Tales from Argentina: Buenos Aires ©

As the tip of the sun creeps over the horizon, a sprawling checkerboard of life rises from slumber. Porteños open their doors and the city of good airs rushes in; a heady mix of heat and danger. The hands of the clock do their rounds and the sun rises in the sky – an orange flame, searing the vivid band of colours in La Boca, as notes of Tango melt into the heat and dancers float forwards. A tale unfurls: sagas of lovers lost and desires unfulfilled. The whisper of the good airs lingers in your midst as you dodge cracks and golden lamp-posts – opulence blending with struggle in a hauntingly beautiful melancholy. Proud Porteños parade the glittering streets of Palermo, commanding attention, while the sweeping white of Puerto Madero bridge lures us deeper into our tale of Tango. Evening creeps forward and rush-hour traffic careers down the pulsing artery of Avenida 9 de Julio at the heart of the city. Dusk approaches and the flame edges west, as the bell tolls in the Recoleta Cemetery and the Casa Rosada burns blood red in the evening light. The sun has called time on Buenos Aires but the night is young. The good airs reverberate with the hum of traffic, pulsing club beats and myriad tales hidden beyond walls and eyes. And all the while, the haunting tones of the Tango rise into the city, melting into the cracks and fusing with the hearts and minds of its people. And we watch in mesmerised silence as the dance glides to its conclusion, scenting the air with intrigue and loss.

Tweet Pin It Now!

A Weekend in April ©

The guitar strumming began and my new friends broke into song. Effortless but chord-perfect they picked their way through a repertoire that ran the full gamut from the Beatles to local folk. The impromptu gig was punctuated with banter and wit; conversation was lively and thought-provoking; songs alternated between deeply familiar and wholly foreign. One struck a particular chord and has never left me; an intangible reminder of that strange and unexpected encounter.

I’d met my new friends just a few hours earlier in a local steak joint. Friendly and undaunted by the gauche timidity of my teenage self, they accepted me readily and easily. I can still picture the strip lights of the restaurant rendering hiding impossible. Everything seemed new and exciting, and though there was nothing unusual about the place, I struggled to take it all in. It was no wonder then that, a few hours later, in the living room of a strange house, I should feel such a thrill. Who were these strange new friends? And why were they interested in me? Questions traded with discovery and the hours melted away. The night ended in the hour before dawn as I learned the Cumbia dance, feeling uncoordinated and embarrassed; exposed and exhilarated.  Heading back to the hotel room, everything looked the same as before; everything was as we had left it. And yet something had changed; I’d had a glimpse of strange new territory and something had shifted.

The next day we headed to a gathering with our new friends. En route, they took a detour to a pretty lakeside region in the mountains. Autumn leaves were falling but the sun was brilliant in the bright blue sky. They led the way and we chatted like the best of friends. The truth is that I barely knew these people – but they were interested; they were generous; they had depth and joie de vivre. 

A few hours later we arrived at the gathering where large groups of strangers clustered in the garden. Their insouciant body language hinted at people among good friends. And yet there were so many of them: thirty or forty easily. I found myself alone and wished I could have stayed with my new friends in the mountains of Carlos Paz. As I brooded, a girl made her way over, and picking my way through the exchange in broken Spanish, I was once again struck by interest, warmth and sincerity. I confided in her about my concerns for the trip; my fear of meeting new people; and my reluctance to break away from the old. “All experiences are good experiences in the end,” she told me. “Even a bad experience is eventually a good experience. It’s always better to have had the experience than to have not had the experience.” Her words were so profound for me in that moment that I have never forgotten them, even 11 years on. I don’t know her name and I have no recollection of her face but her gentle encouragement has always stayed with me.

As night fell, the clusters of groups formed one large circle and a fire was lit at its centre. My new friends picked up their guitars and began to strum. In a group of well over thirty Argentines, I was saluted and welcomed as they began Hey Jude. The music continued as the sky faded from pink to indigo, and indigo to black. As the numbers dwindled, stars peppered the sky and the warm air turned sharp with cold – we were in the mountains of Córdoba after all, and winter was on the horizon. I had journeyed 8000 miles to be here and yet these kind, special people felt like very old friends. The weekend too felt strangely familiar as though it had dusted the cobwebs off a part of me so long-neglected, I had forgotten it existed.

As I boarded the coach and took the 12-hour journey back to Mendoza, I had time enough to reflect. And I think it’s then that I realised that home is a feeling not a place, and that I may have found mine in Argentina.

Tweet Pin It Now!

Los Angeles: City of Angels? ©

Rising up on the California coast, the metropolis of LA stretches for miles. Concrete and glass unfurl into the hazy distance, interspersed with pockets of mesmerising beauty and glamour. Epicentre of all things showbiz, LA’s reputation precedes it: home of Hollywood, Beverly Hills and Malibu; location of endless film and TV productions; magnet for the beautiful, the famous and the very rich.  Less a city than one big movie set, less a population than a posse of aspiring actors and singers, there’s nothing quite like LA. But far from being a living embodiment of the American Dream, the dark side of the city is never far from view—and the gulf between those that have made it and those that have not seems wider than ever.

Hovering above LA, my first glimpse of the legendary city was row after row of houses and the aquamarine of the ubiquitous southern California swimming pool. The landscape was a dull yellow, the sky overcast. As we pulled into the city proper, we saw dusty side streets and cracked paving slabs. Scrawny palm trees soared upwards to greet high-rise flats. A stroll to Hollywood boulevard revealed a strip of neon lights, retro diners and street vendors selling their wares. The Walk of Fame stretched the length of the road with Marilyn Monroe plonked unceremoniously outside the local McDonald’s. Homeless people roamed aimlessly. There was a seedy undercurrent; a flip side; a harsh reality.

A trip to Mulholland Drive, Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive promised to reveal glitzy LA so we hopped onto a tour bus and off we went. Up a few shady side streets and across a few intersections and we were suddenly looking up at the current abode of Ryan Gosling and Eva Mendes. Nestled in the rocky mountainside, their futuristic home was all glass and curving roofs, just high enough to frustrate prying eyes. We circled the hairpin bends of the mythical road with Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’ blasting through my head as we passed surprisingly normal homes belonging to the LA glitterati.

Up ahead we pulled into Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive. Gone were the cracked pavements, gone were the withered palm trees. This is the flip side of the coin. Glittering cars sat in the shadow of palatial homes, each more stunning than the last. They lined the roadside in every colour of the rainbow with no apparent security and seemingly normal inhabitants. Except that their neighbours were Hugh Hefner and his bunnies reclining beyond the high-rise walls of the mythical mansion, and the address read Rodeo Drive. How’s that for street cred’?

Further along the road, we trundled into the Rodeo Drive made famous in Pretty Woman. Shiny boutiques lined the roadside and tourists took pictures as a handful of white-clad women marched out of Gucci bearing bags. The Beverly Wilshire Hotel reared up ahead. Flags the size of football fields hung above the opening and striped canopies decorated the windows. Doormen stood to attention. Ferraris and Aston Martins rolled past. But the surrounding streets and boutiques were strangely quiet, absent the frenetic buzz of Hollywood.

Anxious to enjoy the ‘complete’ LA experience, we made our way to the famous Sprinkles Cupcakes shop, ducking in and out of boutiques and keeping our eyes peeled for A-listers. Sure enough, no sooner had we parked ourselves outside Sprinkles than Kendall Jenner of Kardashian fame stepped out of a blacked-out 4x4 and a posse of photographers lunged towards her—and us as it eventually turned out. After much chasing, ducking and diving, Jenner was papped in her white-denim ensemble with myself and my friend sitting proud in the background. An appearance in the Daily Mail sidebar of shame—you couldn’t make this stuff up!

Our next stop was Santa Monica and it couldn’t come fast enough. As we pulled onto the quaint-sounding Ocean Drive, I was instantly smitten. Our hotel was a charming Art-Deco building facing a line of palm trees and the Pacific. Clutching our cameras, we excitedly made our way down to the beach. I’m not a swimmer or a sunbather but I love the sea. There’s nothing like the rhythmic sound of the waves and the water stretching out into nothingness. As it happened, the sunset that night was spectacular. Our time in Santa Monica moved at a slow pace as we adapted to the small-town feel of the place. Days were spent strolling the palm-lined streets and the boardwalk, checking out the shops, and eating and drinking—the food here is great.

We had pencilled in Venice for our penultimate day. I don’t know what I was expecting but the name put me in mind of the elegance and style of its Italian counterpart. Not so. LA Venice is edgy and grungy. Colourful—and often beautiful—graffiti decorates the walls, the smell of marijuana laces the air and skateboarders fly past. At Muscle Beach, body-conscious LA rears its head once more as the city’s men and women exercise in the open-air. You can’t help but wonder if they’re auditioning in their heads, hopeful of getting their big break from a passing movie producer. The sense that you’re on a live movie set never quite leaves you in LA, but that’s the beauty of it. The rest of the day was spent enjoying a glorious brunch at Joe’s on Abbot Kinney and the subsequent purchase of an insanely overpriced Swedish cuddly toy in my mimosa-fuelled haze.

The sunset on Venice Beach that night was pink-, purple- and orange-streaked magic and the highlight of a fascinating trip.

My impression of LA before this trip was glamour, money, fame, luxury and a healthy dose of plastic surgery. And LA is all of those things. But from my (limited) perspective, LA did not appear a cohesive whole, but rather, a collection of jagged pieces that didn’t quite fit together. There was a sense of empty spaces between parts, symbolic of the huge divide in the city.

It is, however, a fascinating glimpse into a fading era and the beginnings of Hollywood, before fame-hungry cast its shadow. It’s an envy-inducing idea of the way the other half live. And it is, essentially, a very beautiful place that averages 329 days of sun per year. And if I had US citizenship, I’d move to Santa Monica tomorrow.

Tweet Pin It Now!

Swedish Utopia ©

Scandinavia is an incredibly well kept secret. As I entered the waterside café in Vaxholm, I felt as though I’d entered the Garden of Eden. The Swedish flag sailed in the gentle breeze and dark blue waters lapped all around. Tanned Swedes sat at white painted tables enjoying the languid Sunday sun as tree branches rustled overhead. Pear cider and a delicious strawberry confections completed the ensemble. "It's perfect!" I said, and so began a surreal experience. Tucked away from prying eyes, this café was as far from the madding crowd as you could ever imagine. Sailboats and yachts drifted past and the sunlight glinted off the waters. People spoke gently or not at all, tipping their faces to the sun in silence. And just when we thought it could get no better, the strumming of a guitar signalled a series of melodic acoustic numbers that melted seamlessly into the surrounds.

The Stockholm archipelago comprises an astonishing 24,000 islands, with the capital itself spread over 14. Tourists naturally head to the latter to enjoy the charms of this peaceful and classy urban space but a journey into the farther reaches of the mysterious navy waters reveals a haven of Swedish utopia. Board the Waxholmsbolaget on a sunny summer day (May to September) and take your place among Swedes heading to their holiday homes. The ferry stops several times, offering fleeting glimpses of storybook wooden houses with verandas and trailing flowers.

An hour into the journey, we disembarked at Vaxholm and did a quick lap of the main town. The sun was scorching and the colours of the houses seared in reds, pinks and yellows. We took shelter under the umbrellas of a small café and enjoyed some traditional Swedish meatballs, lingonberries, pickled beetroot and cider. Venturing back into the burning sun we passed locals, small businesses and telephone boxes that would not have looked out of place in an early 20^th-century tale. The surrounds were so quintessentially perfect that my imagination ran wild as I wondered at the stories playing out behind the walls of the homes lining the gently inclining streets. We reached the harbour and people-watched, dodging energetic sea gulls and XS and XL dogs. Yachts circled blasting the dance music Sweden is known for, while others departed for isolated spots with the weekly shopping. We eventually moved on to a jetty jutting into the waters and spotted the beautiful café–garden that inspired this post.

The golden sunlight, impossibly beautiful Swedes and curious illusion of emptiness give Sweden something of a dreamlike quality. Strolling through the Djurgården island in central Stockholm on a Friday evening, there was not a soul to be found—until we turned a corner and stumbled upon a glitzy nightclub. This archipelago is magic in the way it fuses urban life and nature so effortlessly. The people are polite, fluent in English and among the happiest in the world according to the OECD’s Better Life Index. One taxi driver suggested it was because Swedes had been spared the misfortunes to have befallen many other countries. —Or because the people still make eye contact in the streets. Either way, it is surreal and fascinating.

Some experiences pass us by and vanish before ever forming memories while others remain in our minds in vivid colour. We may even realise mid-experience that it is something and absorb every detail, shoring up our memory bank for a rainy day.

With a cider in hand and the sun and sea at my back, last Sunday afternoon at Vaxholms Hembygdsgårds Café was the standout memory of a wonderful stay in Stockholm; a memory to light up a dark winter’s day with the welcome promise of Swedish utopia.

Tweet Pin It Now!

City of Lights ©

As I leave Paris the City of Light

I leave behind the light of these glorious summer days

When the sun burns away the traces of winter

And all is left is lazy park days

Refuge in the shade

And the light of those summer evenings

The twlight

When all is magic and maybes

The best time of day

I leave behind the twinkling Eiffel Tower

A beacon in the night

Reflections in the Seine

Of quayside life

And the light of an autumn day

Golden like the leaves

The muted shades of winter

When all is bright white

In Paris the City of Light

Tweet Pin It Now!