Andalusia

Just the name is poetic, don’t you think? I have just returned to Verona from a week in this region of Spain and I loved it! I didn’t really know much about Andalusia before I went, but then I do like to go to places being a little ignorant of what I’ll find. I feel like it helps me to have uninfluenced experiences and form my own real-life impressions.

Andalusia was incredibly beautiful, with its mixed architecture and melting pot of cultures. Arabs, Jews and Christians have all had their influence on the region’s history and present-day reality. I guess I always relate to places like that because I feel like a bit of a melting pot myself. I felt like their history really contributed to the open, welcoming mentality of the people. They are helpful, friendly and wonderfully warm. 

 

Seville

Prior to landing in Seville, the only real thought I had in my “Andalusia file”  (besides flamenco and tapas) was this quote from Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist:

“I left my father, my mother, and the town castle behind. They have gotten used to my being away, and so have I…  The levanter was still getting stronger, and he felt its force on his face. That wind had brought the Moors, yes, but it also brought the smell of the desert... It had brought with it the sweat and the dreams of men who had once left to search for the unknown... The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind, and saw that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold him back except himself. The sheep, the merchant’s daughter, and the fields of Andalusia were only steps along the way to his personal legend”

La Mezquita, Cordoba

Like most people who read that book, I related profoundly to the main character, Santiago. Perhaps for me it is because my inner nomad has always been an integral part of who I am, and has informed some pretty major decisions in my life. I read The Alchemist last year during a period in which I  was experiencing the dichotomy of thought that I imagine afflicts most wanderers my age: Do I go home and live a “normal” life, or keep exploring the unknown with the 'freedom of the wind'?

The Alhambra, Granada

Being in Andalusia really painted the mental backdrop to that story for me. It reminded me of my own “steps”. Steps in a story… I’m not sure what the next chapter is about yet, but as I looked out the bus window, passing those mysterious hills, I couldn’t help thinking that the fields of Andalusia were part of Santiago’s story the way the river-stone streets of Verona are part of mine.

I left with a little reminder note in my heart of who I am and what I value – viva Andalusia!

Pick-Up Non-Artists Part 2

The Swinger

A couple of months ago a friend got me hooked on a game for smart phones called, Quiz Cross. It’s a trivia game with the option of playing with other random people in the world who have no nerdy friends and are looking for an opponent. Enter: “Sparkle” (full username not disclosed out of respect).  Her icon was that of a blonde-haired, cartoon chick and she was a formidable opponent. My icon is my facebook profile picture because I lazily used my facebook account to register with the game. One day I get a normal-enough message saying hi, where are you from etc. Then she says, “You’re very beautiful,” to which I replied, “Thanks, very kind of you to say.” It struck me as a bit odd but then I thought she was just being nice… until she started sending me kisses and those little faces with hearts for eyes! I told her I wasn’t into girls, and she informed me that she was "into both". After consistently more audacious messages she thought I should know that her husband also thought I was “a hottie.” What the?! I ignored these messages and continued to play (after all, she was a good player!) but when she started requesting pictures of me in my swimsuit I had to tell her she was crossing the line. I know there are all sorts of kinky things that have become ‘normal’ these days, but, I’m sorry, a couple perving on you together is just gross.

The Leicester Square Affair

While I was living in London, my dear friend Deb told me the story of this guy who trained lonely, socially awkward men to be smooth pick-up artists. She had watched a documentary one time that showed them trying out their lines on girls in Leicester Square. It became a symbol for us, of the sad state of the male population and the reasons why we were single! One evening, I was in Leicester Square with “the Gang,” a group of dear friends that consisted of Deb, Leo, Priya and Raffa (I miss you guys!). We were chatting and joking around until a decent-looking young guy (accompanied by another man) came up to us and started quoting me his number. I told him if he were really interested, the least he could do was write it down himself. (My technique with unwanted guys is to take their number so they leave me alone, and then obviously, never call. I know it sounds cruel, but otherwise they just don’t go away!) He reached for his card and as he was about to hand it to me, Deb raised her hand in a gesture that seemed to say both, “stop” and “ooh, ooh, I know the answer!” Then the most classic line she has ever uttered flowed from her lips: “I saw a documentary and you’re teaching him how to pick up girls!!” She was addressing the tall, blond man that was overseeing this budding lady’s man, at which point, the said lady’s man put away his business card, and muttered a thousand words a second that went something like: “Well I just wanted to know if you wanted to get jiggy with it. I mean, I was just playing. I’m gay anyway.” Then he and his tutor skittled away in a wave of embarrassment. I mean really, if you want anonymity, don’t make a documentary!

Europe is another planet! Haha I’m gonna miss these characters when I head back to Australia where guys keep quiet and only check you out on the sly. I’ll deliver a Part 3 at some point; I have an endless barrel of these stories!

Parents Part 3: Dedication

I was three-and-a-half-years-old and my mum picked me up for a weekend visit. My dad had dropped me off somewhere near the centre of Melbourne, where Mum worked, and we got on an almost empty bus. There were maybe two people on the whole bus: one of them a tall, dark figure with a black winter coat, black gloves and a black brief case. It’s common knowledge that villains dress in black, right?

I remember thinking, there are so many empty seats, we won’t have to sit next to him… and yet – incomprehensibly – Mum headed determinedly towards the black-gloved man. I tugged on her skirt hoping to enlighten her to the fact that there were many other seats available, but she didn’t stop! She sat down next to him and started chatting!

It wasn’t long before I realised that Mum knew the black-gloved man (maybe it’s my Australianness, but the gloves really made an impact on my impressionable young mind. Now that I have lived in Europe, I realise how few people wear gloves in Australia; I mean for the cold, and not just for fashion. Let’s face it, our winters often crack out days of 15-19 degrees: T-shirt weather in England).

Anyway, Black Gloves eventually started hanging out with us more and more. I soon learned that he did have other colours in his wardrobe, and that he wasn’t as villainous as I initially thought. Sure, he won me over cheaply with a pink possum (which I still have) that said “For Some Special” on its stomach, but I eventually liked him for reasons less superficial than that.

When I was five, my mum married Black Gloves and added an irreplaceable person to my life. We’ve known each other for 27 years now, and I have always been able to count on him for support, advice, comfort, hugs and anything else I might need. He is always looking out for me and I know for sure that if I am ever in trouble, or need the slightest bit of help, I can always rely on him. I’m 30-years-old now, and I have come to realise how rare it is to have someone that you can sincerely say that about.

Gavin (Black Gloves) is, without a doubt, the most dedicated and generous person I know. He is dedicated to his family, dedicated to his job, dedicated to God and to helping others. It’s from this constant willingness to give of himself that he has taught me to be reliable and to live generously.

I know you’re reading this blog, Black Gloves, and even for that bit of support, I’m grateful daily. I love you from a very special place in my heart! Thanks for always being in my corner  xxx

From the Archives...

I just found this bit of poetry that I wrote around the same time I started this blog back in 2010. It's strange to think about how I've changed and grown as a person since then. I've seen and experienced a lot over the past three years... I think my general outrage over the state of society has mellowed into a quiet rejection of the things that I feel belittle, contradict or ignore the intrinsic value of individuals, and  which contribute to the attrition of society's ability to ask hard questions of itself, admit its own distractedness and give precedence to interpersonal relationships over superficial ideas of success. Anyway, here it is:

X

Written by Tania Plunkett, 21/03/2010

They prescribed the medication

For my clandestine generation

Pop art pills

And sour milk spills

The property placebo

To subjugate our wills

If you work more, you’ll have more

More stuff than you could care for

So discard the word ‘why’

‘Cause there’s no adequate reply

Just fill up your schedules

And you can rest when you die

And yet there’s an underground

Who see just what went down

The disenchanted minority

With a non-fiscal priority

Searching for each other

Among the plastic majority

Has our moment passed by?

Or is it still worth a try?

Can we untwist the truth

That was wrapped round our youth

Or have we been hanging too long

From this propaganda noose?