Author: sophiekemsley

Short Stories from Barcelona

| sophiekemsley

One of the best things about loving to write is that it’s an inexpensive hobby which can be undertaken anywhere at any time.  Just stick me on a seat somewhere with a notebook and a pen in some place where I can inhale the situation around me and exhale script, and I’m a satisfied woman.

This post is about my recent trip to Barcelona; and on this occasion I’ve strayed away from writing a general piece about the place.  Rather, I’m going to describe a couple of moments from those jotted down in my notebook.

I didn’t really know anything of Barcelona before visiting.  Many people I know had had much more familiarity with the city, and had told me various interesting snippets about it, but for me the relationship between the capital of Catalonia and I had never been personal.  Until I landed there a couple of weeks ago.

Prior to this I had only ever been able to associate it with the 1992 Olympics, and the fragmented and probably inaccurate memories of being six years old and watching a lady in a brown dress singing the famous musical namesake alongside the vocals of Freddie Mercury upon a global stage, before throwing up on a packet of Quavers (me, not the singing lady). What a legacy for a city to have held for 24 years.  I am almost ashamed…

Nonetheless, I liked what I saw of the place.  I’m not normally a big fan of cities, but the blend of different landscapes won me over:  the cobbles and the history and the beaches and the art.  Something new to see on every corner.  No rushing (having to wait for a Green Man every five seconds makes sure of that), and having time to write…

So herewith, a few short stories from my trip…

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A Trip to El Carmel

With a train ticket for which I can claim ten individual journeys for 10 Euros, and with time on my hands, I look at a map of the Metro and select the most random name as somewhere to go to.  ‘El Carmel’, to the North West of Linea 5, is my station of choice.  To me, it just sounds a bit nobby.  Like ‘caramel‘.  I immediately envision a bunch of happy commuters heading to El Carmel for some molten toffee related joy.  It won’t be anything like that, I know, but to me it looks out the way enough to host something that may be interesting.

It takes a fair few attempts to get to El Carmel.  Three, to be blunt.  The curse of not understanding Spanish instruction mean that I go back on myself three times before reaching my destination.  El Carmel is pretty nothingey to be honest, just a steep street of very little beyond a couple of quiet taverns that don’t seem to have had their exteriors refurbished since the 1980’s.  But this is far from a wasted journey.  For me, it’s just nice to get away from the tourists, especially your stereotypical group of loud Brits that you always encounter abroad – the ones who you so often overhear swearing about this, moaning about that, always expecting something for nothing and wondering why nobody understands them when they reel off complex English to natives.  That’s one of the reasons I like to get off the beaten track; the other is that these random places – whilst not being aesthetically amazing – are the ones that feel more real.  They serve as authentic vignettes into the lives of what it really means to be a resident of Barcelona.  This is the cultural impression you won’t always find in the guidebooks, and it’s nice to take a moment to soak it up, even if I don’t stay long.  At all.

I’m not sure there’s a single word that may be able to define those sudden moments in which you feel at one with your surroundings… those fleeting experiences where you feel locked entirely in the present.  It’s not necessarily about being anywhere special, it’s just about being somewhere at some time where the sensations around you hit you all at once.  For me it’s on the Metro ride back from El Carmel:  The sight of the lady opposite me with a kitten on her lap.  The sound of the chirpy quintet of musical notes that inform us that we’re approaching the next station.  A passing scent of marshmallows and shower gel.  Other peoples’ legs brushing past mine as we travel during rush hour.  Just the sensation of being somewhere different.

Notes from a Cafe con Leche in Parc Montjuic

“You stupid, clumsy idiot!” I think to myself as I sit at the cafe which neighbours the Metro station for the infamous parc Montjuic, home of the Olympic stadium and Palau Nacional amongst others.

I’ve had to take an immediate pit-stop upon arrival after a carbonated drink leaked it’s entirety into my rucksack somewhere on the walk between here and Paral-lel station.
The bag is soaked so I’m hoping to air it out a little first rather than continue carrying it around on my back.

It’s the most recent in a succession of clumsy episodes I’ve perpetrated recently.  The other was failing to see the massive signage in the hostel dormitory which clearly explained which bed was which.  I slept in one which was allocated to somebody else, and didn’t realise it until the middle of the night when I was stirred by a US accent commenting that somebody was sleeping in her bed.  I felt a bit like Goldilocks (minus the decent hair and free grub, which would have been pretty welcome on my budget!)  The girl was asleep this morning so I left her a note which was embarrassing to write.  It went something like,

“Oh hi, I have realised I am completely ditzy for shit and can’t read generously sized signage, sorry for stealing your bed”

(Okay, I was a little more polite and less self-depreciating than that, but that’s what I wanted to write).

But then, holidays aren’t for deploying brain cells, I guess, even though I do feel bad for inadvertently betraying hostel etiquette.

Nevermind that, or anything else though.  I suddenly become grateful for my leaking bag, because it’s prompted me to sit and take the time to take in a pretty awesome view of the city.  An old guy who reminds me of a Spanish version of my late Uncle Ken has served me up a couple of the most delicious cafe con Leche and after an overcast morning the sun is lighting up Barcelona, and it’s time to explore.

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Rooftop Yoga Under the Light of the Moon

On the crest of a whimsical wave I decided to sign up to the free rooftop yoga session which was being offered by the hostel on a Friday evening.

It had been 5 years since I’d last tried yoga back home in Canterbury, and though I’d struggled with the art back then, I deemed it worthy of a second chance, particularly out here in Spain.

At 8:30pm a group of us assembled in the hostel foyer before a staff member reminiscent of Cher helped to bundle us into the elevator up to the ‘secret floor’ from which we could access the rooftop pavilion, an act which was usually forbidden.

It was a platform which boasted some amazing views of the city at night.  To the left, we could see the Torre Agbar lit up in bright blues and pinks.  Straight ahead lay the crane-clad figure of the Sagrada Familia.  Palau Nacional beamed its blue rays across the city, and the surface of the ocean glistened under the glow of the full moon.  Not that you’d be able to tell from the photo below, which unfortunately is the best shot I got:

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I picked up a yoga mat and placed it on one of the few remaining patches of floor. Somewhat typically, I had managed to find the only bit above which a leaking valve was intermittently dripping an oily, pungent liquid onto the floor (and later on, my arm).

The teacher – a beanpole shaped shadow at the front – began the session:

“Wiz thiz zhezhion, we hope zhat you will feel zhe fool moon.  Breazh in zhe moon.  Exhale zhe moon!”

(As seemingly the sole Brit, I was probably the only participant thinking about Jaffa Cakes at this point)

And so began an hour of stretches and breathing which I was grateful to have been able to try for free, but couldn’t really get into.  For starters, half the classmates were a bunch of excruciatingly loud professionals on tour from the US, a couple of whom I was convinced I could hear mocking my choice of trousers at one point.  The notion was compounded by spotting myself in the epicentre of what appeared to be a sneaky selfie as they took it.

Internal ouch.

I cheered up by reminding myself that they were on a yoga holiday; and had traveled all this way just to basically stretch and breathe in a different setting.

I just don’t get yoga.  Well, that’s not quite true – I understand it –  I just find it exceptionally boring.  What’s more, for an exercise which oscillates round the key concepts of nature and mindfulness, there was something that just felt so inherently wrong about practicing it a mere couple of blocks away from the Passeig de Gracia, a big fat modern street that itself oscillates round the concept of commercialism and overpriced designer goods.

It’s safe to say that for a taster session, for me it had all the flavour of boiled rice, but it was certainly an experience, and so I don’t regret it.  I think it’s awesome that the opportunity was even there, because it didn’t have to be, and it’s one I certainly won’t forget…

Parc Ciutadella

What a pleasure,
visiting Parc Ciutadella,
as rowing boats drift in the sun.

Bright warm weather,
climbing the fountain at leisure,
and tightropes between trees for fun.

Cerveza in hand,
an Indian dance in the bandstand,
it’s a nice afternoon for one…

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End of Summer Shorts

| sophiekemsley

Erm.

Exactly how are we almost at the end of August, already?  I could’ve sworn it was just a minute or two ago I was clinking ceremonious glasses of punch with friends in recognition of the new year that had just arrived, and now we’re two thirds of the way through it…

In the absence of a burning main topic to write about this month, here are a couple of bits and pieces…

Something to Consider…

This week I came across an article on Social Media about a Chinese couple who realised that – unbeknownst many years earlier – they had both been in the same place at the same time, within just a few feet of each other, having their pictures taken.  They had only realised this by looking through old photographs later on…

In lives where we are meeting new people all the time I often marvel about the scope for similar instances of this.  Every day we are encountering other people in passing wherever we go; in years from now, will any of them ever become anything more to us than that?  Who’s to know whether those we know and are close with now weren’t once people we just passed by on the street?  People we moved into single file for (perhaps grudgingly!) on the pavement?  People we beeped our car horns at in moments of frustration?  People with whom we bemoaned the speed of the queue in the bank?

It fascinates me no end and I do believe that it happens more often than we realise… so, maybe pay close attention to the next person you pass…and those ‘moody people in the background’ which invariably feature in every photograph… as perhaps one day, they will one day turn out to mean much, much more to you…!

The Joy of Random Memory Recall

I love those moments when memories of incidents that made you laugh come flashing back into mind through no real logic at all, and have that same impact all over again.

There’s absolutely no reason why yesterday, whilst sat on a motionless Tube train, I suddenly remembered a lunchtime from way back in year 7 when an 11 year old I had clocked that the form tutor had accidentally typed ‘Jucy’ instead of ‘Lucy’ on the birthday list which was pinned to the class notice board.  That’s a memory from almost 20 years ago which in the large scheme of life had the significance of even less than a small plop in world’s oceans, but that had friends and I in tears of laughter for what was literally days when we first saw it, and which still raises a smile so many years later, brightening up an otherwise uneventful Tube journey.

Nothing quite cost-effective like a recycled giggle!

You Know You’re in Your ’30s When…

…An evening out with your mates consists of taking your KFC to a local lake and singing Michael Jackson’s ‘Earth Song’ at the top of your voices whilst looking out over the water as the sun sets.  Who needs bars and clubs anymore, hey?!

Song of the Day:  Socratic – Curtain Call

Good ol’ New Jersey indie-rock.  Really like this one.

And as the plows drive by,
Oh I can hear a hum in the night,
past the lights on city hall,
loneliness takes its curtain call.
I’m left with me and my need to believe,
It’s a wonderful life, afterall…

Life Lessons from: The Gym

| sophiekemsley

A couple of months ago I joined the gym.

I never believed I would ever join a gym, I dismissed them as an unadventurous, over-priced way of keeping fit and believed that there were far cheaper alternatives, like cycling out towards Bekesbourne and getting a puncture that entailed a much earlier than scheduled return home with very few sweat beads accumulated, or jogging enthusiastically down the Old Dover Road only to feel dispirited within seconds from the first humored honk of a passing van.

My ‘cheaper alternatives’ never really had any scope to keep me fit, and so when I recently signed up to a Triathlon I knew that I probably needed to finally accept this, else run the very real risk of letting down a valuable charity by an inability to do what I’d promised to do.

Much to my surprise, it turned out that not only did I actually know the way to the gym, I wasn’t allergic to it either.  Having made the risky decision not to update my will before entering, I had half expected to come out of the building with a huge rash or congruous fever, but instead all I came out with was a membership card and a desire for more exercise.

Perhaps the place does make me unwell afterall.

I now spend a good few hours a week at the gym.  It’s a great place to go to fence off the working day and let those endorphins bop about to the tunes on my MP3 player, and much to my surprise it’s a great little place to learn about life.

The instructor told me that each time I go to the gym I need to push myself a little harder.  He gave me a record sheet which I complete each session of what I’ve done – what pace, what incline, what level, what weight – and I’m in a constant competition with my last attendance.

And that competition hurts. Pull-downs are painful.  Abdominals ache.  Running almost ruins me.  I’m relieved when I come to the end of the hour, but so happy that I’ve done it.

Last week I racked up the weight of the pull-downs to 25.5 kg (which comparatively isn’t much) and almost felt tears in my eyes as I disciplined myself to do 8 sets instead of the previous day’s 6.  Although never doubting the long-term benefits, part of me wondered why myself and others around me put ourselves through this pain.  Life doesn’t demand that we do, it only tells us that things might be a bit better if we do it, it’s not an obligation, so why am I disciplining myself like a strict Victorian headmistress?

But then I thought about how I’d feel if I reduced my targets, and it led to a bit of a philosophical moment (which I’ve not had whilst profusely sweating before).  What if we just stuck to what we know we can do with ease?  What if we never challenged ourselves? How boring would that be?  We’d never know the extent of what can be.  If we don’t ever reach the wall, how can we look over it to see what else is there?

I suddenly became extremely thankful for some of the hardest and most stressful moments of both my professional and personal life.  Where would I be without them?  Curled up comfortably in a blanket of naivety, I suppose, with much less knowledge, much less resilience and much less appreciation for when things go right.

Life is exceptionally challenging, particularly when you have a tendency to worry neurotically about whether or not you put the lid back on the highlighter pen before leaving the office.  Gratitude for life does not make anyone exempt from having shit happen – sometimes repeatedly – or make stress vanish as fast the box of chocolates next to my bed.  Life is hard.  Work is hard.  Personal relationships can be hard.

The gym is hard.

However, each of these little seedlings of hardness will most often bloom into something greater.  Life provides enough beautiful moments to counter the bad; a christening for every funeral or a success for every failure.  Work provides opportunity, and the ability to afford good things.  Personal relationships are the essence of our heart and soul; and I’m hoping that the gym will eventually blossom into a stomach that no longer resembles one of those classic childrens’ stack toys with the colourful rings.

It’s all so obvious yet it’s something so often forgotten with the expression of each expletive or the shedding of each tear.  Some of the greatest decisions you’ll ever make are made on the back of an unpleasant experience, and some of your greatest strengths are those you develop through adversity.

“Clever gym”, I thought to myself,  “not only do you make me feel a tad better when I’m tucking into the third packet of crisps a day, you also remind me why there’s a value to pain”, and with the energy from that thought, I completed set number 8 and went straight to the rowing machine.

Song of the Day:  Erasure – Stay With Me (Acoustic Cover)

Not normally big on acoustic stuff but this is simply beautiful and is well worthy of a listen.

Eur Oh So Yummy…

| sophiekemsley

I’m going to avoid posting about the obvious this month.

I’ve made my feelings known among various people over the past couple of days, and I’m sure that there’s going to be a lot more to say over the next few weeks, months, years, decades and centuries.  The reality is that the implications of the decision that has been made have not even started yet, and I dare say that the magnitude of those implications is something that none of us will really know or understand until it’s all actually happening.
Which is an incredibly scary thought.

There are plenty of discussion points ahead but I’m not going to use this month’s post to essentially repeat everything I’ve been ranting about over the past 48 hours because quite frankly it will only wind me up even more, and wound up is not how I want to spend my Sunday.  Instead, I wanted to post something more lighthearted that may hopefully detract me from scouring the internet in desperation to see if having Huguenot blood and a fondness for confit de canard can serve as a prerequisite for applying for a French passport.

I am going to stick with a European theme though, and combine it with something that never fails to uplift and bring joy to my life – food.

So herewith, in no particular order… a list of some of my favourite European foods experienced during holidays on the continent…Enjoy.  Will you be giving any a go?

1. Spätzle, Germany

Spätzle is a variety of noodle which derives from the Swabia region of southern Germany.  Very popular in this and the alpine areas below, spätzle is a common accompaniment to any dish and with its soft, slightly chewy texture it’s easy to understand why.  Spätzle is most commonly served with meat or in a nutty cheese sauce with ham.  My favoured way of eating spätzle is with pork medallions and a creamy peppercorn sauce.  Very tasty.

2. Cornichons, France

This is a funny one because I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a gherkin enthusiast, but I absolutely love cornichons (which are basically just baby gherkins too classy for Big Macs).  It was in France some years ago when I first noticed these miniature, green powerful pickles seem to accompany every dish I was served, and I liked them a lot more than I thought I would.  Juicy and crunchy with a sharp sweetness, cornichons would make great and revered leaders in a society of fruit and veg.

3.  Cote D’or Pistachio, Belgium

Of course Belgium’s contribution to this list would be chocolate-related, but I’ve chosen  something quite specific on the basis that even in our global society, this is one thing I’ve not yet seen available in the UK :  Pistachio fondant chocolate bars!  Any trip to a supermarche abroad will necessitate looking out for these beauts, which are essentially just Fry’s Chocolate Creams in a slightly more interesting flavour.

4. Comté  cheese, France

I could write essays proclaiming the values of the existence of French cheese, and it seems so harsh to select just one, but if I had to, then it would definitely be Comté.  Not dissimilar to the much more renowned gruyère, for me comté just edges it in the Battle of the Cheeses.  Nutty and creamy, this batch of mountainous delight permanently changed the way I think about jacket potatoes.

5. The Bicky Burger, Belgium

I’d heard somewhere of these Belgian burgers that seem to have a bit of a cult following, so I knew that when I went to Belgium earlier in the year that I had to give it a try.  Having walked around the entirety of Hasselt looking for a restaurant called ‘Bicky’, I succumbed to asking a waiter where I could find one and was directed to a small generic snack bar on a street corner.  Eating whilst stood underneath a large parasol on a rainy day, the Bicky burger did not disappoint, full of the most interesting blend of flavours stemming from the special ‘Bicky sauces’.  I had no idea what was in the burger but during an internet search that followed I discovered the following:

“The Bicky Burger is a tasty deep fried burger (a mix between chicken, pork and horse meat) topped with three unique sauces (the yellow Bicky Dressing, the Red Bicky Ketchup and the brown Bicky Hot Sauce), crispy onions and pickles or cucumbers served between a sesame sprinkled bun”.

The horse meat bit makes me balk a bit, but hey, at least they’re open about it…
Any visitor to Belgium must try the Bicky burger.

6. Frikandel, Netherlands / Belgium

Some of my favourite childhood memories are of being in a massive adventure playground in Belgium eating a Frikandel during family Summer holidays in the 1990’s.  Best described as a ‘minced pork hot dog’, the Frikandel is deep fried and – unlike most other kinds of sausage – doesn’t have a skin.  It’s very unique tasting and to date I’ve not been able to find anything similar in the UK, but I’ll keep looking!

7.  Tomatensuppe, Germany

Okay I’m cheating a bit with this one, because quite clearly Germany is not the native home of tomato soup (in fact where is?), but – somehow – it never fails to serve up the best. Slightly sweet and often with a generous swirl of cream, I would base any decision of where to go for lunch in Germany on whether or not Tomatensuppe was on the menu.  The German kind completely puts Heinz to shame and don’t even get me started on Campbells…


8.  Spaghettieis, Germany

Spaghettieis is essentially just vanilla ice-cream with strawberry sauce, but it’s genius.  The ice-cream is pumped out through a noodle press giving it a spaghetti-like appearance on the plate.  The strawberry sauce bears an uncanny resemblance to tomato sauce.  The coconut flakes are reminiscent of grated cheese.  It works and it’s amazing, and whoever came up with the idea easily makes my list of Most Influential People. Ever.

So there we have it folks, just a few of the continent’s best offerings and I write this as somebody who’s still not seen a lot of it, so who knows what else is out there to steal the love of my tongue…

Food distractions are just the best 🙂

Song of the Day:  Weezer – Summer Elaine and Drunk Dori

How this band are still churning out top songs after 20+ years without needlessly fannying around with the sound that makes them so great I’ve no idea, but I’m not complaining…

A Day’s Leave from Life

| sophiekemsley

I had planned to do so many things today, but last night’s Tequila put a stop to them all, flushing my to-do list down the drain with a latin American grimace.  How can a drink that has a red plastic sombrero for a lid (marketing genius) prove to be such a menace?

‘Tequila… it makes me happy!!’ we sang with vigour last night before downing a shot (and nobody on Earth has been able to drink Tequila since Terrorvision’s 1998 hit without doing the same thing I’m sure).

This morning’s rendition of the song would probably sound like more of a depressing ballad featuring a more notable string arrangement and a sombre fade-out..“thaaaaat’s the curse of Tequilaaaa” .  The video would be in black and white and end with a clapped out brown Ford Cortina breaking down on the hard shoulder of the M25.

Urgh – just – urgh.

So, there was no trip to the gym today.  Nor was there a long afternoon drive with which to explore Kent in the sun.  Various incredibly boring yet essential tasks relating to online banking and other admin-y bits and bobs will have to be done tomorrow now, all because for most of today I didn’t have the strength to do much more beyond drink water and fall back to sleep whilst watching classic sitcoms in bed.  Cool – just – cool.  I am so proud of today’s achievements and will remember with certainty this milestone day for years to come.

But sarcasm aside, I know that in reality it’s important to have days like this once in a while.  Life demands so much from us, every single day, and we wouldn’t want it any different because if it was we’d no doubt be bored stiff, but still, it’s important to occasionally just relax…

The problem with daily sleep is that we can seldom acknowledge that we are actually resting.  We just close our eyes and either doze off quite quickly or stay awake worrying about in what order the world will end if don’t complete the 10,000 tasks we’ve set ourselves for tomorrow.  Once resident in the Land of Nod we awake in what feels like minutes to acknowledge the crushing reality that it’s time to get up; and usually – in my case anyway – we’ve overslept and end up rushing around at a military pace to get ready in time, rather than slowly coax our bodies out of bed.  I’d be reluctant to describe sleep as relaxing, because we just don’t know that we’re doing it!

What’s really relaxing is not having to wear a watch for the entire day and just lying around in your set of jim-jams with a break every now and then to go and make a self-gratifying big, fat unhealthy snack.  What’s relaxing is laying in the garden with no concept or care for time and staring at a serene cat lying amidst flowers in the sun:

Scampi May 2016

True relaxation is not something we tend to have the time for whilst in the mix of the usual daily grind. Sometimes it’s good just to pause, completely, and give our brains and bodies a day off.  Sometimes it’s good to dispose of that to-do list, or at least put it to one side for day.

Maybe Tequila does make me happy after all…

And with that, it’s time to round-off my incredibly lazy day by eating a Trio in bed and channel-hopping only to hopefully land on some U.S reality show that features titillating footage of massive portions of food.

Song of the Day: C Duncan – For

Christopher Duncan is an emerging solo artist from Glasgow.  Spotify introduced me to this beaut… and beaut is truly the most accurate way of describing it.  Perfect song for a somewhat lazy, sunny day.

 

The Perfect Set-Up

| sophiekemsley

In recent weeks I have experienced some of the most wonderful days and what made them so was that they involved the winning formula of nature and good company.  Nothing flashy.  Nothing purchased.  No long-distance travel.  Just nature and friends.

Spring makes me fall in love with the countryside all over again.  When the sun is shining – or even if it’s not – there really are fewer places I’d rather be than in the great outdoors amidst the elements, blinded by the bright yellow hues of the rapeseed or feeling the soft breeze of the sea on my face.

It’s been five years since I moved to Kent and the landscape back in Hertfordshire just does not compare, sporadic bits of beauty sliced apart by the likes of the M25 or Watford (a wonderful place in many ways, and also home, but my gosh it’s ugly, and if you don’t believe me just Google Streetview the Rickmansworth Road!).  Five years is long enough to have visited most of the key areas of a county, as I have done, but there are still plenty of little villages and hamlets out there to experience, and I love discovering them.

I think we can learn an awful lot from nature and it’s no surprise that the likes of Thich Nhat Hanh use it as the basis for spiritual metaphors:


For me, nature distinguishes between what we need, and what we want.  These are two areas that are often blurred into one and consequently leave people feeling unaccomplished for no real reason.  We want many things and feel that we may struggle without those things… but we don’t actually need those things, and knowing the difference between the two is conducive to contentment.  Much like the natural landscape that surrounds us, the only thing we really need is life.  That’s it.  There are ways to deal and cope with the absence of everything else, once you look for them.  It may all sound obvious – because it is – and perhaps that’s why it’s so surprising that as humans we can all be horrendously guilty of getting overly concerned or frustrated by things that really don’t matter at all, because they’re not intrinsic to our ability to just be.

On those recent, enjoyable outings I referred to above, we didn’t need to pay a penny for the sun to shine on us, or for the sight of lambs bounding about in the fields.  We didn’t need to pay to look at the pretty yellow rapeseed, or to hear the sound of the birds in the trees.  We didn’t need to top-up a machine to ensure that the waves kept rippling in relentlessly whilst we were at the beach, or activate an app to tell us how to walk up a hill.

We didn’t need to do anything, because life – in this instance in it’s natural form – was all we needed.

I bloody love Spring, and Kent.

Song of the Day:  Public Service Broadcasting – Lit Up

Simply stunning; I love the concept behind music like this – combining historic samples with cutting edge musical technology.  Enjoy.  You will.  Especially the final minute and a half.

Thoughts from a Belgian Holiday

| sophiekemsley

Sometimes you suddenly find yourself in one of those moments when your whole life (or what you’ve experienced of it so far) blends into just one single moment, a snapshot of time that could have been taken in any year.

I’m sat enjoying a glass of Jupiler and a weinerschnitzel in the central entertainment and dining area of a Center Parcs holiday village in the North of Belgium.  I’m surrounded by a mixture of couples and families, and when I lean back, palm leaves tickle the back of my neck.  The interior of this whole building has been set-up to look like a tropical paradise, and it’s a great little place to come on holiday.  It always has been.

It’s a Saturday evening and timeless Euro-pop hits reverberate around the large, glass dome building in which myself and all of the other holiday-goers sit.  Right now, the Macarena is playing.  It gets to the bit where the lady laughs because she (nobody could ever quite make out what, despite valiantly straining to hear) to the boy who ‘was no good’ (in fact, she didn’t want him, nor could she even stand him, poor guy…).  At this precise moment I could just as easily be looking into the display of a classic digital Casio watch at a date that reads something like the 30th of July 1996, whilst my older sister walks ahead of me, urging me not to dawdle as we make our way out of the ‘Parc Plaza’ (as the glass dome is more formally known) following an early evening swim.  Los Del Rio’s Macarena was probably playing back then, too, only at that time it was a brand new, chart-topping hit that had swathes of people across the Continent attempting to master its dance routine.  That’s quite the contrast to the tune now associated with 1:30am and the musical downturn on a night out at some sticky-floored bar with purple walls in Lancashire, or drunk old men jigging around at wedding parties with the remains of a mushroom vol au vent stuck to the soles of their white leather loafers.  In 1996, the tune was an emblem of class.  Or so my memory serves…

Why is it so easy to envision this moment of the past with such detail?  We used to come here – to this very same place – as a family, every Summer from 1994-1999.  We visited again in 2004 and 2007.  My sister came here last Summer with her family, and this year I’m back again with my parents.  With the exception of a few recreational additions dotted around here and there the place hasn’t changed a bit in 22 years, and that’s a good thing.  Familiarity is such that I can still remember my way around the whole village.  Virtually the only thing that’s changed since our jaunts in the 1990’s, is that these days I’ll opt to while away the time by quietly sitting and writing whilst sipping on a Jupiler, rather than scavenge around the adventure playground and pester the parents for a Chupa-Chup.  Other than that, time may as well have stood still for a couple of decades.

A young waiter, with smooth skin and a hairstyle that looks as though he took along a picture of legendary children’s game ‘Kerplunk’ with him to the barbers, approaches my table.  The child inside of me – that has never quite gone away – imagines that he’s the sort of person that 10 year old me would have had a bit of a crush on.  10 year old Sophie would probably have walked through the Café very slowly each day in hope of catching sight of him, with my head and neck at the most peculiar angles if it meant I could increase my chances of doing so.  A swift glimpse would be sweet enough; but success at scoping out the moniker on the name-badge would be akin to a lottery win.  I’d send half a dozen postcards home to my school friends talking about “fittie waiter Jean-Luc” (and pronounce it, ‘Gene Luck’) as though he was some imperial being that I would one day end up marrying, even though we had never, and would never still, exchange any words.

For the 30-year old me, Jean-Luc’s (not his actual name) role within my holiday is much less of a romantic dream and more-so a formality.  I need Jean-Luc’s assistance in helping me settle the bill for my beer and schnitzel, a process which is straightforward enough back home, but becomes marginally more complex with a language barrier in place.  When it comes to foreign language, I would in no way consider myself to be an ignoramus, far from it.  I can speak basic French, basic German, basic Bahasa Indonesia… but barely a single word of Flemish, the native language of this part of Belgium.  Nonetheless, I would like to try.  Nothing annoys me more (well that’s not true, but figure of speech and all that jazz), than people who go abroad and don’t even try to accustom themselves to the local language.  As Jean-Luc approaches my table, I desperately rack my mind for any hint of what ‘Can I get the bill please?’ could possibly be in Flemish.  A number of foreign words and phrases learnt during school pass through the forefront of my mind in no logical arrangement – die Speisekarte, bitte!, je voudrais to pay, das schmeckt gut!, entschuldigang!, – but sadly, none of these is the one I’m looking for.  None of these are even Flemish, so when Jean-Luc eventually arrives at the table I’ve pretty much lost all chance of communicating with him in the way I would wish to.  Still determined to do so, I open my mouth and my brain does one final, last-minute rack of the limited foreign phrases within.  Consequently, something comes out:
“…N’errr…”.
There we have it.  That, my friends, is the shameful extent of where my modern language skills (or lack of them) has got me today – emitting a sound which when written phonetically is a word that doesn’t even exist – in any language – and which tapered off once I considered it probably more communicative to wave my debit card around in front of Jean-Luc.
“Follow me” he responded, and took me to the counter, where I settled the bill with no further issue beyond feeling completely hopeless at life.

The language barrier can be an enemy – as the example above indicates – but it can also be a friend.  Sometimes it’s bliss not to have any idea whatsoever of what the people around you are talking about.  There’s no danger of having an unpleasant commentary – which is usually enforced upon you – perforate the positive holiday vibes.  Yesterday we’d gone into a service station just north of Brussels, where a group of men were sat wolfing down plates of chicken and chips, a scene which I’d otherwise think nothing more of.  That was until we passed by their table as one of the party was regaling a story… “an’ ‘e (or ‘Annie’, I’m not quite sure) cayyyyme in and pisszhed all oahw-vah the floorrr”, he said, with a strong, Scouse accent.  Welcome to Belgium: a land of culinary excellence, enchanting forestry, and citizens who are incredibly polite and each own a bicycle with a basket on the front. The first noise you’ll hear is an especially vocal Liverpudlian who knows somebody with an unfortunate urinary habit, possibly the flame-haired little orphan of musical fame, Annie.

Another advantage of not knowing the language, is the amusement that can be sourced from looking over at other people, and imagining what they’re saying.  At the table in front of me as I ate my schnitzel, were a young-ish couple.  They were clearly having a romantic evening meal, their faces drawing ever closer together as they finished their drinks:

“What’s say, baby!  We’ve done dinner…wanna sleep together?”
“Hell yeah, sweet-cheeks”
“Great stuff.  Grab yer bright red waterproof Regatta jacket love, you’ve pulled”

In reality, the conversation was probably more like:

“Do you know what my favourite thing was about those chips?”
“That they came served in a paper cone?”
“… well, yes.  Yes that was my favourite thing about them.  *Short, awkward pause*.  Have I got any basil stuck between my teeth?”

Nonetheless, I preferred my own version, which was made all the more funnier when one of the two – the bearded male with the paunch – tripped over a randomly-placed child’s high chair as the pair got up to leave.  Inner snigger.

And speaking of leaving, it’s probably my turn.  The bill for my weinerschnitzel has thankfully been settled now, thanks to the help of my old pal Gene-Luck, and it’s time for me to snooze.  Nonetheless, this has been great fun.  An evening of writing, relaxing, and observing.  Bliss.

Song of the Day:  Ezra Furman – Anything Can Happen

This chap from Illinois is my current musical obsession.  If this ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ song doesn’t get you up and moving about, nothing will!

 

 

Jots from a Journey

| sophiekemsley

A few weeks ago I was sat on a motionless train for a considerable period of time, and felt an urge to do a little experiment to distract me from persistently looking at my watch and cursing the delays.  I began to think about the literary term known as the ‘stream of consciousness’ (which in other words is when the writer scribes a narrative that reflects more accurately the spontaneity and multi-layered form of the human mind).  It’s about writing that hasn’t been premeditated, or agonisingly edited in order to reach a state of perceived perfection… writing which is – in other words – a true expression of a thought process.

The following is what ended up on the page when using this methodology, and I’m not entirely sure what it means but I quite like it; and in the absence of having completed a proper blog entry for this month, I thought I’d share this instead.


“I like it when I see the piano keys bursting from behind your eyes;
A tune which only you can play.
…A tune that forms the soundtrack to those inner-most thoughts
(The ones that dance alongside the movement of this vehicle)

There is something so profoundly special about this piece;
Something that makes each time you hear it, feel like the first
… The amber lights blink along in rhythm
(And it feels like we all signed up to this dance class, together)

For then, for now, for tomorrow;
We move together underneath this same orange glow
… Sensitive to everything, familiar to nothing
(And nothing before or beyond this moment matters)

Here we are.”

Song of the Day: Punchline – Simulation

Pennsylvanian indie-poppers are back with a new album and this makes me very happy…

Life Lessons from a Retro Gameshow

| sophiekemsley

I’ve yet to meet anyone who wouldn’t admit to having a secret love of watching the long-running gameshow, Catchphrase.  In fact, I’m going to be a little bit unconventional with this post by throwing in a classic clip before I even start:

The bright colours, the amusing animations, multiple opportunities for humour upon the unveiling of each panel, and sound effects reminiscent of your ’80s toys… what’s not to enjoy?  Thus I conclude that most people, if not everyone, love a bit of Catchphrase every now and then.  If they don’t they wouldn’t enjoy visiting my house, where the Catchphrase card game lies in wait for unsuspecting guests.

The strength of the game lies in its simplicity.  Forget the over embellished, confusing formats of the more contemporary gameshows – which are often overtly complex for the sake of how much harder it is to be original now – Catchphrase’s objective is much more straightforward.  An hidden image is revealed one small panel at a time, and the sooner you can correctly identify the image as a whole, the more points you win.  You are simply not supposed to know straight away, otherwise the whole purpose of the game would be completely defeated.  With the revelation of each individual panel you will probably find yourself trashing some of your ideas as to the possible solution, and feeling even more convinced by others.

Not only do I think Catchphrase is a great thing to watch in accompaniment with a bowl of crisps and a fizzy drink on cold Winter weeknights, I actually think the concept of it demonstrates a key message…

How often in life do we reach ‘infallible’ conclusions when we can only see a small part of the picture?

An optical illusion has taken the Internet by storm in the past week.  A photo of a bald-headed man kissing a baby was taken from such an angle that upon the first glance of it, the viewer may have been running to the child protection authorities.  I won’t share it here but if you have yet to see it, head over to Google and type in ‘bald head kissing baby illusion’ and up it will pop.  It’s only when you view the image in full that you realise that what you instantly thought was the opening to somebody’s rectal passage is actually just a hairless chap’s ear as he leans down to kiss his baba.

In its reality it’s an image of warmth and love, but what kind of feelings would we have been left with had we not looked at it a little longer, or been able to access the full image to see this?  Rage? Disgust? Concern?

The point is that it’s very easy to make assumptions and formulate opinions based only upon the information which is immediately available to us.  Humans are naturally very reactive types driven by inner sensitivities and if we have a strong sense or feeling about something, it’s very hard not to allow it to develop into what we believe to be knowledge. Waiting to see the full picture requires the necessity to shelve those gut reactions that can envelope us in an instant, and whilst that’s not easy to do, in the long-run it’s critical to making better informed choices and decisions.

In the clip above, what were your initial thoughts about the solution?  You may well have found that these were of significant contrast to the actual answer.  Time and thought can make a huge difference to our beliefs, we just need to permit it to do so.

Song of the Day:  Animal Collective – Floridada

One of my favourite bands are BACK!  Never ones to shy from experimentation, the Maryland quartet return with more of their unique brand of music you won’t hear from many artists out there.  This is a classic.