Category: Travel

Project 52: Curiosity, Korean face-packs and the right question…

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Image: © Chiromancer 2018

Last week, I travelled to New York on business.  Lately I’ve been there more often thanks to a super client who is based in the centre of Manhattan.  I get to stay local, which means I can walk to their offices. A rare treat given the miles I usually do for work.

You’d think that my good intentions would go out of the window since I was working and living in a hotel, but I decided that my philosophy for week 1 of Project 52 was…to be curious.  Open about trying things differently. A bit zen about which side of the road to cross. Which is why on Tuesday, I found myself in a fabulous Japanese place off 54thStreet.

Now I’m no stranger to Japanese cuisine. The Belgian makes his own sushi at home, and my very favourite restaurant in Bruges is Japanese.   I could tell this was the real deal since I was the only white girl sipping plum wine at the bar!  I soaked up the atmosphere while snacking on sashimi. Delicious, and all because I felt curious enough to take a walk after work.

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Image: © Chiromancer 2018

The Asian theme continued on Wednesday and Thursday.  One of my rare pleasures when travelling on business is putting on my pajamas and watching trash TV.  This is not because I am curious about the lives of Real Cows of Connecticut, but simply because it is a chance to order room service and switch my monkey mind off for an evening.

To add to the ambiance I decided to try a Korean face-pack. That was because I’d read about them in my in-flight magazine and was curious to see if soaking my skin would actually help with the jet-lag. Cue incomprehensible instructions and hilarious Nonglish (English, but not English) translations on the packaging. Which way up is this thing supposed to go? It felt really good, despite the fact that I looked like a serial killer with a serious moisturiser habit.

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Image: © Chiromancer 2018

Friday finished with a familiar cab ride to the airport, but the wrong terminal. Curious to see how I would get home, I asked the assistant for help.  No problem, he said, there is a shuttle bus that goes between the domestic and international terminals. You can drop your bags here as security is much speedier than the main international terminal at JFK. It really is. It took me 10 minutes to get through US Border control instead of the usual 45. Bonus!

Of course, all this has got me thinking. Sometimes being curious is as much about asking the right questions as it is about taking the road less travelled.  Face-packs not included.

What did you discover this week?

Project 52 is my personal journey of discovery. You can find out more here, and if you’d like to join in, please post on the blog.

Across the pond…

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Image: Chiromancer 2018

It’s been a while since I packed passport, arranged a visa and hot-footed it somewhere else for work.  This week took me to New York for a new assignment.  In my previous, pre-stepmom life, this would have been an ordinary trip. I travelled a lot. For work. For pleasure.  I used to do a lot of other things…a lot. Now that I’m married to the Belgian – and stepmom to his boys – this trip adopted new significance.

Being alone in NYC as a kick-ass consultant reminded me of my days when I really was kick-ass, no-kids. No husband.  Fun. Me. Just me. Me…alone. This time, being alone in New York also reminded me that I have some boys at home who might be missing me. Turns out they did…even Watson, our cat was happy to see me…But, it also reminded me that I’m good at what I do, that in my professional life, I am respected, valued and rewarded as…me! Sometimes this is hard to know when your role is being a stepmom and wife to boys who are from a different culture.  Sometimes a different planet…

Change – which I do for a living – is not rocket science , but somehow, having to change my life from careerista singleton to married stepmom was harder than I expected. Not so much science as a rocket up my butt!  Ouch! Much harder! Now don’t get me wrong, I love the Belgian and I would not swap my current life for the world, but it’s nice to be myself – just me,myself, I – for a change.  For a change…being a working woman alone in New York meant I could order juice for breakfast, spend hours blowdrying my hair, explore the city after hours and catch up on some much needed sleep.

Sometimes you have to go back, to see how far you have journeyed…

 

 

 

In Flanders fields…

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If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. – Rupert Brooke, 1914

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Image: Copyright Chiromancer 2017

If you read my earlier post Adventures in Benglish…you will know that I have set myself the task of adventuring across the A-Z of Belgium.  It’s a sort of therapy for me.  A way to kill my inner conflict about living here, by being a tourist and acclimatising simultaneously.

I’m not doing it in any kind of chronological order, the only requirements are:  #1 that I hit all 26 letters, and… #2 that I try to visit places that are a bit off the beaten track.

Visiting Ypres (Ieper) probably breaks condition #2, but it does cross off the letter ‘Y’ which I thought might be problematic.  As I headed out of Bruges for an appointment I spotted it on the periphery of my satnav… ‘I’ll give it a go’ I thought, as the sombre stanzas of several War Poets began running through my head…

Two things I had certainly not anticipated. #1 As a town, Ypres is a lot bigger than you think, and…#2 there are war graves everywhere. And, I mean e-v-e-r-ywhere. In fields outside of town, in the middle of residential areas, and of course at the emblematic Menin Gate (Menenpoort).   In the 1920s the Commonwealth War Graves Commission built 150 military cemeteries in and around Ypres in the honour of all those who gave their lives during WW1. I must have missed that part of the history lesson…

What I found so moving today was the realisation that it wasn’t just Germans, French, British and Belgians, who made the ultimate sacrifice, but South Africans, Algerians, Senegalese, Chinese, Indians and loads of other nationalities. A conflict to end all others… It’s estimated that half a million people died between 1914 and 1918.

Which got me thinking…it’s time I started my own inner peace talks. Sacrificing the best of who I am to bend my current world to my will isn’t working. It’s not the way forward. George Orwell wrote that ‘happiness can exist only in acceptance’.  I think he was right…

 

Every time we say goodbye…

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I hate goodbye… Whether it’s wishing my far flung family farewell, or saying ‘sayonara’ to someone special…I’m a real wuss when it comes to goodbye.

For the last two and a half years, The Belgian (a.k.a. my lovely husband) and I conducted our courtship across the English Channel. Every other weekend was spent in another country, and since we both work as consultants, our weeks were spent apart.  Long working days, long distance love, and lonely nights… It meant we crammed as much into our weekends as possible, before that dreaded Sunday moment, when – having repacked our respective suitcases – we hugged and hoped that the week would pass quickly so we could see each other again.

This Sunday, The Belgian and I hugged, and said goodbye. As he drove away, I stood in the driveway of our cottage, feeling familiarly sad, but somehow different. As I walked back to the house, I was deep in thought.  Perhaps saying goodbye is not so bad, when you know that you will see each other again. There is fondness in farewell when you realise that time apart brings the opportunity to share your adventures over a glass of wine at the weekend. Next weekend, darling! As that wise philosopher, Pooh Bear once said: ‘how lucky I am to have someone that makes saying goodbye so hard’.

The Girl in Row B…

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As a singleton, one of my fantasies always involved meeting Mr. Right on a plane. And no, this does not involve becoming a member of the mile-high club, so you can stop reading right away if that’s where you think this blog is going!  

Anyway… in this particular airborne dream, Mr. Unique would be sitting next to me – sharp suited and smelling of expensive aftershave.  I’d be channelling trans-atlantic chic. He’d be ruggedly handsome and interesting. I’d be interested. We’d talk and find we had so much in common…

Uh...well, I don’t know about you, but… the gods that rule the check in system seem to take particular delight in putting me next to smelly old men and sociopaths!  If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume this was some sort of cosmic prank.  On my last plane I sat next to a guy wearing socks, sandals and a comb-over!   And I haven’t even begun to tell you about the annoying parents who spent an entire long-haul flight back to SA, bickering with their three year old in between bickering with each other. There is a lot to recommend business class, and I’m not just talking real cutlery here!

Still, you do sometimes meet interesting people. Snoggable…? Erm…no.  Fascinating…most def!  On a flight back from the US, I met a guy who had invented robotic fish with hidden cameras, which were used for conservation purposes. In Finland, I met a super cute four-year old, who spent the entire flight introducing me to ‘Katten’ – her favourite cuddly toy…My Finnish is rubbish, but just as well I can speak ‘kid’.  I’ve also met a man who insured space ships for a living…sadly, there is no ‘alien abduction clause’…I checked!

For readers of this blog who think my rich imaginative life has been the balm that soothes the melancholy heart of a solo traveller?  Well, what I didn’t tell you was that the girl sitting in Row B also happened to be sitting next to the man of her dreams when she flew to Spain last weekend. We met mid-air, but not on a plane. He is…ruggedly handsome and interesting. He does not wear socks or sandals, and he smells good. Really good!  I am…of course, smitten. But that is the subject of another blog…

 

 

 

Hard-core Husky…

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I should start this post by saying…no animals were harmed in the making of this blog and it was not written on the hard shoulder of the M4…any of you expecting voyeristic sex, or heavy breathing should stop reading and re-tune your satellite dish to the naughty channel!

Yes, dogs and harnesses were involved. Yes…on New Year’s Eve, so were a load of naked men in a sauna…more about that later…

Actually, the whole thing started because having grown up in a hot country, I happen to have a thing for snow. Goggles, a furry hat, and seven layers of underwear later, I found myself on a plane to Lapland in December.  Arriving in Kiruna, I had to do a double take on the thermometer…minus 25 Celcius. Pretty. Darn. Chilly.  That’s brass monkey weather to us normal folks…

I thought I knew what to expect.  Having good travelling companions was a given. Only fellow crazies or really good mates would don sledding gear and head out to the big white yonder with nothing but a tea light and some slippers to keep us warm!!  That was before we found out about the guy who didn’t make it, and whose ghost still lurks behind the first cabin we made camp at…Oliver – if you are out there, we come in peace…

What I didn’t expect was a guide who was a cross between Chuck Norris and Bilbo Baggins! What I didn’t expect was chopping frozen entrails twice a day.  And not a drop of alcohol in sight!  Or running water for that matter…the long drop loos are a whole blog on their own!

Despite expectation, what I got…was a pack of dogs – Honey, Simba, Isak and Nanuq to be precise – who loved me as I was. No make-up and nothing made up. They loved the moment, and so did I.

Despite expectation, what I got was a group of fellow travellers who were totally brilliant. In adversity – a.k.a. no booze – we had to forego our disguise and don our regular faces. No make-up, and nothing made up…honest people enjoying fresh, cold air and each other’s company. We loved the moment.

A good way to end 2011. A good way to start 2012.

Son et Lumiere…

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I know exactly when it happened. My first love affair. Passionate… Enduring…  All consuming… Well, I was nine.  Yes. I know what you cynics are thinking, but you are sooooo…wrong. It was not a dog, cat or hamster…the lover in question happens to be a city.  Bricks and mortar, but so much more.

Frankly, I blame my parents.  After all…if they hadn’t gone to Paris for their honeymoon, I might have focused my affections on Skegness! God Forbid! Anyway, they chose Paris instead. The epitome of chic in the sixties. Thank God…and thank Yves St Laurent!

I realise this might appear strange to all those well-travelled EU citizens out there. But to a shy, spider-legged girl growing up in Africa, Paris seemed impossibly sophisticated.  This affection for a capital I had never seen or visited grew, but remained unrequited until university.   It was there that I discovered my second love…French films. For those of you who eschew subtitles – just look away now and don’t bother to read any further!

 In 1895 the Lumiere brothers were the first to present projected, moving, photographic, pictures to a paying audience of more that one person. I think that qualifies as inventing cinema and probably explains why French films are pre-eminent in my own mind. By the time I graduated, I’d watched about 100 French films. The ones I love most, were set in Paris.  They usually involved complex, slow moving plot-lines and starred couth, dark haired men. Men of few words, but great passion.  They wore pressed blue shirts and dined and smoked in wood-panelled bistros. They rode vespas and had complicated personal lives. Well… it’s my fantasy so I’m allowed to dream!

Last week, I set off for Paris.   I had breakfast with Matisse and Picasso, lunch in a wood-panelled bistro on the Seine.  A good spot for watching suave men and elegant women as they sashayed past on their way to work…to assignations…and the Rive Gauche. I spent the afternoon getting lost in the Marais, but finding myself…in the architecture, the light, the sense and sound of an old city. I fell in love all over again.  Paris, j’taime!

West Coast…

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A few years ago, I bought a piece of land on the West Coast of South Africa. I did it on a whim.  Actually, I had a really frightening experience flying over the Pyrenees (our plane hit clear air turbulence and dropped 300 ft in 3 seconds). I wasn’t ready to die with a bunch of strangers, and somehow, having a stake in African soil seemed like the right thing to do in case it ever happened again.

The West Coast has been described as a high-speed connection to your soul. If you know it as I have come to, this is absolutely true. I’m not the first person to fall madly and truly for the light that brings clarity of thought and peace to a restless spirit.  Endless white beaches where you can walk for miles without seeing another person. The  Benguela current that runs deep and icy along the shoreline, giving winter fog and cerulean sea (sea that is still cold enough to take your breath in summer). Semi-desert scrubland that reveals little of the Khoikhoi and San who were the first people to live here, but that nevertheless explodes into bloom when the spring rains kiss the earth in September. It’s a wild and stunningly beautiful place.

And when – as now – the choices I’ve made begin to get to me (living in a cold country amongst strangers), my thoughts draw me back there. Little and often. Constant. Constant. They say that once this part of the world has crept into your heart, it will never leave you…

I’ll be returning there this year.

Larssen B

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I’ve spent the last few days dogsledding in Finland.  It’s minus twenty celsius and cold enough to freeze any extremities that may not be gloved, hatted or wrapped.  It’s also starkly beautiful – surrounded by nordic forest, blanketed in snow and lit by the arctic sun, we are staying at a hotel on a lake about two kilometres away from the Russian Border.

So far, one of the many highlights of my adventure has been driving a team of huskies and learning how to steer a  sled…and yesterday, dancing until dawn to bring in the New Year in the company of friends and more than one bottle of bubbly. Of course the party dress was packed without the posh shoes, so my snow boots had to double as seasonal attire.  Very attractive!

Until I made a pact with myself to go away each New Year, I always used to dread the burden of expectation that accompanies these celebrations. Somehow on demand happy didn’t happen for me.  Now my time away brings the opportunity to reflect on the year that was and a fresh perspective on the year that will be.   I don’t yet know what 2010 holds, but the fun will be in finding out.