I’m writing this from Sala Prabang – a beautiful hotel on the Mekong River in the town of Luang Prabang, in the Peoples Democratic Republic of Laos.

Access to the hotel  Guest  Internet is via a laptop on a small table in the shady open tiled foyer under a ceiling fan. Beneath my bare feet the cool, chipped tile floor has been swept and washed clean, to my left,  the tree shaded cafe across the road, by the river’s edge is now quiet, its patrons enjoying a siesta. To my right,  the muted bricked and tiled courtyard surrounded by bamboo invites me in, and  in the corner of my eye,  sight of a pink bouganvillia blossom and curled thorny branches catching the sunlight.

My fellow house guests are no doubt sleeping, visiting a market, a museum, the Ouk Pa Caves several hours up stream by long boat, or perhaps dabbling in the cool blue green waterfalls 1 hour out of town.

I’ve sensibly allowed myself a number of days in this World Heritage town to do all of the above. The town of Luang Prabang (like Pondicherry in the south of  India) is an artful combination of the local and colonial styles. In this case Laos and French. The buildings of white stone are characterised by blue, green or grey shutters. Each road and alley offers a delight of shop fronts and restaurants, of families cooking streetside or blaring television behind their shopfront, of children selling bracelets and souvenirs of skinny cats and chicken.

Luang Prabang, which takes its name from the Prabang Buddah – characteristically standing upright with his two palms held facing out to calm the oceans – is varied and rich.  Bold dragon tipped white and gold temples, adjacent to cool dark shops full of silks,  and woven fabrics made by hand in the vilages up the river, baskets, silver ware, wooden carvings alternate with cafes full of great coffee and pastries. Restaurants offering local cuisine of fish or meat coconut curries and stews or light soups like watercress and seaweed or sour green vegetable and pork or fish for the grand price of 25,000 to 40,o00 kip (about $3- 5) alternate with local tour companies that charge between $10 to $40 for elephant rides, or mahout training, or slow boat rides or eco hiking trips.

The traffic on these sleepy sun-drenched roads is almost non existent: punctuated every 5 – 6 seconds with a back-packing tourist on foot or on 20,000 kip rented  bicycles, or seated in tuk-tuks - small open sided 2 seaters carrying 6 passengers pulled by motorbike or a van chassis. The locals favour motorbikes- their passsengers carrying umbrellas to protect both themselves and the driver from the searing sun.

At 5.30 this morning I got up early to see the  sight most people associate with Luang Prabang. Dozens of orange robbed buddhist monks from children to old men, walking in single file past their various temples, accepting the offerings from the devoted community. Each monk carries a basket and bowl slung  low on their hip. And as they stop at each person, they accept a handful of cooked rice. It is humbling to watch. I witnessed one small child, no more than 7 years old, clearly with nothing to give except devotion. Head bowed his hands in position of prayer – I think a monk stopped to give some rice to him.

They tell me there is one temple one village in Laos,small or grand, they house these deeply respected monks who are fundamental to the culture and life of Laotian people. It is a profoundly religious and respectful place – that soothes the spirit.

Tomorrow – I dare say I’ll wander around seeing something new, the turn of the river I didn’t see, a bridge that I can cross over, a new shop front, the faces of children, or their grandmothers in the shade watching over baskets of drying chilli or bananas. And over coffee –  deep and rich – I will watch,  gobsmacked,  the skill of the tiny fishing  boatmen who defy the rapidly flowing Mekong each day to cross this bronzed artery of the area.

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I’m living in Qld for a while and when the national public holiday we celebrate as Australia Day appeared in the Calendar, my path was clear.

The day is characterised by hazy hot weather, parks full of picnicking families, cool fast trains and crowds of young sun-dusted teenagers with miniature flags date stamped on their cheeks.

My destination was Nerang situated on the Gold Coast, I was met by a wonderful friend Mary who I haven’t seen for years. Together we drove up across Mt Tambourine, dotted with tiny Bed and Breakfasts, stalls for fruit and vegetables (mostly empty because of recent floods and the fact that owners were probably at celebrations of their own), nurseries and glimpses of the valleys all around.

We dropped into the award winning remarkable TMD Distillery where hand-painted coloured glass bottles capture magical essences like Lemoncello, Lilly-Pilly (pink) Gin and St Alushka –a herbal liqueur made from 50 herbs and spices. Our trip then ended in the Canungra Valley at a vineyard owned and managed by the O’Reilly family – but still proudly known as a community vineyard, given that the first vines were planted by the small and close knit community.

 The delights of the day were manifold. The memories and conversation were rich. The tastes exquisite. After all there were years to catch up on, and a myriad of changes in the personal and geographic landscape to acknowledge.

My closing thought is that days like this allow friends to come together and talk, eat, play and laugh. Whether they are two girlfriends giggling at the cute boy crowded next to them on the train. A cool gang of matching girls and boys, bronzed skin, dark sunglasses, shorts, t-shirts and i-pod jewellery dangling from their ears. Or old friends – 20 years on – who pick up where they left off, across a bottle of sparkling Red called “Karma”, on a sun-drenched hazy day in a vineyard planted with love.

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Sometimes its yellow gold sometimes white.

It hits the water at about 5.45 am when the rising sun hits the metal and glass on the houses at the river’s edge.

It’s a visual feast that sustains me and sets the tone for the day. The continually moving vision begins as a dense tablet or block of gold poking up from the  glassy surfaces of the water. Then as the water regains its breath, as if some mighty hammer broke it, the gold begins to break up into shards and fragments, like smashed glass or mosaic. It’s as if a thousand  fragments form as the River Cat shakes up the water. Then as if a master craftsperson was at work – each tiny jewel becomes a knotted thread forming the pattern of  a magic carpet floating on the water.  Then the crafted hand of light slowly slides beneath the carpet and unrolls it to display its beauty for traders in an ancient bazaar.

Then a  minute later  it’s gone. Just dull brass, then brown, then nothing, just the green blue water again. And all the time this golden feast of the eyes lasts about 15 minutes. I notice it in late spring, something perhaps to do with when the sun rises and the temperature or  atmosphere and how it affects the morning light. 

On the weekend my girlfriend Linda showed me slides of their Syrian trip and the city of Palmyra

 The city is called the bride of the desert, shimmering in gold it welcomed caravans into the bazaar and souks, trading gold, jewels, carpets, spices and power, seducing them with sweetness. Once a splendid centre of trade and power, the city temples, pillars, roads and houses are now pinkish white stone tablets in the desert, echoes of stories and footprints thousands of years old.

Like all good bloggers, trying to tie a knot in the thread of my story, I googled Palmyra and gold,  sure that Linda had called it the golden city.

Instead I came up with a reference to Palmyra New York outside of which Joseph Smith Jr, Prophet and the founder of the Mormon church uncovered golden tablets – inscribed with the teachings  for his new church. Smith’s  followers believe he was a seer.

Well that wasn’t expected!

All I can tell you  is that a couple of years ago, my own favourite  seer and psychic asked me who was going to the Middle East because she saw a golden City in the desert. At the time, I thought it was my own journey to Dubai but clearly now I stand corrected and humbled  in the presence and prescience of seers, gold and a vision splendid.

Whether on water or on sand – take time to watch the sunrise and celebrate the art of story.

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 I observed a class today back near my old alma mater. Years of trying to find a park, worrying about late assignments, studying lines for the next play and fantasising about the cute boy in my drama class,  came flooding back.

Earlier that day, I had listened to an interview on radio with Daniel Hope, the violinist who played at the funeral of Yehudi Menuhin and who knew he would play the violin when he was just 4 years old.  In my observation class we learnt about a dancer, Steven McCrae who likewise envisaged a clear artistic path from a young age. That night I dreamt about Cate Blanchett and our local theatre. The whole day yesterday was populated by artists.

Several days earlier, my sister had pointed out I was using overtly negative language about my future and was, she suggested, not enabling the positive artistic future I yearned. She was right. If we keep focusing on the old, or saying No to the things we don’t want, we stay fixated on the old situation – we’re facing in the wrong direction and can’t see the new.

So in TESOL speak the plan for this micro life – lesson goes as follows:

Student Level: Pre adult.

Context and target language: Balance the good and bad bits of the past just enough to positively alter the direction of my  work and life

Form and Function: Give myself time to understand how care, optimism,  a sense of exploration and playing to my strengths will enable change.

Resources: Realia and memories, childhood dreams, stolen time and bold brave micro teachers.

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The trip has been extraordinary; brilliant new vistas, challenges, laughs, delights, colours, smells and a light that is completely different to the one in Australia – home.

Milan is the last stop on this 7 week trip. I chose it for a number of reasons – not least among them was the fashion and the architecture, Castello Visconti-Sforza and of course, La Scala. Well I have seen sooooooo much architecture including some fabulous Art Deco and Art Nouvea balconies and iron work. I have been overwhelmed by the heat! frescos, statues, reliefs, mosaics, bells,cafes, good looking men, chapels, basilicas and the duomo which takes your breath away on first sight.

I have tried on every bit of outlet-worthy-last-season’s-oh-why-have-I-let-myself-get-this-fat piece of clothing;have walked every bit of shopping street,corso,via known to black belt shoppers:have worked the metro to within an inch of its red,yellow and green directions, and have found a few pieces that I will look at and sigh – Oh Milan.

One day I journeyed one hour away from gorgeous Milan to the small town of Bergamo. I was on a mission, to find and see the Visconti Tarot deck, which was, I understood in the care of the conservators at Acadamia Carrarar. I went up and down, in an out, around and about Bergamo on a gruelling 32 degree day, crossing bridges, climbing to forts at the top of the hill and ceremoniously saying good bye to Blokey, and then reaching finally the museum only to discover it was closed for renovations (for 2 years).

Having this disappointing sign translated word for word by a charming Italian, I traversed yet another knee breaking hill to find the palazzo de Regina (the temporary home of the academia collection) was also under renovation. I was so despondent I cried.

Just a bit, because someone was playing Ave Maria on the Flute outside the Basilica Maria di Maggiore. How can you be sad? On a beautiful day, in a beautiful town when that happens?

Remembering Gabbie’s and Cate’s advice not to get attached, and realising how many other fabulous places were yet to be discovered, I stopped that course of thought, dusted myself off and planned the next adventure to take place back in Milan.

Now those that know me, know the passion I have held dear (more than any other) has been the threatre. I went off to la Scala to be delighted by a view from a box, a tour of Callas’ wardrobe and memorabilia from this remarkable place of dreams and music. And to my great delight and surprise I saw some tarot cards (collected from the theatre stalls over many years). The only Arcana card – the judgement card from the Marseilles deck- smiled back up at me from behind the Scala museum collection; as if to say, Be surprised by life, now that you have made the right decision to move on with things.
The Judgement card has an image of people being called up and out of open graves (for the last judgement). Most pictures I’ve seen of this card, shows the dead to be quite chipper, having been dormant for so long.

So there you have it. I got my Tarot message after all, that it is good to move on and let the dead bury the dead. Blokey would want that for sure. I also got to see so many more things than I would have – because I had an intention to try as hard as I did and to hope and to care and to be disappointed (so take that Tolle!).

And, I got to see Milan in all its size 8 splendour. And if I don’t fit into drop dead tiny Italian state of the art fashion, do I care? You bet your size 14 arse I do! But that’s up to me to change and let go of that extra baggage.

Ciao Milan and thanks

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I am in a hotel that rivals Faulty Towers – in its demographic and at times in its level of service. But that’s not to say it’s bad; rather it’s entertainment value outweighs all else.

The first element in this remarkable entertainment are the Brits – either complaining about the weather, that admittedly has been wet; or complaining that the good weather – now that it’s clear – may not hold.

The second element in this delightful entertainment are the Italians – charming and incredibly good looking. I’m talking in this last instance about the youngish – middle aged men. Now I never thought I’d be a leerer (is there such a word) but I’ve become one in Italy. A large majority of the men look like George Clooney, which explains why he got a villa, knowing that he wouldn’t stand out.

If I may be permitted to have a third element – and I’ll record one anyway – it is that the beauty of this place. The lake is characterised by charming villages and villas built along the banks of a remarkable deep stillness, blue green, grey, misty  or bright light hazy sunshine it’s all stupendous.

I’ve waxed lyrically about all the places I’ve visited on this holiday for the very good reason that I picked them as I was designing the itinerary. I needed to be reminded of the splendour of the world and to be reawakened by my own response to that splendour and beauty. Well I have.

I spent an hour at Villa del Balbianello this morning – Oh my God! Built in the 1700s is various stages it has belonged to counts, cardinals, monks and explorers and now resides as part of a bequest in the care of the Italian national parks people. It is in all senses of the word, a grand villa. I arrived at the front steps by way of speedboat full of Milanese (aka stylish) Italians. Up through the ornate iron gates framed by mossy sculptures and a garden green, dripping with bright red flowers and plane trees sculptured into candelabras. It beat the movie set of ä Month by the Lake hands down. 

In other circumstances (ie my owning the villa, or being the only one at the villa) I would have taken time to sketch and paint and lie about in this heavenly sculptured gallery of delights. But alas, I was one of many moving tourists, who filled each path, step, loggia, room and ramp 4-across. There was no stopping, just movement. And that was OK. I think my senses, visual and olefactory are reaching overload.

My sister and I are travelling together. She will leave me in Milan the day after tomorrow. I have 3 more days on my own in Milan for some serious black-belt shopping a trip to Bergamo to see the Visconti Tarot deck and, if I’m remarkably lucky a night at La Scala to hear Verdi.

 It’s been great having her as my companion. We work well together. Perhaps it’s Karmic as well as familial. We laugh at the same things, break each other up, respond to the same sort of stimuli in similar ways. She is a delight. Even when she lost her camera at the Abbey yesterday (watch those pesky monks!) she was so good humoured about it, and took herself off on a 2 km walk today to report it to the police in broken English-Italian-English. 

Well the Lake is a must-see. Preferably without the tourists, but then again I am unmistakably one of them, and I am deeply grateful to the Italians they indulge us. I’ve always wanted to live by a lake. In my life, I dare say, that desire will translate into a house on Lake macquarie as opposed to a villa on Lake Como. But what’s in an address!?

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Can you see it, taste it? Where were you when you ate that fabulous rosetta desert? What did you learn about the town when you ate their famous fish stew?

 I think it’s a great idea. What better way to embrace and anchor yourself in a place than via the digestive tract? or the taste-buds?

For people like my sister, they have the ability to recall towns and places through their visceral memory bank. Her trip through eastern Europe will sound and taste much finer when seasoned with memories of chorbe-de-fasola (bean soup!) than it would by her traumatised memory of being fined by an abrasive Bulgarian guard on a Brashov bus, because she didnt have a ticket.

A fair deal of our Travels are all in the mind. My own approach to travel isnt as broad minded nor as cruisy as my sister or my neices. I have a default position, when out of my comfort zone – when confronted by something out of the ordinary or off the plan I have formulated – I invariably  panic about what will happen, when it will happen if it will happen etc.

For instance, 3 days ago, we were on a ferry from Dubrovnik to Hvar, and the ferry sailed right past the town of Hvar. What!! It was calmly chugging up the coast of an island that looked completely deserted, thick with pine trees and no sign of life. I started to pray. Will we get off the boat? Have we now missed it? Should I have done something to remind them we were on the boat? Have we wasted the accommodation money? Are we instead going to Split further up the Dalmation Coast? What will we do there?

Gab was no good to me, she was off somewhere on the boat, looking at the scenery, photographing, as excited as a child on an adventure. Cruising with the cruisy.

Meanwhile, I am below, praying a mantra,  in a hot head of panic. None of the reasonable facts made their way through the shroud of anxiety.  I forgot how we had checked earlier the ferry was going to arrive at Hvar at 4.00. How the ticket said it was going to Stari Grad (which on the map was on the island of Hvar); how there were a  lot of other people on the boat going to Hvar. None of those facts could stop the panic.  I was left alone with a repetive prayer. Praying for what though? The ferry to turn around? an announcement (in English please)? Anything really.

Gab arrived back down at Deck 4. Come upstairs and see us arrive! smell the pine trees! Feel the breeze! Leave the bags! come on!!! Dont miss it!

So there we were up on Deck 5 watching the coast chug past, redolent with smells of rich green pine. She was none the wiser about where we were going, but she wasnt worried. A woman came up to stand beside us. She was alone, and we three were the only ones on our part of the deck. She smiled watching the island slide past even further.

Are you going to Hvar ? she asked, and then proceeded to explain how the ferry would pull into the old port, and as they had been in the tourist business for over 100 years would ensure we would be safely deposited at our hotel and would we like a photo?   And as we returned to get our bags, Gabby said there is your angel - the answer to your prayers.

Well the island is spectacular, and our taste buds and bodies have been embalmed and delighted with warm waters, delightful flavours, sun rain, sweet wine and good sleeps. Everything the island (which does indeed boast over 100 years as a holiday-health spa destination) promised and much more.

Looking back, as always, I am ashamed of my panic, and disappointed with myself to think my age or experience hasnt changed any of those default reactions I have. But thats me, I guess, and I have to digest that along with everything else this trip is teaching me about.

Hvala Hvar.

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What to do when you can’t tweet?  Blog of course.

Gab and I are travelling around Croatia and today we sorted out the ferry trip awaiting us later in the week that will take us further up the coast and thereafter over to Italy.

This is arguably the most beautiful place I’ve seen in my life. Sure everyone says that – but I mean seriously beautiful.

Picture this: Marble buildings with base reliefs in brass, marble stone road straight up the middle of a town; gargoyles, catholic statues of St Nicholas and a plethora of others, that sit atop a magnificent cathedral; squares filled with umbrella’d cafes and bars, fresh food produce every morning in the square; the most exquisite jewellery made of gold and coral – filigree handworked and competitively priced; pastries that pack the kilos on; a wall walk – of 2 km length that will manage to get the weight off.

This morning we walked for about an hour - past grand old mansions that are now post offices, banks, restaurants or tourist offices. Makes one wonder what sort of life style these croatians had before the war savaged their town.

Each day we trawl for the perfect coffee; each night for the perfect seafood repaste. They work hard for the tourist dollar and we are delighted to be spending it here. Fabulous scampi, prawns, fresh mussells, fish and pasta. Cool beer and house wine in a jug. Go that weight gain.. what a way to live.

Our apartment is buried in the heart of the old town, our landlady a charming woman who laughs when we try to mime our communicative needs – 2 beds not one; ice tray for gin; hallway light control etc. If you come to dubrovnik – you’ll be swamped by people at the boat offering apartments – we were so happy to get this fabulous deal doing it that way. I’ll tell you the details if you plan on visiting her.

For now – a ferry awaits, a seafood dinner and a concert in the old church at th end of the central stradun road.

Dorbra !

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I’ve been on Kefalonia for two weeks, and was lucky enough to see Myrtos beach, arguably one of the most beautiful beaches in Europe. I also visited Ithaca, a blessedly beautiful place with tiny beaches, emerald turquoise water finished with chalky clean-white stone edges, and countless tavernas and fishing boats, ancient men on scooters, minis full of coptic priests and menus that had half the items unavailable, and chilled golden beer, mousakka and calamari – all for 10 Euro. Actually every lunch and dinner, by the way ended up costing about 10 Euro – wierd!?

Ithaca is an island made famous in and by Homer’s myth. See Ithaca and find peace. I think that’s true actually. I put it down to the  fact that Ulysses wife, Penelope wove the qualities of fidelity, love and peace into her tapestry and in doing so formed the sustainable bones of that Ithakan myth. At the heart of this peace is trust that the future would bring the return of her wayward husband.

Our Ithakan guide for the day, unfortunately lacked the charm of a greek accent, seeing as though she was from Britain. The Island of Keffalonia seems to have more Brits than Greeks. Myrtos beach was full of them, baking themselves with a frightening lack of sun-screen and if I might add, good taste in swim-wear. But there you have it. These British holidayers seem to have made Shirley Valentine a new religion.

Ithaca had a different feel to Keffalonia. It was peaceful, it was also picturesque, full of tiny protected harbours, pocketted by a soft palette of stone buildings, overhanging bouganvillea, faded shutters and spilling over rusted balcony railings. Everywhere you look was a blinding chalky white stone path leading further on to a vista of unspeakable beauty.

On Keffalonia, yesterday we found ourselves driving one way up the back passages of Assos, a tiny village built beneath a ruined castle. Looking up the steep sloping road, it took approximately 2 mintues to decide that the icecream was far more appealing than a sun-drenched climb up the fortress road. Yes, Castles and Ruins can lack both intrigue and the necessary charm late on a hot day especially when competing with Norgen-Vaaz tirimisu and rasberry ice cream.

So packing all our travel gear, our books, our sun tans and our hangovers (yes if you do drink toooooo much Retsina you will get a headache!), my sister and I are visiting an internet cafe prior to the trip to the airport.

Lasting images of our stay: goats with bells herded by wise and thoughtful dogs; old women in black who didn’t need to be costumed for their extra role on the 1940’s Captain Corelli’s Mandolin filmed a few years back on this island; Onassis style boats moored in tiny harbours; white stone roads that are impossible to traverse without at least one stumble; cypress pines that reach up into a star-filled night like cathedral spires; siestas where the shops shut for 3 hours after lunch; olives and fetta, Retsina and cool clear deep still water where the colours make you laugh out loud with heady delight.

Yassoooooo.

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 I had no idea what part of the structure was what as I tried to capture the scenes punctuating points; A collapsed roof, arched windows framing bold stone wheels and fragmented wooden presses, rusted gates, broken steps and rugged stone walls.  

How many years before had a family run this Olive press? Who was it that had lived in the   adjacent homestead?  When did they close shop and in what circumstances? Now the home was boarded up –  its green wooden door and shutters, faded and stripped of color, were banded by steel cross bars. Intruders like myself could only guess what lay behind them. The many memories, stories, dreams, history were forever locked away behind resilient sun-drenched stone.

Was the Press in operation when Byron walked these island roads? Was the press as old as Francis of Assisi who had also lived on the Island?

The white chalky stones and terracotta tiles now fallen and almost embedded in the ground, are now awash with tiny white flowers, as abundant as the butterflies and bumble bees that traverse  them. There is continual movement in this still stone ruined landscape. The wind now and then carried what sounded like laughter and the wonderful whooshing sound of the greek language.

The Press stands near the villa where my family and I are holidaying. It is one of many ruined buildings that seem to characterize Greece. From the splendor of the Acropolis and Delphi to these tiny roads around the Islands, the land seems to be at peace with transience.

Sometime later in the week we’ll travel to Ithaca – a destination that has been on my wish-list for many years. From the villa we can see Ithaca. On Friday, we will catch a small boat from the town of Fiskardo, 10 minutes away. We will walk on the ancient land trodden by the Greek hero, Ulysses and we will see what he saw. And will we go the land of the lotus eaters, and stay away as long as he did?

When I was little I pored over the Greek myths of gods and heroes. I watchd the movies in the 60s that tried to recreate the stories of Ulysses, of Jason and Argonauts and the Trojan War; the struggle between destiny and a personal hunger and striving for love, for eternal glory or to meet your destiny – no matter what.

A few days ago, I was at Delphi, beneath the mountain of Parnassus. Our guide told us myths and stories all the way from Athens. And as we passed the intersecting roads where Oedipus met his fate, and killed his father, I cried.

I cried because there as an actual road from which this extraordinary story took seed. I cried because there is something extraordinary about stories that last as long as that. I cried because I was now walking the same path that many seekers had walked. It was the Delphic Oracle that told Alexander the Great he would conquer the world. It was the Oracle that foretold of wars and caught Nero out on his plan to murder his mother Agrippa. And it was the Oracle that was built from bees wings and wax.

I could do with much, much more of these Greeks.

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