Routines: A Cautionary Tale

It's the Parisian holiday season, and -- like most people around here -- I am feeling the fatigue that comes from half a year's non-stop hard work, and the lethargy that accompanies the warmer (and finally sunnier) summer months. As a result, this blog has been rather neglected, so I thought I'd post something that was written a while ago, en route to the Dolomites at the beginning of July, but which I never got around to posting. Enjoy!

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There’s something to be said for routines.

I hate packing. I always have. For some reason, the final stages of preparation for a trip – packing and getting to the airport – have always upped my anxiety to a rather unpleasant level. So over the years I have developed a finely tuned routine of packing and tidying my apartment (I hate returning home to a mess) that has never let me down.

To the outside observer it would probably seem rather frantic and chaotic. Packing is always left to the last, with organizing and tidying taking priority, and is always done on the day I’m travelling. Far from being stressful, during this last-minute packing spree I am calm and organized, with a mental to-do list of important things ticking away seamlessly in my head. It’s as if the travel anxiety channels itself into efficiency. I budget my time well, ensuring adequate time for packing and organizing, and plan my travel such that I arrive at the airport about an hour before my flight. And then I usually rush and leave 10 or so minutes early, just in case.

This strategy works well if my flight is in the afternoon or evening; even a lunchtime flight will afford me enough time to get everything done in the morning, if I get up a bit earlier. An added advantage is that I’m always packing with a rested brain. For my last trip to Italy, my flight was scheduled for departure at 9:50am from Charles de Gaulle, which is about an hour away from my apartment by public transport. Figuring I couldn’t wake up quite early enough to allow for same-day packing, my routine needed to be adjusted, and packing would have to be done the night before.

Pressure removed, this led to a leisurely evening of packing interspersed with organizing, dinner, TV watching and the like. No ticking to-do list in my head, no travel-day efficiency; no need.

Waking at 7am on travel day, I start slowly, knowing that everything is packed and organized and ready to go. Mid-shower, I start to remember forgotten things, such as checking in online and printing my hotel reservation, which I do hurriedly whilst dressing. I set off 10 minutes earlier than expected, with a nagging feeling I am forgetting something. But I figure it's just my sunglasses that have been overlooked.

On the metro, something still doesn’t feel right. I check my passport; it’s where it’s supposed to be. *Relief!*

6 metro stops later, I remind myself to get cash out at the airport, not knowing whether I will have much access to cash machines in Sesto, which is a very small town and very much in the middle of nowhere. I check my handbag for my wallet; it’s not in the front pocket (but my sunglasses are; woo!). I check the back pocket. No wallet.

WHAT??!!

My heart briefly stops before realizing the error of its ways and ramping up to twice the normal pace as a cold panic washes over me and my own voice resonates in my head: “You’re not going to make it.”

I briefly pause to consider the crazy notion of flying to Italy without my wallet, before realising that aside from my money, credit cards and the like, my wallet contains my residence card, which is the document which allows me to travel freely around Europe. Disaster!

So I jump off at the next stop, switch platforms, and mentally will the metro driver to put his foot down. I check my phone quickly for driving directions to CDG – 30 minutes. This might be possible.

At my home metro, I jump off the train, race up the stairs and break out into super-power-speed walking down the road to my house. Panic is still running cold in my veins. Back at my building, I sprint up the stairs, burst into my living room and check the desk, where I assume my wallet is waiting for me. No wallet. Where is my wallet??? Frantic searching ensues, before I finally find it hiding under a cushion on my sofa. Phew!!

And we’re off again.

Quick stop at the ATM, then the taxi stand. Thank goodness my apartment is so well connected. I switch on my phone’s navigation to check the transit time. ETA: 9:02am. Bag drop off closes at 9:10. This might work. I’m so glad I checked in online.

Traffic is light and we make good time, until what should be 5 minutes away from CDG terminal 2, when we stop. Gridlocked traffic as far as the eye can see. Minutes are flowing away faster than we’re making up kilometers, and my window for bag drop is closing. Panic rises again. My cab driver is great, though, winding through the traffic, swearing at all the inept drivers, and assuring me we are almost there.

Arriving at the terminal, I throw money at the cab driver and fly into the terminal building, bags in tow. I hurriedly scan the info board – check-in 9 – on the other side of the building.

Run!!

We now interrupt this blog post for a brief public service announcement: if you are in the airport and you see a frantic lady sprinting with her bags down the terminal, use your common sense and clear out the way!! She’s clearly about to miss her flight, and will risk knocking over small children to get where she’s going.

(Note: no children, small or large, were injured in the making of this blog post.)

Check-in 9 reached, I apologise profusely to the steward for my lateness. Lovely man that he is, he insists I’m not late and jumps me to the front of the queue, to the chagrin of other stressed travellers who’ve been waiting ages. The check-in lady tells me we’re boarding immediately in gate 72. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m good with security checkpoints; I almost never set off the metal detector, and get through quickly (following another finely-tuned routine).

Breathless, stressed, exhausted, I arrive at the gate 5 minutes after the scheduled start of boarding, ready to rush onto the plane and be whisked away to sunny Italy, actually half expecting to be one of the last to board the plane.

And my flight is delayed 20 minutes.

In the shadow of Titans

Oh Italy, what are you doing to me? What started out as a brief flirtation is turning into a full-blown love affair, and I am powerless to resist the charms of this incredible country. This year has brought me to wonderful northern Italy twice, and while I promise to write about my adventures in Venice and its surrounds in April, I am entirely overcome by the need to write about this most beautiful place in which I find myself.

As I write this, I am in the heart of the Dolomites north of Venice, en route to Sesto/Sexten near the Austrian border where I will spend the next week. The roads are winding, and banked with steep rocks on either side, one side climbing up into the heavens, the other descending to the bottom of the world.

The Dolomites rise out of the earth, immense and imposing shards of rock, a prehistoric testament to the internal tensions and struggles of the earth. They loom, grey and impossibly tall – so that I have to arch my neck way back to catch a glimpse of their sunlit tips. I marvel at their sheer cliffs, sharp and unwelcoming yet oh-so-inviting. I’m in awe as I contemplate all the nooks and crannies, the shiny peaks and the dark crevices, and wonder how few of them have actually felt the touch of a human hand. They’re so close, yet so unreachable.

I want to explore every crease of every rock face, to see what they see as the look down on the earth from their giddy heights. And suddenly I’m a child again, lying in the soft grass of our backyard staring up at the stars in wonder, desperate to explore, to see, to know. Hearing the call of the unknown, and daring to dream that I might, one day, accept its invitation to explore its hidden depths.

This passion, this need to explore, to see the unseen and to know the unknown: this is why we become scientists, explorers, adventurers. This is what takes us to the moon, to Mars, what drives us to go where no one has been before, to go there because no one has gone there before. To discover, to see what is there to be seen. This is what motivates us to constantly probe the boundaries of what is possible, of what is within our reach, and to push them further and further back.

Pictures do not, by any stretch of imagination, do justice to this spectacle

Something epic this way comes....

As you all already know, I travel a lot, and I love getting to go to new and exciting destinations with such great frequency, however exhausting it may be. But one of the wonderful things about living in a large European city is that occasionally the best that the world has to offer comes to you, instead of the other way round.

Despite the recent inclement weather, I can tell that we are moving towards summer by the changing posters and advertisements in the metro and train stations. Whereas in winter, these are dominated by museum exhibitions and special collections, the summer brings with it a wide array of music.

A particular highlight for me in May 2010 was getting to see the incredible Johnny Clegg, in all his Zulu-dancing glory, perform at Parc de la Villette. It was one of those wondrous experiences that took me right back to my childhood, when my brother and I would dance around our living room and sing along. [Note: the video below is, sadly, not from the gig I went to, but from one a year later in Paris...]

There are also a number of music festivals that take place throughout the summer, my personal favourite being Rock en Seine, at the end of August, which is a 3-day music extravaganza, with four stages, all-day concerts, and a truly awe-inspiring selection of food stalls to suit any tastes. Highlights from last year include Biffy Clyro,

Leaky Biro, as my one friend insisted on calling them

the Foo Fighters [sadly it was too dark, and we were too far away, for any reasonable pictures], My Chemical Romance (who were responsible for my first ever mosh pit experience),

Mosh pit = lots of jumping around and physical contact with random strangers + proximity to the band. Good fun!

even a truly shambolic performance by the La's,

The La's. They forgot to bring their drummer. And their musical talent.

which resembled more the drunken caterwauling of a pair of toothless old sailors than any sort of professional performance.

I have just purchased my tickets for this year's Rock en Seine. I admit that I have high expectations after last year's experience, but I feel certain that it will not disappoint. How can you go wrong with 3 days of music, good food and drink, and excellent company, after all?

Rock en Seine, aptly summarised

But there's more to look forward to this summer… something truly epic, which literally stopped me in my tracks when I saw its advertisement in the train station: B.B. King -- living legend and music royalty -- plays at Le Grand Rex in Paris on the 9th of July. And I HAVE A TICKET!

I've got a golden ticket

I sort of feel like I've stepped into a cupboard and ended up in Narnia, or like I've woken up to discover a lifetime's worth of Christmas presents strewn across my living room. So while I'm excited about spending next week hard at work at a conference (in a spa hotel in Italy -- here), I think I'll probably be more excited to come home…

On going away, and coming home...

People often ask me "Where is home?"

This is an interesting question, and one without a simple answer. In fact, there are many places I refer to as "home": my apartment in Paris; my parents' home in London; England in general; on occasion, simply the place I happen to be staying during any given trip. Rarely nowadays do I refer to Zimbabwe as "home", despite it being the country of my birth and citizenship, and the place where I have spent the longest portion of my life. 

Shashani Reservoir, near Plumtree, Zimbabwe

It has largely been a conscious decision on my part to distance myself from Zimbabwe, and this is for two reasons. The first: leaving my childhood home, which I loved deeply, to explore distant horizons was not easy. It is often said, by people who have lived or visited there, that Africa gets under your skin. It is desperately hard to leave, and even harder to stay away. It tugs on you, and will inevitably draw you back. For me, being happy in my new life far, far away meant doing my best to close the door, in an attempt to dull the inevitable cries of Zimbabwe calling me home. 

I hear it most on the edge of day: as the sun sets, or on a crisp misty morning...

The second was never intended. Had Zimbabwe remained the way it had been when I was growing up, staying away for as long as I have would have been impossible. But it hasn't. Without dwelling on politics, when you have a president who declares, on national television, that you are an enemy of the only state to which you have ever belonged, simply because of the colour of your skin; when you watch the devastating effects of inflation at a rate of several million percent, and an estimated unemployment rate topping 90 percent; when you watch your parents, who have worked incredibly hard their whole lives, have to start virtually from scratch to rebuild a nest egg decimated by inflation, in a foreign land and in their mid-forties, the rose-tinted glasses very quickly break, and turning your back on your childhood home becomes much, much easier. Sensible, even.

So I usually respond to the question by saying, "Home is where my stuff is": a generic, ill-defined place where I rest my head and store my essentials. And I'm normally quite comfortable with this dynamic description of what I always thought should be a static concept. Ordinarily, this is far removed from the "home … where the heart is." My nearest and dearest friends and family are spread over six distinct land masses comprising four separate continents and more countries than I care to count. 

For this reason, I have often envied those who, despite being well-travelled, have managed to maintain some sort of home base, which has retained some level of constancy throughout their lives, and which contains a higher concentration of loved ones.

Despite my frequent travels, for much of this year I have had an overwhelming hankering to go "away": another poorly-defined concept. It was puzzling. I am not prone to bouts of discontent: I feel incredibly fortunate in my life, and appreciate both where I am and all the many amazing places I get to explore. I had no clue what I was looking for, or where I wanted to go, but I knew that this place -- "away" -- existed somewhere, and it was nowhere near the place in which I found myself. 

I posed myself a variety of hypotheticals, trying to discover this mysterious "away"-land that I was seeking. It became clear that it was not a city such as Rome or Vienna, places that have been on my list seemingly forever. A friend and I discussed some sort of beach holiday, where we could spend time in the sun and enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. This idea came close, but wasn't quite right. I even considered that "away" might mean Zimbabwe, a place which both warms and saddens me every time I visit, and not in equal measure…

Away...

I write to you now from Cargèse, on the immensely beautiful island of Corsica. I arrived in thunderstorms, and will depart under a blanket of clouds, but I can still say that this is one of the most spectacular places I have had the good fortune to travel to. This is how places should be. This is "away": in nature, untouched, surrounded by sea and mountains… where walking to the village for dinner involves hiking up a hill on a rocky dirt path under a roof of trees and creepers, with small, nondescript animals rustling in the bushes. It is a place that is good for my soul… peaceful, reviving, invigorating, and yet relaxing. The restorative powers of the sun, sea, sand and surroundings cannot be put into words. And the night sky… the breathtaking night sky! While it can never match, for me, the sky under which I grew up, it is all the same a sight to behold. 

Idyllic, untouched...

Is my concept of "away", now, inextricably tied to the home I grew up in, and the childhood holidays, surrounded by untouched nature, that I so enjoyed? Perhaps. In fact, likely. I've been thinking about this a lot in the last two weeks. I'll never get Africa out of my system… it's in my heart, and a part of who I am. My recent desire to be "away", and my experience of this beautiful part of the world, have reminded me greatly of who I am at my core, and of where my peace lies. It's sometimes easier to hide from that than to open yourself to it… easier to close the door than to miss what once was and no longer is.

But, for all my envy of those for whom the definition of home has been more static, I would take these brief moments of "away" -- with all the nostalgia they bring with them --  than change any part of the winding road that has been my life. 

Farewell, lovely Corsica...

Bordeaux: the Finale -- Wine country, Châteaux, and untouched beauty...

Well, well, I have drawn this out, haven't I?! For this, I apologise; that was never my intention. In large part, life has conspired the last few months to leave me very little free time for writing, with a very hectic schedule of work and travels, and a To Do list that seems to grow exponentially. Yet even in those rare moments of freedom, I have not been able to put words to print as I would have liked. I fear I lack the required vocabulary to accurately paint the picture I wish to paint; I feel as though for three blissful days I drifted into a magical wonderland, so far removed from everyday life, and to bring to life this idyll through the black and white of type seems impossible. But on this I shall have to put forth my best effort and accept that it will, inevitably, fall short. I cannot delay any longer. (This is going to be a long one, so you may want to grab a cup of tea!)

Bordeaux: Part Deux

(see what I did there?!)

Well, the holiday season has come and gone, giving way to an extraordinarily busy start to 2012. Thankfully, I've finally found a free moment to sit down and continue my tales of summer adventures. So where were we? Ah yes... Bordeaux, beautiful city, crazy bi-directional river, loads of churches, not a mention of wine. Yet.

Aside from being a beautiful destination in its own right, Bordeaux city makes for an excellent base for day trips to neighbouring towns, villages and wine districts. It's reasonably close to the coast, and -- having grown up in a landlocked country -- I genuinely feel that it's my sworn duty (and great pleasure, of course) to go to the beach whenever the opportunity presents itself, toss aside my shoes, and wade in the salty water... regardless of the temperature or occasionally pebbly texture of the beach I find myself on.

So it seemed only natural that we should make a trip out to Arcachon, a charming beach village at the mouth of a bay on the Atlantic coast of France, a mere 50 minutes by train to the west of Bordeaux. With a population of fewer than 12,000, this small, adorably quaint beach village is a popular destination amongst the Bordelaise on hot summer's days, when trips to the beach are mandated.

Arcachon: Quaint beach town. Flowers, bicycles, and adorable dogs abound!

Bordeaux: Part 1

Well, well, it has been a long time, hasn’t it?! It seems like just yesterday the leaves were starting to take on their fiery autumn hues, signalling the start of perhaps Paris’ prettiest season, and now – suddenly – it’s the end of November. Trips 12 and 13 are now nothing but memories, and (to quote a good friend of mine) “we're rolling downhill towards Christmas with all the inevitability of a hamster in a snowball”. I gauge the start of winter by a small tree on the complex where I work. It welcomes me to work every day, and is the most beautiful sight in the autumn, being a spectacular shock of deep reds, luminescent oranges and flaming yellows. When its colours fade and the last leaf finally, grudgingly, yields its hold – as it did this week – autumn is over, and winter has begun.

I make no secret of the fact that I’m solar-powered, and so the shortening days, the grey skies and the chilling winds trigger in me the urge to hibernate. In fact, the last few weekends have seen me undertaking activities that can only be interpreted as nesting. It’s in times like these, when the sidewalks become slick with an imperceptible layer of frost, when the sun shies away behind a deep blanket of grey, when the Saclay plateau shrouds itself in a thick, early-morning fog, I find it helps my soul to think of sunnier, warmer times. My travels this year have brought me to many a sunny destination, but no trip quite captures the essence of summer serenity than my August trip (#9) to Bordeaux and the surrounding countryside. During this holiday, we spent time in the city of Bordeaux itself, as well as several stunning days in the wine country near St. Emilion, and took day trips to the Médoc wine region and the small beach town of Arcachon.

There are few places I have been to in France that I haven’t liked, but Bordeaux and its surroundings are spectacular. In order to truly do this trip justice, I cannot possibly condense the week down into one post, so what follows is part 1 of a Bordelaise trilogy.

We begin with the city of Bordeaux itself. When you’ve lived in Paris for a while, surrounded predominantly by 19^th century buildings, the first thing that will strike you about Bordeaux is the 18^th century architecture: to the layperson, it’s all at once similar and quaintly distinct from what surrounds me every day. The streets are smaller and windier, there are castle-like arch gates at various entry points to the city, and the Place de la Bourse (link in French) is breathtaking, particularly at night.  

Royal gate - Late 13th Century

Place de la Bourse at night

Bordeaux is known as the City of Art and History and is, literally, littered with old churches, museums and galleries. It, rather famously, lies along the Way of St James (aka Santiago de Compostella), and various markers around the city show the route of this pilgrimage. It is also, absolutely, the sort of city where you might find giant sparkly purple crocodile heads rising out of the ground (your guess is as good as mine), and giant stone turtles in the street.

Giant Sparkly Purple Crocodile Head

Giant Turtle with Man on Back

We visited a number of churches whilst in Bordeaux, but the most notable was the Basilique Saint Michel de Bordeaux, famous for its clock tower (aside from being just utterly beautiful). We were actually fortunate enough to be up the tower when the bells sounded. This is a wonderful spectacle, but also may make your brain rattle inside your skull a little bit, and running down the spiral staircase to the bells will not help. The tower offers unparalleled views of the city, however, so is totally worth the disorienting trip up and down.

Beautiful Bordeaux

Beautiful Bordeaux

Basilique Saint Michel de Bordeaux, from the clock tower

This church is located in one of the poorer areas of the city. A wonderful scrap-market is held outside most days, where you can – quite literally – buy just about anything. The base of the tower also routinely plays bedroom to a number of homeless people, but there is nothing sinister or unwelcoming in this part of the city (or any part of the city that we saw, to be honest).  The clock tower is also famous for having housed a number of mummies in its crypt. The mummies no longer reside there; however, you are welcome to descend into the crypt, listen to some scary music, and view photos of the mummies strategically placed where they used to lie.

The Crypt

The Clock Tower

We stayed at the Etap hotel Centre Bastide, on the opposite side of the river Garonne to the main city. It’s a good bet if you’re on a budget, and perfectly adequate as long as you’re okay with a shower contained in what can only be described as a plastic wet room with no appropriate place to hang your towel. We had this view out of our window, though:

So every day, we had to cross the Garonne River, via Pont de Pierre, to get to the main city. This brings me to the most stunning fact about Bordeaux (to my arguably incredibly geeky mind, at least). Every day, I crossed the river with unrealistic excitement, for one simple reason: The Garonne river, pictured below, flows in both directions depending on the tides. Let me reiterate. Here you have ariver that, seemingly on a whim, will change from flowing full force downstream – as most rivers do – to flowing full force upstream – which rivers should never do! I’m guessing at this point, that most of you are thinking “So? What’s the big deal?” This puts you in the same camp as my trusty travel companion, who thought I was utterly bizarre for being so fascinated. But the big deal is that THE RIVER CHANGES DIRECTION! And it’s pretty spectacular when it does. Sometimes it looks stagnant; sometimes it looks like it’s flowing in both directions simultaneously; and sometimes it just blatantly and carelessly flows upstream. (And yes, I absolutely, at one point, shouted at it “Do you realise you’re flowing the wrong way?!”) Amazing!

The Mighty, Bi-directional, Garonne!

Pont de Pierre, at night

Bordeaux is wonderful, and absolutely worth a visit. In 2 pages of writing, I haven’t even come close to touching on all the places we visited and sights we saw. I haven’t even mentioned wine yet, and isn’t that what Bordeaux is most famous for??!! Nor have I mentioned the time when we saw a film being shot outside the cathedral in central Bordeaux. (Sigh, so many stories, not enough time!) But, I’m afraid that to learn the rest you’ll have to visit Bordeaux yourselves.  Or, at very least, you’ll have to send me out there to visit again, in order to refresh my memory!

I close this chapter of our adventures with a shot of an amusing ad we saw posted everywhere in the region. It was part of a campaign of amusing summer ads for an independent newspaper, and this was my favourite.

Translation: "You didn't read my article on the dangers of the sun!"