too much too soon

I had to go to London on Tuesday to drop paperwork at the Swiss embassy. This seems slightly out of character for the Swiss, as they have a consulate in Edinburgh and a staunch respect for the post office, both of which would be far a far more logical way to hand in paperwork, yet I paid the £215 to the orange plane for a 40-hour trip down south. 

What do you do with one day in London? Try and get everything done that needs done before returning to the Highlands. My £10 underground and overground ticket got a workout - West Norwood to Whitehall to Oxford Circus to Covent Garden to London Bridge and back to Covent Garden - and for the first time ever, I was exhausted, even without the normal overindulgence activities with friends. For the first time I understood why the BBC produces the show Escape to the Country and why the press always hankers on about 'green space' and 'south-facing gardens'. I get it now, people. A day full of bouncing between armpits and boobs on the trains (I'm 5'2") and darting around babbling teenagers on spring break and gawking tourists was enough.

My friend Jayne concurs; we were speaking yesterday about how spoiled we've been to live in a place where there just aren't many people. We can go for walks and not see a soul. We pass a few people on the way to the corner shop, rather than dozens. Inverness has ruined me for crowds.

This blog has been hijacked by a time warp

I thought I’d just wait for February to start so I could pretend January didn’t happen. Och, well. 

2011 began in a tiny village on the northwest Scottish coast. Our Scourie adventure was made all the better with a crew up for Hogmanay. Every new year should be rung in with good food, old friends and new friends, and bagpipes in a cozy pub.

And then, re-packing the car with the bedding and leftover food and wine from our three weeks in the wilds, before we took off on the 7th for ten days in Switzerland.

Verbier nonsense (see above) included: indulgences (food - raclette, fondue, etc. - & wine), frights (M’s concussion ordeal; he’s fine), aches (belly pain from laughing so much), delights (watching 13-year-old Bieber-haired Italian boys compete on the Wii’s Just Dance). Yes, I know that rhymes, yo.

We had 48 hours at home before heading to Edinburgh and Glasgow to catch up with friends, and to Aboyne to see M's mum. And next?

The world. We’re now officially short-termers in Inverness. House is getting valued, and we’re amid a massive clear-out. Anything we haven’t used in a year goes.

Last night I was thumbing through my two-year collection of the Observer Food Monthly, ripping out recipes I want to scan, considering my relationship with ‘stuff’ now compared to a decade ago. Shopping used to be a hobby for me; I’d drop by Pottery Barn or Anthropologie or Banana Republic once a week, just in case I’d miss out on something delicious. Some of this stuff has been lurking in a storage unit in Wichita for ten years. Other stuff has been culled and given to my brother, friends, or charity shops. A few choice items are still with me.

I moved to Prague with a backpack and a suitcase full of two 128-capacity CD wallets and clothes to withstand the winter. After the Great Cull, we’ll see how much this has multiplied.

Because this view never gets old, Lugano during our few days there. Fog from the heavens or smog from Milan? You decide.

Scourie, 15:50

Yes, there is a pattern here. The air is bursting with pinks and blues, and even the sky takes on a blue-grey hue. Birds are everywhere - cranes, robins, ducks, of course the geese and turkeys on the farm down the lane - and when one starts squawking, the others answer. I wonder what they're discussing.

Living in a place like this would be a lifestyle. Yes, the SPAR has a good range of foods, but milk is only delivered on Thursdays and there wasn't any left today. The nearest supermarket is in Ullapool, which is over an hour away in good weather. So there's step one: plan. I did create a menu list for three weeks but for some reason I didn't think about things like milk.

The house where we're staying is on the estate of Scourie House, which was built for the Sutherland estate in 1846. This was part of the 1.1 million acres of the Sutherland Estate, which was one of the biggest landowning estates in Europe for much of the 18th and 19th centuries. This house was part of the administration of these vast acres of land, and was one of three places in Scotland that did the day-to-day running of the estate. I'm curious about Scourie House, a rambling white house on the hill, with palm trees in the garden and the goose and turkey farm at the end of the long, gated drive. A light is on in one of the rooms tonight - a first since I arrived. Maybe I'll go snoop tomorrow.

We were talking earlier about growing up in a place like this. M sees the romantic side: romping up and down the hills, swimming in the sea in summer, self-sustaining gardens, wild camping. I see the frustrating side; tedious planning, three-hour jaunts to the cinema, total dependency on the Royal Mail for any books or magazines, desolation if the internet or electricity goes out.

It's only Day Three. Sixteen to go. 

Scourie, 15:15

The good news: mother-in-law is out of hospital. I will shout this from the rooftops for ages to come: if you wake up in the morning and everything in your body is working properly, you're damn lucky.

Other good news: I've arrived in Scourie, where we'll be until January 6th. Scourie is a mere half hour's drive from Cape Wrath, the northwestern point of Scotland. There's a tiny Spar with the necessities and a few random items such as kiwi fruit, gorgonzola cheese, and organic potato chips. There's a hotel with a pub that's open a few hours every night. And apparently tomorrow evening the local kids do The Lion King at the village hall.

The light at this time of year is breathtaking. The pink skies shift a bluish light on the snow. I'm always taken aback by how different things look blanketed in white. Roads I've driven many times suddenly become more stark, the landscape more vivid after the snow. Mama Nature is ensuring we see everything with new eyes.

The photo above, of Mama Nature's Christmas tree, is just behind the cottage. The sea is just outside the window. A heavenly place, this.

A story must be the ax for the frozen sea within us. - Franz Kafka

Perhaps it's the same for every expat, that tiny twinge in the heart that zaps each time their first home abroad is mentioned. I lived in Prague for just under a year, far less time than I've spent living in any other city, yet my memories from Prague are among my most vivid from the past decade.


I've spent two short weekends in Prague since moving away in midsummer 2002, both times with friends keen to explore the city. But this time was different; M's first time, my chance to show off the city that began the choices that led to us.

I tried to see it through his eyes, and the eyes of our friends A & G who joined us. After finding our accommodation, then chatting to the extremely excited owner whilst staring at our watches, knowing the Scotland v Czech Republic match was about to begin, we ambled to Staroměstské náměsti, the old town square, home of my favorite church spires in the world (the Tyn, below). Here we found a big-screen TV outside a pub, with chairs beneath heat lamps and blankets for cold customers. We watched as clean-up crews vacuumed up the litter left behind by the 8000-strong Tartan Army. We were given stellar American service by a girl from Florida. It only took an hour in Prague to remind me why it was so easy living there.

Ghosts plagued our two days of meandering. I could hear the laughter of my friends hurling around darkened corners, could remember stumbling into the light and fresh air after an evening in a dingy, arched cellar pub. My head hurled with stories I'd forgotten, with voices I'd not thought of in years, with promises made and friendships born. I'm still close to many of the people I met during my time there; two came to my wedding, and one sent a toast that made me cry.

There's a heightened sense of reality when trying to fit into a new country. It makes every tiny incident seem as big as the world.

Of course things have changed. But Prague's soul is rich, and her centuries of stories are more everlasting than any expat's first year abroad. But she respects how my story weaves into her fabric, and the stories of my friends, and of those who are just beginning their Prague story. She is enticing and coy, and she knows I'll be back.

bella Venezia

Since my first visit in 1999, I've been to Venice dozens of times, and the subtle transformations of this peerless vision take my breath away. Something insignificant always changes - an awning, a freshly-stenciled wall boasting the path to St. Mark's, a revamped cafe. These are always more obvious with a backdrop woven with hundreds of years of stories, and an eerie familiarity that only Hollywood can provide. (And Vegas; there's always the loud American voice outside the Doge's Palace wailing, "It looks just like Vegas!")

We stayed in one of my favorite tiny hotels, in a tiny canalside albergo just behind St. Mark's on Calle de Vin. As I'm kind of in training for a 10K on Sunday, I went for jogs in the morning in the Sestiere Castello, a quiet district of apartments where the Venetians sleep. Laundry is strung in waves beneath windowsills, and discarded children's toys litter the paths between buildings. This is the Venice I savour, the lives of the people whose souls have led them or kept them on this sinking mass of unpredictable land.

The other unmissable sestieres are Santa Croce and Dorsoduro. These are narrower, more confusing, and more pungent than Castello, but they share a soul. This is Venice - not the Versace store, or Harry's Bar, or couples arguing over a grotty map. Venice is in the eyes of the old women shuffling to the pharmacy and the nondescript doorway hiding a modern mansion behind its plain facade. Venice is what remains when the last tourist is tucked into his comfy bed and before the first breakfast is served the next morning.

The last time I was in Venice was in 2007. I went for a weekend, alone - a gloriously self-indulgent way to play in the city. When in Venice alone, I notice things. And I noticed a lot of things had changed.

Many shops now boast Made in Italy signs in their windows, and after a few conversations it's obvious that cheap Chinese-made imports are driving many local Venetian shops out of business. It breaks my heart that globalization has hit this sacred place, but a stroll along the main thoroughfare from Santa Lucia to Rialto and St. Marks exhibits an astonishing number of shops filled with cheap swag. The silent movement of Made in Italy signs mean little to the tourists wanting cheap souvenirs for friends.

I also noticed an uncomfortable number of immigrants running the shops, waiting on tables, working at cafes, and selling souvenirs out of carts on street corners. I'm aware of the slight controversy of this comment, and I'm also aware that the current Italian experience no longer means meeting Venetians in Venice, Florentines in Florence, and Romans in Rome. But when I frequently spent weekends in Venice, from 2004-2006, I always relished my chats with waiters who told me stories of their Venetian neighborhood and fourth-generation shop owners whose brother made the masks and cousins handcrafted the glass sold in the shop. Italians have a special breed of pride and loyalty - to neighborhood, then city, then region, then country. Some of this has been lost.

The most delightful discovery this time was the book Venice is a Fish, recommended by a kind Polish girl working in the tourist info center. "Reading this made me stay here and live here," she told me, and I can see why. It's quirky, charming, and filled with the stories that I missed from my previous visits. I bought it and read it on our last day in Venice, and fell in love with the place all over again. 

Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go. -Truman Capote

I first fell in love with Venice when I was a child. I had a book about gondoliers, and I used to write stories about a gondolier's daughter who spend her mornings helping her father clean the boat.

When I finally visited Venice at age 27, that rush came back as soon as I walked out of Santa Lucia and saw that gorgeous, grotty canal. It was love, and lust, at first sight.

Part of why I moved to Ljubljana was its proximity to Venice; less than 3 hours on the Casanova Express train and I was among the rich, glorious beauty of bella Venezia. I had a routine: I'd get there in the evening, check in at Albergo Doni for 40 EUR/night, eat at a trattoria, have a drink at Centrale. I'd spend my days wandering, Moleskine in my bag and stories floating in my head, my nights finding a place for dinner. I'd spend hours watching. Time stops in Venice.

It's more than the romance of water gliding through ancient buildings. It's the sense of purpose that Venetians feel, the overwhelming need to conserve this precious place. It's the shared love between those who become better people when in her boundaries. It's laughing at the Americans who see the Doge's Palace and squeal, 'it looks just like Vegas'. It's sitting in Harry's Bar and hearing history ooze from its walls. It's bellinis and wine, free happy hour food and wooden bridges during the floods.

M asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year. I said Venice. We're going in 11 days, and already I'm nostalgic for how different it will seem this time around. I change. Venice doesn't.

Orcadian bliss

Last week, M was in Orkney working. In these four days, I accomplished the following:

- A full 4-page synopsis of SNAKES

- A query letter that I don't loathe

- A read-through of each character's dialogue and scenes for consistency

- A full read-through, including edits from the printout last week

This is more than I've done in months. And I know why. I am more productive from around 3-9pm. I'm not a creative morning person, fiction-wise. Or I'm not now; perhaps I can train myself.

Anyway. I joined M on Friday, and my time on the bus and ferry reminded me of how the journey colors the event. The bus ride to John O'Groats was lovely; tea, interesting historical tidbits, a magazine, sunshine and the beautiful Scottish coast. I sat outside on the ferry and talked to a charming couple from Donegal - they live just across the water from where I stayed two weeks ago - and learned far too much about having children in rural Ireland ('You're not a family until at least six') and how their eight children are nothing compared to their neighbors, who have 22. (!!) Then another bus up to Kirkwall, where a tour guide incessantly told stories about everything we passed along the way. A brilliant way to spend a Friday morning.

Orkney is stunning. The colors are intense, and crayon-bright. Soft hills sweep into the sea, and the light bathes the land in a glowing sheen. We stayed in this house (below), called Roeberry, and I felt like a princess, with majestic views of her kingdom of islands and sea. And cows. This photo was taken at midnight.

We spent the next day frolicking among neolithic ruins. It's difficult for me to fathom the age of standing stones. The Ring of Brodgar and Standing Stones of Stenness are other-worldly, especially when glittering in the sunlight. They are placed in perfect circles. The jut into the ground further than they stretch to the sky. So many stories weave through these massive stones, aching for someone to tell the truth of their origins, the steps in their rituals.

I wrote a story when I was 8 or 9 about heaven. It was a place where all mystery would be revealed, all truth told, all lies exposed, all potential fulfilled. I'm sure it was a veiled desire for some gut-wretching second grade wrong to be righted, but I still yearn for that sort of afterlife.

The Knox trial

I've been following the Amanda Knox/Meredith Kercher case for the past two years with sympathy and horror. In a nutshell, Knox and Kercher were roommates; Kercher was stabbed to death; Knox didn't do herself any favors afterward. But the evidence isn't strong enough; the extraneous circumstances and shocking tactics used by Italian investigators were pointed and manipulative. (The most disgusting? Telling an incarcerated Knox that she's HIV-positive, asking her to write down every man she's slept with, then telling her oops, we made a mistake and passing the list of men to the press.) I don't think Knox did it.

I won't go into the whole 'it's anti-American' rant coming from Stateside, or the fuzzy circumstances surrounding the case. But what resonates most with me is how alone Knox was in this whole ordeal. She was 20 when this happened; an exchange student from UW; a wide-eyed girl abroad for the first time, tasting the newness and embracing the curiosities and independence of living in another world. I've been there; had I been there at age 20, who knows the trouble I'd have got myself into.

When I moved to Prague I was 27, but still naive; I'd been lucky, growing up in the Midwest and living in places where I had good friends and good people around me. I went to Prague with this same attitude. You trust everyone. You just assume nobody would do anything weird, or put you in a compromising or dangerous position. At parties, you ignore the guys shooting up in the corner, you smirk at the guy puking in the kitchen sink, you don't ask when you see a friend kissing a girl you've seen soliciting herself on street corners. You roll your eyes if something seems dodgy, chalking it up to a 'cultural divide'.

My flat in Prague housed five of us. Great people, all, but one had a boyfriend who hobnobbed with the neo-Nazi crowd, one brought a different guy home every weekend, and the drugs and booze were plentiful. After I'd left, the guy who took my place brought a girl home one weekend, and everyone woke up to find their handbags, wallets, iPods, CDs, and even their pricey underwear gone.

One of the flats where I stayed in Lisbon wasn't much better; my windowless room was in the middle of a 1960s block of flats, and only one of the doors to the room locked. The owner was a weird Portuguese woman who kept large bags of hash in the cupboard; I often found residue of cocaine in our tiny bathroom. I ignored her until she began to invade my privacy, asking where I was, who I was with, etc. Then one night I came home to find her rummaging through my things, and I moved out without telling her the next afternoon.

I'm not sure I would deal well with the legal systems of any country I've lived in. I never spoke the languages well, never really understood the relaxed manner of the police and their selective interest in broken laws. I feel for Knox, for her bewilderment after her roommate was murdered, her inability to understand the nuances of Italian or the misreading that can happen when two people attempt to solve a problem in two very different languages. Had the police raided either of my former apartments, I would have been an accomplice. How would I have fared?

A young British girl is dead, stabbed in the throat. A gossipy, drama-loving Italian town has now put three people in jail for the same murder. Now, a 22-year-old American girl will be in jail for the next 26 years.

Maybe Knox saw it happen; maybe she heard it; maybe she found herself in a surreal moment that felt more like a horror film than Roman Holiday. She admits to smoking weed on the night of the murder; depending on her reaction to the stuff, maybe she thought it was a bad trip, that the murder was happening in her head, not in real life. But 20-year-old exchange students don't just stab their roommates in the throat. Especially girls like Knox, who did stupid things like any 20-year-old girl (I am so thrilled that the internet didn't exist when I was a teenager; YouTube never dies.), but certainly wasn't harboring fantasies of killing anyone.

I feel for Knox; I can't imagine the fear throbbing through her body when she heard the verdict last night. I can't imagine the heady whirl of the terror of the past two years as she tried to make sense of a night she doesn't remember well. It's a cautionary tale to everyone living abroad, on their own. Yes, it's freeing; you can be whoever you want to be. And so can everyone else.

Living juicy

So M & I were invited to help chaperone 16 middle school kids on a Thanksgiving weekend ski trip to Zermatt, and the Matterhorn didn't disappoint. It's one of those Surreal Things that you know about throughout your life (like Venice, or the Eiffel Tower, or the Taj Mahal) and when you see it you've got to pinch yourself. It is a majestic sight, curling out of the Alps into the sunshine. Gorgeous.

Some teachers loathe middle school; I love them. The boys are dorky and goofy, the girls are desperate to kiss the boys and are just beginning to discover how nasty girls can be to one another (though they hold no grudges). They're awkward, silly, fun, desperate for freedom but long to be entertained. It's my very favorite age.

Zermatt is a charming little village with the typical chalets one associates with the country. Everything is immaculate, well-run, sophisticated, and I found myself wondering how much more efficient the world would be if Switzerland was in charge. This, of course, reminded me of a t-shirt sold in a restaurant in Stresa, on Lago Maggiore:

In heaven, the cops are British, the lovers are French, the food is Italian, the cars are German, and the whole thing is run by the Swiss. In hell, the cops are German, the lovers are Swiss, the food is British, the cars are French, and the whole thing is run by the Italians. Touche.

Living as juicily as possible...off to Edinburgh and Glasgow for the next few days to take in some Christmas cheer. Slainte!

Narcissism and self-deception are survival mechanisms without which many of us might just jump off a bridge. - Todd Solondz

Note to self: planning a wedding (sorry, a wedding and a party, on different continents), renovating a flat, learning to drive and finishing a novel while working part-time doth not make light work. This is not a pity-me post, but it is a disclaimer of sorts if this ends up being a narcissistic glimpse into the relatively unstable Krambling mind. (As if blogs are really anything but narcissistic glimpses into the writer's mind, but nevermind.)

NG1 (narcissistic glimpse number one): Another day, another email from a friend saying they can't make it over for the wedding, or to Wichita for the soiree there. I suppose everyone goes through this, but it still sucks. I've never been one of those girls who has planned her wedding since age 4, but I have had The Dream, where everybody I've ever adored from everywhere I've lived gathers together in a huge clump of one-degree-of-separation-ness and scatters, like marbles or jacks, some sticking together and others repeling each other and me thrilled that this blending of the social groups is working. August 1 will be a glorious day with wonderful friends, but there will be some huge holes. In Scotland, they have a wonderful tradition that those who can't make it send cards to be read aloud on the night, then a toast is made to them all. I like that idea. Though it'd be yet another chance to ruin my eye makeup.

NG2: I've been acclimating to the Highlands in two ways that scare me. 1) I think 15 degrees Celsuis/59 degrees Fahrenheit is 'hot'. 2) Whilst in Edinburgh and Glasgow last week, I kept thinking how crowded the streets were, how many people were about, how people were invading my personal space. (And these aren't big cities - 600K in Glasgow, 400K in the Burgh.) It must be the Highland air morphing my brain into mush.

NG3: This is why I LOVE ITALY.

NG4: I failed my driving test today. I haven't failed a test in a very long time. It was due to 'roadworks' as they call it in the UK, where I gave the workers 'too much space' (i.e. I was too far over in the right lane). I am very, very annoyed. "Bad luck," said the Weegie* examiner whose accent I likely insulted by asking him to repeat himself with each command. Failing sucks, too. But it's made better by again glimpsing the above photo.

NG5: The New Baby is nearly gestated. I've been quiet about this one, as it's a tough subject and a tough book to write, though I'm feeling good about it. Hoping to have it ready by the end of June. Fingers crossed.

The top photo is of Turkish lamps and the mountains above Lago Lugano. I'm still on a bit of a high from the trip there. Some connections are tough to break.

*Glaswegian. Some have very difficult accents to comprehend,

Great things are done when men and mountains meet. - William Blake

The EasyJet to Milan is always amusing, but yesterday’s smacked me into the middle of Italianland - the plane was full of tweens and teens clad in tight jeans, pointy shoes and gold belts. Their rapid-fire speech challenged my rudimentary Italian, but I got the gist of things (most were talking about Edinburgh shopping). And landing in Milan felt more familiar than landing anywhere else.

My friends Masa and Tamara picked me up, and as the Alps became visible on the horizon I felt the warming sensation of home. Perhaps that’s because I’ve spent more time in Lugano than anywhere else since I moved abroad eight years ago, and every time I see these glorious mountains I find myself truly relaxed. As we curled up the Collina d’Oro to the TASIS campus and the hilltop village of Montagnola, I had to pinch myself.

I last waved goodbye to Lugano in late July 2007, though a place like this is never far from my heart or my subconscious. I have dreams of Lugano a few times a month, always vivid and colorful (yes, I am certain I dream in color). I have this term I rarely use, sick beautiful, when a view is extraordinarily glorious, majestic, beyond what we mortals should ever see. This region of Italy and Switzerland resonates with me on a level that I don’t understand, but will continue to indulge, because I yearn for this place.

Returning somewhere familiar is both awkward and riveting. Small things - fresh paint on the facade of a house, a new signpost - become reminders that this place existed without me, and didn’t really miss my presence. Seeing old friends and colleagues last night was wonderful, though vetting strange looks from those who took my place tinged the atmosphere bittersweet. I’m sure it’s the first of many deliciously uncomfortable moments that lie ahead this week, as I become an interloper in a place I used to call ‘home’.

It’s raining today, but a soft, clear Ticino rain, so different to the Highland drizzle. Spring rain in Lugano freshens the landscape, enlivens the layers of bright, satiny greens. The magnolia trees are in bloom, fragrant wisteria clings to terraces, and the palm trees sport bright new leaves. The timing of this visit is deliberate; spring is when Lugano sings with renewal and wonder.

Earlier, I trotted across the road to the Pan au Vin, the tiny, extortionately-priced village shop with inconsistent hours and a grumpy manageress, and spent far too long drooling over the sparse but compelling selection. Even this tiny shop stocks the highest quality fresh pesto, jars of olives, sundried tomato paste and truffle risotto. I wasn’t the keenest of chefs when I lived here. Now that I’ve begun to enjoy the creative part of cuisine, I have a feeling much of my week will be spent browsing and salivating in markets and delis. The food of this region is among my favorite in the world.

A week of vacation here is a dream. Working here, I had to force myself to chill out and remember the view between commitments and grading papers and duties. Life becomes life no matter what the backdrop. But now, I’ve got a glorious week to fill with conversation, writing, savouring - falling back in love with this amazing place, on my terms. I’m a lucky lassie.

You can fall in love at first sight with a place as with a person. - Alec Waugh

I'm a bit of a floozy when it comes to falling in love with places...the one I remember first was when I was a child and thought Kansas City was the most sophisticated place in the world. I remember writing stories about gondolas in Venice and Paddington Bear in London and bagpipers in Scotland in grade school, and dreaming of Manhattan's lights as a teenager. That inherent passion for the change of place isn't easily squelched.

Currently I'm dreaming about six weeks from now, when I go back to Lugano to visit friends and students and feed my soul again. I've been missing Italy so much it hurts. I find myself daydreaming about wandering the back streets of Como and stopping at the tiny wine shop for prosecco and tastes of their recent finds. If I try I can smell the damp scent of Venice melting with the smells from the fish market and a local restaurant. I can feel the cold vibe inside the cathedral in Assisi. I haven't been in Italy since July 2007. That's the longest I've gone without bella italia since 1998.

I was thinking of Italy yesterday while browsing my local WH Smiths (there are no independent bookshops* in Inverness; someone, please, open one) and swimming in that wonderful redolence of new books. I bought two, partly because they were half-price (two for under a tenner!) and partly because they excited me, as travel excites me. Like a new book, an upcoming holiday is bought with anticipation and excitement, without knowing what one might learn while on the journey. Perhaps the correlation doesn't end there; what is more important? Is it the planning, the anticipation, holding the book in your hand? The time between purchase and consumption, when you know a bit about what will happen, but not the full story? The journey itself, whether through the air to distant lands or in Times New Roman? Everything that happens from the first day, the first page, to the last? Or the aftermath, the memory, the satisfaction of finishing the last word and turning the book over to look at the cover again, for the last time as a reader, before placing it on the shelf, savoring every photo before filing them away in iPhoto until the next wistful moment?

I've shelved the second novel. For many reasons, most importantly that it lacks that 'wow' factor that is needed to invest in first-time novelists right now - a fair statement by my agent, though gutting at the time. (Again, I forgot to become famous before attempting fiction. Oh well.) This isn't an emergency for a writer - we've got ideas coming all the time, and I have notebooks filled with story ideas and characters and situations and other nonsense to squidge together. And I know the 'wow' book, and I've been avoiding writing it for years, and it's time to put it into the universe. I'll have a first draft by the end of the month.

The push came even before I heard from my agent. One of the most challenging and provocative books I've read in years is The Fahrenheit Twins by Michel Faber, a book we read in my book club. Another book that has really stuck in my head is We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver, an intense journey into the life of a mother. I want to create a book with that sort of impact, a concept that stays with the reader through years of conversations and reminders. That's the goal. Nobody ever rocked the world with anything mediocre or safe. (Visualize me punching the air and yelling, frat-boy style.)

*Leaky's doesn't count; it's glorious, especially when the peat fire is on, but it only sells used books.

Life as a t-shirt

You know those t-shirts/hats/mugs/etc. worn by classy types that say 'London-Paris-New York'? Lived it. Yep. Amsterdam to Paris, baby, and watch us go.
I've always liked Amsterdam; it's a pleasant city, and I didn't even know there was a Red Light District the first two times I went. (I was 8 and 13, but still.) A girlfriend from university lives there with her husband and 10-month-old baby in the Jordaan, a leafy, brick and stone suburb about twenty minutes from Dam Square and the train station. Our first day was spent on their boat, weaving around the canals in the sunshine. It's the best way to see Amsterdam, from a boat with friends. We spent the rest of the week meandering around the town, shopping and stopping for coffee and wine in the sunshine. Perhaps I've become too accustomed to Italy, but I was shocked at the cleanliness of Amsterdam's streets. Few cigarette butts, and people actually use the rubbish and recycling bins. And the Dutch are very house-proud; flowers were still in bloom on verandas and porches, and even the more crumbling properties were tidy. Yet the tidiness wasn't intrusive; it didn't feel forced, or pretentious. And the air quality is fantastic. The dependence on bicycles shows when you can be out all day and not worry about treading through smog. Unlike in Paris, the next stop on the miniscule-Euro Tour.

I have a prodigious fear of Paris. Not that I've been treated poorly there, or have some inherent loathing of all things French; on the contrary. My last visits to Paris were thrillingly spent on various literati tours attempting to re-live A Moveable Feast. I've sang songs beneath a moonlit Eiffel Tower and dealt with transportation strikes (each time, by the way). And gained tons of weight in lovely restaurants. It's more to do with my absolute lack of French language skills. I can't even fake a merci without sounding like an asshole. This is difficult for me. And Paris is an intimidating city. It's lots of big, important, fancy buildings and has such a rich history that I know absolutely nothing about. It's my ignorance that makes me fear Paris.
(That's a pile of books at Shakespeare & Co.) I am lucky enough to have friends in Paris and a boyfriend who speaks enough French to flirt with waitresses, so this fear has now subsided, a bit. There is something quite fabulous about meeting up with friends at the Louvre for an afternoon of wandering and drinking among some of the most famously photographed places in the world. Sigh.

And the ruggers. All day Saturday we saw people in bright-blue France tops. We started the day in Montmartre, as I'd never been, where we happened upon a food and wine festival beneath the Sacré-Cœur. Matt was getting all sorts of love, thanks to a kilt and keen purchasing of both a bright blue beret and numerous flags to attach to his bagpipes (see above photo. He's the one on the right.). Then we moved on to the Seine, where we wandered most of the afternoon before hopping the RER to Stade de France. The atmosphere before the match was amazing. Somehow Matt learned La Marseillaise on the bagpipes and the crowd was magnificent, following him and singing at the top of their lungs. Shame about the rugby, but at least the pre-game was fun.
And now it's the end of our two-week soiree from Shetlandia. Back in Aboyne at Matt's mum's place, after three packed days of house-hunting in Inverness. Matt just put an offer in on a fabulous place on the river; we'll see what happens. It's not fun, this house-hunting madness. I've always fallen into my accommodation, so this is new to me, and it's tiring. But I'm excited about the move, and about Inverness.

Writing. The book is salvageable. I am actually happy with the state of it. I think my subconscious learned some lessons after the drama of the first book and the flow of the story is more consistent. I like the characters. I like the story. I actually forgot I wrote some of it, and found myself trying to remember where and when I put that sentence together. I wonder if all writers find themselves surprised by their own stream-of-consciousness, especially when it actually works out. I'm looking forward to being back in the routine of Shetland, of waking up and making tea and turning on Sven and typing the hours away.

"Traveling is like flirting with life. It's like saying, 'I would stay and love you, but I have to go; this is my station.'" - Lisa St. Aubin de Teran

"experience vild beauty"

is the current advertising campaign on CNN, BBC, and other channels, attempting to showcase Montenegro as the perfect place to vacation. I've been to Montenegro before (I wrote a piece in TangoDiva about it) with some girlfriends and since arriving on Friday afternoon, have been pondering whether I am indeed in the same place.

Leaving TASIS was different to what I had expected – no tears, no regrets, only a strange sense of relief, coupled with the comfortable knowledge that TASIS will always be a home for me, a place to return. That is a lucky feeling.

I think I finally let go of the professional frustrations of the past few years today. Lying on the back of a 30-foot yacht, floating in a turquoise cove, a soft breeze cooling the air – it all went away. This Montenegrin visit has been all rock star, all the time. I received a gift from one of my students' parents in March, inviting me for a week's holiday in their resort in Becici, near Budva. As we're heading to Ljubljana for a wedding next Thursday, this week between MSP and the wedding was free. We got picked up from the airport by Stefan and his father, and whisked in a posh SUV along the roads to the coast. The roads haven't changed at all – still all male drivers, still maddening passing 'lanes' – and the tiny villages along the main roads are still run-down, sun-baked and dilapidated. The sea glimmered through rocks and trees as we reached the seashore, and soon arrived at Becici, a town to the south of Budva that is home to numerous hotel and resort complexes.

This place is interesting. There are three large hotels, three swimming pools, a spa, numerous bars and cafes, a few tennis courts, beautiful landscaping and a clean stretch of beach. We've been put in a top floor corner room, with two balconies, a sitting room, satellite TV – it's bigger than my flat in Montagnola. I've never been to an all-inclusive anything, and it's pretty rockin'. You wear a plastic wristband and you do whatever you want. It's even better when you have a piece of paper from the owner (Stefan's dad) which says you get the best spot on the beach. We've been spoiled rotten so far.

There is an 'animation' team that creates various activities for the 1000-plus guests. Last night's madness was called "Celtic Pride" and Matt got to play the pipes for a rather dull crowd of 100 people or so. They had chosen about an hour's worth of Irish-sounding songs, and the 8 dancers put together a Riverdance-style show – parts of it were quite good, and other parts were extremely camp and entertaining. Afterward, we met up with a few of the dancers, very cool Tunesians, and they took us to Budva to a tiny, cramped bar that is owned by Nicos, one of the hotel managers. He's an interesting man, probably in his 50s, with a wife and child in Germany (he summers in Montenegro) and numerous tales of his adventures in various corners of the world. At one point, he told me that he had lived the ideal life, had no regrets, and loved his life – what statements! I only hope I have that outlook on life one day.

At one point, we saw a Vin Diesel-type outside the bar donning a Madonna-headset and dark glasses. He spoke a bit with Nicos, and we didn't think much of it until a bit later, when Matt was told that the guy was one of the Montenegrin president's bodyguards. Nicos wouldn't allow the president inside, as we were already there. Ha! He kicked out the president for us!

Then today, another gorgeous day. Stefan found us at lunch and said to meet him at 2 and we'd go out on the yacht. Um, yeah. Gorgeous, amazing day tolling around the crystal-clear Adriatic in a beautiful yacht.

So here's to free holidays. We're both getting stone massages tomorrow and going into Budva to check it out. Travelling rocks.

Bling and things

Part of the fun of living in a place like this is when people come to visit. My friends Bob and Hannah braved the A-4 and A-9 to come for a short and sassy break in Luganoville. We spent the Saturday in Como where we met up with my friend Elizabeth, who lives in NYC, and her friend Michael, who lives in Milan. We had a great day wandering the town, watching Elizabeth go shopping for America and eating and drinking and revelling. Elizabeth and I did have a pinch-me moment when we wondered what two Wichita girls were doing drinking beers along the Lago di Como shore...how fabulous are we? Sunday Bob and HC and I went to the amazing market in Cannobio, a town along Lago Maggiore that bursts with color, fragerance and shoppers each Sunday morning. It was fun exploring a new place with old friends. The following weekend, a girlfriend from university, Robin, came with her boyfriend Andrew for a weekend to begin a holiday in Tuscany which ends in Amsterdam this coming Saturday. We had a lovely time in Lugano and I took them to the Cannobio market, too, before whisking them to the train station in time for an early train to Tuscany. I was thrilled to receive an email from Robin last Tuesday - they're now engaged! Huge congratulations to them!

And on a similar note...much revelling was done in Milan after the (hideous, poor, ridiculous - enter favorite negative adjective here) showing of Manchester United in the Champion's League semifinal at San Siro. My friend Marty had tried to get tickets from the same contact he had used in the past, but this guy understood the value of a Man U ticket and probably got five times the face value for it. So when he stopped me in the hallway at 1730 the day of the match I jumped at the chance - Ronaldo! Rooney! At Milan! I wish I could say it was a good match, but a 3-0 Milan win made me wonder why again these guys are so overrated. I haven't seen Milan play this well ever, and if they are on form on the 23rd they could easily roll over Liverpool.

My friend Andrea came to stay last Thursday night, and of course after months of glorious weather it decided to chuck it down all day Friday and most of Saturday. We went to Como anyway (sensing a pattern here?), and spent the day wandering the shops and shocking ourselves by staring at the stock. You know you're in Italy when all the things in the shop window are gold, silver, and white, and match. Oh my god. They are not kidding. Look at these - the jackets are golden-sheened leather, the boots and shoes ostentatiously blinged beyond anything I've ever seen - and it's all ridiculously expensive! Who wears this stuff?!! We did manage to take the boat to Bellagio and wander the slightly classier boutiques there, along with treating ourselves to cocktails with free happy hour food (which happens often in Italy). We found an amazing restaurant - finally, as I have been waiting to find an exceptional place in Como for years - called Il Solito Posto. Great find. Creative, fresh menu and great wine list. Sunday we went up the funicular to Burante, a tiny village overlooking Como, and found ourselves lunching in a creepy hotel restaurant with an amazing view, a waiter who looked like he'd spent the past 25 years living a rough life, and a large table of Sunday lunchers who all looked like the waiter. He wagged his finger when I asked for balsamic vinegar for my Caprese salad, and told Andrea she couldn't eat her pasta with her fork - !! We wandered the town after and it was a bizarre mix of sleepy village and tat-filled garage sale. And that was enough of that - we ran for the funicular and back down to civilization. But beforehand, here's a view from the top (Monte Rosa and the Matterhorn are barely visible behind the mountains!):

My parents join the party on Wednesday for nearly two weeks! Only 14 more days of teaching and a month left of the school year - and for the first time in my life, time ain't flying. This is kind of a good thing. Here's to sunshine, safe travels, and enjoying the time while I have it.

bonny prague-land and high-lands

The Czech Extravaganza ended with much more of the same – aimless meandering to grumble about how 'things were better when I was here' and get used to the stench of body odor, beer, and stale cigarettes that wafts from even the cleanest of places. Other minute details that shan't be overlooked:
• Prague Castle now charges to get into the cathedral and onto Zlata Ulica, or Golden Lane, where Kafka once lived. (We said no; does one really need to see another shop full of tat?) The average bear could easily spend over 15EUR to see the various (boring) buildings on the grounds of the castle.
• I've taken a liking to Mala Strana, the area below the castle, which I once thought of as a bit boring. Some very bright city planner has limited the tat shops to two per block, and the wide array of cafes and restaurants and galleries gives this area a fresh attitude. The riverside streets have been gentrified since the floods in '02 and are prettily painted, full of lovely shops and restaurants, and have enough green space throughout to easily hide away from the hordes on the…
• Charles Bridge. I remember walking this bridge in the early hours of the morning, once in particular just at dawn, with no one else but me and my companions around, the city dozing, boats moored, birds still asleep and nothing but the moon, the slowly fading stars, and a breeze to contemplate. Somewhere my psyche has added a romantic mist from the water and the soft glow of the theatrical lighting of Prague's many spires. Sigh. Now it is merely an extension of the tat shops in the Old Town. Only a few artists remain on the bridge, selling their mind's eye visions of the fair land. Or you can buy plastic toys, or wooden toys, or Russian dolls painted to look like Manchester United or, of course, the ubiquitous "Czech Me Out" t-shirts, hats, buttons, socks, and bras.
• I have never seen so many KFC outlets in a four-mile radius in my life. Sadly, most were full.
Perhaps, in some way, every time a place so ingrained in the mind is revisited, the reality of time passing can smack you in the face. That said, I'm proud of Prague, of how it continues to stay Czech beneath the gloss and the shiny schtick. We did some wandering away from the center, and that's where we saw the reality of life in this city that for some, represents the quintessential Eastern European experience. We met up with my mate Jack (link on right), who recently moved back to Prague, and he said something that has stuck with me – that for awhile, he was living in two cities – Prague from five years ago, and Prague today, trying to find the balance. I applaud him for finding his ground on returning – how difficult it must be to come back, to start over, when you can taste and feel and know how it once was.

In bonny Glasgow now, beneath grey skies with a chill in the air – just as it should be. Matt and I spent the weekend in the Highlands, climbing Cairn Gorm (well, cheating for some of it) and wandering Inverness and Ft. William. It was a lovely Easter weekend, and I was treated like a princess – dinner at Abstract, a posh restaurant, and a night at a four-star hotel in an old mansion along the River Ness. Sunday we had a fab meal in Ft. William, stayed in a charming B&B, and were ready to cycle on Monday but the weather decided against it. I'm here through the week and looking forward to recharging post-travel, getting ready for the next six weeks, and to say goodbye, again, to friends, students, colleagues, and life in Switzerland.

yedna piva prosim

2 APRIL Czech me out whatever – if I see that t-shirt blaring from a shop window again I might vandalize it. After a day and a night of wandering, I finally have kind of got my bearings back. I tend to be a landmark person, and many of the landmarks are gone or replaced by a shiny new cafes, shops, etc. I have, however, remembered having a drink there or a meal somewhere else, and have realized that we really did get out a lot when we all lived here! Had dinner at the consistently fabulous Universal on Saturday and the lovely Klub Architectu last night; both meals were fantastic, and were under €35 each with wine and starter and sides. So it's not so cheap anymore, but really no more expensive than Italy or Slovenia. We also got to the pub for a football match. I've had a Staropramen, a Pilsner and a Gambrinus so have a good start on the Cesky beers. Am still aversive to Czech wine as they tended to drink it mixed with Coke. What is striking me as most interesting is the cleanliness of the city. I remember thinking how filthy it was when I lived here – cigarette butts, dog poo, beer cans, etc. – and now it's not Switzerland clean, but certainly has Italy beaten.

So today, another cloudless sky. A. is keen to go over the Charles bridge, as we stuck to Starometska yesterday, so we'll head to Mala Strana and perhaps up to the castle. The hordes were already out yesterday, and the old town was bursting with tour groups and backpacking American kids. We're hoping they were daytrippers, and A. is hoping to see a less touristy Prague today – though I'm afraid in the center of town, there is no real Prague left. The 'real' Prague is in the panelackys of Haja, the smoky underground pubs near the bus station, the non-stop Herna bars, or the tall office blocks out by the airport. I don't really remember ever running in to students outside of classes, as the center is a pricey Disneyland offering little value or cultural stimulation to the Czechs themselves.

Praha

31 MARCH. It's just past 1500. I'm sitting at a shiny-new green marble bar, sipping a Pilsner Urquell from the tap (sadly, no Gambrinus in Ruzyne airport), watching Liverpool put the smack down on Arsenal 4-1 on four huge flatscreen TVs, listening to Celtic chillout easing out of the speakers above my head. I remember them doing renovations on the airport when I lived here, but this is far nicer than I expected – there's a branch of Anagram bookshop and a sushi bar - !! – no dumplings or goulash to be found. I got to buy today's Guardian, for €4 but worth it as I've not read a newspaper for eons. Promising myself not to drive A. nuts with the "ohmygod it's not how it was" chat that might permeate everything about this place. My stomach is a bit in knots, wondering what ghosts, if any, will rear their heads, what memories will remind me of the sweet, intense ten months that really were the crux of my decision to stay over here for awhile.

I suppose Prague will always be 'home', as will Lisbon and Ljubljana and Lugano and Glasgow and even London, places I've spent time with people whom I've liked, loved, loathed. With the move ahead of me and finally, possibly, settling into something for awhile, I've been pondering the idea of 'home', as I do with every move. Home will always be Wichita, which will remain constant if larger than remembered, thanks to of my roots; however, in a way, this Midwestern town hasn't felt like home in 15 years. Home, for me, is a feeling; it's the warmth of the candlelight and laughter at a friends' dinner party, the comfort of a good chat with a girlfriend over a steaming mug of tea, the coziness of melting into a long-awaited hug. I am so fortunate to have homes in so many places, to feel that familiarity of a multitude of memories floating about. Home is a comfort zone, knowing I belong somewhere.

My current novel writing attempt looks deeply into the idea of place, as the protagonist revisits a place that was once magical to her. She struggles with the reality of the place ten years after she first left it, and wonders why sometimes she is in love with this place as much as she ever was, and then begins to hate it for what it did to her and what it reminds her of. I do think place shapes a person's character when he or she is there for a reasonable amount of time; while our personalities don't change, the insignificant details that make up a life certainly add new dimensions, new layers, to the essence of ourselves.

I often wonder if those in the international school teaching loop really ever live the expat life that I've been so fortunate to experience. Some of my colleagues here have taught in multiple countries, but always within the womb of the school that finds accommodation, takes care of visas, sets up the electricity and internet, and tosses you immediately into an English-speaking clan of others just like you. There is something dignified about queuing for hours for a visa or transport pass, explaining your case to immigration officers, desperately trying to talk to the "Englsh Spoking" person about setting up water service for your apartment. That feeling of accomplishment, of taking it to da man and winning. With the general busy-ness of everyone here, it's no wonder few locals are in the social circle. That said, I think that's what's missing for me here in Lugano – a sense of belonging to a greater community. I miss the expat life, having friends with jobs that aren't teaching, going to social events, or down to the pub to watch football. I miss having friends who are locals, willing to show me the secrets of the area. I sincerely miss having a life outside of work.

90 Kc for a pivo. Back in my day, it was 30! I remember finding a pub out in the middle of panelaky hell where pivos were 8 Kc! How much can one town change in a mere five years?

false spring

I awoke Sunday still buzzed from Saturday evening's festivities, thrilled to see a clear blue sky and warm sunshine. This 'winter' in Lugano has been silly, really. We had one morning with a dusting of snow, and I've worn a hat once. We've had chilly days, but nothing like the five months of harsh Ljubljana winter - I figure it's karma after last year. My girlfriend Tamara and I went to Ponte Teresa, a town on the western tip of Lake Lugano, for a coffee. I will miss the ability to dash over to Italy for a proper espresso. Sigh. It was a glorious day, and Tamara and I had a wonderful walk along the lake. Watching Italians at play on Sundays is so charming - old ladies tottering in high heels and head-to-toe fur coats, kids with scoops of gelato bigger than their heads, and twentysomethings in tight jeans, stiletto boots and huge sunglasses smoking cigarettes and text-messaging whilst conversing with clones of themselves. Not even a fifteen-minute drive from my flat, and life is so different.

Below, the western part of Lake Lugano, looking back toward Monte Bre. We live on the hill in the middle of the picture.