Christie’s adventures continue with connections nearly missed, rekindled and newly made

The tiny train, a toy really, shunted me from Derby to a station near Nottingham. I had missed the last London express and the ticket seller assured me that the only way to get back that night was to pick up the express from Nottingham. I was deposited in the original haunted railway station. The quaint brick waiting room with its fading pastel scalloped façade and boarded-up windows looked spookier in the murky darkness than the station for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Beyond the station I could just about make out fields and woods, i.e. middle of nowhere.

Acting more confident than I felt, I set off down the deserted platform towards what I thought would be an information board. The driver of the departing train leaned out the window and yelled “Oyup luv, you better get crackin’ up them steps and o’er t’other platform, London train ‘bout to arrive.” I looked down the line to see a light getting bigger and closer.

I don’t know who has the record for up a 60 foot flight of steps across a bridge and down the other side, but I am in close contention. I landed as the train doors opened. “Eh lass ye just made it, I was ‘bout to wave us on through,” the startled conductor exclaimed.

I suppose I should tell you why I was wandering the obscure and amusingly timed railway system of the British North Midlands late on a Saturday night. Facebook had recently connected me to an old friend, one Dave Ball. I met Dave in the early 1970s. I was working for Chrysalis who managed Procol Harum (Whiter Shade of Pale, etc.) and their guitarist, Robin Trower, had left the band. In what seemed like a good idea at the time, Gary Brooker and Keith Reid put an ad in Melody Maker for a guitarist and gave my office number as the contact. After some dramatic expositive discussion and a bit of threatening, they agreed that I could cut off the number of callers who would be granted an audition at 70. Dave was caller 71. I put the phone down on him several times. Finally, I relented and set him up. They picked him of course and he stayed with them for a couple of years.

Dave is living outside Derby and had invited me up for a visit. He picked me up from the station in the morning. We started talking from the moment I clambered into the car and we did not stop for the next nine hours. Old times, missing times, times better experienced in retrospect, and where we are now; we drank endless cups of tea and chattered on and on. As I settled back into my seat on the train, I was glowing with memories and that fab feeling you get from spending time with someone who occupies a special place in your life and heart.

At the next station — Sheffield I think it was — football fans lumbered and lurched aboard. Unfortunately, their team had lost and so we had to pay the price for their disappointment. The pretty young woman sitting opposite me was an instant target for soothing their hurt pride. A burping, slurping Lothario plonked down next to her and attempted his best pick up lines. She was not impressed, and neither was she that put out. She seemed so unfazed by this intrusion upon her person. I, on the other hand, was wearing my “One more word and I’ll turn you to stone you contemptible excuse for a male of whatever species you belong.” The pretty young woman caught my eye, winked and smiled in a “Don’t worry about it, I can handle it,” way. I looked at my reflection in the darkened window, gone was the bright-eyed rock chick of yesteryear, replaced by a frowning grumpy old cow who couldn’t wait for the chance to give these young chaps a piece of her mind. I burst out laughing, and the girl opposite started laughing too. Her would-be suitor, fear starting from his eyes, instantly recognized the secret bonding that can unexpectedly take place between two women and took off to find another seat.

A grand day all round as my Dad would say.

Leave the pomp and circumstance behind, and take a walk on the wild side with Christie

I just returned from my first visit to the UK in five years. Nothing much has changed as far as I could tell. The nation was a bit tired from celebrating Kate and Wills wedding bash, but most seemed to agree it was a superb demonstration of British pomp with a liberal dash of the moderne. The unexpected day off courtesy of more PR conscious royals and a wobbly coalition government cheered the nation; and everyone was appreciative of Beatrice and Eugenie’s efforts to incorporate vaudeville into the day.

Clever Cat, who is about to visit the Sceptered Isles herself, asked if I saw any theatre during my trip. Hah! I visited my family. Now honestly, isn’t a visit with your family the best theatre ticket in town? Comedy, drama, mystery, it’s all there. Not that my family is any different from anyone else’s; a group of people thrown together through biology and desire, well-practiced in their eccentricities.

I spent a glorious few days with my sister in her new Cornish home. I really envy her retired life with all the conveniences and benefits of a social welfare system that is ailing but not yet dead. Baby boomers across the Pond are quietly enjoying their “golden” years trying not to feel too badly that they are probably the last generation to experience these joys.

My sister and I indulged in our favourite pastime, walking and talking. We set off on Monday morning to stroll a cliff-top footpath along the gorgeous Cornish coast. As we arrived in the parking lot, a threatening black cloud appeared. The attendant noted the impending storm and asked if we had waterproof trousers. My sister keeps hers in the boot (trunk) of her car as naturally as I keep an extra quart of oil in mine. The attendant immediately lent me his. Instead of seeking shelter, we set off. Still within sight of the car the storm hit. Rain pelted us in the face, wind ripped at our clothing, but we braced and struggled forward like abandoned women in a silent movie. My sister never wears hats and her hair was plastered into unflattering clumps and swirls. I turned into a menacing creature with two hoods tightly squeezing my ruddy face into gruesome contortion, the too-large waterproof trousers pulled up high were flapping and snapping like the sails on a shipwrecked yacht.

The tempest finally blew through and we continued our journey. From the looks we received from other walkers we must have resembled aging prisoners on work release who had given their guard the slip, English people pretend never to care about what other people think but engage in behaviour that is guaranteed to cause comment. We met the enquiring stares of the less foolhardy with insouciance, calling cheery “Hellos” as they hurried past us muttering.

I am as much a visitor in England as any other American; I have been gone too long to think of myself as “native.” But, I find it remarkable how easily I slip back into my Britness. My language becomes more pithy, my humour more acute. I am a big admirer of the English broadcaster and writer, Clive James. He has coined some of the most devastating comments on things and personages I have ever read. For example, he once wrote that Arnold Schwarzenegger looked like “a condom filled with walnuts.”

I may have more to write about my visit as this by no means captures all my adventures and experiences. I hope you will indulge me.

On a recent visit to Haiti, art dealer, museum curator, Haitian native, and Fifty is the New contributor Carine Fabius seeks out light and joy amongst the desperation and darkness.

(Originally published in The Huffington Post.)

It’s hard to find joy in Haiti today. I’m just back from a three-week trip to my native land and words will never convey the range of emotions encountered in the core of my being and among those who live the day-to-day grind that is Haiti today. People are stressed, traumatized and depressed. In a place where some 250,000 people perished, it seems everyone knows at least five people who died. The force of Mother Earth has left many in a state of shock unnoticeable at the surface level. But dig just a little and a familiar faraway look and haze steals over the face of anyone recounting what many refer to as bagay la, “the thing” in Haitian Kreyol (bagay rhymes with sky).

For a couple of days I stayed at a tiny house just outside of Jacmel (a coastal city in the south which was reportedly destroyed by 70 percent, although that figure is slightly exaggerated) where the caretaker recounted what residents there saw just after the exact hour and minute forever emblazoned in his mind: 4:52 PM. He said that after the shaking stopped, they watched the ocean recede 200 feet with a terrible force, as if fueled by an enraged and giant jackhammer. Flapping fish, stunned lobsters and other sea life remained stranded on what looked like a post-apocalypse beachscape. Fears of a tsunami-force return prompted them to head for the hills, but for naught in the end; because, as he relayed in a hushed, still-bewildered tone, the ocean returned at a chilling pace—creeping back in at a strangely measured tempo over the next day and a half.

My short visit to Jacmel was planned pre-departure from Los Angeles, because I had fixed on finding some bright spot to counter the misery and despair—because Haiti is always more than that. And it worked. Leaving Port-au-Prince is always a good idea no matter when you visit the island. (Imagine going to Thailand and only seeing Bangkok; your impression would be forever skewed.) Seeking out the ocean and bathing in those warm Caribbean waters is always balm for my soul; eating grilled fish and downing a cold beer at a modest beachfront restaurant with rickety wooden tables and chairs; hanging out with friends, old and new, telling corny jokes. Got to find joy wherever you can, and the beach is a good place to start. Next stop is the art.

I’ve been tapped by a New York-based non-profit called the Haitian Cultural Foundation to curate a major traveling exhibition of Haitian art set to launch in 2012. The exhibition will travel to major cities in the United States and Europe, and feature a comprehensive look at traditional and contemporary work by Haitian artists and artists of Haitian descent living in Haiti and throughout the world. After some preliminary research on the ground, I am proud and excited to report that in highlighting the dynamic and hard-hitting work being produced by these insightful artists, the exhibition will surely play a big part in helping to fuel Haiti’s second renaissance.

Back in the forties, the groundbreaking work being done by untrained Haitian artists made headlines, and a stampede of luminaries from around the world, along with hordes of good old tourists followed. I wanna get me some of that!

Look below for a preview of the work I encountered in Haiti. The gallerists I talked to reported brisk sales. Why wait for 2012? Got a little wealth to spread? You don’t need much. It’s tough in Haiti right now, but there’s excellent art at fair prices to be found. There’s also fantastic grilled fish, and tropical juices and ice creams to delight in, not to forget our world-renowned Rhum Barbancourt. And then there’s always the beach.

See more Haitian art and read more of Carine’s blogs at The Huffington Post.

From Dunmanway to Dingle, summer vacation with Prudence and family is as unpredictable as the weather.

What on my Streetwise Dublin map looked like a ten minute stroll from the Grafton House B&B on Great George Street to the car rental agency across the Liffey River turned out to be a bit longer—45 minutes longer, to be exact. This wouldn’t have been a bad thing if the rain hadn’t blown in, turning a blue sky dotted with cotton ball clouds into a grey, oppressive canopy pushing pinprick rain into our faces.

“How cheap is this umbrella?” my husband asked as the mini-brella I bought back in the States turned inside out in front of Christ Church Cathedral and the medieval ruins of a Norman chapel built in 1230 A.D.

“Mom, how could you?” protested Casey, whose raincoat zipper went off track on a busy street corner and had to be fixed while being jostled by groups of tourists and umbrella-wielding Irish businessmen.

Ah, family vacations, where everything that goes wrong—including the weather—is mom’s fault, and everything that goes right goes unremarked.

What made the walk insurmountably worse for me, however, was that the pot of Irish breakfast tea I had polished off earlier was now demanding an exit strategy. I eyed some ancient tombstones just off the quay where cars whizzed by. But the iron gate was padlocked, so I gritted my teeth and put my head down against the rain.

Just in time, the car agency popped up and we dashed inside. The ginger-haired woman behind the counter smiled patiently at me, “No, dear, we don’t have a public toilet for customers.”

“What do you use, then?” I demanded querulously.

From her pinched face, I expect that she had no bodily functions at all, but she sweetly intoned that—if she ever had to go during business hours— she walked to the pub two blocks down the street.

“Doubt it,” I said loudly under my breath.

Pinch Face glanced at her watch. “It opens in an hour,” she smirked. “But you’ll be happy to know that I’ve upgraded you to an SUV. It’s the only automatic we have on the lot,” she beamed at us.

Great, just what we need, a giant, gas-guzzling monster car in a land of one-lane roads winding through hedgerows and ancient fishing villages.

“But, you’re Americans! I thought you’d be pleased!” she remonstrated when we voiced our protests.

If my bladder hadn’t been about to explode out of my nostrils, I would have told her that—because of our commitment to the environment—we experimented with being a one-car family for eight months. With two teens, one of whom just got his license, however, we finally threw in the towel and bought car #2.

“Oh, and one more thing. Your American insurance is no good here,” she said with obvious pleasure. “You’ll be wanting the collision damage waiver for eleven ninety-nine a day or the comprehensive for 20 euro a day.”

A full-bladder makes for curious choices and, after a modicum of arguing on my part, we drove a black Opel Antara—a cross between a GMC Yukon and a Jeep Grand Cherokee—off the lot, the seatbelt warning dinging loudly because I dare not put any pressure on my swollen abdomen. In the glove box was the hateful 200 euro comprehensive insurance policy that protected us against everything but a flat tire, “Which would be your fault, of course,” Pinch Face sneered.

Of course.

Not one who easily lets go of a good reason to stay angry, I finally let Pinch Face off the hook—but not because I forgave her, or had some kind of Eat, Pray, Love epiphany.

It happened in the little village of Dunmanway, halfway between Clonakilty and Macroom in the County Cork, while Tim was steering our six-foot wide behemoth between cars parked on both sides of a main street meant to accommodate a horse-and-cart.

“Honey, you’re a little close on this side.” The words were barely out of my mouth when ka-boom! Not only had we smashed the passenger-side mirror to smithereens, we’d taken out a parked car’s mirror, too. (Yes, we did leave a note.)

A brawny man in full crimson beard watched as I taped up the mirror with bright blue painters’ tape found in an ancient hardware store off the Macroom town square. Feeling somewhat victorious over Pinch Face, whose company would now have to pay for both mirrors, I smiled at the man, who nodded at the mirror, “Americans?”

I answered in the affirmative and told him the story of our 200 euro policy and how resentful I’d been—at first. He whistled softly through his teeth. “Two hundred euro?” he looked skeptically at the mirror. “Hell, I’d take a hammer to the damned car.”

Turns out, the hammer was unnecessary. In Dingle, we further took advantage of our insurance investment by taking the paint off the entire length of the driver’s side and smashing the rear tail-light and bumper on a low concrete wall that abutted Mrs. Mary Russell’s Guest House. None of this was done on purpose, mind you. But I sure am glad I didn’t have to buy that hammer.

Melissa Howden explores the nature of faith and its attraction, hopes and painted prayers

I’ve got a thing for Faith – Faith, as in the word with the Latin root of Fidere meaning “to trust”. And then there is Faith’s friend Belief, which used to mean, “Trust in God”. For the longest time Faith was about a certain kind of loyalty or belief in a person. Somewhere along the line Faith took on the more religious connotation and Belief came to be understood as “mental acceptance of something as true.” Faith/Belief, the two together interest me. Not as a byproduct of organized religion but simply as something I rely on. Ironically I get particularly obsessed with Faith when it seems to be in short supply in my own life.

When I slip into a space of doubt I look to the faith of others. As a natural born traveler, I’ve had the good fortune to witness faith globally. Encountering someone in an act of private devotion always catches me short of breath and makes me cry. During these times I’ve started to recognize the nature of faith as active, action being critical to faith. At its core, faith is a verb, not a noun.

Each morning in Bali people can be seen making offerings of flowers, fruit and incense to the numerous roadside altars to Hindu deities. In Thailand, the same practice exists for Buddha. While the focus here is on a deity/God, the action is individual and private and that is what moves me.

At Taos Pueblo near my home, dances are held throughout the year to petition for rain, abundant crops and more. But perhaps the image that has moved me the most is that of the elders approaching the sacred pole at the end of San Geronimo Day taking the pole in their hands, and leaning their forehead on the pole with eyes closed in a moment of quiet communion. I can’t possibly know what passes between the pole, the elders and their hearts but I can feel it as something profound, an apparent confident belief in transcendent reality.

A recent journey to Guatemala for Semana Santa provided yet another window on faith albeit in the context of the Catholic Church. I have some cultural and historical bias against this church but as I mentioned earlier, organized religion is not my interest. I am captivated by the role of faith and prayer as it shows up for each person—frequently a vulnerability exposed in a moment of deep belief. I am interested in my own faith capricious as it is.

Of all the devotional acts of Semana Santa the creation of the Alfombras (carpets) most captured my imagination. Throughout the streets of Antigua, families, groups of students, co-workers and others, come together to create an Alfombra before a procession comes through. These carpets are ephemeral, an artistic expression of the devotion and faith of those who create them to receive the blessing of the image that is processed through the neighborhood.

Throughout Semana Santa the making of Alfombras can be observed at all hours. In many respects the Alfombras recall the Indian tradition of Rangoli in which colored sand is streamed into elaborate designs on the floor for festivals and auspicious occasions. The Alfombras for Semana Santa are created in two traditions, one with brightly dyed sawdust often augmented with flowers. The other tradition comes from the time before the Spanish arrived, when the Mayans created elaborate carpets for their ceremonies of pine, flowers, feathers, corn, whatever was at hand to be worked into the design. The Alfombras and Rangoli both, are petitions or thanks for a favor or a miracle—in essence painted prayers, which are impermanent.

Perhaps the fleeting nature of things is the point. When my own faith falters I remember that of others and how simply witnessing it has touched me. My friend Donna says she has always simply felt that “things will be OK”. For some reason, given evidence to the contrary, I too still believe in the power of good over evil, and that Love ultimately prevails. Basically I trust that it is all worth it, and letting go of the promise is simply not an option.

Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings while the dawn is still dark.
—Rabindranath Tagore

Connie Stetson discovers a brave new world with adventure around every curve

As I write, it’s been a little over a week since Lee and I completed a month-long, nearly 300 mile journey through the sands of time. Literally. I am still rinsing the freaking sands of time out my gear.

My husband, with the Greenwood Expedition, party of 11, began a river trip at Lee’s Ferry near Glen Canyon Dam on Jan. 27th to raft the upper Grand Canyon. I left Fresno on Feb. 4th, flew to Flagstaff, took a shuttle bus to the South Rim, checked in at the Bright Angel Lodge, and at 8:30 am on Feb. 5th, I began my journey down, down, down, through snow and ice, mud and streams, more than ten miles, seven oceans, and millions of years of geologic time, (sorry, fundamentalists…that would be more than 6,000) — to meet them near Phantom Ranch on the mighty, muddy Colorado River. The next day, in a driving rainstorm, two walked out; and then we were ten, in four rafts, launching off into the rapids of the Grand Canyon.

How was it, you ask? It was exhausting, thrilling, challenging, beautiful, vexing, uncomfortable, cold, painful, quiet, noisy, scary, soothing, hard, transcendent, and nourishing. My body was bruised and torn, my skin became raw and chapped, my muscles strained and ached, I have never been so stinky filthy in my life, and I’ve lost four toenails—so far. I climbed a 3 0ft. boulder on rope ladder, and then bare-assed it down with two other wild women to swim the frigid blue pool at the bottom. We all gaped into the screaming maw of a rapid so fierce, loud, and scary my mouth went dry and my brain went numb, and all of us came out rejoicing on the other side. It was an experience I will never forget as long as I live, and I am humbled and awed by that place.

I am also grateful. For my darling Lee for encouraging and enabling my going, for Tracy and David Greenwood who organized the trip, the food, (barbequed ribs, no less), the boats, the gear, and accepted the serious responsibility for our safety and well-being, for the knowledge and skill of our boatmen, and to our fellow rafters for their hard work, support, and good humor. Grateful too, to be able to let go and embrace what cannot be controlled, to be able to say, “oh, fuck it”, to laugh loud and hard at myself, to still have the ability let each day uncover its mysteries, and to revel in it.

A brave new world lives within us all; we are the discoverers of mighty canyons, of plunging, icy, white waters, of unknown terrains, but that world is not just physical, it lies in our hearts, our imaginations, and in our willingness to engage. I am deeply grateful to be reminded of that.

Would I do it again? Hmmm—good question. I’m not sure about the Colorado River, but I would be up for another incredible river wilderness experience. Could we please find one cleaner than the Colorado? Also, I’m pretty sure I’ll never hike the Great Wall of China again nor climb Mt. Whitney one more time, but I’ve been nudged to keep going out there and to seek adventure as long as I’m able.

The one error in judgment I made was to book a room in Las Vegas the day we came off the river. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but I was wrong, wrong, wrong. It felt like one of the circles of hell from Dante’s Inferno, in fact, I think that was the name of the casino we stayed in. It was ugly, loud, jarring, creepy, sad, and just plain weird. Too much to take in after being alone with ten people in a wild place, and I’m pretty sure I never want to go to Vegas again. Ever.

I was happy to get home from the river and see my dogs and cats, but when I walked in the door and looked around our home after schlepping gear on and off our boats for weeks, I said to Lee, aghast, “Whatever are we going to do with all this shit? We’ll never fit it on the raft.”

Roatan, Honduras

When Melissa Howden embarks on a lesbian cruise, a tropical storm is not the only occurrence that stirs things up.

Prologue
A couple of years ago I started to learn how to surf. At the time my greatest challenge was learning to read the water.
How many waves in a set?
Which set might have a wave I can possibly catch?
Are they breaking to the right or to the left?

The combination of matter—the water, the board, the bottom and me—had the potential for magic or mayhem. And so it is with so many things in life.

——–
My girlfriend is a fan of the group lesbian get-a-away. The only group I’m a fan of is the small dinner party. Nevertheless, for the last week I have been on a lesbian cruise.

Lesbian cruises are not a new phenom. OLIVIA Travel has been doing them for 20 years. This voyage however is the first for a new company called SWEET: The Future of Lesbian Travel.

A week ago we hauled out of New Orleans in a mad attempt to skirt Hurricane Ida as she hurtled into the Gulf. Some were saying that the hurricane had been downgraded to a tropical storm. Weather distinctions make no difference to me. A boat in any storm worthy of Weather Channel note is NOT fun. A subtle reading of the water becomes very simple: THOSE ARE BIG FREAKIN’ MY FREAK WAVES BREAKING ON MY ELEVENTH DECK BALCONY!

Having survived the night and next day of hurricane water has its merits. With its inaugural cruise SWEET sails on with an epic tale and a certain esprit d’corps. As I survey the lot of us, some 1,500 strong, I think perhaps SWEETS’ marketing tagline is more than just hubris and is in fact “The Future.”

Before we set sail, some 65,000 trees had been planted to help restore the wetlands around New Orleans and to carbon offset the cruise. As we docked in Belize, the headlines of the local newspaper read, “Humanitarian Lesbians Cruise Into Belize.” The “humanitarian” being a reference to the fact that in every port, community service projects were among the excursion options. In Belize, a mural was painted in the pediatric ward of a hospital. Additionally SWEET cruisers created a storytime corner in a local elementary school. To support this effort all of us brought books and art supplies as requested by the school.

In Roatán, Honduras, our group helped to beautify the community e-learning center and installed two brand new computers. In both Belize and Honduras, being gay is illegal! But on two separate afternoons, gay women came off the ship and worked alongside the local people to create something these people had determined was needed in their community. In this place the seeds of change were sown person to person, community to community. It seems not so far-fetched to think that perhaps the greatest gift any of us can give to the world is who we are.

SWEET is a young company, headed up by a tiny, smart and fierce young woman named Shannon Wentworth who is given to exclaim, “Holy crap people!” whenever she is excited, which is often. When I look around this ship, I see a veritable arc of young lesbians who have come of age at a time in history which is so different than mine. They have a kind of entitled fearlessness that would’ve been difficult for me to even imagine 20 years ago. These young women are making a world where the bounds of gender are fluid and fashion is an ever-expanding statement. This is a world where gay woman means as many things as there are women to be it. And even as a reluctant cruiser I can say that I find comfort in this world, where I can wear whatever and be whomever I am inclined to be, and sit on a lounge chair with my girlfriend without any cares watching the sun go down surrounded as we were by the future.

As with any new venture there are lessons to learn and improvements to be made. But in the presence of these young women I have been reminded not just of the spirit of possibility but I have seen it made manifest. Grace in a hurricane is not so easy. But Grace having been honed in a storm becomes it’s own kind of magic. And that my friends, is not a bad way to spend a week.