The Lost Tourist

Waking up to our last day, of a two week holiday on the sunny island of Crete and perturbingly the idea of going home actually appeals—shock horror!—never thought I'd hear myself say that.

I've eaten in every restaurant I wanted to re-visit and drunk every drink that appealed (with the odd early morning thick head afterwards. I've done the everything and the nothing I intended, as well as reached a total state of relaxation and calm, which is exactly what I was aiming for.

There are more signals that the time to go has arrived. Sitting by the pool has replaced any activity and conversation has become an effort... er... what was my name again? Also, I see worrying traits akin to the lost tourist beginning to emerge—god forbid and... the pigeons are closing in.

What on earth are you talking about!

Well... the lost tourist was first spotted in the old town, as he shot up a side street, alongside a souvlaki bar where my son and I were munching on gyros pita. He caught our attention because he didn't fit in with the usual relaxed flow, adopted by tourists in hot countries.

Before I could pop another chip into my mouth, he had reappeared from the side street looking shocked—wild white hair, protruding eyes—awash with the local firewater and long legs swinging forward in spasms. The increasing momentum propelling him off in an unstable manner in the opposite direction down the street.

The final time we saw him, it was cocktail time on the hotel terras. With the whole terras to choose from he plopped down in a cushioned, wicker arm chair right next to me.

Oh gawd—no!—but it's a free country—right? —So we ignored him.

Unfortunately, there are people you can ignore and those you won't let you... Gazing out to sea and in-between gulps from litre-sized, Mythos beers, he would laugh intermittently at nothing. Then, when the waiter shooed away the pigeons—advancing on the cheesy, starsign-shaped snacks accompanying our drinks—he positively roared with laughter. Why? Who knows—although it is said that laughter is good for the soul.

With no desire for contact, but feeling his eyes boring into my left shoulder—as I sketched—I decided on a furtive glance at our chuckling hyena. Through darkened sunglasses, I could see there was absolutely nothing to worry about. From his face, I could see that the lost tourist's flight to the planet, Zob had happily departed a long time ago.

[*Ooh, look a pigeon* . . . Ha ha ha!]

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Cretan Magic

 

Sitting in a lovely little restaurant, in the old town of Rethymnon, under the hanging strands of flowering bougainvillea, its blooms in variegated and intense pinks.

Our waiter arrives. With our meal I order a glass of white wine—the local krasí—the waiter bobs a pony-tailed head and disappears into the restaurant. When the Cressi arrives, instead of a glass of white, it's an enormous glass of red.

'I didn't order red,' I say politely, 'I want white.'

From behind a bohemian moustache, he regards me with mild suspicion, as though I must be mistaken and then says bruesquely:

'I will change it.'

He returns a couple of minutes later with the desired glass of white Cressi - an equally enormous glass - generously filled. Depositing it demonstratively and without slowing his stride - to take the order from the next table—he places it on the table in front of me and says quite seriously:

'There—I painted it!'

 

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Stone Fortune

The wind set in around the island of Crete—whipping white foam edges on the crests of waves, pulling strands of hair from hairbands and blowing serviettes and paper notes into the air.

I spear olives from the Greek salad and I amuse myself with an old childhood rhyme—a seemingly female orientated superstition—to guess the status of a potential future marital partner:

Tinker — Taylor — Soldier — Sailor —

Rich Man — Poor Man — Beggar Man — Thief

Spoken with a lilt, as I count the olive stones neatly arranged in a row on the side of my plate—this time I have eaten five. Although not in need of a 'Rich man,' the outcome is desirable—I smile. A charming superstition, but of course not wanting to tempt fate, I generally do make sure that I eat more than one and if necessary, I will continue to eat more than six olives—silly eh? ... And luckily—I love olives.

Holidaying in Greece at the moment, I'm sure this ritual would be greeted by puzzled looks from the Greeks, who are more fatalistic by nature. Life is what it is and you take the rough with the smooth—no point complaining—get on with it, or turn it around so that it fits the way you want.

When it comes to being 'rich' there are so many other facets to it than monetary richness alone. I have only to look around me at the beautiful island on which I find myself—Crete—I feel rich and privileged to be able to be here.

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Beautiful

Early morning breakfast in the hotel. . .

'How are you today?' she asks.

'Ok—half asleep,' I answer, gulping down my tea in order to reply.

'You should say—I am beautiful—then you will feel good too.

'Ok,' I mumble. Then returning the sentiment, I ask: 'So . . . how are you?'

'Beautiful!' she says, with a sly smile over her shoulder—as she goes to relieve a table of its dirty crockery—from the other side of the marble-floored, dining room.

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Rusty Inside

Today, a light lunch at the restaurant across the road from the hotel of Mezzes: calamari, Greek salad and taramasalata accompanied by crusty bread in a wicker basket. Fanta, a glass of the local Cressi and ice cold bottled water.

Our waiter—dark haired with silvered edges, deposits the bottled water with a glass on the table and says:

'Nero' (water), then he adds with a warning tone, 'but not too much, otherwise you will become rusty inside.'

Amused, I laugh and reply:

'Yes, too much and I will need some olive oil to move again.'

He pauses to take in what I said. Then comprehension slowly crosses his darkly tanned face. With a broad grin—revealing an assortment of teeth and a twinkle in his eye, he wanders off to serve another table tray on hand.

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Airborne Folly

Have you noticed the increasingly peculiar baggage policies of airlines?

It first really came to my attention last Summer, when my brother and his family flew over for a visit from England to the Netherlands. On the flight out, at the airport, they were annoyingly told they had to pay for their baggage to accompany them.

'I thought an airfare included your baggage,' my brother said, as he walked through my front door. 'What a rip off!'

These days, unless you are signed up as a 'member' of some airline's club, any bags for the hold are not included in the airfare. Pretty stupid really, but ok, for a quiet life I signed up. But wait . . . after luring me in, recently I received an email and they had moved the goal posts again. Now my Ivory membership didn't include baggage. I had to have a gold encrusted bejewelled one with bells and whistles - plus have taken 15 flights with them to regain the privilege.

Why?

Logically, most people travel with a change of clothes and personal effects. Agreed? It goes without saying that some sort of bag, filled with a change of clothes and personal effects generally accompanies you on a trip and is included in the ticket price.

Obviously, the rules are changing and being replaced by quick money makers to cover the rising costs of fuel. Or is there really a weight issue in the aeroplane's hold? Or could we be, as I suspect being right and royally ripped off? I'm not going to blame this one on the aftermath of the economic downturn because let's face it that excuse has been worn ragged.

As far as flights to sunny destinations are concerned, this scenario is not entirely new. For the last couple of years, when flying to places like Crete, Greece. I have been paying for my baggage and did assume it was a weight issue. When you look at what other people at check-in are taking with them for two weeks in the sun, it's mind boggling and payment by weight then seems a fair solution. They're the ones who have arrived at the airport at six in the morning in 16 degrees celsius, already dressed for the beach. In flip-flops and beach attire they buzz around their candy coloured hard-shell cases; enjoyment is a prerequisite of the trip. Forgive my cynicism, but do you really need that many cases - it's only two weeks!

Charges are per kilo weight and you can choose your package! I'm not complaining (*sigh*) but the extras do mount up. This Summer, for our trip to Greece, I have chosen 20 kg per person, per bag. at a cost of 20,00 euros per person. Ok, that's an extra 40,00 euros and in the scheme of things doesn't break the bank. But wait . . . did I mention it's each way? That's a total of 80,00 euros!

When it comes to the validity of this baggage charge, on the outward journey they certainly take notice of the kilo allowances at check-in. On the way back, however, no one cares - it's far too hot and the Greeks don't seem to be bothered by the absurdities of kilo allowances, as they shovel tourists on and off planes. They probably wouldn't bat an eyelid, if along with the raki, honey, herbs, shot glasses, Metaxa, shells and jewellery . . . I had a donkey in my luggage!

And there's more . . .

Another newly implemented delight is that the pre flight seat reservation is also no longer free, unless it is 24 hours before the flight. To reserve an ordinary seat it will cost 7,50 euros per person, each way, unless of course you want to stretch your legs - in the special seats - over the plane's wing by the emergency exits. That will cost you 15.00 euros per person each way. Although I did buy into this option - because I want to travel with my son and not have to wave at him from the other end of the plane - I'm not keen on it because it as a potential to encourage the mob mentality of bagging seats.

At times like this, I wish I could sprout wings and avoid all this nonsense, or that teleportation had been perfected as the way to travel - as in Star Trek -  but until then . . .

I expect in the not too distant future, fuel and tickets prices will rise again and then they will have to dream up some other scheme - a charge for oxygen on the flight maybe:

'Do you want to breathe for the whole flight, madam. Or will a couple of hours be sufficient?'

'You're a blond? Oh dear, it's Thursday - I'm afraid only brunettes travel for free today.'

'If your child fits into this baggage frame, you'll be exempt from the new 'travelling children tax'.

As I post this, it's probably pouring with rain, in Holland. I've made it to the sun and I am lounging by the pool - in 32 degrees - sipping a cocktail. The pernickety baggage and seat issues are but a hazy memory . . .

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Morning Coffee

 

Early morning coffee on the terrace and it's already 26 degrees on Crete in Greece—Happy days!

 

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Midweek Eco chic

Absolutely love the way Ecochic has used reclaimed wood and up-cycled it to give it a new life as an easy chair and foot stool.
Source: One Green Planet

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Flowing Time

Embroidery has a long history dating back as far as 3000 BC and is considered one of the earliest forms of art. With the appearance of the needle and thread and handmade clothing, embroidery seems to have appeared all over the world concurrently.

Early apprenticeships often lasted 10 years, with as a result, culture and material dependent embroidery styles were passed down through the ages to the present day.

These vibrant pieces, were created by Peruvian embroiderer and artist Ana Teresa Barboza. Her threaded natural landscapes are alive, as they literally flow out of the confines of their frames and down the wall.

By portraying the natural world through a time consuming process like embroidery, Ana is highlighting the common connection between the two - time - needed to make something worthwhile, both in the natural world and art.

Artist's work and photos via Bored Panda

Sources: Embroidery

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Awesome Alien

Awesome Alien t-shirt design by Alison Day Designs

"From out of thin air - an alien - you feeling ok? And . . . why? . . . Have you seen any lately?" asks a cynical voice.

"Yup, fine thanks and no, I haven't sighted one, awesome or otherwise. The design was inspired by a children's story I've written and illustrated. Incidentally, it is not about aliens at all. The story in turn is based on a mural I painted many moons ago, for my son. I've been in the throes of publishing the story ever since."

"How long ago would that be?"

"For . . . um . . . dare I say it . . . [ whispering ] over 10 years," I reply.

"OMG 10 years! What have you been doing? Growing the trees and making the paper too?" says the taunting voice.

"No I haven't and don't be so facetious!" I snarl. "Life in general has been the cause of the numerous shelvings, as well as a minor hiccup - leading to a total rewrite."

"So, what now?" goads the voice.

"At the moment, the story is being edited by a fresh pair of eyes and then. . ."

"Yes? . . . And then, . . . then what?"

"Then, I am going to steam forward, into the unchartered (for me anyway) land of self-publishing and bring the bugger out, once and for all, as a fabulous children's story book!"

[ Cue syncronized glazed over looks from family members and friends ]

"Ha! Pigs might fly." laughs the voice.

"You think? Well, you just watch this space . . ."

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Banshee Moon

It's been a while since I took part in an illustration call-up for Amelia's Magazine.

So, ... feeling inspired, here's my illustration of: Tallulah Rendall. For the accompanying article written by Amelia Gregory, about Tallulah and her new album: The Banshee and the Moon >>> HERE

 

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On a Stick!

Here are a couple of photos I took of an Indian, street artist duo that I spotted on a Spring jaunt to Rome earlier this year together with my sister.

They had set up their act round the corner from the Pantheon. Both were meditating and amazingly whilst doing so, one was holding the other up in the air, ... on a stick! Needless to say they drew a lot of curiosity from passers-by.

So, what do you think and any ideas how they did it? ;)

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Strange is the Beast

Anyone else got the bad habit of watching TV and being online at the same time?

Guilty as charged. I do it all the time, my iPad sits pride of place, like a tame cat, on the arm of my red leather sofa. 

My excuse? Apart from the obvious addictive element, it has become an extension of my world. In an instant, I note down ideas, surf to interesting programme-related websites, interact on social media and monitor my emails. A multi-tasking delight, or is it?

Sometimes, however, I forget to close app windows when I am busy with something else, which shows me as online. On one such occasion, a contact from a well known social media site popped up professing to be bored. Always willing to help and have a chat - I engaged. Smart move or not, this interaction led to a conversation with a very strange mutation:

W: "Fecking bored."

A: "Really, why?"

W: "Should be working.'

W: "Can't inspire myself to."

A: "At this time - it's the witching hour?"

W: "Indeed."

A: "Why not do something totally the opposite - sometimes it helps."

W: "Like do something else beginning with w you mean?"

A: "Any letter will do. If you are writing, go count the stars for ten minutes, or something."

W: "I'd rather get naked."

A: "Well go do that then."

W: "Talking you through it?"

A: "?"

W: "The process from clothed to unclothed."

A: "Ha ha ha!"

W: "Glasses of."

W: "Off."

A: "Nothing like a bit of [edit] porn!"

W: "Socks off.

Belt off.

Jeans off.

Shirt off."

[ I suppose I could have anticipated that there would be no saving the conversation from here on. Surreal as it was - I decided to remain to see the outcome . . . ]

A: "Make a good blog post this."

W: "Pants off.

Birthday suit on . . .

it's the perfect fit.

What to do now?"

A: "Write."

W: "Not the other 'w' verb?"

A: "You're on your own there!"

W: "I'm sure you could lend a helping hand."

A: "I doubt it."

W: "Try."

A: "No-oooo!"

W: "Why not?"

A: "You need to ask?"

W: "Yep."

W: "You encouraged me to strip, so now I need some encouragement."

A: "No, I suggested you count the stars."

W: "Well go do that then."

W: "To quote."

A: "1, 2, 3 . . .

W: "What?"

A: . . . counting."

W: "You are?"

A: "4, 5, 6, 7 . . .

W: "Why not just get naked?"

A: . . . 8, 9, 10, 11, 12 . . .

W: "Right, night."

A: . . . 13, 14, 15, 16."

W: "Maybe you'll fall asleep like counting sheep."

A: "Night. Good luck with the inspiration. :) "

Of course my sister and I had a laugh at the absurdity of the exchange, when I recounted it to her the next day, in hushed tones over the phone from my kitchen. We even discussed the plausibility of this not being my contact at all, but an imposter from the Heartbleed virus clan, who had hacked into his profile.

It has become a blog post, as I said it would, because I wanted to highlight a few points that continue to niggle me. Using this interaction as an example, at what point do you draw the line and shout enough? Although I would class this discourse as mild in nature, I feel it does venture into the grey area, commonly referred to as the 'thin end of the wedge'. Some may accuse me of making a mountain out of a molehill, whereas I find it a classic case of the hazy definition that still exists when determining the boundaries of decency. Add this to the fact that society - in the 21 century - continues to sit on the fence, when it comes to objectifying women for pleasure and I think you get my point.

OK. I'm not that poe-faced that I can't take a joke - I did laugh - but in retrospect, why does it feel wrong on so many levels? Apart from my previous thoughts, is my reaction so because this social media contact is an acquaintance and one that I don't know awfully well? Was it made easier because we have never actually met? Did he for one minute consider that it might be inappropriate? How would I have felt if it had been a friend instead? And what's wrong with a normal conversation anyway?

The Internet has changed the way we interact with each other. In many ways it is amazing, giving us access to people, places and opportunities we might never have come across. On the flip side, however, the often faceless contact we have all come to readily accept comes with a price tag. We have unwittingly redefined our boundaries and privacy settings too. In many cases, we have forgone face-to-face contact, reading facial expressions and anticipating actions for shallow estimations of the other. In this way, it is possible to open up a right royal can of misinterpretations!

So, is a case like this acceptable or sexual harassment? I'm pretty sure it would never have happened in real time. What do you think, dear reader?

Final thought, it's never a bright idea to put things on the Internet that could come back to bite you in the derrière one day.

[ Exits *counting stars* : "1, 2, 3 . . . " ]

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The Look of Less

"I'd like my name taken off your mailing list - I didn't order the catalogue."

"Are you a client of ours?"

"No"

"What's the number above the name and address printed on the magazine?"

"There isn't one."

"Not a six cijfer one?"

"No"

I spell out my name and address and there is a concentrated silence as my details are entered.

"OK. I've put your details in the system for removal from our mailing list. It will take six weeks, so you may get one more before it stops completely."

I mentioned that it too would be filed in the re-cycling and how an unwanted catalogue is a waste of resources and environmentally unfriendly.

"So, how did you get my details in the first place?"

"Probably from one of our sister companies."

A snippet from this morning's conversation with a mail-order company, requesting they take my name off their mailing list. Not only had I not requested a copy of their catalogue, they had managed to produce 133 pages printed in full colour, of a really unappealing line of clothes and one I can only describe as: Oh Dear.

 

Even the models in the magazine found it hard to pull off the experience as a good one. The clothes were definitely not ones they would choose to wear in their free time and that could be seen by their forced smiles and on occasion, gritted teeth. The smile of one particular model, in a taupe pleated t-shirt - from a series of cream, turquoise, purple and screaming coral - looked like the Joker from Batman. Another in a 'flattering' paisley-look blouse had the subdued expression of someone obviously running through her 'to do' list of the day. Turn the page and an attractive twenty-something has been put in a characterless tartan on one page and an unfashionable crochet the other, thereby ageing her considerably. The list goes on: unstylish, bad design, technicolour sick pattern, cheap curtain material.

 

Who designs this stuff?

The thing that really gets my goat is not just the fact that my details are being bandied around, but the purchase of my address allows the darn catalogue to be posted through my letterbox. The fact that I have a sticker on it, especially for mail like this saying: 'no unsolicited mail,' then becomes worthless.

For the inconvenience there is no apology. I then have to waste my time and money to cancel what I didn't order in the first place. It's addition, means I have to add it to my already bulging bag of unwanted paper for re-cycle, which I find irritating too. The explanation that my details came to them from 'one of our sister companies,' is not only unacceptable, but I don't find very sisterly behaviour!

Of course I realise that these days business is done in any way possible, but sending me a catalogue that I am not going to look at and which is destined for immediate re-cycle, is not only a waste of resources it is environmentally unfriendly.

Then we have the fact that it takes six weeks to implement my wish, during which I may receive yet another undesired catalogue. It's mind boggling in an age of computers how backward some things remain. It's not rocket science to remove a name from a list! Are they are hoping that a second example may seduce me into making an order? Well, dream on!

Who's the company, I hear you ask? With a little edit on the possessive adjective to avoid liable, but without diminishing its amusement value, they're called: 'My Look for Less' - hmmm, I think that says it all.

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Roman Racer

Recently, whilst browsing the over-priced trinkets in the Ferrari shop in Rome, I came across this little red number!

Although I'm not a great fan of a 'sport' which I consider to be a waste of our diminishing planetary resources and an event which sounds little more than a swarm of angry bees... it was a rather splendid looking machine.

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The Story Behind 9 Women

   

A short film about my series of artworks: '9 Women' - As they hang now on my living room wall in the way I had envisioned.

Film is not my forte, but in this short representation you will hear the story behind them plus get an idea of how they look from closeup 

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