15-It Ain't All Cinnamon and Sunshine: Brotherly Love and Body Armour

With the imminent arrival of Lydia's parents, I decided to take a trip to create some space in the apartment and to allow room for some private family time too [Lydia: you didn't need to do this! We all love you!]. I would go on an adventure for two days and then stay in an Air BnB for a couple of days on my return. I had to take advantage of cheap buses to some nearby cities, so I booked a Megabus to Philadelphia,  aka "The City of Brotherly Love". How was it? After sending Konstantinus a plethora of Philadelphia photographs suggesting the trip was princess perfection, I had to confess: "It ain't all cinnamon and sunshine." Philadelphia was the place where I contemplated the need for personal fortification.

My yoga teacher talked about how he had used his 'body armour' in the morning when he was on the subway. A group of very loud men, swearing and being aggressive in conversation entered. The dynamics of the carriage immediately changed. He could visually see everyone close down, avert their eyes. Immediately lock themselves down or iron out any chinks they had in their armour they already had on. He, who had no armour, at peace on his usual quiet, early morning subway ride, coffee in hand, felt the plates spread from his feet to his head: a full suit. Our defence mechanism when we are scared, tense. When we feel peaceful, safe we are soft, open; there is no need for an exoskeleton. Finding places and people where we can be vulnerable, soft is special. Yoga is one of the havens for me. Initially while here in New York, I was quick to put myself daily in armour, a regular part of my wardrobe. (Although perhaps my poet and turtle experience may suggest otherwise!) I was becoming less reliant on it as time goes on. Sometimes our armour is important, needed and sometimes we may reach for it unnecessarily, too quickly. Philadelphia tested my need for a bodily fortress; a princess bubble of oblivion is not always a suitable mode of travel (only really if you have a travel buddy, like Jones, that has your back). Perhaps I did not march off on the best foot. I wasn't as fresh as I wanted to be for my excursion. I had slept badly, awoken by noises in the night and as Lyd was still in New England, I had to just try to be brave. (I was worried that the mouse was scratting, possibly climbing up the bed- but the mouse is a whole blog post within itself. He is the true dastardly villain, causing Lyd and I to suit and boot up both physically and spiritually in our own home!)

I fell back into my bad habits and had to haul ass across the subway and city. Megabus departs from somewhere not so obvious and I was not really prepared for that. I was sweating as I charged down the street, adhering as best as I could to a random set up and strange queueing system. I slid onto my bus, moments to spare and breathed (no nice hot drinks, but a pack up of Wholefoods salads)! Minutes before I had left, I scribbled directions to the hostel I booked on scrappy paper, recalling reviews that it was complicated to get there and right out of the city. It looked pretty though and in a wooded area. A good place for a run and I liked the look of the porch and white wood slat building. It was called Chaminoux Mansion and that made it seemed less hostel-like too. I had booked it a while ago and had not thought about it since. I am sure I would find my way, or ask once I got there.

I had to ask fellow Megabus travellers what the heck was going on, which line was which. I realised I was getting much better at asking and how helpful it is if you do ask! Lydia and I have spoke about this quite a bit: the feeling of being vaguely lost and not wanting to appear it. When I reach the end of my book, Ralph Ellison summarises this perfectly:

None of us seems to know who he is or where he is going. Which reminds me of something that occurred the other day in the subway. At first I saw only an old gentleman who for the moment was lost. I knew he was lost, for as I looked down the platform I saw him approach several people and turn away without speaking. He's lost, I thought, and he'll keep coming until he sees me, then he will ask his direction. Maybe there is an embarrassment in it if he admits he is lost to a strange white man. Perhaps to lose a sense of where you are implies the danger of losing a sense of who you are. That must be it, I thought- to lose your direction is to lose your face.

So, I have relaxed a bit more about just asking and not minding appearing lost. People do in fact want to help. I know I do if anyone asks me. The other week I stood at the Post Box. I was thrilled to have finally managed to get some stamps (Post Offices seem to be hidden here) and postcards (only found in Times Square??). I had written a ton of them and was ready to post. Though I could not work the post box. Was this one closed? Should I wait until I saw the next one? I bit the bullet and asked a girl crossing over the road. I think I may have put on more of a British accent and said something along the lines of, "I am terribly sorry. Am I being incredibly ignorant about how to post letters in the United States? This post box is unlike the ones in England and I cannot seem to work it. Is there a knack to it?" Well, apparently I made this girl's day and that was the most adorable thing she ever heard. She pulled a little handle, open sesame literally, and my letters were popped in. SIMPLE. Lyd said she had exactly the same problem when first confronted by a U.S Post Box. She is Princess Smartypants. The cleverest girl I know. Sometimes the simplest things can seem hard! There are no stupid questions, only stupid answers, I once heard. But I think the post box question qualifies as pretty stupid.

Armed with this knowledge, at least knew that I could write and send postcards from Philadelphia with ease if I was stuck for things to do and I can also ask questions to enlist help (because surely I could rest assured that they would never be as stupid as the post box one). Great! Getting to the hostel was the next challenge. Disembarking from the Megabus, I immediately felt the different energy of this city. Calmer for sure. Skyscrapers, but not as crammed full. I wasn't so dwarfed. I realised I was right in the main historic area and it looked impressive. My scrap piece of paper with scribbled directions did not seem very helpful or clear, though. The rain that had begun had made my pen marks run. Bus 38 was a definite. Did I need to get off the bus at 20th or on it at 20th? Or what about 6th and Market Street? Fortunately I did not mind appearing like an idiot and the people of Philadelphia were very lovely. With help, I managed to find the correct bus and boarded. A beautiful city! We passed sooooo many amazing buildings and the sun began to shine.

However, my stop that I had written down and the bus driver recognised never seemed to come up. Ford and Crayston. Ford and Crayston. It was like a desperate mantra in my head. I am tense and I feel my armour creeping up my body. We went through the main streets, passed museums, over a bridge. We turned into a very tired, very poor looking neighbourhood. Soon I and one other person were the only ones on the bus and we seemed to be very far away from the city. I heard my stop called and here I was. On the street, in the middle of nowhere. I reminded myself that I had known this when I booked this place; all the reviews described how lovely the hostel was, but how out of town it was. A small cluster of houses, a small group of shops. Walk to the stop sign and turn left, then a mile down the road. The weather was muggy, I had shed my armour a while ago, partly the heat and telling myself to have faith. It was complicated but seemed right. I could see in the distance Chaminoux Mansion. Very pretty and just like the picture. Okay. Hot and bothered I made it. With relief I dropped my bags on the porch. Door locked. Hostel is closed between 11 and 4. It was 3ish and I had my book. I was here. Fine.

Two cars pulled up and a group of loud young Spanish tumbled out, stretching, talking loudly and ALL lighting up cigarettes. Trust my luck that the two nights I am dorm sleeping, I end up with smoking, youthful Uruguayans (turns out they are not Spanish). Anyway, the really kind Youth Hostel worker comes out and lets us leave our luggage. He drives me back to the bus stop, providing me with some invaluable information, maps and bus tokens. I jump out at the bus stop and am immediately engaged in conversation by an amazingly sweet elderly man. We talk for a full hour- at the stop and then on the 30 min bus ride into town. His name is Floyd and he is a gem. We talk about his daughters. His mother and how he comes from a family of 16 children. Philadelphia. Poets. Turtles. Food. Donuts. Parents. Health. Not talking to strangers. How much I would have liked his mom. He blesses me when I leave, saying he loves my cheerful face. There was no exoskeleton here, body armour not needed. I namaste him right back. (I have been blessed a few times since I have been here. Just the other day a busker in the New York subway when I dropped in some dollars and told him his voice was lovely. He was singing "My Girl" and he looked right into my eyes. He was old and the light in him was just beautiful. Normally I feel a little strange about "God Bless You"'s, but since my Wayne Dyer/ The Tao Te Ching interest has been cultivating, I accept this with grace and light reflected right back.)

I wander around the Historic Quarter. I enjoy the freedom from my armour, exchange pleasantries with museum and cafe workers. I move around the streets with the knowledge of the grid system transferable from NYC. There is so much to choose from, I am unsure what I want to visit properly. It is getting on a bit now, so I figure I scope stuff out and then fully commit tomorrow to a couple museums. I use the Starbucks wifi to work out a good vegetarian place to dine alone in. I decide to head to Hip City Veg. I set off and the light drizzle has turned to incessant rain. Cold rain. I march on. Maybe I have failed to remember one thing: 15 blocks can be longer than you think! Thank goodness for my raincoat that Mama Wolff insisted we go halves on and buy. I know she could not bear to think of me arriving in new places looking like a scruff bag; this all weather jacket, though expensive, was worth it for being transferable in all the countries and weathers I was likely to face. It proved itself to be completely waterproof. Unfortunately, it stops mid thigh. So, when I reach my destination and peel off my coat with my frozen hands, I am bone dry underneath but my tights, feet (stupid Converse) and legs are sodden. The food is lovely; preferable to the deep fried, meaty choices that I seem to be surrounded by here.

I leave and sit in a coffee shop. I am near 20th where I realise I can get on my number 38 bus back to the hostel. I have a nice conversation with the man behind the counter. His dream is to go to Cornwall one day and is very pleased that I came to visit Philly, welcoming me to the "City of Brotherly Love". I blather on and realise that anyone who engages me in more than just the expected customer/server pleasantries tends to get an earful. When I return from the bathroom and gather up my belongings, he gives me the hot chocolate I ordered. Oops, he says. It is a large (I had ordered and paid for a small), he winks and he also passes me a cinnamon bun I had been eyeing up (saying they are closing now and they would just have to throw them away, he is taking some home too). It isn't sunshine but this is pretty cinnamon-y! So sweet. Or maybe I appear pathetic and in need, I realise. I walk back out in the rain. It is dusk and this is an incredibly stupid time to head back. I will arrive in the middle of nowhere in the dark. I can guarantee though, that I will be alone. No one else would be foolish to be out in this.

I don't even think I have the energy for my body armour. My bus stop has no shelter. My cinnamon bun in the paper bag is now sodden. My hot chocolate is my saviour; armour in a cup. I get on the bus. A large lady gets on and sits beside me, she says hello and smiles. I am comforted by this small act of kindness. Instead of a desperate mantra, I chant: The light that is in me, I see reflected in you. I appreciate the warmth of the bus. I run the mile in the pouring ran to the hostel. It is pretty awful. When I arrive, the owner gives me extra towels to dry off. I say I just need to shower and get into bed, she gives me earplugs. I am sharing with the Uruguay gals. It is 8:30. The communal areas are full of high school kids and a few teachers, evidently on a residential.

I head to my dorm. It isn't so bad. I just accept they are loud and I think my sheer exhaustion and relief to be back, dry and warm sends me off into a decent slumber. The sun is streaming through the window the next morning. The girls all are sound asleep and appear so different when quiet. I sneak out for a run and then get ready and leave for the day, opting out of the communal pancake making. Sunshine is deceptive. The windchill factor kills me and leads me to a lot of coffee and tea drinking in museum cafes. I do a lot of wandering. I enjoy Rocky's statue and watching runners do the steps of glory. I head to one of my museums of choice which is closed. I look at various historic points and different areas. Philadelphia has a lot to offer. I really like it. My hands are so cold. I decide to head back at a reasonable (daylight) hour.

When I return, I have a nice chat with the hostel manager. Where is everyone? I ask. He has moved the girls out of the dorm room with me. It will just be me and one other girl who has not arrived yet. The school group went this morning. Should be a lot quieter for you. I take my leftovers to the homely loving room and eat. Would you like to decorate an Easter egg? he asks. I do. He brings me coloured pens and eggs and some examples from last year. I sit and work on my design and then pop it into the basket. I notice the note on it is inviting children to take part. I must appear in need. First free buns from the cafe man and pity activities from the hostel owner.

I head to my dorm and make my bed as comfy as I can with lots of extra blankets. The girl arrives. She is from Dallas and will spend a week at the hostel while she looks for apartments. I ask her what she thought of the bus journey out here. She says she got a cab and would not want to contemplate that tricky excursion yet. She is impressed that my first journey to Chaminoux Mansion was by the number 38 and the trek. I shrug. I am glad to impart my tips though, maybe she won't have to reach for her body armour and instead enjoy the ride. It is pretty interesting. A lot to take in, and such drastic changes between city and poor suburbs and then the outskirts where we are.

I sleep. Warm. Quiet. I leave, early in the morning. The sun is streaming, rising behind Chaminoux Mansion which is nestled in trees. The breeze is gentle and air not as cold. I walk away, looking back once. I ride the number 38 for the last time. I find my Megabus and watch the city roll past as I head back to NYC.

It really isn't all princess bubbles, cinnamon and sunshine. There can be feverish feelings of isolation, albeit fleeting. Of course, this is contrasted starkly with the beauty of moments, hours, days of the bliss that liberty brings. One would not be so apparent without the other. This yin and yang concept is in everything around. When I get off the Megabus, I feel the rush of New York. In contrast to the City of Brotherly Love, this city now feels more like home than ever. I sail through new subway routes and past crowds on Columbus, finding my Mid Town Air BnB with ease. I pop my trainers on and head to Central Park for a little run. I watch the traffic and passers by from my window and prepare to head to Queens to be reunited with my New York family; not just Lyd but her mama and dad too! I decide to walk to 42nd and hit Times Square; the sun is about to set and I feel light. I know when I have to become a citadel and when not. I am happy to have hung up my body armour. I smile to myself as I walk through the crowds. The last of the sun is creeping between the skyscrapers and the energy electric. There have to be moments when it ain't all cinnamon and sunshine- they make these moments all the more sweet and perfectly bright. (And I always have my body armour to hand, should I really need it.)

The view from the subway as I headed in to Queens.

14~New and Old Worlds in New England

A trip to New England to visit Lydia's beau was next up in our hefty schedule of stuff to do. The loveliness of the area is something I vividly remember from my last visit here (although we had to be far more intrepid, in the adverse hurricane circumstances). Lyd has mastered this train journey and we head straight to the cafe section where there are tables. She notes me wrinkling my nose at the menu but she assures me that you don't have to even buy anything to sit there. This is good news as we are about to unpack the loveliest of lunches that we put together in order to avoid the inevitable microwaved pizzas, bagels and hot dogs on offer! A lunch of salad topped with rice, kidney beans, roasted veg, cauliflower and chickpeas dressed in a mustard vinaigrette should have been gorgeous but the supermarket food here is strange and quite frankly tasteless. The kind cafe and Amtrak workers raise their eyebrows at our lunch but smile. I question whether or not I jumped the gun with my snobby reaction to the menu and consider ordering a hot dog to chop up and chuck in for taste. It turns out it is the cafe worker's 61st birthday. I look at Lyd, "I love birthdays!" ( I have been known to celebrate for weeks and organise myself quite a party). Lyd nods enthusiastically, leans forward and conspires in a whisper, "Shall we give her one of the coconut and pecan cookies we have?" Without a doubt. The lady is very touched and had (even before the cookie) allowed us hot water and lemon, without charging us, so she is definitely deserving of Lydia's favourite all time cookies.

Holyoke, New England provides such a contrast to the NYC living that has engulfed us for the previous weeks. The neighbourhood has huge detached houses, mostly with 3 floors as opposed to huge buildings sandwiched together with 60 floors. Front and back gardens. And when we arrive, not a soul to be seen. Walking up the path to the white, wooden slat house and popping the bags down on the sun drenched porch, it has to be said, this is a different world. The quiet is almost loud.

I tiptoe round this lovely house and head outside to sit on the kerb. Lyd gets chance to catch up with work and sleep and her beau (PG) prepares for a poetry reading that we will attend that evening. The poetry world seems to be resonating for me at the moment and I wonder what the universe is trying to tell me?? I had tried to read some from the books the poet had given me but admittedly did not get very far. Somewhat confused and (guiltily) losing interest. 

Prior to the reading, we are invited to a gathering at the wonderful home of a colleague of PG. I am told she is an AMAZING host and makes AMAZING food. This is in honour of this reading- special because PG has just published a new book. He has been in LA doing readings, will be in NYC, Amsterdam and other places too. However, this one is particularly meaningful as this is his home town and his students, friends and colleagues will be there. Literary types of all ages are mingling and eating from a delicious spread. We head to the reading which I was sort of worried about. Especially after my failed attempt at reading and enjoying more high brow poetry! The only poetry I have in my head is that written by Roald Dahl or poems written for, well let's face it, children! That is my comfort zone, my old world- not sure if this new one is for me. As interesting as it is, and as grateful as I am to be temporarily part of it.

Settling in for the reading

Actually, the reading is beautiful and captivating. Lyd, the dutiful girlfriend, has been to many and thinks this is the loveliest one of them all. A talented student, currently doing her PhD in Chicago, reads an introduction that tells me a lot about PG, his background, his teaching, his poetry. These things I did not know. She has an awful lot of respect and admiration for him. When he reads I see why. Perhaps it is hearing a poet read his own words, as they are meant to be read. It is like a song and the words go in and wash over at the same time, some resonate, images are painted, feelings rise. I get to a part in the book I am currently reading, the character is actually watching a singer. His description of the experience of hearing her sing, struck me as very similar witnessing PG read his poetry:

"She began softly, as though singing to herself of emotions of utmost privacy, a sound not addressed to the gathering, but which they overheard almost against their will. Gradually she increased its volume, until at times the voice seemed to become a disembodied force that sought to enter her, rocking her rhythmically, as though it had become the source of her being, rather than the fluid web of her own creation." The Invisible Man- Ralph Ellison

We go onto a pub. Students, colleagues and PG himself are quite high from the reading. PG is tickled to find out that the reading/set list of poems was posted immediately on Facebook, with some comments about it 'rocking' and with many likes. We chat amongst the friends and I happen to meet another literary type who has also not only knows Hull, but visited it for an afternoon! He had a romanticised vision about seeing Philip Larkin's office, but not being allowed in he headed to the pub instead. After all this chatting, it has become late and we are hungry. We try to stop for a slice of pizza but this little town of Amherst looks pretty much like a night out back home: drunk people stopping for their late night take out. No chance, we can not wait for a slice amidst these drunken youngsters- we go home.

It was quite interesting being in this University town and I recall my year in Laramie, Wyoming (where I studied for a year). Students have changed their look or perhaps this is more indicative of a Literary type, I do not know. Lyd says she thinks so. All of the male students here are bearded and are much the same, very lovely as I do quite like this look. I notice this the next day as we stop for Lyd's fave tea rolls before a trip to a museum. The little stretch where a cafe is that Lyd works, the pub across the way and yes the pizza shop, book shop, obligatory Starbucks all looks a bit different in the cold light of day. This is really a student town. Lots of young people and undergrads. We catch a bus to the museum and I hear all sorts of conversations. A girl that loves to collect dead animals, a girl that likes her nose ring, what the class was like, achieving high in class and the semester, grades, being different... Eventually I read my book because the dead animals seem too weird and I don't really want to hear anymore about the squirrel skull.

Tea Rolls

So, the museum. Turns out it is the Eric Carle Museum. Turns out Lyd has a meeting with the curator and we are going to be personally shown around by him. Lydia created and edits "The Cambridge Literary Review"; the next edition is going to focus on children's literature, hence the arrangement. She may have told me all of this but turns out I must not have really been listening; if I had listened, surely I would be well excited- this is more my domain, my sort of culture. Turns out, that this is the BEST museum ever. I LOVE it. Everything about it. It is a museum that has set out with this purpose:

We both enjoy the displays and the set up. The curator is due at any moment and we wander around.

The curator joins us and he is incredibly knowledgeable and brilliant. We peruse, chat and find out so much. I find a poem that I can immediately get down with- all about ice cream!

Bleezer's Ice Cream

  by Jack Prelutsky

I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM STORE,
there are flavors in my freezer
you have never seen before,
twenty-eight divine creations
too delicious to resist,
why not do yourself a favor,
try the flavors on my list:

COCOA MOCHA MACARONI
TAPIOCA SMOKED BALONEY
CHECKERBERRY CHEDDAR CHEW
CHICKEN CHERRY HONEYDEW
TUTTI-FRUTTI STEWED TOMATO
TUNA TACO BAKED POTATO
LOBSTER LITCHI LIMA BEAN
MOZZARELLA MANGOSTEEN
ALMOND HAM MERINGUE SALAMI
YAM ANCHOVY PRUNE PASTRAMI
SASSAFRAS SOUVLAKI HASH
SUKIYAKI SUCCOTASH
BUTTER BRICKLE PEPPER PICKLE
POMEGRANATE PUMPERNICKEL
PEACH PIMENTO PIZZA PLUM
PEANUT PUMPKIN BUBBLEGUM
BROCCOLI BANANA BLUSTER
CHOCOLATE CHOP SUEY CLUSTER
AVOCADO BRUSSELS SPROUT
PERIWINKLE SAUERKRAUT
COTTON CANDY CARROT CUSTARD
CAULIFLOWER COLA MUSTARD
ONION DUMPLING DOUBLE DIP
TURNIP TRUFFLE TRIPLE FLIP
GARLIC GUMBO GRAVY GUAVA
LENTIL LEMON LIVER LAVA
ORANGE OLIVE BAGEL BEET
WATERMELON WAFFLE WHEAT

I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM STORE,
taste a flavor from my freezer,
you will surely ask for more.

The art work for this poem is very fun too. Our curator makes a comment regarding the art work that Lydia and I both love, when we discuss how amazing and different it is to see the illustrations not in a glossy, finalised book. He agrees and says that, yes, "There is authority in the original."

Can you believe that Philippe Petit had just done a workshop here, looking at "The Man Who Walked Between Two Towers"? We only read this to the children in Year 3 back in October as a way to explore memories in R.E., it was not part of the recommended reading but we are always on the lookout for awesome picture books that would enthuse the children. There is a whole section devoted to "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus" by Mo Willems. This is very big over here and some things do not always transfer across the ocean, but I happened to see that book in a discount bookstore last summer and bought it because I thought it brilliant, for my class (I always spent money stocking up the class library, this was one area I did not think twice about forking out for). Jeff Kinney has just been and done a workshop with school children. Although I have not read any of the series "The Diary of a Wimpy Kid", I know many children back home were heavily into it.

I love working with children and being here and passionately talking about books and illustration is such a powerful reminder of that. I feel the same fire inside that I get from a dynamic or peaceful yoga session. Lyd has very much captured it here in the children's work room:

The curator is the nicest man we could hope to meet. The museum is actually closed but we could keep him talking forever. Lyd spots a book that is written by her friend that lives in York:

Our curator is so accommodating that he insists the shop stay open because I say how desperately I want some cards to send back to Bricknell School. He gives us his special discount and we are like excited children. This man has really touched me; the light that is in me I see so easily in him, it is reflected straight back (not because of the discount!): when we say good bye, he says thank you for all the work I have done with children- my love of books and literature for young people is the grass roots. I feel a lump in my throat. Lyd and I are buzzing from our museum experience and we head back, PG having to endure our excited babble. I sit on the kerb, in the sun once again and gather my thoughts post delving into my (not so distant) old world.

I head in and set out all the goodies I have bought on the kitchen table; I write with great enthusiasm to the children at school, family and friends:

The next morning I run in the peaceful neighbourhoods, admiring the huge homes and manicured lawns. I exchange pleasantries with the people I pass and eat my porridge in the back yard.

So, I leave New England and head alone to NYC. Lyd stays on to spend time with PG, attending more poetry affairs. I leave with a pocketful of experiences in the new world of (adult) poetry, schmoozing in UMass Literary circles and of course, a heart full of my old, gorgeously wonderful world of children's Literature. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me that working with children is in fact my path. But I have a year to explore and learn. I think of the film: 'The Shift' and a what Wayne Dyer talks about in the opening montage. Since Eve introduced me to this film, I have become very interested in learning more. He quotes an excerpt from Carl Jun's 'Stages of Life':

     “Thoroughly unprepared, we take the step into the afternoon of life. Worse still, we take this step with the false presupposition that our truths and ideas will serve us as hitherto. But we cannot live the afternoon of our life according to the program of life’s morning. For what was great in the morning, will be little at evening, and what in the morning was true, will at evening become a lie.”

Negotiating my way home from Port Authority, settling back onto the subway, walking Broadway and 105th. I drop my bags and do not hesitate for a second. The sun is shining and I take my book, buy a big fat chocolate chip cookie (in a brown paper bag) from "Silver Moon Bakery" and head to Central Park to soak up the sun, New York and the feeling of being at home.

13~Carrot Juice with a Side of Wheatgrass, a Poet and a Turtle

New York City is certainly a vibrant place. I tune into dialogues, hear snippets of chatter and listen to conversations that never fail to amuse, amaze or entertain me. So having found my feet in this whirlwind of a city, I was innocently heading home (from yoga, downtown- a little sweaty and in my yoga get up) and stopped off for a carrot and ginger juice just to keep me going until Lydia got home for dinner. Little did I know, I was about to engage in a conversation that may just have been deemed unusual.

A man (in his 50's, maybe 60's), joins me at the counter and orders a shot of wheatgrass. He is clutching what looks like a "Dunkin' Donuts" iced coffee (quite possibly butter pecan flavoured; it is heavily advertised and I see many people clutching these large and very unhealthy looking beverages). But I try not to judge his choice of tipple, although certainly the two seem to contradict each other or perhaps balance each other out, I guess. He asks me what I have ordered but before I can tell, he gives me an aside about how he now realises the benefits of wheatgrass when back in the day people were concerned about its effect on the body. I must have looked surprised at this. He went on to say, with a hand motion, "Well, it was thought that if you drunk it, it would go straight through you." Hmmmm. He quickly moved on, perhaps seeing my surprise- this was not a very princess like conversation! I disclosed my drink of choice, explaining that it reminded me of back home and it supposedly works wonders for your hair and skin, if drunk regularly (sworn by my friend, Moy- who does indeed have wonderful skin and hair). He asks where back home is. I said North of England. Where exactly he asked. I said Leeds. I have never said Leeds before- with the children in the Bronx at homework club, they all could not get past London so that was just where Lyd and I are from to them. Even that is quite mind blowing as they can not quite imagine England, a land so far away with red buses and tea. So some strange knee jerk reaction, I said somewhere I thought he may know. He says he does not know Leeds, but does have an uncle that was involved in the movie industry back in the day and his last name is Leeds. He begins to show me on his phone, some images of the movies, directed by his uncle, that are currently being restored. Do I know a place called Hull? Yes, yes! Actually that is where I am from! I never say it because people hardly have heard of it! This guy just brushes over that, not thinking it that strange that I told a lie. I am a little annoyed with myself for not saying it in the first place. Not because he actually knows it, but I have always been proud to say where I am from. We are a City of Culture now, so perhaps we will be more on the map, even across ponds and oceans. 

I realise that this guy does not think it strange or it does not even take him off his trajectory because he is very much in his own bubble. As I pass him his wheatgrass and his change (he is absorbed in his sharing and the juicer man has others to serve), I hear him quoting Philip Larkin and talking generally about his poetry. This guy is very knowledgeable. I talk about Mama's Richard working in his office at Hull University, the statue in the train station and the frog statues we had around our city. So, it turns out this guy is actually a famous poet (not to me, but in the poetry circles!). We are stood outside now, on Broadway and 102nd, the whole NYC world going by. He shows me his books and recent reviews on his phone and says he is struggling with something he is writing; he talks a lot and I can not follow it all, some of it is about poetry and a lot about Larkin, both of which I know nothing! He is talking about a turtle. I can talk about turtles: I love turtles! I was snorkelling in the Maldives and one swam beside me- it was amazing. My dad has been back to Turkey twice, just to see the turtles. Have you read Esio Trot by Roald Dahl? I asked. That is a great piece of writing concerning a turtle. No, he has not read it. He interjects my blathering: Do I want to see a turtle? It is only on 101st. Do I want to see a turtle? I think for a split second and I guess I do. I wonder if he means a statue, or maybe a turtle in a pet shop. 

So we start walking down the street and around the corner. He swears at a taxi driver (we were crossing when there was a very clear, not flashing red hand) and is blathering on to me. I begin to realise this turtle is obviously in his apartment and must be real. A few doubts creep into my mind. I would definitely tell the children never to go with strangers but at the same time, I feel like this guy is legit and I kind of want to see the turtle now. Sometimes you have to trust your gut. We enter the building and there are people around, I am making a few mental notes just in case I am walking into a trap. We go up the staircase and into his apartment, he leaves the door slightly ajar and I am comforted by that. There is masses amount of books and quite a lot of crap everywhere. Beneath and beyond all of that, this is a beautiful place. A sort of tortured artist type pad, someone that lives in between worlds. We move into the kitchen and sure enough, here is the turtle. He is called T. His behaviour is pretty incredible. Apparently this poet watched him for hours and he is very attached to him. Calling him sweetheart, getting me to stand close to the tank (he loves women and responds differently to them??), explaining his movements to me. I have to say that this turtle, this ancient creature, is incredible. I feed him some chicken. T's favourite food. The poet is aware I have to go, I am meeting my friend and she will be worried about me because I am now late, I tell him (a little lie). He does try and keep me with stories and I notice he is sweating profusely. It makes me a little nervous and wary. It would be incredibly annoying and foolish to be murdered here, at the promise of seeing a turtle, at the beginning of a worldwide adventure. As much as a little doubt creeps in, I push it out because I do know I am safe. He kindly gives me two of his poetry books, inscribing one from him and T. They are very beautiful books. We exchange email addresses. He would like to share some of the poems about T with me. T has allegedly responded well to me, in fact he does not want me to go. T does seem to be craning his neck, taking in the movement in the corridor as I begin to leave. The poet says I have inspired him to write and he thinks he can sit down and get right to it. I blab quickly about the blog and say how tricky I can find it to sit down and write, but I tell him I have some material right here. He ends on the note of, "Some people would say it is strange to meet a woman in the juice bar and bring her up to meet a turtle but they just do not understand the wonder of T." I kind of have to agree on both accounts. 

I scurry home, clutching the books. Bemused by the experience, touched by the gift of the books. I Skype with Mama Wolff who is not impressed that I so willingly went to a stranger's house. Richard is meanwhile googling the poet, who in fact has a juicy list of credentials. A genuine New York experience? Mama Wolff reckons yes and no- only you, Jessica Wolff! Minutes later an indecipherable email comes through from my poet friend. I am a tad weirded out. Some of the text I think is possibly poetry about our meet and some may be the poems he is working on to do with T. I know not how to respond. So I respond by sending a rather polite thank you and I copy and paste the summary of Esio Trot from Wikipedia. I tell him that the character Ms Silver feels very attached to her turtle Alfie, just the way he does to T. This is the extent of my literary frame of reference. When Lyd gets back and we regale our daily events, she casts her eyes over the email. She understands these things as she goes out with a poet and is a bit of a brain box. Conclusion: some of it nonsense and the kind of lovesick stuff stupid Cambridge types might write. Oh. Well, it was all rather unusual, I have to say. It made for an interesting post yoga experience. Maybe in the future I will just stick to carrot juice without the side of wheatgrass, poet or a turtle! Aside from good hair and skin though, where would have been the fun in that?

Here he is: T the turtle

12~ Lost (and Found) in New York

"That morning he had known everything that was going to happen to him as he walked through the familiar fields. But now, as the sun began to set, he was in a different country, a stranger in a strange land, where he couldn't even speak the language." The Alchemist

Admittedly, I am a bit of a martyr when it comes to travelling and coping with transition. I soldier on and try not to let time zones, new climates etc impact negatively (but I am not embracing carrying the heavy backpack), settling quickly and adapting to surroundings. So after a weekend that involved an emotional departure from Holland on a Saturday morning, a day and night in London and then a Sunday flight for an evening arrival in NYC, I should perhaps allow myself to feel somewhat jet-lagged and out of sorts. I felt (I don't like to say it) lost. I had to keep my game face on in order to make it through immigration and make my way to Lydia's Manhattan abode. This leg of the journey was not over yet!

Immigration I anticipated problems; the queues are known to be horrific, interrogations difficult and I was a little worried as I had no set departure or ticket date showing I would be leaving the U.S. However, I sailed through even offered a 'Have a nice stay, Ma'am,' and a smile. JFK was heaving (not like the empty airport I had arrived in on the brink of Hurricane Sandy) and the taxi queue was not so pleasant. It was chucking it down, and although rain is preferable to an imminent hurricane, it turns out that at least with a hurricane there is an empty airport and highways devoid of traffic. This line up was pretty intense. I had no American currency (just like when I arrived in Morocco), so with bags awkwardly in tow, I negotiated that and then engaged in conversation with a couple from Chicago that were kicking off about an Italian couple pushing in front of them. I think they wanted me to engage in their (loud) disapproval but I felt a little British about it and skirted around their objections. Instead, they enlisted the vocal support of someone working for this taxi queuing system, who was doing a thorough job of policing the line. She had just missed these two, who I really don't think intended to push in line! Woooooahhhhh. People, people everywhere. Shouts in those New York accents of buses available to downtown. Shouts to keep the line moving. Shouts informing us to be prepared for the rain outside. The energy seemed absolutely bonkers and the guy from Chicago continued on a tirade about his experience of queuing in different countries. His wife was ignoring him and I felt obligated to politely engage.

A long taxi ride later, clutching my address book, my phone dead (battery eaten from all the airport phonecalls) I made my way to Lyd's. So many people had asked me where she lived now- I don't know, I know it isn't Queens anymore but other than that... Well, baby, she has an apartment on the upper West side, just off Broadway, in Manhattan! All that stuff we hear about on T.V about yearning after rent controlled apartments is, in fact, true! And lucky Lydia had found one. So when I dragged my backpack out of the cab (bedraggled and rained on in the process), onto the doorstep of 306, 105th Street and rang Apartment 4, I was relieved to hear a Lydia shriek from the intercom and then see a Lydia flying down the stairs to welcome and rescue me from the rain.

Although I felt a mess, Lyd marvelled at how well I looked after all the travel and such a busy weekend. We realised that the freckles and colour I had got from my time on the doorstep at Overtoom 32 must be the answer. Lyd was automatically apologetic that her doorstep may not provide the fun that Eve's doorstep had. As we set out for spinach dumplings, noodles and a trip to the grocery store, we both noted that the doorstep could not rival that of Eve's because the scaffolding would keep any sun at bay and it was also directly beside the garbage cans. Lyd, not to worry, a NYC doorstep haunt was not a pre-requisite for my visit! We may not have Vondel Park around the corner, but we do have Central Park and Hudson River Park. Honestly Lydia, you do not have to sell it to me- I am already sold. If a little lost- immediately exemplified by our trip for groceries. You want almond milk- a million different kinds! Oats? Cinnamon? Nuts- shelves full to choose from...All things in abundance! Lyd warns me that fresh vegetables and fruit behave very strangely here and we select produce with some caution. Staff everywhere! Sooooooo many choices and counters full to the brim. And open 24 hours. And delivery for orders over 20 bucks. Items chosen amidst broken dialogue and flitting between conversations and topics (a perpetual problem of mine and Lyd's- we have been known to make a list of all conversations we need to complete!), our groceries packed in both plastic and paper, we made our way home to our Upper West Side apartment. Lots of chatting, planning and laughing, we finally settled in for a night of slumber.

The following morning we took an obligatory trip to the local diner. A quintessentially American experience and soooo goood! Lyd's blueberry pancakes were rather enviable but my home fries and

omelette super tasty too. Fortunately we both are good at sharing. Spring was just springing here in New York so we made the most of it, covering the area on foot. A long walk down Broadway, followed by a trek through Central Park and then cake break nearby to home in a Hungarian cafe. I realised I was pretty tired and overwhelmed. Everything seemed surreal. And it continued to feel this way for the next few days. We sketched out the following weeks and marked events on the diary, made lists of what to do. Now, as I write in retrospect, I realise that there was a lot to take in. New York is like an assault on the senses. Just like everyone has described as well, is that odd thing, that you feel like have you been here or know it because of the exposure of the city in films and television. Lydia is the perfect guide but she could not hold my hand through it all ( and has a demanding and varied job), so I attempted to soldier through.

I ran through Hudson River Park; I felt out some good yoga after researching online the endless possibilites here, signing up for a week of classes (Ella Gray, you are right- yoga everywhere and I just had to go on gut feeling); worked as a volunteer in the Bronx, helping children with their homework; found a tiny Juice Bar 2 blocks away (was missing my daily carrot juice with my Roomie); managed to get myself around on the subway; walked A LOT, navigating through the grid and block system; sat on random stoops and streets; listened and watched, somewhat mesmerised. I felt, I guess, not connected.

Like this world, this extreme world was passing by. I was just a blip. When I was Lyd things felt different. I no longer felt so invisible. But alone, schlepping around, very different. I perched on a block, in the sun, on Times Square. The NYC world flying by in all sorts of directions. This little perch, although just a cement block, felt like a quiet haven; away from the action (even if only a couple metres)- the bubble I needed. I munched on a spinach wrap, feeling small. I sat for a while and had a word with myself. Jess, you are in New York and it is time to get over your jet lag and immerse yourself in this city, this moment and experience. The traffic on the roads and the traffic of the pavements continued. Out of nowhere a nice man asked if he could share my stoop. He made some pleasant chit chat. Maybe I wasn't so invisible. The man would not have known what his short dialogue meant but as I walked off, my state of mind and my jet lag had begun to shift. I walked through the crowds, finding my feet and my way home with ease. The next morning, juice in hand, I waited at the subway. I was heading for my first NYC yoga class. A busker was singing Carole King's "You Got A Friend". His voice was beautiful, as was his playing of the guitar. It was so special. Special not just for me; I noticed he had a little crowd. Then, this appreciative crowd applauded, some commented and quite a few dollars went his way. I was smiling to myself and boarded the subway, heading downtown. Once lost and now found, here in New York City.

"He looked around the empty plaza again, feeling less desperate than before. This wasn't a strange place; it was a new one. After all, what he had always wanted was just that: to know new places."

The Alchemist

11~Old to New Amsterdam (With a London Dash Between)

I left Amsterdam, early on a Saturday morning on very little sleep (soooo unlike me, but when leaving drinks are arranged in your honour with a few very special people, it would have been un-princesslike to retire early!). I packed the last bits, looking around at Eve's apartment for one last time. The sky was blue, the Overtoom quiet, apart from our early morning whispers and the song of the birds. Eve and I parted at the bus stop just around the corner. It was emotional but the plan is to meet in Vietnam, maybe for Christmas, so that took the edge off good-bye. The bus went by some familiar and beloved haunts: Vondel Park (gorgeous in the early morning light), Leidsplein, the streets and buildings around. I was feeling pretty emotional; that stirring from closeness to people, coupled then with the prospect of being apart, missing them but at the same time feeling enriched from the time shared. I realised thinking back to the good byes in Morocco and Manchester that this would be a pattern on my trip. However these whimsical musings were dashed as the next stop picked up hordes of travellers who squished onto the bus. They were crowding my space, my view, my open heart, forcing my (still annoyingly heavy) bag hard into my back. And then a message from Eve revealed she had found Magic Leon on the doorstep on her return! He had come to take me to the airport- such a beautiful thought and gift. Narrowly missing me, his ability to move through time and place not quite magical enough on this early morn. Whimsical travelling feeling restored by his kindness, I enjoyed getting rid of my bag and sat, drinking coffee, reading and people watching at Schipol Airport.

Flying from Amsterdam to London: 50 minute journey and arriving at the same time you flew from Holland. Like it never happened...

Mama Wolff and Richard enjoying London

Cut to London. Back in England, and although at home entirely in Holland, everything was that much easier. Meeting Mama Wolff and Richard in St Pancras for coffee, lunch and catch up, I tried not to be the irresponsible brat that stayed up too late and was tired and cranky for the one day she had with her

parents. I let the coffee, London in the sunshine and time with my close ones pick me up. Resident Londoner, Katie Parrott met us in Covent Garden for a drink, Fee De Hoog just happened to be in London for the weekend so she joined us for our family day (she is in fact honorary daughter: Mama Wolff almost prefers her to me- she drinks wine more regularly and always has lovely make up and brushed hair; has sibling disputes with Steph and Adam- they got her so drunk on my leaving party that she missed her flight the next day, she swears they were trying to ruin her life). Like spoilt children (that can drink alcohol), we were treated to wine, a gorgeous dinner at Caravan, cocktails and for me a perfect bracelet to take on my travels.

So chatting with my nearest and dearest the next morning at the airport: Steph, Roomie, my bestie Moy

was pretty much the icing on the cake, deal sealed before the World Wide Ticket starts. I was looking

forward to the flight; the time in the air like the bridge to the next adventure. Lydia Wilson (friend for now 21 years!), here I come to share your NYC life. Arriving this time in much different circumstances. Not for 5 days over half term and on the brink of a hurricane, but for a month or two on a wave of happiness, freedom and forecast sunshine.

So from Old Amsterdam to the New, with a dash of London between,  I settled back in my seat and from the airplane window I cast my eyes over London and England for one last time...

The very next day I shrieked with pleasure to realise that I was only two blocks away from Amsterdam Ave.

10~The Light That Is In Me, I See Reflected in You

Lights are dimmed and our yin yoga becomes even more internalised as the candles flicker and the evening draws in. The starlight and glow of the moon is not strong enough to permeate the skylights. Pale white washed walls and the painted wooden floors of the studios reflect the candle light. Delight Studios of Amsterdam have indeed set a delightful scene, providing a yoga experience that is reflected in the name.

Some teachers seem to speak poetry; a beautiful language about letting go, being, accepting, surrendering. Sequences of asanas and vinyasa flows become stories in my mind. One session has a medley of yang postures: dragons, wild things, geckos, dogs, planks and cobras- they all flow and soar together. This story finds harmony, peace in the yin. Everything beautifully still, finding space in our bodies and the space all around. My mind and body are swimming in Chinese philosophy, meridians, chakras, asanas, meditations, breathing techniques, mudras. It is a pretty delicious pool to swim in.

Amsterdam on a whole has gone swimmingly, a pool of happiness, new friends and old; it has been a journey, spiritual in many ways- hell, with that much yoga, I was bound to feel in touch with my spiritual side (surely it would be almost criminal not to!). But being with a friend, who you can laugh, yoga, create, challenge, plan, converse, co-habit with, so seamlessly is precious and fills me with delight.

Utrect at night

My time in the Dam had to come to an end. The last week literally flew by. It entailed a trip to Utrecht: a Pottery class; Eve at an appointment and I wandering the streets and blogging in cafes; meeting up with her amazing friend Theo who brought us some puzzles as gifts (we are seemingly incredibly spoilt); finding a lovely spot for dinner and then movie night at home (we are masters at fitting a lot into one day and did have a schedule for each week). We had an art session; we created a collage of where we would be in the near and more distant future. We played worms with Konstantinus. He and Eve left me at the coffee shop alone, leading me to suspect that he too may be an accessory to the kidnapping plot that Magic Leon and Eve had been concocting to keep me here in Holland. My last day was lovely: a 10k run in Vondel Park (only 10k because I did not want to leave this park I had become so attached to so I did a 3rd lap), beautiful sunshine, a bike ride, Eve taking me to a surprise location for a beautiful lunch, our collage creation, the last supper at a Thai restaurant (we have been here each time I have visited Eve so it is a sort of feasting ritual), drinks at the Overtoom bar with Magic Leon and Konstantinus for a little farewell party. A kidnapping did not take place, but sneaky Eve produced a beautiful parcel- both her and Konstantinus had chosen a bracelet and earrings to commemorate the time we had. So the kidnapping ploy did not come to fruition and instead I would make my way to London bejewelled. SUPER SPOILT and SUPER TOUCHED. Magic Leon, where is my present? I presumed he could pull something out of his bag of tricks. But the physical gifts really were just representative of the beauty and light I felt inside, being reflected straight back at me from my friend Eve, my crush Konstantinus and my Magic Leon.  

Our collage gets pride of place in Eve's pad

Pottery class

Like the jigsaw we finished after our third session, life will continue to piece together. We will puzzle together again. We will use the power of our intentions and dreams to meet again. I am starting my Round the World ticket with some precious memories (and jewellery), an open heart (priceless), enriched, feeling blessed and blissful. 

So Carla, my Moroccan pal, when we discussed the meaning of Namaste, the definition provided by the gentle teacher that quiet night in our candlelit studio was the one that resonated in my ears, heart and my time in Amsterdam: the light that is in me, I see reflected in you.

Namaste to Holland (for now), the people and all living creatures within; the light that is me, I see reflected in you.