Autumn ...

hello, autumn...  hello, smell of smoke in the air.  hello, hot cups of ginger tea with a cookie on the side, hello chilly evenings, hello colors spreading from mountaintops down, down down into the valleys here below.

Nina Bagley, extract from her blog Ornamental

If I had to describe the place I would most like to live then a location like Nina's would be high up on the list. Her blog is the place where I go when the need to wander off and be quiet is upon me and I can't physically go anyplace.

In fact there's a novel I've been writing since those days when I was an airforce officer's wife.  It's a story that has retained the same main character but one that has reshaped itself as I have moved countries and lives.  She always has a dog, lives someplace beautiful but slightly isolated, and her life has been simplified. 

She was a war photographer, so I researched post-traumatic stress and Iraq and the Green Zone and so many other places where people like her go, filled with the conviction that if people just knew the truth of those places and situations, they would rein in the monsters who create wars. 

My bookshelves have more than a few war journalists and photographer biographies sitting there, next to the climbers stories.  Another people who fascinate me.

But there's still no dog in my life.  Everyone feels compelled to remind me of the responsibility when I bring up my desire to have a dog again.  They tell me ... the woman who has had dogs since she was 9 years old, that it's a big decision.

I don't roll my eyes ... well, not visibly but it does get boring.  I rode horses, had cats, my daughter had a pony.  There are things I just know by now.

Another birthday soon.  Another year older and, oddly enough, I'm enjoying these years.  I'm becoming less concerned about what people think of me, how I 'should' look, and I'm turning down the self-censorship dial on those things I would like to say directly. 

I learned the fine art of careful and considerate behaviour as a child, with a side-helping of all-consuming guilt if I slipped up and was honest or direct. It's almost fun unlearning these things.  Fun and frustrating, and challenging too, but as  long as I'm gentle ...

Autumn is here.  It was crisp out there this morning.  The pollution levels have been high recently.  Our city is split by a ring road that has some of the heaviest traffic loading in Europe.  We're a true crossroads and it's a nightmare living so close to a section of it.  And then there's the industrial pollution.

It takes about 3 days for my system to begin to clear when I flit off to Genova, that spot by the sea that is close to some beautiful hills and mountains. 

New Zealand ... out there the air was simply stunning. I would all but dance, delighting in the variety of scents the air carried as we journeyed there.

Wild thyme in Central Otago, then the seemingly limitless beech forests and lakes that give Fiordland that unforgettable smell.  The wild west coast of the South Island, with the Tasman Sea crashing on one side while, on the other, the Southern Alps roar up into the sky.  The scent of the sea and the glaciers, soaking wet glacial moraine and forests.

Mmmm, I'm not really a city girl ... must work that one out one day soon.

But today is all about packing and preparing for another journey.  My cousin continues her journey back to New Zealand on October 8.  We will say our farewells in Milan, after almost two months together.  It's been good having someone around who shares a history, whose mother was my mother's much-loved older sister.

Sometimes, over these weeks, I've looked into Mum's eyes - Julie's are almost exactly the same.  Mum died way back in 1999 and I've missed her often over the years.   Anyway, it has been a time of 'remember when ...' and of familiarity, of picking over old wounds, and creating new stories to tell next time we meet. 

We're off on a roadtrip to a part of Europe I haven't thought of exploring before.  Although, admittedly, I do find it hard to go past Genova ...

But anyway, meet Julie.  She was the model of choice one day out there in Piedmont on the photography workshop.  Sandy and I photographed her, delighting in the colourful backdrop Diana provided with her delicious use of colour.

Julie has eyes just like my mother's.

On the Aperitivo Trail, Genova

As always, there were so many stories in Genova, so many I intended to write up but I arrived back in my Belgian life and there were more stories unfolding.  The end result is that a handful of stories are told and the others ... well, they just stay with me, as memories to be sifted through or written up later.

I was winding up my stay in Genova back in July when Simon flew in on that second last evening.  He had 12 hours in the city, as he was dropping his son off with his mother-in-law.  We had a choice for dinner that night - a simple dinner someplace or an aperitivo-style exploration of the city. 

Nothing new for Simon, as he knows the city well.  Paola, his lovely Genovese wife and friend of mine, owns the apartment I stay in when I'm there.  He spent a few years living there and they return when they can, from their Belgian life.

And so it was that we began with aperitivo at Cafè il Barbarossa.  They offer a lovely outdoor setting, an extensive cocktail menu, and they're only a few steps from the apartment.  He chose a cocktail and I remained boringly loyal to my beloved red wine.

We wandered over to Mentelocale Cafè.  Simon selected another cocktail while I continued with red wine.  You should know that each drink comes with a range of snacks.  It's a lovely 'other' way to have dinner.  We moved on after a while to a place that was rather more upmarket.  Their buffet selection of snacks was rather divine.

The first photograph, in the series below, was taken with Simon's phone.  No other cameras were on this particular expedition.  The cocktail you see was called the Missionary's Downfall.  Simon wisely stayed with rum-based cocktails and admitted he could see how the taste of that particular drink might have led missionaries to let themselves down some.

The second photograph was taken after my second glass of wine and is more about the humour of the moment than the amount of wine consumed.  Actually, that evening was so very warm and humid that I very sensibly matched every glass of wine with water ... more or less.  Maybe not enough but an effort was made.

We wandered down into the caruggi, looking for a particular bar somewhere off Via Canneto il Lungo but I think it was closed and so we wandered on, ending up in the piazza that tends to be the pulse of city life in the evenings ... Pizza delle Erbe.

It was there that Simon decided it was time he stepped away from the cocktails and he embarked on a more sedate exploration of red wines available.  Having complained, long and loud, over photographs he had taken of me and posted on Facebook, I saw a photo-op as Simon relaxed at this outdoor bar and there he is, at the end of this photo selection, with a facial expression I'd not seen before.  It had to be recorded for posterity ... or perhaps as payback for the horrors he had posted earlier in the evening. 

Veronica had had to chide him for a small degree of 'mean' over those postings.  Thank you, Veronica, your loyalty was appreciated.

I cannot tell you how nice it is to sit outside on warm summer's night, in a small piazza in Italy, drinking red wine and chatting while the Italians surround you with all of their conversations.  I think it's one of the things I love best but rarely do, as I'm mostly alone while there.

We ended the evening at my favourite pizzeria ... in the world. Seriously.  The most excellent pizzas can be found there and the owners are lovely.  We split a pizza, there was a little more red wine, a conversation with the pizzeria owners and voila, we were done.

Thank you for a most excellent evening spent wandering Genovese streets, Mr Litton, and to Paola who guided us when Simon was lost in the maze that is the caruggi. 

Arriving in Genova

 

...how places love us back, of what they give us.

They give us continuity, something to return to, and offer familiarity that allows some portion of our lives to remain collected and coherent. 

They give us an expansive scale in which our troubles are set into context, in which the largeness of the world is a balm to loss, trouble, and ugliness.

And distant places give us refuge in territories where our own histories aren't so deeply entrenched and we can imagine other stories, other selves, or just drink up quiet and respite.

The bigness of the world is redemption.

Rebecca Solnit, The Faraway Nearby

I found these words over on a favourite blog of mine called Myth & Moor.  It's the site where Terri Windling notes down, oftentimes, beautiful words and wisdoms she finds along the way. 

Tonight I am sitting at Paola's kitchen table in Genova, again. My laptop and I are located next to an open window, one floor above the street and, after a 32 celsius day, I'm enjoying the softness of a  breeze that carries rumours of rain.

Today was quiet after yesterday's strangely epic journey here.  All went well till I landed at Milan's Malpensa airport. I picked up my soft cloth luggage, unzipped it to throw my camera bag in, noticing a  wet patch as I worked  ... and then the stench of it hit me.

At first I thought it was urine.  I was horrified.  Then I thought, okay, cat pee ... okay.  I wandered over to Lost and Found luggage and explained.  They were lovely.  I love this thing about Italy.  They remain human in times of deep distress and need while other countries in Europe have failed consistently.  But never mind.

The woman came round to my side of the counter ... sniffed, and diagnosed Fish!.  Apparently some people from countries that don't need to be named, pack fish in their luggage, gifts from or for relatives.  This fish had leaked all over my bag.

The Lost and Found woman filled out the necessary insurance forms for me, so sympathetic that I couldn't help but thank her.  I explained I had two trains and 3 hours of travel ahead of me.  Was there some place in the airport where I could replace my stinking bag.  She sent me up to Departures and eventually I located the only place selling anything like my bag ...  and there were no sales inside the airport.  Everywhere I been lately, in Belgium and Italy, there are sales.  Probably this airport was the only place without sales. 

I travel on a wish and a prayer.  Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only person left in the worlds that I know who doesn't have any kind of credit card.  I usually get by, even if I sometimes arrive home with just 10 euro in cash, or less.  Yesterday I was in despair.  I  could do it but it would seriously impact on my desire to fund this trip by myself.

I can't even write the price I had to pay for the bag that could fit my luggage into it.  And I had to have wheels because I am slightly broken in body and my equipment is heavy enough without having to carry the rest of my stuff too.  The luggage shop assistant was lovely.  She sent me off to another store, just in case they had something more reasonable but no.

I paid, I unpacked my luggage with just a few losses ... thank goodness for waterproofing I guess.  I dumped the stinking bag over by the rubbish bins she pointed to and we laughed as she said not to worry, that she had a spray that would clear the fishy stench my bag had created in her shop.  It stunk, so bad.  So unbelievably badly.  (But you got that by now, didn't you.)

I found a train to take me into Milan and it might have been okay with the stinky bag.  There was A/C and lots of space but the longer train journey, the 2 hours from Milan to Genova, that would have been a nightmare.  On that train I was seated in one of those little 6 seat cabins with 5 other people and a closed door.  The A/C was weak and the temperature outside was 30 celsius.

I imagined how horrific it would have been to have traveled with my fish-stinking bag.  Instead it was tranquil, people napped, helped one another with luggage, smiled, and were kind. 

It could have been another story entirely ... I was glad I had spent the money.

However today has been a far better day and full of good people.  And here's a glimpse of the flowers I found this morning.  Okay, so it was bread and cheese for dinner but really, it was all so very worth it I'm thinking, as I sit here by the window listening to the ebb and flow of life here in Genova this evening

Truth, by Justine Musk.

I am enjoying wandering through this woman's website, reading her ideas about writers and creativity and women and all kinds of other interesting things.

She caught me with this one tonight, part 3 of 'why you need to write like a bad girl'.

‘Honesty’ is one of the traits that psychologist and creativity specialist Eric Maisel lists as being key parts of the successful artist’s personality (the others, in case you’re curious: intelligence, introspective stance, empathy, self-centeredness, self-direction, assertiveness, resiliency and nonconformity).

“Standing apart, holding your own counsel, attuned to both the beautiful and the moral, you are the one able and willing to point out the naked emperor, the stench coming from the closet, the starvation right around the corner, the colors of the far mountains as the eye really sees them.

Diana Strinati Baur, True Vines (and writing a book review)

I finally reached university when I was 34 years old.

I hadn't known to dream it when I was young.  My people didn't have a history of university attendance but I was a natural  researcher, a terribly curious child who became an intensely curious woman. 

My first husband suggested the marriage owed me a degree as I had followed the development of his career, moving around New Zealand's South Island over the years.

And so I began.  I dived into literature, wanting the papers necessary to apply for Bill Manhire's creative writing course.  I explored film studies, psychology, and archaeology along the way.  Then I discovered social and political anthropology and detoured off into that seductive discipline.

Degree complete and realising that there wasn't much work in New Zealand (population 4 million), divorced, and having lost my mother along the way, I set out for Istanbul.  To teach English, of course, like so many good kiwi students looking for work and experience.

Ten years later and here I am, a photographer, a writer, a woman of dual-nationality living in Belgium.

All that to introduce today's story.  Last year, one of my favourite people published her first novel. I packed it, back in November, and read it as I traveled the 16,000kms+ home ...

Home for the first time in 8 years.  But the book pulled me in anyway, despite all that was going on in my head.  I recognised situations and characters, I knew that feeling of expat dislocation ... of not being sure of where home was anymore.

And then I arrived in NZ, put the book down, and spent 5 weeks wandering my old worlds, spending time with family and friends while sinking into that landscape I love more than any other.  There were roadtrips and beaches, mountains and forests, there were bush walks, jet boat rides, rivers ... everything you can imagine and more.  And friends, so many really kind friends.

I arrived back in Belgium ... that other home, to a life that demanded quite a lot of me.  4 hours on public transport twice a week, 2 hours on the other week-days.  And more.  And housework.  Life ... just the usual messy demanding life we all lead but I found it incredibly difficult to settle.

And the book review I wanted to write kept being put to one side.  I knew, part of it was that I had no space in my head for writing ... most definitely not even for serious review-style reading.  Time passed, it sat there on my shoulder, poking me occasionally, waiting.

Back at university we knew that to write an essay worthy of an A+, we needed to adopt a written language we called wankspeak.  Delightful I know but it was a way of recognising the elevation of language required to be truly worthy of an A+.

It terrified me.  I love poetic prose and always understood that that wouldn't get me an A+.  I developed a kind of nervous tic when it came to formal writing ... I required time, usually an extension on date due, and much misery.  You could say I developed a certain technique that got me through with maximum suffering.

Back to the present and somehow I had decided this book review needed to be worthy of an A+.  I should have pulled that idea out of my head at some point, discussed it with someone, had them say, Di, it's not about earning an A+.

Today, more than 4 months after opening the book, I decided it was time.  And I wrote.

I was stunned to find that I didn't need to reread the book, making notes and laboriously researching secondary sources.  I was stunned to realise that Diana's book had remained inside of me ... like the story of an old friend that I hadn't forgotten.  And that I understood, somewhere deep inside me, that it wasn't about wankspeak ... it was simply about tellling my truth.

Imagine that!

Anyway, let me introduce you to Diana, or a glimpse of her, via the photograph below.  Taken in Genova in October last year ...