Captain von Trapp

Pretty sure Vibewire didn't want this. So, here it is, for you, my loyal readers.

I re-watched The Sound of Music a couple of weeks ago, and apart from realising where various personal preferences arise from (a desire to hike rugged mountains, an embarrassing habit of singing and dancing in various public spaces, as well as a love of peasant-style clothing in garish colours: why didn’t my mother make me clothes out of drapes?) something else became apparent.

That Captain von Trapp is hot.

I was amazed I had never noticed it before (though, to tell the truth, I had astoundingly bad taste as a child – I once had a serious crush on Tom Selleck. And not in Magnum, but in Three Men and a Baby. To this day, a tall, dark, moustachioed man holding a baby makes me weak at the knees). Watching the movie, von Trapp’s hotness was glaringly obvious. It seemed as convincing a reason as any for why millions of women had shown the movie to their children. Not because it was wholesome, or had a good story, or because of the lovely music and singing, but because it offered an excellent opportunity to perve on a hot man for two and a half hours and call it quality time with the children.

What was it exactly that made him so smoking? When I thought about it, there were many things working in his favour. The amazing jawline, piercing blue eyes and dark hair with a hint of salt and pepper over the ears were a good start – an older, experienced Naval gentleman certainly floats my boat. The awesome ‘Austrian’ outfit he wears when we first see him (grey jacket with green lining, crisp white shirt and tie) was also helpful – I’m a sucker for a man in a suit. There’s his deep, growling voice sliding over and stretching his lines, swirling the words round in his mouth and then snapping them out, turning a fairly average and child-friendly script into something ever-so-slightly naughty. Of course, a straight man who can sing and dance is definitely sexy (hence Glee) and one that can play guitar is even more so. There was his captivating habit of standing up straighter and stiffer whilst annoyed, only letting on his large frustration through the barely-perceptible shaking of his hand. There was something hugely sexy about all that controlled rage... There was also something hugely sexy about his wicked smile, which often played around his lips when teasing his children, or Maria.

But, I think the key to the whole issue lies in my favourite scene. This is the ball scene, where Maria is standing outside with the children, and Kurt asks her to teach him the Ländler. Captain von Trapp comes outside, all done up in his tuxedo, watches Maria and Kurt for a bit, smiles to himself, pulls up his gloves and taps his son on the shoulder. There’s that slightly wicked smile again, and the sarcastic drawl as he mutters, ‘Do allow me, will you?’ He and Maria start to dance. There’s a point when the music slows, and the choreography of the dance requires Maria to walk behind Captain von Trapp, and put her hand on his shoulder. He takes her hand and swirls her round until their arms are entwined, their faces inches away from a kiss, and they gaze into each other’s eyes with sudden surprise and understanding that they love the other.

Swoon.

I was asked by a male acquaintance at the beginning of the year why girls, ‘liked all that stuff’. He seemed very put out (though, in all honesty, he’s a little bit like these blokes anyway, in that he’s arrogant and emotionally unavailable – that’s another story – so, I can’t see why he’s so worried). It does seem confusing that we spend so much time telling men that they have to be nice to us, that they should buy us flowers and tell us they love us all the time, but then the men we swoon over in the movies are the arrogant twats who at best, ignore the heroines, and at worst, insult them to their faces.

Christopher Plummer himself, very famously, found the character of von Trapp, and the entire movie, stereotypical and despicable.[1]

But, the various comments under the video of the Ländler scene on YouTube couldn’t be clearer about the effect this type of man has on many women:

‘He might be 80 years old, but Christopher Plummer is still dashing.’ (38 ‘likes’)

‘Grew up waiting, hoping, wishing for a man to look at me the way Chris does her.’ (26 ‘likes’)

‘Chemistry like you wouldn’t believe. Absolute fav moment in the movie.’[2]

The fact is, as I said to my friend at the start of the year, many of us women still love the romance of melting a hard man, or forcing him to show his soft side (I did mention my love of Tom Selleck holding a baby, didn’t I?) There seems to be no more romantic gesture, than for a man to, in the words of ABBA, ‘don’t go sharing your devotion, lay all your love on me.’ A man who turns up his nose at the whole world and all women, but is still completely besotted by one special lady is the ultimate dream. We want to believe that we are the only person that could bring a smile to his lips, the only thing in this wide world he could ever love. Apart from being romantic (and ego-stroking), it’s a comforting thought. The man who hates the world, but loves us, is unlikely to stray or to cheat.

As much as I would like to say, as a feminist, as a mature, realistic, down-to-earth and independent woman, I am looking for a relationship of equals, built on friendship, trust and shared values, and I don’t need any man to build up my sense of self-worth, I’ve been too brainwashed by old-school Hollywood moments. And, that, embarrassingly, I’m going to go watch The Sound of Music again. 

---

[1] Victor Davis, ‘Are Christopher Plummer’s tantrums and arrogance to blame for fact he’s never won an Oscar?’, MailOnline, www.dailymail.co.uk/femail, 06/03/2010, retrieved 23/06/2011.

[2] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=waNCfEYt-w8, posted 22/06/2006, retrieved 23/06/2011.

Italy Part II

Where were we? That's right, Italy. Bologna, to be precise, even though the ticket was for Florence. After buying many second-hand clothes and lugging my luggage around a flea market, I headed back to the train station, a little sweaty, dirty, and with bubblegum stuck to the bottom of my lovely, lovely, swishy dress. As much as I had enjoyed the flea market, I was also a little paranoid about the women walking about with children. See, my Dad had told me that there were scams running in Italy where an old lady would walk up to you in the street and throw (what looked like) a baby at you, and when you dropped all your things to catch it, she would run off with your stuff (turns out the baby would just be a bundle of rags or similar). Or, women would come up with children, and as they were talking to you, distracting you, the children would rustle through your bags and take your wallet. Of course, in my paranoid brain, this translated into 'Avoid all women and children for all times and forever,' rather than, just the ones that were begging. So, I found myself crossing the road when women dripping in diamonds and dressed in Armani started walking towards me with their designer children. I also began to get very paranoid about the skills of pickpockets in general, who I seemed to think were some form of magicians or wizards, and could steal your purse and passport just by looking at you. In fact, according to me, all people in Italy were pickpockets. This is not me being racist, by the way, its just the way I always feel when I come to a new country. I take all the anxiety and fear and worry I have about not knowing where to go, where to get food, how to get to my hostel, what to buy, what will happen if I get lost, etc. etc. and I turn into extreme paranoia about the people who surround me (don't believe me? Check the post from London in January. And the one from Stranraer in February).
Anyway, it was kind of a relief to get back to the train station, away from the flea market, and next to a very attractive young man with sparkling blue eyes, dark hair and who was reading classic English literature on his Kindle whilst we waited for the train. Clearly he was not a pickpocket. I mean, he picked up my water when I dropped it. Heart of gold.
I was looking forward to the train journey and had booked a window seat, expecting to watch the countryside as I sped to Florence, but, unfortunately, most of the train journey took place in a tunnel through a series of mountains. Arriving in Florence was a blessing and a relief, but I was still far from my hostel, and it took me another hour to get there. When I got there, they informed they would still be charging me for the 2 nights I had booked, despite the fact that I had been in Amstersdam the night before. I pointed out that I had informed them the night before I would not be arriving. They told me they had a 24 hour cancellation policy. I asked them how they expected me to give them 24 hours notice when my flight was cancelled? They were unmoved. They asked me to ask the airlines to pay for my night's accommodation. I pointed out that the airline had already put me up in Amsterdam, paid for my dinner, my breakfast, put me on another flight, given me wine, given me toiletries. The airline was clear of responsibility, as far as I was concerned. They were unmoved. At this point, I had a minor meltdown. I started to get very angry. I was tried, hot, my arms were falling off from carrying my bags around Bologna, I hadn't eaten since 6:30am, and these bastards weren't giving me any sympathy whatsoever. I started telling them that I would understand if their hostel was booked out, but it clearly wasn't (they had just offered me accommodation the next night instead of the Friday), and it just wasn't fair. We then started having an argument about whether or not the hostel was actually fully booked or not. She offered me free dinner as a compensation which I explained was useless to me as I was leaving that evening. She continued to attempt to give me dinner, until I told her I was going to a wedding celebration that night. About that time I burst into tears, grabbed the key, and went off to get to my hostel room, ignoring the instructions given to me by the hostel staff, meaning I first walked into a linen cupboard, and had to come out again into the reception to get the instructions again. Not at all embarrassing. After lying on my bed for 15 minutes and having a little cry (and then realising the room was not empty and getting embarrassed again), I got up, re-did my make-up and headed out to reception to apologise for my previous behaviour so that I could get directions to where I needed to go. Even more embarrassing. As soon as I got out of the hostel, my mood improved.
The wedding celebrations was astoundingly beautiful. They took place in an old Italian villa that is now part of a European university. Photos:

The view as I walked down the stairs and out into the garden was enough to make all the troubles of the past day go away. It was like being in a Hollywood film about Italy. It was like being in Under the Tuscan Sun, except without that annoying actress hanging around and being depressive and ruining things. The only problem was I knew absolutely no-one. No-one. Well, ok, I knew the bride and groom, but I was really only good friends with the bride, and she was nowhere to be seen. I didn't know what to do. I got some champagne. I finished it pretty quickly. I got another. I sat in the garden. I messaged a friend in the UK. I began to feel very, very uncomfortable, though I was doing my best to appear nonchalant and carefree. Luckily, someone saw through the rouse and came and befriended me. A lovely German woman, who was married to an Aussie and met my friend in the Blue Mountains many years ago. We had a wonderful chat, I met her gorgeous children, and before I knew it, it was time for dinner. I was sat at a lovely table of mainly Australians, though all were scattered around Europe now, and ended up having a fabulous night. The food was, unsurprisingly, amazing. The Italian waiters were mainly, unsurprisingly, attractive and charming. The wine and the limoncello was, unsurprisingly, impossible to resist. I had intended on not having a big night, but, before I knew it, the last bus, 1am, was on its way, I had gone past my stop to the hostel, and I had to head into town with the other young folk for another drink. This meant I ended up having my first glimpse of the famous duomo, late at night and far from the summer crowds. This made me feel special, different, unique etc. and the duomo was, of course, perfect:

We went for a drink in the middle of an old piazza, and then I stumbled towards a taxi with two lovely Texans and back to my hostel.
When I woke the next morning, I realised that the hostel was lovely, a converted convent, whitewashed walls, high ceilings and not at all hot or stuffy, as most hostels are. It still didn't make up for the double charge of the room, but I did wake in a fairly good mood. I packed up my bags, got into one of my old nonna dresses and checked out, intending to spend the day walking around Florence.
The thing was, that, as I had drunk so much limoncello the night before, I hadn't noticed that my legs had began to chafe terribly in the hot, hot, Italian heat. Now, this is pretty gross, and may be considered sharing too much on the blog, but it needs to be said to explain the rest of my day. When I changed into my dress on Sunday morning, there was blood all over my inner thighs, that is how much they had chafed together the night before. It was more than a little horrific. My legs were attacking each other. The inner thighs had turned on each other and were attempting to beat the other into submission. I had never experienced such a thing before, and I, of course, blamed my weight gain. But, who knows if I had just so acclimatised to Ireland, I could no longer bear the 28 degree heat of Italy. As I walked out into the Sunday morning sun of Florence, they began to chafe again, but determined to see Florence on foot, as I attempt to see all cities, instead of stopping and getting a bus or something, I decided instead to start walking with my legs about a metre apart from each other. So, I was in my fat, nonna dress, doing a fat nonna waddle down the street, carrying my luggage and blinking in the sunshine from the hangover. I must have looked ridiculous. By the end of the day, my legs felt like they were on fire, they were that sore. I read up on chafing when I got back to Ireland, and the advice is: STOP WALKING. At least until they've healed. Which seems kind of obvious and self-explanatory now that I'm home again, but I'm not one for sensible thought whilst in the midst of ridiculous behaviour.
Anyway, I managed to see some of Florence, as well as buy some delicious Margherita pizza for my breakfast (paid for by the weight, which charmed me for some reason), some better gelato for my lunch and sit, in an exhausted, hung-over heap by the river for a little while too. By about 2pm, the heat was just too overwhelming, and I took the bus to the airpot, drank 1.5L of water and slept in a plastic chair until my flight at 5:30pm. Of course, the flight was delayed, and I began to panic that I would be stuck in Amsterdam again (though it wouldn't have worried me so much - more attractive Dutch giants, and an extra day off work). When we landed at Amsterdam airport, we sat on the tarmac for 15 minutes, meaning, by the time I got off the plane, it was 10 minutes until I needed to board my next plane, and Amsterdam airport is huge, and I would have to go through a passport check still. We actually drove past my Cork flight as we were finding our gate, which only added to my anxiety because I could see it was on time. I ran through Amsterdam airport, ignoring the horrible chafing and pain, and got to passport control. I handed them my passport and ticket and said, through gasping breaths, that my flight was boarding in 5 minutes. The passport man was nonchalant. 'Oh, this is ok. You have plenty of time.' Still, he put me at the head of the queue. The man at the desk said the same thing. 'You must calm down, take big breaths, you are ok.' I wanted to slap them. But, still, they were right. I got my flight to Cork, and my host father was waiting for me when I got off. The only problem? My bags had been left in Amsterdam, as no-one had run them over at top speed to the Cork flight, as I had done with myself. Never mind, they were hand-delivered to my front door, by a taxi driver the next day, which was impressive in itself. All in all, I was fairly impressed by Aer Lingus and KLM, even if everything went wrong, they fixed it all very well in the end.
So, that's the end of the Italy trip. I have just booked a 4 day jaunt to Paris to meet up with two Sydney friends, and I cannot wait. Paris was another place I hated when I visited it back in 2002, and considering how much I loved Italy this time around, I have high hopes for how I will feel about Paris.

(Shopping) Adventures in Italy and Amsterdam

So, this weekend past, I decided to try out that old truism, oft repeated with awe amongst Australians, that in the UK and Ireland, 'you can just jump on a plane and spend the weekend in Paris/Berlin/Italy/Insert name of favourite European destination here'. This was something I had dreamed of doing. Oh, the romance of being able to flit across borders. To wake up in a new country with different road signs, different food, different language. The chosen destination for my first attempt at the European weekend was Florence. The reason: the wedding celebration of a university friend. The time frame: Literally a weekend. I was leaving Friday afternoon, and would be back in Cork Sunday evening.
The first thing to say about the 'you can jump a plane and spend a weekend' thing is, sure you can. Just, don't book connecting flights. Get on ONE plane and go ONE place, should be the adage. Don't, for example, book a flight out of Cork at 5:30pm, arriving in Amsterdam at 8:10pm and then attempt to get on a flight out of Amsterdam to Florence at 8:40pm. This is a silly idea. It won't happen. It just won't. They delayed my flight from Cork by 20 minutes, and that was all that was needed. I got off the plane in Amsterdam and was told I wouldn't make my next flight. I was directed straight to the transfer desk, manned by a very tall, blonde Dutch woman, who promptly put me on another flight to Florence.... at exactly the same time the next evening.
I pointed out that my entire trip to Florence would take place within the space of 2 days, the whole point of going was for the Saturday evening celebration, and I couldn't arrive into Florence at 10:30pm, as I would miss said celebration. This wouldn't do. They directed me to the help desk, where another Dutch lady (again, terrifyingly tall and terrifyingly blonde) explained that there was only one flight to Florence every day, and it was always in the evening. She then further explained that all flights from Paris were full, so she couldn't transfer me through there. The only possibility was a flight to Bologna the next morning.
This sent me into a spiral of panic. I had done so little research on Italy, as I was only going for 2 days and to one place, I had no idea where Bologna and Florence even were in relation to each other. As far as I was concerned, the terrifying Dutch lady was offering to fly me to the border of Italy and Switzerland, when I wanted to get to Florence, which was located on the very edge of the island of Sicily. Of course, she then explained that Bologna was about an hour away from Florence. This should have comforted me, but it further worried me. I demanded, on the verge of panicky tears, how I was then supposed to get to Florence from Bologna, adding, hysterically (and ridiculously), 'I don't speak Italian!!!' She said, 'there should be trains'. This was hardly confidence-inspiring. She asked if I had internet with me. I shook my head, cursing my decision to leave my computer behind on this trip (reasoning that it would be more trouble than it was worth, and I'd hardly have time to check my emails or Facebook anyway, and why else would I need the internet?), and she said, 'oh, well, there is internet in the airport, you can look up trains.' Completely uncertain to what I was agreeing to, I let her book me on to the Bologna flight. I asked what I did about the fact that I had nowhere to stay in Amsterdam. She replied that the airline would provide me with a hotel room, dinner, breakfast, shuttle, toiletries and things to sleep in, and that my luggage would be waiting for me in Bologna. At least I wasn't flying Ryanair, I thought to myself, who would most likely have sent my luggage to Bratislava and sent me to sleep on the tarmac under the departing airplanes.
So, I was sent to the Hotel Ibis in Amsterdam. I had a crazy thought that I might sneak into the city and cheer myself up with some relaxation Dutch-style, but I then realised that it was 9:30pm already, so I rethought, and instead spent the night at the bar, with the cute (terrifyingly tall, terrifyingly blonde) Dutch bar tender and drank as much free Rose wine as he and KLM airlines would provide me with. Not too shabby.
Leaving the hotel the next morning I had a crazy desire to stay in Amsterdam. I loved the place when I was visiting back in 2002, for some unknown reason. Its completely flat - not at all the landscape I normally like - and its souvenir shops are full of the most disgusting, crass cheap tat of all the souvenir shops in all the countries in all the world. For some reason, legalising pot and prostitution makes Dutch souvenir designers think this gives them permission, no REQUIRES them, to attempt to fit as many breasts, penises and bongs onto tiny, travel-size objects (like shot glasses or pens) as possible. Very odd, and not really my style. But, I loved Amsterdam, I think probably because of the wonderful hostel we stayed in (vegetarian food, murals on the wall, cute, dreadlocked bartender, dance floor downstairs) as well as the (quite possibly stoned) totally bonkers cheese and clog maker we met just outside of the city. And, I loved that they put cumin in cheese. THE BEST. Anyway, the point is, I had been completely screwed over by KLM, my trip to Italy was potentially ruined, I was stressed, tired and all I could think about was, 'Oh, golly gosh, I wish I could stay in Amsterdam.' Maybe it was all the terrifyingly tall and terrifyingly good-looking people around. Incidentally, every time someone spoke to me in Dutch, I was totally flattered, as it meant they believed I, too, belonged amongst this race of good-looking giants.
Feeling a little blue that I had to leave the Netherlands without seeing any of it, and feeling a little blue about the fact that my trip to Italy had been altered and curtailed without my permission nor consent, I felt I was allowed to indulge in some retail therapy. I bought myself THE MOST BEAUTIFUL, long, swishy, BLUE, summer maxi dress from ESPRIT at the Dutch airport, thinking it was 50% off, but it actually turned out to be 50% off, with an extra 20% off. So, I splurged and bought another maxi-dress in denim as well (the total, if any of you care, and you thrifty shoppers out there will care, coming to less than both dresses cost individually at their original price!!) I never buy from ESPRIT, even though its clothes are beautiful, functional and well-made because its too expensive, so this was a real event for me. I went into the bathroom a stressed, tired, unattractive, overweight, spotty au pair from Ireland, put on the beautiful dress, and came out an entirely new, tall, swishy, summery, holiday-y, gorgeous, carefree European jet-set type person, ready for a jaunt to hot, hot Italy. Oh, was I ever ready.
The flight over Italy was wonderful, we flew over beautiful snow-capped mountains, deep valleys with streams and little villages. I began to get very excited. I had also visited Italy in 2002, but had left with a fairly mixed impression of the place. I'd found it hot, crowded and unpleasant. We'd only seen Venice, and there was a protest against tourists going on in the city on the day we were there. I saw more overweight Americans in Venice than Venetians (and saw clocks in the shape of American flags, made out of Venetian glass being sold in every store - an image I kept bringing up in disgust whenever I talked to people about Venice afterwards), I was overweight myself at the time and struggling to get around in the heat in tight, ill-fitting pants, painfully aware of the drop-dead gorgeous Italian men and women looking down their beautiful Roman noses at me. Not fun. But, this was a whole new city I was visiting. It was 9 years later.  I was older, wiser, at least a little more resilient, and if there were still some body hangups, I was determined not to let the hot Italians upset me. I would admire their beauty from afar, pretend I didn't even exist, that they couldn't see me in all roly-polyness and I would most definately have a good time.
I arrived in Bologna, tired, stressed and uncertain of where to go or what to do. I was directed to a bus by the tourist information desk, and I jumped on board. Stupid things annoyed me (which is always a sure sign I am tired and/or stressed): British people attempting to speak Italian with the bus driver in bad Italian accents, Italians asking the driver whether or not the bus went to the 'stazione', when it was written on the side etc. But, I was soon cheered up by the bus ride. The first thing to cheer me up, was the bus making a stop on the outskirts of Bologna, a girl walking on, whacking a thick envelope into the lap of the man sitting in the front seat, and then proceeding to abuse him in loud Italian with accompanying hand gestures. He would have none of it, and started to yell back at her. She got off the bus, and he hung out the door, continuing to hurl abuse, as the bus drove off. It was divine. Such a hysterically stereotypical moment, only 15 minutes after arriving in the country. Bologna itself cheered me up, with its beautiful, ancient buildings scattered around the city, its warm, red, orange and ochre terracotta, its cobbled streets, its cyclists (who look very different to Sydney cyclists - Sydney cyclists are determined to look like Lance Armstrong on the Tour de France, Bologna cyclists want to look like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, except on a bike and not a scooter). I got off at the station and had the choice between buying a first-class ticket to Florence straight away, a standing room ticket in 2 hours, or waiting until 4:30pm for a second-class seat. I ended up taking the 4:30pm ticket, so I could explore Bologna. I wanted to go back and see all the old buildings I'd see on the bus up close. Here is one:

I was in the strange position of visiting a place that I had no knowledge of, had not read up on it at all, knew none of the history, the sights or the Lonely Planet recommendations for. I had no idea what the old buildings I was seeing were, or their significance. So, instead, I followed my nose, and found myself in a fantastic flea market, with piles and piles of second hand clothing, most of which cost between 1 and 2 Euro each (that is, less than the price of the Coke Zero I was currently drinking). I went totally bonkers and bought many pieces of clothing, coming to a grand total of 8 Euro. The only problem was, most stalls didn't have a mirror, and as I had no travelling companion to tell me if something looked good or not, it was a bit of a guessing game a lot of the time. Not something I felt comfortable with at my current size, but it at least stopped me from spending all of my money on second-hand clothes because I just couldn't tell if I liked something or if it fit me without a mirror. I either got wildly optimistic and imagined I could fit into something I would have had trouble fitting into two years ago, or get hugely pessimistic and assume that I must be the size of a house and search out correspondingly sized clothes. I am, officially now, however, a size 'Large', which is more than a little depressing, especially when you are trying on clothes in public and the Indian store owner sees you attempting to do up buttons that just won't do up, and he shakes his head and says loudly to all surrounding shoppers, 'Yes, is small size, is small.' And grabs it back from you, as soon as its over your head, just in case you might foolishly put it over your head again, and attempt to squeeze into it once more. Just in case I hadn't realised that buttons shouldn't be disappearing into rolls of fat, or that denim seams shouldn't be showing white, or that I should be able to take in air whilst wearing clothing. Just in case I hadn't realised these things were not part of the designers' original concept for the item of clothing I was currently stuck inside of.
Still, I got some great dresses, I think they are old, fat nonna work-dresses, because they're kind of like aprons, but with full skirts, and they're made out of this heavy-duty cotton, I think they're the sort of dress you would put on and then do household chores in, or sew useful things in, or make tomato paste. You know, wholesome, Italian activities.
Anyways, I'm pretty exhausted, and I want to do justice to my trip to Italy, as it was full of Joy and Wonder, so I'm going to leave it there for the moment. Its pretty much the end of the shopping adventures, so its appropriate we finish there anyway. More tomorrow.

I Made This

So, I've been meaning to sit down and write this post for a while, and I'm already about a week behind in my normal 'Irish' posting (trying to get up to date with my NYWM posts before the end of June), meaning... Meaning... Meaning, I need to do it now even though I'm tired and would really rather watch re-runs of 'Friends'. 
Last weekend... last weekend...
Agh, getting so distracted by the bloody TV.
Last weekend, the last weekend in June, was the Creative Connections pop-up cafe for the Cork Midsummer Festival. This is what the women in my creative arts facilitation course and I have been working towards since March. The event was meant to both exhibit the work we had been doing in classes, to teach the public about some of the techniques we had used and also to provide a wonderful, memorable experience for anyone who happened to wander in.
So, some background. The idea of a pop-up cafe is that it is a unique space, usually only around for a few days or a week or two, and it takes place in real estate that would otherwise be empty. So, its something that is particularly relevant and popular in places like the UK and Ireland at the moment, where there is a lot of empty and/ or derelict space going to waste. The pop-up cafe hopes to revitalise a depressed area for a time, as well as (hopefully) revitalise a depressed community, get neighbours and strangers talking and interacting, creating warmth and happiness in a time that is perhaps neither warm nor happy. We were working with an artist, Priscilla Robinson, who has created a pop-up cafe before, as well as a pop-up shop, which I've mentioned on my blog before.
Our pop-up cafe was based around the theme of 'home', as half the 20 women that are in my course come from outside of Ireland. So, we took aspects and ideas of hospitality from all the different women and cultures and smushed them together and jumbled them up and created our own unique home with all those ideas into a little cafe. We had food from all over the world, different coffees, different drinks, pictures from our homes, sounds from our homes etc. The name of our cafe was, 'Home is Where the Art Is', and this is the front of the shop:

And from the inside:

I was working in the space all day Saturday and all day Sunday, staying two nights with one of my friends from the course (in her wonderful house with the hugely evocative address: Lover's Walk, Montenotte, Cork).
The days were long and exhausting, but wonderful. It was kind of like being back in promotions, except this time I was expected to promote my own work, which I always find so much harder. I can tell people all the good things about everyone else's stuff, but when it comes to my own, I'm at a loss. So, to begin with, I was meant to be the welcome person on the door, but I wasn't doing a fabulous job. I would smile and invite people in, but generally they would say no or say they were in a rush. If I did manage to get people through the door, I kind of left them hanging in the space, and they would only stay if someone else started talking to them and showed them around.
This was the thing about our cafe. It was absolutely beautiful and could be enjoyed on a very superficial basis, like a normal art gallery. That is, come in, stare at things (don't touch!) and then leave. But, if people were given the opportunity or invitation to look through things, look in drawers, cupboards, open up boxes, they would find so much more. This was the wonderful thing about our cafe: it was interactive, it had many layers, and people could create a totally unique and personal experience within the space. But, this only happened if people were given leave to do so. You had the wonderful situation were people who did feel comfortable would take off their shoes, put their feet up on the sofa and begin to knit, or sew, or just talk and drink a cup of coffee. The people who seemed to enjoy it the most, if they weren't people who had come specifically to see the space, were travellers. That is, people who had time to spare. A lot of Irish people were rushing off to meet friends, do chores, shopping etc. On the other hand, one group of Asian girls went past on Sunday afternoon around 3pm, stopped outside and took a photo. I went outside, called them over, and invited them in. Two of them came in, saw the space and asked if they could take more photos. I said of course they could. Their friends then followed, and they ended up staying until we closed at 6:30pm. It was wonderful. What else was wonderful was how many people came back during the 4 days. People who had genuinely got involved in the space came time and again to soak up the atmosphere, learn new skills, finish off projects they had started in the days before. They truly felt at home.
All the women in the course had contributed various things to group items, such as a quilt square to our big patchwork quilt, or a print, or a pillowcase. But, then there were other things that people took more responsibility for in smaller groups. So, myself and one of the other ladies were given the responsibility for the chest of drawers (which I've mentioned before). Here are some photos to give you an idea of them. The photos still don't do it justice, but you get a sense. In my view, the wonderfulness of the cafe was distilled in these drawers, in that they changed depending on how you looked at them or interacted with them. There was so much detail in them, so many different colours and textures, it was impossible to take it in all at once, and different people would pick up on different things. Photos:

We had many workshops happening in the space too, both formal and informal. One of the ladies taught some people to make patchwork quilts and bunting out of material (which looked fantastic!). Other times, you would just assist people with what they were creating in the space. So, we had people decorating bags, or making their own pillows out of all the material and needles and thread we had lying around the place. One of the ladies brought in her giant knitting needles and started a huge wall hanging with big strips of material rather than wool, and then left it lying around for others to finish. I saw some 20 year-old boys pick it up and attempt to work it out, and they were then sat down by one of the older ladies in our group and given a quick tutorial in knitting. I, quite by accident, started giving lessons in badge-making, which I only learnt to do on the day, but quickly became obsessed with. See badges here: 

It was such a fun, quick and easy way for people to get involved (particularly kids), and they were always delighted with the results. I spoke to quite a few lovely travellers this way, who couldn't believe their luck about stumbling upon the place, and said they would take away their badges as a precious memento of Cork. This made me feel irrationally happy, that I could be part of a stranger's happy memories of a place, or a holiday memory, for many years to come. That I could have such an impact on how they had felt about their time in Cork. It was wonderful.
One of the other things we did in the space (mainly because I really wanted to), was have little performances. So, I ended up singing, sharing some stories and some poems (The Geebung Polo Club!! Thanks, Poetry in Action!!) I originally thought this would be awkward and stop the flow of the place, but it actually was lovely. It encouraged other people to step forward with songs, stories or poems of their own and changed the nature and pace of the cafe for a little while.
After the final Sunday we sold off the things we had made, making a fair amount of cash, which will be donated to a charity and also go towards the cost of whatever we make for the Midsummer Festival next year. This was exceedingly exciting and satisfying as well. Sadly, we had to then dismantle the space, though first we put the bed in the street for a little bit of fun:

But, it was all very sad to pack up and leave. The pop-up cafe was a truly special and wonderful event, and we all wished we could keep it going forever. It made me think of a little dream I had a few years ago to own my own theatre/creative space, and I thought how this cafe was exactly the sort of thing I had imagined. Something small, unique, whimsical, intimate, ever-changing and surprising. Maybe one day I'll go back to the Blue Mountains, buy some sort of building and turn it into something wonderful like that. Part business, part home, part art space, part theatre, part school, part community hall. And me, living on the third floor with a bunch of cats, big hair, zany earrings, mismatched socks making bread and scones in my hippy-dippy clothes. Ah, bliss.

The Girl Who Came Before.

The Girl Who Came Before liked to make pancakes. She was very good at them. She was excellent. She could have been a pancake chef. They were fluffier and thinner than the ones you make. She knew how to flip them so they twirled right up into the air, and landed back in the pan without getting all mussed up or doubled over or splattered on the ground. They were like the ones you get in a restaurant. They came in piles of perfect circles, with dripping maple syrup and squares of butter. They were cartoon pancakes. That's how good they were. They were as good-looking as cartoon pancakes. They were that perfect. The Girl Who Came Before could also bake cupcakes with perfect pink icing, smooth gorgonzola sauce, chicken soup and lasagne. Cookbooks were not a foreign language to the Girl Who Came Before, and she could do things to vegetables that would make them want to be grated, chopped, and eaten.
The Girl Who Came Before had stronger arms, which pushed swings higher and gave hugs tighter, had shapelier legs, that ran faster and danced better and a nicer laugh, which was always louder and longer. The Girl Who Came Before knew all the lyrics and all the moves, she could rock a dance floor, stay up all night and shake her (perfectly shaped) booty better than Beyonce.
The Girl Who Came Before knew just what to say to diffuse a situation, she could get Tom and Jerry to see eye to eye. She made everyone feel at ease, she told you the truth, because she was as honest as the day is long, true blue, straight as an arrow, straight down the line, always said what she meant, meant what she said and you knew where you stood with the Girl Who Came Before.
But more than that, the Girl Who Came Before would fill a room, not clear it. She was the person whose messages were always answered, whose calls were always taken. The Girl Who Came Before was the girl people came to parties to meet. The one everyone hoped would be there. She made things fun, and lively and hell, lets face it, she was the party: if she wasn't there, there was no party, there was just a bunch of people standing around awkwardly and coincidentally drinking in the same room together. She was the glue, the bond, the fairy dust, the va-va-voom and the je ne sais quoi, she was the missing piece in the puzzle of your life. She was the one with the awesomest dress, the bestest shoes, the most up-to-the-minute make-up, the cutting-edge hair, the swishiest earrings, the brightest colours. She was the one who everyone threw their arms up at and said, "Ohhhhh, I love the.... " fill-in-the-blank, "Where did you get your...." fill-in-the-blank, "You always look so...." fill-in-the-blank. The Girl Who Came Before was a riot, she was a laugh a minute, she'd crack you up, have you rolling in the aisles, you'd lose your head, split your sides, and die laughing with the Girl Who Came Before.
The Girl Who Came Before was just the right side of rude, the side that made you giggle in surprise, but never frown or misunderstand. She made you feel you were living on the tips of your toes, twisting this way and that to catch what she might do next, to keep up with her crazy, whimsical, hair-brained schemes, but she also never, never made you fear an over balance, a twist too far, a topple and a fall, splat, flat on your face and a broken front tooth.
The Girl Who Came Before was sure of herself, she knew where she stood, she was confident in her decisions and she stuck to her guns. She knew what was best without hand-wringing or ringing up to check with her superiors, because she knew what everyone else did, which was that she didn't HAVE superiors, not really, not even the ones that were supposed to be her superiors: she knew it and they knew it, and she only went along with it because it was polite to pretend they were her superiors, only went along with it because that's the way the world is supposed to work, and there'd be chaos if she didn't. She didn't need to do a google search or check wikipedia to be sure she was right and that she knew best. And, hey, even if someone else checked it up and found the google search said she was wrong, that was cool, that was fine, she knew she'd be right another time, and hey, it was still the right decision, as far as she was concerned, let it go, let it go. But the Girl Who Came Before never had to utter those words, not once in her life did she have to console herself, or comfort herself, or talk herself back from the brink, because those words, those thoughts and feelings were infused in her limbs, they kept her shoulders unknotted and her backbone straight, and her fingers and her hands unclenched. She never had to say, 'sorry', because she knew there was nothing to apologise for, she never had to say, 'It'll be alright', or 'You'll be fine,' or give herself a pep talk. Confidence was an all-day, every-day phenomenon for the Girl Who Came Before, it was part of her body, so she didn't even notice it, came as easily as oxygen, happened naturally and grew as fast as her hair and fingernails, so if a little bit ever got snipped off, it would soon be back again, soon be back again, longer and stronger than before.
So, no matter how hard you try or what things you do; no matter how much you smile or compliment or joke or tease; no matter the talents you possess or the skills you have learnt; you just won't do. You have to face up to the fact that, in their eyes, you're just ordinary.  To them, you're just normal. You're one more person, a mere mortal, one more non-descript face in a crowd of similar faces, that'll be forgotten the moment that its seen. You may be many things, you may have many goals and dreams, you may even be looked on kindly by certain people, but none of this matters when you consider that you are nothing more than the Girl Who Came After the Girl Who Came Before

Kid World

When you look after kids you end up doing things that you haven't done for years, and you never realised you lost the ability to do. I was a pretty active kid, really, when I think about it. I didn't like sports, but I loved climbing trees, dancing, going on hiking adventures, swinging on swings, going down slides, jumping on trampolines, doing cartwheels, doing somersaults etc. etc. etc. Also, being an actor, you spend a lot of time doing strange things, like pretending to be animals, or attempting to express nothingness through movement and all that sort of bizarre stuff. But, since I've been out of acting school for a while, and I'm now 27, which is ridiculously old-sounding (and must be old-being as well, because I'm not longer considered a youth by many funding bodies and programs. Pooh to you, I say), my body got creaky without me even realising.
This came to my attention today when the little one decided she wanted to somersaults. That was ok, but then she wanted me to do them too. I said I couldn't do them. She told me (cheeky monkey) that I need to practice. As I always tell her this when she gets into a strop over the fact that she can't do something, I decided I couldn't get out of it now. So, I attempted to do a somersault. I was worried about my neck. I was worried about my spine. I was worried about my tailbone. The little one wouldn't have a bar of it. 'Practice! Practice!' So, I ended up putting down two sofa cushions and doing somersaults on those.
It was a lot of fun once I got going. It reminded me of a yoga class I took last year, in which our teacher took us through a variety of balancing poses. She told us this was a good thing to do, because most of us (unless we are trapeze artists) always look at the world from the same perspective and along the same lines, giving us a stagnant view of things. But, through yoga and these balancing poses, we would be able to look at our world anew again. I liked that idea, and I thought it was probably an important exercise for someone who wants to be involved in the arts (it also gave me a new perspective on yoga, which I have previously found difficult to enjoy).
Anyway, the point of all this is, that looking after kids, and doing somersaults, for example, offers the same thing, this different perspective on the world. When I write it down like that it seems like a very boring and pedestrian observation. Something that I've spoken about many times on this blog before. I think the difference I'm trying to remark on here is that different physical perspective. I'm crawling around the ground a lot more than I have in years, I'm squeezing into tight spaces, I'm doing crazy things my body hasn't been asked to do for many moons. Its complaining a little. Its outright refusing in some instances, but it is enjoying the change. I've found that if you quit worrying, and just go along with it and see what happens, generally the body will warm up to it. It might even enjoy it. It might find it a welcome change from all the boring gym work it usually gets put through.
On another side, but still related note, it does also make me wonder how much harder it would be as an 'older' parent. I know its something that older parents vehemently deny (that they are in any way less able or capable than their younger counterparts), and I certainly don't want to draw huge assumptions and make sweeping statements, but I'm wrecked after 3 days with one little girl (not even both of them together), and I'm only 27. I'm not as fit and healthy as I have been, admittedly, but I'm no weakling either.
Despite my concerns that perhaps adulthood in the later 30's, early 40's would be, in many ways, more difficult and more exhausting, I still have no plans to have children myself any earlier than 35. My host mother told me last week she couldn't see me without children. This does seem to be a common theme amongst most of the people who know me. Its odd that everyone else feels so certain about the fact, when I'm not convinced myself. Anyway, enough babbling. That's my post for the day. Its not very funny or coherent, but, as I said, I'm wrecked.

One More Day to Go

Only one more day of NYWM. Thank christ. Much as I have enjoyed it, and sometimes it has helped me to write some good posts, a lot of the time (especially recently, when I've been very busy), its been quite stressful. For whatever reason, maybe because I set myself a reasonably easy goal (it doesn't require a lot of thought to do do a blog post every day, though it does take some time), I saw it through, when I've failed at things like Scriptfrenzy (which require a more dedicated and focused through-line on completing one script. Even though they tell us it doesn't have to be any good, I find it difficult to keep writing a script if there are problems with the structure, characters or writing in the early parts. I do need to get over this, because it makes it very difficult to finish things and get to the second draft stage. I have a pile of scripts on my desktop in various states of unfinished-ness. I believe this is what is called 'procrastination') I've failed at. Anyway, that was a long set of brackets. Worthy of an academic article. Did you even remember what was at the beginning of the sentence by the time the brackets were closed? I didn't. I started on the next sentence without finishing the last.
Yes, what a segue. What was I talking about? I'm wrecked. I've had the little one all day for the past three days because she's finished school and its pretty exhausting. She's come up with a neat way of getting around my excuse of 'not being able' to do something, which is to tell me I 'need to practice'. She said it to me today when I couldn't do a somersault, which is hysterical, because its what I always tell her and her sister if they throw a tantrum about not being able to do something. So, of course, I had to take my own medicine and attempt a somersault. I put down many sofa cushions before I agreed to do it though, believe you me.
Anyway, the point I was trying to make was about NYWM. I've enjoyed it. I've enjoyed posting this much, and I'm proud of how my blog looks now. I don't know if the quality of the posts for everyone else has increased, but I've certainly enjoyed the month, and I like that I've got a very random but in someways more complete version of my experience here because of it.
I don't know if I will keep up the daily posts into July (for one thing I'm going to be much busier with the girls and a lot more travelling, and I do have to focus on my friggin' Melbourne Fringe and Wexford Fringe show. God, I'm having heart palpitations just thinking about it. If you want to follow the progress on that one, I've set up another blog - I know, I'm obsessed - which is doubling as the show website here: http://nomatterwhereyougothereyouare.blogspot.com/ ), but I hope that I can at least do some more regular posting than I had done. I do like to look at the list of blog posts for June (April looks pathetic in comparison). It gives me such a feeling of satisfaction and production.
So, thank you NYWM for a wonderful month, even if I wasn't technically the right age to participate.