Today is Monday, and I'm on my way to Dover Priory by train. Last night I stayed in the Hyde Park Hostel in Bayswater. It was a brief visit but a bit more lively than the last hostel. The place was full of French people who played Eminem and Lauryn Hill loud and smoked cigarettes, putting them out on the floor. In my room was Stephanie from Toulouse, Danilo from Sao Paolo, and Ash from South Africa. We talked about capitalism and desire, slavery and normalcy. My Spanish was better than I expected. I can understand everything. I'm just reluctant to form sentences of my own.
Danilo and I went for a walk and coffee last night. We talked some more about leaving home, stepping outside of routine and comfort, searching and challenging ourselves. I was restless all night. Didn't sleep well.
Coming back from Paris now. Had to take the Eurostar so that I could stay longer to have a chance to see the city on Tuesday. I love speaking French. I love the food and the architecture. We had good experiences with all the people --se bon. JT and Marie met us out for dinner last night for Basque food. The water closet had no toilet. Odd. I didn't eat enough food while I was there. We went to the Picasso Museum and the Pompedou. Great views of the city. A moment alone.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
tennessee
Once I took a road trip through the South. My favorite spot for viewing was the low mountains near Chattanooga, Tennessee, dark mountains where the clouds wind through them like roads. You may find yourself driving through cloud or just under it, like down covers resting over you with the light breaking through. I was there in the morning, the brilliant holiness of morning, with the Tennessee River looming. I floated down that river, gazed up, and lingered in the in-between places, lines on a map between Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee--secret places with no name, only slips on dark currents that have been there always.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
sumptuous
Please spend your next lazy Sunday with Maryam at My Marrakesh. You won't be sorry. She creates a portal of sumptuous visual bites and stories from faraway lands. See:
Read: a sample of Maryam's writings
I peer out from the balcony, and the view of the Eiffel Tower makes me catch my breath.
Not a single locust in sight.
I sit in a cafe with Tara of the blog Paris Parfait. The waiter says "avec plaisir" and takes our picture. Tara's eyes are enormous and a color so remarkable that I can't help but stare. She relates tales of Middle Eastern intrigue. The tales, all true, involve her in complex and astonishing ways. She then tells me of her novel in progress. I feel a kind of longing that is hard to describe; a longing for a book of my own - not fiction, but truth. I wonder - shyly - if I can add that book to my list of dreams that I dream by day.
I then realize that my problems, though big - though quite big - are really only small. As I walk back to my hotel I smile at the passersby. They smile back at me.
Image acknowledgements: (1,2) Steve McCurry, (3) persisting stars, (4) Maryam Montague, (5)BabaSteve, (6) morgueprincess, (7) Aline Thomassen
Read: a sample of Maryam's writings
I peer out from the balcony, and the view of the Eiffel Tower makes me catch my breath.
Not a single locust in sight.
I sit in a cafe with Tara of the blog Paris Parfait. The waiter says "avec plaisir" and takes our picture. Tara's eyes are enormous and a color so remarkable that I can't help but stare. She relates tales of Middle Eastern intrigue. The tales, all true, involve her in complex and astonishing ways. She then tells me of her novel in progress. I feel a kind of longing that is hard to describe; a longing for a book of my own - not fiction, but truth. I wonder - shyly - if I can add that book to my list of dreams that I dream by day.
I then realize that my problems, though big - though quite big - are really only small. As I walk back to my hotel I smile at the passersby. They smile back at me.
Image acknowledgements: (1,2) Steve McCurry, (3) persisting stars, (4) Maryam Montague, (5)BabaSteve, (6) morgueprincess, (7) Aline Thomassen
Sunday, August 28, 2005
here's a little mexico for you . . .
Today Carolina said Mayan prayers for me, rubbed me down in honey, and sprinkled white and red flowers all over my body. She told me that I would be protected, and when in doubt to remember the spirit of the white flowers and look to the left. The flowers in the plunge pool floated toward the left, and the birds' singing came from the same direction. The red flowers are for love.
The present is a night breeze on the veranda with dozens of croaking frogs so happy after the rain. Soft Spanish guitar in the background, distant chatter from the open-aired dining hall, and a few pool balls being struck from time to time.
To be here in this place is to be quiet in one's soul, not restless for something else. We are on the grounds, off road five miles, through dried-out brush that guards this tranquility like spines of a cactus--hidden life as busy as stockbrokers or journalists while the people walk slowly, strolling through garden lanes, listening. Time to take in the world. Place is all things sometimes.
The present is a night breeze on the veranda with dozens of croaking frogs so happy after the rain. Soft Spanish guitar in the background, distant chatter from the open-aired dining hall, and a few pool balls being struck from time to time.
To be here in this place is to be quiet in one's soul, not restless for something else. We are on the grounds, off road five miles, through dried-out brush that guards this tranquility like spines of a cactus--hidden life as busy as stockbrokers or journalists while the people walk slowly, strolling through garden lanes, listening. Time to take in the world. Place is all things sometimes.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
From Friday, July 18th through Friday, July 25th, I spent time driving out west with buddy Steve. Out west is a little vague, but that's the way I see it. Here are some memories from that time.
The Coyote and the Cloud Wall--
After leaving the Black Hills of far western South Dakota late Saturday afternoon, we headed toward Sheridan, Wyoming, targeting as far into Montana as we could get. The sun crept downward that evening, but the air cooled quickly--relief from the beating sun of The Badlands, experienced earlier that day. We drove with windows down and sun roof open, beginning a stretch of narrower, windier I-90. The cd player deserved a break, so we searched the stations and settled upon country. KYTI--the Coyote--played a mixture of today's and yesterday's hits. They weren't lying. Merle Haggard lulled me into western dreamland, singing "Big City". Just passed Sheridan, out the western window sat a cloud wall. The lights dim, the sky blushing pink and deep purple, almost black, an opaque wall of cloud touched the ground and spanned a width that looked about as big as a sheet draping down from some sleepy giant's quarters. In it were bursts of lightening--a self-contained orchestra, curtained, but so lively that its energy could not be contained.
The Stars at Night . . .
The first night that we camped I was excited to spend part of the evening viewing the stars. Late that night, after lanterns shut off and campers found their way inside their tents, Steve and I sunk down in our canvas chairs, rested our feet on the picnic table, and tilted back. After about 5 to 10 minutes our eyes dialated enough to unmask the cosmos zinging along. It was bright, vivid, active. There were thousands of stars. So much was moving up there. Of course we began counting the shooting stars. We got to about seven before the game wore off and the glow set in--the warmth of things far away, unknown, greater.
The Glacier and the Flat Head--
These are places, not things. A place is something that holds wisdom, available for us to take whenever and however we need. Glacier is a national park in northwestern Montana, and Flathead is a lake found down the road, south from there. But I came to know them in reverse order.
Water that takes on shades of blue that remind you of gemstones often keeps you looking at it for long periods of time. Flathead Lake is sapphire blue. Aged, deep, and miles long it seemed to tell me about continuity. Neighboring this place are mountains, shaped through the centuries by the freezing and thawing of ice on glaciers. The mountains are craggy, dark, and sometimes snow tipped--stark colors bordered by a sea of deep green pines. Movement and change abound in this place.
The Coyote and the Cloud Wall--
After leaving the Black Hills of far western South Dakota late Saturday afternoon, we headed toward Sheridan, Wyoming, targeting as far into Montana as we could get. The sun crept downward that evening, but the air cooled quickly--relief from the beating sun of The Badlands, experienced earlier that day. We drove with windows down and sun roof open, beginning a stretch of narrower, windier I-90. The cd player deserved a break, so we searched the stations and settled upon country. KYTI--the Coyote--played a mixture of today's and yesterday's hits. They weren't lying. Merle Haggard lulled me into western dreamland, singing "Big City". Just passed Sheridan, out the western window sat a cloud wall. The lights dim, the sky blushing pink and deep purple, almost black, an opaque wall of cloud touched the ground and spanned a width that looked about as big as a sheet draping down from some sleepy giant's quarters. In it were bursts of lightening--a self-contained orchestra, curtained, but so lively that its energy could not be contained.
The Stars at Night . . .
The first night that we camped I was excited to spend part of the evening viewing the stars. Late that night, after lanterns shut off and campers found their way inside their tents, Steve and I sunk down in our canvas chairs, rested our feet on the picnic table, and tilted back. After about 5 to 10 minutes our eyes dialated enough to unmask the cosmos zinging along. It was bright, vivid, active. There were thousands of stars. So much was moving up there. Of course we began counting the shooting stars. We got to about seven before the game wore off and the glow set in--the warmth of things far away, unknown, greater.
The Glacier and the Flat Head--
These are places, not things. A place is something that holds wisdom, available for us to take whenever and however we need. Glacier is a national park in northwestern Montana, and Flathead is a lake found down the road, south from there. But I came to know them in reverse order.
Water that takes on shades of blue that remind you of gemstones often keeps you looking at it for long periods of time. Flathead Lake is sapphire blue. Aged, deep, and miles long it seemed to tell me about continuity. Neighboring this place are mountains, shaped through the centuries by the freezing and thawing of ice on glaciers. The mountains are craggy, dark, and sometimes snow tipped--stark colors bordered by a sea of deep green pines. Movement and change abound in this place.
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