I was in the shower when Matt came in to tell me that there had been another earthquake in Christchurch and that 65 people had been killed. My response was "What?! You're joking!", to which Matt replied: "Why would I joke about something like that?". Good point.
As we're currently tv-less, Matt had picked up the report during his morning perusal of the internet. I'm really not sure what to say about it. I have never been in an earthquake, and despite living in Wellington for a couple of years - which was generally regarded as the biggest quake risk in the country - I've never felt so much as a tremor. We did the drills when I was at school, so in theory I know to take cover under the desk or door frame, but I've never put them to the test.
We were home for Christmas in 2007 when a relatively powerful earthquake hit Gisborne. I was in Auckland and happened to call Matt at the exact point the quake hit - the line wouldn't connect. Matt called about ten minutes later and told me what had happened. His mum was quite shaken but Matt was elated - I guess that's the adrenalin. It was a big shake that caused a lot of damage to the township's older buildings, but no one was hurt.
Christchurch is a different beast entirely. The only reference we have in New Zealand's recent history is an earthquake that hit Napier and Hastings in 1931. It flattened the city centre, which was rebuilt almost entirely in Art Deco style - now a draw for tourists and Deco-philes.
As the dead are recovered from the rubble and the initial shock has started to subside, talk has turned to Christchurch's future and Napier is frequently referenced for inspiration - ten years after the disaster, it was regarded as a phoenix risen from the ashes.
The scale of the devastation beyond the lives lost - the destruction of buildings, businesses and infrastructure - is still being tallied. The response has been impressive, not just from the rescue organisations but from locals, New Zealanders throughout the country and abroad, and the global community.
I was talking with friends about how sometimes terrible situations bring out the best in people and bring communities closer together. One friend said that after the London bombings, the first time he caught the tube at Bayswater, he saw the same people he did every morning waiting on the platform, but that day they did something they'd never done before - they spoke to each other. And now, more than five years later, they still speak to each other.
I'm guessing that people in Christchurch already spoke to each other, but the community will forever be bound by this shared experience - it is now part of their identity, their history and their future.
Monday, 28 February 2011
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Times like these
Six weeks to go and we find ourselves doing things we've been meaning to for ten years but haven't gotten around to. There's a sense of nostalgia and a reawakened energy to explore and rediscover our surroundings that comes with the heightened sense that these opportunities are ebbing away.
We wander down Portobello Road on Saturday and I see the cranky old woman stallholder who years ago exclaimed "Pound a squeeze!" every time I picked up an avocado to test its ripeness. We look upwards at the facades on Westbourne Grove and admire the pretty little street with its eclectic, expensive shops. We walk through Kensington Gardens and go to the Porchester Spa - the oldest spa in London which is just around the corner from 45e but which we never visited when we lived here.
We take up every invitation to meet for drinks and meals and linger too long, overindulging in wine on Sundays, not wanting anything to be the last but treating everything as if it might be.
Yesterday we went to Petersham Nurseries with friends. I've been talking about going for years after reading about the ex-heroin addict Australian chef Skye Gyngell, who runs the greenhouse restaurant favoured by fashion people and featured in every high-end magazine from Vogue to Cartier.
Like tantalising breadcrumbs, my path to Petersham has been laid over many years, my intrigue growing as: I read about the Boglione family, who bought and restored Petersham House and invited Skye to open the restaurant... I read Skye's first book, My Favourite Ingredients, a wonderful collection of simple and exquisitely photographed dishes... I see Boglione Murano glass for sale at Selfridges... I read about Petersham Properties, luxury holiday properties that reflect the Boglione family aesthetic... my mum gives me Greg Malouf's book Saha and then I read that he is giving a talk at Petersham... and I read countless rave reviews of the restaurant.
Recently, the restaurant was awarded its first Michelin star, which, along with our limited remaining time, spurred me to book a table and make the pilgrimage down to Richmond on a rainy Saturday afternoon.
I was a little worried that after such a lengthy build-up my expectations might be disappointed, but Petersham was exactly as I'd hoped.
We entered a vast, dirt-floored glass house, draped with bamboo blinds and filled with tasteful garden and home wares, some practical, some whimsical, but all beautiful and meticulously displayed.
There is a basket of blankets to keep diners cosy and several outdoor heaters keep the room temperate. We started with a glass of rose syrup and petal spiked Prosecco and considered the menu.
I opted for the burrata with blood orange, tardivo and toasted hazelnuts as I had never heard of burrata before I read My Favourite Ingredients, and suspect this decadent creamy mozzarella will be impossible to find in New Zealand. In the cookbook it is served with Sicilian-style roasted pumpkin.
The presentation was impeccable - I think the defining characteristic of Skye's food is the integrity of the ingredients, which are treated with immense care and respect. Every item was perfection, from the crunch of the radicchio and sweet piquancy of the blood orange to the richly perfumed lemon zest scattered across the oozing, creamy burrata.
Next up, I had the halibut. As a rule I don't eat halibut in the UK. We don't have it in New Zealand so I first came across it on an extended family holiday in Canada when I was six. My dad decided to top up our travel funds by joining some commercial fishermen friends on a halibut run. He brought back photographs of the huge fish, which looked like a gargantuan version of the flounder we'd spear by moonlight in the mud-bottomed estuaries of Northland.
A few years ago, while visiting family in British Colombia, I ordered halibut in a restaurant and loved it, but back in London found it was never as good so have since avoided it. But it is such a wonderful, delicately flavoured fish that I thought it was worth taking the punt at Petersham. Baked in slightly lemony yogurt and dill, with toasted, herbed breadcrumbs and walnuts and wilted spinach, it did not disappoint.
I finished with buttermilk gelato and poached quince, which was light but creamy with the sweetness of the ice-cream and fruit syrup nicely countered by the tang of the buttermilk and the tartness of the quince. By this point, my camera had been forgotten and so there are no photos of dessert.
The nurseries would be a great spot to visit on a spring or summer day. From London, during the warmer months you can catch a ferry from Westminster, then wonder through the town to Richmond Park where fallow deer graze, have a leisurely lunch at the restaurant, explore the nurseries and grounds, take the path through Petersham Meadows back to the river, have a Pimms or a pint in one of the Thames-side pubs, then catch the train back into the city. Sublime!
Petersham Nurseries
Church Lane
Off Petersham Road
Richmond
Surrey
TW10 7AG
020 8605 3627
We wander down Portobello Road on Saturday and I see the cranky old woman stallholder who years ago exclaimed "Pound a squeeze!" every time I picked up an avocado to test its ripeness. We look upwards at the facades on Westbourne Grove and admire the pretty little street with its eclectic, expensive shops. We walk through Kensington Gardens and go to the Porchester Spa - the oldest spa in London which is just around the corner from 45e but which we never visited when we lived here.
We take up every invitation to meet for drinks and meals and linger too long, overindulging in wine on Sundays, not wanting anything to be the last but treating everything as if it might be.
Yesterday we went to Petersham Nurseries with friends. I've been talking about going for years after reading about the ex-heroin addict Australian chef Skye Gyngell, who runs the greenhouse restaurant favoured by fashion people and featured in every high-end magazine from Vogue to Cartier.
Like tantalising breadcrumbs, my path to Petersham has been laid over many years, my intrigue growing as: I read about the Boglione family, who bought and restored Petersham House and invited Skye to open the restaurant... I read Skye's first book, My Favourite Ingredients, a wonderful collection of simple and exquisitely photographed dishes... I see Boglione Murano glass for sale at Selfridges... I read about Petersham Properties, luxury holiday properties that reflect the Boglione family aesthetic... my mum gives me Greg Malouf's book Saha and then I read that he is giving a talk at Petersham... and I read countless rave reviews of the restaurant.
Recently, the restaurant was awarded its first Michelin star, which, along with our limited remaining time, spurred me to book a table and make the pilgrimage down to Richmond on a rainy Saturday afternoon.
I was a little worried that after such a lengthy build-up my expectations might be disappointed, but Petersham was exactly as I'd hoped.
We entered a vast, dirt-floored glass house, draped with bamboo blinds and filled with tasteful garden and home wares, some practical, some whimsical, but all beautiful and meticulously displayed.
We followed the waitress through the restaurant area - framed pictures of Hindu gods and Indian batik throws hang from the walls and planters filled with fragrant white narcissi and vases of tulips sit atop vintage sideboards - to a weathered wooden table laid simply with linen napkins and polished cutlery.
There is a basket of blankets to keep diners cosy and several outdoor heaters keep the room temperate. We started with a glass of rose syrup and petal spiked Prosecco and considered the menu.
I opted for the burrata with blood orange, tardivo and toasted hazelnuts as I had never heard of burrata before I read My Favourite Ingredients, and suspect this decadent creamy mozzarella will be impossible to find in New Zealand. In the cookbook it is served with Sicilian-style roasted pumpkin.
The presentation was impeccable - I think the defining characteristic of Skye's food is the integrity of the ingredients, which are treated with immense care and respect. Every item was perfection, from the crunch of the radicchio and sweet piquancy of the blood orange to the richly perfumed lemon zest scattered across the oozing, creamy burrata.
Next up, I had the halibut. As a rule I don't eat halibut in the UK. We don't have it in New Zealand so I first came across it on an extended family holiday in Canada when I was six. My dad decided to top up our travel funds by joining some commercial fishermen friends on a halibut run. He brought back photographs of the huge fish, which looked like a gargantuan version of the flounder we'd spear by moonlight in the mud-bottomed estuaries of Northland.
A few years ago, while visiting family in British Colombia, I ordered halibut in a restaurant and loved it, but back in London found it was never as good so have since avoided it. But it is such a wonderful, delicately flavoured fish that I thought it was worth taking the punt at Petersham. Baked in slightly lemony yogurt and dill, with toasted, herbed breadcrumbs and walnuts and wilted spinach, it did not disappoint.
I finished with buttermilk gelato and poached quince, which was light but creamy with the sweetness of the ice-cream and fruit syrup nicely countered by the tang of the buttermilk and the tartness of the quince. By this point, my camera had been forgotten and so there are no photos of dessert.
The nurseries would be a great spot to visit on a spring or summer day. From London, during the warmer months you can catch a ferry from Westminster, then wonder through the town to Richmond Park where fallow deer graze, have a leisurely lunch at the restaurant, explore the nurseries and grounds, take the path through Petersham Meadows back to the river, have a Pimms or a pint in one of the Thames-side pubs, then catch the train back into the city. Sublime!
Petersham Nurseries
Church Lane
Off Petersham Road
Richmond
Surrey
TW10 7AG
020 8605 3627
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Food glorious food
Since we left New Zealand in 2001, my relatively mild interest in food has developed into a gluttonous fascination. Beyond the obvious pleasure of eating, food is an expression of identity, so throughout our travels it's provided a culinary window into local culture.
Markets, restaurants and meals have punctuated our travels with some of our most memorable experiences: Oistin's fish market in Barbados, where locals fillet flying fish while egrets stand sentinel, a trattoria in the Marche countryside where the wine is on tap and the waitress filled a plastic water bottle for us to take back to our agriturismo, a lean-to in the middle of arid Astypalea beside an azure lagoon where Matt forced down a disgusting meal of boiled octopus, a backyard in Thailand where we ate blood clams with lime and crushed chillies, a Balinese take-out joint serving up cold Bintang and Padang delectables of young jackfruit, beef rendang and cassava leaves, a square in Venice where a hole in the wall served thin-crust pizza, deep bowls of caldo in a colonial town nestled in the clouds of Mexico, and a shantytown in Kampala where we ate Talapia, cassava and avocado with our hands.
Each day when we stayed at a bungalow operation called Joy on an island in Thailand, we would wander into the fishing village for lunch, eating every meal at the same restaurant. We were the only customers at the dusty shack, the owner spoke no English and would simply gesture for us to follow her to the side of the building where buckets of the day's catch sat in the shade. We would point to the blue-striped crabs or the glistening prawns and she would nod and take the designated bucket to the kitchen while we waited at a wooden table.
Soon she would emerge from the kitchen with fragrant spiced seafood dishes. Day to day we were her only customers on the isolated island - we knew this because at the end of every meal she would show us our tally in her ledger so that we knew what to pay. Our meals were the only entries.
One day, hankering for a taste of home, Matt ordered poached eggs. A comical exchange took place with each party clearly not understanding the other. Finally, she nodded and headed off to the kitchen. I asked Matt if he thought she understood and he was adamant that she did, despite my suggestion that poached eggs were unlikely to feature in the average Thai's diet. Ten minutes later, she emerged with a schooner glass filled with hot oil, into which two raw eggs had been cracked, accompanied by toasted soldiers of green bread. Gallantly, Matt thanked her profusely then set about forcing down the oily, gelatinous, raw eggs, dipping the green soldiers into the glass before each mouthful. He stuck to the seafood after that.
The octopus in Greece was a similar disaster. We'd spent a sweltering day exploring the island on a scooter when, covered in dust and sweat and tired of the relentless shuddering over the corrugated dirt roads, we stopped at a collection of buildings alongside a pristine lagoon. We found a small empty restaurant and followed the owner into her kitchen where she opened fridges and freezers, indicating that we should choose what we wanted and she would cook it for us. A plastic bag in the fridge contained some suspicious-looking squelchy octopus. I quickly decided that the safest bet was 'salata'. To my surprise, Matt ordered the octopus which I understood her to say she would 'boil'. We sat down at a table to await our lunch, reaching into the ubiquitous bread basket only to find, ominously, that the bread was rock hard.
My salad was first to appear - sweet slices of onion, tomato and peppers, topped with a slab of white feta drizzled with olive oil and scattered with oregano. Impossible to blunder with the wonderful local produce. Next came Matt's octopus. One huge tentacle sprawled across the plate in a pool of inky looking liquid, like a bloated, bruised, water-logged amputee. True to form, Matt took a deep breath and attacked it with gusto while I looked on in horror. As he made the first incision, the purple casing split to reveal a creamy interior. I don't know if it was dogged determination not to offend the proprietor or if Matt simply refused to let the meal beat him, but I watched with equal measures of disgust and admiration as he devoured the flacid invertebrate.
I am particularly excited about eating in Mexico again. We visited Mexico in 2007 and found it to be an incredibly culturally rich and diverse country, with layers of colonial influence as well as strong pre-Hispanic legacies. The food is as complex and intriguing as its peoples, arts, music and cultures.
The market at San Cristobal de la Casas is the most wonderful food market in the world (according to me). Even Matt, who patiently but relatively disinterestedly accompanies me to markets at home and abroad, was moved to suggest buying things despite the fact that we were about to embark on an overnight bus journey to the coast. At his insistence we bought watercress and homemade chorizo, which were eaten a couple of days later on the beach at San Agustinillo, cooked by our cabana chef and shared with our fellow patrons.
As many of the world's fruit and vegetables originally came from Mexico, we could have procured the ingredients for whatever exotic cuisine we desired. Local indigenous women with thick black plaits and doghair skirts sell live chickens, lustrous bunches of basil, parsley, cilantro, mint, rosemary and oregano, pyramids of tomatoes, avocados, passionfruit, coconuts, lemongrass, tamarillos, tamatillos, mangoes, limes and apples, trays of multi-coloured beans and sacks of dried chillies, strings of chorizo and whole chicken carcasses coloured yellow by a diet of marigold petals - the quality and diversity of the produce is staggering.
I'm researching already and have found a very good programme on the food of Oaxaca, produced by Gourmet magazine. Ignoring the cringe-inducing title 'Diary of a Foodie', the programme provides a fascinating insight into Oaxacan cuisine - from the stone soup that local men make when they want to give their women a 'cooking vacation' to the wonderful 92-year-old Natalia Bautista Martinez, from the Zapotec village Teotitlán del Valle, who cooks the traditional breakfast feast of Higaditos de Fandango (chicken and egg stew) and Chocolate Atole (a layered drink of maize broth and frothy chocolate).
No doubt on our travels through this food mecca we will encounter the odd meal that we will remember for the wrong reasons. Last time we were in Oaxaca we visited the food market and managed to inadvertently order some sort of entrail soup. I ate the broth and left the white tangles of tubes and veins as our fellow diners noisily slurped, chewed and swallowed, but Matt characteristically forced his way to the bottom of the bowl. As we were leaving, I somewhat tentatively raised the question of what the soup contained and was sharply cut off by Matt demanding that I never mention it to him again.
Markets, restaurants and meals have punctuated our travels with some of our most memorable experiences: Oistin's fish market in Barbados, where locals fillet flying fish while egrets stand sentinel, a trattoria in the Marche countryside where the wine is on tap and the waitress filled a plastic water bottle for us to take back to our agriturismo, a lean-to in the middle of arid Astypalea beside an azure lagoon where Matt forced down a disgusting meal of boiled octopus, a backyard in Thailand where we ate blood clams with lime and crushed chillies, a Balinese take-out joint serving up cold Bintang and Padang delectables of young jackfruit, beef rendang and cassava leaves, a square in Venice where a hole in the wall served thin-crust pizza, deep bowls of caldo in a colonial town nestled in the clouds of Mexico, and a shantytown in Kampala where we ate Talapia, cassava and avocado with our hands.
Each day when we stayed at a bungalow operation called Joy on an island in Thailand, we would wander into the fishing village for lunch, eating every meal at the same restaurant. We were the only customers at the dusty shack, the owner spoke no English and would simply gesture for us to follow her to the side of the building where buckets of the day's catch sat in the shade. We would point to the blue-striped crabs or the glistening prawns and she would nod and take the designated bucket to the kitchen while we waited at a wooden table.
Soon she would emerge from the kitchen with fragrant spiced seafood dishes. Day to day we were her only customers on the isolated island - we knew this because at the end of every meal she would show us our tally in her ledger so that we knew what to pay. Our meals were the only entries.
One day, hankering for a taste of home, Matt ordered poached eggs. A comical exchange took place with each party clearly not understanding the other. Finally, she nodded and headed off to the kitchen. I asked Matt if he thought she understood and he was adamant that she did, despite my suggestion that poached eggs were unlikely to feature in the average Thai's diet. Ten minutes later, she emerged with a schooner glass filled with hot oil, into which two raw eggs had been cracked, accompanied by toasted soldiers of green bread. Gallantly, Matt thanked her profusely then set about forcing down the oily, gelatinous, raw eggs, dipping the green soldiers into the glass before each mouthful. He stuck to the seafood after that.
The octopus in Greece was a similar disaster. We'd spent a sweltering day exploring the island on a scooter when, covered in dust and sweat and tired of the relentless shuddering over the corrugated dirt roads, we stopped at a collection of buildings alongside a pristine lagoon. We found a small empty restaurant and followed the owner into her kitchen where she opened fridges and freezers, indicating that we should choose what we wanted and she would cook it for us. A plastic bag in the fridge contained some suspicious-looking squelchy octopus. I quickly decided that the safest bet was 'salata'. To my surprise, Matt ordered the octopus which I understood her to say she would 'boil'. We sat down at a table to await our lunch, reaching into the ubiquitous bread basket only to find, ominously, that the bread was rock hard.
My salad was first to appear - sweet slices of onion, tomato and peppers, topped with a slab of white feta drizzled with olive oil and scattered with oregano. Impossible to blunder with the wonderful local produce. Next came Matt's octopus. One huge tentacle sprawled across the plate in a pool of inky looking liquid, like a bloated, bruised, water-logged amputee. True to form, Matt took a deep breath and attacked it with gusto while I looked on in horror. As he made the first incision, the purple casing split to reveal a creamy interior. I don't know if it was dogged determination not to offend the proprietor or if Matt simply refused to let the meal beat him, but I watched with equal measures of disgust and admiration as he devoured the flacid invertebrate.
I am particularly excited about eating in Mexico again. We visited Mexico in 2007 and found it to be an incredibly culturally rich and diverse country, with layers of colonial influence as well as strong pre-Hispanic legacies. The food is as complex and intriguing as its peoples, arts, music and cultures.
The market at San Cristobal de la Casas is the most wonderful food market in the world (according to me). Even Matt, who patiently but relatively disinterestedly accompanies me to markets at home and abroad, was moved to suggest buying things despite the fact that we were about to embark on an overnight bus journey to the coast. At his insistence we bought watercress and homemade chorizo, which were eaten a couple of days later on the beach at San Agustinillo, cooked by our cabana chef and shared with our fellow patrons.
As many of the world's fruit and vegetables originally came from Mexico, we could have procured the ingredients for whatever exotic cuisine we desired. Local indigenous women with thick black plaits and doghair skirts sell live chickens, lustrous bunches of basil, parsley, cilantro, mint, rosemary and oregano, pyramids of tomatoes, avocados, passionfruit, coconuts, lemongrass, tamarillos, tamatillos, mangoes, limes and apples, trays of multi-coloured beans and sacks of dried chillies, strings of chorizo and whole chicken carcasses coloured yellow by a diet of marigold petals - the quality and diversity of the produce is staggering.
I'm researching already and have found a very good programme on the food of Oaxaca, produced by Gourmet magazine. Ignoring the cringe-inducing title 'Diary of a Foodie', the programme provides a fascinating insight into Oaxacan cuisine - from the stone soup that local men make when they want to give their women a 'cooking vacation' to the wonderful 92-year-old Natalia Bautista Martinez, from the Zapotec village Teotitlán del Valle, who cooks the traditional breakfast feast of Higaditos de Fandango (chicken and egg stew) and Chocolate Atole (a layered drink of maize broth and frothy chocolate).
No doubt on our travels through this food mecca we will encounter the odd meal that we will remember for the wrong reasons. Last time we were in Oaxaca we visited the food market and managed to inadvertently order some sort of entrail soup. I ate the broth and left the white tangles of tubes and veins as our fellow diners noisily slurped, chewed and swallowed, but Matt characteristically forced his way to the bottom of the bowl. As we were leaving, I somewhat tentatively raised the question of what the soup contained and was sharply cut off by Matt demanding that I never mention it to him again.
Have you any dreams you'd like to sell
Last time Dodge and I were getting ready to leave and embark on a 12-month trip round the world, I had two dreams.
In the first I was shaving my head - the dream started at the point that I had just shaved half of it bald. Watching my reflection in the mirror, I ran the clippers around my skull, hair dropping to the floor, and suddenly, in horror, I realised what I was doing, thinking I had made an irrecoverable mistake.
The next dream started in a similar fashion with me looking in the mirror, but this time I was halfway through shaving my face. One cheek, one side of my upper lip and half my chin were shaved clean - then with a jolt I become conscious of what I was doing and thought: "Oh my God, when you shave, hair grows back black and coarse and by shaving half my face I have essentially committed myself to a future of being a half-bearded lady!". I even pondered the merit of shaving the rest of it so that it would at least grow back evenly across my whole face.
I guess it doesn't take a genius to figure out the subtext of either of those.
No doubt my subconscious is turning things over at this point - all the things that we are leaving, and all the things we may or may not encounter on the other side - and no doubt these subliminal ponderings are permeating my dreams. And it seems I am not the only one. A couple of months ago Matt and I had two corresponding dreams, a night apart.
My dream
We were living somewhere remote on the coast in New Zealand. Everything was green and dark like in the film 'The Piano'. The only way to travel was by surfboard. Matt and I were trying to get home and were on our boards out the back of a stormy sea where a huge set was rolling in. The tide was in and the sea was surging against the rocky shore. Matt told me to wait for it but I was already leaning forward to drop into the wave and it was too late. I've heard that pipeline surfers have to be able to hold their breath for long periods while they're tossed beneath the waves and I was worried I wouldn’t be able to hold my breath for long enough if we lost our footing. It was a rough ride but we made it in to shore.
Matt’s dream
Matt was in Cape Town sitting at the top of a high-rise building, with his legs dangling over the edge - uncharacteristically completely without fear of the height. He could see right across to Robben Island and up behind to Table Mountain and it was beautiful. He stood up and jumped off the building, his parachute opened and he glided down to the beach, enjoying the amazing view as he descended. At the bottom he encountered two large crocodiles which he kept away by whipping their noses with his parachute. Then one of the crocodiles ate his parachute - but they were no longer menacing or dangerous.
In the first I was shaving my head - the dream started at the point that I had just shaved half of it bald. Watching my reflection in the mirror, I ran the clippers around my skull, hair dropping to the floor, and suddenly, in horror, I realised what I was doing, thinking I had made an irrecoverable mistake.
The next dream started in a similar fashion with me looking in the mirror, but this time I was halfway through shaving my face. One cheek, one side of my upper lip and half my chin were shaved clean - then with a jolt I become conscious of what I was doing and thought: "Oh my God, when you shave, hair grows back black and coarse and by shaving half my face I have essentially committed myself to a future of being a half-bearded lady!". I even pondered the merit of shaving the rest of it so that it would at least grow back evenly across my whole face.
I guess it doesn't take a genius to figure out the subtext of either of those.
No doubt my subconscious is turning things over at this point - all the things that we are leaving, and all the things we may or may not encounter on the other side - and no doubt these subliminal ponderings are permeating my dreams. And it seems I am not the only one. A couple of months ago Matt and I had two corresponding dreams, a night apart.
My dream
We were living somewhere remote on the coast in New Zealand. Everything was green and dark like in the film 'The Piano'. The only way to travel was by surfboard. Matt and I were trying to get home and were on our boards out the back of a stormy sea where a huge set was rolling in. The tide was in and the sea was surging against the rocky shore. Matt told me to wait for it but I was already leaning forward to drop into the wave and it was too late. I've heard that pipeline surfers have to be able to hold their breath for long periods while they're tossed beneath the waves and I was worried I wouldn’t be able to hold my breath for long enough if we lost our footing. It was a rough ride but we made it in to shore.
Matt’s dream
Matt was in Cape Town sitting at the top of a high-rise building, with his legs dangling over the edge - uncharacteristically completely without fear of the height. He could see right across to Robben Island and up behind to Table Mountain and it was beautiful. He stood up and jumped off the building, his parachute opened and he glided down to the beach, enjoying the amazing view as he descended. At the bottom he encountered two large crocodiles which he kept away by whipping their noses with his parachute. Then one of the crocodiles ate his parachute - but they were no longer menacing or dangerous.
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Anchor me
So, where are we going to live when we get home to New Zealand? That's the big question.
The obvious, default choice for most Kiwis is wherever they can get a job, and that is usually Auckland or, in some cases, Wellington.
Auckland and Wellington are both pretty much equidistant from Matt's family, who are largely settled on the east coast of New Zealand in a town called Gisborne, which is known for its wine and surf.
My mum lives in Auckland and my dad lives in Northland, near where I grew up. Although I love my hometown, Okaihau, it is not where I want to live.
Okaihau is literally the end of the line. When the railway was built it snaked all the way up the North Island and came to a dead halt in Okaihau. There were plans to continue northwards - and a tunnel was even built - but it became too expensive and difficult and the tracks were abandoned.
It is very small, with a population of just 300, and is also very isolated with little in the way of jobs and diversions like restaurants, bars and people. It is also smack bang in the middle of the island, so beaches are a good 30-minute drive away.
So why not Auckland then? Auckland is the largest city in New Zealand by a long shot. Nearly a third of the entire population resides in this sprawling, poorly planned metropolis made up of quarter-acre sections and detached houses.
In my view, it has all the disadvantages of a city and none of the advantages (with the exclusion of being home to my lovely mum and my aunts, uncles and cousins). It isn't compact enough to have enough people per area to create the buzz and pace of a city. Public transport is poor and the roads are congested.
Years ago a colleague of mine in London was indulging in a moan-fest about the latest Tube strike and commented, "I bet you don't have to put up with this sort of thing in New Zealand", to which I replied, "No, you're right, we don't. We don't have a Tube in New Zealand".
All the things people tell me are great about Auckland - the beaches, the harbour, the houses, the food, the proximity to native bush and surf beaches - are things that I would suggest I can have, bigger, better and more beautiful, outside of Auckland. Perhaps I'm a country girl at heart.
And all the things I like in a city - the galleries, the parks, the architecture, the diversity, the music, the 'culture', the vibe - feel diluted in Auckland.
Then why not Wellington? Matt and I lived in New Zealand's windy capital for the two happy years sandwiched between university and London and we loved it. It is a great city which has a beating heart in the compact centre dictated by its geography. Its soul is small and diverse and its bars are intimate and interesting. But one of the reasons for going home is to be closer to family and Wellington is simply too far away from mine.
Compounding all the generic arguments of city vs country, the overarching issue with both Auckland and Wellington is that neither of us want to raise a family in a city. Unfortunately, both of us have jobs that tend to see us working for large multinationals - companies that are found in cities. The question became: would we let work dictate where we ended up living, or would we choose where we really wanted to live, and then figure out the work side of things?
In 2004, on our first trip back to New Zealand since we moved to London, we decided we would have a crack at settling in Gisborne.
With a population of 40,000, it feels big enough to have some cultural diversions, yet small enough to build a home. Its population is a fairly even split between the indigenous population (Maori) and white settlers (Pakeha), which is similar to Okaihau. It's incredibly remote, with huge gorges surrounding it and protecting it from significant growth. It has beautiful bush, lakes, rivers, farmland and coast, much like Northland. It feels a little like home to me.
We bought a house there in 2007.
A classic big old villa made of native wood, with verandahs and a beautiful garden - it even has a greenhouse. After a decade of apartment living in London, with no garden, I look forward to having a huge garden full of flowers, fruit and vegetables.
When we first looked at it in late April 2007, it was autumn in New Zealand, and in the garden roses were blooming. When I came across a rose I always associate with my wonderful Irish grandmother, I took it as a good omen.
As we've started looking down the barrel of returning home, doubts have set in. Last time we went home, we visited our house on Hurahura Road and felt overwhelmed by its size and its increasing state of disrepair after being tenanted for three and a half years. The sun-drenched, hazy, romantic notion of home that had shimmered on the distant horizon had mutated into a dark, ominous, hulking money-pit in a town with no job prospects and no friends.
I'm guessing the reality will be somewhere in between, for a time perhaps wildly vacillating between the two. We're under no illusions that it will be easy, but we are determined to give it a try.
The obvious, default choice for most Kiwis is wherever they can get a job, and that is usually Auckland or, in some cases, Wellington.
Auckland and Wellington are both pretty much equidistant from Matt's family, who are largely settled on the east coast of New Zealand in a town called Gisborne, which is known for its wine and surf.
My mum lives in Auckland and my dad lives in Northland, near where I grew up. Although I love my hometown, Okaihau, it is not where I want to live.
Okaihau is literally the end of the line. When the railway was built it snaked all the way up the North Island and came to a dead halt in Okaihau. There were plans to continue northwards - and a tunnel was even built - but it became too expensive and difficult and the tracks were abandoned.
It is very small, with a population of just 300, and is also very isolated with little in the way of jobs and diversions like restaurants, bars and people. It is also smack bang in the middle of the island, so beaches are a good 30-minute drive away.
So why not Auckland then? Auckland is the largest city in New Zealand by a long shot. Nearly a third of the entire population resides in this sprawling, poorly planned metropolis made up of quarter-acre sections and detached houses.
In my view, it has all the disadvantages of a city and none of the advantages (with the exclusion of being home to my lovely mum and my aunts, uncles and cousins). It isn't compact enough to have enough people per area to create the buzz and pace of a city. Public transport is poor and the roads are congested.
Years ago a colleague of mine in London was indulging in a moan-fest about the latest Tube strike and commented, "I bet you don't have to put up with this sort of thing in New Zealand", to which I replied, "No, you're right, we don't. We don't have a Tube in New Zealand".
All the things people tell me are great about Auckland - the beaches, the harbour, the houses, the food, the proximity to native bush and surf beaches - are things that I would suggest I can have, bigger, better and more beautiful, outside of Auckland. Perhaps I'm a country girl at heart.
And all the things I like in a city - the galleries, the parks, the architecture, the diversity, the music, the 'culture', the vibe - feel diluted in Auckland.
Then why not Wellington? Matt and I lived in New Zealand's windy capital for the two happy years sandwiched between university and London and we loved it. It is a great city which has a beating heart in the compact centre dictated by its geography. Its soul is small and diverse and its bars are intimate and interesting. But one of the reasons for going home is to be closer to family and Wellington is simply too far away from mine.
Compounding all the generic arguments of city vs country, the overarching issue with both Auckland and Wellington is that neither of us want to raise a family in a city. Unfortunately, both of us have jobs that tend to see us working for large multinationals - companies that are found in cities. The question became: would we let work dictate where we ended up living, or would we choose where we really wanted to live, and then figure out the work side of things?
In 2004, on our first trip back to New Zealand since we moved to London, we decided we would have a crack at settling in Gisborne.
With a population of 40,000, it feels big enough to have some cultural diversions, yet small enough to build a home. Its population is a fairly even split between the indigenous population (Maori) and white settlers (Pakeha), which is similar to Okaihau. It's incredibly remote, with huge gorges surrounding it and protecting it from significant growth. It has beautiful bush, lakes, rivers, farmland and coast, much like Northland. It feels a little like home to me.
We bought a house there in 2007.
A classic big old villa made of native wood, with verandahs and a beautiful garden - it even has a greenhouse. After a decade of apartment living in London, with no garden, I look forward to having a huge garden full of flowers, fruit and vegetables.
When we first looked at it in late April 2007, it was autumn in New Zealand, and in the garden roses were blooming. When I came across a rose I always associate with my wonderful Irish grandmother, I took it as a good omen.
As we've started looking down the barrel of returning home, doubts have set in. Last time we went home, we visited our house on Hurahura Road and felt overwhelmed by its size and its increasing state of disrepair after being tenanted for three and a half years. The sun-drenched, hazy, romantic notion of home that had shimmered on the distant horizon had mutated into a dark, ominous, hulking money-pit in a town with no job prospects and no friends.
I'm guessing the reality will be somewhere in between, for a time perhaps wildly vacillating between the two. We're under no illusions that it will be easy, but we are determined to give it a try.
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Going through changes
Oh how I love The Specials. But I thought perhaps using Dawning Of A New Era at this point might be a tad premature. So, Eminem and Ozzy take the title.
January is always an odd month in London. Usually people have gone nutso in the lead-up to Christmas, partying and eating at a frenetic pace (December is the month of vomit - it lines the pavements and fills the doorways of this fair city as wanker banker, desk monkey and the masses overindulge at the countless office Christmas parties taking place throughout the capital) and then they're all worn out and overspent by 2 January when detoxes are declared, the hatches are battened and gym memberships are dusted off.
But this January has had the whiff of change about it in my small circle of friends.
Babies have been born, flats have been bought, promises have been made, lines have been crossed and everything is indeed changing. I blame us. Perhaps I blame our whole generation. Or maybe I should blame our parents. We all spent our twenties ignoring the future and partying our little arses off, and then suddenly, a few years past 30, all at once everyone realised that time was running out. Suddenly those things we'd been putting off bore down upon us with palpable gravity and now we have surrendered under a hail of babies, engagement rings, careers, home-ownership and declarations of lifelong commitment.
In January we welcomed my cute-as-a-button niece into the world, helped a friend move into his new home, waved goodbye to a friend as he set sail for NYC...and moved back into our old flat in London.
45e Westbourne Gardens is a legend. It was the second flat we had in London, after the summer of sifting near Kensington Gardens, and it has been in the circle ever since. We moved out in 2004, but our favourite Swindian had been here ever since. Until he bought a flat and moved out a few weeks ago, providing a welcome anchorage for us until we leave at the beginning of April. NYC kindly pointed out that while everyone else is moving forward, Matt & I are regressing.
It is a bit spooky being back at 45e. So many people have passed through this flat - all my friends have either stayed here or partied here at one time or another. We spent our first Christmas in London here. We used to hold a Carnival party here each year. My best friend's mother stayed here with us. My best friend stayed here as she exited, homeward bound, as did countless other friends, as the stack of mail we still receive for them can testify. My brother stayed here with me when he moved here from New Zealand. Feasts, parties, wine and cigarettes into the wee hours, watching the sun come up from the kitchen table, talking, singing and dancing. It has been like part of the family, like Grandma's house, our one constant in our otherwise transient existences, a home away from home.
But it is in the last death throes, our friend has left, we are only here temporarily, and the flat is to be sold.
January is always an odd month in London. Usually people have gone nutso in the lead-up to Christmas, partying and eating at a frenetic pace (December is the month of vomit - it lines the pavements and fills the doorways of this fair city as wanker banker, desk monkey and the masses overindulge at the countless office Christmas parties taking place throughout the capital) and then they're all worn out and overspent by 2 January when detoxes are declared, the hatches are battened and gym memberships are dusted off.
But this January has had the whiff of change about it in my small circle of friends.
Babies have been born, flats have been bought, promises have been made, lines have been crossed and everything is indeed changing. I blame us. Perhaps I blame our whole generation. Or maybe I should blame our parents. We all spent our twenties ignoring the future and partying our little arses off, and then suddenly, a few years past 30, all at once everyone realised that time was running out. Suddenly those things we'd been putting off bore down upon us with palpable gravity and now we have surrendered under a hail of babies, engagement rings, careers, home-ownership and declarations of lifelong commitment.
In January we welcomed my cute-as-a-button niece into the world, helped a friend move into his new home, waved goodbye to a friend as he set sail for NYC...and moved back into our old flat in London.
45e Westbourne Gardens is a legend. It was the second flat we had in London, after the summer of sifting near Kensington Gardens, and it has been in the circle ever since. We moved out in 2004, but our favourite Swindian had been here ever since. Until he bought a flat and moved out a few weeks ago, providing a welcome anchorage for us until we leave at the beginning of April. NYC kindly pointed out that while everyone else is moving forward, Matt & I are regressing.
It is a bit spooky being back at 45e. So many people have passed through this flat - all my friends have either stayed here or partied here at one time or another. We spent our first Christmas in London here. We used to hold a Carnival party here each year. My best friend's mother stayed here with us. My best friend stayed here as she exited, homeward bound, as did countless other friends, as the stack of mail we still receive for them can testify. My brother stayed here with me when he moved here from New Zealand. Feasts, parties, wine and cigarettes into the wee hours, watching the sun come up from the kitchen table, talking, singing and dancing. It has been like part of the family, like Grandma's house, our one constant in our otherwise transient existences, a home away from home.
But it is in the last death throes, our friend has left, we are only here temporarily, and the flat is to be sold.
It's been three weeks since you've been looking for your friend
Whoops, so the blog got off to a bit of a spluttery start. Never mind, I shall rectify this immediately. I am back and I shall come back regularly.
I have been absorbed in figuring out a travel plan for our slow route home. The trouble is - this one never tires - that there are so many places we want to go and we are the laziest travellers on earth so we have relatively little time allocated and must at all costs avoid over-committing ourselves.
The boundaries of our trip have been set by the end of Matt's current project (1 April - which neatly coincides with our 10-year anniversary of being in Blighty and which could cause a serious existential meltdown had we not fixed our exit plan in concrete) and the beginning of the Rugby World Cup in New Zealand in September. Sadly, this is true. Matt will call me unpatriotic for saying so.
Initially we planned on heading back via North and South America but two of our best friends, Em & Jon, are getting married in Sweden in August. So, we are doing a loop and then flying home - and as the opportunity has presented itself, we're slipping in a little summer travel in Europe.
With minimal input from Dodge other than a request to go to Vancouver, Brazil and Argentina and to be home in time for the World Cup, I have booked our flights.
View F&M Americas in a larger map
Vancouver: 2 weeks
Mexico: 4 weeks
Cuba: 1 week
Colombia: 3.5 weeks
Brazil/Salvador: 10 days
Brazil/Rio: 1 week
Argentina: 2 weeks
Then we have about six weeks to kick around Europe before our friends' wedding and then we board our one-way flight home!
I have been absorbed in figuring out a travel plan for our slow route home. The trouble is - this one never tires - that there are so many places we want to go and we are the laziest travellers on earth so we have relatively little time allocated and must at all costs avoid over-committing ourselves.
The boundaries of our trip have been set by the end of Matt's current project (1 April - which neatly coincides with our 10-year anniversary of being in Blighty and which could cause a serious existential meltdown had we not fixed our exit plan in concrete) and the beginning of the Rugby World Cup in New Zealand in September. Sadly, this is true. Matt will call me unpatriotic for saying so.
Initially we planned on heading back via North and South America but two of our best friends, Em & Jon, are getting married in Sweden in August. So, we are doing a loop and then flying home - and as the opportunity has presented itself, we're slipping in a little summer travel in Europe.
With minimal input from Dodge other than a request to go to Vancouver, Brazil and Argentina and to be home in time for the World Cup, I have booked our flights.
View F&M Americas in a larger map
Vancouver: 2 weeks
Mexico: 4 weeks
Cuba: 1 week
Colombia: 3.5 weeks
Brazil/Salvador: 10 days
Brazil/Rio: 1 week
Argentina: 2 weeks
Then we have about six weeks to kick around Europe before our friends' wedding and then we board our one-way flight home!
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