Notes to Self for the New Year 2021

I think it's fair to say that the world has had a collective aneurism. In 2019, which was so bad I couldn't bring myself to post the annual 'Notes', we yelled and spat at each other, threw up walls and fur balls, voted for the venal and the bordering on fascist, forgot history and the capacity for reasoned debate. Maybe it was just as well in 2020 that we locked ourselves down for a while ... and so as we emerge from our splendid isolation, freshly vaccinated, I offer these notes to myself for the New Year:

1. Be European, no matter what the Brexit legislation says;
   
2. Ignore all cries of 'Pollyanna' ... optimism is a political act (so says Angela Davis so it must be true);
   
3. Do not feel bad when DuoLingo or any other artificial life form tells you you're being relegated a level; it's not real!
   
4. Join riotous assemblies and chorus lines, and remember that even when someone in the chorus line is being a total numpty, singing out of tune, stepping on your toes, collectively that line will 'propel transformation, incubate possibility, and sustain dreams of the otherwise' (Saidiya Hartman); 
   
5. Don't forget to dance, even if it's still in the kitchen for just a few more months.
   
   

Our Lady of the Chutneys

It must be accepted that there is a gargantuan gulf at times between how we see ourselves and how others see us. For example:

How Mz Kitty sees herself: a relatively well rounded individual, well travelled, had a few adventures, can still walk up small mountains, runs a department, has opinions and is not afraid to use them, may be slowing down a bit but can still dance over an entire Glastonbury weekend, handy with some yarn.

How the teenage waitress in the Pyecombe Farm Shop and Cafe sees Mz Kitty as noted on her receipt: 'woman with chutneys'.

🙀😳💥

I'm not sure the waitress understood why a 53 year old woman was suddenly recounting to her that there was so much more to her life than being a 'woman with chutneys', and I'm not entirely sure why I was doing it either, but I have now settled into eating the chutney and accepting that in a compartmentalised world there are those who will only ever know us as 'woman who works', 'woman who writes', 'women who travels', 'woman who knits', 'woman who likes chutney', etc. Just give thanks that we will always have that select group of friends who can join the dots.   

Venice, sinking.

There are 50,000 tourists on an average day in Venice. 

No wonder it’s sinking under the weight of all those extra gelatos, pizzas and Aperol spritzers, carnival masks and murano glass. The 270,000 who actually live here must spend their days side stepping selfie congestion points (San Marco Square, Bridge of Sighs, Rialto Bridge), the crowds who roil through streets looking down at their smart phone maps desperately seeking their hotels, and the hawkers selling splat balls, fidget spinners and umbrellas when needed. Celebrities and their entourages add heft but I have no idea who any of them are (the Biennale and Venice Film Festival are in town).

Maintaining the necessary slow, steady pace required for the convivial sharing of a crowded warren can't be assisted by the sugar high everyone is on after an Italian breakfast. I thought our host, Alessandro, was just being a bachelor when he served a series of cakes and sweets, but that is apparently breakfast. On his part, he was curious as to why we kept saying we were going 'two doors down' for a coffee, which makes no sense in translation unless we were imagining sinking downwards for caffeine, into Dante's inferno perhaps.

In the day, the police try to keep a semblance of order on the canals in their regulation wetsuit uniforms, but in the backwaters there are still the local places and a quietness that settles in the evenings, creeping across bridges and disappearing into shadows of alleyways. 

(Venice, 08-09 August, 2017)

Uncommon humanity ...

The Sunday before Christmas and my local nail bar was heaving as the talons of the neighbourhood aimed for a final buff and polish before the festivities began.

Amid the fumes of acrylic glue, clouds of nail dust, and X Factor on the TV, hands were held, filed, massaged and painted by young Vietnamese some of whom, we now know, made it across the world into London in the back of a truck, just like the 39 who aren't here. All wanting a better life: a better health care system; a more comfortable income; somewhere their kids can have a better life.  

Recently returning from research in the south of France with British migrants and their responses to Brexit, I was struck again by the repeating themes, the same drivers: all wanting a better life; a better health care system; somewhere to have a more comfortable life on a small pension; somewhere where the kids can develop skills they need for a global future. But with their freedom of movement, no chance of ending up suffocating in the back of a lorry.

Common desires, uncommon humanity.

Short conversations ...

Andrew is looking every bit a jar head but is polite and sensitive, self-deprecating his intelligence. He left school and wasn't doing very much, so the army has given him a purpose. Laila asks him if he is scared. 'Oh yeah, of course'. We joke about occupational health and safety. He is in for life. Richard is under no illusions. The army is his way of paying back his tuition fees; four years to study history which he loved. He wants to teach in community college when he gets back. Ray just wants to say 'hello' and guess our nationalities. He was back from Afghanistan to train new recruits but hasn't been home yet.

USA infantry to and from Afghanistan (Honolulu, April 2011).

How to greet a turtle ...

Snorkelling off the black sands of Richardson's Beach, Big Island, among coral swirls, tang and wrasse, I was confronted with a snappy turtle trying to haul itself onto rocks to sun itself.

Now the proper way to greet a turtle is to raise a flipper in recognition as bus drivers do the world over on approach, and then gracefully ignore each other and swim away.

How not to greet a turtle is to do the following: hyperventilate into your snorkel, flap your flippers in panic, scare the bejeezus out of each other, surface at the same time, check each other out, decide simultaneously that each is ugly but harmless, and then gracefully swim away.

(Richardson's Beach, Hilo, Big Island, Hawaii, 2011)

The day le Tour came to town ...

The plans for the start of this summer's Pyrénéan stroll came to a sudden halt in Pierrefitt-Nestalas, as the bus driver announced the road ahead to my start point, Luz Saint Sauveur, was blocked. It remained a mystery to me why the route ahead was blocked until I started to see growing numbers of people camping along the side, various professional cycle team banners, and the iconic green livery of a Tour de France sprint marker across the road. Initial irritation turned into a small puja to the gods of cyclists and, by default, Tour de France lovers everywhere.

As there was nowhere to go until the road opened later that evening, I joined all the other residents, groupies and stranded, finding a spot  to settle in for a long wait until the Tour arrived later that afternoon. Sporadic team vehicles, officials, sponsors, media and merchandise cars, passing at varying proximity and speeds, from breakneck to 'buy a t-shirt' languid, kept us vaguely amused until 2pm ish when activity picked up and the tannoy announced the arrival of 'le Caravan'.

Le Caravan is the bit you never see on TV and probably never will because what people are really waiting for is to have things thrown at them by giant chickens and fromage on wheels. Floats representing each of the major sponsors toss key rings, fridge magnets, car window sun shades, haribos, biscuits, cheese, sausage, stickers, pens, water, newspapers, hats, and pennants (I got one of those). Children and grown up humans scrambled in the air and on the ground for the bread and circuses. 'Eye of the Tiger' and bubble machines pumped up the energy and a general feeling of surrealism.


After an hour of giddiness the caravan disappeared and again we were left with a mix of boredom and anticipation until close to 4pm when the sound of five helicopters overhead signalled that something was about to happen. In seconds, a lead group of cyclists, spotted jersey in front, blurred past. Then the peloton clattered through with glimpses of recognisable team colours; Moviestar and Ineos among them. Around them, between them, motorbikes and cars sped by with centimetres to spare. Another group passed to more cheers from the crowd; then a few stragglers; and finally just one, the cyclist no-one wants to be at the back of the field.

After waiting five hours in minutes it was over, and I realised that I was still stuck in Pierrefitt-Nestalas. It was too late for the evening bus and I tried hitching with no luck, so a €40 taxi fare finally got me to Luz. But seeing the hundreds of amateur cyclists freewheeling back down from the Col Du Tournelet, the end of the day's stage, and sitting with every woman, man and dog in lycra, from France, Spain, Italy, the UK, Australia and the USA, dissecting the result over a rosé while holding my hard won pennant, it was worth it.