The holidays are coming...

I arrived back home for an 'indeterminate' period of time. I'm yet to discover what that really means. Setting my employment struggles aside, I'm rather glad to be back. This was my first Christmas in two years. Last year I hopped hundreds of miles of local trains* from Sendai to Nozawa Onsen to spend Christmas day tumbling down the powdery peaks of Nagano.

Day three, I was a small crumpled ball on the tatami floor. (Worth it.)

Christmas passed practically unnoticed by my foetus. I remember it was signalled silently only when I threw my oniisan's Christmas present on him as he slept. We ate a make-do Christmas dinner, neither turkey nor roast potatoes, but a massive bowl of donburi and gently warmed sake. Not a morsel of tasteless tinsel in sight amongst the wood panelling and scrawled kanji menu. There were five of us, including the owner/chef. It being Christmas was irrelevant to the lack of diners in the establishment. Japan brims with stagnant economy although this never seems to press on daily life in the same way that it does in Europe. The threat of British poverty has such force that often times I dread even going outside. But in Japan, a quiet restaurant is just that. They exist, waiting patiently for customers to emerge from the cold.

So that is how I passed Christmas last year. Five people from five different nations, gubbing down rice and bread crumbed pork, watching the figure skating championships. We told the owner in pigeon Japanese that it was Christmas, a holiday in Western culture. Pretending to be interested he enquired politely about customs and celebrations. All I could think of was the Christmas Coca cola advert...


The holidays are coming, the holidays are coming...

The image of a tubby beardy bloke donning a scarlet suit with white trimming winking from the back of a Coca cola lorry has been the start of Christmas to me ever since I was a little girl. I love Christmas. I love watching terrible 80s films in their fuzzy glory while gobbling more turkey than I can physically handle. I love the trees bondage tied by fairy lights in Princes Street,  the smell of sausages being seared on a hot plate, and vats of steaming mulled wine on a constant steamy boil in the German market.

While I was away, I didn't miss Christmas. It is only now that I'm back here that I miss it. Even though I was here celebrating it with my family, I still missed it. But I miss Christmas before everyone grew up. Christmas this year involved me cooking the roast whilst my mother went to church. There were no children ripping open wrapping paper and running around on sugar highs. The saddest thing of all was probably the updated Coca Cola advert. They changed everything in an attempt to revitalise their advertising strategy I suppose. But Christmas relies heavily upon nostalgia. Why celebrate year after year if not to recreate the serenity experienced the years before? What I want from Christmas is to return to childhood, swaddled in the perception of rose tinted safety.

I'm not sure where I will be this time next year. But I hope next year I won't spend my time searching for ghosts of Christmases past.



*Three times a year JR offers a special ticket called the Seishuun Juuhachi Kippu. The ticket costs about 10,000JPY and offers unlimited train travel on local trains for 5 days within a limited period of time. You don't have to take the 5 days consecutively and you can share a ticket between a group, it's really flexible. If you're not in a hurry and can manage frequent train changes, this is the most economical way to get around without hitch hiking.

The Perfect Dialogue

Recently I have kept bumping shoulders with the idea of the Perfect. Rarely does a word become so important to me for an entire week. It began at a strangely Fitzgeraldian dinner party. An ensemble of mainly expatriate dwellers of Paris trickled together to celebrate the laziness of Sundays. Well, not so lazy for the brilliant hostess of course whose culinary skills were a definite testament to the hours spent in the kitchen. I was introduced piece by piece to the party. One of them had his hair slicked back in a quiff, and was wearing a striking black and white dress suit. Generally my palate cannot really handle the obnoxious, yet the drawling managed to ignite my interest. An interest which was very nearly revoked when he called me 'kid', but I let it slip since I couldn't remember his name.

'So, what are you doing in Paris?' he finally asked. I always find this difficult to answer. The simple answer is that I am an English teacher but that occupation only costs a fraction of my time with my mind boggling 13 hour work load. As I sit writing about my travels, occasionally editing photographs which I have taken and munching unenthusiastically on day twelve of the pastry challenge, I know I'm not just here to teach. Of course, I don't want to impose my neurosis on my new acquaintance straight away, so I reply simply, 'I'm a hobo.' Strictly speaking, this is not a lie . I don't have a permanent address, nor have I since July this year. I currently live on my friend's sofa. In the bedroom he rents, from the true contract wielding occupants of the apartment. My companion's reason was a little more noble. He had arrived lately to edit his doctorate research paper and was currently occupying the lucky position awaiting results.
'Why Paris?' I asked.
'Why not?' he reminded me. 'Paris is perfect.'

Generally I would treat a statement like that with caution and dismay. But I had faith in the intelligence of the gentleman and so I didn't immediately shit on his response. But when I asked him to explain what he meant, he couldn't. At very least, didn't. He stated that Paris is perfect according to the Cartesian notion of perfection. I felt a little cheated then, and I wonder now if the reality is that he was not keen to dissect the city he loves. I am beginning to love living in Paris, as I always learn to do, in the final moments before leaving a place. Yet I would never describe the city as being perfect. It has millions of facets, of which thousands are brilliant. Paris has an enviable good to bad ratio. But I could never give in to sentiment and state outright that it is perfect.

Some friends came to visit me from Russia this week. I met a crazy trio in Yekaterinburg and I had been looking forward to the Parisian leg of their Europe trip ever since. When I finally found them, I asked one how he felt about Paris. Quickly, the previous Sunday's comment reared its head. Soon we found ourselves debating the existence and definition of the Perfect, and then swiftly rearranged the statement into the much more satisfactory question; 'is Paris ideal?'

My friend is not disappointed with Paris exactly yet it seems he is underwhelmed by it. He gazes at Paris with eyes I recognise, eyes I wore once too. Paris is mismatched with the expectation he had developed from celluloid.

The next day, on meeting them after their trip to the Louvre, I reiterated the question. Paris was no better for him on the second day. In fact a little worsened by their visit to the Louvre. (They tell me the organisation of the museum is horrible. I was worried before, and rather comforted now to know this) I felt a little sad that, even as a tourist, my friend was not enjoying Paris to a great degree. I said that there were some brilliant things I wanted to show him but he replied honestly that he didn't want my view of Paris. He wanted to discover Paris for himself. I respect that. In fact, I was pleased. I wouldn't have to drag him on mundane excursions to the three most scenic spots of Paris. (There's not even a list, unlike in Japan.)

So instead we hung out with a few beers in Rue Moufftard. Rue Moufftard is a tiny cache of students and pubs hidden behind blocks of tenament buildings, and lit by rows of dazzling fairy lights. Any former student of the University of Glasgow is automatically subject to a tiny wrench to the heart as a memory of Ashton Lane ignites. I was rather impressed with Rue Moufftard, I have been missing oak panel display cabinets displaying emptied whisky bottles. We drank, and nibbled goat saussison, and departed at 2am, less sober than sober.On our dander back to Chatelet along the boulevards of Paris, we jumped the railing, nearly falling into the Seine, into the grounds of the Notre Dame. We drank rosé from the bottle with two Parisian girls we met under the Christmas tree after shouting at them, "ISN'T IT JOYOUS?!" My friend and I exchanged performances. He recited Russian poetry. I love the Slavic languages, the jittery consonantal sound completely opposes the slow balanced melody we have with English. I reciprocated, by song. I have a bad cold at the moment so I chose to rasp my way through Stand By Me. My friend fell silent. When he finally remembered to say something, he announced that it was perfect.

A place in itself cannot be ideal, at least not for me. I need to build interactions which build memories, these souvenirs alone are worthy of being ideal. I will remember Paris as being a beautiful city undoubtedly, but that is irrelevant. The beauty lies with those people I met here, and the things we did when we dandered down the boulevards of Paris.

Today I made Sunday dinner to thank the flatmates of the place I have been living in for the last month. A good old roast chicken, roasties with a raspberry bakewell tart for dessert. From scratch. That was a brave choice, baking pastry for French people.

And afterwords, my friends told me that it was perfect.

Perhaps I agree.

The return of Chinggis Khan

Sitting here entertaining tarte au chocolat for breakfast (Day 4 of the pastry challenge, and no, I'm not bored yet) thinking about my recent trip to Mongolia, I began to wonder. I know for sure that writing retrospectively has advantages. Clarity of perspective for one. I can't imagine I would have been too forgiving of Mongolia if I was writing during my 'no solids please' period. I started to speculate about whether future entries dealing with pieces my trip across the Transiberian will lack the enthusiasm, lack the truth, and most devastatingly will lack the gritty details; the precise shade of someones eyes, the little things that build the mosaic shall be forgotten in the cracks of memories less frequently recalled. I no longer remember the name of the taxi driver in Ulaanbator who took me from the temple to the bus ticket counter and didn't dick around, charging me 'foreigner price'. I don't recall his name, but I do remember the Christian paraphernalia and the unsettling lack of seat belts inside his car. Similarly, I know that the slowly diminishing tarte au chocolat will be forever remembered as being quite pretty, round, the colour of cocoa, with a sticky glistening glaze, and some gold leaf on top. And the taste? I would say it was nice. In fact, it was good (still is, nom nom). But what does that even mean? If someone asked me to describe it, could I really convey how much I am enjoying this tart right now? It's not even the best tart, just a very good one. Do I need a line graph? Statistics to back up the fact that it was a very much, above average but not the best, chocolate based pastry type item I have ever eaten?

No one is likely to enquire about the tart au chocolat. But people often ask me, how did you like Mongolia? If I cannot accurately describe my tart au chocolat, what hope is there for this? I guess the simple answer is that it was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Mongolia is gorgeous. The elevation is such that clouds hang low, close to the horizon, giving the impression they are suspended on wires from the rafters of a theater.

All the world's a stage

I could tell plenty of stories; about the time I got on a bus which drove southwest on one straight road for approximately 12 hours, dodging cows and horses; about the bizarre arrival at my destination; about the Mongolian guy who didn't speak English but treated me like an old friend and taught me to ride a horse; even some stories about Chinggis Khan. Mongolian's speak of Chinggis Khan so often it seems as though he is still alive. In fact, more than that, they speak of him like a friend who occasionally comes round for afternoon airag (Fermented mare's milk. Tastes a bit like alcoholic, salty, watery yogurt. The distilled version is a clear spirit alcohol whose mere appearance will burn the hairs off your chest). There is an old tale in Mongolian lore that goes along the lines of Chinggis Khan never died but is merely sleeping and when Mongolia has need of him again he will re-awaken and restore the former glory of the empire. In Mongolia, this seems less like a story but more of a fact. To be fair, if ever a person was going to defy mortality my vote would be for him.

I spent a great deal of the transiberian trip couchsurfing, amazingly this was even possible in the vast emptiness of Mongolia. I was lucky enough to stay with two Europeans, working on an NGO, far from the smoggy capital Ulaanbator. They worked with Mongolians, educating rural herders in the ways of Western Capitalism, encouraging them to forget their 'needs first' approach to life and devise business plans to create a profiting trade market. Officially Mongolia ranks as one of the world's poorest countries, with one of the world's poorest GDPs. However, on arrival there is an overwhelming sense of a lack of the incredible poverty you might expect, the kind that can be seen in other developing nations. I'm not saying Mongolia has no problems, on the contrary, but Mongolian's know how to pull together, to live with what they have in way of life which has changed reasonably little for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Ok, so the diet is now modified with items such as rice and occasional tomatoes but if you go to Mongolia still be prepared to be sucking on boiled mutton and fermented mare's milk three times a day. If you can stomach it three times, that is, often just once is enough. Some foods are being imported, the aforementioned rice and tomatoes, as well as disgusting over-sugared instant coffee and possibly expired tins of cooked fish (it tasted similar to what I imagine the word skag tastes like). But the staple remains the ubiquitous mutton. People continue to live in relative isolation in ger camps, although often augmented with the addition of solar panels to power their stereo or tv, whilst they cook on a stove powered by burning dried manure. Times are indeed changing, particularly for us in the West, but there is little necessity for Mongolia to be pulled into our spiralling economic mess. What can our way of life really offer to people who brave some of the world's harshest living conditions and continue to do so of their own free will? I can't stand taking cold showers, never mind spending the half the year in a yurt when it's -40 degrees Celsius outside.

In one conversation I had with the couchsurfers, I was rather rude and accused them of destroying the traditions and culture of Mongolia by introducing foreign concepts which just don't have relevance here. I have always had difficulty placing economics over culture, which is probably why I am currently a homeless bum squatting in Paris, eating tart au chocolat for lunch/dinner. I feel a little guilty about what I said, apart from disagreements over core values they were absolutely lovely hosts. But the real nail in the coffin for me was that my accusation was met with a resounding 'yes'. They were here to destroy Mongolia and they knew it. When I asked them why they continued to do it, they said it was better that they did it, rather than the Chinese.

If now is not the time for Chinggis to re-awaken, Mongolia has a grave future ahead indeed.

The Pastry Confession

So, all the stories you've heard are true, I will be carting my plump arse back to Scotland just in time for the onset of the festive season. (My birthday too, don't you forget.) I'm facing my last two weeks in Paris already. I feel a little guilty for not giving it a proper heave-ho, but I don't feel there is good enough reason for me to reasonably stay. I enjoyed autumn here, particularly the dead leaves mobbing the pavement. There are some things I will miss about Paris. In the same way there are many things I missed in Japan. But now, I miss lots of little things about home, most of all.

The thing I missed most about home, when I was in Japan, it was bread. Simple bread. A little diversion to clarify: Japan does have bread, it is sold in packs of slices of 3, 6 or 8. And, it NEVER goes stale. I sometimes left these slices on top of my toaster for weeks at a time (my cleanliness is not even the issue here). They neither grew mould, nor went stale. For its longevity it might have been the perfect disaster food. Admittedly I didn't see a single slice of bread the entire month after the Tohoku Daishinsai, but I stand firm in my beliefs. 

The big problem, however, is that the bread despite it's clearly advantageous life span, is... awful. It's sweet, it's too soft, it sticks to your teeth like toffee. It's just not really bread. I'm not unacquainted with Asian breads being Chinese after all. Now would I ever turn down a nikku-man. There's always room for nikku-man. But the bready famine it wasn't limited to bread, it was pastries, cakes, anything flour based which required an oven. In fact, anything which is readily available in Paris from at least three shops on every street. Paris has spoiled me with the one thing I missed the most and still I have not had enough. I love leaving a boulangerie with a warm baguette in hand, munching one end, trampling crisp dry leaves piled by the roadside. I am quite content with my decision to leave Paris but I know for a fact that bread will yet again become a distant desire. 

So for my last two weeks, I have decided to put myself on a diet. A bread and pastry diet. I'm going to sample one of these butter loaded floury baked goodies daily until I leave. My mouth is already salivating in excitement. I may require two seats on the plane... 

So, I present to you now;

The Pastry of the Day

Feuillette chocolat et banan. Nom nom nom...

Down and out in Paris

Here's a poem I wrote recently, still in fairly raw form.
   

    Itchy Feet

My sister asks 'where are you?'

'Writing,
under the awesome shadow

of the Sacre Coeur',
I lie.

'And your plans?'

'A single espresso on a terrace in the sun.'

I procrastinate

Surveyed by bo-bos. 

Under the impression
They are not I. 

I rest my legs

Bend to scratch my heels

My itchy, itchy feet.

Feet that trod half the world around

Past buildings smaller
Past people shorter

Past cups of pleasureless watery coffee,

Till I reached this cup,
Its muddy slosh

Lacking an anthem to boost my heart.

I imagine Amelia

Sinking 10,000 miles forward

Never glancing back

Whilst I recline
Too comfortably

On native tongue luck. 

I fly forward to no glory.

No temptation

To part this wicker chair.

Only the restless twitching,

Of my itchy, itchy feet.

I arrived in France two months ago. The envy of my friends I am now, living the bohemian dream in Paris. I cannot inform a single person of my current status as 'resident of Paris' without being confronted with a chorus of 'ooh, how romantic'.

Paris is undeniable. Gorgeous sandstone tenements accompanied by cute iron balconies, galleries and museums housing some of the greatest artistic treasures in the world, and all the sugar and carbs you can imagine glistening impatiently in the windows of too many boulangeries. Yes, Paris is a beautiful city. Particularly in Autumn when the summer heat has released cool breeze into the city, tugging at scarves and berets in the process. Yet for me, there's something very wrong. It feels like I'm living on a theater set. I don't interact with anyone who I'm not pre-destined to. Paris, like Venice, is stuck. Marbled in time, it is a testament to the will of people. We imposed our imagery on Paris, created it as a place of wonder. Paris has little life of its own, fuelled mainly by romance tourism.

I looked once for the artists in Paris and found a sorry sight, what the French call the 'bo-bo'. The Bohemian Bourgois. The artists fled Paris long ago it seems, extradited by the super inflated cost of living. A tiny studio apartment not more than 11m squared will cost upwards of 550euros per month. Just you try painting in that. Now the only artists left are those with parents willing to spare the change from their pockets. In come the bo-bos. Flooding Paris with pretense, I have met few genuine people since I arrived and I wonder at times, whether I am one of them. 

I think it may be time to leave this town.

The Blue Heart of Siberia

Standing outside a pseudo-Italian restaurant I waited for my guide to arrive. Drizzle was settling on my eye lashes and inside my bones. A man across the road stood staring, probably at my clear lack of preparation for Omsk weather. I lit a cigarette. Blowing grey smoke into a comparably grey sky, a man emerged.
 'У вас есть запасные сигарету? ', he asks.
 'Oh,' I mumble, my eyes explaining I don't speak Russian.
 'Oh,' breaking into English, 'do you have a cigarette?' he repeats. I give him one. We exchange smiles and names.
 'Nice to meet you', I say.
'You're a tourist?' he enquires. I nod. He takes a long drag from his cigarette...



 'WHAT are you doing in SIBERIA?!' he roars with laughter.

Standing outside a pseudo Italian restaurant in Omsk while rain soaked through my jacket, my choice of destination did seem absurd. When I had thought of Siberia previously, I imagined industrial snow and furry hats. What I didn't anticipate was Siberia's heart. You hear stories of tourists being duped by corruption, yet I never met any ill will. But the heart of Siberia is not just in people. It is also the clearest, deepest, most voluminous expanse of fresh water in the world. Practically a sea, sparkling like a sapphire, Lake Baikal is a lake even larger than some countries. Situated close to the western shore of Baikal is a small gem named Olkhon Island. It was on Olkhon that I discovered the heart of Siberia.

Arriving with the setting sun after a turbulent drive over the countryside, I went to locate my bed. Gandering across the dirt track streets I met wandering cattle grazing freely between wooden houses. My host kindly led me to my room and introduced me to his family. Night fell quietly. Across the cloudless sky, a clamour of stars fought for space in the sky. I took a walk in the blinding dark, guided by bonfires that illuminated the cliff coast. I fumbled in my pockets to find I had forgotten my lighter. I stumbled over knolls, precariously close to the cliffs, towards the nearest camp.
'Zdravstvuite' I managed in imitation Russian.
'Hello!' replied a young man. 'Come, come, sit with us!' I was ushered into the circle and introduced to at least fifteen names, of which I can remember not a single one. Here sat a collection of Russians, Belarusians, Kazakhstanis, even a French woman. My host plied me with roasted sunflower seeds, hot tea (because 'vodka and cigarettes are evil', I learned.), sweet sunflower halva, dark chocolate, dried apricots, and glorious warmth. The lady to my left sat on the lap of her boyfriend. The fire crackled and as though on cue, she began to sing. Our circle fell silent to the tragic melody. It was an old folk song about Baikal, she told me later.

Few of the travellers in this group had met before the creation of the bonfire, nor would meet again. But for one night, in the blue heart of Siberia, we were family.

Rejoining 21st century Scotland

It has been over a week since I was reunited with the smell of bacon and brown sauce.

One year spent without a decent hangover cure. One entire year with no TV, no nightlife, no Irn Bru, no bacon. And yet, pangs of nostalgia; I already miss Japan. Its perversions, insane working culture and nuclear-tsunami-quake-a-thon aside, it was a fantastic place to live. Even the wild snares of the cicada, the humongous flying cockroaches they are, is something to be missed. There is an atmosphere in Japan like no other. I don't mean the weight of the humidity, which at times bordered on being completely ridiculous. But an atmosphere, a buzz of something great. Something unified. Whereas most of the buzzing here at home can be traced back to a mobile phone.

I have transformed into something of a prude, I think.