Into the Woods

It's easy to get lost in London. When I'm here I almost forget that this isn't really representative of England as a whole. So it comes as a small shock every time I venture out into the countryside to see just how... English England really is.

Before I came here I watched more than my fair share of BBC dramas, but I always assumed the quaintness of the English country was overstated. It wasn't. All the pubs and cottages and well-dressed elderly people are right there, in villages barely two miles apart with names like Sweetshire and Comfortsford.

In the evening of my first day in the forest, the dog and I went for what was meant to be a casual stroll across the commons, an hour tops and home in time for supper. But the trees lured me in and before I knew it I'd done a Little Red Riding Hood on myself and gotten totally lost, forgetting that just because there are no creatures armed to kill in England doesn't mean wandering off the path into unfamiliar territory is a terribly clever idea. Two and a half hours later I found my way home, and the next day I decided the whole experience was charming (as opposed to just plain tiring) and repeated it in a different stretch of wood. 

On the plus side, the lack of people meant I could play all I liked with my self timer. And I saw a lot of deer. A walk in an English forest is so captivatingly different to walking through the Australian bush. It was almost enough to make me want to move out to the countryside one day. Almost.



Great expectations

Last week was half term for my Boy and Girl. They went sailing for the week, leaving me alone in their grandparent's house with the dog for the better part of the week. Come Thursday, however, I was home free. London beckoned, with her promises of hustle, bustle and the ubiquitous sound of sirens I'd grown accustomed to, and of which there was a conspicuous lack in the middle of an honest to God English forest. But instead of giving in to the siren call (both literal and metaphorical) of my adopted home I decided to jump on a train and see somewhere new. 

Given I was in the south already it made sense to stick below London, so I took the advice of my mothers both biological and host and went to Bath.

There is no denying Bath is a beautiful town. Nestled amongst gently rolling hills and practically drowning in history, it is little wonder this area captured and stimulated the imaginations of such literary notables as Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy. And anyone who knows me will attest to my love of history. So it is little wonder I was equally captivated by my surrounds.

The contrast between ancient and modern was especially profound here, where tourists pour through corridors snapping high resolution digital pictures of buildings and monuments that out date Jesus. While I was in the Roman Baths I found myself feeling simultaneously incredibly close to and removed from the people who lived or travelled here. In some ways I - with my mobile phone, ease of travel and own digital camera - was absolutely different from a people who made month- or year-long pilgrimages to this site to pay their respects to the gods or curse their neighbours for petty theft .

But I find when I'm close to history it is so much easier to remember those people were exactly that - real people. They lived and loved and hoped and feared and finally died. And it's also easy to remember when seeing first hand the comparative level of civilisation, despite their superstitions and brutal rituals, the Romans were a formidable and supremely advanced people.

As I sat, casually dangling my hands into a pool that was once part of the ultimate day spa and listened to commentary by Bill Bryson, I considered the expectations born of my own history. In many ways the trip to Bath was exactly what I had hoped travel would be like. I was alone, so I could make my own decisions about what to do, and when; I was staying in a hostel; when I stepped outside I was somewhere. The sun was shining, the town was beautiful, and there were buskers on every corner. But as I'd gone to sleep on the Thursday night (my first of two) I was concerned. From what I'd been told of my Mum's travels thirty-odd years ago, and my friend Laura's travels thirty-odd months ago, I had expected to walk into a hostel and pretty much walk straight out again into a pub. Despite knowing how stupid it was, I felt like I was doing something wrong.

I spent the next day being a tourist, touring the Baths and Cathedral, taking afternoon tea in the Pump room (where I had fresh clotted cream for the first time - Holy moley, it was something else), scouring the markets and dining, book in hand, by the river. In all an idyllic day. But I was still mildly perturbed. The stories I'd been told made it seem like Mum and Laura barely spent a moment without company.

Happily I went back to my room that night and made friends with two Swiss girls, with whom I went out and had a drink in a proper English pub.

Hello, Goodbye

The past month has been a veritable revolving door of people and places, so much so I'm not sure where to start. But if I've learnt nothing else from years of watching Julie Andrews, it's that the very beginning is a reasonable place.

So. Granada. What can I say? It was as if all the positive stereotype I'd every heard about Spain got together and built a city. I was only actually in the city for three days and I still managed to eat enough tapas to feed a small army, and drink my own body weight in God knows what. I honestly don't know why the whole world doesn't live like the Spanish. A bit of work, a long, wine soaked lunch, a socially acceptable nap, and then a couple more hours work before tapas o'clock. Where's the bad?

See how happy they are?

                  

I went to Granada with Isabel, Elena, and Iina, who ended up sharing my after-hours adventure on our final night. Isabel and Elena had gone home post-drinks but pre-Vogue, an Indie club in the middle of the city. The plan was originally for us to stay the night with one of Isabel's friends after we'd finished at the club - a plan that was just slightly altered when we decided to do the sensible thing and go home with a group of strange, primarily Spanish-speaking men instead, to a house where the bathroom was off-limits because it was busy housing a not insignificant crop of hydroponic weed. Naturally (I slay myself). She and I left with a book on "How to grow and use hydroponic cannabis", and the new found knowledge that "come to my bedroom" is one of those phrases that sound the same in every language respectively.

Iina was actually one of the first people I met when I started making friends within the local Au Pair community, despite the fact she lived about as far away from my area as you can get while still being within the London city limits. Luckily for me, being in Granada gave Iina and I a chance to get to know each other better and bond over such things as cheap alcohol, Mystery Jets, Lampimampi kwoffee and still being drunk at 2pm on Easter Sunday.

Unluckily for me, Iina went home to Finland three weeks later.

The Friday before she left she and I went out to dinner in Soho with Isabel and Tinja, before the two of us went to Borderline. Until now I was spending most of my time out on the town in either mainstream clubs or The Worlds End, where they mostly play very loud metal and hard rock music. But now IT'S OK! Because Fridays are indie nights at Borderline! Woohoo! So we took full advantage of the fantastic music and dancedanddancedanddanced until they kicked us out, when we dragged ourselves back to my (incredibly comfortable) bed and died.

You'd think getting home when your employer is getting up would be all kinds of awkward, especially when they're trusting their kids' physical and emotional health to your care five days a week. Turns out, not so much.

Despite London's reputation for being a miserable bitch of a city as far as weather is concerned, it has actually been sunny and stunning thanks to the timely entrance of Spring (there's sun! there's foliage! there's double digit temperatures!)

 

So, to celebrate Ingrid's birthday and the lessened chance of vitamin D deficiency, we did what any good Londoners would do: we picnicked. Albeit dressed to the nines as superheroes in the middle of St James' Park.

Side note: NOBODY knows who Sailor Moon is in Britain. Which could be for the best, given the damage I probably did to her reputation.

I'm not entirely sure what happened between the hours of 2pm and 12am, but I do know we picked up a posse of (non-superhero) new friends, ate a bunch of delicious Tesco food and somehow made it into the club we were headed to, although I'm pretty sure most of us shouldn't have. I also know I went home without telling anyone (old habits die hard) after having an ill-informed d'n'm with two of our newbies (I really have to stop doing that. Especially with people I've furnished with the info they need to find me on facebook). It was a good weekend.

A Canterbury Tale

Isabel and I visited Canterbury, of the Chaucer Tales fame, on Sunday. And along with the Cathedral and the Norman ruins we also visited the graveyard and a second hand bookshop. I have a mildly morbid love for places like graveyards, because they have so many potential stories. One of the reasons I was so taken with the idea of moving to England is because it has such a romantic history. Australia's post colonial history is interesting and all, and it is a pity I have such an incomplete knowledge of the Aboriginal history, but England is the stuff novels are made of.



The modern age

Today a friend and I went to the Tate Modern art gallery, as part of our shared crusade to see as many culturally and/or tourist-ly significant London landmarks as possible. While we were there we saw a lot of really fantastic art.

We also saw a great deal of Art.

Modern Art is a tricky subject. It's easy to stray to one end of the love/hate spectrum or the other. So, before I get too carried away, let me say there were a great many pieces in the gallery that I really think were fantastic, both asthetically and artistically.

But there was an equal amount of absolute wank.

Maybe it's because I'm a total philistine, but I can't see how a metal cot, a paper cut out of an irregular octagon stuck to a wall, or a pile of dirty (and very smelly) clothes can be considered high Art. Honestly, there were Artworks there that I could have created, and I am the first to admit the limits of my visual arts capabilities.

I'm sure if I took this attitude to a proper Art Appreciator I would be shouted down with cries of "originality!". Sure anyone can paint an entire canvas red, but - and here's the crux of the matter - nobody else though of it. So, upon reflection, I have come up with a list of reasons why I have yet to make my fortune as a Modern Artist

1) I am not an artistic genius - This would seem the most obvious answer. However I have too much faith in my own abilities to simply accept this and move on. I'm talented, bitches.*

2) My parents stifled me - In one of the rooms there was an Artwork that took up most of one wall that looked basically like the kind of collage most people create in kindergarten. I suspect the difference bewteen most people and the Artist is that when he took his craft home, Mummy showered him with kisses and love and home made deliciousness before pinning the "masterpiece" up on the already overflowing fridge, instead of cooing for the requisite half a minute then sending the craftwork on it's way to the great recycling centre in the sky.

3) I'm trying too hard - Everyone know that in order to be an Artist you need to be completely true and open to your feeling, both good and bad. Without real self knowledge, how can you create real Art? Some kind of emotional voyage of self discovery is clearly called for. Just let go.

4) I'm not trying hard enough - Art is about structure, dedication, technique. You have to understand concepts before you can make them your own.

I seriously doubt there is any deeper meaning behind a video of rubbish being blown around in the breeze that hasn't alread been explore in American Beauty (so much for originality, huh?) (postmodernism, yo). Who decides what is and isn't Art, anyway? Whoever it is, I want that job.

*Side project: In order to prove I can be just as ridiculous and pretentious as any Artist(e), I have come up with a Modern Art project. Every day I'm going to take a photo of my friend, Isabel. Every single day. For a year. (Promise). It will be called 365 Days of Isabel, or actually something much better and more meaningful when I think of it.

I should be so lucky

I visited Oxford over the weekend to meet some of the Extended Family, and it just blew me away. I can't believe I spent three years of my life in Bathurst like a chump when I could have just gone here instead.

Kidding. But seriously, the entire city looks like something out of a fairytale. And not the dark, innuendo-laden traditional kind. The Disney fairytale kind. I mean, the streets are cobbled. COBBLED.



DO YOU SEE?

Anyway, the whole university city vibe got me a-thinking.
Before I hopped across the pond I was frequently asked by  people of widely varying ages and professions what my plans were, both for this year and in the long term. And, to be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely sure. I know that I want to spend some time footloose and fancy free before I commit myself to a career, because I also know I want to be completely amazing at it when I do.
My answer was usually something along the lines of:
"Oh, I don't know. Travel, work. Become a real person somewhere along the line. I'm not too worried. Things generally work out well for me."
And that, that last bit right there, was where I encountered problems. Almost every time I said those magic words I would be greeted with some combination of pity, disbelief and condescension. I got it from my friends, my parents' friends, from family members. And MY GOD was it frustrating.
I know that assuming life will be all rainbows and happiness is unrealistic, and that saying things will work in my favour is, you know, kind of arrogant, but it's also true. It has been in the past and, so far, it's still doing good things for me now. I've been incredibly lucky since I've been here, in terms of my living situation, my friendships, even my career prospects.
Leaving aside the philosophical connotations (do I make the statement because it's true, or is it true because I make the statement) it makes me really...angry? Upset? I'm not sure. But it makes me really negative-emotion when people disregard my awesome life potential just because they haven't had some kind of bullshit, fairytale smooth ride. (And when I say "my", I mostly mean "other people's in general"). Gah! Nobody does! It's not even that bad!
Basically what I'm saying is get some perspective. That'll probably clear your shit right up.
And also, don't be a hater.
I'm going to go now before I sound any more like Justin Beiber.

A weekend in the city (Part 1)