Anthems and odes

Sometime in the past week, the upper part of my left thigh has achieved an admirable state of tumescence. First a mere trace, then a deep, mottled violet and now a blushing lavender, the lump is obvious and tender, causing me to wince every time I accidentally brush against it. Such are the perils of fresh meat training – in an attempt to imitate some version of a vaguely athletic person, I’ve set my sights on being a roller derby girl.

No, I haven’t seen Whip It and yes, I do like the short shorts thank you very much. Wrapped up in those deliciously obscene little numbers with socks rising up my calves to meet the protective knee pads and swishy black and red ankle skates on, I feel powerful and Bodaecia like – even when I’m smacking down on the same left thigh spot for the fourth time that evening.

Everything I’ve ever heard from derby girls about their sport makes me want to be a part of it – the strong focus on feminist principles and athleticism coupled with a cheeky coquettishness makes it a sport I can really get behind. On the first night of training, Barrelhouse Bessie (from the Adelaide Roller Derby League) stood before all the freshies and in her great, booming voice told us in no uncertain terms that anyone caught saying anything negative or mean about another girl would be asked to leave immediately and never allowed back into the league. Preach it, sister!

100 nervous ladies competing against each other could so very easily lead to the kind of bitchy cliques that diminish women on the whole, but it’s amazing how simply being warned against it on threat of expulsion helped everyone to relax, get along and focus on the task at hand – namely, moulding ourselves into some semblance of a competent skater in order to pass muster at the first round of testing. Perhaps because of this, it suddenly became so much easier to approach virtual strangers to arrange casual skating outings – we’re all in the same boat, so we may as well sink or swim together. There’s a camaraderie about the sport (or at the least the way Adelaide practices it – I’ve heard it can be different elsewhere) that’s very appealing to me. I can see why some derby girls end up devoting their every waking hours to it.

And tangentially, I want to use this recent exposure to the derby culture to talk more broadly about the relationships women have with each other; specifically, the things we do to or for each other that create lasting impressions without our knowledge. Obviously it’s important to live your life in a way that is gracious and kind towards others – but often it’s the seemingly inconsequential actions or statements that can help or haunt people for years to come.

After my last post, I received an email from a lovely lady I knew at school. Until a couple of years ago, we hadn’t had any contact since we all gratefully left that panopticon of hormonal angst. I had always liked her, even though we moved in different circles. Sarah had been friends with that particular brand of school folk glibly christened The Beautiful People, while I ran with the kinds of untamed brumbies who devote their lives to debating and drama, and the dedicated pursuit of school prefectdom.

In the grand scheme of school politics, the former manage to irrationally hold onto absolute popularity despite being not well liked by pretty much anyone outside of their own strata – the latter are tolerated because they’re fairly inoffensive and can always be relied upon to bring cigarettes to parties and school camps out of some kind of secret desire to engage in a skerrick of rebellion. Mutually, they regard each other with a kind of respectful indifference, able to exchange pleasantries one hour and absolute disregard in another.

I liked a few of them though. Sarah ended up in my drama class and delivered a sterling performance of Abigail in one of the many annual performances of The Crucible that seems to be favoured by year 12 classes. I remember the night we found out Sarah had been given the highest mark by the moderator. To her face, I was supportive and congratulatory; but backstage, I wasted no time exchanging bitter and basically cruel words with another friend. How could Sarah have been given the best mark when she hadn’t even been doing drama that long? It was clearly ridiculous and she didn’t deserve it but everyone knows the moderators are corrupt anyway and besides, we do drama for the love not the grades, though it would be nice to be recognized for our clear and enviable talent.

Just as I was finishing twisting the knife in the back of this girl who, despite being completely entitled to ignore me based on social standing alone, had always been nice to me, I realized she had overheard everything. Obviously upset and betrayed, she ran to the bathroom to compose herself while I, caught up in a drama of my own making, proceeded to work myself into a wailing lather. My reaction then was borne out of a 17 year old girl’s desire to engage in meaningful activity (which, to a 17 year old girl, usually consists of crying, arguing, issuing forth lofty platitudes, and then crying some more).

But over the years, I thought more and more of that night and how deeply cruel and selfish my reaction was to Sarah’s success. She had clearly delivered a better performance than me and everyone else in the class – it was obvious. And why shouldn’t she enjoy the pleasure of that? How could I have participated – nay, led – something that tried to ruin that for her?

At more than one point in my life (countless, if I’m honest), I have said or done something to another person with the deliberate intention of hurting them; of chipping away at their self esteem and tarnishing their golden moments.

Strange, the things we choose to remember. I remember that night so clearly, and the shame of that behaviour has only grown with the years. But funnily enough, when I met with Sarah a few years ago for brunch and finally took the opportunity to apologise for it, she confessed she had no memory of it whatsoever. Instead, she told me that she hated high school; that despite what other people thought of those Beautiful Folk, she (and many others) had been miserable the whole time. Sarah especially was a sad person for a long time, and had little to no faith in herself. I’m talking serious depression – the kind of bone draining, black fog driven by a sadness so deep it can seemingly not be soothed.

More than my own mean actions towards her does it sadden me that such a nice, beautiful person spent so many years in hidden anguish. And here’s the thing – while I was remembering the one thing I did to betray a girl I genuinely liked and admired, Sarah remembered me as someone who always stood up for what she believed in and was nice to be around. Half of the incidents she’s thinking of are completely lost to me. We focus so much on the formation of our own memories. We forget that we have just as profound a role to play in the formation of other people’s.

We have all of us done things out of cruelty. If we’re lucky, we’re the only people who will remember these ill advised descents into jealousy or pettiness and we’ll use the shame of these memories to help us become better people.

But occasionally, we are the bearers of actions so pure and well meant that they don’t even register with us as being meaningful. A throwaway sentence here, a compliment to a stranger there or just a moment of comfortable silence in another’s person’s company – as the radiant Sofia would say, there are fairies in this here garden.

So I’d like to take this opportunity to thank a few people who have, in ways I imagine they have no recollection of, changed my life for the better.

When I was in year 11, I confessed to my sort of friend Jaci (I say sort of, because she was much cooler than I was, way more beautiful and definitely more worldly – at 16, I was still far too terrified to talk to a boy let alone kiss one or do anything else that teenagers enjoy) that the prospect of taking my clothes off with a fellow struck the fear of God into me. “Jaci,” I said, “all I can think of is that he’ll take one look at my thighs and be absolutely repulsed.”

With all the knowing confidence of a more experienced woman, Jaci turned to me and said, “Clementine, you shouldn’t worry about those things. Trust me, the last thing a guy’s going to be thinking of if he’s naked with you is how big your thighs are. He’s seen you with your clothes on – he knows how big or small they are.”

Less than a minute’s worth of conversation that I’m sure Jaci has completely forgotten, and yet I know it’s had a long lasting impression on me. Clothed, I fret about the size of everything – does my face look fat from this angle, is anyone looking at me and thinking I should be embarrassed to leave the house, does this skirt make my legs look like tree trunks? But since that conversation with Jaci, I have (without consciously recognizing it) never worried about what my body looks like when the clothes come off and the lights dim low. That kind of self confidence where it matters should be bottled and force fed to girls as soon as they hit puberty.

Then there’s Siobahn. What can I say about Siobahn except that she is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met, and her entire way of being makes my heart retreat to innocent games of hopscotch and making daisy chains in the garden. Siobahn and I were both Wendy’s girls during high school. Perhaps it was enforced servitude to bright pink shorts that bonded us. I don’t know. We were never particularly close in high school. I liked her but didn’t trust her social ranking. Another of the Beautiful Folk, she seemed too blessed and pretty to actually be as nice as she seemed.

Then school finished and BAM! Siobahn became a different person. She shaved her head, moved to Darwin, traveled around Australia and the world, lived in South America and grew her hair back and knotted it into dreads. Last year I ran into her at a women’s film festival in Adelaide and was captivated. She is a treasure waiting to be discovered, shining bright but hidden within a map made not of geography but of time.

In January, I literally walked into her in a convenience store in Barcelona and was again bowled over by that luminescent creature before me. Together, we huddled over glasses of wine and crawled beneath the top layers of conversation to discuss everything blanketed beneath. We traipsed around Barcelona, taking silly photos in alleyways and getting lost in claustrophobic ghettos. I remember thinking that she was one of the most interesting and warm people I’d ever met, and that I was so lucky to have her skip briefly in and out of my life in a small corner of the world.

Now she’s returned to Adelaide with the beginnings of a small person inside her. She’s going to be the most wonderful mother. Some people do not appear often in our lives, but flutter around the edges. Occasionally they duck across our paths to give us the briefest of touches, pressing their palms against the wall of our memory to find a way in once more and settle in the comfy chair that will always belong to them.

And so finally to Sarah, the girl who started me on this line of questioning in the first place. She may not realize it, but she exists in my mind as a pillar, occupying the same clearly defined lines that mark out people of my daily acquaintance. There are few to whom I haven’t recounted the story of that brunch – the revelation that, despite what others may have believed, her so called easy life was laboured and painful and that what we choose to believe isn’t always fair or real.

Knowing what I now do, I treasure her smile even more. I remember that once upon a time I allowed jealousy to harm her, but that she turned out to be a better person than I by forgiving and ultimately forgetting; and that despite even all that, she still does me the honour of offering me her friendship and admiration. She may not believe it, but it’s people like her who make the world a nicer place to live in for people like me, who have so often bowed to the temptation to make it a meaner one.

Perhaps it’s true that those who cause us to make changes within ourselves are not those we see everyday but those who force us to turn inwards. The echoes that they leave behind reverberate on the vast landscape of our souls and only occasionally reach audible frequency. They are both memory and reminder that we were once held in the palm of a greater kind of beauty and that, if we follow their example, it’s possible to take others to that wondrous place too.

Wine wobbling widely

Good lord but it's been an age. Call it post holiday brain dysfunction, call it longing for warmer climes. Either way, it's been a good break. As Adelaide shuffles slowly towards something resembling spring, I can only hope I have a few deliciously coy love affairs heading my way. Spring flings are definitely the best way to celebrate the season.

Tonight I gave a speech at the SA Writers Centre for a poetry competition run by said Writers Centre and the Mental Health Coalition. I was asked to speak to the theme of challenging stigmas through writing. Unlike most of my speeches, I wrote it well in advance of the deadline - at least 5 hours before delivery. What can I say? It's not flippancy which makes me act thus but the constant inability to do anything outside of a pressure cooker.

Predictably, I spent the time leading up to proceedings loitering around the food table with a seemingly bottomless glass of wine in hand. It might surprise some to know I'm terribly shy, at least at first, and find it quite awkward to converse with strangers unless I'm two and a half sheets to the wind. This might explain why I make dreadful decisions concerning the pursuit of romance while half plastered and riding high on the good humour of Dylan Moran...but that's a story for another time...

With a bellyful of cheese and vino, I was introduced by SA's Channel Ten Sports Reporter Mark Aiston, who is quite simply one of the loveliest and most humble men you'll ever meet. Really and truly, I was blown away by his complete lack of pretension and sensitivity. What a guy!

And being unable to deliver witty, pithy speeches off the cuff, I proceeded to deliver said speech with my laptop balanced precariously on the lectern and one eye on the crowd. I reproduce said speech for anyone who may be interested. I cut out some of the proselytizing (which it turns out, I did seek to do after all) and some other bits here and there, but this was the original version. I shall be interested to know the thoughts of other writers out there. Part of me suspects it may be hopelessly self indulgent, but I suppose that's part and parcel of being a writer as well so perhaps it's prevalent in some way. This is possibly why I've signed myself up to a Fringe show that involves me reading out recreated diary entries from my early teenage years.

I say 'signed up' as if I'm being coerced when really there's no one involved in the production or decision making process except me. I'm such a douche sometimes, but luckily for you, a douche prepared to make a complete and utter humiliation of her formative years. And if recent events are anything to go by, pretty much every year that has fallen subsequently since then. I AM SUCH A DORK and should never be allowed near wine or men again.

Anyhoo, here she is:

****

For as long as I can remember, I’ve written things down – my teenage diaries are littered with embarrassing entries whose content all either invariably ended with the declaration that my life was OVER, or that I was in love with yet another impossibly attractive and unattainable boy who didn’t even know I was alive because I was FAT and UGLY and therefore my life was OVER.

I have sheets of song lyrics and poems I would be too humiliated to even show to my best friend – and she knows about the time I publicly molested a fellow outside the Crown and Anchor.

I could literally show you reams and reams of terrible things I’ve written over the years. As I said, I've always written things down.

But it wasn’t until I started writing things down for other people that I actually became a writer. And when you become a writer, you start to realize how your words can affect other people. A good writer can move people to laughter or tears or outrageous fury – a great writer can move them through all three stages in the one piece.

I don’t know if I’m a great writer, but one thing I’ve learned over the past few years is that the first step one needs to take on this path is to become an honest one. You have to be willing to open yourself up completely regardless of what people may think of you. Much like falling in love, writing is less about telling someone something you think they ought to know and more about discovering hidden parts of yourself – confronting them head on and experiencing all the beauty and pain they have to offer you; staring your detractors square in the eye to say, “This is me, and nothing you say can shame me into being any different.”

So I find it difficult to wrap my head around the concept of challenging stigmas through writing. To challenge is in itself a deliberate act, and while I have made many deliberate decisions as a writer, I have never done so purely with the intention of challenging the status quo. When I wrote my column for the Sunday Mail, they were fond of couching me as the ‘controversial’ columnist. In turn (though not necessarily because of this), a large chunk of readers often responded to my pieces with the accusation that I was being consciously provocative to court outrage and page views.

I have to say that I find very few things more offensive than the suggestion that the urge to write, to share ideas (and yes, to additionally challenge opinions I believe to be incorrect or misguided) is somehow motivated by a desire to be contrary or supercilious. Such accusations are nothing more than thinly veiled attempts to render you and everything you stand for as meaningless – to say that someone courts controversy is essentially to say that they believe in nothing other than that which will isolate them from the flock, regardless of what it might mean.

I have never written anything I don’t believe in 100%. On occasion, I have changed my viewpoint, such as following the Bill Henson affair. Part of being a great writer is also being willing to allow others to open your mind; to lift you from a place in which you thought you had laid down solid roots and instead transport you to unfamiliar territories – to lay you down on disconcerting lands whose beauty inherently lies in its promise to show you something you never previously would have thought possible.

My most ‘controversial’ column was written early on in my stint as a Sunday Mail columnist, and for the purpose of tonight I’ll use it as an example. Please understand that my intention is not to proselytize but merely to provide the most obvious example I can think of of challenging stigmas, whatever that might mean.

It was prompted the week prior because someone had sent me an outraged letter objecting to a comment I had made supporting reproductive rights and access to state funded, legal abortion. Frustrated by the modern day scarlet letter that all those who’ve had abortions seem destined to be forced to bear, I wrote an unapologetic piece detailing my own life – over a period of 18 months, I had not one but two abortions. I didn’t apologise for them then and I won’t apologise for them now.

But the point of my column at the time was not only that I wouldn’t apologise for them, but that women in general shouldn’t have to. That a large proportion of women who do speak of them in trembling, apologetic tones are merely responding to the general social expectation that they SHOULD wear their decisions like a scarlet letter, trumpeting familiar claims that it was the hardest choice they’ve ever had to make and so on and so forth.

As was to be expected, I was slammed widely from all quarters. People I’d never met took it upon themselves to call me, by turns, a slut, a whore, a bitch who should keep her legs closed, an abomination, an evil baby killing machine and (perhaps most amusingly) someone who was so repulsively unattractive that it was a wonder I’d found anyone willing to sleep with me at all let alone impregnate me. I even had someone write to inform me that the good Catholics of Rome were praying for my soul.

Most disappointingly, people who claimed to be pro-choice lambasted me for going through the procedure twice – after all, hadn’t I ever heard of contraception? Because as we all know, accidental pregnancies are like acquired immunity – once you’ve had one, it just can’t happen again! To whatever extent your pregnancy was 'accidental' or the result of contraceptive laziness is really irrelevant to me - if you agree with the right to choose abortion, it's none of your business how or why that decision comes to be. It frustrates me to this day that some people who claim to be pro-choice seem to treat abortions like get out of jail free cards – in their world, a woman is entitled to one (provided she demonstrates the requisite self flagellating regret, crawling on her belly to beg forgiveness from the court of public opinion).

The point of my column was not to shout from the rooftops that I’d had two abortions and refused to apologise for them (which is not the same thing, as some people argued, as being flippant about them) – it was to demonstrate to the public that, despite what we are led to believe, when it comes to such things I am but one woman in a sea of many. I wanted to stand up there and say that I will not be crippled by a sense of shame foisted on me by a society that forces me to qualify decisions made regarding my own body and mental capacity. That, more than anything, what I felt was sheer unbridled relief – and that I am by no means the only one who feels this way.

Despite that column and despite the work I continue to do today regarding abortion activism, I cannot change the minds of people who insist on seeing a person like me as some kind of hideous succubus intent on enacting genocide against the poor defenceless babies of this world who are unfortunate enough to be conceived in the bellies of the strident, man hating feminists who refuse to accept the god given truth that their bodies don’t belong to them but rather to those who are better placed to make decisions regarding said bodies – widely (and deeply) held convictions that are so outrageously extreme as to be laughable.

It’s true that there are none so blind as those will not see. The act of writing something meaningful, challenging or not, is wasted on those who are willfully incapable of empathizing with the words. Writing for an audience – great writing – is an invitation. A great writer asks her audience to consider something from a different perspective, to view the world through a lens that may not be palatable to the reader but is at least interesting in some way if only because the work is honest.

But one of the greatest strengths a writer can have is letting others know that they are not alone; that feelings they may have had which seem abhorrent or unacceptable are indeed not isolated to them alone. That their desires and dreams are not ridiculous; that their fears may be lessened simply through the knowledge that someone else has experienced them and come out the other side – scarred, perhaps, but intact.

Our society is entrenched in fear of the unknown, and of being different – for example, nobody talks about death in a way that is tangible or visceral. Nobody talks about what it’s like to want to die as a philosophical base for pondering. Nobody talks about what it’s like to want someone you love to die, sooner rather than later, because later means more pain and anguish for them.

Owning a fascination with death, sex, love, desire, good, evil and shades of grey in between, vengeance, hatred, compassion, selfishness – the most base emotions that add up to who we are as people... These are the things we don’t talk about, not really. We don’t talk about them because we’re afraid of seeming different, harsh, emotionless, damaged, wrong somehow.

The things we don’t talk about could fill a book.

I am not afraid to write about things that other people find uncomfortable, because writing is in and of itself a challenging medium. So perhaps it stands to reason that when I began writing this speech, I couldn’t really come to grips with the concept of what it meant to challenge stigmas – but the process of writing, examining my own thoughts and laying them bare on the page, has opened my mind to what it might mean.

Challenging stigmas is not only done for the benefit of an audience willing to engage and alter their viewpoint. It’s also done to provide others with a voice; a point of recognition in which they can see they aren’t quite so alone. I may have been called every name under the sun by people who couldn’t understand why a woman would not bow and scrape for forgiveness because she happened to fall pregnant twice and had the determination to deal with it in her own way – but I also received countless letters from women offering their thanks. Thank you for telling my story. Thank you for making me feel like the decision I made was okay. Thank you for letting me know that I have nothing to feel ashamed of.

This room is filled with writers, all of whom challenge stigmas in every piece they write not because they are deliberately provocative or seeking to change the world – but because they are honest and capable of speaking to the people who feel they are terribly alone. If we wait for social stigmas to be broken down by the people who are desperately holding on to them, we’ll be waiting forever.

We challenge the system and eventually rebuild it by giving a voice to the people oppressed by it. In writing for others, we are actively working to create and explore a new world – and that is the pursuit which has always been the fundamental purpose of reading.

***

I closed the night by eating more cheese than is humanly possible and flirting with some kind of short filmmaker wandering about the traps. LEARN YOUR LESSON ALREADY WOMAN.

ponderings

You know what're weird?

Bears.

Love in the time of cauliflower

There are perhaps few things prettier than a quaint New England town in early fall. The leaves hover betwixt the decadent richness of summer and the sparseness of autumn, poised to break away from the towering branches they’ve clutched to since winter’s icy grip was loosened by the first rays of a spring sun. Though still largely green, clusters of orange are beginning to appear in the dappled foliage, belated freckles popping up on a face set to wither.

I’m enjoying what will probably be one of Boston’s last really warm days before hibernation occurs and the townsfolk rescue their North Face jackets and snow boots from the closet where they were, in a moment of triumph, banished to so many months ago. Nowhere else have I experienced the seasons more vividly than in North America; each one operates as a perfect bookend on a circular shelf.

As the church bells chime above me, I amuse myself by adopting the same casual stance as the Harvard students surrounding me. Colourful chairs are scattered about the lawns, studious folk sprawled across them with the various accoutrements of those engaged in the activity of learning – laptops, textbooks, iPods and dreamy, far off reveries. For a moment, I can pretend at least that I’m one of them and reach out for some kind of connection and sense of belonging on a trip that has largely been absent of such feelings.

Douchebag Warren: "YOU....got into Harvard?"
Elle Woods: "What, like it's hard?"

I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve grown weary of New York. I like to think of it as a city that stimulates the intellect, while Barcelona arouses the soul. I once thought I couldn’t wait to be submerged again in the thrum of Manhattan; to be carried along by the unquestionably strong heartbeat of that city and wash up on the shores of perfect happiness. But ever since leaving Spain, I’ve felt nothing but anxiety about a need to return.

I’m sure it’s partially to do with the way things finished with the Chileno. There are perhaps few more tragic romantic trysts than the ones that drown under the weight of their own false promise. By the end of my trip, the Chileno and I struggled to find words to say to each other. Stranded in the curious jigsaw of burgeoning relationships, we lacked the implicit ease with which to find comfort in each other’s silence. A naturally quiet person, he remained tightlipped while I fell further and further away.

When we found ourselves saying goodbye at the airport, it wasn’t with the fevered desperation of lovers on the brink of separation but with an unacknowledged melancholy. Anxious butterflies had heralded my arrival four weeks prior; this time, when I walked through that airport gate all connection would fade away and we would become two people who knew each other once.

Of course, it didn't help that he flew to Greece that day and promptly fell in love with someone else.

But these are some of the memories I take with me from that city of wonders: cigarettes smoked over café con leches amongst jovial Catalans while the August morning unfurled languidly outside; gazing at architectural feats of such perfect beauty that, were words even necessary, they would have been hard pressed to emerge from a mouth fixed wide open in amazement; the musical rhythm of the city, feet on pavements keeping beat to the tune of staccato conversations and yells of ‘hey chica!’ and ‘guapa!’; floating about in the cone of silence created when one partially submerges their head in the Mediterranean sea, just contemplating the life and listening to the ocean’s murmurs; vibrant Peruvians feeding me ceviche while fellow diners, arrested by the music, fashion a makeshift dancefloor and let loose to the whoops and cheers of their audience; the spark of satisfaction that came when my mediocre Spanish began to resemble something approximating conversational, and the realization one day that if I just let the lyricism of others wash over me, understanding would come in with the tide; riding my bicycle through the quiet streets at midnight, thinking of Daniel Sempere and the Cemetary of Forgotten Books and wanting to believe that it really exists; watching the sunrise on a northern beach with a motley crew of impossibly attractive musicians, singing ‘Baby I love your way’; and that delicious feeling of possibility that this could be the point where your life changes completely, that you’re about to jump off the precipice and land in an Oz of your own creation with a road paved not from yellow bricks but cobbled stone.

So perhaps it turns out that I fell in love after all, but not in the way I expected. As someone remarkable once said to me, ‘falling in love isn’t about discovering someone else but about discovering yourself’. The Chileno and I may have exchanged a passionless goodbye that Friday morning some weeks ago, but beneath the shadowy veneer that cloaks a world of fantasy, Barcelona and I were locked in the kind of embrace that turns cynics into believers and breathes life back into hearts of stone.

And as far as love affairs go, that ain't bad.

Mallorca Nights and Your Essential Guide

As far as days went, it was shaping up to be pretty perfect. The Mediterranean reclined languorously before us, a plump and undulating doyenne wrapped in a sheath of turqoise, each murmuring wave a new secret whispered in our ears. Above her, the sun cast forth his golden arrows, trying to penetrate the surface of that glittering beauty whom he saw every day but who as yet remained devastatingly out of reach. How he envies the sand! An unremarkable wastrel, blessed to spend an eternity beneath the ocean and her tempestuous mood; to enjoy not the sensation of her crashing upon its shore but the insistent tug of her caress as she continues to whisper secrets to those watching from beyond.

In possession of a small jug of sangria, I considered the scene before me, marveling at how one place could be so full of imperfect beauty. I brought to mind oh-so-eloquent monologue delivered by the inimitable Shug Avery in Alice Walker’s The Colour Purple when she illuminates Celie as to the true nature of this entity we call God.

Ain’t no point in worshipping the white man’s God, Shug tells Celie, because there’s no room for you in their world. Do you think their God would make it so some folk were better than others just ‘cos of the colour of their skin? God ain’t no He – he ain’t some white man in the clouds. Whatever God is, it’s all around us. It’s in the flowers, in the trees, in the beauty of a sunset. Those white folks, they spend they whole lives tryin’ to please God – they don’t realize that all the time God is trying to please them right back.*

“Yer, but tha’s the problem wiv café food, innit? You dunno wot yah gonna get. Tha’s why I reckon that, even vo it might be more expinsive, your be’er off eating in the ‘otel.”

“Yeah, tha’s right. ‘Specially somewhere like Spain, innit?”

And snap. Reverie scattered with the instant application of British Package Tourist. Quelle sur-fucking-prise.

I imagine British tourists are to Spain what Australian tourists are to Bali. Undesirable, scandalously ill bred and completely lacking in any kind of cultural sensitivity whatsoever, but drowning in the kind of extra money that people who truly love flat screen TVs always unfortunately seem to have. They are also tiresomely predictable yet endlessly amusing because of this.

The basic itinerary of the British Package Tourist is not without its subtle nuances and complexities, but armed with the right information it’s fairly simple to follow. If you plan on ever becoming one but are unsure of what the protocol is, never fear – I have compiled a complete guide for you. As with anything in life, the motto is BE PREPARED. And thanks to me, you may now avoid the kind of embarrassing faux pas that will have you questioning whether or not it’s more appropriate to drink your companion’s pina colada through a straw or simply lick it directly off their breasts.

BRITISH PACKAGE TOURISM GUIDE FOR FIRST TIMERS

Pitch up to Gatwick for the 6am red eye, bleary eyed but already coated in tanning oil in anticipation of the weekend’s festivities. You sideeye your fellow passengers, ranking them in order of Shaggable to Handsy Uncle Reg or The Fat Friend. You make sure to consume at least four drinks on the flight so that you can hit Spain in style, bonding with your fellow passengers in the process. Handsy Uncle Reg is in fine form, knocking back seven cans of lager and showing off how loudly he can belch. Remember to applaud. It’s good manners.

You arrive at your hotel in the bus arranged by the travel company, new best friends in tow and duty free liquor already cracked open. Shaggable is surrounded by a posse of besties ranging from almost-as-hot to they’ll-do to only-if-the-others-are-taken and one friend who will, before the week is over, inevitably don one of those novelty aprons with plastic breasts (for the men) or let Handsy Uncle Reg shag them on the beach but only from behind (for the women). Full of piss and vinegar and an unbridled sense of sexual optimism, you check in amidst the sounds of girlish squeals and football songs.

By now it’s almost 11am and the ferocious Spanish sun is well overhead. This means it’s time to head to the beach with all your essentials – cigarettes, tanning oil, latest Dan Brown novel (for the tour’s intelligensia) and Union Jack beach towel. Because England experiences approximately 93 hours of sunshine a year, you’ll want to jam all your tanning time into this week - never forget that the basic aims of a package tour to Spain are to return with a killer tan that will inspire envy in all your co-workers, cornrows (or another variation on an exotic hairdo) and a treatable STI. Thrush doesn’t count, unless you acquired it through drinking too much beer and forgetting to pee in the sea after that incident with Handsy Uncle Reg.

With that in mind, you’ll spend the first two hours lying on your back and carefully turning every 30 minutes. This is Spain, so ladies, feel free to remove your bikini tops. Not only will it help avoid any unsightly tan lines, it might just help grab the attention of Shaggable and co so that they know that a) you have a great rack and b) you’re up for it. Don’t worry if you hear a slight crackling sound – it’s just the sound of your skin aging 20 years. BEAUTY IS PAIN.

If you’re organized, which you’ll want to be – you’re British after all – you’ll have appointed someone to act as alcohol runner to the chiringuitto. Unless Shaggable is up there engaged in a competition to see who can build the highest tower out of beer cans (for the men) or comparing breast augmentations (for the ladies), make sure the runner is someone else (preferably the second most attractive speciman in your group because competition is competition and it’s a jungle out there). Forget that Spanish sangria rubbish – you’ve been looking forward to this holiday for months and it’s time for you to indulge! The chirringuito will no doubt have a selection of fancy cocktails, so feel free to be a bit wild – although if I might make a suggestion, Sex On The Beach is an appropriate choice because it’s not only exotic, it’s also quite pithy and clever.

You should be a bit tipsy now, which is exactly where you want to be. If you’re a lady, you’ll have already read your airport purchased copies of Heat, OK! and Woman’s Own, but it’s probably best to leave Cosmopolitan and Sugar for day two – you like to keep stimulated and you don’t want to run out of reading material.

Now that that lovely sun has made you all toasty and warm, you’ll probably be thinking about a dip. Time to grab your best girlfriend and head to the water, offering silent thanks to Maybelline for creating waterproof mascara – it’s unlikely you’ll putt your head under because you’ve just had your holiday highlights done, but there’s a high likelihood you’ll end up rousting with some of the lads. You’ll want your eyes to remain come hither in case Shaggable decides to splash you.

If you’re a lad, keep an eye out for when the ladies head to the water. They’ve had ample time for tanning while you’ve been walking around with your Union Jack towel draped around your neck pretending to be a matador, but now’s the time to think about moving in for the kill. You’ll no doubt have your eye on the best looking bird in the flock, but here’s a sly tip – flirt openly with her less attractive friend. It will drive her crazy with the kind of jealousy that can only come with entitlement, and will (if applied correctly) almost certainly guarantee you a blow job behind the karaoke bar later on.

By this stage of the proceedings, you might be feeling a little overwhelmed with all the holiday hijinks. This is completely normal – you’ve spent the last ten months living in the geographical equivalent of clinical depression, and all this sun is probably going to your head. Pace yourself (not too much!) – you have all week. Why not go and spend some time by the hotel swimming pool? That way you can lounge about in the water AND have the perfect view of the sea.

5pm rolls around (where does the time go?!) and it’s time to start thinking about freshening up for dinner. Proper British people eat dinner no later than 7:30pm so they can fit in more time for drinking, and if you want to fit in you should behave no differently. While casual dress was fine for the beach, you’ll want to look a bit fancier for the first night’s festivities – particularly if you’re planning on heading to the Britannia later on. Ladies, this means you’ll want to don your best, most sparkliest drapey halterneck number. It may be tempting to wear everything you own in white, but let’s not be too hasty – there’s still a few days of tanning left before you can capitalize on just how good a white minidress with criss-crossed back looks against your brown skin.

Lads, this one’s much easier for you because the only variation you require to your normal Home outfits is some kind of sombrero or cargo pants that detach at the knees. Ignore the lay in your bag – it’s not Spanish and you only packed it because you’re planning on going as a hula girl to the costume party the hotel will be hosting in the Mermaid Bar later on in the week. For now, all you need worry about is whether or not your collar is popped correctly. Don’t fret if you’ve forgotten your hair gel – one of your friends is bound to have brought some so there’s really no need for anyone to miss out on potential bathroom sex because their widow’s peak wasn’t teased to perfection.

You’ll find it’s easier to congregate in the hotel lobby ahead of dinner time. By now you’re all old friends and selecting dinner mates is just a matter of course. Having said that, you still want to maintain a modicum of decorum – this means no belching at the dinner table unless it forms the punchline of a joke or removing someone’s knickers with your teeth. There’ll be plenty of time for that later when DJ Ricky Z gets the party going.

Here things will start to get a bit hazy. There’s no point in going on a British Package Tour unless you spend 95% of your time at least slightly drunk. But come 11pm, all that Sex On The Beach starts to catch up with you and you’ll find yourself approximately 135% drunk. This is okay in and of itself – preferable even. But here’s where things get tricky – to be a proper British Package Tourist, you have to take care to be as acutely offensive as possible to everyone else bar your fellow BPTs. Sounds simple in theory but can actually take a bit of practice to get used to. For example, it’s okay to yell obscenities at some scrag tottering down the street, but what if she’s part of your tour or shagging someone in it and you didn’t notice before? This defies the natural sense of camaraderie that will befall any BPT group, and must be avoided at all costs. On the other hand, when handled deftly, it can work in your favour to call someone a cheap and nasty bitch because it could actually be a compliment indicating to them that you understand they are willing to let you suckle on their breasts as part of a drinking game.

If you’re not confident with being able to tell the difference – and anyone other than a seasoned British Package Tourist or an Essex local would not be remiss in admitting confusion – then I find it’s simpler to follow what seems to be the essential rule of British Package Tourism, and that’s to be as rude as possible to anyone who appears to be an actual resident of the foreign country in question. Not only does it solidify your connection as a group, it reinforces to the subject of your approbation that their reliance on their own mother tongue is an inconvenience you did NOT request when parting with hard earned pounds (and the exchange rate!) as part of YOUR holiday, and that if they will INSIST on being a Spanish chimmy changa chocolate dago bar, they could at LEAST have the DECENCY to learn how to speak proper. CAPEACHY?

Let one of those rip on your first night and that STI is as good as yours. Probably a few of them.

As for day two and the rest of the week? Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

NOTE: The Essential Guide to being a British Package Tourist is also relevant to Australian Tourism with a few minor word changes.

*Paraphrasing from Walker's text.

Dinky Di Barcelona Part One

*I began this a few days ago, so have aktch already been to Berlin and back. More on that later.*

The woman totters around behind the bar on thick wedge platforms, cork heels wrestling with the sticky intractability of a floor whose most intimate acquaintance is always spilled alcohol.

Poured into the kind of dress a flapper might have worn had the style tended towards vampish rather than boyish, and legs criss-crossed by the spiderwebs of nude fishnets, she gives the appearance of someone who does not quite seem to know where they are or what they’re supposed to be doing there, but keeps looking around to try and figure it all out. It’s as if somewhere between deciding whether or not she should damn it all to hell and just paint her living room walls chartreuse already or wait to consult the tarot first, she simply fell asleep in her living room and awoke to discover her shabby yet chic abode had been unknowingly converted into a dive bar catering especially to lesbians and the British; however, lacking the language with which to converse with either group, she now finds herself being forced to make endless cocktails in whatever glasses she happens to have lying around her kitchen while trying to resolutely explain to people that, look, she knows she lives on a ground floor in La Ribera (and that can be confusing), but tonight she was really just looking forward to dying her hair with teabags and watching the Astro show on teevee so could they all please vacate her house and leave a middlish old woman in PEACE for ONCE in her wretched life because if they REALLY want something to drink there are any NUMBER of illegal merchants in the street who would be only TOO HAPPY to sell them a few cans of “sexy beer” at a VERY reasonable price?

“Sorr-ee! No understandy! I want TWO *sticks fingers up in peace sign* mo-hee-toes POOR FAV-OAR SIV OO PLAY. Moo-choss grassy arse!”

At which she begins an under-breath muttering likely to last well into the next day and possibly beyond.

Meanwhile, the Sri Lankan Princess and I argue over whom our fair bartender resembles more. Sri Pri seems to think she’s reminiscent of Penelope Cruz’s character in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. However, I feel (given the demonstrative evidence on offer) that my argument is more compelling.

Ghowst-bustahs. No, I’m sawry, Venkman’s nawt avaaailable.

The Sri Lankan Princess has come to Barcelona en route to Berlin, where we will both be in a few days. In a crazy kind of reverse stereotype/amazingly self aware political correctness/unracism, it is *I* and not *she* who does they ferrying around on two wheels. Having secured for myself a few days prior the luxury of una bicicletta (while mine mourns my absence at home), I took no time in depositing Sri Pri on the back and proceeding as the two gadabouts that we are.

Amusing on day one and slightly diverting on day two, by day three I am prepared to outlaw all forms of dinkying, ferrying and/or transferring that involves two wheels, cobbled roads and a blazing hot sun. Navigating your way around bloated tourists for whom having a passport involves forgetting the rudimentary rules of functioning in society is hard enough without having to take into account the gravitational force of a pillion passenger.

Day two of Sri Pri’s visit sees us getting extraordinarily drunk at a late night tapas bar in La Ribera. With bellies full of sangria, we spend the next half an hour trying to remember which way is home and swerving along streets designed solely with the aim of confusing their inhabitants. I am reminded of the labyrinthine quality of Rome, a city in which the streets quietly move about like puzzle pieces, delivering you to the exact point you started at despite the fact you KNOW you have been walking straight for the past 45 minutes. As with there, I keep expecting David Bowie to pop up in some tights to hypnotise me with his devilish eyes.

Sarah…fuhget about the buyby.

Eventually we end up in another late night tapas bar, albeit one decorated in a thin film of grease and apparently labouring under the impression that fluorescent bulbs are the most preferable form of lighting for 2am on a weeknight. To Sri Pri’s discomfort, we encounter there one of those especially unfashionable forms of skinhead whose wardrobe naturally consists only of drainpipe jeans, long laced boots and a pair of braces purchased at least 20 years ago in the Eastern Bloc. Being white, I’m naturally only suspicious of his sartorial choices. But for a petite, dark skinned woman, I can understand that concerns probably extend beyond whether or not the lad has showered in the past week.

The difficulty of course with modern skinheads is that one can never tell if they are white supremacists, post punk anarchists waiting in vain for the revolution or middle class hipsters slumming it in public before going home to their carefully decorated hovel to congratulate themselves on having a subversive haircut. I observed a tableful of them the other day having afternoon tea with plates of yellow frosted cake, so quite frankly I don’t know what to believe.*

Regardless, it makes Sri Pri feel infinitely better when our skinhead traipses out into the night and we are left in peace with the rocket fuel masquerading as drinks and the tinkling soundtrack of a pokie addict disposing of his rent in a corner machine.

One thing I’ve learned about Spain is that they are fans of the free pour. While Australia doles out its spirits with the exacting fury of an autistic despot, in Spain the basic rule of thumb seems to be that as long as the spirit fills at least 50% of the glass, you’re doing okay. This translates into the kind of drinking experience which sees you fill the tiny cavern at the top with whatever mixer you’ve requested, close your eyes and pray for God’s mercy before taking two gulps of almost pure liquor. Having performed this little ritual, you will thus have adequate space in which to transform your drink from something that could power a small vehicle into something that becomes marginally more pleasant to drink. It’s truly brilliant, and one of the reasons why Spain has Penelope Cruz and we have Nicole Kidman.

Transfixed by the sound of the pokie addict’s soul being crushed, we remain in that grim watering hole for the better part of an hour before unwisely cycling through the jigsaw that is Barcelona – the Sri Lankan Princess reclining in style and me pedaling through the mental fog of ten alcohol units too many on streets whose incorporation of traffic lights is arbitrary at best.

TO BE CONTINUED.

* Apparently food concerns are quite common amongst skinheads if this is to be believed. I don't know. I always expected they had slightly bigger things to concern themselves with than whether or not peanut butter sandwiches are wrongtown usa.

Ser o no ser...esa es la pregunata.

I'm sitting in an apartment with the french doors open and the sounds of a Spanish street filtering in from below. Every so often comes the roar of a scooter shuttling forth from the traffic lights. The Spanish television may be supremely bad, but the balmy night air is more than making up for it.

Spain is unquestionably beautiful.

I spent most of today wandering through the gothic quarter, revisiting parts of it I discovered on my last trek through this city. My Chilean has disappeared to Madrid for a few days so I am At Liberty on the streets of Barcelona. This roughly translates to me making extreme mistakes in Spanish and most probably being taken advantage of by shifty shopkeepers who can tell that I don't know what the real prices of things are. Honestly, two euros for a couple of bunches of coriander? I KNOW YOU ARE ROBBING ME BLIND YOU SPANISH HARPY. Still, without the proper tools to argue, what can I do? Grin and bear it, and bide my time until I can take her down with an impeccable grasp of the vocabulary for "you are a thieving wench and I know what your game is."

When I arrived last week, the Chilean fetched me from the airport. He greeted me with a very manly hug and a bottle of water, because "I thought you would be thirsty after your long flight." He then took me to a local Peruvian restaurant for lunch and then to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. Indeed, he has been feeding and watering me quite adequately since I arrived. I'm just about to start sprouting flowers I think, possibly in some shade of cerulean.

On Thursday, Chile took me to the beach and laughed as I marvelled at all the magnificent breasts on display. Old, young, big, small, fake, real - they really let it all hang out here. He seemed mildly amused when I told him that such a thing would never occur in Australia. The Christians For Conservatism would have all their best agents on the job, filing calls to shock jocks all over the country to engage in a mass hand wringing over declining moral values and their devastating impact on children. I mean, imagine if a child were to go the beach and see actual breasts just.... there. NAKED. As if they were normal or something! As if they were in fact not something that children see all the time (because their mothers have no doubt continued to wander around the house topless, away from the prying eyes of the morality police) but were instead dirty funbags with the power to turn men into raging sex machines and steal the souls of innocent babes. Anarchy, social decay and eventual apocalypse would almost certainly be destined to follow. The human race as we know it would go tits up.

Anyhoo, Chile and I discussed the difference in gender relations between the two countries and their respective conservative values. I can't speak for Spain at all having merely a few weeks observation under my belt - and I'm sure there is rampant conservatism here in parts - but there is definitely a joie de vivre that is lacking in Australia. I don't think you could ever suggest to a Spanish person that work was as important as family, music, food or sex. They would probably laugh in your face, and then go and make a baby with someone while eating tapas off each others torsos.

I suggested to the Chilean that Australian men were different to Spanish men in that they weren't particularly adept at wooing women, and seemed to have a swaggering sense of their own right to exist. He said that it sounded like they were muy machista. But aren't Spanish men also muy machista, I asked him? Yes, he replied, but it's different. Here it's more about how women can't drive cars, which is why you can't drive mine.

I had to laugh. Hey, nobody's perfect. If someone's going to be supportive of me writing about gender relations and generally being a hoyden then I can't really complain if one of his few failings is that he refuses to let me behind the wheel of his precious baby. And I much prefer to read books while in the car anyway. If he won't let me drive, then I won't let him converse.

Besides, he's lovely. In a fit of pique the other day, I told him how frustrated I was at my poor (read: pathetic) Spanish. I tried to explain that it was frustrating for someone who makes a living from communicating, and generally probably does a bit too much of it if anything, to be unable to properly express herself to people. He kept reassuring me that it would all come with time, and I can't get angry because then I'll just give up. He said I have to recognise that it's a process and that the hard is what will make it rewarding in the end.

It's supposed to be hard! The hard...is what makes it great.

On Saturday, we went to Ocata (north of BCN) to engage in some specifically excellent activity. Chile's brother - a musician of grand talent and who spreads it around - was playing with one of his bands Dinatatak at a tapas restaurant on the beach. I don't mean one of those restaurants in the sense that Gringos is on the Glenelg foreshore, and if you're really lucky you can be verbally assaulted by some schmuck cruising outside the Grand before having someone puke on your shoes. This kiosk was set up on the actual beach, in a kind of cabana. The patrons sat on plastic chairs and tables, and the band played from beneath a tent like structure.

When we arrived, the moon was hanging low and full bellied in the sky, burning the colour of burnt amber. It reminded me of my favourite passage in the whole world, from Cormac McCarthy's The Road: "By day the banished sun circles the Earth like a grieving mother with a lamp." If the sun is a grieving mother with a lamp, this moon was the mother who watches over her well loved children until they fall asleep. The music, the food, the passion of the people watching against the backdrop of a beachfront of towering apartment buildings with laundry adorning the balconies - it all transpired to make for a perfect evening.

After Dinatatak was finished and the kiosk had packed up for the night, we all sat near the water and played music until the sun came up. With their crazy fingers, those musicians worked their magic on all manner of guitar strings as we laughed and sang and drank copious amounts of liquor. We finally tumbled into bed at about 9am, bellies full of sweet rum and hearts as full as that amber moon, the Spanish sun beginning its slow burn on a perfect Sunday in Barcelona.



Brother Chile is playing on Thursday night at a restaurant in Barcelona with his three piece. Because we've been practicing songs together on my ukulele (which he could play perfectly within about three seconds, rendering my own attempts pathetic and shallow) I'm going to sing a couple of songs with them. This is officially one of the highlights of my trip, because I both love to sing and am a showpony, and singing in English is at least considered far more acceptable than insisting on speaking in it because your Spanish brain is the equivalent of a retarded two year old's.

I was made that way....

Also, Brother Chile is just simply one of the nicest people on the entire planet so it's always a pleasure to do anything with him.

Ah, Barcelona. Right, Brother Chile is teaching me ukulele now. Time to be humiliated.