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January 2017

What do you see when you look in the mirror?

There are more ways to put yourself out of your comfort zone than getting on a plane and reaching for the unknown. When we say ‘comfort zone’, we’re rarely talking about physical comfort. It’s more likely to be a question of emotions.

Fear of embarrassment, that someone will see though us, that we will look and feel like a fraud. That we aren’t deserving. Aren’t good enough. We fear we won’t maintain our self-control. And losing it will alienate us from those we love. We will fail. They, those more perfect human beings whose validation we crave, will judge us and find us wanting.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Can I really go out in this?

These feelings keep us bound to our sense of the possible.

Consider this: when you ask a young child to choose their own clothes, they pick out clothes that give them a sense of fun – glittery princess dresses, Spiderman costumes and jumpers with lions on them. As an insecure adult, ‘fun’ rarely reaches high on the priority list. What matters is how you compare to your peers and how well you match your own image of perfection.

Perfection, with its flawless skin, humble manner and outstanding intelligence isn’t just something we conjure up in our minds. It’s the creature we compare ourselves to. We look in a mirror, right past ourselves and into a game of spot the difference. We look at adverts, with their shiny, white teeth and glossy hair. Envy at smooth, edited thighs and flat stomachs.

The boring jumper, that someone once said that you looked slim in, is suddenly a highly-prized possession. Despite knowing that the off-hand comment came from a place of insecurity and had nothing to do with you, or your jumper, you still remember it.

Alone, walking through some abandoned lemon groves, I came across a ruined building, and a mirror.

What do you see when you look in the mirror? What I see reminds me of Scrooge with his ghosts of the past, present and the yet to come. In the mirror, they’re all there, all at once. Challenging me.

I’m reminded of a conversation I had last week, where Midget, discussing coaching, explained that it’s not enough to give someone the belief to be themselves. You’ve got to do more than that, if they’re going to be the best them they can be. You’ve got to show them how to see themselves.

So yes, comfort zones might stretch with trips abroad: visits to new places, bright colours, contrasting attitudes, and raucous evenings. Explorations of the world  adventures make you reconsider what is important. For me, the perspectives I gain from travelling, that force me to question how I judge others, are invaluable.

But comfort zones can also be stretched in that moment where you stare in the mirror. The barriers I have are not out there, they’re in my mind.  It doesn’t matter whether I’m in Cairo or Coventry. My limiting beliefs are still dragging along behind me.

So, guess which jumper I’m wearing.

 

Off the beaten path

Slovakia

When I was walking, especially when I was exerting myself by climbing a hill, breathing became a more pronounced force that was easier to concentrate on than my moderate breathing. Each breath was almost vocal; it almost touched the invisible. As I walked, eventually I became my breathing, and things like worrying, wallowing in anger, and feeling ill will toward others simply fell away.
John Francis, The Ragged Edge of Silence

The Zobar mountains and St Michael’s

I’m often amazed at how I can get it into my head that I’m going to walk somewhere. Whoever’s with me will whinge and complain. But they’ll follow regardless. Perhaps, at first, I’ll feel bad, but by the end I’ll be glad to have dragged them out.

On the Greek island of Kos, I persuaded DeepThought that we ought to get up early, watch the end of June sunrise, and take a walk to the nearby monastery. This was all because the previous day I’d overheard a waitress saying it was unwalkable.

In the hills above the village in which I lived last spring, just north of Barcelona, I convinced a young American man that the rocks that I was scrambling down were a path. All because I’d seen a glimpse of some sort of tower. He seemed less convinced when I fell over and splattered the mountain with my blood, but once I’d disappeared further along he plucked up the courage to follow. He reminded me of this last night when he messaged me for a catch up: I told him I was going on a walking holiday and he asked what a walking holiday was.

In Slovakia, the object of my attention was a small chapel which went by the Slovakian equivalent of St. Michael’s. The afternoon was warm, and my companion was my little sister. Midget has been dragged more places by me than most, yet, somehow, she still agreed that walking up into the forests on the Zobar mountains was doable.

Once we’d been walking sometime she began voicing doubts. Such doubts I always ignore.

But eventually we arrived. Preparations had begun for a bonfire. Children ran around playing games. Fathers, uncles and older brothers, chased them around, while the women gossiped and sunned their legs.

We skipped the mountain on the return journey. Instead we walked through the village, which at half two in the afternoon was quiet and sleepy. The houses were small in stature, but all were detached with gardens. I was enraptured by their stunning displays of vegetables and flowers.

Where have your wanderings taken you?

[Rapunzel informs me that Americans don’t walk, they hike.]

Nitra: Picking a city at random for an adventure

Nitra

The uncertainty surrounding foreign train journeys inspires me to pray.

There’s always a moment, when I’m standing on the edge of a platform, tickets clutched in my hand, doubting that the train I think is arriving is the same train that is identified on my ticket. I’m not religious, but prayer, or meditation, is a more helpful exercise than panic. Plus, when travelling with Midget I can’t afford to appear vexed. She’s trusting me to have everything completely in control.

In Naples (2016), with DeepThought, I forgot to pray, double check or cross reference. So things went wrong, and then wrong again. But, apart from with the Circumvesuviana, I’ve been incredibly lucky.

The train station in Bratislava had wi-fi, which I used combined with the departure board to make a reasonable platform guess. However, the ticket was one slip of paper for both of us, inviting more doubt that remained until it was wordlessly accepted by the inspector. It included a QR (Quick Response) code which struck me as fancy for a train line where you had to leap from the train into the gravel.

We passed through stunning fields of dying sunflowers. The decaying of happiness. And arrived at Surany, where all but one of the many train lines appeared abandoned to weeds and oxygen. The station’s veranda and single clock reminded me of a western.

Nitra, a destination chosen for its larger size and pronounceable name. We could hardly miss our train for it was the only train. Compared to the clanking train from Bratislava to Surany, with its Hogwarts style carriage compartments, it was a modern build with steps down to the gravel. Yet, on our arrival we realised that the train station resembled something more like the one in our village than one belonging to a city.

Still, the city of Nitra enchanted.

Not with impressive architecture. Nor with any fancy food – although my pasta bake with pizza dough crust was something special. Instead it struck me as a place you’d want to raise children. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. By peeling ourselves away from the tourism of Bratislava, we had stepped out of the English-speaking world. As now we weren’t being sold an idea of Slovakia, we were in Slovakia.

I felt it proved that something was missing from home. The overwhelming feeling of Nitra was one of family. Everywhere we went there were adults and children together, and a startling absence of screen staring. Midget agreed, and our conversations kept returning to this sensation of community that we couldn’t quite describe. A short walk from where we rented a room was a large park. Here, adults and children cycled and swept along on their rollerblades. Little cafés stood within a mass of playgrounds. There were deer, goats, a sheep, a cow and a donkey. Children took pony rides and built castles in the sandpits. The adults chatted and laughed.

A tiny child parked his pedal-less bike in the bike rack beside the café where we were sitting drinking kofola. He just got on with it, without any doubt that his bike and the other bikes all belonged together.

The kids don’t have to love you and other thoughts on being an au-pair

Being an Au-Pair
I believe a street in Cervera, Spain, 2016.

The kids don’t have to love you.

They do, typically, become very much attached, but you can’t force it. There’s a certain sense of discipline that’s required. You’re not their best friend, you’re the responsible adult. An overdose of flattery isn’t going to help, nor is allowing them more sweets, TV time or access to a tablet.

Sometimes they are adorable, wanting cuddles and happy to quietly play a game. Then some very short time later, they can be causing a commotion by sticking their tongue out at you when they thought their parents weren’t watching. Tears ensue. You wonder what you did to deserve such a change in character. Where did the nice kid go?

The truth is, you’re a temporary wall between the child and their parents. When things are going good, this is a wall that gives the child a bit of private freedom from their omnipotent gods. When things are not so good, they are going to play bulldozer or try scrambling over the top of you.

Parents love you of course, while they’re enjoying their moment of space. Peace and quiet is a luxury. But when they panic that they no longer have complete control, they act all sorts of unpredictable. Those I’ve lived with have generally been very good at demonstrating their gratitude, but I’ve known numerous au pairs whose families constantly have au pairs, and so feel taken for granted.

The kids, when they love you, see you as theirs, a precious playmate. But when they hate you, you’re a second-rate commander. You’re an adult, but unlike teachers and parents you’ve failed to be omnipotent. Younger kids follow the stance of the older kids. Saying no to their requests can fire you from best friend to evil overlord in an irrational second. You have to not take it personally. These are kids, they lack empathy or perspective. They don’t know if their words and actions will hurt you, but they’re curious. So, guess what, they’re going to do all they can to ignite a reaction. And then, if successful, perhaps they’ll laugh.

But some days, they’ll curl up on the sofa and ask what you’re reading. And they’ll listen as you talk of philosophy in a language they don’t understand. Some days, they’ll take the drawings you do to school, and you’ll realize that their teacher knows your name, as do their friends and their friends’ parents. This sweet child who refused to put their shoes on has told everyone they know about you. Occasionally, when the school gates open, they’ll scream your name and run, leaping at you with a hug disproportionate to their size.

And then, one day, in a final act of betrayal that somehow feels crueller than any middle of the street tantrum a five-year-old could throw, you’ll pack your bags and leave.

Kids

Bratislava: Perhaps it’s time for another coffee

Bratislava

Travelling with Midget involves talking about art galleries, museums and great places of historical merit… and going out for coffee.

One

Cappuccino for me, and a black coffee and a panini for Midget while Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe smile down from the walls. The waitress, an Ellie Goulding fan, leans across the counter, going through YouTube, creating a playlist to accompany her shift. Obviously her laptop’s more interesting than yet more boring tourists. I still try to thank her for our breakfast. But unfortunately, although I’m saying what I think is the Slovakian for thank you – dakujem – she has no idea what I’m trying to say. Confusion occurs. Understandably Midget is embarrassed. We haven’t yet travelled long enough for her to get used to my atrocious attempts at languages.

Two

Later, we splash out on two iced coffees and, feeling daring, I go one step further and delight in a savoury cupcake with poppy seeds.

At a nearby table, a young woman leans forward. There’s such an absence of self doubt in her person that I can’t help but be intrigued.  She has a philosophy on work and her companion is going to calmly listen to and agree with what she has to say. I am certain he is incapable of any other option. While they speak in English, neither of them sound like they speak it as a first language. This makes for an even more entertaining back and forth. Bless the companion, he tries. However, the woman insists that her colleagues aren’t committed enough. We hear how they don’t demonstrate the right attitude. Furthermore, these incompetent and lazy dancers are affecting her attitude, and this is intolerable. She needs to do something about the dismal state of things and with some urgency. There must be action.

What she wants to do is create something worthwhile, something new. She wants to experiment. She recognises that having such a freedom in life is difficult, a luxury perhaps. But she wants to dedicate her soul to dance. For this she requires collaborators who love dance like she does.

Her passion delights me. People who fight to do more emit such a wondrous energy.

We walk past graffiti and I wonder why it took me so long to travel again.

Three

Stylised newspaper decorates the walls of the third establishment we venture to. The lyric-less music bounces. A stand for a sewing machine makes a quirky café table; the pedal is by my feet. We taste each other’s drinks – a caramelised ginger lemonade for me and raspberry lemonade for Midget – and talk.  These fancy lemonades deserve much attention.

Most of all though, for me, the reason for being like this, ambling through coffee and tea, is that it provides a lovely sense of space. It’s a chance for Midget and I to simply be in each other’s company. While the Midget reads her guide to Europe, I take out my diary. And I’m smiling.

Based on my diary from Bratislava, August 2014.

Vienna: That chap Figaro, and a wedding.

figaro, vienna

Vienna, August 2014

Midget is besotted. There are violins, cellos, all that orchestral stuff that I don’t know the names of, a chorus and opera singers. I like the opera singers. I’m not sure why, but I have the feeling that it’s the depth of human emotion you see, and hear, in opera. I remember watching opera for the first time in Verona, on cushions on the stone seats of the Roman Amphitheatre. I remember the homeless people outside, and the Mother warning me, a young teenager, to watch myself.

If I had to pick a sound that was the opposite of depression, I’d pick that night in Verona.

Midget of course likes the instruments, particularly the violins I think, but they make her nostalgic because she can play good music. Nostalgia being tinted with sadness because playing good music requires regular practices, and regular practice isn’t quite so sweet. She knew the music, whereas I followed the antics on the stage with no idea when one thing ended and another began. Midget had played some of the music we were listening to – Figaro – and the familiar sounds call to her.

We came tonight because I saw that look in her eyes when she walked past the man selling tickets. The look of longing. And she would have said nothing. She would have walked past.

Not surprisingly, I don’t want her to have nothing. I want her to delight in the familiar sounds, in this great hall with marble busts of composers she thinks I should know. Her eyes should sparkle. When she hears these sounds, they mean something special to her. I want her fingers to move subconsciously as she lives in both this time and a past time where it was her making the music sing.

She thinks I’m crazy, buying concert tickets here and there, not knowing who this Figaro chap is and why his music is special.

She says it’s not Figaro’s music, and she rolls her eyes to demonstrate that I should know better. A chap called Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart wrote it. The piece is the Marriage of Figaro.