Summer Picnics; English Confessions

"My dear Vivian, don't coop yourself up all day in the library. It is a perfectly lovely afternoon. The air is exquisite. There is a mist upon the woods, like the purple bloom upon plum. Let us go and lie on the grass and smoke cigarettes and enjoy nature." 

So when Oscar Wilde makes a suggestion, it is better to put the book down and confess some sentiments of your own, and then go out to enjoy summer's sunshine. It is time for lazy picnics and beer. And what a better setting than that of München's English Garden. 

It was a very hot August day. The sun was warm against my skin. I put my Oscar Wilde away and opened up my lace-inspired parasol instead. The light that fell through the umbrella seemed to imitate the shadows that the branches of the trees made on earth's floor.   

I spent a wonderful few hours next to a fervent stream, my feet submerged in the cool water. I slowly  started drinking in the beauty of this English Garden in the heart of München. The garden, a peaceful place, informal enough in style to assume the likes of a natural forest. The perfect place to think of light and wondrous things.  

My delight, however, was disturbed when I knocked my very dear sunglasses into the current as I got up. A very sad loss. I was distraught to say the very least. There are few things that can make a sad heart feel better. But luckily I got distracted by the pretty shadows that my parasol made on walls and floors on my way to the city's centre.     

Yet, after a wonderful walk in a summery beautiful city, I realized that my sunglasses are at least replaceable (even though at a cost). It wasn't the end of the world. Minutes later I realized how lively everything was around me. And I saw a beautiful world. At Karlsplatz, Springbrunnen am Stachus, I decided to decorate the sky, for the sky can sometimes become a bit predictable.

I often wonder if clouds sometimes repeat their shapes, because people do not always notice that they're there. But that would be a dull, cheap trick. Or to the contrary: a very difficult pose to reassume - considering all those travelling molecules.  

As I sat in the Frauen Kirche, I let my thoughts run wild for a while. And then: that wholesome stillness. What a wonderful grace: to renew one's mind. Outside, in a new light, I set up a few shots in a "lone traveller" kind of fashion. A couple of elderly gentlemen with their ladies passed me and enjoyed the classic take on sun protection. I got a lot of "classic"s and "schön"s. They were all so appreciative. And at the end of the day I was unburned. Let all the ladies stay cool and carry parasols.   

I settled down next to a stream in the late afternoon. The temperature just perfect. A picnic by myself. And then: that soft light that I remembered from another day, another time. As a distraction, a series of shameless self portraits continued. Then: my book again. Wilde continued in two voices and with one heart:

ERNEST: "Well, while you have been playing, I have been turning over the pages with some amusement, though, as a rule, I dislike modern memoirs. They are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their memories, or have never done anything worth remembering; which, however, is, no doubt, the true explanation of their popularity, as the English public always feels perfectly at ease when a mediocrity is talking to it."

GILBERT: "Yes: the public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius. But I must confess that I like all memoirs. I like them for their form, just as much as for their matter. In literature mere egotism is delightful... Whenever we come across it, and, strangely enough, it is rather rare, we cannot but welcome it, and do not easily forget it."    

After a plump heart of strawberry and lemon ice cream, it was inevitable to be that kid who would twirl on the grass till sunset. 

Forgiving oneself: not that easy. But easier than expected in a garden as beautiful as München's English Garden. 

*t

*Quotations from "The Decay of Lying: An Observation" by the wonderful Oscar Wilde. 

✉ Lady in Red (VII)

TODAY'S TRAVEL PHOTO OF YESTERYEAR: 

How a wall accrues red stains, depends on the climate that prevails, be it worthy of cause or not. Some reds show where roads end. The reds ensued from hands that embellish, that adorn, are those kinds of reds that envelop rubies. In Bhaktapur though, it is the same hands that pray, that will colour their walls.      

- RED ALERT -

*t

✉ The Neons

TODAY'S TRAVEL PHOTO OF YESTERYEAR: 

When the town is painted red, even the statues blush. I called these two 'the Neons'.       

- RED ALERT -

*t

✉ The Bell

TODAY'S TRAVEL PHOTO OF YESTERYEAR: 

Wandering around in an ancient city with such raw filmic character can be quite the distraction. When I set out to find the 'big bell' that is usually rung to pay homage to the Goddess Taleju, I saw so many other unexpected and wonderful things, that after having left Bhaktapur, I realized I never found this bell.      

- RED ALERT -

*t

✉ The Morning Paper

TODAY'S TRAVEL PHOTO OF YESTERYEAR: 

First things first. The morning paper. The streets slowly fill up. School kids wander over the red brick street past the blue doors to meet up with their friends before class commences. 


It was just beautiful to watch.         

- RED ALERT -

*t

✉ Another beautiful Bhaktapur sunrise

TODAY'S TRAVEL PHOTO OF YESTERYEAR: 

The sun peeked out over the jagged horizon of the Himalayas, taking turn with the moon to try and convince me too, that it was but a time-honoured hour of an early morn. The rainy night before: a gentle song that remedied my weariness. Still a little misplaced and sceptical about the light, I managed to gather myself somehow. And then, a silhouette that was both foreign and frightfully beautiful; an outline of a dreamscape. This was just another beautiful Bhaktapur sunrise.   

- RED ALERT -

*t

✉ Crimson Boy

TODAY'S TRAVEL PHOTO OF YESTERYEAR: 

It was a crisp August morning just after sunrise when I walked through the gate, and back in time, to see an ancient city waking up in Bhaktapur's Durbar Square. Here, each wrapped in red, a boy and a beast sat. As if sharing the morning's first coffee over a casual chat, the beast knitting a scarf. Nothing unusual.    

- RED ALERT -

*t

Red Alert

Perhaps I shall not disclose all. Yet, the sanguine that I sometimes am, simply must lay bare on how I've come to know a little secret about crimsons. Some 'rouges' are able to become more sentient in specific contexts. This might be quite different to Monét's clear delivery of "Poppies blooming", but French springtime aside, Nepal offers a new and vivid look at its perennial reds. I selected the shades of red that gave Bhaktapur its untarnished blush. 

* * * * *

I left the hotel in Kathmandu while it was still dark. Adventure always calls louder at that time of the day. Still quite low on light, I made my way through little streets that were smoke stained, dressed in chipped off whites and brick red. This little part in the world was waking up beautifully. Little did I know that the neon damask sunrise, so translucent then, was just about to bloom into the most vivid reds. I stepped out of the taxi - quite perplexed - because for a moment I thought I had somehow travelled back in time. I ran my fingers over the rice paper hand printed ticket. It seemed real. A gate lead me to the ancient Newari city’s plain: Durbar Square. A place that lost track of time. Bhaktapur seemed like a preserved slice of history - perhaps a fate for those places encompassed by the great Himalayas.     

The locals were quite oblivious to how remarkable their lives really were. In an everyday manner, the devotees dusted the statues in the square with neon powder, some leaving rice and flowers at the feet or claws of these figures.

School boys wandered off to their early morning class over the baked earth bricks. And every now and again a bicycle sped past, winding through the statues and figures, passing old temples. Some dating back to 1427. A mystical joyride, it seemed. 

The elders going about with their quiet lives.

A stone elephant looks out over the red square as a woman walks past.

The quiet and beautiful people of Nepal. And the energy of the playful kids. 

As the morning light became brighter, the smidgens of red reverently made their appearance. Each an inaudible wake. 

I looked at a beautiful entrance to a temple. A deep cool red peeked out from behind the wood carved pillars and doors. I wanted to take a photograph. Then a man entered my peripheral frame and slowly proceeded until he vanished through the door. Then there was a silence in the square. Not a person, not a pigeon in sight. For a moment the colours of a lost world faded and almost turned into a black and white photograph. Just another history book image. And I thought I had seen things that weren’t real. I turned around to go back home, and suddenly all life came back. In full colour. A bell rang, dogs were barking, pigeons flew overhead, people walked past, and greeted me with sunshine warmth: “Namaste.”

Bhaktapur: what an unreal place.

*t 

✉ Moonscape out my Window

TODAY'S TRAVEL PHOTO OF YESTERYEAR: 

The joy of discovering a moonscape out the window is reason enough to always ask for the window seat when I fly. And what a wonder it is to pour your gaze over an undulating coastline and realize you can recognize the contours of your continent. Perspective can make a beautiful impression.     

- BEFORE I COULD WALK, I FLEW -

*t

✉ A leap on court

TODAY'S TRAVEL PHOTO OF YESTERYEAR: 

After enjoying today's broadcast of the Wimbledon Finals over strawberry and vanilla-cream tea (it rained in London), I recalled the thrill of that first time I saw Roger Federer play live. An honour. Today: a tribute to those who fly high and play life's game with utmost class. 

*Congratulations to Roger Federer. A rare talent and inspiration.      

- BEFORE I COULD WALK, I FLEW -

*t

✉ Only a shadow to prove you were there

TODAY'S TRAVEL PHOTO OF YESTERYEAR: 

The shadow of the cable car didn't seem to leave a mark on the etched body of Table Mountain on that chilly August day. It is not always easy to retrace your steps if you have been flying.  It seems that shadows in general have some of the lightest footprints. Unless you take a photograph.      

- BEFORE I COULD WALK, I FLEW -

*t