distinct texture, hue and odour all its own.  As I walk around Bristol, this landscape is in full bloom.

Circling the city

(disclaimer! my writing is not creative because I am typing on a french keyboard and my brain is thinking about the letter locations rather than content. C`est frustré! )

On the first day we walked all over the city. Bristol is very 3 dimensional with hills and curves and circles and therefore lots of views. Walking was a good workout. These pictures are of our walk to Seico`s lab building then doing a wide circle along the canals to return to Clifton (the area of town where our building was) This took about 2 hours.

Along the floating docks:

Views of small boats & huge ships. This is the famous S.S. Great Britain.

Discovering artwork by Banksy- a British street artist native to Bristol.

(check out his website if u don`t already know him)

Finding grapes on a pathway by the river. They were sweet and totally edible.

Sorry San Francisco, but I left my heart in Bristol.

 I am no longer in Bristol, but I was having so much fun that keeping up on my writing was impossible. But I cannot just skip over the most beautiful town I have seen.  It deserves more: Perhaps more than I can give it.

 

Above is the view from my room- an old church.  The building in which I stayed houses international students-but was built in the 1700s as a home with servent quarters and a big kitchen in the basement for them to prepare food. Then it came under Methodist ownership for nuns or something.  It is still owned by the methodists which adds a few irritating rules-no alcohol (though wine was recently allowed) and no guests overnight. 

 

The place has a lot of history- one can feel it.  There is a second set of narrow and steep wooden stairs where the servents would go between their rooms to the basement kitchen.  The stairwell to my room is curved with a worn wooden railing.  There are 4 floors- creeky and drafty.

The common room where we ate breakfast each mornng

Bristol is where my friend Seico was wrapping up her masters in molecular neuroscience.  She had a room downstairs.  One of the memories I am most fond of was our cooking rituals-yes I know it is all about food for me.  We cooked a lot and though there were tables to eat on down in the basement where the kitchen is, my friend preferred to bring our food up to this room on a platter.  Often joined by her good friend and classmate Stephen- this ritual felt the most British to me.  For breakfast our platter consisted of a tea kettle of coffee, quaint little china with warmed scones, freshly whipped cream, 6 or 7 jams and marmalades, fruit salad and eggs. A wonderful start to the day.

From Fairies to Ferrys, from Wicklow to Wales

With rain blowing sideways in the yellow fog just before dawn, I am standing at the bus stop with everything I own balanced or hanging off my body.  This type of travel can be tedious and exhausting, but just interesting enough to make it worthwhile.  If I turn too quick I may knock into someone, or trip over a leprechaun.  Then I am at another bus stop waiting for the ONLY  bus I can find that may go to the port. This bus is for people taking a ferry from the other company (the British one) and I am taking the cheaper Irish ferry.  The bus driver declares bluntly that no, he doesn't go to the Irish ferry.  I ask to pay, I ask if it is a far walk and finally he waves me on without answering my question or taking any money.  Then I am wandering in the rain along the eery and foggy ports.  The docks are grey and industrial; full of deisel, asphalt and rubber fumes.  There are tanks full of Guiness being loaded and cars lined up ready to board the ferries.  I am the only one on foot. 


After sorting through tickets and luggage, myself and a few others are escorted to a giant garage-like opening in the ship.  There are cars parked and workers gesturing and alarms are sounding in the hollow belly of the ship.  I feel as though an action movie scene could start at any moment with Denzel Washington slipping behind an SUV while men in black suits flee down the stairs, guns drawn.  This is not a romantic or sophisticated way to enter.  We climb iron steps onto our floor of the ferry.

The ferry is actually very nice and has the feel of a casino with checkered floors and red swivel seats anchored to the floor around marble top tables. There are windows looking out at the sea- much better than a plane. There is a cafe to buy snacks or plates of warm breakfast food that you can bring back to your table.

On the journey, I am amused.  The empty chairs that swivel with each dip and sway of the ship.  Its as though ghost children are sitting in them and swingin their legs. It is also silly to see the people walk around drunkenly. Women dressed with skirts and nylons, waiters in collared shirts, stumbling down the aisles, holding onto chairs unsure of their footing as the vessel rocks on the sea. Their steps are slow and carefull then quick and clumsy as gravity pulls them off center.  The humor seems lost to everyone.  I recall being children in a bouncy house where the floor gives and you fall around.  This is a pleasure, I think to myslef, that as children we sought out. Finally an older gentlemenn in a navy suit crashes into a chair grinning.  And then hastily veers into the wall. He smiles, I smile and we share the humour. 

ON THE TRAIN THROUGH WALES

First time on the train and it is nice. The trains in this area are a little grungy and definitely not high class, but the seats are comfortable and the views extraordinary.  The first people on the train are rural and working class. They are rugged, have poor teeth and very thick British accents. However, I soon find out that they are a genuine and nice people. 

A man pushes another man aboard on a wheel chair and they sit in the open space at the front of my car.  The man in the wheelchair is clearly mentally disabled. "Hellllooo" the man in the wheelchair exclaims to a woman sitting a few seats back. She replies back without hesitation. "Hello". "Where are you going?" he asks and she answers. "Do you have a car?" he asks her. She answers, "No" and smiles  "Hellllow" he says to her husband. " Are you rich?" "No" he answers. He proceeds to say hello to every new person and they all answer without signs of discomfort. He asks another woman if she is rich and she says, "No, but you are rich. Rich with love".  Then another woman goes up to the man in the wheelchair and gives him a little stuffed donkey she had pulled from her stuff. I sat in awe of the generosity and friendly attitude everyone displayed in the presence of this man.

From my window I have scenes of sheep grazing, rocky beaches and darling little towns with buildings so quaint I swear they are right off of a miniature train set. Each town has a castle, each castle a flag.  The train route dips in and out of Wales. Sometimes a stop is in England and sometimes in Wales.  A woman boards in Chester, England and we proceed to discuss many things on the rest of the ride.  The Welch, I discover, feel more connected to the Irish and Scottish and are a more superstitious people. The English consider themselves more proper and have had quarrels with the Welsh for centuries.   I find out from this woman that in Chester (in England) there is still a law that has never been overturned that says that it is legal to shoot a Welsh man with a bow and arrow at dusk.  But any other time, and any other weapon is not allowed.

6 hours later, I arrive in Bristol.  The big city rushes in and the countryside blows away like barrels of hay.

 

Wild Wicklow

On my last day in Dublin, I ventured into the countryside to the south about 60 miles.  This area is known as Wicklow.  The houses only became more beautiful as we winded on little roads up into the hills.  We past the street where Bono lives, then a tower where James Joyce spent his last night before his death.  The Irish are a proud people and I admire this enthusiasm, but have trouble imagining being so rooted in my country and heretage.  Wicklow was the last county to succumb to English rule, they fought hard and long. 

THE BOGLANDS

Then we reach the highest area in Ireland, a big open wild preserve. These are where the boglands are. Pictured above, this area is too wet for trees and is covered in mosses that, as they die, accumulate into a deep spongy deposit of dead plant material called peet. This mucky, spongy, dark wet material continues deep into the ground and one can fall into it and never get out.  (sheep have been known to get stuck)  This is where some of the oldest well-preserved human remains have been found. 

The Celts who lived here around 500 BC believed the bogs were cursed and they would bury their slain enemies in the bogs to trap them for eternity.  In the early 1900's (as most of the trees were cleared and used) the Irish would dig up the peet in the bog to dry and burn as fuel.  As they got deeper over time, they discovered the bodies. They assumed they were murdered and recently buried, since they still had hair and skin and nails.  In reality, the conditions of the bog had preserved these bodies over 2,500 years old.  They even found a barrel of butter dated at 500 BC.   

ST. KEVIN'S MONASTERY  

We also visited an old monastery from 600 AD.  As the story goes, St. Kevin decided to lead a monastic life of celibacy and came to this area high in the mountains.  He and other monks built buildings out of stone to study, worship and generally live simply within. But there was a woman who was still in love with him and would come visit him, trying to seduce him and win him back.  Once, when he felt the natural temptation of her flesh, it is told he stripped naked and rolled in the thorn bushes. Soon, he became more secluded and moved to the far side of the lake that sits a couple miles beyond the monastery. He lived the rest of his life as a hermit there. 



The older area of the graveyard with a tower



These buildings are now surrounded by headstones from 1600's to today.  This area was so serene with the mists and the hills cradling it. It was wet, but warm. After exploring the buildings and graves we had time to hike 30 minutes up to the 2nd lake where St. Kevin once lived in solitude. ( I was the last to leave to

leave the graveyard- cemeteries have always fascinated me)    



Looking into one of the Monastery rooms, now inhabited by a spider.



The upper lake- a glacier carved lake that drops off to significant depths.

Pictures

The Unitarian Church I attended

They love carbs-mashed potatos (2 scoops), whole potatos, sweet potatos, gravy and stuffing in the chicken. Yikes!

Old house in Park- St. Stephen's Green

Just what every good Santa Cruz citizen needs

Dublin only Shines at Night

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But the Irish spirit keeps it bright.

Americans

So much has happened, it feels, since my last post.  As usual, I want to share everything.  However, I understand no-one has the time to read it all and I don't have the time to write it all. My hope is to get some pictures off my camera today or tomorrow and put them up, at which point I may write a little more.

I've been loving the locals I meet, including an Italian friend and his italian cohorts.  But the Americans have been getting on my nerves.  (I would say-take no offense, but as a default Americans are easily offended- another aspect that annoys me)

A couple nights ago, Rafaele took me to try real Italian pizza.  He practically new everyone working there-a little community of colorful people in a grey city.  Our waitress is dating Rafaele's brother and teases him.  She appreciates my attempts to speak Italian. ("Gratzi", "Prego" Que Quatzo") The daughter of the restaurant owner gestures at Rafaele and they exchange an animated string of Italian words. "Lovers of tomatoes surrounded by potatoes"I think to myself. 

Halfway through the meal an old white-haired couple sat down.  They were dressed in their finest. The wife was thin, her skin taught and her bony cheekbone's highlighted with rouge.  I hear their American accents. Naturally, I am curious. I am drawn to them, like Rafaele is drawn to his fellow Italians here in a different culture. 

I observe them and their clumsy, garish manner. They are high class, I can tell. However, they lack the sort of class one needs to travel.  They look confused, judgemental.  They are unfriendly, with sour expressions.  They demand water at the wrong time and argue over choices.  They ask Liliani, the waitress, if they can split something.  Liliani makes little attempt to hide her annoyance. The couple talks at her.

It is obvious they dislike eachother.  When Rafaele goes outside to smoke, I, feeling confident after 2 glasses of wine, lean over and smile. "Are you Americans?" Her eyes take a long time to sweep across the room and find me. They are shadowed, below from circles, above from Lancome. It's as though it is a tremendous effort to take the time to acknowledge me. I think of Cruella De Ville or the Queen in Snow White.  Their movements are heavy and darkly elegant. Always looking down at you, their noses up. She simply replies "Yes" Her husband, stiff and pulled in from years of wincing, says nothing.  I continue: "I thought I recognized your accent, I am american too, where are you from?" "Texas" "On vacation?" I ask. "Yes" They reply. I want to say,  "Then relax!" She asks if I am studying and I simply tell her I am traveling indefinitely. Next stop France and Spain. She appears a little more respectful and I notice a half-smile. "Have a nice time" I say, knowing they won't.

When their calzone comes, they demand Parmesan cheese. Liliani looks a little confused. "TO SPRINKLE ON TOP" the man says loudly. Liliani flashes a look of irritation that the couple take no notice of. But Liliani nods, grinds her teeth, and replies "Ov corse"

I notice them quietly observing Rafaele and myself laughing and talking and letting down our guard.  We are trying to understand each other's cultures and language. I speak no Italian and his English is very rough, but we are succeeding. I notice the husband irritatedly remark, and his wife snaps back. They, I imagine, married for 55 years are sitting across from one-another with no clue how to connect, how to be vulnerable, how to listen. They both speak English, but not the same language.

Just people watching

I am not the usual tourist.  I haven't quite made it to the area everyone goes. I haven't purchased a postcard yet, either.  The things I have done are as follows:

Last night, I went to dinner with an older Italian gentleman who works in Dublin off and on and stays in the hostels. (not a date!- not as romantic as it sounds) Got a chance to eat traditional irish stew which incited in me a more ravishing hunger for french food. (can we say bland) I drank a Guinness brewed across town. . . milky and delicious.  Despite the language barrier (supposedly Italian schools are bad) we ended up talking about many things: politics, healthcare (wait aren't those the same things in the U.S.?) I sympathized with the fact that in a week or two it will be me in his shoes, trying to convey large concepts with simple words. 

This morning I decided to attend church (why not, its Sunday and I haven't been in a while- maybe 20 years).  I had spotted a beautiful little church in my neighborhood. It had old stone architecture and big wooden doors beckoning. The Unitarian sermon sealed the deal. Plus, I needed an excuse to hear an Irishman speak for an hour. I entered. It was an Irish woman! She was describing the trees and the birds. My kind of church!  There was a choir and an Organ that echoed up to the walls covered in stained glass. I got to sing!!!! and anyone who knows me knows how much I love to sing.  The sermon was quite different than most church sermons discussing how to ask for forgiveness for all the rules your breaking. She actually discussed how to rethink all the rules we have set for ourselves and perhaps throw them out the window. 
She said:
 {Just like the silly old rules of what to eat in the bible.  These things come from a time when the rule was needed to solve a problem. A problem that no longer exists.}
It is interesting when you go to church and are told to break rules.

Spent the afternoon people watching, drinking coffee and reading.  There really are a lot of redheads here.  These redheads come in more colors than an Clairol bottle could think of.  The Irish are really beautiful, with their childlike features, freckles and deep soulful eyes.

Another thing I was surprised by was how much the old people like ice cream. Even on a cold and rainy day. Every old person was licking off cones. I saw an old man with it dripping off his mustache.  Some even had sprinkles. I was surrounded by grey haired children. It was just fantastic!!

Ok now actually landing!

Arrive in Dublin 7:25am

As we descend I see an irish cow in his own square of a thousand-part of a giant quilt of green.  Rich Southern Californians long for a lawn this green.  On the runway while idling, I spot a rabbit the size of a french bulldog.  He is fattening up on an endless buffet of green grass. He had to be the inspiration for Cadbury.

Wandering the airport and just outside I feel like the accents just can't be true. They are so perfectly thick and they make every conversation more interesting and every person more attractive. Even the homeless seem like people I'd like to invite for coffee. An accent is like a smell. You can never really perceive your own, but you can appreciate the distinctness of other's.

It's 7:45 a.m. and I know I have arrived in Ireland because while I am drinking my coffee everyone else is drinking Guinness.  Okay, some have a coffee and a Guinness. 

Landing on my feet

7am before departure


Reading and sitting finally becomes a guiltless pleasure. Well actually it becomes pleasurable period. While alone, I have no loved one's or loved things to dote upon.  I have no sorting or prioritizing.  Here I sit in the airport at a table by the window. It overlooks cement and steel just warming from a newly risen sun.  In the company of myself and a book, I can choose only to listen to my thoughts, to write down my feelings or to escape into the story. How simple. The book has my full attention for once and I sense it is grateful.

9am before departure
I feel the first sparks of excitement, like butterflies rising from my core.  They are subtle at first, as if just awakening from their cocoon and slowly stretching their new wings.  Butterflies-like the feeling when you just start to fall for someone and you realize there is a chance they might be falling for you; a chance something really good is coming. This is how I feel.

Chicago airport (connecting flight)

I am in love with accents and I haven't even left the states. I love these east coast men speaking like they are right out of a detective show.

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To Live a Life with few worries

Neither here nor there

Missing everyone's beautiful faces that greet me in my day to day. Its strange having no habits or routine now. Living literally day-to-day. However, I am finally feeling a lightness and giddiness as I shake off my possessions and obligations. Making room- I guess- for a 25 pound backpack.

I am watching my dog dreaming upside down on the bed, surrounded by piles of papers, toiletries, gadgets and clothes that I am getting ready to pack.  I am an animal like him.  We both come from the stars and dirt, we are both vulnerable and resilient. I ponder how it is, however, that I need so many objects in order to live day to day and he doesn't.  I even have the advantage of opposable thumbs! 

I have no answer.  Yet one goal of my imminent journey is to feel more complete with the carry on luggage god gave me. (this body)  Well, as of now, I have shed. .. (okay put in a shed and am paying $40 per month for) 95% of my objects and possessions.  Lets see how this feels and lets see how I survive.