two days in one

I think I'm getting closer to my inner Italian.

I'm becoming nocturnal and creating a different body rhythm, in tune to the melody of the south of Italy, the Adriatic coastal beat.

I'm embracing my inner Southern Italian and I love the little secret this town shares

of having two days within one.

First part of the two part day is simple.

We get up in the morning and have a coffee and a pastry, a 'cornetto'. Maybe the croissant like one filled with nutella or maybe the custard cream. Then my girlfriend and I chat. We chat for at least an hour, sometimes two and have another coffee. We talk about the dreams we had the night before and the dreams we have for our futures. We discuss the possible significance of the archetypal characters we met in slumber and discuss our waking journeys philosophically. We try to disseminate the meaning of what it is that we are doing, even if it appears outwardly to be 'nothing'.

We have know each other for 10 years and have lived different lives but how wonderful to have a deep respect for each others choices and an acceptance of each others quirks. I mean she sees my flaws, she listens to the struggles I have with me and the disappointments I've created around myself and she just accepts me anyway.

The caffeine kicks in and we need to move, so we get out into the town and get some supplies to take down to the beach and to soak up the gentle rays of the Northern European sun.

Yesterday we bought a little blow-up dinghy from a sea side vendor and stashed our towels, large bottle of water, with it's slight natural effervescence, and fresh made panini with sliced ham, grilled zucchini and soft light cheese into it and swam out to a little island of rocks to bask and eat our lunch.

It's so easy to float on this salt packed sea that has no crushing waves, no threat of sharks or jelly fish, little stingers or salt water crocs for that matter. The most difficult thing about this town's local beaches are navigating the buffed, potato sized rocks that coat the shore.

Once you survive the crunchy potato shore and get your head under the surface you hear air pockets bursting between the rocky sea floor. They make the most delightful popping sounds that it reminds me gobbling down a packet of magic gum as a kid and having that noise explode inside your head. It's wild to be able to completely relax on and in the water, with no fear of sweeping currents or knocks to the head from grommets learning to surf.

Watching the Southern Italians so completely in possession of their summer selves, it's easy to fall in line with the tempo. As we munched away on our panini sitting on the rocks I watched the shore line clear of multi- coloured umbrellas and bronzing families as their lunch times called them home for a proper meal.

We stay awhile dozing on the rocks and flop into the salty sea like seals you see in a nature documentary, cooling us down from the hot, tingling of the sun on our pelts.

Satiated, but sleepy we pack up our island picnic to make our way back home. Of course we stop for an espresso at the beach side bar to give us just enough energy to drag our sun kissed selves back home.

We cut through the cemetery under the shade of tall trees to get back to town, where the first thing you notice is the absence of sound. It is the only time apart from between 2 a.m. & 4 a.m. that this town is actually quiet. There is no trashy techno pumping from cars beep, beeping down the road, the televisions are hushed and the green shutters drawn on the pastel coloured buildings.

It is about 3 p.m. and the whole town is napping, so we nap too. A gentle breeze whispers over our bodies, capturing and stealing away the last of the heat radiating off them and the delicate sound of nothingness lulls us into sleep.

We wake up groggily as sounds start to pulsate through the town and we make another espresso.

We get dressed and brush our teeth, comb our hair in preparation for another day - but it's still the same day it's part two of the two part day.

We flip flop through the narrow, winding streets of the ancient town, tripping over the large, polished undulating boulders that serve as both walkway and road in search of an aperitif. The town has come alive again around the centre square beneath tall tress and fountains. Children hold hands with grandparents while new mothers proudly push prams around the square watching glammed up teenagers hustling around the edges playing the game that got their parents to where they are now. The sun still shines and glitters through the boughs of the trees at 9 pm as we think about finding a seat outside a little pizzeria for our evening meal.

Everything takes a little time here and you have to succumb to the flow. The waiter will eventually get to you, he will eventually remember the beer you've ordered and the chef will eventually get around to crisping that margherita pizza you're panting for as you see the sun finally sink over the tops of buildings and the night time sucks away the last of the heat in the buildings.

Full with rounded bellies and that dreamy sense of contentment we begin our meandering home through the old town that spits us out again at the town square. At 12:30 a.m. children are still playing ball as their parents chat with each other and the little ones rest on seats on grandparent laps.

Little dogs on leads sniff each other happily as their owners chat loudly, gesticulating wildly to make their point known as one of the local kids swaggers up to us, mimicking the men around him, shoulders squared, chest puffed out and penetrating sky blue eyes nods his head to us and calls out 'Ciao!"

turning italian

I found myself responding in a French manner to the chaotic Italian transport system, again.

I hadn't been away from Paris long enough to embrace the Italian side of my personality.

I had an air of the affected, casually annoyed.

It was pretty simple i had a flight from Paris to Rome, Rome to Bari. Connecting through the same airport and even the same terminal, I figured with the wait time between flights at Fiumicino i could get out my laptop and write.

I put aside my recollection of my last trip to the south of Italy where i was stuck at the same airport for 6 hours because of a bomb scare. To while the time away then i listened to my disc-man, yeah, it was a few years back. As i enjoyed my music that blotted out the obsessive gesticulating noise of unhappy Italians stranded in the same airport terminal with the air-conditioning not functioning and nerves frayed, I missed the important announcement that my flight had been re-directed from another airport. I just sat by the gate I was supposed to be leaving from and listened to my music, keeping calm and feeling a little smug that everyone around me appeared to be freaking out.

That was true right up until the moment the screen above the departure door came alive with a flight to a completely different destination and my own personal panic kicked in. I shut down my disk-man, picked up my stuff and ran to the information desk to confront a gorgeous, impeccably put together, but completely over it Italian woman sighing at me and telling me that my flight was now leaving from an altogether different airport! "Why weren't you listening to the announcement?! You now must go out through security again and down to the ground floor to collect your luggage that you checked in and find the chartered bus that will take you to the other airport, but you wont make it now, it's too late you will have to stay in Rome and buy another flight tomorrow." WTF!?

So in my panicked state I started running around the airport trying to locate the hidden place where my lost luggage now was, because i was supposed to have collected it hours ago apparently. What is that that happens when you start to panic? Had I retained some semblance of calm I might have just been able to follow her instructions and do what she said. But no, I got sweaty palms, my heart rate went up and i started running through the airport. I stopped people along the way, who were themselves exhausted and frustrated and didn't understand or particularly want to deal with a frazzled tourist who didn't speak a word of their proud tongue. I even managed to upset a security guard, at the security checkpoint who told me to take off my pure snakeskin belt because it was clear that this was making the security beeper go off. But there is no metal in it!! I yelled at him and I'm not taking it off for you, who ever heard of a snakeskin gun for gods sake? What did it matter, he didn't understand what I was saying, but I got the sentiment across. His response was to raise an eyebrow and put his hand on his hip, stare me down and say "Off".

Fuck, this is awful.

I eventually found my bag, by chance, through a half open door to a room that had no signage on it whatsoever, I saw my bag and just walked in, grabbed it and as i turned to wheel it out saw the three Carabinieri staring at me and put their hands to their holsters. You're fucking kidding me; so i asked "Do you know where the 663 flight to Bari leaves from I don't understand Italian and I'm lost and confused", nearly in tears. They all looked at each other quizzically and one of them stepped forward asking me to repeat. I explained my situation and his face softened as he told me "It is too late now, you must just to stay in Rome tonight and come back tomorrow and buy another flight. No problem, stay in Rome, beautiful city, eat good dinner, find hotel."

Oh great, a charmer. And he's in that hot uniform with the red stripe down the side of the trousers and shiny cap and probably a wife at home with three bambinos. NO! I need to make this flight, my girlfriend has been waiting for me at the other airport gone through lunch and dinner sitting at a dank airport, munching her way through the entire selection available from the only food outlet at the airport; a vending machine. The charming guard points me in the direction of yet another information booth when i recognise a group of people that were waiting with me initially at the original departure gate. I check their bags to see that they have the same luggage tags and follow them out of the airport where they start loading onto a shuttle bus. I ask several of them if they were supposed to be on the same flight as me and I finally get confirmation from a younger guy who speaks a little English. I line up to have my bag chucked into the storage compartment + jump on the bus. Phew. I might just make it yet. After a 45 minute bus ride we arrive at another airport where we must go through the whole check in procedure again complete with security check and finally onto the plane for a 40 minute flight. That's right folks, i probably could have hired a car and been there already, stereo blaring down the highway and singing all the way. Silly me, thought a flight would be quicker. When the plane finally touches down in Bari all the passengers erupt in applause, as though the whole thing was a great ruse, a melodrama worthy of an Italian opera, a performance of the macabre.

I can't possible expect anything but for this trip to run smoothly, surely.

Mais non, this is Italia after all...

Although there are no bomb scares this time there are delays (it takes over an hour for the bags to come through on the carousel from our flight), then there is applause, then there are further delays (the check in window for my connecting flight opens over half an hour late) and less enthusiastic applause - but applause none the less, oh and wait, yes another delay...(of course the flight is then delayed) and when we finally touch down in the south, yes of course the entire flight applauds.

I'm on Italian time now, I just sigh and resign myself to it.

You know that Roman saying.

Line 7, Paris Metro

Each metro line in Paris is distinctive.

Carriages in various states of disrepair and odour depending on the age of the vinyl or linoleum.

Whether a new line or old the colour schemes vary, as does the pace, the seating arrangements and even the way the doors open.

My old line, bright yellow line one, is new and shiny and clean with a sombre lady's voice announcing famous names as it stops along the way. She repeats them too which came in handy for me with my pronunciation, although Tuileries is still lost on my Australian tongue.

Line seven is a rose pink line on the metro map, but inside is all shades of 70's blues.

Royal blue seats and light grey-blue acrylic painted interior, even the button you have to press to release the doors is a rounded-edge blue square. Or wait, maybe it's green - eeek I can't remember! Actually I think it's green... either way line 7 is predominantly blue, if you get my drift.

It's my last Friday night in Paris and I'm on line 7 heading from Censier Daubenton in the 5th up to la Chapelle to meet a friend for a dhosa dinner in the 10th. No one tells you what stop is coming up next but I find it such a pleasure watching the stations roll by. I adore some of the metro stops in Paris, they even make their metro stops pretty those aesthetically acute Parisians.

I've sat myself down on the three seater banquette au fond du carriage and opposite me are two stunning French-African women. I guess they are on their way to a party all dressed up with bags of goodies at their feet. They chat and giggle unselfconsciously about boys, a topic that is rarely exhausted between girlfriends.

I put my headphones in to let music accompany me on the ride although I can't help but stare at these women, their beauty and animated conversation is hard to ignore. It seems as if they have dressed to complement line seven all together, melding blue hues. I keep stealing glances at them as the stops roll by; Pont Neuf, Palais Royal, Opera.

The girl on the left has fluffed up her afro so that it creates a halo of tight curls all around her. Each time we pull into a station the light from the platform illuminates her as if Glenda the good witch has touched her with her star shaped wand.

She's wearing a French cliché classic, the wide necked blue and white striped, long sleeved t-shirt and hit it with American Apparel type shiny deep blue leggins and white high top trainers. Her eye lids are dramatically awash with a cornflower blue shadow that glitters against her perfect dark skin. The effect is mesmerising.

Her friend's close cropped hair is all Grace Jones like and suits her angular features perfectly. She also has blue shadow on her eyelids, but high-lighted it with sparkling gold and added a deep red gloss to her lips. A pair of bright neon lime and dark green zebra print tights clash perfectly with her silver brogues and simple dark blue tee.

I suddenly feel like I'm in first year high school and these girls are the cool girls in final year.

It flashes me right back to that 'Clark's' bus in 1989 when I used to stare at an older girl from a different school who had short black hair and wore a De La Soul daisy t-shirt and badges on her satchel.

A sudden burst of laughter and lunging-forward-thigh-slapping moment from across the isle brings me back to the present with a start.

As the girls regain composure they look to me to catch my eye and apologise for 'disturbing' me... ahhh Paris

Ascenseur pour L'echafaud and the Italian

Well, I was sitting at a table in a bar in Paris...

I was sitting with a young woman who was asking me my opinions on life, love, relationships and travelling alone — you know the basics.

It was an intense discussion to be having at a bar in the middle of our friend's birthday drinks I agree, especially while the Caipirinhas were flowing at quite a pace.

But I do like to discuss the big topics n'importe ou.

I remember she was talking about her burgeoning new relationship and relating to men and asked me;

'Would you just go home with someone for one night while you're travelling?'

I responded honestly with "I'd rather spend a week with someone while I'm here than have a one night stand," and then I met the Italian.

His reputation as a 'ladies man' preceded our introduction, yet he had me and everyone around intoxicated with his warm humour and loud personality.

Gathering everyone together, facilitating conversation and ensuring all were interacting — it's quite a skill actually, not something many people can do easily and sincerely. Introducing everyone to each other and chatting to whoever was near it was a whirlwind to watch.

He encapsulated that 'Italian' ideal that I've encountered over the years; the grabbing life with both hands, never passing up an opportunity, taking extreme pleasure in the small gifts that life presents and taking no shit and proclaiming it all loudly to whomever is near. I love that.

He cornered me outside the bar to steal a cigarette and hit me with the line "Jennifer, your eyes are incredible, this colour — how do you call it?"

To which I replied "What is this? Are you trying to seduce me?"

And him, all wide-eyed surprise tells me "Ah, well...Yes!" and laughs loudly.

So I told him with a smile, "Look how about you drop the seduction thing and let's just go inside and enjoy ourselves, non?"

A little direct, sure; but you know that's how I am.

So we did, we went inside and had a ball.

There was dancing on the bar, in Paris mind you, that's how much fun we had.

And in the end I was seduced, not by 'come on' lines but by effervescence and laughter and perhaps a little persistence.

We spent a few glorious days together in the Parisian heat of August, all salty summer kisses and slippery embraces.

It was hot, on all counts.

I stayed in his white walled, herring-bone wooden floor, quartier latin appartement as the white, ceiling to floor curtains picked up the occasional wisp of wind and the sunlight flickered over the white bed clothes.

I wore a white sheet, mostly, while I was there and set up playlists on his massive desktop macintosh and watched the white jellyfish-like JBL speakers quiver with bass lines of tunes I loved.

Making passionate love on a hot summer's afternoon with Miles Davis' 'Ascenseur pour L'echafaud' playing in the background is an experience I would hope everyone gets to experience at least once in their lives, in Paris if you can manage it. And if your lover is also happens to be Italian, top that off with a home made pasta as a late lunch a stroll down for a nap in the Jardin du Luxembourg and you could call that a perfect day. With an apero to follow, bien sur.

Is it any wonder I didn't get much writing done in Paris? Or that I kept falling asleep in parks?

He leapt out of bed one morning to jump on a Velib to cycle to the neighbouring quartier to find a boulangerie that was open for fresh croissants. Incredible how many places shut down in Paris for August. Closed for the summer, boarded up for the month as the owners take off to the countryside or the coast. You've gotta respect that. Fuck it, we're outta here - Its summer and the sun is shining for everyone. Can you even imagine half the businesses in Sydney closing down for a month? Its be chaos.

I lay on the cast iron day bed in the lounge half submerged under copious pillows and cushions, of course in shades of white and caught myself musing 'My god this is actually my life'. He returns with fresh croissants and presses oranges for juice; breakfast is served, followed by an espresso and a cigarette, but of course.

As grateful as I was for all this, It was easy to leave — it felt right, and as though I had been blown wide open by passion, excitement and energy.

It's an incredible feeling, that opening up to a new lover.

He was dynamic and fun, a big personality with the added attraction of that classic latin sensibility of being able to seize the moment and sup from the pleasures that life presents you.

He told me just before he left to attend a weekend wedding in Lisbon that if we were living in the same city he feels that we could really be together.

The shock on my face prompted him to say, "You know I'm not trying to scare you, but I have to say I really think we could be together."

It was not what I expected to hear form him. In fact I hadn't expected any of it, which is one of the glorious freedoms of travel — the unexpected.

Not something that could have happened back home, for a million reasons, including how far Lisbon is from Brisbane…

A new connection has been made and my current reality is; who knows where I will end up?

Better to have taken the risk and made the connection than to not, non?

hit this hyper link!

Miles Davis : Discography : Lift To The Scaffold

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I know where the wild things are

I can't seem to think at all these days.

What a blessing!

Days lost in meandering through gloriously manicured city streets, iPhone tinkering tunes through my body and I always seem to find myself lead to patches of thick, lush grass where more often than not, I end up next to some magnificent sculpture, fountain or you know, important monument.

It's so peaceful here in the pulsating heart of this magnificent city.

Hours slip-tick by in these sublime parks with their columns of towering trees.

Trees with their branches and foliage squared into uniformed, tapering shapes that look like fresh green icy-poles*.

Icy-poles for giants.

Really, that's what they look like.

If it's hot down here on the ground, imagine how hot it must be up there above the tree line.

Who's to say that horned giants with bulging eyes don't just need a little relief from the heat of the summer sun and a respite from roaring their terrible roars and gnashing their terrible teeth? Maybe these guys are on a summer break from filming. Spike Jonze has been working them hard, I'm sure. For a bit of relief they could just pluck the lime green icy-poles straight from the garden with their massive pudgy fingers poking through the clouds.

Yeah, so... I fell asleep in the park, like a hobo.

I don't think they get many 'hobos' in this park, especially in the summer when the threat of icy-pole picking is at it's fiercest.

I'm so relaxed, i fall asleep in parks now, in the mid afternoon apparently.

With no regard to Maurice Sendak's monsters.

I wake up to find small groups of people munching on baguettes with cheese, playing boules or reading solitarily in the shade.

Must be like not-so-busy coloured ants to my imaginary monsters peering down from above.

It is funny being the outsider. Even now, anonymous in a rectangular parc on the edge of the Jardin de Luxembourg surrounded by icy-pole trees i am the only one who chooses to sit smack, bang in the middle of the grass.

Everyone else is scattered along the edges of the rectangle.

Is it a French formula to collectively and instinctively place themselves in sync with the manicured beauty around them?

Is it an Australian instinct to surround yourself with as much space as possible?

Or is it just an aspect of my insolent personality that in a moment I take in the scene and unconsciously do the exact opposite...

je ne sais pas.

*(icy-poles/iced lollies/ice-blocks)

Paris has Shrunk!

Walking around Paris today i kept getting hit by memories.

Hit directly in the solar plexus like a punch to the gut that winds you.

Painful pleasure.

Sauntering across le pont des arts in full summer sun today, the gilt on the Louvre winking in the sun's rays I get a flash back to a random moment of my heel getting lodged between the planks on the pont des arts walking home from the 5th in the very early hours of the morning.

I remember how cold it was that february morning and that there was not another soul on the bridge.

The memory flickers and I wonder; how many women has this happened to over the years?

It hits again as I walk by little cafe near metro St Paul;

I was meeting the man who was to become my Parisian lover for our first official 'date' and as he saw me emerge from the metro station, he jumped up from his table leaving all his belongings and ran across the road to me and embraced me on the street.

I felt as enamoured as that woman appears to be in the famous 'kiss' photograph by Robert Doisneau.

An anxiety trembles through me as i walk up to BATEAU CONCORDE ATLANTIQUE thinking;

'could love strike twice in the same place five years later?'

<>

Jumping off the metro at St Germain where I once found my guy all 'nino quincampoix' around the photo booth

and my heart started pounding just like Amelie's. Art imitates life and life in turn...

Walking aimlessly through the 6th on my way to Jardin du Luxembourg I'm hit again with the full body, deep cellular memory of a passionate kiss as I pass by the front of the Sorbonne, bien sûr

As I left the apartment this morning, feeling a little melancholy as I stuffed my headphones into my ears and just walked the streets.

Such a great thing to do in Paris.

Even walking the streets with a broken heart in Paris is somehow pleasurable.

I found myself near the Tuileries and remembered colette, a place where I had found some great music in the past.

History repeats as I find a 10 inch record in the small record bin

The 10 inch is a soft rose-pink sleeve, my colour,with large white text

" I was sad

then i bought this record

I still feel sad"

Comme un été à Paris

J'arrive!

God, it's so easy to be back here. So familiar, it just feels normal.

You know I love Paris. It's completely obvious.

If I could live back here again I would, in a heart beat - or the bat of a lash. Actually, which one is quicker?

The quartiers of Paris are distinct and different as you probably know.

When I lived there, I lived in the 8th. All fancy big apartments (except mine!) doctors & lawyers residences, l'Arc de Triomphe at the head of the street and parallel to the Champs-Élysées.

Don't even ask how I managed that, it's a whole different story.

I had friends in the 17th a much younger and edgier quartier and close to montmarte/pigalle, friends in the 11th le bastille, friends in the 10th where they have 2 miniature arc de triomphes and an explosion of Eastern and African immigrants, friends in the 6th - St Germain and 13th - china town, oh and a lover in the 5th.

If you haven't seen 'Paris Je T'aime', do - it gives a great lyrical insight into les quartiers. (and yes Dad, it is subtitled)

Oh and off topic see that Michel Gondry film with Charlotte Gainsbourg and Gael Garcia Bernal called La Science des rêves . just because its great.

This time around I'm staying with my gorgeous friend who has just moved into the 5 ème, le quartier latin.

An area I know well and is filled with romanticism for me on account of the great Parisian love affair I had there that summer.

I have been so excited to catch up with D on this trip. She's my partner in crime and our off-beat humour somehow manages to gel.

We have ridiculous fits of laughter and can discuss anything even if it doesn't technically exist yet, and then we laugh about it.

And sometimes we cry.

How great to have friendships that span the globe and weather the years to be able to see each other again and laugh so easily.

She's more French these days than British, I guess it's just crept up on her but each time I see her I notice the difference straight away.

Big changes have happened in her life and mine since we saw each other last.

AND it's her birthday just after I arrive, fresh start, new things. Play Time.

We are so ready for this summer, ready to laugh and play and slough off the old skin.

for info on les quartiers of Paris & the map above http://www.parisnet.com/parismap.html

...In the mood for love

I'm leaving Shanghai tomorrow for Paris.

A stash of beautiful dresses in my luggage and I'm channeling

Maggie Cheung's character in Wong Kar Wai's 'In the Mood for Love'...

This could get dangerous

Ni Hao!

NI HAO!

Shanghai...I loved it.

A curious city a-buzz with mad dash construction (with bamboo scaffolding, you understand), ancient buildings alongside art deco buildings, alongside state-of the-art high rises with whole sides of 30 story buildings projecting advertisements to those zipping by in pleasure boats on the Bund.

From Bali, with security guards in dark blue uniforms, heavy black polished boots, guns in holsters and a frangipani behind the ear to bustling Shanghai street culture. Steamy mid 30 degree heat, beep beep traffic, tree lined boulevards, creatively coloured double decker art deco homes, wooden carts on bitchumen roads being pulled by old men alongside silver Mercedes Benz. NI Hao!

I immediately get that 'rush' travellers often experience as you tap into a whole new world. Everything around is alien and interesting and fascinating and juxtaposed to your usual state of 'normal'.

I'm staying in a gorgeous house number 808 Changle St (shong-le lu) in the west French Concession area.

There are two entrances to 808. One access is by walking down a hutong, or lane way complete with scooters and bicycles potted plants and strings of washing hanging out to dry OR From the connecting cross street Changshu St (Shong shu lu) where a small buzzer on an imposing door must be pressed to alert the cafe staff of 'Closed Door' to come and let you in. 'Closed Door' cafe is an interesting concept and occupies the first floor of this house. You must make a reservation to eat here for breakfast, lunch or dinner and it can really only be found by word of mouth. There is no street signage or advertising for the cafe but I can attest to them making a mean breakfast as each morning's meal is complimentary to guests of the hotel. The food is all western influenced, which gave me a good start to the day of exploring Shanghai's culinary street culture.

www.quintet-shanghai.com/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hutong

The 'French Concession' as you might imagine has French style cafes with expansive terraces and familiar French names. Boulangeries and Patisseries, baguettes and tarte aux pomme, odd. Indochine, non? I even found street side creperies, well kind of creperies. One of my favourite street snacks was what looks like a crepe but is made from potato, like a potato pancake with shallots and seasoning sprinkled through out, they are sold by weight and depending on how much you want, cost about 1AUD. YUM! Someone told me once that potatoes had no nutritional value what-so-ever, a point to which I queried my traditional Chinese medicine studying, qualified acupuncturist, yoga teaching, massage therapist younger brother who swears they are one of the most vitamin packed vegetables around. So i don't know if my favourite Shanghai snack was even remotely nutritious or just a stodgy tummy filler. I did however by-pass the towers of raw chicken feet waiting to be barbecued in an array of sauces, nutritious or not and admired the 'china town' familiarity of roasted ducks strung up in windows. Steamed dumplings filled with pork and vegetables, or mixed spinach, onions & vinegar. Vinegar is popular on everything here, but honestly not once did i see a bottle of soy sauce on a lazy susan, or anywhere else here in Shanghai.

I was lucky enough to befriend an energetic ABC, (which is an anagram used for American born Chinese but, for me, works also for those born in Australia); who is accomplished in the 'Ninja Bat Arts' and the art of ordering and negotiating in mandarin. With this contact by our sides we were able to eat incredibly well and avoid what I imagine may have been disastrous digestive, cringing culinary moments.

For example, on an out-of-town excursion to a place called Anji, which houses the bamboo forest that was used in the filming of 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon', a group of us ate in the front room of a local's house who cooked for us from the family kitchen. Complete with chickens running around the yard and a well used chopping block out front we were led to a 'private room' ( the 'private room' appears to be a very popular status symbol here - I guess with billions of people the ultimate pleasure is privacy) with dusty dirty walls and plastic wrap over everything, oh and a piano. Of course?! 'Bat Ninja', thankfully, took complete control of the ordering procedure and rapid fired dishes at our host, who complied willingly and energetically took herself off to the kitchen to prepare our feast.

Aubergine and onion, fresh sautéed bamboo, dried and fried tiny whole fish (eeek), beef and chili, chicken something (fresh off the block - maybe not..) and yummy yummy little potato slices battered and lightly fried with vinegar and chili. No soy sauce!

I was cautious and tentative, I was a little nervous about climbing the bamboo forest mountain and having to defile it in any way other than my bad mandarin..

Xie Xie Superstar Bat Ninja and co!

*** white devil ***

The White Devil is deafened by the shrill of a million crickets,

as she winds her way around the snaking paths.

Old men stop their card games to stare,

and are disarmed by a nod and a smile

but only just.

Xie Xie Shanghai!

After signing a waiver form that i had no flu-like symptoms, lest I be the bearer of swine flu into China I stepped up to the Shanghainese customs checkpoint with my passport, late at night, tired and uncomfortable in that way you only get from long plane transits.

As I handed my documents over at the very clean and orderly checkpoint to a short man in smart uniform and cap I was given the option of critiquing my customs officials service.

There was a little electronic box in front of me with buttons and various emoticons; a smiley face, an ambivalent face or a sad face.

I looked at my guy, who was checking my visa without any kind of emotion and thought about it for a second.

Really, I was tired and over it as much as he seemed to be and felt ambivalent myself about the whole experience, then should I press the ambivalent button or just leave the poor guy alone?

Maybe communicating in Shanghai was not going to be as difficult as I expected?

I wondered if there were little electronic boxes everywhere that I could avoid offending people with my mandarin.

And I don't just mean offending people with the sound of my Australian accent trying to form Chinese, I mean actually offending people.

Before I left Australia I downloaded a Mandarin phrase guide onto my iPhone. I started by practising hello and thank you, you know the extreme basics.

The thing is because the only other language i speak even a little of other than English, is French and apparently there is some speech defect quadrant in my brain that switches on whenever I try out another language; it comes out with a French accent.

Which is embarrassing considering my French is so limited. But that it could be even more embarrassing than that surprised me, as i discovered with my Mandarin.

So, 'xie xie' is thank you in mandarin.

Just try to say that.

How does it sound?

Well, apparently i made up my own version, which sounded lovely and foreign to my ears where the 'xie' had more of a 'gzh-i' sound, you know, with a twist of French.

So i was saying it over and over 'gzh-i gzh-i', 'gzh-i gzh-i' a bit like how 'Gi Gi' would sound in French. 'Gi Gi', 'Gi Gi, 'Gi Gi'.

I tried my new word out on an employee of mine from Taiwan.

I watched her eyes widen in shock as soon as it came out of my mouth from my very proud looking face, before she recovered and very respectfully said "hmmm, um Jennifer what is it that you are trying to say?"

Mei Mei I'm saying thank you in Mandarin!

"ah, ok try like this;" where by she said Xie Xie and asked me to repeat til i had some semblance of it.

Satisfied, I asked her what she thought i was saying, and the reply came;

"Well Jen, actually, you were saying 'little boy's penis'"

...oh dear

So again, I hoped these little electronic boxes where everywhere, should come in handy with the taxi driver when i finally get out of the airport...

Desa Seni, Canggu, Bali Indonesia

My brother and I spent a week in Indonesia.

Deas Seni, Canngu, Bali to be exact.

We arrived just a day after the most recent fatal bombings in Jakarta, but could not have conceived of a more relaxed and safe haven as was Desa Seni for us. I felt a bit guilty being there and embracing the warm welcoming atmosphere, where they literally sound a large 'gong' when you enter the residence, when other foreigners had just been killed in the capital.

I spoke to one of the staff about the attacks here at Desa Seni about the bombings and he said 'It is terrible, but this happens here. 'What can I do but pray and live my life well and be happy to the people i meet?'

Which is about right too.

So we relaxed and embraced it...

All around us are living, breathing, photosynthesising things and clickity things; geckoes, crickets and various insects. The tick, tick ticking of men building and maintaining the gardens around us. For us two avid music lovers with our iPods and macbooks jammed full with music, we didn't turn them on til the very end.

As if the cacophony of village life was enough, that and the peace of our own silence.

We were, however, for two days and nights serenaded by ceremonial singing cascading across the rice paddy fields. A man's deep resonant voice singing devotional hymns, sometimes accompanied by drums and bells, floated around us from morning til late at night. It was the day before and the day of the Total Solar eclipse which I, of course, wanted to believe it had something to do with but our enquiries got us no further to finding out exactly what it was for.

Our day would begin either with a yoga class or breakfast. Breakfast being a bowl of mixed tropical fruit, a fresh pressed juice, a Balinese coffee or organic tea and then a hot dish, our collective favourite; the Telur Florentine. Two fresh farm eggs poached sitting on spinach from the garden that has been sautéed in garlic on top of whole wheat bread accompanied by two lightly grilled tomatoes, also plucked from the garden, sprinkled with more garlic and pesto made from the, you guessed it, basil grown in the garden.

This would always be brought to us, in our rumah wungsu by a Balinese man in his uniform of loose cotton trousers and t-shirt with a frangipani behind the ear and a warm smile wishing us a 'good morning' and to 'please enjoy our breakfast', and we believed them every time.

Our hut, rumah wungsu, is perched at the edge of the 'village resort' complex. We have a little grassed area out front with trees, a small flower garden sprouting bird of paradise and a statue of Ganesha who acts as protector of the property (she is aided by several burly security guards, who also wear frangipanis behind their ears). We look out over rice paddy fields that are tended daily and a new garden being built that already houses a few mango trees and small vegetable plots.

It felt, at the beginning of the week that it would go on forever. The days were sultry and long, sunshine and great food, stretching and napping. And then, suddenly it's over!

It is so strange the way that happens...

Every time we sat down to eat another amazing meal I would say 'How great is this food?! How good is this for us, I know I say it every time..but really, how great is this!'

And the little notes on our pillows each night. Different quotes every time;

"Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness, and it's power of endurance

The cheerful man will do more in the same time, will do it better, will preserve it longer, than the sad or sullen."

Thomas Carlyle

Which is not dissimilar to our waiter's quote that I'm personally going to run with;

'What can I do but pray and live my life well and be happy to the people i meet?'

check it out: www.desaseni.com

pretzel practice

I was reminded of a past lover of mine today as i twisted my legs around each other, standing up but with knees bent into a half seated position while my arms crossed and twisted in front of me was supposed to gracefully represent an eagle.

Sounds more kinky than it is, really.

Eyes set to a point of focus in the near distance to help me balance I really tried to see how this could look like an eagle. I don't believe i achieved the intended grace of this bird of prey but i may well have represented a more common snack food; the pretzel. And it seems to fit, as i am planning my first trip to New York and on my 'to do list' besides finding a new, energetic lover, is to eat a salty pretzel from a street vendor.

Condensation gathered between my elbows, a combination of the tropical heat and physical exertion made the creases in my limbs slippery. I pressed my twisted palms tighter together trying to avert my body's desire to unwind into a more familiar position. Which is when the giggle started to build, not only am i now physically representing the pretzel but actually, I'm gonna taste like one too. And there it comes, the giggle is out the 'pretzel practice' comment of a former lover making complete sense, I achieve a kind of serenity, an understanding, as i unwittingly burst the concentration of those around me.

I eventually regain composure, just in time for 'shivasana' or 'corpse pose' an asana that traditionally ends a yoga session. It's actually more difficult than you might imagine, lying flat on your back after stretching intensely and trying to find that space of 'nothingness'. The instructor taking this class is talking us through a relaxation technique by encouraging us to focus on one body part at a time, from our toes all the way up the body. Increment by increment, until we get to the head and face, relaxing the cheek muscles, the jaw and the forehead. Then she asks us to relax our 'hair follicles' and i get the giggles again.

'That's perfect!' I think to myself. I am going to, throughout this trip, 'check in with myself' from time to time and see how much I can relax my hair follicles over the journey...