Kim asked ...

Kim asked if I was in Genova yet ...

I so am.

I have this huge and uncontrollable smile on my face.  It started as I journeyed from Milan towards the mountains and Genova ... and I can't stop it.

I've been trying not to frighten anyone, with my madly happy face, as I run errands upon arrival.  I'm working on containing it within me, as a quiet bubble of joy. 

I have a beautiful bouquet of flowers.  I have an internet connection.   I have wine ...  and I'm still smiling.  It's like that.

I am back in this city I love so well.

All kinds of threats have been made if I return without completing the book this time ... and so I must.

But Kim, yes, I am back.

A Saturday in March ...

Yesterday was  a day of reorganising the space that we have here in the 3-storey tall narrow house.  Gert and I ended up working right through the day, simply because I had decided to create a space of no distractions ... a place to finish this book I've begun.

I have two novel manuscripts started too, and another of interviews with New Zealand climbers.  That one went through two very positive publishing meetings before being rejected.  Back then, the public wasn't so interested in the crazy beautiful lives of climbers and mountaineers.  Other publishers were suggested, those who might take the risk of low sales, but then my mum began dying, I had finally started university, and somehow the manuscript has become another thing that I carry.

There are poems too. A new one that came on the train that took me across Belgium a few days ago.  A  poem that I like, and I am my toughest critic.

But anyway, photography took over as my dedicated form of expression.  You can slip everything into an image.  Sometimes it's like a poem, other times it's a novel and tells a story but mostly there is the pleasure is not being sure of what you have captured until you are done.

So I have a writing space now.  A  huge IKEA table that serves as a desk, and enough shells and stones to break my current desk collection in two while maintaining a beautiful pile of beach treasure on both desks.  Facebook, phones and non- related books are all banned from the new space.

However, in moving my writing stuff, in taking my favourite images up there, in moving all of my books on Genova... I created what seemed like a huge space down here in the 'everyday' office place.  But even that was fun, moving that bookcase there, those images here, that scarf-hanger too. 

We had Paola and Simon over for dinner last night and they were curious to see these changes, the ones I had earlier mentioned being in the midst of over on facebook.  Well ... here in the everyday office space, I realised, when looking through their eyes, that these huge changes weren't really so obvious despite the fact that they had felt like a major upheaval.   My new writing space was approved of though.

So that's how we spent our Saturday.  Dinner was delightful ... aperitivo by Paola and Simon, an Italian rib and sausage casserole by Gert, followed by one of his delicious cherry Clafoutis.  Excellent conversations, good people ... a really excellent Saturday.

I'll leave you with one of those photographs that surprised me.  I saw this tap dripping in Istanbul, in one of the many ancient places there.  I photographed it, ignoring the hustle and bustle of people around me, in that city of 14 million people.  Today, I have it here next to me, in a 30x45cm format ... I have to rehang it later but just having it here, so close, made me really see it again.  I really love it but couldn't have imagined this capture at the time of taking because it was so beautiful and how do you capture beauty ...

 

 

 

Remembering Rome ...

I was looking through my photo files ... there are 1000s of images that never see the light of day.  And I found one of my Rome shots which inspired me to go wandering through old blogs I had written about Rome.  I found this which is good because I have been missing Rome today.

I remember when I fell madly and passionately in love with Rome. I had gone there expecting to be disappointed by a myth fallen on hard times but found something else ... 

Rome was a city that was more than I imagined a city could be.  It was a mix of ancient and beautiful, of sophistication and of real people who wanted to chat.

I stayed on Campo de' Fiori in a hotel with the same name.  The entrance was stunning, it was like stepping into a story. There was a daily market there in the square,where I could buy flowers and food.  There was a superb little bookshop where I found a good book and, on another corner, a delicatessen with wine and cheese for my evening because ... I was in Rome and one must have some chianti and cheese while reading that new book.

It was a city of angels.  Bernini and his students had sculpted a series of them on Ponte Sant'Angelo in the 17th century.  There was the arrogant angel by Raffaello da Montelupo.  I loved his 1544 rendering of the Archangel Michael, and Peter Anton Verschaffelt's rooftop Michael, sculpted 1752, too.

Angels and archways perhaps. I felt so comfortable with the architecture there. I spent hours in Castel Sant'Angelo, fascinated by the history and feeling of that ancient place . It was originally built as a mausoleum for Hadrian, as in Hadrian's Tomb, but was converted into a fortress for popes in the 6th century. It was magical wandering along old passages, or just sitting in the sun trying to comprehend that that really was Rome's River Tiber below me.

I had lunch with Paolo, a friend of a friend, and we wandered the city for a while.  He told me his stories of the city he loved. An old friend took me home to his family for dinner on the back of his scooter,  and his wife cooked a beautiful Roman feast, introducing me to mozzarella di bufala and prosciutto, followed by veal, artichokes and chard ... and then there was a midnight tour of Rome on the way back to the hotel.

I bought a painting from another Paolo, in Piazza Navone ... the place where the artists gather.  He took me off to a cafe for coffee and we talked for a long time.  He had been a history teacher until his art had become self-supporting. We talked of movies, books, writers, societies, children and life ... it was magical too. His painting, the painting I bought, was a titled 'Diving into Life' ... it seemed like something I had to have.

I loved Piazza San Pietro in Vatican City and bought the ticket that allowed me to climb the 300+ steps to the cupola on top of the Basilica.  You reach the top and voila, there is Rome, far below in all of her beauty.

Inside the Basilica ... the sculptures were outside of my ability to describe them. I stared for a long time, perhaps hoping to comprehend the beauty via some kind of osmosis. Michelangelo's Pieta was stunning but Bernini's monument to Alexander VII was almost overwhelming ... somehow, Bernini had made heavy red marble seem like soft velvet.

I loved it all ... the Pantheon took my breath when I turned a corner and found it unexpectedly there in front of me. The Trevi Fountain, even the Spanish Steps at midnight, all but abandoned.

I have to go back, and soon, there is no other solution.

My Great Big Photographic Hero ...

My Great Big Photographic Hero ... David du Chemin, posted news that rocked my world.  In a bad way.

David is a talented photographer, a man who wanders the world, capturing scenes, telling stories, and sharing his wisdom in ways that delight me. 

I've just come from reading his blog, a post where he tells his story of being denied entry to the United States of America.  But I'll let him tell it: '

But after 5 hours of questioning, an extensive vehicle search, and a second interrogation, I was told I was being denied entry to the United States of America, because “we have no proof you’ll return to Canada and we worry you’ll try to live here,” which nearly had me on the floor with laughter because, ahem, how do I put this? I like living in Canada. I have no desire to live in the United States. I want to travel the U.S., I want to photograph it, but I have no desire to leave my home. Which, as it turns out, is good, because they aren’t letting me. God knows they wouldn’t want a Canadian stealing the job of a Mexican. I just wanted to visit, man, not invade.

I was finger-printed, photographed, and made to sign transcripts of the interrogation on top of the line that said, “Signature of Alien,” which made me want desperately to sign, “E.T.”, “Mork”, or “Spock.” I couldn’t decide, so I signed my name on the form, and got back into the Jeep, grateful they’d only used the latex gloves while they searched the trunk of the Jeep, and not the trunk of, uh, ahem, me.

He will, and is, handling this with grace but he has planned this roadtrip for a long time, he'd already started out on it before his accident and now, it's over.

There's nothing more to say ... is there?

Do excuse me but ...

I couldn't resist attempting to capture something of the colour and texture outside my window in the middle of winter, here in Genova, Italy.

There was a deep blue sky and these green shutters just sang in the light.

And the washing ...I couldn't resist.  I'm sorry.

Leaving Italia.

So here I am, Milan Airport, waiting for the flight that will return me to Belgium. I'm leaving one day early, fleeing ahead of the transport strike planned for tomorrow ... avoiding the big snow due on Sunday.  It doesn't seem foolish.

Simon informed me, via Facebook and in response to my post about how bad the food was here in the airport, that he has never ever had good food here and that one should really bring their own.  Too late.  I shall arrive back in the Flatlands absolutely ravenous. 

I'm making use of the last of my usb modem allowance.  They are fabulous things, for those who enjoy an online life and don't have one of those wonder phones ... well actually, I can't imagine using the internet via a phone.  I believe this makes me something of a dinosaur.  There are other habits that make it more than certain, actually.

It will be good to reunite with the photographs taken on this journey.  I'm curious to see what I captured.  I felt like there was some good stuff but we'll see.

Beautiful blue skies here again today.  It's been mostly stunning here, weatherwise, over the 6 days I spent in Italia.  Gert has promised me rain on my return ...

Ciao from Italia I guess.

 

 

A memory from my last time in Genova alone …

There is something truly delicious about lying in bed here in Genova, listening as the street comes alive … the first footsteps, the quiet voices, followed by louder voices as people roll up the doors of their work place, and the clank of the coffee cups on saucers begins soon after.

I doze a while longer then wake again, this time to the laughter of men on the street below. I imagine them stopping for an espresso at the cafe as they head off to work … friends who meet everyday, on their way, and I envy them their routine for a moment.

There’s music but I nap just a little more … until it becomes impossible to ignore my craving for focaccia. I pull on clothes and step out, almost into a neighbour. She laughs and apologises in Italiano. I reply in French for some early-morning-not-quite-awake reason.

I don’t speak French.
The bonjour feels strange in my mouth and I only recover when I find her holding the street door open for me and I say ‘Grazie’ and smile ... located in place and time.

I have some days without shape or form ahead of me, days where I can organise the creative chaos of my life. I have been waiting so long to reach this place of peace and isolation in the midst of the everyday noise of the ancient city.

For me, wandering is rarely about sights seen. When I was in Cairo I only saw pyramids as my plane climbed up through the pollution and left the city however I met some truly interesting people. And so it is that my idea of travel is more about people and the feeling of place. Barcelona was the first city in recent years that forced me to be the tourist, perched on the outer shell of the city, excluded from everyday life by virtue of being foreign and without people who knew me.

Here, back in Genova, I’m always a little off-balance and shyness hunts me down easily but it is good to be back in La Superba and writing again.

A Special Holiday Offer on my 'Come Travel with Me' Photography Workshop in Italy ...

Why not book a place on my 'Come Travel with Me' 5-day Photography Workshop in Beautiful, Historic Genoa, Italy, in the new year.
If you book before January 15th, 2012 and you will receive a €100 discount immediately.
I imagine I don't need to  point out that that's a lot of aperitivo moments.
Very limited space is available.

Wishing everyone the very best things in 2012.

Jetlag ... and some stories from the road

Probably not jet lag ...
The flight to Milan was meant to be about 1 hour and 15 minutes.  We ended up arriving 20 minutes early ... a short-cut that boggles my mind.  How does a plane arrive 20 minutes early?

The alarm rang in Belgium 4.59am. 
Taxi at 5.54am.
Suitcase, the one that Brussels Airport broke last time I flew in there, revealed we hadn’t managed to fix it as I placed it in the hold of the Airport Bus ... 6.05am.
I may have said a bad word.

I arrived at the airport.  For a moment, I forgot I was in a country whose service providers often don’t care.  I confessed that my suitcase probably wouldn’t stay closed on the plane, due to being damaged last time I’d flown Brussels Airlines.  Fortunately, I said, I had managed to replace the suitcase strap they had lost but could he note its fragile status?
No.

Actually, the Brussels Airline check-in bloke pulled that face that Belgian service providers pull when they don’t really want to hear what you are saying because it’s YOUR problem and THEIR company and/or shop refuses to be held accountable.

Fair enough.  I’ve been there long enough to know the impossibility of anything close to satisfaction in this kind of thing.  I have lost the few battles I’ve attempted.  Raising ones voice doesn’t help.  These guys survived the Spanish Inquisition.  Raising ones voice is NOTHING.

I had an idea and suggested it to the Belgian check-in guy.  He warmed to me immediately. 
I suggested I get my suitcase plastic-wrapped so it would stay closed.
He led me there, abandoning his post even.
He didn’t mention the 5euro fee for plastic-wrapping.

However, there was the relief of having my suitcase secured. I returned to complete check-in.  He had handed my case on to the Belgian check-in woman.

I was early but you really need to be when you tavel from Antwerp to Brussels via the bus.  You have to allow for traffic jams when you travel morning or early evening.

I wandered off and bought a bottle of coke,, looking for that instant caffeine hit.  I thought the check-out chick insane.  She kept asking me for MORE money.  I knew we would work it out at some point.  She would laugh, I would laugh, she would apologise.
But no, that small bottle of coke really was 3.50euro.
I said ‘I’ll be sure to really really enjoy it then…’  And then we both laughed.
That is a robbery, isn’t it? 
It is $4.88us and $6.09 in New Zealand money.
I wish I hadn’t made those conversions now ...

On the plane and things began to improve. I met this lovely Mexican/American woman.  We chatted most of the way to Milan and so I noticed even less of the very short flight.

In Milan, the big heavy Belgian-frost-protecting jersey had to come off but ... oh no! I couldn’t put it into my plastic-wrapped suitcase because I still had a long way to travel and dared not interfere with its hold on my belongings - there were two train trips to be made.  I tied it onto my suitcase, hoping not to stand out as a peasant there in Milan.  Found a nasty sandwich, remembered too late that I knew how to purchase them in that shop because I had been a chicken last time too ... limiting myself to simple Italian when ordering food.  Sigh. 

I decided perhaps I could make this my rite-of-passage experience.  Each time I arrive in Italy I will have one of these disgusting sandwiches to appease the gods of travel and win myself a good visit.  I ate almost all of it while waiting for my train to Genova.  Breakfast had been quite some hours earlier.

On the train, I had the most incredible good fortune ... (so I’m thinking the sandwich sacrifice may be the ritual of choice on future trips).  I sat next to a lovely woman called Germana.  We began chatting after she very kindly alerted me to the fact that our number 7 train carriage had just become a number 6, and yes, we all had to move.

My seat was next to her in number 6 carriage and so we began to chat.  It turned out that this lovely woman had, like me, had spent some time living in Istanbul.  Well, that was that.  We fell into conversation, talking of the lovely places she had lived, talking of family, talking of life.  It was so excellent!  That train trip passed so easily that I didn’t even notice the million tunnels that we have to travel through to reach Genova.

We said goodbye at the station, I found a taxi and voila, here I am, back in this city I love so very deeply.

But that’s not all.  I walked into the apartment and Paola and Simon had arranged the loveliest birthday surprise.  3 bottles of truly delicious wine!  Really!

So there I was, back in Genova, having met good people along the way, my suitcase had managed to contain itself and not spill open and now ... there was red wine waiting for me!
A huge thank you to Paola and Simon!

Today it’s 9 celsius, it’s pouring down after 3 very dry months here in the city, and here I am, wrapped up warmly and smiling that big smile that I try to control whenever I reach this place.

I hope your worlds are behaving today and I wish you joy.
Ciao for now. 

Brussels Airport ... where I write how it was to arrive there.

Yesterday, at the really friendly airport of Dublin, we booked a wheelchair or buggy ride for Brussels.  Just to get me through the long long, unbelievably long trek, from the plane to pick up our luggage.  I was okay with doing the rest on my own but had a bad feeling that the trek from the plane wouldn’t be the greatest plan.

We arrived and ... well unsurprisingly really, writes the voice of past experience with Brussels Airport, there was no one waiting .  It was a hell of a walk through a largely deserted 8.30pm airport. 
No-one anywhere, to even say ‘ummmm excuse me, we booked assistance?’

Limping through, tediously slowly, we found our luggage and wandered over to the money machine to get money.  Our hourly bus to Antwerpen was already going without us at 9pm.  We were too slow with the limping thing but voila, just to make things more glorious, the money machine was out of cash. 

I knew where another machine was and so we picked up our luggage and trundled on out.  A bit tired and sore, you can imagine how rapt we were to discover the second money machine was out of cash too.  My Belgian bloke was fuming ...
There was a third machine and it had money.

We stopped at Information to ask why we hadn’t received the assistance we had booked.  I had warned Gert not to go there.  It’s a path to self-destruction and rage.  Last time I landed there, just a few weeks earlier, the luggage handlers had slammed my suitcase around, the ensuing damage jamming my suitcase closed, with my coat inside.  They had also managed to lose my big strong luggage strap.  My enquiries had begun at ‘Information’ too.  I was sent around the airport, being told ‘no, not here, we're not responsible, try there’, until I risked missing my hourly bus home to Stad Antwerpen.  Again, this guy had no answers beyond naming the group responsible before adding ‘but they’re closed now’.

Smiling kind of grimly, I asked where the best place to eat was. 
He said, they’re all closed.

International airport ... people still arriving and leaving ... food places closed, 9pm.

We rolled the case over to a bar and ordered a horrendous panini thing each, with a beer and a wine ... 23euro.  Then as we sat there the staff, assuming we were both English-speaking, called the previous customers pigs on arriving at their table.  Not because of the mess but because the customers had wanted a lemon slice in their drink then not finished the drink.  I suspected it was undrinkable, based on the sandwiches.

I looked inside my crunchy brie panini, the over-toasted one, and saw a pile of meat.  I asked the guy waiter what it might be, not rudely, just kind of bemused that my brie panini wasn’t really.
He laughed, looking at me like I was slightly insane, he said, I only the sell the stuff, I don’t know what is in it.

And that was coming home from Ireland ... maybe it's better to land over in Holland and catch the trains home.

The Belgian Bloke ...

I often travel alone ... I’m lucky, the man who found me in Istanbul accepts that a New Zealander living in Turkey might be a bit of a wanderer.

But sometimes he travels with me however I can’t always blog all about that while on the road.  It’s the kind of information burglars might rather enjoy.  There’s the whole google face recognition thing these days and so, when I travel with my Belgian, he’s often not mentioned and it’s sad because I do enjoy traveling with him.

This trip to Ireland was special in so many ways.  He had decided he wouldn’t be driving.  Instead, he had hired an Irish rental car and it was all about me getting back behind the wheel after 7 years as a passenger. 

It has to be said, I loved driving back in New Zealand.  Loved it with a passion!  Friends visiting New Zealand can attest to that, although I would rather they didn’t critique my style here.  Yes, that means you Diede, and perhaps Mary Lou too.

Anyway ... I was a little bit nervous about it all.  7 years is a long time. 

The rental car bloke in Ireland said, ‘so you’re okay with a 2011 Peugeot 308?’  I think I gave him a wee bit of a fright.  I didn’t hug him but I might have said, ‘I’ve only just arrived in Ireland and here I am, having a really excellent time!!!’  He almost smiled, which we felt was an event, as Gert and I weren’t sure he smiled a lot normally.  It was possibly the equivalent of a hearty laugh from a more easily amused bloke.

We trotted out and loaded up the car.  Gert had maps.  He’s great with maps.  I’m not.  I never know where I am in the world.  I accept that.

We did all kinds of M Roads on our journey from Dublin Airport across to Galway, over there on the other side of Ireland.  It was grand.  I had imagined I would sit around 90kms p/h in the slow lane in those places where the speed limit was 120kms but do you know, it all came back to me.  120kms was okay.  Gert liked my driving.  He’s a Flemish bloke.  He’s fairly blunt when it comes to truth-telling.

And we timed it nicely.  His directions were excellent.  I didn’t drive him crazy, not once.  A miracle.

Anyway, we arrived in one piece at the home of the lovely Rob and Angie and just kind of stepped into this magical time of wandering and boating and fishing and stuff, in Ireland.

I took this photograph of Gert fishing ... but that’s a whole other story, involving trees and fish and things.

Sunday in Oughterard, Ireland

We started well, it was a lazy start ... the best kind on a Sunday.

After breakfast Rob and Angie took us all into the forest to walk thrugh to the Lough with the dogs. Unfortunately I got between one of the dogs and her ball without realising, and experienced the whole impact-with-fast-moving-dog thing.  I thought I heard something crack in my lower leg but a short wait showed that nothing was broken.

I headed for home, threw some ice on it half-heartedly and then foolishly decided it wasn’t too bad and that I could walk it out.  Fish and chips for lunch, my first here in Ireland, then we were off to the fair with everyone via one of the tiny roads near Lough Corrib.  Photographs were taken.

Back at the house, downloading photographs, I fell asleep with some ice on that ankle of mine and frustratingly, I’ve woken in pain.  Rob strapped it.  He knows about stuff like this and I’m hoping it’s all gone in time for the ride across Ireland in the morning ...

Meanwhile it’s a beautiful day here.  The photograph below was taken on the shores of the Lough of Corrib.

Rob's Boat, Ireland

I’m sleeping in the most comfortable bed here and it’s making me sleep like I never sleep.  I’m loving it.

Yesterday, this is the boat we set out on ...
Why we turned back is a longer story than I have time to tell here today but Rob’s boat is a beautiful boat, and we were out in it on one of the best fishing lochs in Ireland.

 

A Boat, Oughterard, Ireland

Rob took us down to the river with the dogs.  There was this boat, just lying there in the grass looking beautiful ...

Since then, there’s been wandering through the village talking with lovely people, fishing by the river, fishing from the sail boat, now it’s cooking dinner.  A most enjoyable day here on the west coast of Ireland.