La Isla Bonita

The first song I heard on the beach in Seychelles was a Bob Marley song. 'Redemption Song' played on a little old school wireless from underneath a tree next to a local dreadlocked carpenter who was busy carving little island memorabilia pieces. As I walked along the beach, the waves were composing music of another effect. The more inland I walked, the louder a familiar melody was playing. I found my lunch spot under the shade of a song and a few palm trees. Madonna's "La Isla Bonita"; the beautiful island indeed. I sat there overlooking the turquoise waters, overwhelmed by the expectations met and thrilled about the arrival of a like-minded friend who agreed to join me in crossing off our very predictable island itinerary checklist. And for the next two days, I found myself smiling with a song in my heart, for one by one, little dreams were coming true. 

There is one thing that excites me so when arriving at a new destination in the hours of darkness: waking up to find an unexplored world around you. You feel transcended instead of transported; transparent, entranced - you're young.

You run out, keen to grasp as much of this transient dream as possible. 

And this is exactly how i'll remember this place. Green, green forests on hills that rise out of the sea; turquoise waters and rocks that remind me of smoother clay versions of sunken rhinoceroses.

The quiet island life is then interrupted only by actions serene enough to qualify as leisure. Some go canoeing, some collect seashells, others can't sit still and opt for taking hundreds of photographs to one day remember just how very relaxed they were on that day.

A kind and gentle landscape meets the sea. The shore gets washed with soft lace trimmings sweeping to and fro.   

I went left.

A picture of me and the sea. Blue and white, blue and white.

The simple pleasures: making small decisions that turn out to be good choices. And I sure relished in the fact that the colour of my nail varnish went so well with the powdery sand. And it was just a matter of time for my skin to take on Summer's glow. 

This charming little flower made me smile. 

My tree! (And most probably everyone's tree who walks by.) But for a couple of minutes it was my tree. Pure, uncomplicated joy.

I had to be really bored as kid to actually page through my mother's 'Garden and Home' magazines. So you can guess just how surprised I am that I always seem to end up including some plant in the equation of an album. But these are foreign plants. And one must record such details (either for future reference or for a classic background for some relative's desktop.)

Boat and sea. 

The seaweed bracelet made me feel all animated and mermaidy. But I felt like the bracelet gave me powers to chase away clouds. (It never rained that day. Too bad I threw the magical seaweed back into the turquoise water.) 

 "Tropical the island breeze.
All of nature wild and free.
This is where I long to be.
La isla bonita."

*t

Miniature Tigers, Freelance Whales and Polar Bear Sugar Cookies

I do realize that the name of this album might suggest or even promise to feature at least several animals. And with its generous capacity to contain not only the expected obnoxious pigeons and obedient trained dogs, a concrete jungle like New York City might lead you to believe that a secret wild life community have more than just the seasonal meeting in the park. 

But it was Winter time, and I could not have been expected to do much outdoors. Humans after all, just falling short of the very sensible "hiber nation", need warm comforts, songs, fluffy scarves and love to make sense of keeping up the good work in this kind of cold. And this season's Caramel Brulée lattes were the kind substitutes to those who could not afford these previously mentioned luxuries. But, despite the cold, and obvious lack of animals out on the streets, I shall introduce you instead to the wild life that did inspire this title. A melodic zoo in my head really.   

'Strawberry Fields' played in my head as we travelled over the Atlantic towards New York. "Nothing is real," I sang along to the Beatles song. I was equally entertained by Miike Snow's 'Animal'. (I missed his gig in New York a few months before). But on this particular visit, I looked forward to a certain animal collective, a band called The Freelance Whales. I went to their gig in Webster Hall where I briefly met Charlie and his Miniature Tigers (cool band). And after fun and dancing, I was delighted to see that Röyksopp would be playing at that very same venue the following January (a Norwegian animal of another kind). In the morning after the show, I was introduced to sugar cookies that were much sweeter than Zoo cookies. (I ate a Polar Bear sugar cookie at Starbucks. They are the cutest hand made cookies to date).     

Were I to design a carousal for this trip (a magical one; a flying machine which could transport anyone anywhere), you could choose to sit on either a beetle, or a snow-covered poor Leno, a miniature tiger, a whale or a sugar cookie polar bear. 

So that was what was going through my head in the making of this title. 

A song. Well, a couple. 

So first I was off to Webster Hall in East Village. It has been a Night Club since 1886. I wondered just how close I was to some of the original ornaments in this Night Club. I was pretty close to watching the Freelance Whales though. A fact: I was quite down about a friend's absence that night. It was a friend who initiated this venture in the first place. 

And who have performed here previously? Justice, the Killers, Madonna, Linkin Park, etc. etc. etc. The Recording Studio, which forms part of the building, is where incredible artists have previously recorded their albums. (Frank Sinatra, Ray Charles, Elvis Presley, Julie Andrews, Bob Dylan, etc. etc.) New York: it happened here.  

And so the wild night out made me collect even more animals for the zoo in my head. Poor Leno and Mr. Oizo joined in. 

On the second attempt, I woke up and opened my windows. The ever beautiful Manhattan before me.  After getting up and going out, my morning started with an outrageously glazed donut breakfast. Pretty, pretty wild.  

Yellow school buses transported so many kids to the central part of Manhattan. It reminded me of school trips to the Zoo. We never had trips like that where I am from.  

But the excitement was about the ice rink. 

The animal in me, was hooked on the trees in New York. Most branches were dressed in lights, which I found real cute. But the great Christmas tree in front of the Rockefeller was something else. 

And while a young professional kid skated a solo on the ice rink, a young obnoxious pigeon flew solo towards the Condé Nast building. 

Through the Looking Glass toy camera, it appeared that I was walking next to a Park. Oh! Illusion!

Toy. Taxi. 

The Californian Redwoods of the concrete jungle. 

Time and again. 

The day ended with special sparkly lights. The Miniature Tigers song 'Dark Tower' played in my head. Before I left for Lexington Avenue again, I discovered one last animal for the day. A fluffy bird in one of the sparkly branches. 

What a magical little trip it was in December of 2010. And what songs! *(Thank you Miniature Tigers and Freelance Whales for the beat I got to walk to after I left Webster Hall that night).   

*t

The Embellished Grand

In a dizzy dreamlike rush, I passed the other boats, shrines and cluttered buildings of Bangkok; onward to the detailed and embellished Grand. The Grand Palace made such an impression on me the previous time I saw it, that it was inevitable to take to the river once more, and this time with a camera. I clicked away in mindless monotony over the ripples of the hazel water. A weary angst that I might not capture all in the short stay I was granted. 

My thoughts drifted back to a few hours before: a fine breakfast I got to have with three of my close friends earlier that morning. I remembered that we laughed. But somehow my brain could not classify the breakfast as an event that was connected to the boat I was bopping in. No, my brain argued, that must have been another day. My heart tricked, and desperate for proof, I wished I had rather taken a photograph of the friendly faces over breakfast. My tainted memory: reduced to a hovering smile like that of the Cheshire cat. Had I not been such an insomniac during that time, had I not dropped my guard, had I not enjoyed their company so. Yes, reason hit me right then, as the white horses crashed against the bow. You see, most of my dearest memories are but intangible and abstract, like threads of light carried in my heart. Had they been pictures, they would have all been overexposed anyway. Most details may be forgotten, but the feelings that these faint memories evoke, are strong, evident and enduring. You don't always need a photograph of everything.   

I took another snapshot just before the boat stopped. What an uninspiring image, I thought. 

I sobered up over an incredible shrimp pad thai and an unidentified fruit juice in a street market. The shade beneath the umbrellas: very welcome.

The expected déjà vu returned again, and I found myself strolling alone in a dirty street in Bangkok. Raising my gaze over the palace's walls presented quite the opposite of the streets: pristine and intricate white washed towers. 

The flawless prayer flowers sold at the entrance. Purity on a stem. 

Clearly a wonder wall. 

Heavy lifting gold should rather be called heavy, heavy, very heavy lifting.

Like a Bollywood Film without the choreography. Embellished to the very tip of the tower. 

Just a note: do not be deceived by these images. I only selected the ones with no tourists in. Quite the challenge. But it is my prerogative to choose the memories that I would like to keep. But then, movement was welcomed after all. 

Like a wave of Thai buildings and adornments. 

Wall figures dance. And I try to decipher the story without a guide.

The Far East identified beneath a dreamy sky. 

The Grand Palace is an exceptional place. Compelled to record the fascinating structures, shimmering in the perfect sunlight, I had to succumb to take photographs. (For my tangible visual diary.) Some features are just too intricate to remember just like that. And I didn't want to be tricked again. Especially with all the little mirrors and golden embellishments around, where illusions are bound to appear. 

*t

Week in the Winelands

I can melt in the beauty of the South Western tip of Africa in late winter. In this green season, the Western Cape is a place where the quartzitic sandstone escarpments are often veiled in a soft white cloud. Fynbos on the heath of the lower skirt stretches down past the steep grey crags towards white beaches that meet the cold Atlantic. The air herbaceous, fragranced with dark wood. But you soon identify the scent of a culture in this area: the wines, and the exquisite cuisine. How fitting that the Table of the Cape is set as an invitation for those who love to taste. 

* * * * *

It was thus a simple decision. A Cape Townian was going to go on a week long winter Wine Tour. The route well researched, guest houses booked, four season outfits and reading material packed, and a mixed tape made with love for the road trip.   

In 2011, a snowless Winter passed. But as the end of August approached, I was wishing for some white frosted mountain tops. But the sunshine over the green was also welcome. The second cold front that I wished for never came to pass that year. But there will always be beautiful Winters to come. 

And yes, the more you wish for snow, the earlier Spring will come. But luckily early Spring has its perks too. 

Learning more about the wine making process.

Red needly Proteas on the back of a pick up farm truck. 

It was sunny, the day we arrived back in Stellenbosch, my old University town. This was the base for the first few nights, as the charming old Dutch town lies in the heart of the Winelands. In the evenings it was still chilly, and we thought at some point it might rain again. But the thought of a rainy night sounded wonderful, because somewhere in Dorp Street there was a fireplace waiting for you in a secluded little library, leather couches and a tough choice between Whiskey on ice and the finest Red with two wine glasses. 

Going for a walk in Jonkershoek after a day of good wine and good food in the Greater Simonsberg wine region. 

At first we thought we might be able to squeeze five wine farms in a day. But less was certainly more. Two to three wine farms a day, which included time spent over the wonderful meals at their Restaurants, seemed like the perfect amount of indulgence to contain. Which was why walks in the natural world seemed to balance all out quite well.  

(And how beautiful this place is). Almost beckoning 'just add wine' and a picnic blanket. Instead, we rested among Spring's new flowers.

Stark, and theatrical, the tree lined banks of the Breede River that passes through Robertson Wine Valley. The forecast of a cold night with the promise of a warm fire place and a glass of Rietvallei's 2008 Estéanna Red blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc and Petit Verdot. 

The beauty of a glass of Red. 

The Wine Journal: my Moleskine Notebook now not only filled with blank ink cursive notes, but a Journal of all the Wine farms we visited over the week. It contains every wine we tasted, our own made up little poetic verse of the taste, the nose, the notes, amateur but personal star-ratings and splashes of different translucent reds and plums and purples. (Most White Wines left no stains, but made the paper curl up with pleasure. A wonderful pastime indeed.   

The best holiday at home. Our chosen route started in Stellenbosch Valley, then Helderberg, and Greater Simonsberg in the Stellenbosch region. After that: Franschhoek, then Rawsonville, Robertson and ending off in the 'Hemel en Aarde' Valley in Hermanus. A highly recommended experience.

*t

Tied Up With Strings (*by Day)

Completely smitten after my encounter with Brooklyn Bridge that night, I decided that I wanted to see the bridge again in the first light of the next morning. It was dark when I rose at 04:30. I just got ready and went in my own time. This was perhaps a little too early for some. But for me: I needed to fulfill this wish of simply seeing this bridge again at sunrise. Just another secret little mission. I walked down the Subway and walked onto the bridge just to see the red dot sun rise from the horizon. As if my journey was timed to precision. Timing seems to be accommodating in that way sometimes, and helps you realize your passions if you dare to rise early enough. I'll cross these bridges one by one. And so followed the day, passionately:  

For the future nostalgist.

And as the soft glow announced the break of day, New York suddenly got a whole new character. 

As if the sun was rolling along Manhattan Bridge in that expected rhythm, the ball of fire almost not making it to the next height, but then reaches there in an almost pause, just to roll over the next suspension.

My New York in colour.  

I needed a good coffee here, but only had wild cherry gum. Note for next time: Grab a coffee before crossing such a long bridge. 

Suspense. 

There is only < ONE WAY . 

The scale of this bridge is hard to describe. All I can say is I felt really really small. 

Stretches of bridges crossing the East. (Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg). Most suspension bridges look like musical instruments. I usually wonder what they would sound like if they could be played. 

I still regard this as one of the most-liked mornings of my life, even though I was by myself. The morning made me feel whole. To be awed in the presence of these structures is something I hold dear. It is now added to my insatiable list of "Favourite Things". 

*t