3 Things To Share ...

It's a hot muggy night here in Belgium.  I believe all risk of snow is finally gone but I seem to have some lingering issues with the winter that was ...

Oh, you noticed.

Tonight was the night where I wrote a long reply to Laura and afterwards, inspired by my written 'conversation' with her, I wandered into this beautiful performance by my favourite Belgian jazz musician, Toots Thielemans, and Stevie Wonder.

They were playing as I read through Justine Musk's latest post, on finding your passion.

She wrote:  We forget – if we were ever even fully aware — that passion is rooted in suffering. As Todd Henry points out in his excellent book DIE EMPTY: Unleash Your Best Work Every Day, the word ‘passion’ is rooted in the Latin word pati which means “to suffer or endure”. Our culture’s distorted understanding of the concept has created what Henry calls “the passion fallacy” as well as “a false notion of what it means to engage in gratifying work.”

So perhaps — when we try to find the great work of our soul and build out an epic life for ourselves ...

She suggests that we should ask... “What work am I willing to suffer for today?”

I'm aware, that when I wander in Genova, it reads as if it is all beauty and joy but it's one of the more difficult things I do to myself.  I fly high on the beauty I find there, on the people I meet ... on the experiences I have but I empty myself in the high and then ... sometimes, I crash.

Reading Justine's words I  thought, Well yes, Genova is a passion.  My passion for that city isn't without suffering.  Sometimes I feel like I fly so close to the sun, as I explore the city's history, colours, culture ... sometimes I go back to the apartment and attempt to recover from something that feels not unlike Stendhal Syndrome.

Realisation over, I read on, catching up on my incoming and voila, there was this ... and it made me think that I must blog tonight's finds.  Titled 40 Inspiring Workplaces from the Famously Creative ... see what you think.

I thought it exquisite.

Below, I'm posted a fragment from an ancient painting I loved back in Genova ...

Genova And I ...

Tonight is the night I spend cleaning the apartment and packing to leave Genova.

My airline changed its usual flight times between Italy and Belgium.  I need to leave here earlier than usual but, realistically, I can't do the big clean-up-before-leaving in the humidity that is ...  It's a long journey home.  One that involves a bus, a train, another train, a plane, a bus, and a tram.  It's only 1 hour 15 minutes between airports and countries but there's the reaching the airport thing ... and the getting home too.

It becomes epic but I have my snazzy new luggage... she trails off.  That would be the bag that blew my budget upon arriving in Italy ... the replacement for the red one that had had the powerfully stinking fish juice spill on it.  Ho hum.  Nice bag.   I guess it can be an early birthday gift to myself, a thought that may help absorb the pain of paying full price and then some for luggage in an airport.

Hmmm, note to self, the pain of that experience still isn't out of my system.

But mostly this visit has been about good people.  There was Roberto, a lovely guy I met last time I was here.  He very kindly introduced me to some places in the city I hadn't explored.  And he survived my New Zealand-English.  Grazie mille, Roberto.

And there was Anna, from Beautiful Liguria. It is always, without fail, inspiring and exciting to spend time talking with her. 

And Outi, another lovely friend I made last time I was in Genova.  An inspiring woman too!

Actually, I was here to meet Diny.  A truly remarkable woman who was a pleasure to spend time with.  We worked together on both Saturday and Sunday, then had dinner on Monday and ended that evening out in Piazza De Ferrari, eating gelato and enjoying the cool breeze of the evening.  It was a real delight to spend time with her.

I was out with Barbara tonight, aperitivo after lunching with her earlier.  One day I will stun her with my fluent Italian.  Well actually, I'll probably stun myself first ... there is so much grammar to learn. 

And Lorenzo.  Some days, we met for a coffee after he closed his cafe for the day.  He came to Belgium last year, searching for the grey skies that Belgium does so well.  He introduced us to the vegetarian 'meat' products while he was over.  We love him for that.

And Stefano.  I had lunch with him back in those days when I first arrived.  It's always a pleasure to catch up with this lovely man, responsible for the Righicam website.  The site with those cameras that look out over Genova.

The humidity here has been high.  Higher than I'm used to.  Sometimes two showers per day and a complete change of clothes was the only solution.  That said, I've loved being warm ... loved watching my skin change to brown even though I haven't spent any time sunbathing.

So yes, I'm leaving on a jet plane ... but I DO know when I'll be back again.

I'm back in September, with 50 photographs selected for my book and as much text as possible.  There is a plan. 

The image that follows ... I'll write more on it once home and unpacked.  I need my notes but it's divine don't you think?

On Days Where Joy Bubbles Up ...

Perhaps it began yesterday ... that bubble of joy that floated up out of me as I laughed with my new hairdresser.  He's about 65 and he's a delight.

I took my long hair to him a couple of months ago.  I went in knowing it was serious, that I hadn't had a professional cut in a very long time, maybe 2 years ... and that the time of the supermarket, do-it-yourself, dyes had to come to an end.

He sighed, he worked for hours, he fixed everything, cutting away so much hair I wondered, over the days that followed, if I wasn't related to Samson ... that my strength hadn't disappeared with my hair.

But a strange thing happened.  It wasn't as short as it initially felt but, even better, I had more hair than I'd ever had.  He had worked some magic that made it all lively and almost wavy.  A miracle really but one that I hadn't thanked him for.

Some colour 'adjustment' is required and so I biked over to book an appointment and voila, before I knew it, joy was simply bubbling out of me as we talked of my hair.

Last night, after a very warm 27 celsius day, I slipped outside with my laptop and sat in the  garden a while.  The swallows were still screaming around like the kamikazes they are but as the sun went down, out came the bats ... on an insect-eating mission.  I didn't know we had bats but we do.  It was beautiful out there in the garden that Gert made.

This morning began with the arrival of a most exquisite and much-longed for book.  Eduardo Galeano's Children of the Days - a calendar of human history had arrived.  Thank you very much, Gert!  I opened it and fell in.

It's as beautiful as imagined, more beautiful than I knew a book could be perhaps.

29 January

HUMBLY I SPEAK

Today in 1860 Anton Chekhov was born.

He wrote as if he were saying nothing.

And he said everything.

But there was still more joy out there waiting for me.  I had promised to phone Dave and Jude, another set of old friends from far-away.  We had enjoyed catching up with them when back home at Christmas. visiting just as they were just setting off on their grand return to Africa, with children.

Talking with them is like drinking from an ocean of joy.  Somehow they fill me up.  We talked for 2 hours and more about everything important and good.

The bell rang again and more parcels arrived.  Gifts for Miss 9, all the way from New Zealand, t-shirts for Gert, and voila, a  gift of music all the way from Australia.  I'm listening to that as I write this.  Thank you to Paul.

Tonight I have a 3-hour photoshoot.  I'm working with a friend who has pulled me into an exciting project of hers.  I suspect it will be intense but foresee more joy is entirely possible. 

Money ruins so much and while I need it, getting involved in projects that engage my heart and soul ... they're not to be sneezed at. 

In these days I tell myself that, okay, perhaps I'll die poor but by crikey, I feel so rich in stories ...

I owe email and phone calls.  Please forgive me.  Replies to follow in the weeks ahead. 

An Old Friend from Far-Away ...

We met at Taieri High when we were 13 but didn't start talking till we were 14.  Then we talked a bit.  Some evenings on the phone, the old dial-style phones, plugged into the wall.  His father or mine occasionally threatening death as the phone lines were blocked.

We were discussing serious things and the world.

David was another much-loved old friend from those days.  And, occasionally, I took photographs of them on their bikes with that very first camera of mine.  I remember the time Dave deliberately spilled tomato sauce over that shot of him landing badly after some kind of jump at the Brick and Sand quarry.  We were in the midst of a post-motorcross pile of fish 'n chips at the time.

I still have those photographs in storage back home in New Zealand.

Paul arrived here in this Belgian world last weekend, fresh from his advanced para-gliding course in Doussard.  That place where Gert and I had so enjoyed staying.  Paul showed us the video footage of the stalls they had to practice ... heart-stopping moments where the 'chute' lost air and needed correcting.

Like us, he raved about the scenery, the mountains.

This last week has been a week where two old friends from smalltown New Zealand wandered in Europe. We visited The Somme, finding the grave of his great-great-grandfather.

I introduced him to Antwerp where he hunted down the wrought iron and he, perhaps without realising it, gifted me a new view on the city.  We checked out coffee and wine places, I introduced to more than a few beers that were 'a bit malty'.  I laugh as I write that ... I'm not the best beer advisor when an Aussie bloke knows what kind of beer he prefers.

He forgave me, I think.

I insisted he visit Flanders Fields where we were fortunate enough to catch up with both of my favourite Belgians down there in the Westhoek.  Modest experts in their areas of knowledge.  Steven found some more information on a WWI relative Paul had been curious about, and a book about the Otago Mounted Rifles.  It seems that Paul's Alfred William Johnson was in the same battalion as my grandad, George Gidion Murray.

Locating the book seems to be another story and I've had to write off to the Westhoek to check that I have the right title.  I do believe it's a book I'd quite like to read.

But enough, here's a photograph I took for both David and Fiona ... we wished them both here.  Liz too.  Remember those days ...

Arriving in Genova - May, 2013

My journey to Genova in May, despite being far too short, was as special as every other visit I've made to that exquisite Italian city located in Liguria.  But the kindness of strangers was quietly overwhelming and intensely appreciated.  Perhaps it was all more condensed .  I don't know.  It was a special visit.  Crazy busy but filled with people I want to write about in the days ahead.

I've put off writing about it in detail because I didn't want to miss out any stories.  Now ... so much time has passed, I fear I have forgotten some things.

It's time to sit awhile and remember.

I arrived via Rome and landed in Genova late afternoon.  It was raining and grey - the only grey day I had.  In the days that followed, it was summer.  The journey from Brussels had been long but this time I was staying with Francesca and her lovely family out at Arenzano.  Paola's apartment was under renovation back in the city.

So I followed the train signs out to the airport exit doors but then the signs peetered out.  I turned a few times, sure it was me who was somehow lost, before wandering back to a counter where there was man who seemed like he might be open to questions from this lost woman.

He was lovely.  He started talking of the bus, then a taxi, then walking ...discounting each idea as he went.  It's not much more than a kilometre to the train station, an easy walk normally and so he drew me a map but then looked at the rain and wasn't happy.  The situation was resolved when a friend or collegue of his called out a ciao.  He called him over to us.  This lovely young man listened to the story and before I knew it my luggage and I were in his car. 

He had un po inglese and well ... my lack of ability in other languages has created laughter all over the world.  But we talked a little.  He weaved through the streets near the airport then parked next to a footbridge that went over the railway tracks.  He unloaded my luggage and then, much to my horror, carried my heavy bag all the way to the top of the stairs.  I was so grateful and a little bit mortified.

We said our goodbyes and I made my way down to the train station. I bought my ticket. 

Flustered, tired ... who knows really, I had forgotten how trains worked in Italy.  Platforms, directions, stuff like that.  Eventually I asked at the office and another lovely Ligurian said, come with me, and so I did.  I followed her under the tracks and up onto the correct platform.

Honestly, I know how trains work there.  I use them often but it seemed that there was a brain-freeze going down and I was in its grip.  She sat with me, we talked a little.  I wished I had studied Italian.  I appreciated her unobtrusive kindess.

I arrived in Arenzano and Francesca picked me up and whisked me off to her place. 

Now ... Francesca has lovely friend called Anna Lisa.  I'm sure of the 'lovely' because Anna Lisa had offered to cook dinner for Francesca and her family that evening. 

I took a photograph or two while she whipped up a focaccia al formaggio, as per the photograph at the end of this post.  There was other food too but I was so tired by then, and I did nothing but race about madly during those 5 exquisite days in Genova, I've lost the rest of the memory of dinner.  I suspect that the warm focaccia di formaggio was so good that I have fixated on it.

I also suspect that the kindness of Ligurian strangers had overwhelmed me, filled me up, knocked me off-balance a little.

And Francesca's family ... Beppe, Cesare, and Emma.  There's so much love between them that it is truly lovely to spend time in their midst.

And so I arrived. Genova,  May 2013.

Update: if you use a reader to read my posts, sincere apologies for the series of edits.  Strong antibiotics, 3 espressos, and no sunshine or warmth ... it all messed with my mind.

And Stefano, grazie mille for the editing advice.  It was a rather grave error, falling to the 'No exceptions' category.