Month: October 2015

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Last call for flight EI607…

 

For some reason I tend to view money spent at airports differently to the dosh I hand over on a more normal, spending spree. I still see it as a way of “using up” spare cash, taking clever advantage of the special offers that shine and shimmer at me from sparkly glass cases. As I did years ago when duty free really offered you a bargain.

Logically of course I know that nowadays the whole duty-free lark is far less meaningful than it used to be. The prices aren’t all that great unless you’re travelling long distance, and treating myself to a new foundation/lipstick/perfume or expensive face cream is – at the end of the day – pure (happy) self indulgence and nothing more.

But the thing is… logic doesn’t really come into it! As soon as my feet have carried me past the passport check, a sense of euphoria enters my body and bubbles its way down to my toes. Like a well programmed robot I quicken my step and speedily find my way into the first, brightly lit shop, my boarding pass at the ready. Just for a quick peek you understand.

Yeah right. Quick or not, I know very well that there’ll be no plane boarding for me until I’m armed with a pretty, plastic bag carrying at least one, but more likely three, joyous little items. Including – if it’s a trip to Dublin – a good perfume for my sister. Just one of the little things we do for each other.

You see, I’m a bit of a shopaholic. Maybe even more than a bit. When that film “Confessions of a Shopaholic” came out I sat entranced, loving, appreciating and recognising the joys, twinges of guilt and total addiction that every woman/girl (who enjoys shopping) is familiar with. The satisfaction that comes when you’ve made your final choice and head towards the cash register, your purchase-to-be clutched firmly in one sweaty little hand. The rush of blood that warms you later as carefully you unveil your new item to the oohs and aaahs of those around you (or even just your own – equally good!).

Sigh.

I’m not really sure why airport shopping feels that bit different, or loosens the rules a little more for me. It just does. Perhaps it’s the time pressure – mustn’t miss that flight! Or the perfume-scented, brightly lit atmosphere which this happy little “in-between world” literally oozes. I’m also fairly sure that echoes of the old, pre-Euro need to “use up these left-over liras” still live inside my head because I’ve fed and watered them so well.

Oh well. I will probably always feel less guilty spending money there than anywhere else. So I’m sticking with that for now and off to compile a nice list for my next gallop through Schiphol. We’ll call it… good preparation!

Duty free shopping
If I run a bit I should just make it to the gate!
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So, rugby’s the one with the pointy ball – right?

I try. I do, I do, I do, I do. It’s rugby world cup time these weeks and almost everyone I know is feverishly caught up in it. So I want to be too. Especially for Ireland, who won the (what’s it called again? oh yeah) Six Nations cup last year which qualifies them for undying support from every living, breathing Irish person…

But, the thing is… I’m totally crap at it! I know next to nothing about rugby and no amount of ‘come on Ireland!!’ screeches, thrown eagerly into the room during an Ireland-versus-anyone-else match can change that.

Last weekend, Ireland played France. I’d read here that the French media had been targeting Irish players quite vindictively beforehand, in a bit to psyche them out. This got my gander up. “We better really thrash them!” I spat vehemently to hubby, as we prepared for the showdown. He raised an eyebrow, surprised by my sudden interest.

As the game progressed I gave it my all. “That’s a bad tackle” I yelled, “he should be sent off for doing that!!”. “No love, that’s allowed in rugby” was his response. Five minutes later, “what kind of a ref is that!” I fumed, when France was -correctly – awarded a penalty (in truth, I spotted no reason for penalties throughout, scrums are just one big mash-up to me but I felt right was on my side this time because it was against ‘our lads in green’). As did most of the Irish spectators, methinks. We’re like that, us Irish. Big on the emotion, less on the rationalisation.

At times I was certain things were going too far. “The poor man’s head will be smashed in!” I whined in horror, watching a scrum, “look, look! The other guy’s boot is hovering over his skull!”. And when a second Irish player ended up on a stretcher, my indignation knew no limits, “what the hell… doesn’t anyone try to stop this insanity?”. You get the picture.

But at least I now know how teams can score (try = 5 points; conversion – 2 more). Proud of this new knowledge I totally over-used it, delighting in my expertise, “wow, now they only have to get a conversion and they’ll be 8 points ahead – right? Right?” I yelled. “Yes!” shouted hubby, “same as last time!” (patience finally wearing a wee bit thin).

By the time I’d double-checked that Ireland could only score in the left goal for the second half, and asked the difference between a rugby offside and a football one, he’d moved to the far end of the sofa. My run was finally over. Oh well, there’s still the quarter final to enjoy this weekend, I’m thinking of dragging out the Paddy’s Day stuff, just for the craic. There’s bound to be at least one good green wig somewhere in there…

World cup rugby
“That poor man’s head is going to be crushed!”
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Goodbye in any language is a big ask

This morning I got the very sad news that a beloved aunt of my husband had died. Quite suddenly, or so it seems. Having come through an emergency operation quite well, we were hoping for a recovery to carry her that bit further. A recovery that would see her march on a little longer through life. Fearless, feisty as hell and brim-full of the old energy she exuded until roughly one year ago, when even a trip to her favourite market (something she’d enjoyed for years, together with my mom-in-law) was no longer on the cards.

Our hopes were not realised. It came as quite a shock.

I’ve had many shocks like this, in recent years. It never gets easier, because I feel things very deeply. Always have, probably always will. I can’t even say I’ve developed a ‘formula’ of sorts to deal with loss because every time is different from the time before. And hoping I’ll manage it better now is just a waste of energy, which ups the ante even more. Inside my head and heart.

Because heartache wants its moment, wants its ‘pound of flesh’ and if you turn your back on it, it merely doubles in strength, and bites twice as viciously.

When I first lived abroad, I realised there would be moments like this, in relation to my parents, my more elderly loved ones, at home. I dreaded them, but accepted their inevitability. They came, they went, we coped, together. My sister always with me, in spirit if not physical presence. The family I built here waiting in the wings – loving, holding, shushing, calming me. The friends I’ve made never far away.

More recently, it’s been members of my husband’s family we’ve had to lose. A cherished mother-in-law who took gentle care of me and loved, laughed with and at me, for many years. Aunts and uncles, whose sense of fun and mischief appealed to me, whose curiosity for my Irish mannerisms and heritage transcended boundaries and bonded us like childhood friends giggling over past memories.

I’ve been lucky to have found a place in the heart of such a family. Lucky to have enjoyed a home-from-home, as the years went by. But it makes it that bit harder to let go of someone we all love – again – and I’ve been dragging my heels about it, because I know the hurt it brings.

But the heartache wants its moment, so I’ll play by the rules and let myself be sad today for a special woman whose memory I’ll always hold dear.

Thank you and R.I.P., dear ‘Tante Leentje’.

market shopping
Now THAT’s what I call a real bargain!
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Bus 39, A or B?

Earlier this year I enjoyed a few days back home in Dublin with my sister and her family. It’s always such a treat, something to look forward to, relax into. Every time again. The wonderful, easy familiarity of their home and hospitality covers me like a warm blanket, smoothing out the stresses and strains of ‘normal’ life.

There’s the great food; endless mugs of strong black tea; hot buttered toast in the morning and regular shushing of the lazy, family dog. Which, when combined with the continuous chatter and sharp, unforgiving humour of my family (natural talents in fast, merciless verbal spats) makes short shrift of my more serious, control-freak self. In no time at all the lighter, giggling, who-cares-less version of me has been resurrected. Life takes on a new, cheerier perspective. I luxuriate and take distance from humdrum stuff and wake without an agenda in my head.

Having woken to a clear blue sky on day two, I decided to walk to the shopping mall, a 15 minute trot in my flats – but as I set out the weather made a sudden shift and within minutes I was breathing in a fine mist of Irish rain, the sky filling overhead with plump, dark grey clouds.

Known for pontificating on the benefits of walking to my car-loving nieces, I was reluctant to take a bus. To do so felt like cheating (honestly, even I’m a bit irritated by me as I recall this!). But as the cold droplets dribbled slowly down my neck I gave in and hurried into the shelter. And that’s when the interesting part began.

Inching my way into a dusty, grubby corner, it took me a moment to shrug off the cold and notice those around me. An elderly man with long, scraggly legs bent carelessly beneath him, looking slightly the worse for wear, was seated on the thin, metal bench. Paying me no attention whatsoever he stared off into the distance, his cheeks flushed from the air’s chill, his feet encased in heavy brown shoes that had seen better days. I wondered where he was going and to whom. Home? On his way to pick something up, drop something off? Whatever it was, he didn’t seem to give two hoots about it. Or much else, for that matter.

The other occupant of the shelter was easier on the mind. As I raised my eyes to hers I realized she’d been observing me in turn. I smiled across to return her open interest. Late-seventies I figured, dressed carefully – not expensively – but WELL. Wearing what my mother would have called a good coat. Plain black wool, solidly buttoned up. No gloves but a pale blue scarf tied loosely around her neck. Short, silver, curled hair. She smiled back. Then, ”is it the 39A or B you’re after?”. “I haven’t a clue, to be honest. I’m headed for the Centre”. “Then it’s the B”. Decisive. No room for disagreement. How Irish. I thanked her. She smiled again.

“I’m only home for a few days, I hardly ever take the bus,” I added for no reason, the way I often do, especially in Ireland. There, people expect it. No one looks strangely at you if you offer easy conversation, as Dutch people sometimes do.

“Really? So where do you live then?” she threw back, moving a few steps closer. We fell into an easy conversation. She told me she knew others, like me, who’d moved abroad in the eighties. Neighbors’ children, some of whom had recently returned. “But they’re in trouble now”, she said with regret, “this country’s in a right mess. Big houses, big mortgages and no money coming in to pay for them”. I nodded in agreement, my heart aching mildly in recognition of the missing. I understood very well what had brought them back because it never completely goes away, the longing for home.

She blamed it on the banks. Who didn’t, I thought, not mentioning that I’ve worked in the financial industry for almost eight years now, and loved every minute of it.

She wondered what it felt like to live abroad. I needed longer than a bus ride to explain the good, bad or better of the matter but gave it a stab anyway. She listened carefully. By the time the 39B came lurching into view, we were on a first name basis and had shared details of our lives, families, children (she had one daughter, still making bad decisions now and then is how she put it, it made me smile to think how a parent stays a parent, no matter what age) and laughed out loud more times than you’d believe. It warmed me, despite the drop in temperature. On the inside.

This was what I’ve always missed, living out of Ireland. The ease of connection, the casual interest, the warmth. The lack of barriers and I guess, just the simple, easy humanity of it all.

The bus pulled in. We lined up. I began searching for coins to pay my fare. She stepped in ahead of me, turning quickly back to say with a hint of pride, “put that away, I can get you in for free with my OAP pass”, her hand covering mine gently. I didn’t object, I could tell it pleased her to do it. What a nice start to my day, I thought. What a lovely lady. Isn’t it great when life throws you an unexpected gift like that?

Waiting for the bus in Dublin
Is it the 39 A or B you’re after?
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“You rang, m’lady?”

I’m lying, drowsily, beneath a satin, quilted eiderdown. The room is dimly lit, there’s a log fire crackling in the fireplace, “Lady Mary, your breakfast” … ah yes, that little rope I pulled on… “thank you Anna, no I can butter my toast myself today”….

Sigh. And sigh again.

Seriously – what’s not to LOVE about the BBC series Downton Abbey?! I know what draws me to it, because I’ve thought about it, oftentimes. It’s the sheer beauty of it all. And the power of my over-active imagination. Along with the mega-dose of wonderful escapism each indulgent little episode gives us.

The location, the setting. The calm. The ease. The gossip. The silver tea service. The china. The stylish cars. The kitchen (“have you finished that orange sauce for the duck, Daisy? Then come help me get that kedgeree prepared for tomorrow’s breakfast”). Delight, delight, delight.

The thing is… the minute I hear those soft, musical introductory notes, graciously welcoming me to step back into another era, away I float. Into the Downton Abbey world of grace, wealth, dinner gowns and long satin evening gloves.

For sixty minutes I am there with all the actors. Gliding around my room in a beaded gown, readying myself for the evening meal in full assurance that Carson (the butler) will watch our every move like an eagle searching for prey and the Dowager Countess will fill the spaces between courses with amusing witticisms, “I’m a woman. I’m supposed to be contrary”.

Having readied myself for the dinner gong (with Anna pinning back my curling tresses), I’ve frowned slightly at a spot of dust on the banister and made a mental note to mention it to Mrs. Hughes next morning. Smiling sweetly at the footman I’ve helped myself to Mrs. Patmore’s delicious platters – careful not to take too much but just enough – and chatted quietly with those seated to my left and right, making sure I give them equal attention. For to do otherwise would just be bad manners.

It’s a happy hour. An hour spent mimicking Lady Mary’s astonishing accent and wonderful use of language. Reminding myself to remember certain phrases she casually trots out “I’m not entirely sure that we should bother ourselves with matters of this kind” or “had you asked for my support my darling, then of course I would have gladly given it”. Words that make me want to be far more eloquent than normal life demands but which I can never quite recall the next day.

I’ve even wandered around my own back garden carrying a wooden lantern, half imagining I’m walking that estate. My husband laughs because he knows it’s part of who I am. A dreamer, a story-teller in my own way, a lover of ease, comfort and beauty, both inside and out.

So thank you Julian Fellowes, for the gift that is Downton. For letting us enjoy and revisit a world in which there still is space and freedom for the very privileged to do little more than breathe in and out as they come to terms with the changing world around them. A world that remembers World War I heroes, forever etched in my grateful heart for the huge sacrifices they made.

And of course, there’s still the simple beauty of it all.

Downton Abbey
…into the Downton Abbey world of grace, wealth and long satin evening gloves I float…