A Latin American Journey, by Georgie

After 15 days of busy nomadic travel through the wild, colourful terrains of Belize and Guatemala, I had designed the last week of my New Year escape to unwind, sunbathe and to write, write, write. It was for this latter purpose that I settled into a quiet white sand resort on Mexico’s Yucatan coast, paying extra for an Ocean View room – believing nature would release my creative genius and literary productivity.

With no TV or wireless to distract me, and my notepad set upon a desk overlooking the crystal clear Caribbean Sea – in between sunbathing and a daily stretch class – I had ample time to exercise typing. But lo and behold, just when I think I’m past the fervour of heady romance, I fall giddily in love. Could there be any greater distraction?

All scheduling  (* 7am stretch class * 8am writing before breakfast on the ocean-side terrace * 10am writing before sunbathing * 3pm writing before massage * 4pm massage * 6pm writing before dinner) was thrown by one handsome, noble older gent – Dr Juvenal Urbino de Calle. Whether at my desk, in the hammock or poolside, I could think of little else bar this most desirable man. When I did eventually try to write, everything was coloured with romantic affliction – there was no genius, no gem of philosophical light, just words with flowery, blossom overtones.

Dr Urbino is no ordinary person of course – he is a well travelled aristocrat, the best doctor of his time. I was introduced to him by Gabriel García Márquez, in the Nobel Prize winning Colombian author’s acclaimed novel – ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ – the paperback companion that walked, sunbathed and slept with me for five days. I was so enchanted by Urbino, that at one point, when my hero fell off his pedestal, I felt reasonably annoyed and put the book away for an entire day.

But one day of stubborn quiet was enough – I was desperate to know what happened next – and, picking up from where I’d left off, I began a Latin American journey of a different kind. This time, I turned the notepad off, relinquishing all intention to write; unpacked my traveller’s case, glad I no longer had to haul it on and off buses, into different hotels every other night; and let the City Girl tempo melt away. It was time for a real holiday of doing nothing – nothing more than sleeping, reading, eating and daydreaming that is.

I did everything at a snail’s pace and fully sensed the multitude of emotions brought to life by Márquez, through the life story of Urbino, Fermina Daza, Forentino Ariza and other charismatic characters of his making. In between, I dozed if my body felt like it or, with a poolside Campari to match my pretty pink two-piece, I reflected on the contrasting shades of 19^th century Caribbean life – picturing the vibrant hues of happiness as well as the darker shadows they would cast. Márquez had me surfing the waves of love and lust. I relived the naivety of teenage fancy and surrendered to wild poetic abandon as I never could in my own real life. I observed the pain, the madness of unrequited fantasy and, wrapped in the safety net of my hammock, I faced the unrelenting crush of ultimate betrayals – deceitful liaisons and passions that should never have been – all of which marred my own hazy dreams of a perfect ‘happy ever after’ and brought me back to earth with a sudden bolt. I was touched by parental affection, that didn’t mean to stifle or suffocate, but nevertheless did; and was in awe of the deep, still love that is rarely found today – the kind of love that can manifest only with the passage of a very long time.

By the end of that week I felt nimble, light – any dregs of fatigue left from 2010 were washed away by the sun and several extra hours sleep. Best of all, I’d sailed a ship to shores so different to any I have ever known that it truly felt like I’d escaped, yet all the while I had been standing still. Perhaps, I travelled farther in this stillness than in the nomadic fashion of first fortnight away.

Under the Table – by Margo

In a charming flat in Bethnal Green, Bushra is serving up a masala coconut dish with fish, accompanied by rice and followed by lamb kofte and chickpeas, sweet prunes and spiced aubergine. The glamourous thirty-something is a lawyer. She is well travelled but aside from her latest love affair with Beirut – ‘The new Paris’ – she is passionate about her Pakistani roots and the interplay of subtle flavours within that culinary tradition. Each month, Bushra’s Table caters for an intimate group of six who have found her through her Facebook group. Heady flavours are complemented with a carefully selected wine and finished with Guatemalan Zacapa rum.

West-London hostess Shelley’s favourite wine is an Argentinean Zinfandel but she keeps that bottled-up, encouraging the guests to bring their own to complement each of her themed dinners. Shelley AKA Nomad Chef charges £30 a head for her alternative to a restaurant dinner, four courses of sumptuously presented home-cooked food.

By choosing Shelley’s “Viva Cubana” night, Georgie and I have opted to see what our Californian hostess will make of the culinary inspiration of that particular Caribbean island: Mojitos that pack a punch, fried plantains, black bean soup, spicy chicken and rice and upside down mango cake concoction.  Shelley, in her fifties, has lived well and soaked up the varied flavours of several decades of world travel. Tonight she is drawing on some of the repetoire of a former Cuban lover and splicing it with a touch of the French, aided by a Francophone boyfriend at the stove.

It feels laid back and open around this table. We are sitting with a group of random ‘guests’ that range from Joe, the organic farmer’s market organiser to Katy, the media lawyer. Our night is punctuated by the live performances of one of Shelley’s youthful associates, singer-songwriter Alex Berger. A twenty-something Londoner currently enjoying some not insignificant success in New York, Alex sings about opportunity, love, of being young and hopeful.

Meanwhile in the elegant Georgian environs of Camden Square in North London, Francesca’s Secret Kitchen hosts an evening twice a month, boasting authentic Italian recipes with an artistic twist. Run by two Francescas – a blonde and a brunette from Genoa and Milan respectively – the evening is a result of their friendship and shared enjoyment of cooking. Since moving to London as arts students a decade ago, they learnt how to find the best ingredients from Italian specialists and give their mother’s traditional recipes a twist. Then – serendipitously – the rise of the underground supper club provided them with a creative outlet.

Under low lighting, twenty of us share large tables in the generous living/dining room area. The décor – retro Italian furniture and art – is exquisite. It’s a lively atmosphere but somehow lacks the conviviality of buxom Shelley’s table, where the effortless enjoyment was carefully conjoured through her masterful hostessing skills. Nevertheless, the occasion intrigues with its twists and turns on what is what: Home, food, art.

A dinner entitled “Fast Food” plays on the idea of what that is: deep fried mozzarella in carrozza; Pappardelle fatte in casa al sugo di coniglio, the rabbit denoting the speed, Insalata di ‘runner beans’ and a strawberry mousse shaped like a hamburger – fast by association. It finishes fittingly with an espresso.

“Food is such a direct way of communicating with people,” enthuses Francesca. “Anyone can talk about, deal with and relate to it – There is no structure around it – it is just there: You sit down and you eat and you drink, you are happy.”

One, two, three, four, kick, twist and turn – by Margo

“Relax” orders my expert Russian mentor eyeing me with certain, excitement-inducing strictness. “Where have these extra steps come from?”

I am part of a generation ill-tutored in the art of partner dancing but, aside from feeling like a naughty school-girl horsing around in a once obligatory folk-dancing lesson, I am responding well to a heady cocktail of Rock n’ Roll, movement, concentration and Pinot Noir.

Tonight, I have flung my inquisitiveness headlong towards the tea dance trend sweeping the country. This vintage-tinged happening at cult venue The Wapping Project is both doffing its hat to the movement and marking its own ground.

The architectural icon of an old Thames pumping station now turned high-end restaurant and art gallery is hotting up with the moves of a bygone era; Rock ‘n Roll, Lindy Hop and Jitterbug. My left hand rests on my friend Henry’s gabardine-clad arm and the other is free to enact twists and swings.

Jessica and David, our teachers, flex their easy limbs to demonstrate a rhythm and style from another space and time. Though we joked each other’s ways down to Wapping with Fred and Ginger citations, Henry and I look at best like the Jimmy Stewart’s endearing dance-floor debacle in It’s a Wonderful Life. “Lifting your arm has to be about function,” instructs David in his playful yet ultimately serious tone.

Our dance floor is the beautiful wooden boards of a room that once housed huge industrial boilers. The valves and pipes of that hydraulic-energy era are still in evidence and it’s an atmospheric venue to get the pulse racing. The crowd is a mix of the building’s restaurant diners working up a pre-dinner appetite for sobrasada filled partridge or venison pie, and other dance-curious Londoners. Save for David and Jessica, there are no devotees here and I breathe a sigh of relief – liberated to move around. A dark-haired Lothario and the figure of eight he is making between his pretty companion of the evening and other glittering-eyed onlookers intrigue me. All this kinetic Rock n’ Roll stuff is making its own electricity.

“Why do you always put in another step?” counters David to what I thought was a demonstration of deft footwork on my part. “Its really very simple: one, two, three and turn.” He lifts both his feet and eyebrows with amusement.

Life is a dance – at times, that wonderful fluid mixture of being simultaneously in and out of oneself. I guess, I would rather mine a Jitterbug than a Tango. Perhaps it really is simple and I just complicate things, put in extra steps. Concentration and attention to detail have their place, but I realise as my three-hour escapade comes to an end, I am alive and kicking – all I have to do is move. Take those first steps…

A Happy Meeting, by Georgie

Following on from  The Specialness of Ordinary Things…

I love the undercurrent of magic that runs invisibly through our ordinary lives. Of course, it isn’t magic in the Disney way – if I had such a power I’d be awfully tempted to cast a wand over several people and turn them into frogs. No, it’s the magic that warm-hearted, optimistic, kindly folk touch each other with unbeknownst.

I had such an encounter at The Porchester Centre this weekend. “You are wondering what I am doing?” asked an old man who was moving back and forth rhythmically with his feet pressed against the nearside wall of the swimming pool. Actually I hadn’t thought of it – I was in my own world, my mind brooding over an issue at work.

“Yes”, I lied to amuse him.

“I am massaging my feet – it is the secret that keeps me young.” His accent was foreign, slightly Italian, slightly Germanic, but I couldn’t confidently place it. “You should swim one hour every day – you will have a good life like me,” he said with a cheeky glint in his eye.  “I believe you. You look 50 but you’re going to tell me you’re 205 years old, right?”, and my obvious compliment was accepted with a happy laugh.

He looked over his right shoulder and then the left, before leaning closer into me, “I tell very few people my secret. There are many more exercises I can show you but for that we need the deep end.” I played to his suggestion and like kids we raced to the far side of the pool to practice underwater star jumps, horizontal cycling and vertical press ups. “Will these tone up my stomach?” I asked, pinching at my waistline.

“For the tummy there is another one”. At the ladder I raised myself up and down, akin to a semi-vertical sit up. “Do them all one hundred times a day,” he instructed. “And then I will be beautiful?” I asked. “You are already very beautiful. Just you will live long and happy like me!”

As he departed – I still had to complete my ritual 50 laps – we exchanged names. He is Milan, 72 years old, a Croat that lived in Italy for many years. Climbing out, he added, “In Hindi, Milan means ‘A happy meeting’ – and I am very happy to meet you.” And, as I dove back under the water, I felt very happy to have met him too.

Milan appeared like a fairytale wizard out of nowhere. I know I won’t have time to do all those moves, plus I’d feel like a goof if I was alone (I’ve never thought of it before, but I only ever see old people doing exercises like this in the pool?), but that’s all irrelevant – it’s the innocent fun that we shared and his kindly old soul that somehow made me forget the trivialities I was absorbed in just moments before.   

That’s the kind of magic that’s hard to put into words, that touches all of us when we’re open to the world.

***—***

I think of other random encounters over the past few weeks that have been particularly sweet. I tell a vague acquaintance that she looks gorgeous and her eyes fill up with tears – “Thank you. I so needed to hear that”, she replies. A fellow painter at my art studio shares her recipe for the most delicious roast tomato soup. I make it for a friend who loves it, so I send it on. When I see her two weeks later, she tells me she has made it thrice since.

In Waitrose, shopping with a hangover, I am excited to find a box of glass marbles and drop them in my basket as an indulgent childhood treat. I meet a man in a coffee shop that enquires what I am reading – Birds Without Wings – before I know it this stranger has joined our book club, he’s a writer himself. My father gets my hand-painted Christmas card and writes me an email saying “IT’S WONDERFUL” – new to the keyboard, he’s an all cap man. It’s these little incidents that are a touch of magic in an otherwise ordinary life – the kind that money can never buy (except for the marbles of course!). 

Down the Rabbit Hole, by Margo

A letter arrived this morning – crisp white sheets of A4 graced with the delicate yet confident hand of my mother.

“Dearest M,

I looked in my Encyclopedia of Traditional Symbols by J.C Cooper and this is what it says for Rabbit:

A lunar animal, the rabbit and hare both live in the moon and are associated with moon goddesses and Earth Mothers. In Aztec symbolism, the moon is a rabbit or hare. In China figures of white rabbits were made for the moon festival. The rabbit or hare is the trickster of the Indians of the Eastern forests of America. It also symbolizes fecundity and lust but wearing rabbit skins in rites denotes docility and humility before the Great Spirit…”

My Mum has this wonderful habit of diving into conversations – on paper and in person – without setting a context. When I grasp that she is referring to the recent trip I made to the races – in the company of men’s magazine journalists, some Louboutin-toting PRs and an ex bunny girl – to hear about the re-opening of the Playboy club in Mayfair next year, I had to chortle.

The memo continued:

“Is the Great Spirit in this case Hefner and the male clientele…?!”

I hadn’t really considered the symbolism of the Playboy logo and its real world realization in a chain of nightclubs – so carefully before. Hefner clearly feels there is still money in a certain type of rabbit: “I look forward to our return to London and again sharing the notions that are celebrated in the magazine, the concept of good food and drink, pretty girls, and exciting entertainment.”

There are rituals and traditions around the rabbit that act as portals to different dimensions – think Donnie Darko and Alice and Wonderland. What an intriguing cultural form the animal is: if only Playboy – whose global brand now claims a piece of the rabbit symbol and the emancipation/exploitation question around it – knew.

I wonder if Playboy, which once denoted a bit of – albeit now passé – glitz and glamour in Seventies Mayfair, is capable of riding the zeitgeist of a new post-feminist epoch. Whether, like James Bond (Sean Connery and Roger Moore were regulars that the Mayfair establishment back in its heyday) it needs a bit more Vesper Lynd and a bit less Honey Rider.

While the worlds of fashion and film feel a new appreciation of women that is increasingly about attitude, this venue will draw heavily on nostalgic references. The reintroduction of the original format, costume and customer service complete with the famous “bunny dip” suggest the allure of docility is far from on the wain.

An awful lot of symbolism is used in culture to denote the repressed unconscious and it seems this casino still rolls with fluffy bunnies. Here at the stalwart bastion of the Mayfair Gentleman’s club, I look for subtle signs of a shift in what is sexy but I think I need to move a couple of stops along the monopoly board for that.

Is not the creation of believable fictions more interesting? To save myself from going down the rabbit hole, I’ll refer to the wise witticisms and classic teachings of Bugs Bunny, “Don’t take life too seriously. You’ll never get out alive.”

Bee Inspired, by Margo

Today (23^rd November) Jessie Jowers’ Bee Project is making a bid on an ITV public voting show, The People’s Millions, for a £50,000 grant to make her local Gloucester the first Bee Guardian City.

“If we win the People’s Millions vote we can transform the city into a paradise for bees,” says Jessie. “The project will include the whole community bringing together community groups, schools, colleges, societies, individuals, and businesses for a year of free Bee Inspired activities.”

I met the quietly charismatic Jessie last year at a country wedding that was overflowing with honey and nectar, and she captivated me with her romantic tale:

He may have been young – or perhaps because he was – but the dashing Italian who she met one Mediterranean holiday wasn’t afraid of grand gestures. One day, a few months after they’d first set eyes on each other, she got a call to say he’d quit his job in the Navy and was making his way to London to live with her.

The Sicilian’s arrival was a catalyst for many things not least, their interlinked plan to save the world’s bees. She took immediate leave of the London Film world’s seemingly glamorous milieu to follow a theme that really inspired both her and Carlo: they would set up an organisation to foster research and practical solutions for the critically endangered global bee population.

Plunging into the midst of the Gloucestershire countryside, they set their course at the grassroots level and have swiftly fertilized a whole host of projects, thinkers and doers around the cause.

My classmates at The School of Life’s Making a Difference course a couple of weeks ago included young poet Jacob Sam-La Rose who has a firm belief in the importance of active community – everyone has their part to play. His bit is around galvanizing underprivaledged youth with poetry. “The reality is that few people are willing or consider themselves able to make a difference, but if no one makes the effort, nothing changes, or things decline,” says Jacob. “I’d rather make an effort to change something, however small, than waste my energy complaining about the way things are and what needs to be done.”

My sentiments exactly, but oh so admirable when someone goes forth into the unknown and makes things happen.

A diverse country of fertile hills, dense grasslands and rainforests, Congo is the largest of the Central African nations. This is the terrain of the gorilla, a supremely noble ape which is critically endangered. Unless action is taken to prevent poaching and to protect their habitat, gorillas may become near extinct in Africa’s Greater Congo Basin by the mid-2020s.

This beautiful land where early morning mist lifts lazily off the forest floor and the sun sets a rich orange in the sky, is harsh. “The whole region is so politically unstable that rangers take their lives in their hands,” says Jillian Miller, who leads conservation group The Gorilla Organization and orchestrates the Great Gorilla Run in London each year to raise funds. “The gorilla population has plummeted following endless deaths from disease, poaching and loss of territory.”

I meet Jillian one afternoon in her ramshackle offices in Primrose Hill. She has spent nearly twenty years trying to save the gorilla, understanding that if the animals are to survive in the context of Africa’s other significant challenges, conservation efforts needs to be owned and managed by local people. Her laugh is husky and her  tone nonchalant but her handshake steely.

As I go about my daily business, all around me people are seeking to impact the world’s injustices, becoming change agents at a local or global level. I want to honour determination and a genuine invocation of that much-overused word “passion”. And, judging by the radiance and enthusiasm projecting off my intrepid explorers, making that difference gives you a buzz!

The Cosmic Universe, by Georgie

 “A small glass of white and a Corona, thanks,” I order at the bar of The Science Museum’s Dana Centre in preparation for tonight’s talk on The Cosmic Universe. I’ve always been riddled with curiosity about what’s out there – beyond us, beyond our planet, beyond our Solar System. But apart from drunken philosophising – “Let’s put it into perspective – we’re random little microscopic specks of dust relative to the greater universe and we worry about being size zero?”, I haven’t actually dipped into the technical science of it all before today.

              I move to a table where a young man is sitting, fervently making notes on some article. “I’m Leon,” he introduces himself and, flattered by my stare at his scribble pad, goes on to share that he’s an architect, reading about Moscow’s iconic Metro. The enthusiasm of a recent graduate is difficult to mistake – he plans a field trip out to see it – and I guess he can’t be more than 23 years old. Still, he’s older than Tom – only 21 – who, for want of a better word, is my date this evening.

                  The full title of the event is ‘The Cosmic Universe – How It All Ends’ – not the most optimistic of subjects for a dark Monday night, but nevertheless it caught my attention and I’m glad to be here. Tom arrives just in time – his head of big hair is unmistakeable so I have no problem recognising him (we were briefly acquainted at an event at The Frontline Club a week before). He’s pleased with the bottle of Corona sat in wait and I’m pleased that last week’s low riding jeans are replaced by a better fitting pair. I notice his yellow pullover and school tie, all perfectly dapper, and an air of confidence properly tempered by coy, polite manners.

 

The Talk Begins

Chris Impey, Professor of Astronomy at the University of Arizona, is our speaker. He holds our attention with short facts eliminated of any scientific jargon, dotted with Star Trek sound bites and a few humorous anecdotes (did you know that more people die of coconuts falling on their heads than from deadly animals?). Interestingly, he starts with religion, quickly reviewing various predictions as well as the ancient Mayan calendar, of how the world – as we know it – will end. Then onto facts that whet my appetite – the human life form has only been on Earth for 0.1% of the planet’s billions of years of existence. To imagine the size of our planet relative to the entire universe, think of it as one grain of sand in a stretch of beach that disappears into the distance. Whether aliens exist is questioned, more so that we may be living in a simulation they created for fun – we might be more closely related to Pacman than to Moses.  Are we just puppets on a string? Or animations in a play station game? At any rate, if we continue our propelled learning, with the acceleration of our own technological capacity, in 10 or 20 years we will have simulated the entire universe going both back in time and – by assumption – forward in light years, that should enable us to react intelligently to any looming outer body threat. We will be better equipped to save our planet from an asteroid collision that would eradicate us – this happens once every 100 million years which sounds like a safe buffer – but the next one could happen at any time. The Sun has about five billion years of life left in it, but long before then we will have moved on – to Mars perhaps or maybe a new galaxy altogether.

So, should we be worried? In the event of an asteroid collision, death will be instantaneous – and we’ll all be in it together. And, although we’re still under threat of a supernova destroying the ozone layer or a galactic black hole swallowing the planet, our cosmologists are researching means of counteracting such dangers so that as a species we can live on. Thinking more of our immediate environment and our individual fates, we’re a hell of a lot more likely to die of a bed (not asleep in it, but by a bed related injury), or of course in a car or plane crash, but even these occurrences are rare compared to death by heart failure or cancer – and together, they are all a much greater probability than the likelihood of being killed by a meteor. [Every century or so a 10-metre wide meteor slams into Earth with the force of a small nuclear device. The last one was 1908 in Tunguska and it was pure luck this was in the uninhabited wilderness of Siberia.]

In the end, we can be certain that each one of us will die – it’s just the means by which that is undeterminable. Looking at the larger picture however, as a greater whole, one might like to believe we’d all care for mankind as an entity in itself and want for it to live on – yet could we be our own worst enemy? We’re aware of the catastrophic mess that nuclear arms and biological weapons can cause – it would take just one small terrorist attack to wipe out the whole of London – but while governments work on peace treaties, I wonder how sophisticated we really are? The fact that people still starve to death in today’s advanced age, baffles me, for instance. While here in the West, even though waste is abundant and obesity is now a major disease, we are still unable to appease the basic suffering of many underprivileged kinfolk of the third world, that live in unimaginable conditions, with barely enough food to survive. 

A Pause For Thought

In the break before question time, Tom and Leon share other theories. “There is a theory that humans have lived and been wiped out many times over”, says Leon. “Some say at death your entire life flashes – like a film reel – in front of all the (dead) people you have ever met”, adds Tom – his black nails (Halloween the weekend before and no remover to clean it off) apt for such a scary thought.

We all agree that the speaker is formidable. I think on this while the boys amuse themselves with parallel universe stories. I like Prof. Impey – he certainly knows his stuff. He is quietly confident, but not arrogant, nor commanding – which makes him all the more appealing. His appearance is casual – a down to earth American academic, dressed in non-descript jeans and shirt, his hair short but wispy, his skin young but lived in – with a soft, agreeable accent. I’d say he’s a well kept man in his forties and his passion for cosmology is undeniably attractive. But, on closer inspection, I notice a glint of something sparkling on his left lobe – is he really wearing a diamond earring?

I catch the boys suddenly quiet, staring at me. My lips were dry, I couldn’t find my Vaseline balm, so unknowingly, mid-conversation, I applied lipstick forgetting that the Laura Mercier tube in my bag is a bright Tangerine orange. For ten long seconds these testosterone fuelled boys lose focus of everything else – their gaze remains fixed on my pout. I’ve literally Tangoed them!     

When the event closes Tom suggests a drink elsewhere but I feign work as an excuse to escape. We hang out and chat for a bit and he queries my age, knowing full well I’m near 15 years his senior. “No one would guess”, he compliments my appearance. As I depart he tries again, “You know you’re the same age as my sister”. I start the engine of my Mini, “Cool car” echoes as he walks in the other direction and I wave goodbye.

Some say I should be flattered, but it’s impossible – Tom actually feels like a kid brother. Over coffee the following week our conversation revolves around all the drugs out there – I’ve never even heard of most of the variants – plus some nurturing “Tom, you’ve your whole life ahead of you – you’ll make it – I know you will.” We’ve forgotten about alien life, crashing asteroids and the like – this is a young man that’s just starting out on his career – and whatever he does, he endeavours somehow, along the way, to make a difference to the world. I hope his enthusiasm lasts a very long time and will for him to succeed.

I go to bed with Chris Impey’s book, ‘How It Ends – from you to the universe’, and smile at the note inside – “For Georgie – Perhaps with a bang, but maybe with a whimper. It’s the journey itself that is the interesting part. – Chris.”

The Art of Conversation, by Margo

I am sitting on a leopard print chaise longue in the pretty foyer of a Bloomsbury shop. Glass of red wine in hand and screened by a nigh-on surreal grove of faux silver birch trees, I’m back at school: the School of Life!
Marketed by its academic founders (Alain de Botton being one) as “an apothecary of the mind”, I am joining other adults enrolled at this sleek establishment with a carte du jour of thought-provoking courses on love, politics, family and play. I am up for some playing. This evening we are indulging in “How to Have Better Conversations”.
The course description that has lured me, and a varied group of people in their thirties and forties, in here, reads so:
“Our lives are so often filled with superficial talk, from office chit chat to commentaries on last night’s television. How can we have conversations that inspire us to think in new ways, that stimulate our curiosity and that prompt us to say things we’ve never said before? How should we talk to our lovers? How can we deal with difficult conversations both at work and around the family dinner table?”
Gosh, maybe my conversations need some improving thinks the side of me that has succumbed to 20th Century advertising techniques.
My learning environment is a pleasant room, dressed with plush red velvet curtains and a quirky wall mural depicting all sorts of comforting elements of a middle-class life: an Evian bottle, a Selfridges bag, a Braque painting and a ‘view’ out of a pseudo casement over rolling hills. Our tutor, Roman, aims to give us a new window-on-the-world.
What are conversations for and how might we talk in future?

– Think about the areas you don’t explore in conversation: the ones about the fears you have or the aspirations, and explore them
– Be curious and you’ll find everyone is an expert on their own experience
– Try an adventurous opening: What did you dream about last night?; What’s the most interesting cuisine you’ve come across? If you were on death row, what would you choose for your last meal?
– Think about empathy and what it would be like to be the person you are talking to.
– Take off your “Mask”. Be truly honest about the way you feel: admit when you are wrong or don’t know the answer to something

And, of course, I need to put the ideas we’ve explored into practice. First stop, an underground Supper Club in Camden’s elegantly Boho Murray Street. I am sitting with my friend Beth in a room full of pared-down theatrical chic. We are sharing a table with two twenty-something investment bankers.
I falter, beginning with a tried and tested technique: “So, how did you come to find out about this place?” The man is charming, Italian, impeccably mannered. We rove over some familiar territory: jobs, food, and provenance. His companion is cool and unresponsive. Two bottles of wine and four courses later, we’ve shared commentary but no real thoughts or feelings. I leave unsatisfied.
The next evening I am at a house on a hill in Highgate. The cool mists of a November evening are descending on a terrace of chattering partygoers. I take my glass inside and attempt to exchange it for a cup of chamomile tea in the kitchen. A pleasant guy alarmed by my actions apprehends me in a typically English way, “Why aren’t you drinking” I respond, going with the flow and recognising the reward of the explorer, the exotic in the everyday: “What did you dream about last night?”. Perhaps its time to take off my mask…

Amelia & Georgie On The Emerald Isle

Following from Georgie’s Great Escape…

It’s pitch black outside, only cats eyes – lit by the headlights of our rental Skoda – mark the way to Kinsale from Cork Airport. Even so, albeit 16 years on, the windy drive feels eerily familiar.

“There”, Amelia points up from the garden. The lights are on, the balcony door is wide open. “That must be our room”, she deciphers, while I call the guesthouse once again. The main door to the owners’ private dwellings that lead directly onto the guest quarters is open. Stood in the main hall, watching the phone ring, I realise that, although informed of our delayed arrival, they gave up on us. There’s no sight or sound of people, just an intrigued white terrier sitting pretty in a child’s bedroom off the passage. Its quiet stare startles me – I feel like a sinful trespasser, not just for entering the house, but as much for treading Irish soil, which I said I’d never reset foot on when I left in 1994. So, tired and somewhat apprehensive, I’m grateful for Amelia’s sense of new adventure. Wearing her metaphorical Sherlock cape, she cleverly maps the way around a maze of first floor corridors to find the unlocked door onto the lit room where eventually we settle for the night.

 “It’s forecast to be gorgeous,” Cara, our soft voiced, big-bosomed host tells us, and certainly gazing out of the breakfast room’s bay window, there’s not a cloud in the sky. Only too aware that the climate here can run through all four seasons in one day, we’ve packed for every eventuality.

Peering into Amelia’s shiny black, hard-shelled, large case, I see no sign of her signature four-inch-plus heels. Nevertheless, I’m amused by the designer flip-flops that compliment her pretty Paul & Joe cotton frock and that her luggage also houses a select choice of flat pumps, a pair of tall wedges ‘just in case’, trainers ‘to get a couple of runs in’, and a pair of Gortex walking boots, still with price tag on. Adding the Italian fur rimmed boots worn in last night, she has a total of eight pairs of footwear for our short stay. I title her ‘Fashionista Extraordinaire’ which Amelia is proud to accept. 

Morning Stroll Along Garretstown Beach

From the approach to Garettstown, the sight of the sun dappled sea, gleaming like a rich ocean of pure crystals, wells a strange nostalgia in me. Apart from an energetic Boxer with owner – an athletic, Lycra clad, distinctive blond woman sprinting up and down, time and again, as if on some marathon circuit – the beach is deserted. Bare footed, we saunter across the stretch of perfect gold sand. Our dresses dance in the warm breeze, the air folds, circles and teases our skin like a silk sheet blowing in the wind.

I point to the single file of permanently parked mobile homes on the high grassy coast-side bank ahead and try to guess which one Cork Boy’s parents’ had owned. Several are antiquated, browning where rust has settled in. “Georgie, you are genius. This is the perfect starting point for our investigation,” exclaims Amelia with intrigue, leading her immediately toward the precipice and, before I can scream ‘NO’, she’s up there. I’m stunned – my feet freeze to the spot. 

I wonder what I’d say to Cork Boy today. I remember his full Irish charm and his ambitious ‘go-get’ attitude – when he decided I was his catch, nearly 20 years ago, romance knew no bounds. Physically he was fit, a swimmer, surfer and cyclist; cute with dimpled smile, watery blue eyes and a full head of wavy, blond hair.

I look up from the beach to see the back of Amelia, her face pressed to the window of a premium Scandinavian style chalet – wood panelled, it stands out brilliantly against the dilapidated others. My apprehension returns with a vengeance – suddenly I feel inexplicably, extraordinarily exposed – my stomach knots, my conscience is queasy. Minutes before, I felt safe in the knowledge that so many years have passed, that the likelihood of an encounter is slim. Plus, I’m disguised behind oversized Prada shades – a last minute hefty airport purchase, encouraged by Amelia, who is taking her self-appointed role of Private Investigator in full seriousness.

 “You have to see this. It’s massive and completely souped up.” I hear Amelia, but my look is clearly anguished, I can’t speak. “Hey Chica, what’s up?” she asks with genuine perplexed concern and heads back to where I stand. “This idea of digging up information on Cork Boy doesn’t feel right. Don’t get me wrong, I love that I’m here, that I can show you around and momentarily ponder the past, but …”

Amelia, touched by my unusual display of sensitivity, responds without word, putting her arm around my shoulder and leading us back to the water’s edge. Earlier thoughts pass as quickly as they arrived – we skim stones and within moments are both in stitches, laughing over Amelia’s failed attempts. Then seeing my renewed spirit, her eyes sparkle – “Where to next?”

Sittin’ on The Dock of the Bay

Back in Kinsale, I take Amelia to a hidden, pretty bay behind The Dock. We roll up our dresses, settle on the sand and let the sun kiss our skin. I accidentally spot Amelia’s black Granny pants – low cut, high waisted, I’m genuinely gob-smacked to find this pristine, fashion-forward slim-line lady owns a pair.

Amelia loses herself in an Austen classic, while I lie back, close my eyes and wander down my own romantic memory lane, recalling from the murky depths of my mind whatever I can of my youthful spell in this country.

“Georgie, what are clouds?” My attention shifts back to the present, I open my eyes to see one, light and wispy, floating in the otherwise clear blue sky. “You’re joking – you really don’t know?” Amelia is usually my live, walking, talking encyclopedia – an avid Googler of anything and everything, she’s full of worldly knowledge and interesting facts. She’d be my ‘phone a friend’ if ever I were to appear on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Presuming her Blackberry has lost signal, that Wikipedia is out of range, I respond with a patchy recollection of what I learnt at school mixed with a descriptive of what I’ve seen out of planes, “They are zillions of snowflakes, like crystallized water… formed from rising moisture in the air, often from rivers and streams, which cools in mountain air.” I’m sorry I can’t give a more exact response.

While Amelia envelops in the novel experience that is Ireland, I’m in as much wonderment about this enigmatic creature, whose outward persona of being full-throttle about her career, with a slight feminist quirk and an avid overdrive for fashion, is diminished here in her flat sandals. Her striking red lipstick hasn’t made an appearance yet and her GHDs have also had a day off. Her soft dark waves tumble over her shoulders and for the first time I see a part of Amelia that is still a young girl with a fabulous curiosity about the world around her.

Pitstop at the Bulman

Heading past Charles Fort, stopping briefly for stills of the best views across Kinsale, we arrive with good appetites at The Bulman in Summercove. Parking the Skoda by the waterfront, I tell Amelia stories of hot racing sailors that would meet here at weekends.

I point across the way, not even 20 yards from the pub, to a hillside building located right on the water’s edge, “That was The Boathouse, where I waitressed as a kid.” The previously pink front has been white washed – there is no restaurant frontage now, but the decked terrace that overhangs the ocean and its protruding antique conservatory remain. It was then, and no doubt still is today, considered the most prime spot in town.

I remember Miles – broad shouldered, dapper looking but at least 20 pounds overweight, an aristocrat Brit – the proprietor and my boss. He’d have been in his mid-40’s, an avid foodie and photography enthusiast. Angela was his skinny blond Irish squeeze. We’d drink the remains of unfinished bottles of exceptional world wines while sitting in wait for the last of the romantic punters to leave. At The Boathouse I learnt to adore the classics – The Four Seasons, Mozart, The Messiah, as well as Ella Fitzgerald and Edith Piaf – and excelled at making Irish coffees. Before I left, at the end of summer ‘94, Angela had become ‘accidentally’ pregnant, so Miles finally agreed to tie the knot. I wonder how things worked out for them.

Inside, The Bulman is busy. It’s an ordinary gastro-pub, dressed rustic in walnut oak, and deemed the best in town. Pint drinkers perch on high stools at the bar or lounge on leather armchairs. While we wait for a table, I look around at what others are eating – my mouth waters at the sight of generous portions of freshly landed, lightly battered cod and chips, then I spot grilled lobster and can nearly smell the sea in the plate of mussels that a groovy elder gent is tucking into. For old times’ sake, I opt for the country’s speciality – fish chowder, served with fresh Irish soda bread. Amelia, calorie controlled, opts for a light shrimp cocktail. We clink our glasses of chilled Sauvignon Blanc and laugh about my panic-stricken moment earlier on the beach.

“So”, Amelia says suggestively, with mischievous sparkle, “We should find out what became of The Boathouse?” and when our sexy, 6 foot, slender, blue eyed, athletically toned, dark-haired, chisel-faced waiter returns, Amelia uses this ploy to flirt.

Amelia – Flirty at Well Plus Thirty

Leaning forward, the young waiter is invited, by Amelia’s subtle smile and a quiet “Excuse me”, to come closer. Watching her is an education – one hand brushes the side of her neck, the other leans forward on the table, her head is cocked slightly to the right, her hair falls long that side. Altogether she’s charming, her neck is elongated, her poise perfect, her invitation appealing. He responds as if in a trance, straight over, wondering if everything is okay. Amelia looking out of the window, continues to talk in low volume, so the waiter crouches beside her, as if a puppy waiting for a treat, arousing intrigue in a nosey couple on the table next to us. “We were wondering if you might know anything about that building. It used to be a restaurant?”

“That place? Sure, it was The Boathouse, famous in its time. Owner sold off a few years back – moved to the Seychelles or Bahamas or somewhere apparently – there were rumours it was a front for some money laundering or drug scam, but I’m not sure whether to believe it.” He pauses, catches Amelia’s eye, then swiftly turns to look back out of the window ,“The building’s fine for sure, this international oil guy owns it now. I’ve never been in but it’s supposed to be a stunning home. Look there”, he cocks his head to direct our attention to the blond bombshell walking past the front, dressed to impress, definitely designer, confident strut, “That’s the Mrs of the house.”

We notice a little pug ambling beside her, the same Boxer and the same lady that were charging up and down the beach at Garretstown earlier. Cleaned up she looks even more distinguished, with her heavy thick golden locks falling around her shoulders.

“And that would be Mrs – ?” Amelia probes. I know what she’s thinking – she wants to get a look inside. “Niamh – Niamh O’Brien of the O’Brien clan. They own most of the property down here now, originally Cork City folk.”

I lean in, surprising even myself as I partake. “And that wouldn’t happen to be Mrs to Mr Bob O’Brien by any chance? Bob O’Brien that is brother to Rory, Thomas, Kenny, Clare, Jean and Mark O’Brien?” I’ve no idea how all of Cork Boy’s brothers and sisters names came to me just like that. Simultaneously I can hear the mantra of his youth ‘I will be retired by 40’ – certainly if not already, it appears that he shall.

“Gees – you’re well acquainted to know them. The whole lot of them were all in here last week, mad party – someone’s birthday or the like. ” The waiter, distracted by new clients, excuses himself. My oversized shades are pushed back onto the bridge of my nose, poorly disguising my face that hasn’t changed much at all since I was last here. Amelia looks at me, lost for words. I know she can’t believe it either – we’ve been here less than 24 hours and discovered more than I’d hoped to find over the course of our entire stay. Amelia’s eyes dart from me, back to the house – I can hear her mind ticking “What next? What else?” because by now, even my curiosity is fully fuelled.

————–

To hear what Amelia & Georgie did next and what more they found out about Cork Boy – aka Bob O’Brien, now rich oil magnet, married to blond bombshell Niamh O’Brien – sign up to Margo & Georgie on margoandgeorgie.wordpress.com – enter your email address in the right hand ‘subscribe’ box and the final part of this true story will be delivered to your inbox soon.

Love Letters, by Margo

“…..I felt it again this morning when I woke from that second delicious sleep and I reached across to the place in the bed where you had been… When will I see you again? Please say that I am more desirable than ever and don’t make me wait too long…”

It is written on slightly yellowed paper in the limited font  of an early word processor. Eeeeek. I shut the draw hurriedly, guiltily almost. I was only looking for a pair of scissors and I have stumbled upon my friend’s long lost love affair.

I know those draws. I have one myself. It contains a scrap of paper with a hand-drawn map, a flyer to a significant party, a slightly dodgy artisanal necklace that was placed around my neck after a poignant youthful encounter, a clutch of letters.

My mother has one too. I came across it as a teenager raiding her costume jewellery. Hers was a bundle of airmail envelopes with a US postmark and a flowing italic hand. At the time I questioned this cache – I was a very unsophisticated teenager despite my habit of injecting my parlance with French words: Why hold on to something from such a long time ago?

Last week, before the rain came, I was walking down a London street. I was enjoying the nonchalance with which I approached my drink date. For some indefinable reason I’ve had a run of being asked out by unsuitable men in unforeseen circumstances. I think it’s that last gasp of summer thing.

I turned down the middle-aged Frenchman who caught me off guard on the corner of Wardour and Old Compton Streets – I wasn’t convinced that he was all there; I rejected the advances of a man who swooped down on me in New North Road – I was dubious about his marital status.

I accepted this one simply because he had forgone London protocol and spoken to me across a late night tube carriage. His reassuringly un-slick chat up line was centred around the particularly aromatic basil plant that I was carrying. I didn’t have any high hopes for the love that might blossom from this but I liked his horticulturally-tinged daring.

I chose to walk into Central London from Camden – something about the smell of exhaust fumes against hot tarmac never fails to give me a little rush of nostalgia for all those wonderful, polluted, foreign cities I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.

As I reached Bloomsbury I cut into the little oasis of Russell Square where the scent of lavender is mixing exquisitely with verbena at the moment. A woman in a chador, watching her son experiment with the fountain, played her neatly painted red nails across the surface of her leopard print clutch. Old timers and tourists take their late afternoon tea under an awning of plane trees.

Cirrus clouds shifted to reveal the wavering shadows of early evening and a label, tied tightly with a pink ribbon to a shrub, caught my epistolary attentions:

“Each time we make a decision it is determined by good or evil forces respectively. (Erich Fromm)”

A border of wallflowers later and I find another one, fluttering gently in the breeze:

“As they grow older human beings acquire the faces they deserve (Owen D. Young).”

The third wavered at eye level on a japonica bush next to a young man deep in thought:

“One must choose between loving women and knowing them,” (Ninon de Lenclos)

It goes on and on giving more insight into the guerilla philosopher’s ties that bind (him/her). This paper trail had taken me off my path and I’m fascinated by the human need to express the bitter sweet. But, I’m going to be late for my date – I let go and walk on.

Wild Wood, by Margo

A rainy autumnal afternoon in West London and I arrive semi-drenched and late for my appointment. My meeting is leaning comfortably against the smooth surface of what was once a tropical tree and is now a sweetly price-tagged collector’s item. He rises to greet me and, although we’ve never met before, he hugs me. The gesture encapsulates the reason I am interviewing this bold, strong, sensual and sensitive to nature Brazilian.

Hugo França has made a lifetime’s work out of repurposing  fallen trees into fashionable furniture pieces. Conscious of what beautiful things hold in common, he talks respectfully of monumental trees that grow up to 30 metres in height and, in age, go far beyond origins of Modern Brazil.

Thirty years ago a hipped-out young França took a 1,000-mile journey to a tiny Brazilian hamlet in the North-Eastern state of Bahia. The alluring Trancoso is now firmly on the map of bohemian-chic travellers and earthy celebrities alike. But in 1981, when França made it his home, it was just a simple fishing village set around a white church on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

“I went to Trancoso as a new option for life because I had always wanted to live close to the ocean and to nature,” he purrs.  “At that time you had two options, the forest or the sea.”

The indigenous people lived that way for centuries harvesting the forests and the ocean, he explains. Five hundred years ago, this area was covered with 330 million acres of trees but today only ten percent remains. The countryside surrounding Trancoso is peppered with charred six-foot-tall trunks left over from the ’60s and ’70s, when the forests were slashed and burned for agriculture and cattle grazing.

By using the wood of fallen and discarded trees, França tells me about how he pays homage to the majesty of these arboreal pieces, some of them over a thousand years old. He, like the bats that live in them, is particularly attracted to the Pequi tree.  It holds a natural resin that protects it from getting burned and so survives the crude methods of human progress.

França’s design process is an intuitive one. He refers explicitly to the early canoe-makers and he hews the wood using the same tools the native people would have used to make their boats. Undoubtedly, the smell of earth and wood and the big, open skies he works under deliver inspiration. However, the real reason for working outdoors, as he does, is that the pequi tree is simply too big to haul back to a studio.

His chair design, on which I am now sitting more than comfortably, is giving me a harmony with nature sensation. França produces objects that retain the essential character of each piece of wood he works with. He is charmed by the idiosyncrasies of the tree – the exquisiteness of its holes, cracks, burn marks and the indefatigable action of time.

I like this man and the life he makes from revealing beauty. Our conversation ends as smoothly as it began and  I step outside into the weather to delight in the sensation of the rain and the wild wind, the traffic, the noise and the people flapping like gulls along the street.