Author Archive for Nicole

And then there was Venice

Published by Nicole on March 8, 2006 in travel. 0 Comments

And then go to Venice, and fall in love with everything all over again. But Venice… I always think you can appreciate a place whilst you’re there, but you don’t really learn about it in yourself until you’ve gone. Sometimes travel has to settle into you once you’re away from it.

With Venice, I take its beauty and colour. And heat. And gellati. (And nearly a new jeans size because of it, but I will avoid thinking about that until I get to salsa aerobics later…) We spent three days there, in a hotel near Rialto, where rats and tourists scramble for everything. Il Piave- I recommend it for its convenient location- moments away from St Mark’s Square and the million pigeons, and for its clean rooms, yummy hot chocolate which is like drinking chocolate pudding before its set, and the way the light falls in through grates in the windows when it rains. Magic. That light you hear about- ‘that’ light which artists chant about- happens in the mid- day storms that take over Venice and make it impossible to leave the crisp white sheets which glow, cool, and soothe as your lover breathes quietly beside you. It’s living pointillism…

John and I were swindled on the gondolas, and I still reel with anger over it, so skip them all together when you get there. Join the gondola strike with me and my millions (at least in my head) and get those gondoliers out of their Pradas and back into doing the service they were supposed to do: taking tourists on a very expensive ride which lasts more than FIFTEEN MINUTES. Agh! Just skip them, please, I beg of you. Let no Italian man in a tight little shirt convince you to pay him nearly 100 euro before stepping onto their gold-leafed canoe, only to swing you ’round the corner and tell you the trip is over. Swim before you do it. Please. Instead…

Take the water taxi which was so reliable, quick and fun. And cheap, cheap, cheap. You meet lots of people on these journeys, and you get to wear sunglasses, put your head in the wind, and you imagine you look glamorous. (Note to self: burn those pictures).
We went to the Lido and rented a tandem bike, which was more fun than I would have thought, once John let me steer. Since I couldn’t see over him when he was in front, I did not enjoy the first five minutes of the experience. But once I was back into control freak mode, we had a blast. The preparations for the Venice film festival were underway, so it was fun to see a hundred gilded lions with wings lining the streets, especially since John had a dream the night before that one was clawing at him and trying to take him away. Oh, the fun we had joking about the scary lions.

We laid on the deserted beach under an umbrella, drank cold beer, and swam in the very warm sea before heading back to England to start my new job. I highly recommend that little piece of Italy. I even wonder if the next time we go back, if ever there is one, we will stay on Lido instead. Only for the beaches, which are a little earo-trash, but still a beach, and lovely.

In Venice, don’t expect to eat for anything under 50 euro, and never expect it to be nice. Unless you eat from street vendors and little cafes, where they sell you rolly-up pizza things with fresh everything on them and a diet coke. I would have lived off of those if I could have, and I still don’t know what they’re called. We had a Bellini at Harry’s Bar, of course, which even Michael Winner thinks are the best- but he’s a pretentious columnist/director/gagillionaire for the Times, and I would expect him, who flaunts money around, to enjoy the fact that one is charged something like 10 euro for a drink, and 150euro…for pasta! John would like me to add here that, ‘the service was impeccable, the food was fantastic and fresh, and we had a nice time.’ I would like to add that I think a mafia boss was sitting next to me, and his date was one of those amazing Italian women who are ageless, but clearly mature, and shows she is looked after by wearing the biggest (read gaudy) jewellery and the loudest colors she can find. I thought she was fantastic, and fun to people watch. Or person watch, I suppose. I would also lik eto add, that Harry’s Bar was the most expenisve meal I have ever had. In my life. Ever. And I love to go to restaurants where food is slightly overpriced and sometimes over-thought.

This was not my experience at The Seafood Restaurant in Padstow, where the food was famously fantastic and two bottles of Stein-chosen white went down beautifully on a rainy August afternoon. Later we camped on a hillside in Padstow. I took a picture with my phone when the sun broke through the clouds over the bay, which I like to look at every now and then. I have framed The Seafood Restaurant’s menu, and it hangs in my kitchen. Apparently this is not as unique a thing to do as one might think. The woman who mounted the menu for me said, ‘I see these ALL the time’, in a way someone who works selling guitars would say, ‘ I hear Stairway to Heaven ALL of the time.’ Whatever. It makes me happy to have it. And I still like it when I hear Stairway to Heaven. So, for Padstow, for The Seafood Restaurant: I will be back. And the meal was a QUARTER of the price of Harry’s Bar. And a million times better. If you hadn’t gathered that already…

We have gorgeous art bought from a gorgeous young woman artist (Monica Martin, Itaca Art Studio: http://www.itacavenezia.it/artistaE.html ) who has a tiny boutique near St Marks. When I look at it, hanging on my wall, it brings back…well, not Venice, per se. Instead, something like the feeling I get when I look at the night sky and dream the stars into my mind. It was the only place I found anything slightly abstract and what I felt was unique. We did aquire another piece from a guy in St Marks square who wrote his home number, mobile number and home address on the back…in case I wanted to leave John behind and meet him later. I talked him down to 8 euro, and ran. Cool picture, though.

Watergate Bay in progress

Published by Nicole on August 23, 2005 in General and travel. 0 Comments

Discovery does not come in the time you travel in a car, but in the moments you stop and take in a breath, stretching legs out after all of those miles. You see, for the first time in hours, even though you’ve been watching roads drift by like a silent film.

I always say the color blue was invented by a god in Monterey. There, the mountains of the Californian coast drip into the cool Pacific like a watercolor. There is a music in the air- a beatnik, quiet jazz, with a low, low upright bass swaying in synchronicity with the tide that breathes itself into you as you paddle about the bay, or just sit and drink the wine, lounging in Carmel.

But there are varying shades of blue, and I have found new blues in Cornwall. These are the grey- mist- water blues that are bred in the Atlantic skies and swathe the southern coasts of England in their cool arms. Getting out of the car, high up on a Cornish hill, I was dazzled by the cliffs which are etched at the end of this island, and the dramatic way that green fields can be painted with a subtle haze of cloud. The discovery comes when you can simply take it in, this picture in front of you, and realise: England is a bit more than you thought it was. Sure, there are sheep grazing, and cows next door to your car, but down those rugged cliffs, there’s a surfboard with your name on it. A surfboard: in England.

Watergate Bay is a surprise. It’s stunning in its complexities. The tide rises quickly, and suprises the lone sock and flipflop left on the length of beach with its sharp teeth. Mothers run in circles, unsure of what to pick up first, their baby or their handbag. There is a vicious rip tide (apparently) and waves which beckon you to listen and decipher, to try to understand. I think I was not in tune during this trip, the waves only sounding their white noise to me. But maybe I was only hearing that elusive static before getting the right frequency- I’m sure there was some faint picking at guitar strings, some hope of a rhythm, somewhere in that noise…I’ll go back to tune in, or tune out, again, when I can…

We stayed at the Watergate Bay Hotel for John’s birthday. This is a haven. Immediately it beckons, with a mix of grey shingles and shining glass, sturdy against the cliffs. It rises out of the rock as if it were part of it; nothing awkward about this building. Inside, worn leather couches and open fireplaces ask you to read, and the bar with full protected view of the bay invites you for a drink- number 13 white, please, whatever that was- a beautiful pinot grigio or chardonnay, I can’t remember…

The rooms are straight out of interior design exemplar books: simple, understated, elegent. It’s exciting to see high tech CD plyers nestled into the furniture of a hotel bedroom- the soundtracks of your life are always better when you can compose them yourself- Radio 1 is not to be trusted on such occasions. There were swanky Italian-looking fixtures in the bathroom, although slightly complicated to work- with a tub big enough for two comfortably- even John, who is so tall, could stretch out if I let him. And the perfect touch: three rubber duckies waiting for us by the side. I have to note, the ducks could not swim, and I am still slightly alarmed for their well being in less attentive hands.

We arrived early and I checked in for a massage happily, with a warning upon exit that as I was covered in oil, the blue hazed sun would find its way through clouds and douse me with a burn if I was not careful. John had a bottle of wine waiting for me at the bar, which they promplty handed over and sent me outside to the deck to read. Bliss.

We made dinner reservations at 8, and I was pleased to see that a reservation actually got you preferential seating. We were at a good table for two by the window overlooking the hills from one seat, and the ocean from the other. We had gorgeous food- chicken liver pate with chutney or crab with watercress to start, followed by yummy local white fish with interesting potatoes. There was a dessert buffet, but our waitress brought over something chocolate with a birthday candle and, sweetly, did not sing for John. As ever with John, when there is dessert about, get a bite in as quickly as possible, because it won’t last for long.

Breakfast was included, and we had another great tabel by the window. Sadly, we were expected to leave our room byt 10:30. I hate when hotels do that…noon is a respectable time, 11, I suppose, if you’re in a rush. This hotel knows what they’re doing, though- for every half hour you stay after 10:30, you are charged £15.00. John was more prompt then ever. It’s not so bad, though, as you’re welcome to stay for as long as you’d like throughout the day. Our surfing lesson was scheduled for for afternoon, so we laid on the decks and read.

The view from the room’s balcony was perfection: animated art, really, with the hills sloping severly at one side, and a wide open sweep of the bay at the other. During the night, we left the sliding glass door open and felt the ocean’s cool on our faces. I want to live there. In that room. I cried when I left.

Corsica

Published by Nicole on June 9, 2005 in travel. 0 Comments

I am newly in love. That feeling of pain which sleeps in your stomach when you eat, sleep and breathe the thing which obsesses you. I am living it right now, and I want to keep it to myself. To hide the awe in which I behold this love: Corsica. It’s a land of secrets, and so many complexities. How did I ever live without it?

As you fly over France, you witness the Alps below like some sort of eruption- the white and black peaks daring to puncture the airplane. You feel edgy, comforted only by the blankets of clouds sweeping past, believing somehow they will lessen the fall. As suddenly as the Alps appear, they disappear. Then, the ocean: black, gleaming in the early summer sun. It whispers, ‘I can kill you,’ and you wonder if it will.

Then you search Corsica. A rugged thrust of an island, something you don’t want to tame. The rivers wind sexily down a thousand crevices of mountains, feeding themselves madly into rock pools with thunder and cascades, or with something like lust and seduction into the myriad of coves which meld with the Mediterranean.

I’ve read that Corsican’s refer to their east and west coasts as “over here” and “over there”. Or, “the land of the commons” and “the land of the lords”. To me, forever, Corsica will always be “over there, the land of the lords”. A god has kept it out of sight so a soul can roam it’s flavours without interruption, without haste, and without a German tourist clambering for every white seat it offers on the beach.

I flew into Figari, meeting the late day sun with a smile and some relief. England is cold, or cool, but so very rarely hot. In Figari, rather south and to the east of the island, the heat hovers over the tar, and mountains loom like familiar shadows in the sky. Not so far away is Porto Vecchio. It hides itself on a hill which slopes toward a small port. Ice cream and designer shoes line tiny streets cobbled with history and confused by culture- are these cobbles French? They sound it, with the quiet slick of the tongue. But Italian is mentioned, as you glide over the smoothed edges of the streets, into a piazza of sorts, with Catholic bells singing, and a sombre, cream stone chapel looking over your shoulder as you taste that thick oil, espresso, and wonder at the bitterness of it. Then you realise, quite suddenly, when the wine arrives- a buttery gold clustre of glistening stars in long glass: Corse. Corse. Corse. It slides down your throat and begs you to sing in any language you care to: Corsica.

I dare not mention it to many. I feel, honestly feel, it is my secret. My love and passion and something else wrapped up in this little piece of non-country (it’s part of France) I simply happened upon- ask my friends: they thought perhaps it was Cyprus, or Catalina, or Corfu…or Kosovo, in which I was travelling to. No. Whisper it, but don’t tell. I’m in
love with Corsica…

It’s May, sometime.

Published by Nicole on May 11, 2005 in General. 0 Comments

I don’t really know how to post anything on this site. Will have to figure that out at some point. If you’re trying to post something here, just press any link and hope it takes you to this ‘write post’ page. Very confusing.
‘Today I am going to kill something. Anything’…from Carol ANne Duffy. Is that not just one of the best first lines of a poem? It’s probably not even right- I mean, I probably mis-quoted. I am teaching it. From the Anthology. I had the luck and chance to meet Carol Anne Duffy last spring at a cool poet-y place in London. (One day I hope to look back on my life and think, ‘Hmm. I met Carol Anne Duffy at a cool poet-y place in London.’ Today is not that day.)
Today, the real today, my today, I am not at school. I should be teaching that poem and a million more, really, but instead I am locked in the confines of my house, dealing with a poorly kidney. A kidney. Who gets a sick day for a kidney, I ask you? Me. And it’s boring. And there’s another thing…
Today we get a new car. We, John and me. A little car I’ve been dreaming of a long time. I’ve told myself it’s to celebrate the successes in my life. To celebrate the ‘I’ve accomplished a few things I said I would accomplish’ thing. But so what? I mean, people are surviving all sorts of stuff I’ve never fully contemplated. War, war, war, starvation, true poverty, a million other terrible things. But I suppose those survivors wouldn’t want a car to celebrate with. Those survivors, their success, will be measured by the beating of their hearts. I will take my new little buggy, at least for as long as I can, and be gratefull for the beating of my heart. And the wind in my hair as I’m tearing through the south of France. At a sensible speed, of course.

Tracing

Published by Nicole on April 13, 2005 in General and poems. 0 Comments

I memorized it, like a poem.

The lines of your face and
the scruff of your unshaven cheeks
and the light from the street that gleams off your back, as you sleep.

And I held it so close,in my mind,in my heart, buried in my soul.

Until touching you became touching me.

We created a palimpsest;a set
of words and words,and words to write.
In flesh a million times:

the history that is
us.

travelling; this is not a poem

Published by Nicole on April 13, 2005 in General. 0 Comments

Across so many miles in so few minutes, and I wonder where the time has gone? I can see it on my face. The subtle changes wear on me like something I didn’t really want, something I’m not quite comfortable with.
I ran through Iceland to get to Key West to see people joining lives which had been joined by fate some ten years ago.
From there, I journeyed north a little, so see my friend whom I shall be linked with through whispers of the heart for eternity; just to see her is like intorducing a wave of calm into my personal tides.
Further north, I realised my cousins’ dreams in their new four walls where a home is made.
Again, north, to where I think I discovered myself, but before I discovered where I was heading (I am always looking to discover myself, actually…), and I found my very good friend and her very wonderful lover and we drank wine and wine and wine again, and I remembered what it was like to be me, if only for a minute.
Northwest this time, to see my brothers and the children who will grow up with all of our memories to share and pass on and grow from.
This was over two and a half weeks. London to Iceland to Baltimore. Baltimore to Fort Lauderdale. A cruise to Key West for the wedding of those very special cousins. Cruising on to Cozumel for a day, and then back to Baltimore via Key West and Pompano. Through Porstmouth to Allenstown,NH and back through Iceland…to home, in Cambridge.
Home?
Could it be that I have found this place I will live- not only live, but make a life? I feel the urge, now, to hang pictures. To find things which define me and make this space my own.
We have been gardening. Clematis, gladioli, iris, tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, onions, wild flowers, bulbs… You can never own the earth. I find myself ‘wanting’ things, then berating my greed, my ‘need’ for stuff…as if a roof and love and plenty of groceries weren’t enough to make me happy. (They are, really, when I remember to put my perspective on).
So, personal goals for today: relax. Relax into myself. Relax about everything around me. Breathe. Enjoy. (In a million histories of me, you see the same words floating through diary pages- why is peace so hard to sustain?)
Personal greeds for the day: get a car, find a house, make it ours.

downstairs (a work in progress)

Published by Nicole on March 13, 2005 in General. 0 Comments

You are building our bed.
The wood, sitting on the kitchen floor for months
is forging its way into furniture.
Will you build this bed like you have built this love?
Slow, steady, with bursts of passion?
Worshipping every curve, angle, the grain of the wood
with your eyes, your hands,
taking your time over it, afraid to make a mistake, to make a cut
or bruise that perfect piece of hope.
The blade rips, massages, chips away the straight backed form.
Then, in front of us, our bed.