When I arrived back at the hostel, the breakfast crowd were playing monopoly and drinking beer. They called me over as I walked by. I am not even sure they knew my name; I believe someone called me “Canada”.
There was a young couple from Germany, his English was better than hers, she seemed to cling to him, he looked more like a protective big brother than a boyfriend. There was a guy from England, with the most charming accent and a face so gorgeous I had to make a conscious effort not to stare. He looked over at me, still completely aware of his game, oblivious to his own beauty “How was your day? Where did you go?”. As I explained to him about my bus tour and the new friends that I made, I was impressed with my composure and nonchalant demeanour. I soon realized that my story had the complete attention of another man; we’ll call him ‘D’. I turned to him and asked him about his travels, what local attractions he has seen, he mumbled, looked at the ground. He was very quiet; he wouldn’t look at me, he just looked at the ground, played with his hands. I could barely hear him as he muttered random and disorganized details of his travels thus far. He looked nervous, uncomfortable.
He didn’t have a beer like the rest of them; he wasn’t yelling and laughing like them. As I tried my best to listen and understand, I decided I would break the imminent awkwardness. I mentioned that I was planning on heading back to Dublin tomorrow, I laughed at myself for not even knowing how I was going, or what I would do when I got there. After a bit more tired chatter, we had decided that we would head to Dublin together tomorrow. He didn’t seem to have any more direction than I did, except he was taking a train to Dublin, I knew trains, I knew Dublin, and now it has been about 8 minutes of chatter that made no sense, and now he was coming back to Dublin with me. I thought about my decision to travel with this man that I don’t know. I could almost see my best friends expression back home, a look of deep concern with a ‘you know better than this’ sort of scrunch of the eyes.
But she wasn’t here, no one was, just me, my instincts, and my new friends in Ireland. There was nothing about any of this that scared me, somewhere along my travels, I had kicked fear in the head, watched it fall to the ground, squashed it mercilessly under my foot, gazed deeply into the very depths of it, and said “Me and you, we’re done, for good”. And we really were. I slept that night in my dirty cold, gum and graffiti filled bottom bunk, with total inner peace and confidence.
The next morning I tip toed to the unisex showers and peeked my head in, fully clothed. We’re clear. I scurried across the slippery tile floor and jumped into the nearest shower, excited to see a shower after days of hot buses, hostels and Guinness. I opened the shower door wearing a towel and snuggling my clothing, ready for the mad dash back to my shared dorm room.
The German guy from last night’s Monopoly game walked in and stopped and looked at me. He looked up and down, he looked concerned. “What happened to you, Canada?” he said, holding my gaze, waiting for my words, almost completely disregarding the fact that I was wearing only a towel. I was confused, what was he asking, I didn’t understand. He looked back down, specifically at my foot. I looked down to see a stream of blood dripping from my big toe. I was mortified, I had no answer, I wanted him to have an answer, I wanted to run away, and cry. I saw a bottle of bleach in the corner of the bathroom and had to restrain myself from cleaning, in a towel, with my male friend, still standing there staring, and all worried. I’ll clean later I thought. I mumbled and laughed, dismissed the whole thing and walked away, trying not to shake, trying not to lose my towel. I went back fully clothed and scrubbed and scrubbed, the bleach made me nauseous. Thankfully no one saw that part, since I still had no explanation ready. By the time I went down to breakfast, I was shaking, exhausted, and desperate for a really good distraction. D was there, on his laptop, with no breakfast. I was relieved to see him.
We sat there next to each other quiet, and looking at photography. It was calming, although I still wasn’t satisfied. I put my heavy head in my still shaky hands and said “I need a coffee”. D and I made plans to go and have breakfast together somewhere before our train. I couldn’t wait though, I went to the hostel kitchen to make myself a coffee, and my German friend from the bathroom was standing there, looking at me, with a hot and perfect cup of coffee. He handed it to me and said “Are you okay?” I didn’t answer; I just laughed nervously and took a sip of the coffee. “Thank you so much!” I forced cheerfully. He winked at me and we headed back to the dining room. D and I spent the next hour or so chatting with the others, and we booked a 5pm train. He was much chattier this morning; I practically had to drag him out there to get him to come to the Irish pub for breakfast with me. It wasn’t until I’d given him a bit of attitude, and complained about being hungry that I realized that this would be the last time he might ever see the friends he made here in Killarney. A wave of guilt fell over me, as they exchanged numbers and reminisced about their time together. I sunk into the couch, feeling selfish and pushy. Germany came over to me, looked at me and shook his head, smiling at me. I smiled back, wondering how he always catches me in the most pathetic discrepancies. “You’re going to have fun with this one, Canada, he’s a fiery one!” he shoved D a little and laughed. He then dropped a box of sugar coated donuts on the table in front of me. I devoured 1 and a half donuts right then, completely forgetting Germany’s comment. I waited patiently while D said all his goodbyes, I didn’t want to say goodbyes, I’m just not very good at them. As we we’re on our way out, I nodded at a few folks and said polite things. I went up to Germany and said “Take care of yourself and her”. We looked over at Germany’s girlfriend who was snuggling in the corner. He rolled his eyes and nudged me playfully.
D and I walked to the pub, quiet, perhaps a bit sad. That morning, we sat in an old Irish pub on our last day in Killarney and ate Irish breakfast, drank copious amounts of coffee, and chatted for hours. He talked about his love from 10 years ago, it was painful to watch him tell the story, he looked lost, and hurt, like it had all just happened. We talked about everything, from, where we’ve been, where we’re going, to music, influential leaders, and family, and the future. I did most of the talking, rambling about anything and everything. He hung onto every last word, like everything I was saying had significant importance. We ate sticky toffee pudding and listened to the rain hitting the windows. The hours went by like minutes.
When the sun came out that afternoon we walked through Killarney, carefree, making fun of each other, giddy and hyper from unnecessary amounts of coffee. “I want to show you something” he said mysteriously. As we walked, I saw nothing but old buildings, and an old gas station. “Wow, it’s just beautiful, I mean, this gas station with all its...” I trailed off rolling my eyes and walking ahead, and suddenly, like it came out of nowhere I was standing in front of a large beautiful cathedral. He came up behind me a whispered “Smartass” in my ear, and walked away. I ran excitedly behind him and yelled “It’s beautiful!!” We went inside the cathedral with its large stained glass windows, gargoyles, and old roman architecture. As we walked, we were stopped by a blind man, eyes wide open, and completely bloodshot. I jumped back at the sight of him, are his eyes bleeding? I shuddered as I stepped behind D and kept my head down. He shook a peice of paper at us that had a prayer on it. “Are you catholic?” asked. D said no and walked away. I stood there, just out of his reach. “Um, well yes, but...” I couldn’t stand to be there looking at him anymore. He had the biggest smile on his face, and was waving his hands around, like he was trying to position me, he wanted me to take his prayer. “Um, well yes, I am, but, I’m okay, but thank you” I stuttered so ridiculously that the blind man laughed and waved as I walked away, unable to take my eyes off him. “You are a lovely woman” he said, as he kind of...bowed at me or something. I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness as I meandered through the church. I found D again, who immediately saw in my eyes everything I was feeling. He started pointing out different things in the church, distracting me long enough until we left. As walked away from the church, he rubbed my arm and smiled kindly. Then asked we walked back to town he made ridiculous jokes until I had forgotten about the blind man, and was gaily meandering by his side throwing back the banter and calling him down.
The train ride to Dublin that evening was relaxing and easy. We chatted a bit more as we crossed through small towns and watched the sun go down over Ireland. We were tired and hungry. When we arrived in Dublin we walked on foot dragging our luggage and backpacks through the cobble streets. The night was warm, and alive with music and energy. I struggled with my luggage, and he watched me, slightly amused by my attempt to look okay with my over sized luggage dragging behind me. After a few jabs about this is why we don’t carry 12 pairs of shoes and shopping and backpacking don’t mix, I finally gave in and let him take my suitcase. I felt weak, but I didn’t care, I was tired, and I was hungry.
We arrived at the blooms hotel in Dublin which was every bit as fabulous as he had described earlier. He told me he was taking me to his favourite restaurant in Dublin. When I got to my room I threw down my suitcase, backpack, and large purse, and threw my exhausted body on to the large luxurious bed. I shuffled through my luggage looking for my black dress and stilettos that I hadn’t had a chance to wear yet. I excitedly stripped off my cut up cargo pants and hoodie, and put on my perfect black dress. I felt about 20 pounds lighter without all the layers and bags. As I walked into the lobby to meet D, he was waiting there, all in black, looking rather handsome. I walked up to him and said “Ready?” I giggled a bit as we left the hotel, I felt like a kid playing grown up. We sat in this beautiful little bistro that was completely empty. We ate delicious Irish food, drank wine, and chatted more, mostly about love and relationships this time. We talked about my boyfriend back home, and his ex. After dinner we headed out to a pub in Temple Bar, which is the heart of Dublin’s night life to enjoy some classic Irish music. I spent the night dancing and enjoying copious amounts of Guinness with the locals, while D decided this wasn’t really his scene and headed back to the hotel early.
The local Dubliners and I partied and drank for at least a few more hours. As I stumbled back to my hotel that night, I noticed I was being followed, as he walked closer to me, I saw it was a man I’d been dancing with for most of the night, he was falling all over the place, calling my name. I kept walking, hoping he was get distracted, but instead he sped up. I turned around and said “You’re drunk, go home”. He cornered me against a building, his alcohol filled breath on me, and said “Come with me, I think I love you”. He had me completely cornered “Let me go!” I trembled. “Get out of here man, leave the girl alone!” A voice came from the distance. I recognized him, he was another one of the locals who I’d spent the last few hours drinking with. “What we’re you thinking! It’s too dangerous around here, let’s go back”. He held onto my arm and walked back to the hotel. “Thank you, I appreciate your help” I said as we got to the hotel entrance. The clerk came towards the door to let me in. “Want some company gorgeous?” said the man that saved me, getting pushier and looking at me, his aura suddenly spewing with dis-honorable intentions. “No, please...” I trailed off. “Get going them, out of here!” the clerk yelled, as the man that saved me scurried off in fear. “You’re okay, come inside” said the clerk. “Thank you” I said, feeling defeated, not even having a chance to soak in what had just happened.
D was sitting there in the lobby, looking completely relieved, yet angry. I went and sat down next to him, feeling like a child that had snuck out at night. I felt immobilized; I wasn’t sure what to say. He looked at me with cold eyes and said “I’m glad you’re safe”, and walked away.
The next morning I went down to the lobby to meet D for breakfast. I could still feel the Guinness and music inside me as dragged my exhausted body to meet him. D was waiting for me, and looking the same as he did last night, sheer disappointment.
We sat down to breakfast that morning, he was silent, and he wouldn’t look me in the eyes. I wanted desperately for him to talk to me, or even get mad at me. I kept talking; I asked him to talk, and nothing. I asked him to talk again and again, and nothing. He poked at his eggs, head sunk, looking heavy, and sad. He’d look at me briefly, and look away again. The city that morning was empty, and quiet. Not like in Canada where endless amounts of yuppies line up at the trendiest breakfast joint in their Pj’s and outrageous stories from the night before. Dubliners don’t even do that until about 11-12 noon. IT was about 10am, and like the conversation at our table, the city was quiet, and empty.
I was out of ideas, he wasn’t going to talk. I suddenly understood why. I looked at him and said “I’m sorry”. And after a rather long pause he looked up at me, and said “Love is patient, and kind, always forgiving...” he struggled for his words and then shut down again shortly after, without finishing his sentence. I knew at that moment that it was time for me to go on, alone.
I still have the look in his eyes memorized as I said goodbye to him that morning. Vulnerable, lost and so sad.
Everyone comes into your life for a reason, and every circumstance has a purpose, perhaps our time together was short, but I learnt a lot in that few days, about myself, about the importance of friends, and the impact that one person can make.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Ireland Part 2: "Cauliflower!"
One day, I took the train to Killarney.
Killarney, from the Irish Cill Airne meaning "church of sloes", is a town in County Kerry, southwestern Ireland. They won best kept town in Ireland in 2007, and the people there really like Gaelic Football because Killarney in itself has 3 teams. The city is also known for its night life, The Ross Castle, and Car Rallying. The train is much cosier, faster, and leg-spacier than the bus. The folk on the train are much more...conservative than the bus folk. The train was full of older people; all dressed for success, on cell phones, laptops, reading TPS reports.
Up until now I had taken the bus. I felt a bit, out of place on this train. Not one backpack, no Germans, Portuguese, maps, tour guides, cameras, and certainly no canisters filled with 3 day old warm wine from the sale bin at TESCOS, I could just tell these canisters actually had coffee and diet coke in them. Lame. Despite my trains attempt to be ‘luxurious’, it was no match for the milk run route cramped and stinky bus. I felt like I had friends on the bus, and travelling alone, I found I was becoming quite savvy at finding people that may want to be my new friend. On the bus, I knew I was not the only one lost, drunk off Irish coffee at 11am, taking pictures of (yet more) sheep and hills, and having no idea what the next few days, weeks would bring me. We were all the same on the bus. I missed my backpack wearing, dirty and tired fellow travellers.
I arrived in Killarney and headed to the nearest B&B I could find. When I got there the pleasant Irish man showed me around his lovely home, looked at me and said “You’ll be happy here, you have the house all to yourself!” All I could hear was “You’re all alone..You’re all alone”. I panicked, I needed to not be alone, I don’t know where I am, I do not need privacy, I need to avoid all that finding inner peace and solitude malarkey right now, today I needed friends, tomorrow, I will continue my journey to self freedom or discovery or whatever. It occurred to me at that very moment that it was time to step outside of my safety bubble and (gulp) that’s right, find a hostel. I toggled down the wet cobble streets, anxiety, fear and insecurities in tow. I kept telling myself “You are not alone, you are okay, nothing will happen to you”.
I arrived at the rugged and tired looking Railway Hostel. There was no bell hop boy, no security, no lounge, no menu selection and highlighting of this evening’s entertainment outside. None of it, just a small building that looked like it was actually a railway station a long time ago, yet I was in no mood for a history lesson at the current moment, not that there were any brochures or an information desk around in the case that I had been in the mood. I was greeted by a very friendly lady who didn’t seem even the slightest bit annoyed by my 34 questions about hostel living, a few of them being “Do I get to pick weather I get top or bottom bunk, because I think if I were on the bottom I might forget and hit my head and well, you see, I have this hike thing tomorrow.” followed by “Where is my shower? And my sheets HAVE been washed right, even the top one like the comforter or do you just do the sheets, because it’s not that cold out really so I’m fine to go without the top one if that’s the case.” And it went on until the hostel clerk calmed my anxiety and I was gaily meandering through the dormitories looking for the ROBIN ROOM.
I was already patting myself on the back for so bravely conquering into such unknown and mysterious territory. It was everything I had imagined a university res site to be, not that I ever experienced that, but this is what it would have looked like, except without the cultural diversity of course. Large groups of youngsters ran around yelling in excitement, free spirited, like they had known each other, and this place for years. I found the robin room and got settled into my room that I was sharing with 2 others, and found that they had taken up all 3 beds. So much for my clean sheets. I shuttered looking at all 3 messy beds as I remembered the front desk lady saying “You’ll be staying with a lovely couple in your room!” A lovely and vibrant couple indeed I thought as I picked at the sheets of the least mangled bed, which happened to be the bottom bunk. I am totally going to smash my head in, then maybe I’ll get sars or something. My proud of myself for being adventurous energy quickly fizzled as I remembered that cozy little B&B. I’m going for a beer.
That night after 2 or perhaps a few more than that beers, I left the bar still feeling the music moving through my rather drunk and wobbly self. As I was promenading through the old tiny streets, it occurred to me I had no idea where I was. Not even a clue. I was in such a hurry to leave that hostel, and had spent the past few hours in a pub listening to fantastic music and chatting with a man from Hollywood, who disappeared after I barley dodged a few of his attempts to kiss me. So I did what any savvy young woman travelling alone would do, flagged down the very next car and asked them to please take me back to where I came from and perhaps help me figure out where I came from. The Asian couple told me to get in and started driving. The girl asked about my dog. The starving and homely looking mutt was curled up on my lap. I am not sure why I have a dog, and I need to go back to the train station hostel, you know, the one in Killarney? In Ireland?
I got back to my hostel safely and tried to offer my dog to the couple to express my gratitude, and to avoid the next issue that I would face when they (to my surprise) declined taking my dog, in exchange for a ride home. I picked up the desperate looking little guy, and carried him under my jacket until we reached the hostel. “I’ll take care of you” I whispered in his ear. As I crept into the hostel at 3am, I was bluntly greeted with a much larger much less friendly hostel front desk man who demanded I leave the dog outside. “He has nowhere to go, can’t I just take him for the night!?” I begged like a desperate child. “If you want to stay, the dog has to go” he confirmed sharply and with no compassion. He looked at my dog like he was a rat or something. I put the dog outside the door where he sat in the rain crying loudly and jumping up against the door.
I sulked all the way to the ROBIN ROOM where I woke up 2 bunk mates in a messy attempt to get ready for bed. My heart sunk that night as I realized that I made two friends that night, one that didn’t want to be my friend anymore because I wouldn’t kiss him, and the second friend I abandoned in the rain with no one to take care of him. Go to sleep, tomorrow will be better. I snuggled the germ filled blankets as fell asleep by repeating in my head “You are not alone, you are not alone”. And I wasn’t alone, I don’t know why or how, but I still went to sleep that night knowing that somehow someone was watching out for me, and that I was going to be just fine.
I dragged myself down to the kitchen the early the next morning, motivated with hopes of a better day. I chatted with some really nice people at the breakfast table who suggested a Ring of Kerry bus tour for the day. I figured considering my compromised state of health I should let the bus take me today and attempt a hike another day.
I ran excitedly out to the bus with my big coffee, big umbrella and waterproof camera. I sat next to a girl from Quebec who would be my companion for the rest of the day. We had Irish coffee, took copious amounts of photos, and talked about everything from the lives we left behind, fashion, our travels, to why is there so many Portuguese here Ireland, to to the differences in our languages and it went on and on and on. Once we got onto the topic of how Ireland seems to have a serious lack of veggies, then started to list the veggies that we miss eating. Like broccoli, asparagus, cauliflower. After I explained to her what cauliflower was, she looked at me and said “”Cauliflower! Cauliflower….it is the most beautiful word I have ever heard”.
For the rest of the 8 hour bus ride we chatted, hopped off, ate, drank, learnt, soaked in the sights, met a few people, met a few sheep, went back in time with our tour bus driver, and learnt to words to Flogging Molly
(Ah, you're drunk, you're drunk you silly old fool, still you cannot see, That's a lovely sow that me mother sent to me, Well, it's many a day I've travelled a hundred miles or more, But a saddle on a sow sure I never saw before!) and every now and then there would be a bout of silence where she would just say to herself slowly “Cauliflower, it is so beautiful of a word!”.
That night after seeing the best scenery Ireland has to offer, my new friend from Quebec and I chatted more and more and more over a nothing Irish about it Italian dinner. That night after I said goodbye to Quebec, I decided to take a break from the chasing of experience and enlightenment, and went to see the latest Katheryn Hagel flick, and it was just the regular and non Irish themed night that I needed to prepare me for the coming days, that I could never have anticipated, and would never forget.
To be continued…..
Killarney, from the Irish Cill Airne meaning "church of sloes", is a town in County Kerry, southwestern Ireland. They won best kept town in Ireland in 2007, and the people there really like Gaelic Football because Killarney in itself has 3 teams. The city is also known for its night life, The Ross Castle, and Car Rallying. The train is much cosier, faster, and leg-spacier than the bus. The folk on the train are much more...conservative than the bus folk. The train was full of older people; all dressed for success, on cell phones, laptops, reading TPS reports.
Up until now I had taken the bus. I felt a bit, out of place on this train. Not one backpack, no Germans, Portuguese, maps, tour guides, cameras, and certainly no canisters filled with 3 day old warm wine from the sale bin at TESCOS, I could just tell these canisters actually had coffee and diet coke in them. Lame. Despite my trains attempt to be ‘luxurious’, it was no match for the milk run route cramped and stinky bus. I felt like I had friends on the bus, and travelling alone, I found I was becoming quite savvy at finding people that may want to be my new friend. On the bus, I knew I was not the only one lost, drunk off Irish coffee at 11am, taking pictures of (yet more) sheep and hills, and having no idea what the next few days, weeks would bring me. We were all the same on the bus. I missed my backpack wearing, dirty and tired fellow travellers.
I arrived in Killarney and headed to the nearest B&B I could find. When I got there the pleasant Irish man showed me around his lovely home, looked at me and said “You’ll be happy here, you have the house all to yourself!” All I could hear was “You’re all alone..You’re all alone”. I panicked, I needed to not be alone, I don’t know where I am, I do not need privacy, I need to avoid all that finding inner peace and solitude malarkey right now, today I needed friends, tomorrow, I will continue my journey to self freedom or discovery or whatever. It occurred to me at that very moment that it was time to step outside of my safety bubble and (gulp) that’s right, find a hostel. I toggled down the wet cobble streets, anxiety, fear and insecurities in tow. I kept telling myself “You are not alone, you are okay, nothing will happen to you”.
I arrived at the rugged and tired looking Railway Hostel. There was no bell hop boy, no security, no lounge, no menu selection and highlighting of this evening’s entertainment outside. None of it, just a small building that looked like it was actually a railway station a long time ago, yet I was in no mood for a history lesson at the current moment, not that there were any brochures or an information desk around in the case that I had been in the mood. I was greeted by a very friendly lady who didn’t seem even the slightest bit annoyed by my 34 questions about hostel living, a few of them being “Do I get to pick weather I get top or bottom bunk, because I think if I were on the bottom I might forget and hit my head and well, you see, I have this hike thing tomorrow.” followed by “Where is my shower? And my sheets HAVE been washed right, even the top one like the comforter or do you just do the sheets, because it’s not that cold out really so I’m fine to go without the top one if that’s the case.” And it went on until the hostel clerk calmed my anxiety and I was gaily meandering through the dormitories looking for the ROBIN ROOM.
I was already patting myself on the back for so bravely conquering into such unknown and mysterious territory. It was everything I had imagined a university res site to be, not that I ever experienced that, but this is what it would have looked like, except without the cultural diversity of course. Large groups of youngsters ran around yelling in excitement, free spirited, like they had known each other, and this place for years. I found the robin room and got settled into my room that I was sharing with 2 others, and found that they had taken up all 3 beds. So much for my clean sheets. I shuttered looking at all 3 messy beds as I remembered the front desk lady saying “You’ll be staying with a lovely couple in your room!” A lovely and vibrant couple indeed I thought as I picked at the sheets of the least mangled bed, which happened to be the bottom bunk. I am totally going to smash my head in, then maybe I’ll get sars or something. My proud of myself for being adventurous energy quickly fizzled as I remembered that cozy little B&B. I’m going for a beer.
That night after 2 or perhaps a few more than that beers, I left the bar still feeling the music moving through my rather drunk and wobbly self. As I was promenading through the old tiny streets, it occurred to me I had no idea where I was. Not even a clue. I was in such a hurry to leave that hostel, and had spent the past few hours in a pub listening to fantastic music and chatting with a man from Hollywood, who disappeared after I barley dodged a few of his attempts to kiss me. So I did what any savvy young woman travelling alone would do, flagged down the very next car and asked them to please take me back to where I came from and perhaps help me figure out where I came from. The Asian couple told me to get in and started driving. The girl asked about my dog. The starving and homely looking mutt was curled up on my lap. I am not sure why I have a dog, and I need to go back to the train station hostel, you know, the one in Killarney? In Ireland?
I got back to my hostel safely and tried to offer my dog to the couple to express my gratitude, and to avoid the next issue that I would face when they (to my surprise) declined taking my dog, in exchange for a ride home. I picked up the desperate looking little guy, and carried him under my jacket until we reached the hostel. “I’ll take care of you” I whispered in his ear. As I crept into the hostel at 3am, I was bluntly greeted with a much larger much less friendly hostel front desk man who demanded I leave the dog outside. “He has nowhere to go, can’t I just take him for the night!?” I begged like a desperate child. “If you want to stay, the dog has to go” he confirmed sharply and with no compassion. He looked at my dog like he was a rat or something. I put the dog outside the door where he sat in the rain crying loudly and jumping up against the door.
I sulked all the way to the ROBIN ROOM where I woke up 2 bunk mates in a messy attempt to get ready for bed. My heart sunk that night as I realized that I made two friends that night, one that didn’t want to be my friend anymore because I wouldn’t kiss him, and the second friend I abandoned in the rain with no one to take care of him. Go to sleep, tomorrow will be better. I snuggled the germ filled blankets as fell asleep by repeating in my head “You are not alone, you are not alone”. And I wasn’t alone, I don’t know why or how, but I still went to sleep that night knowing that somehow someone was watching out for me, and that I was going to be just fine.
I dragged myself down to the kitchen the early the next morning, motivated with hopes of a better day. I chatted with some really nice people at the breakfast table who suggested a Ring of Kerry bus tour for the day. I figured considering my compromised state of health I should let the bus take me today and attempt a hike another day.
I ran excitedly out to the bus with my big coffee, big umbrella and waterproof camera. I sat next to a girl from Quebec who would be my companion for the rest of the day. We had Irish coffee, took copious amounts of photos, and talked about everything from the lives we left behind, fashion, our travels, to why is there so many Portuguese here Ireland, to to the differences in our languages and it went on and on and on. Once we got onto the topic of how Ireland seems to have a serious lack of veggies, then started to list the veggies that we miss eating. Like broccoli, asparagus, cauliflower. After I explained to her what cauliflower was, she looked at me and said “”Cauliflower! Cauliflower….it is the most beautiful word I have ever heard”.
For the rest of the 8 hour bus ride we chatted, hopped off, ate, drank, learnt, soaked in the sights, met a few people, met a few sheep, went back in time with our tour bus driver, and learnt to words to Flogging Molly
(Ah, you're drunk, you're drunk you silly old fool, still you cannot see, That's a lovely sow that me mother sent to me, Well, it's many a day I've travelled a hundred miles or more, But a saddle on a sow sure I never saw before!) and every now and then there would be a bout of silence where she would just say to herself slowly “Cauliflower, it is so beautiful of a word!”.
That night after seeing the best scenery Ireland has to offer, my new friend from Quebec and I chatted more and more and more over a nothing Irish about it Italian dinner. That night after I said goodbye to Quebec, I decided to take a break from the chasing of experience and enlightenment, and went to see the latest Katheryn Hagel flick, and it was just the regular and non Irish themed night that I needed to prepare me for the coming days, that I could never have anticipated, and would never forget.
To be continued…..
Monday, September 21, 2009
Ireland, part 1
Tonight is my last night in Ireland.
I am sitting at the bar in a quiet lounge at my hotel in Dublin nursing my last Guinness of the trip, and reading the last of “Eat Pray Love”. No Irish music tonight, I have an early flight, and tonight is all about solitude, goodbyes, and acceptance. I am also eating a large piece of chocolate cake, something about the baked goods over here, I can’t put my finger on it, but for the first time in about 8 years, I have gained weight. Baked goods, too much Guinness, long lazy meandering day’s weight. I was proud of myself.
As I took the last bite of cake and sunk bag into the lounge chair snuggling the beer and the book, it really sunk in just then, that this is the first time I have really stopped in 2 weeks. I’m feeling a bit of everything, sadness, joy, gratitude, solitude, fear, frustration, hesitation, perseverance, hope, eager filled yearning and awe inspired longing that is brought about by the very thought of the whole experience, inside and out, that has been my few weeks in Ireland. I’m feeling everything EXCEPT that pure concentrated inner peace I’m been rapidly chasing in a very non-peaceful fashion. Only I could travel for 48 hours for the most serene and lovely place I can possibly think of, and turn it into a hot and intense chase of everything fabulous I can possibly think of and cram it into my not-even-close-to-sufficient allowance of freedom for 2 weeks for the year. Only me. (At this time, 12:30pm, 6 hours before my flight, I go back to the bar for another Guinness, which ended up on the visa. What an almost perfect time to run out of money?)
I am greeted with my annoying sidekick A.D.D as I try to sort though the past few weeks and write something of an organized demeanour. My attempt to try and filter through the chaos of my travels feels comparable to gathering my tax documents last spring.
My mind veers swiftly yet forcefully to the planning and ‘to-do’ list that was my life a few weeks ago. Taxes, weddings, contracts, bills, events, technology...”I’m not ready!” I internally scream trying to push it all away.
I shudder as I become consumed once again with my bossy control freak of a mind. I looked around at a few happy Irish men that are practically glowing with inner peace. Show-off’s.
My heart falls and I can feel the flute infused music and green rolling hills trailing off into the past while the order and march of lists slowly seep their way back into my existence like heaving and longing clouds desperate to unload.
I was impressed however, with my ability to completely forget about absolutely everything for that long. And while I was spending a selfish and fabulous few weeks gaily frolicking through the 1600’s, life went on, the world did not sink, or explode or float away, or turn into dust. Does this mean that perhaps, just maybe all this pressure we put on ourselves is not needed? That’s madness...
Well, that’s madness in my existence back home, not around here though. The Irish don’t stress or worry, they sleep in, they drink, they eat, and they surround themselves with beauty, music, and friends. I met many Irish people. I met one man on a street in Galway. I had left Dublin earlier that morning with no plan (As I previously planned, to have no plan). I had said goodbye to my friend, and I was for the very first time alone, free, and just going, anywhere. I arrived in Galway which is on the west coast of Ireland, and is known for its night life, music, youth, shopping, and energy. The city takes its name from the Gaillimh river that formed the western boundary of the earliest settlement, which was called Dún Bhun na Gaillimhe (meaning "fort at the foot of the Gaillimh")
It was pouring rain and I was just at that very moment realizing that my new shoes are not Cobble Street friendly even a little bit. I’m going to break an ankle, I’m wet, and I’m lost. I’m really very very lost. And I packed enough clothes for about 3 months. And I am currently carrying it all with me, with the heels, and an umbrella that is now upside down and inside out and pulling me violently in the other direction, which ever direction that was. My survival defences kicked in and I told myself I can cry later, right now, I need to get somewhere. I am not even sure where I'm going, this could, perhaps have been planned a bit better, but that as well went on the list of things I will allow myself to review later when I am not in this desperate looking conundrum. I approached a scruffy yet youthful man sitting on the steps with a newspaper and cigarette, looking almost more comfortable in the rain than I do on a warm sunny day. (I can already tell, this lucky SOB has all that inner-peace too, they all have it). His face was worn, yet beautiful, and soft.
He looked up at me while I fought with the umbrella, luggage and ridiculously trying to get a map ready for him to look at, and pointed at the tourist friendly “B&B” sign. He didn’t look at the map, he just looked at me, he really looked, from my weather inappropriate shoes, to my mascara ridden and tired pathetic looking face. He did it very slowly, completely smouldering me with his obvious and perfect free spirited laid back aura. I want that.
Another thing to do later (Buy boots, new umbrella, plan my next destination, and find inner peace, check.) The man smiled at me with ease, looking rather amused. “You doin’ alright there, love?” he said in the most comforting and lovely Irish voice. I wanted him to keep talking, I wanted him to call me love again, he made me warm. I smiled back and said “Yes, well, um, I just need to, I need to get here? Do you know the place?” I couldn’t sound like he did; it came out all awkward and touristy, and stupid. I am in an old Irish town, no, not even, a hamlet, of course he knows where it is. He laughed at me “I’m vaguely familiar with the place” he said, squinting his eyes in a playful way and beckoning me to a cab. Of course he’s a cab driver.
I hopped excitedly over the other side of the car. He waved the keys at me and said “Are you going to drive me, then?” Right, driver’s seat, it’s backwards here. I considered coming back with something witty but I was well aware that I was a mess, and this was not going to be a charming and witty conversation. I just looked down and laughed at myself as he carried my luggage to the trunk.
I sank into the seat of the car while he gave me a bit of history on the town, and mentioned a few spots that I should go to tonight. I was barley listening, after a 4 hour train ride, 2 hours of wandering , being drenched, lost, embarrassed, hungry, cold, and not even remembering the last time I had a latté, I was just so happy to be here with this happy and warm Irish man. I felt safe, and finally excited to have reached my next destination. No matter how bad the weather is in Ireland, the people can always warm you with their charm, wit, and plenty of Inner peace to go around.
To be continued.....
I am sitting at the bar in a quiet lounge at my hotel in Dublin nursing my last Guinness of the trip, and reading the last of “Eat Pray Love”. No Irish music tonight, I have an early flight, and tonight is all about solitude, goodbyes, and acceptance. I am also eating a large piece of chocolate cake, something about the baked goods over here, I can’t put my finger on it, but for the first time in about 8 years, I have gained weight. Baked goods, too much Guinness, long lazy meandering day’s weight. I was proud of myself.
As I took the last bite of cake and sunk bag into the lounge chair snuggling the beer and the book, it really sunk in just then, that this is the first time I have really stopped in 2 weeks. I’m feeling a bit of everything, sadness, joy, gratitude, solitude, fear, frustration, hesitation, perseverance, hope, eager filled yearning and awe inspired longing that is brought about by the very thought of the whole experience, inside and out, that has been my few weeks in Ireland. I’m feeling everything EXCEPT that pure concentrated inner peace I’m been rapidly chasing in a very non-peaceful fashion. Only I could travel for 48 hours for the most serene and lovely place I can possibly think of, and turn it into a hot and intense chase of everything fabulous I can possibly think of and cram it into my not-even-close-to-sufficient allowance of freedom for 2 weeks for the year. Only me. (At this time, 12:30pm, 6 hours before my flight, I go back to the bar for another Guinness, which ended up on the visa. What an almost perfect time to run out of money?)
I am greeted with my annoying sidekick A.D.D as I try to sort though the past few weeks and write something of an organized demeanour. My attempt to try and filter through the chaos of my travels feels comparable to gathering my tax documents last spring.
My mind veers swiftly yet forcefully to the planning and ‘to-do’ list that was my life a few weeks ago. Taxes, weddings, contracts, bills, events, technology...”I’m not ready!” I internally scream trying to push it all away.
I shudder as I become consumed once again with my bossy control freak of a mind. I looked around at a few happy Irish men that are practically glowing with inner peace. Show-off’s.
My heart falls and I can feel the flute infused music and green rolling hills trailing off into the past while the order and march of lists slowly seep their way back into my existence like heaving and longing clouds desperate to unload.
I was impressed however, with my ability to completely forget about absolutely everything for that long. And while I was spending a selfish and fabulous few weeks gaily frolicking through the 1600’s, life went on, the world did not sink, or explode or float away, or turn into dust. Does this mean that perhaps, just maybe all this pressure we put on ourselves is not needed? That’s madness...
Well, that’s madness in my existence back home, not around here though. The Irish don’t stress or worry, they sleep in, they drink, they eat, and they surround themselves with beauty, music, and friends. I met many Irish people. I met one man on a street in Galway. I had left Dublin earlier that morning with no plan (As I previously planned, to have no plan). I had said goodbye to my friend, and I was for the very first time alone, free, and just going, anywhere. I arrived in Galway which is on the west coast of Ireland, and is known for its night life, music, youth, shopping, and energy. The city takes its name from the Gaillimh river that formed the western boundary of the earliest settlement, which was called Dún Bhun na Gaillimhe (meaning "fort at the foot of the Gaillimh")
It was pouring rain and I was just at that very moment realizing that my new shoes are not Cobble Street friendly even a little bit. I’m going to break an ankle, I’m wet, and I’m lost. I’m really very very lost. And I packed enough clothes for about 3 months. And I am currently carrying it all with me, with the heels, and an umbrella that is now upside down and inside out and pulling me violently in the other direction, which ever direction that was. My survival defences kicked in and I told myself I can cry later, right now, I need to get somewhere. I am not even sure where I'm going, this could, perhaps have been planned a bit better, but that as well went on the list of things I will allow myself to review later when I am not in this desperate looking conundrum. I approached a scruffy yet youthful man sitting on the steps with a newspaper and cigarette, looking almost more comfortable in the rain than I do on a warm sunny day. (I can already tell, this lucky SOB has all that inner-peace too, they all have it). His face was worn, yet beautiful, and soft.
He looked up at me while I fought with the umbrella, luggage and ridiculously trying to get a map ready for him to look at, and pointed at the tourist friendly “B&B” sign. He didn’t look at the map, he just looked at me, he really looked, from my weather inappropriate shoes, to my mascara ridden and tired pathetic looking face. He did it very slowly, completely smouldering me with his obvious and perfect free spirited laid back aura. I want that.
Another thing to do later (Buy boots, new umbrella, plan my next destination, and find inner peace, check.) The man smiled at me with ease, looking rather amused. “You doin’ alright there, love?” he said in the most comforting and lovely Irish voice. I wanted him to keep talking, I wanted him to call me love again, he made me warm. I smiled back and said “Yes, well, um, I just need to, I need to get here? Do you know the place?” I couldn’t sound like he did; it came out all awkward and touristy, and stupid. I am in an old Irish town, no, not even, a hamlet, of course he knows where it is. He laughed at me “I’m vaguely familiar with the place” he said, squinting his eyes in a playful way and beckoning me to a cab. Of course he’s a cab driver.
I hopped excitedly over the other side of the car. He waved the keys at me and said “Are you going to drive me, then?” Right, driver’s seat, it’s backwards here. I considered coming back with something witty but I was well aware that I was a mess, and this was not going to be a charming and witty conversation. I just looked down and laughed at myself as he carried my luggage to the trunk.
I sank into the seat of the car while he gave me a bit of history on the town, and mentioned a few spots that I should go to tonight. I was barley listening, after a 4 hour train ride, 2 hours of wandering , being drenched, lost, embarrassed, hungry, cold, and not even remembering the last time I had a latté, I was just so happy to be here with this happy and warm Irish man. I felt safe, and finally excited to have reached my next destination. No matter how bad the weather is in Ireland, the people can always warm you with their charm, wit, and plenty of Inner peace to go around.
To be continued.....
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Dear little one
That last night, the chilling rain peirced our skin like blades, you ran to me and threw your tiny and shaky arms around me. I squeezed you with love and held on to you with fear as I wiped the tiny tears off your face. I wanted to tell you it would all be okay, but instead, silence fell over us like the lingering and numbing fog that surrounded us. There were no words. We were hollow and frozen, but at least right then, we had eachother. For that one minute that you were in my arms, I felt like I could take you away, rescue you from it all. I wanted more than anything to take all the pain and suffering out of you. I remember being you, constantly vulnerable, and far too wise to the world to actually believe that being rescued was a possibility. Know that you are not alone my dear, I am beside you all the time. Make sure to always rely on all that strength you have inside, don't be scared. Trust your instinct and always believe in yourself. Find beauty wherever you can, create your own peace of mind, and no matter what, never never never give up.
You will find happiness love...
You will find happiness love...
Friday, July 31, 2009
Today, I got the good coffee.
Today was payday so I was getting some groceries after work. Blissful in my newly-paid state, I gaily meandered up and down the aisles just like a really happy grocery shopper. I really do enjoy it. All the selection, the safe way club points, the idea of being able to put things I want into my basket and take it home with me and devour it all to myself at anytime I want, it’s just all a very happy experience for me. Sometimes I get adventurous; sometimes I like to take risks.
As I thought about the crazy week I had coming up, I found myself being dragged to the coffee aisle by some sort of unstoppable force meant to keep my sanity in check. Must stock up on coffee, my conscious told me.
Smelling the fresh grounds only heightened the whole experience. I stood there deeply observing all the different kinds of coffee...flavoured, instant, Nabob, Folgers. It was like I was actually contemplating which kind I wanted, wait for it, wait for it; there it is...the no name kind!
My heart sank a little as I reached for the stodgy and budget friendly coffee.
As I stood there holding the no name brand coffee, I was approached by a cart that stood so awkwardly in front of me that I had no choice but to almost skip out of the way. That’s one demanding cart I thought. But we are in the coffee aisle, so perhaps they are just tired, a bit cranky. I can most certainly relate to this, so, I smiled politely at the man pushing the cart as he scurried by like an important man on a mission.
I looked over to see what the hell was so important. A mother and a young 20’s something daughter were picking left and right off the shelves so freely, and tossing them into the cart. The dad followed the mom and daughter as if groceries would get thrown at his head or something if the cart was not readily available. The cart was full. Full of really good stuff. The activia yogurt. Lots of Vitamin water and red bull. Why the fuck does the girl need red bull, she’s got her parents helping her grocery shop!
The mom was saying things like “Get whatever you need sweetheart” and “Are you sure that’s all you want honey?”. She was so loving and sweet. The daughter was tossing all the great stuff into her surely paid for cart of groceries, and the father and mother followed her and supported her with tons of love and attention.
I felt tears coming up from the very core of my stomach. I was so angry, so jealous. I looked down at my no name brand coffee, and half full basket of discount and no-name brand only groceries.
I choked back the tears, and through deep breathing I somehow managed to divert myself from a very public and ridiculous meltdown.
I put the no name coffee in my basket, and continued past the 3 of them, chin held high, no tears, proudly carrying my much smaller selection of groceries.
As I walked through the pasta section, I thought about how Miss.Charmed would never have to worry about discount groceries, no name coffee.
She’s never had to choose between groceries and gas.
She’s never had to make up stories to the person at the bank.
She’s never had that gut wrenching worry and uncertainty so many of us live with everyday.
How am I going to get by, what it will be like tomorrow, next month, next year, how am I going to make it and how the fuck am I supposed to live off my faith and who are the crack pots that told me that it would be enough, that it would be all I need!?
And is there no one out there that can tell me it’s all going to be okay without all that fear and pity in their eyes!?
Perhaps she will never have to ask herself these questions. But she will also never appreciate the things I do. She will never ever understand how wonderful the good coffee can be, because she’s never had to buy the bad coffee.
I was instantly calmed and aware as I realized that perhaps in some strange way everything happens for a reason, and its all a blessing in disguise, because I know that every little moment in life is something to be so thankful for.
I walked out of the grocery store, smiling and so grateful.
Today, I got the good coffee.
As I thought about the crazy week I had coming up, I found myself being dragged to the coffee aisle by some sort of unstoppable force meant to keep my sanity in check. Must stock up on coffee, my conscious told me.
Smelling the fresh grounds only heightened the whole experience. I stood there deeply observing all the different kinds of coffee...flavoured, instant, Nabob, Folgers. It was like I was actually contemplating which kind I wanted, wait for it, wait for it; there it is...the no name kind!
My heart sank a little as I reached for the stodgy and budget friendly coffee.
As I stood there holding the no name brand coffee, I was approached by a cart that stood so awkwardly in front of me that I had no choice but to almost skip out of the way. That’s one demanding cart I thought. But we are in the coffee aisle, so perhaps they are just tired, a bit cranky. I can most certainly relate to this, so, I smiled politely at the man pushing the cart as he scurried by like an important man on a mission.
I looked over to see what the hell was so important. A mother and a young 20’s something daughter were picking left and right off the shelves so freely, and tossing them into the cart. The dad followed the mom and daughter as if groceries would get thrown at his head or something if the cart was not readily available. The cart was full. Full of really good stuff. The activia yogurt. Lots of Vitamin water and red bull. Why the fuck does the girl need red bull, she’s got her parents helping her grocery shop!
The mom was saying things like “Get whatever you need sweetheart” and “Are you sure that’s all you want honey?”. She was so loving and sweet. The daughter was tossing all the great stuff into her surely paid for cart of groceries, and the father and mother followed her and supported her with tons of love and attention.
I felt tears coming up from the very core of my stomach. I was so angry, so jealous. I looked down at my no name brand coffee, and half full basket of discount and no-name brand only groceries.
I choked back the tears, and through deep breathing I somehow managed to divert myself from a very public and ridiculous meltdown.
I put the no name coffee in my basket, and continued past the 3 of them, chin held high, no tears, proudly carrying my much smaller selection of groceries.
As I walked through the pasta section, I thought about how Miss.Charmed would never have to worry about discount groceries, no name coffee.
She’s never had to choose between groceries and gas.
She’s never had to make up stories to the person at the bank.
She’s never had that gut wrenching worry and uncertainty so many of us live with everyday.
How am I going to get by, what it will be like tomorrow, next month, next year, how am I going to make it and how the fuck am I supposed to live off my faith and who are the crack pots that told me that it would be enough, that it would be all I need!?
And is there no one out there that can tell me it’s all going to be okay without all that fear and pity in their eyes!?
Perhaps she will never have to ask herself these questions. But she will also never appreciate the things I do. She will never ever understand how wonderful the good coffee can be, because she’s never had to buy the bad coffee.
I was instantly calmed and aware as I realized that perhaps in some strange way everything happens for a reason, and its all a blessing in disguise, because I know that every little moment in life is something to be so thankful for.
I walked out of the grocery store, smiling and so grateful.
Today, I got the good coffee.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
A late night dose of desultory
There is a certain lifestyle, and atmosphere that is perceived in our society of wedding planners, and the 'oh so glamorous' life that comes with this very sexy, very trendy career. They strut their stuff around on reality TV, controlling, ‘coordinating’ everything including an over bearing bitch of a bride that reacts just as intensely to the slightly off-hue of the lilac sashes as one might react to the Iranian pilgrims being killed in Iraq.
This wedding planner, apparently, has super human powers. And the poor bride, apparently has developed a mental disorder that will soon lead to a WW3 style melt down. In turn, it leaves oh so loyal bridesmaids smiling politely through their thoughts of, “How did this crack-pot land a husband and I can’t go on a date that doesn’t result in me running the other way wondering why the hell I started dating again in the first place’. That alongside the wedding planner cursing the effin bimbo that somehow used her wedding planner super powers to mind-fuck you into actually believing that this job was, glamorous.
Its 10:30 at night, and for a wedding planner, this is a really good time to really dig into the nitty gritty of her O.C.D. And for myself, fundraiser by day, and wedding planner by night, 1:30am would also be a great time to work on the wedding business. I’m exhausted. I’ve had meetings every night this week, and my days are a by-product of the production schedule of my life. It’s a detailed timeline of tasks and to-do’s where fun is scheduled, and seemingly ridiculous tasks that one would normally sub consciously do..they go in there as well. My excel template actually remembers the phrases “6PM meeting in Kensington”, and “Meet with caterers”...because it’s a staple in my production schedule of life.
My excel spreadsheet is bored of the timeline that is my life.
That’s really fantastic.
What keeps me going then? What is the motivation and drive behind this deceiving, lonely and mis-understood career choice? Perhaps the freedom of choosing your own hours? Well, these days, the production schedule chooses my hours, so really you can conclude that your clients choose your hours. Another woman’s need to schedule a wine tasting on a Friday night, determines, or solidifies my lack of a social life. Or what is it?
I should really tell you the answer to this on the day of my next wedding, during the dance, when I’ve sat down for the first time in 14 hours, and seen clearly for the first time in real life, the product of the late nights, the biting your tongue, the polite and smiley banter, the justifying everything, the twittering late at night, just because you know other wedding planners are up that late, looking for someone who understands. It’s lonely, and I’m just tired.
But really, I know it’s worth it, I might not understand why or how most days, but that nagging voice, and a very inspiring blog of a miss Melanie Jones, keeps reminding me, that you just don’t give up, you just don’t ever stop when you really want something.
Following your dreams would not have the same impact if it we’re easy. There’s something to be said about having to fight really really hard for something, and having to really visualize what life will be like when you’ve finally ‘made it’. Whatever ‘making it’ is. The Secret would kick my ass right now, for not truly understanding that I have already made it. Life’s a journey, and part of following your dreams is understanding that everything you have right now, is something to be grateful for.
This blog started out as a rant about how Reality TV has completely shattered any real meaning behind the wedding, with a valentines-day-esque attachment to publicity and marketing gimmicks.
Now I’m apparently ending with a bit of The Secret Inspiration. Everything you see in your life you created with your thoughts. What did Ghandi say...be the change you want to see in the world...
Yep, quoting Ghandi..if that doesn’t scream bed-time I don’t know what does.
Apologies for the random a.d.d and tired plutherer of material above.
L
This wedding planner, apparently, has super human powers. And the poor bride, apparently has developed a mental disorder that will soon lead to a WW3 style melt down. In turn, it leaves oh so loyal bridesmaids smiling politely through their thoughts of, “How did this crack-pot land a husband and I can’t go on a date that doesn’t result in me running the other way wondering why the hell I started dating again in the first place’. That alongside the wedding planner cursing the effin bimbo that somehow used her wedding planner super powers to mind-fuck you into actually believing that this job was, glamorous.
Its 10:30 at night, and for a wedding planner, this is a really good time to really dig into the nitty gritty of her O.C.D. And for myself, fundraiser by day, and wedding planner by night, 1:30am would also be a great time to work on the wedding business. I’m exhausted. I’ve had meetings every night this week, and my days are a by-product of the production schedule of my life. It’s a detailed timeline of tasks and to-do’s where fun is scheduled, and seemingly ridiculous tasks that one would normally sub consciously do..they go in there as well. My excel template actually remembers the phrases “6PM meeting in Kensington”, and “Meet with caterers”...because it’s a staple in my production schedule of life.
My excel spreadsheet is bored of the timeline that is my life.
That’s really fantastic.
What keeps me going then? What is the motivation and drive behind this deceiving, lonely and mis-understood career choice? Perhaps the freedom of choosing your own hours? Well, these days, the production schedule chooses my hours, so really you can conclude that your clients choose your hours. Another woman’s need to schedule a wine tasting on a Friday night, determines, or solidifies my lack of a social life. Or what is it?
I should really tell you the answer to this on the day of my next wedding, during the dance, when I’ve sat down for the first time in 14 hours, and seen clearly for the first time in real life, the product of the late nights, the biting your tongue, the polite and smiley banter, the justifying everything, the twittering late at night, just because you know other wedding planners are up that late, looking for someone who understands. It’s lonely, and I’m just tired.
But really, I know it’s worth it, I might not understand why or how most days, but that nagging voice, and a very inspiring blog of a miss Melanie Jones, keeps reminding me, that you just don’t give up, you just don’t ever stop when you really want something.
Following your dreams would not have the same impact if it we’re easy. There’s something to be said about having to fight really really hard for something, and having to really visualize what life will be like when you’ve finally ‘made it’. Whatever ‘making it’ is. The Secret would kick my ass right now, for not truly understanding that I have already made it. Life’s a journey, and part of following your dreams is understanding that everything you have right now, is something to be grateful for.
This blog started out as a rant about how Reality TV has completely shattered any real meaning behind the wedding, with a valentines-day-esque attachment to publicity and marketing gimmicks.
Now I’m apparently ending with a bit of The Secret Inspiration. Everything you see in your life you created with your thoughts. What did Ghandi say...be the change you want to see in the world...
Yep, quoting Ghandi..if that doesn’t scream bed-time I don’t know what does.
Apologies for the random a.d.d and tired plutherer of material above.
L
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The Wedding Rehearsal
I arrived at dearest brides wedding rehearsal at her parents house in Mission.
The house was gorgeous, with a cozy british cottage feel to it, except about 8 times larger than any cottage. I was greeted at the door by bride’s mother; she did not smile, but instead gave me the one over behind her Vera Wang spectacles. This didn’t bother me; I expected it actually, as the bride’s parents are always very curious and sceptical of the wedding planner. This is due to the sort of relationship we have, that relationship being you, mother, pay for the wedding, and I, wedding planner, will make it all happen.
I graciously introduced myself, and immediately proceeded to look around the house like a girls who’s got business to do, as I took of my sunglasses, threw them in my purse, and assessed the situation like I was friggin Nancy Drew or something.
She stepped to the side, and asked if she could get me something to drink. I politely asked for a Perrier, and continued to make my way past the caterer to the back yard. Now now, don’t judge me here, you see, I am this woman they talk about every Sunday over brunch, the woman they entrust the biggest day of her little darlings life with. I got the initial MOB (Mother of the bride) one over, and I had to look every bit as confident and self assured as they needed me to be.
What was really happening here, is I was putting her mind at ease, and helping her justify the breath taking, even for folks like this, wedding bill. The back yard looked exactly like this wedding I was drooling over last weekend in the summer edition of Grace Ormonde. The perfectly manicured lawns, tulips, lilac trees, a tree house for the kids, and a dinner setting so stunning that I almost forgot where I was. This was only the rehearsal and in 2 days I, myself, alone, am going to be creating the actual wedding that was supposed to put this little backyard ‘practice’ party to shame. A few family members stood around in designer sweater vests, sipping wine, seemingly so accustomed to such an event. I kept a relaxed ‘this is just what I do’ stature as I was introduced to the father of the bride, (insert same one over as the MOB), the mother of the groom, a tiny and just as intimidated looking Asian woman that put my nerves at ease. She was lovely; I made a mental note to make time to chat with her. I chatted with the parents while we waited for the bridal party to arrive.
Naturally, we chatted about their second condo in Bankview, and their recent travels though Paris, Greece, Italy and London. I studied their faces in an attempt to match their nonchalant composure about the whole topic. I copied her one eyebrow raise as she went on to discuss the journeys of her outstandingly successful children. I mentioned London, and how I grew up there. She lit up and told me that her eldest was a professor at the University of Oxford. In a moments time I shut out the real story about growing up in the slums and escaping my alcoholic mother, and continued to discuss my ritzy and every so privileged upbringing in upscale London. I shook off memories of sifting though discount bins at the scruf market, as I proceeded to discuss the quality of education in London.
As the bridal party entered, a wave of relief fell over me, I have never been so happy to see dearest bride, and as she strutted in followed by her loyal band of attendants, I smiled my first real smile of the evening. The parents observed their precious admiringly, the photographer scattering to capture her entrance, and her husband to be looking at the ground behind her, completely acknowledging, that this is indeed, all about her.
She passed her parents, her photographer, and about 40 other people that I was still in the process of trying to remember..she was saying things like ‘excuse me’, and ‘thank you, just a moment’. Everyone stared at her waiting for her words, for something. She marched right up to me, despite my attempt to hide in the background, and she said “There’s one person I have to say thank you to right now” and she gave me the biggest, most endearing hug. She turned around to face her fans, who were all now clapping, shooting pictures of us, her father skipping towards us with 2 glasses of wine.
After endless nights of sifting through samples, negotiating with vendors, ordering flowers, food, discussing music, and about 64 meetings, most of which I arrived frazzled, late, and surprisingly dis-organized for a wedding planner..I felt relief, I felt appreciated. And while I looked at dearest bride and the glow on her face as she praised my work, I remembered at that moment for the first time in months, why I do what I do.
When it came time to start the rehearsal, I looked around at the scattered bunch, all immersed in conversation, and really enjoying generous helpings of wine. Dearest bride came up to me with a nudge and wink, suggesting I get things started before the generous helpings continue. I remembered when I was apprenticing with another wedding planner, the one lesson she has about rehearsals. “Louise, you’re too quiet, speak up!”.
I managed to round up a pretend processional line up, after about 15 minutes of running after kids, dogs, and a very excited and energetic bridal party. All the while, might I add, while the groom stood at the pretend alter, and the bride and her father waiting to walk down the pretend aisle. The bride and groom where sharing nervous smiles and giggles from opposite ends of the mayhem that was the rehearsal I was attempting to manage. Amongst the madness that I was barley ‘coordinating’, dearest bride looked at me and smiled confidently, which told me “I know you can do this”. I smiled my second real smile of the evening.
After rounding the crazy bunch up like a sheep dog, I managed to coordinate a successful practice wedding ceremony. This was followed by an amazing catered dinner that left us all silent and so so happy. I sat there chatting and laughing with the bridesmaids, the parents, and playing with the kids. I laughed at myself for being so intimidated a few hours ago, and took a moment to be truly thankful to be here, to work with these wonderful people.
I walked out of there smiling, and remembering my years of dreaming of this moment, the relief that comes with saying “I’m a wedding planner; I made my dreams come true. I did it”.
Tomorrow is the wedding and it will be every bit as outstanding and elegant as she had always dreamed it would be.
The house was gorgeous, with a cozy british cottage feel to it, except about 8 times larger than any cottage. I was greeted at the door by bride’s mother; she did not smile, but instead gave me the one over behind her Vera Wang spectacles. This didn’t bother me; I expected it actually, as the bride’s parents are always very curious and sceptical of the wedding planner. This is due to the sort of relationship we have, that relationship being you, mother, pay for the wedding, and I, wedding planner, will make it all happen.
I graciously introduced myself, and immediately proceeded to look around the house like a girls who’s got business to do, as I took of my sunglasses, threw them in my purse, and assessed the situation like I was friggin Nancy Drew or something.
She stepped to the side, and asked if she could get me something to drink. I politely asked for a Perrier, and continued to make my way past the caterer to the back yard. Now now, don’t judge me here, you see, I am this woman they talk about every Sunday over brunch, the woman they entrust the biggest day of her little darlings life with. I got the initial MOB (Mother of the bride) one over, and I had to look every bit as confident and self assured as they needed me to be.
What was really happening here, is I was putting her mind at ease, and helping her justify the breath taking, even for folks like this, wedding bill. The back yard looked exactly like this wedding I was drooling over last weekend in the summer edition of Grace Ormonde. The perfectly manicured lawns, tulips, lilac trees, a tree house for the kids, and a dinner setting so stunning that I almost forgot where I was. This was only the rehearsal and in 2 days I, myself, alone, am going to be creating the actual wedding that was supposed to put this little backyard ‘practice’ party to shame. A few family members stood around in designer sweater vests, sipping wine, seemingly so accustomed to such an event. I kept a relaxed ‘this is just what I do’ stature as I was introduced to the father of the bride, (insert same one over as the MOB), the mother of the groom, a tiny and just as intimidated looking Asian woman that put my nerves at ease. She was lovely; I made a mental note to make time to chat with her. I chatted with the parents while we waited for the bridal party to arrive.
Naturally, we chatted about their second condo in Bankview, and their recent travels though Paris, Greece, Italy and London. I studied their faces in an attempt to match their nonchalant composure about the whole topic. I copied her one eyebrow raise as she went on to discuss the journeys of her outstandingly successful children. I mentioned London, and how I grew up there. She lit up and told me that her eldest was a professor at the University of Oxford. In a moments time I shut out the real story about growing up in the slums and escaping my alcoholic mother, and continued to discuss my ritzy and every so privileged upbringing in upscale London. I shook off memories of sifting though discount bins at the scruf market, as I proceeded to discuss the quality of education in London.
As the bridal party entered, a wave of relief fell over me, I have never been so happy to see dearest bride, and as she strutted in followed by her loyal band of attendants, I smiled my first real smile of the evening. The parents observed their precious admiringly, the photographer scattering to capture her entrance, and her husband to be looking at the ground behind her, completely acknowledging, that this is indeed, all about her.
She passed her parents, her photographer, and about 40 other people that I was still in the process of trying to remember..she was saying things like ‘excuse me’, and ‘thank you, just a moment’. Everyone stared at her waiting for her words, for something. She marched right up to me, despite my attempt to hide in the background, and she said “There’s one person I have to say thank you to right now” and she gave me the biggest, most endearing hug. She turned around to face her fans, who were all now clapping, shooting pictures of us, her father skipping towards us with 2 glasses of wine.
After endless nights of sifting through samples, negotiating with vendors, ordering flowers, food, discussing music, and about 64 meetings, most of which I arrived frazzled, late, and surprisingly dis-organized for a wedding planner..I felt relief, I felt appreciated. And while I looked at dearest bride and the glow on her face as she praised my work, I remembered at that moment for the first time in months, why I do what I do.
When it came time to start the rehearsal, I looked around at the scattered bunch, all immersed in conversation, and really enjoying generous helpings of wine. Dearest bride came up to me with a nudge and wink, suggesting I get things started before the generous helpings continue. I remembered when I was apprenticing with another wedding planner, the one lesson she has about rehearsals. “Louise, you’re too quiet, speak up!”.
I managed to round up a pretend processional line up, after about 15 minutes of running after kids, dogs, and a very excited and energetic bridal party. All the while, might I add, while the groom stood at the pretend alter, and the bride and her father waiting to walk down the pretend aisle. The bride and groom where sharing nervous smiles and giggles from opposite ends of the mayhem that was the rehearsal I was attempting to manage. Amongst the madness that I was barley ‘coordinating’, dearest bride looked at me and smiled confidently, which told me “I know you can do this”. I smiled my second real smile of the evening.
After rounding the crazy bunch up like a sheep dog, I managed to coordinate a successful practice wedding ceremony. This was followed by an amazing catered dinner that left us all silent and so so happy. I sat there chatting and laughing with the bridesmaids, the parents, and playing with the kids. I laughed at myself for being so intimidated a few hours ago, and took a moment to be truly thankful to be here, to work with these wonderful people.
I walked out of there smiling, and remembering my years of dreaming of this moment, the relief that comes with saying “I’m a wedding planner; I made my dreams come true. I did it”.
Tomorrow is the wedding and it will be every bit as outstanding and elegant as she had always dreamed it would be.
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