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Divine White's Introduction to Hollywood. Would you trust her?


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Now I do hope this gets me off the hook for not writing anything for such a long time.

Twenty-Ten

I really don't know how it got here. I didn't think I'd live to see 20. Mostly because it seemed like it was a very long way away. Now I'm more than 20 by quite a bit. And the date looks weird and no-one knows how to say it.

So where were we?

Oh yes. The wonderfully weird world of living in foreign countries and trying to get used to it. Hard to do. America doesn't have very much custard.

But right now I'm back in England and trying to pronounce words like 'tomato' and 'route' without feeling that it all sounds wrong now. And it's freezing. Never seen snow like it.

But with a new year comes resolutions. Mine are as follows:

1) Get fit. You are creaking as much as your grandmother.

2) Write this thing.

3) Become fabulously successful.

Number 2 appears to be the easiest one to achieve for now so here I am. As for the other two, I'm waiting for my neck to work properly and praying that my plane will take off relatively as scheduled next week, so I can continue to live it up in LA.

***

They always say the first year is the hardest. I can almost hear "The Only Way Is Up" by Yazz as I nod my head in eager agreement. Yes it was tough. Brilliant. Traumatic. Thrilling. Sometimes all at once. And then, quite unexpectedly, I felt peaceful and happy. My Saturn Return seems to be working out nicely. I like the climate. And you can smell opportunity in the air as you would a curry in Southall.

I haven't been blogging. It's been a year of transition for one thing, so my energy has been directed elsewhere. But this isn't a diary where I can or will spill out just any old thoughts and feelings. When I started blogging there was a lot of that and it was frequently theraputic. But frankly, there are situations and people involved in my life now that simply cannot be broadcast. So it won't be. I don't know entirely what that means for this blog, but I hope to write up some of my amusing encounters and experiences as a Brit in California. I have a back log in that respect.

It's almost a year since I jumped in a car with a friend and drove to Washington DC for Obama's Inauguration. What a journey that was. And since then I've continued to be blind sized by alien scenery, overwhelming kindnesses, and an almost unrecognisable language that I'm told bares fleeting resemblance to my own.

I have also continued to be shamelessly English. Whilst here in the mother country, I have mostly been spending time with friends and family, but I've also made time for some lovely traditions such as Panto. Popped down to Cardiff in the snow to enjoy John Barrowman's Robin Hood. Great fun, though the theatre was a little empty due to cancelled school trips. We just shouted and laughed as loudly as we could and I moved to the front row. Bit of fun, dance and dazzle. Almost balanced out the angst of last year's Torchwood.

I shall be taking back some English things with me to keep sane, but I'm otherwise adapting. I don't do that very quickly so it's nice that it's finally happening. And now, everything is in place. I have a life there. And I'm loving it.

So that's my brief catch up for the start of 2010. There is a danger that this is all you'll get because life can be oh so busy, but that will have to do. I occasionally update Twitter when I remember Twitter. Plus I'd rather have something vaguely interesting to say (that can also be published online and isn't compromising for me, or friends, or any institutions I may or may not be attached to).

But Happy New Year nonetheless.

The Science Fiction Fan and Torchwood: COE.

This entry contains spoilers for the third season of Torchwood. If you've somehow missed them already, keep it that way, and do not scroll down.



The way I see it, Firefly only got one season. Torchwood's had three. It's been a blast. If this is the end, then I can say I enjoyed it hugely. If there's a fourth season, I will tune in. Because the people behind this show have been wonderful. It's sad to think of our Torchwood going forever (even a fourth season would mean a different show really) but fuck me if that wasn't some of the finest drama the UK ever kicked out.

But I maintain my stance that the alien is just too snotty. Surely extra-terrestrial life would be more chilling if it wasn't made from guacamole. But hey, my stuff.

At least Ianto got a beautiful send off. He was never a blip in time. And GDL had a wonderful scene to play. That poor boy must be so relieved to finally be able to talk about it now. All of them really.

As for hatred directed at our writers, they are all story-tellers. Please don't hate them for engaging your hearts. However. I fully appreciate the anger from devoted fans at the distinct change in style/genre and that we were arguably mislead by the promotional material.

So what happened? Was it purely a ratings fest? Was it emotional exploitation?

Torchwood derived from a Sci Fi show, and while the writers conveniently refused to pigeon hole the show's genre, it is inescapably Sci Fi as we know it. Because of the aliens. Gwen said herself, 'science fiction super-base'.

But then they insisted that Torchwood is in the real world and terrible things could happen, as they did to Owen and Tosh, though not before 2 seasons of whacky anything-can-happen including Owen getting to 'die forever', characters coming out of film, space whales, gas sex aliens, time travel, and blow fish driving sports cars. There was humour. There were hints of Buffy. There were slithers of Star Trek. There were ripples of Doctor Who and shadows of The X Files. I would say Spooks but Spooks didn't drive around in a giant flashy A-Team mobile with bright yellow writing saying 'SPIES', and that was part of Torchwood's charm. And then there were conventions for fans and action figures. Science Fiction much.

But not in season three. That was not the Torchwood we fell in love with. Children of Earth became Spooks meets The West Wing with an Alien and a sure path to prozac.

Whilst I think that it was excellent drama and deserves every award going in every category, and while I'll continue to support the writers and the actors, I cannot get over the fact that Torchwood seemed to switch genre for its third season. I'm all for the post-modern approach of taking elements from many genres, but The West Wing didn't have sci fi conventions or action figures. Why? Because it was 'real'. I mean, it was total glossy fiction, but it was a political drama. And at times, very depressing. The West Wing, while I know many of us have appreciated it, was not for the Sci Fi fan.

Why? I had the same discussion in my 'Psychoanalysis and The Moving Image' class with my professor at university several years ago, when I was studying film in London.

Escapism.

Here's what I think/feel. I read a comment from a woman on James Moran's blog this morning saying she could accept the death of Ianto because it was 'real'. I for one have lived and loved and lost enough to know what 'real' feels like. It's brutal. And I'm living in luxury compared to most of the world. An indian friend of mine said that Slumdog Millionnaire wasn't popular in India because the Indian people don't want to be reminded of the world they live in. They prefer Bollywood musicals. And I am of the opinion, having been in love with Harry Potter, Buffy, Star Trek and Doctor Who that I also want that escapism. I don't live in slums, but I haven't lived in paradise, and what Sci Fi shows have taught us over the years is to conceive of and strive for a better world. Who the Hell wants 'real'?

I'm not suggesting we all watch Baywatch, either.

A great deal of the world is genuinely in Hell already. CoE was right about many things (distressing as it was to hear). A child dies every 3 seconds. We do nothing. Look at the Niger Delta. Look at Iran. Horror and injustice are everywhere. CoE ended with members of the government doing the brave thing which I thought was uplifting. But that was ANOTHER show. It shouldn't have been Torchwood. Torchwood was fun.

We have half the world (or more) living in horror and the other half watching it for entertainment. Yes it was thought provoking and I can't fault that. I do what I can in real life, I really do. But as a Sci Fi fan, I don't want to be devastated so casually. And I don't want to see terrible things happen to characters I love. You want to destroy people and things? Blow up Eastenders and Walford. They're all miserable cowards anyway. But don't touch our heroes.

If or rather when a fourth series comes about, of course I'll watch it because the curiosity will be too much. It won't be Torchwood as we've known it. But it should be John Barrowman. However, if it continues in a torturous, suffering vain, I won't stay with it, because I can't watch. I don't read or watch horror. I had to give up on Spooks. Even The West Wing began to sting too much after the fourth season.

It's not that I want to ignore the terrible aspects of the world we live in and bury my head in the sand - quite the opposite. I need to be strong and couragious and have hope in my heart - to survive. I'm all to aware that there is senseless death every moment. But ultimately I can't watch human suffering. On Star Trek or Buffy we have metaphorical scenarios which present an opportunity to engage emotionally - the feelings are real but the situation is separate from you, like a fairy tale. You're safe. But that doesn't seem to be Torchwood's mission statement.

The recent season finales of Doctor Who and Torchwood have been 'let's torture the leading man as much as possible'. I'm looking forward to Stephen 'everybody lives' Moffat! If this makes me a lightweight, I fully embrace it.

I was thinking about Buffy and how season 5 ended, yet they came back. But there was a whole gang AND a location. We have no hub, no Cardiff, no SUV, no Ianto and can we ever expect any humour again? Why would anyone want to watch our beloved Jack suffer so much?

Maybe this is an interesting lesson in audience expectations. Two seasons of quirky fantasy/Sci Fi fun and then they go 'real' on us. I was looking at the promotional material too. It doesn't exactly smack of realist drama, does it? Those pictures are as cheesy and stylised as they can get (with glorified guns thrown in which is interesting for a show born out of Doctor Who) And all the Jack and Ianto pics... it does feel like a tease. To get ratings?

I'm disappointed and I feel quite bereft - not just for Ianto but for everything this show was and/or could have been. Yes it was excellent, excellent drama taking huge risks and examining humanity at its darkest.

But it's as if J K Rowling took Harry, Hermione and Ron, flew them to Ghana where Ron and Hermione were killed, before bombing Hogwarts and wiping out the Wizard race and Harry has to sacrifice Ginny to make Voldemort leave to save the muggles. In book 6. And then announcing that she's going to wait to see how the book sells before writing book 7.

I hope Comic Con will be warm and receptive and not Comic Confrontation. Without the comic. I maintain I do not advocate abuse or unkindess to anyone in the creative team. I have seen drafted complaint letters floating around which are fairly eloquent, but still quite childish in their approach. If you want to say you're disappointed, say it, but don't stamp your feet. Be eloquent, intelligent and as unemotional as you can be. That will be more effective. Try to specify the reasons you feel let down, but if it's because Ianto died they may consider that as a triumph because it provoked an emotional reaction from you, so be as 'professional' in your approach as you can.

Perhaps RTD is such a genius that there is in fact a simple remedy and season four can be everything we wanted, and we just can't envisage it through our teary eyes. Unlikely I know. But hey. I have to be hopeful. I am a Sci Fi fan. I run on hope. Not horror. I just hope it doesn't mean I'll no longer be able to enjoy a show I really, really loved.

Extended and Intended

My cousin gave birth to twin boys yesterday. Eight weeks earlier than planned. They weigh 3lbs and 2lbs and are in intensive care, but they are perfectly formed and expected to survive. The little one didn't appear to be getting food (the bigger one may have been sitting on the food tube), but he's 'feisty' according to my grandmother. So they're following the family spirit of survival.

Techically I now have two more second cousins to add to the nine already taking over the planet, the eldest of which is already on Facebook. Weird. So from my two grandparents, there are eight children (spanning ages 43-66), twenty grandchildren (spanning ages 14-39) and, so far, eleven great grandchildren (spanning one day old to 11).

Bloody hell. We are a plague.

To top it all off, my sister is getting her fourth dog in two week's time. Monty, the Malamute:



This is on top of Ruby the Alaskan Malamute, Harvey the Hungarian (I want to say Horntail, thanks JK) Wirehaired Vizsla and Bazil the Border Terrier:



*Marlon Brando voice* Welcome to the family.

Yes. I am homesick.

MC Hitler in da House

The BNP requires that all members must be members of the "Indigenous Caucasian" racial group. The party does not regard non-white people as being ethnically British, even if they have been born in the UK and are naturalised British citizens. Instead, Griffin has stated that "non-Europeans who stay", while protected by British law, "will be regarded as permanent guests".

We bang on about Islam. Why? Because to the ordinary public out there it's the thing they can understand. It's the thing the newspaper editors sell newspapers with. If we were to attack some other ethnic group — some people say we should attack the Jews … But … we've got to get to power. And if that was an issue we chose to bang on about when the press don't talk about it … the public would just think we were barking mad. They'd just think oh, you're attacking Jews just because you want to attack Jews. You're attacking this group of powerful Zionists just because you want to take poor Manny Cohen the tailor and shove him in a gas chamber. That's what the public would think. It wouldn't get us anywhere other than stepping backwards. It would lock us in a little box; the public would think "extremist crank lunatics, nothing to do with me." And we wouldn't get power.
- Nick Griffin, Leader of the British National Party, March 2006. He just got a seat in European Parliament.

Nice one, Europe. Now the Nazis are back in. Great going. That'll really help rebuild the economy (they're ever so efficient). And once they start killing people, it will slow down climate change because there will be fewer people to tread their carbon footprints across this beautiful and bountiful aryan empire.

It's a great day for white supremicists and Holocaust deniers everywhere. And those opposed to interracial relationships.

And if you're booked on a flight anytime soon, there's no need to worry. No muslims will be allowed to fly so you can rest easy.

And we can look forward to the 'moral turpitude and disease' brought about by homosexuality which is of course 'unnatural' being squashed once and for all.

Excuse me for a moment. I need to throw up before watching Battle of Britain footage and taking notes.

Woe, woe for England.

The Present Day

There is nothing worse than a blank page staring at you, mocking you, daring you to have something remotely original or interesting to say. I have neither, I promise you. I guarantee nothing original or interesting. All I have is my story. Which may only appeal to one person. And that's possibly my stalker. But it's my story and I'm going to tell it. So feel free to dip in and out.

I started this blog in March 2007 because I was travelling and teaching in Spain before throwing myself fully into acting. It kept me relatively sane and amused quite a few people. I then took a break from it whilst life sort of did its cute little thing of happening and believe me when I say those are stories no-one wants to hear. At least not without the security of knowing that those stories are now retro-anecdotes with a rosey comic and/or ironic tint as delivered by the now safe and sound author.

What I'm trying to say is shit happened, and I'm now in a position to make it funny. Ish. But I'm not going to try and cover everything in one fell swoop. I'm just going to gently bring you up to date.

Back in 2007, I walked across Spain - El Camino de Santiago. Quite the adventure. Also went to Las Vegas in August to meet and interview Kristine M Smith about Deforest Kelley for the 40th anniversary of Star Trek. That was fun. Quite the geekorama but I spent most of my time in the $18m pool enjoying the desert heat. I then returned to England to tie up various things with a view to taking my chances in the US (Los Angeles).

I had plane ticket to explore the New World properly but that's when things imploded. My dad was killed by the French (walked into a van in Paris driven by a Congolese gentleman because he looked the wrong way... so there's a chance I'm being liberal with that synopsis), flat sale fell through because the pussy buying it broke his arm on contract day, and I had to find a job (a proper one).

Then I took a dramatic fall (or rather a very stupid and undramatic fall off the tiniest step in the whole world) and couldn't walk properly for several months at which point we're in 2008, finally selling the flat and then one day I woke up and realised I was free. And my foot was working. That brings us nicely to September 2008. (There was a psycho boyfriend, an inquest report and a scary roommate during that time but I'm saving it for my sitcom).

Then following various acting jobs there was an audition in LA. Then I got signed by a nice man. He's an agent and everything. Which helps. I went back to the UK, filmed one or two things in London and Cardiff for the BBC which was fun and then I moved to LA in December. And here I am.

There are certain procedures when entering a country like America which I'm still under-going. Visa stuff. So I have spent most of the last 6 months meeting people and exploring. And going a bit cuckoo.

My insanity was temporarily lifted/further fuelled by attending the Gallifrey One (Doctor who) Convention in LA. I met several writers and several luverly people and enjoyed being pursued by a Dalek. And hiding in the TARDIS.



It's always inspiring to hear these people (writers, producers, actors) talk. I mean, once you're over the profound and all-consuming jealousy. But really. It was fun. Like the Star Trek convention I spent most of the time chatting to people and being slightly disconcerted by the amount of people in costume, but there was no pool this time. Totally hit it off with Colin Baker who was distressed at having to actually audition for things again. Actors have it so rough. There are only a few acting jobs in London, and I think John Barrowman's got all of them.


Another LA Story


Suicide Rock, Hiking in Idyllwild.

So. Quick LA recap: Four days after I arrived, a man living in the building opposite me fell off his 5th floor balcony whilst in a crack-induced stupor. Completely naked. At 10.30am on a Sunday. I mean, it's not like there's ever a good time for that sort of thing but I'm quite sure that 10.30am on a Sunday is not the most appropriate time to fall naked and cracked-out from a balcony. We thought we heard a gun shot. But it was him landing. I went into 'save a life mode' (little bit of fall-out from the perpetual bereavement) and ran like the wind. Suffice to say I could never be a paramedic. If I ever get alzeimers I'm hoping that this image is the first to go.

He died within the hour. I did try to save him but the only reason he didn't die instantly was because the cocaine stopped his brain from realising he'd fallen to his death. That was horrific. He was 30 years old and this was 3 days before Christmas. Plus I kept thinking about the people who'd rushed to my dad when he had his accident and what they must have seen. Horrible. I decided at that point that I would not live in Hollywood.

I made the mistake of relating this event to my brother over the phone. I was upset. I was not thinking. Of course my brother reacted the way any older brother would. Kind of a 'get the f**k out of there' reaction. But I firmly believe that cracked-up naked men falling to their death from balconies is an omni-geographical issue. But nevertheless, I moved away from Hollywood and stayed with a man I'd just met at a party who lived in Venice Beach. I did not tell my brother about that.

The man turned out to be very, very cool and is one of my closest friends here. We shared a spirit of adventure. You know, the "HEY wanna drive from LA to Washington DC to see Obama's inauguration and then drive back and see loads of stuff?" kind of spirit of adventure.

Consequently, we drove through 15 States and back to see America's first black president inaugurated. I took in the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis which taught me about a lot of things I hadn't fully appreciated whilst snuggled in my idealistic view on the world. I walked around the museum in tears. I've stubbornly insisted that it's no big deal that Obama's black because it doesn't matter. I now understand that I've been very lucky to have the kind of life where it hasn't mattered. I get it now.

It was a monumental day, but honestly my residing memory is being sure that my toes were going to snap off in the freezing cold. I have never been so cold in my entire life. It hurt like hell. I had to take pain killers. 7 hours in a field. The grand children better bloody well appreciate that one.



I saw Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Arkansas, Tennessee, Virginia (total blizzard), froze to death in DC but was revived by how incredibly beautiful it is. Then travelled through Ohio and Indiana to Illinois where we stopped to stay with friends and enjoy Chicago. In January. Chicago. In January. Seriously. Why do people live there?? I was traumatised getting from the car to the house. The snow looked gorgeous, though. And Lake Michigan I just wanted to skate across.

We returned through Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Utah and back into Arizona again. I saw the Rockies. I saw Monument Valley. I had the best damn coffee ever in a Mexican bar in Arizona. Saw the Grand Canyon. Again. (Saw it the year before when in Las Vegas, Nevada). Which brings me up to a total of 16 States. Not bad. Though I totally slept though Indiana. I was also deeply impressed that despite the bitter cold, the midwest still managed to stink of shit.

People asked what my parents thought of my travelling across the USA with a man I'd known for a couple of weeks. I explained I was at an advantage because they were dead. That's a conversation stopper. But in any case, he'd had plenty of opportunities to murder me before we got in a car together. And to date, he still hasn't tried to. Nice guy.

Lately my travelling has been restricted to California: Hiking in Idyllwild and Malibu, visiting San Francisco and returning down the coastal route to LA. Amazing things. And still no-one has tried to murder me. Phew.



The Present Day.

It's June. I have a house to live in and a car to drive (and that's an adventure in itself. I leave my will somewhere accessible everytime I take the freeway). I've met people who have come to LA from India, Spain, France, Germany, Syria, Nigeria, Canada, Korea, Australia, and of course the UK. It's the same language mostly but so many words mean different things which can lead to severe confusion. They don't use the word savoury. How can people live like that?

Deforest Kelley's 10 year anniversary is coming up. I just had an article of mine published in the latest book about him: The Enduring Legacy of Deforest Kelley. Later this month I will be hosting his biographer. So I'm still doing the same stuff I started out doing when I first came to America. It's almost as if the cyclone never hit. Except I can't Skype my dad, which will never be OK. Ever. Death is such a crap idea.

Anyway, I just completed my first novel. I am working on a script. I am waiting for auditions and trying not to die of envy every time I hear anything about Doctor Who, my beloved English show which I blame for all this fiery ambition. I nearly went to Chicago this weekend (June, much warmer and more sensible) to write up the goings on at the Torchsong convention (another sci fi thing), but I forgot to earn money so it was impossible. Plus it hasn't exactly gone to plan up there. I may have to capture the cast in a butterfly net and keep them in a padded cell.

So that brings us to the present day. I have a big birthday party coming up. There's also a bouncy castle picnic party in Griffith Park on June 14th. That alone is a reason to live for anyone out there currently experiencing despair. A bouncy castle. Picnic party. And it's free! Come ON people! Then I'm visiting the UK in July to remember what it looks like, check in with English and Welsh agents, and relax in the arms of my grandmother. Oh, and stock up on jelly babies, maltesers and E45 face cream. America has some serious short-comings.

In the meantime, I have a month to write far too many things and conduct some thorough research (watch HBO shows). So back to the grindstone. I shall try to update you with various adventures and whatnot but sometimes life does that cute little thing again and before you know it I'm on an art walk carrying a 10 week old puppy meeting people from all over the world and being asked out to a Woody Allen movie press screening. Or I'm rock climbing. Or I'm learning to surf. And then staying up till 4am editing my book. And meeting stunt men from Star Trek Origins. And spending time with writers for pilot shows I can't even discuss here for fear of leakage.

I just keep thinking... this is so cool.

But even so I cannot wait to see my grandmother.

Green Eyed Monster

I've always wanted to be on Doctor Who. I always wanted to be The Doctor rather than the assistant because when I was a kid, the assistant was Bonnie Langford. So, you know... she made Sylvester McCoy look like Neo from the Matrix.

Then it was Sophie Aldred who was much cooler because she was on CBBC and she was a rebel. But still, I wanted to be the Time Lord rather than the girl.

That is, of course, until 2005 when Billie Piper came along and kicked ass. Since then, whilst keeping one foot on the realistic ground (yadda yadda yadda), I've wanted to play that part. It has a lot to do with not being 9 anymore and recognising that it is highly unlikely there will ever be a female Time Lord (who would take that risk - I mean REALLY?) but mostly, women can have things to do now, besides looking pretty and screaming.

Now I will always and forever dream of being the assistant/companion, no matter what. I will always be in love with Rose. I will always gibber in the presence of Billie Piper and Freema Agyeman. I will need CPR in the presence of Catherine Tate. I will die instantly if I know John Barrowman is in the same building. That's the fangirl side and I refuse to be ashamed of being inspired and excited - of feeling like that 9 year old again. I love loving something this much.

The professional side is what it is. Andy Pryor wouldn't know me if he sprinkled me on his cappucino, despite my efforts. So after many years I've marched away from the glass ceiling in the UK and gone to Follywood. 5,500 miles away from Cardiff/London it's a different story.

So the fangirl pouts - they don't have Daleks in Los Angeles. (Well they did in February and it was awfully nice). But the professional writes so much she gets back ache and blinks in disbelief as she registers the hours and days that are passing at warp speed as she disappears into another Universe of her own creation. Things are going well here.

So today, the latest companion was announced. I'm so jealous. I'm so jealous. I'm so so so jealous. But I can't wait to fall in love with her as well. I can't wait for Moffat to make me feel 9 years old again. How much do I love this? Totally. Utterly. Completely. The fangirl and professional. One feeds the other. AND the Torchwood trailer is also online.

I met my Doctor once. He was wearing a scarf that made him appear to be in character. Albeit 20 years later. It was cool. So however frustrating it is being separated from the Whoverse (still!), from having any professional input on that side of the world, from being anything other than a fangirl, it propells me further and faster into productivity. Because if I don't keep writing or working towards my goal, I will just die. So there's no choice in that.

I'm experiencing huge pride in the short films that are actually getting distribution at various internationals film festivals that I've contributed to. Sending off scripts in the next two weeks. Waiting for SAG to sort it out. Then it's off we go, which will take the edge off the harsh truth, that this beautiful young woman is not me...

Congratulations Karen Gillen! And here some words from James Moran in support of her for people that have an issue with how young she is. They obviously missed the concept of 'acting', so I'm quoting him here.

"A Soothsayer from my Pompeii episode has been cast as the new Doctor Who companion. She's called Karen Gillan, and I imagine her email inbox has just broken into millions of tiny pieces. Very pleased to see more details gradually coming out about the new series, I'm sure she'll be great.

However. I was very surprised and displeased to get lots of messages complaining that she's "too young", and that this is a bad thing for the show. To those people, I have this to say: She's an actress. HER AGE IN NO WAY AFFECTS THE QUALITY OF THE SHOW. It didn't turn into a comedy sketch show when Catherine Tate was hired. It didn't turn into a motel-based soap when Freema Agyeman was hired (her first job was on Crossroads). It didn't turn into a teen pop song show when Billie was hired. Seasons 1 and 2 didn't have Rose singing a song at the end of every episode, about how cute Timelord boys are. Season 3 didn't have the Doctor and Martha opening a motel. Season 4 didn't have Catherine Tate dressing up as sweary pensioners or donning lots of prosthetics. Karen Gillan is 21. Not 12. She's an adult. But it doesn't matter how old or young she is, or what parts she played before, or how tall or short she is, or what colour her hair is, or what her opinions on cheese are, or anything else. She's an actress, and a very good one. That's all you should be worried about."

Bring on the good times. I love Who. I have Who Pride. I'm out. And I'm in San Francisco this weekend so it's quite appropriate - especially for watching the Trek movie (again) and trying to calculate the number of movies where something has crashed into, through or next to the Golden Gate Bridge. Until this weekend, my main association with San Francisco was Star Trek IV. It's now my wonderful friends, an excellent film crew and an atrocious curry. The way it should be. So maybe I can live without Daleks a little while longer.

*sigh*

Language Barrier

Without searching the web, I can be fairly certain there is substantial material as regards translating UK English to US English and vice versa. But I'm going to do my own, I think. Because otherwise my head will explode.

I will start here.

An American friend asked me what a 'biccie' was as a British someone had emailed her with the term. Here is my explanation.

"Biccie": (pron. Bicky) Origin: British English, abbreviation of BISCUIT. (Informal).

Nearest US translation: COOKIE. Though a biscuit can be plain (though always fairly sweet) and a distinction is always drawn between a chocolate chip biscuit and other varieties, including ginger snaps, jammie dodgers, rich tea and chocolate hobnobs.

Usage: Biscuits are commonly taken with a nice cup of tea (English Breakfast Tea), the combination of which is thought to have healing properties. The hot, black tea is typically taken with a dash of milk and sweetened to taste.

English Breakfast Tea is thought to be able to solve almost every problem known to humanity, though there is some dispute as to how it compares with coffee in a crisis. English Breakfast Tea contains more caffeine than coffee, but I'm personally of the opinion that while both are healing, coffee can turn you into a super hero within 20 minutes depending on strength, whereas tea is what you serve when the super hero didn't turn up and everything's fucked. They have distinct before and after uses.

Ergo, I hereby propose that coffee can be considered to have yang energy (dynamic, proactive, masculine) whereas Tea has Yin properties (a more passive but sensitive feminine energy).

My blood is currently 45% coffee. It needs to be 82.3% or more for me to become immortal. I'm trying.

I just read that Jammie Dodgers are made in Wales. Jammie Dodgers are Welsh. My whole world is different now.

Shyness is vulgar (apparently)

Actually. You know what? Bollocks to it. It's my blog and I'll write if I want to.

It is February 14th 2009. Well, actually it's February 15th 2009 and I haven't gone to bed yet. Not because of some extraordinary romantic encounter, but because I prefer to sit and scowl at my laptop than go to bed. Seriously. That for me is a good night in.

I've been in Los Angeles for two months now. It seems I escaped one bitch of a winter. Everything is going to plan, just as slowly as expected. I just had the unexpected delight of meeting up with a dude who wanted to drive to the inauguration. So we did that. Took two and a half weeks and I saw a lot of stuff. Obama waved at me, which was ever so sweet. I know it was me because the other million people surrounding me weren't looking him in eye like what I was. Yeah.

Everything here is completely and utterly unforgivably wrong. Upside down. Wrong side of the street, Baked Beans with pork in them, wrong words for things, criminal lack of sidewalks and public transport, far too big, far too bright, far too confusing, far too different, far too foreign. Just wrong.

So it's exactly what I expected really. I'm an alien. Good thing about being an alien is the other aliens and/or space travellers (SPELT WITH TWO 'L's GOD DAMN IT). LA, like London, is full of transition and other completely lost and confused people taking a chance on life. In that respect I fit in beautifully. I've honestly never met such friendly people in my life. Though in Spain it was hard to tell because I couldn't always understand what they were saying. They smiled a lot though.

But I'm coming up against some interesting internal conflict. That of my parents' (and England's) cultural snobbery towards America. And then what I am seeing with my own eyes, hearing with my own ears. I'm trying not to fall in the trap of being a racist whilst also entertaining my running critique of people and places. But there is a deeply inbed intolerance into some things American.

So this is something I intend to keep an eye on. My father would leave the room rather than watch a US show. I and my closest friends and family are disgusted by the American use of the English language. Is that fair? Hardly matters because I can't see an end to it. Drives me crazy. I simply love my language and it is very hard to listen to it sounding apparently warped. No reflection on the people at all - just a thing that most British people suffer with.

Anyway, that's one part of what I'm doing here. So what am I doing here? Doing everything I ever wanted. Little by little.

One thing I have discovered, an absolute, and would like it entered into wikipedia. The month of February sucks beyond the telling of it no matter where you are or what you're doing. It is shit. There's no escaping it, and believe me, I've tried. Maybe that's why they made it the shortest one. And we're over half way through the bastard now so onwards and upwards.

I will be detailing one or two of my recent adventures, probably this week seeing as rain is forecast. But for now I really need to sleep. I've had Bruce Springsteen stuck in my head for hours and apparently there's no cure.

My Camino, My Way

It is complete. My story is in 7 sections complete with photographs (all mine).

Part One is here, and there are links to each new section at the bottom of each section.

I am again about to be moving on, so for now, enjoy the story.

Ciao.



Go to parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 & 7

Bull

As an interesting coincidence, Pamplona, the city I started in, had its bull-run today.

Two people were gored.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070708/ap_on_re_eu/spain_running_of_the_bulls



Nutters.

Winter's Way Part 7 - The End of The World

Finisterre



It is around 86km to Finisterre from Santiago. Finisterre is not entirely necessary - Santiago is the destination of the pilgrimage, but Finisterre is literally the end of the earth. Pilgrims continue walking until they can't walk anymore, and all around them is an expanse of blue ocean.

As I write this, nearly two weeks later, I have had a chance to talk with other pilgrims about the two destinations of Santiago and Finisterre. Simon the Kiwi joined me yesterday. He'd travelled down from Santiago to Portugal, and then to Madrid. He explained how Santiago is considered to be the 'masculine' destination - a very powerful energy as so many routes from across Europe all end there. But Finisterre is not obligatory. It has a gentler, 'feminine' energy. The gentle lapping of the sea, and the desire of most pilgrims to watch the puesta del sol (sunset) as the masculine sun sinks into the western ocean and gives way to the feminine moon and tide of the sea. It was known as the end of the world - the western most point of Europe, until Columbus looked out and decided there must be more. He then discovered The New World (or did he?) and proved that the world was round by not falling off the horizon. And science just hasn't been as much fun since.

Most of the pilgrims I'd spent time with were walking - around 3 day's walk. But for me, walking was over. I was OK with being alone on my birthday - being out of the country for the first time as I turned a year older. Provided I got my little moment sitting on a beach and watching the sun set on the last 28 years of my life. Like spiritual re-birth. But as with most pre-arranged 'moments' it wasn't heart-stoppingly moving. But I got my sunset. I got an Italian man who found me wondering around alone and offered to keep me company. And my birthday came and went in a wave of serenity.

The Italian's name was Ciro (pronounced Cheero). I thought that was apt because he was cheering me up. He was a sweet man. I thought I recognised him but wasn't sure. He was actually one of the Italians from the group at the '100km to go' milestone in Galicia, and I had taken a photo for him and his friends. So we ate together that night, and he was armed with his camera for the sunset as much as I was. I'd spent the day wondering over cliff tops looking for the beach, which was actually 5 minutes away from my hotel. My hotel was 2 minutes away from the bus station, but nevertheless I walked for half an hour to the lighthouse to discover I had to re-trace my steps. I looked so tired (I was carrying everything) that the man who broke the news to me got his son to drive me to the hotel. I told them it was my birthday and driving me was the perfect gift. They, as so many people do, found me amusing. I'd got lost for some time later that day when trying to find the beach that was actually right behind me, and I'd taken a little path that was growing narrower and narrower with every step. I had to fight to get through the end of it, at which point I burst through a thicket, covered in leaves, twigs and thorns, and landed in someone's vegetable patch. The Galician peasant stared at me. She had a twisted face and looked like she might have killed her husband recently. I stood up, apologised, and asked her where the beach was. Typical tourist. She pointed vaguely and I staggered down the lane. That is when I met Ciro.

I sat on the beach alone watching the sky change colour and occasionally glancing over my shoulder at the moon behind me. Other pilgrims were dotted about in their own space. I listened to a favourite piece of music, then I had silence, and then the sun went away. I took several photos before joining up with Ciro again. We were chased off the beach rather unceremoniously by a fleet of hornets, which shook me out of my spiritual reverie, but it was rather funny. Ciro and I said our goodbyes. We'd been great company for each other that evening, but now it was over. Again, no details exchanged. He was there, and then he wasn't.



The next day was a day of trying simply to return to Madrid. Everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong and from start to finish I was travelling from 6am to 9.30pm. I've been back in Madrid for nearly two weeks. Seeing Simon yesterday was lovely. He's continuing his tour of Europe until September.

The weather is hot and sunny and I'll shortly be joining my friend Becky at the pool to damage my skin and swallow dirty water and look horrific in a bikini. The neighbours are still having loud sex and at this very moment I'm trying to drown them out with the BBC National Orchestra.

I leave Spain in less than two days. Mixed feelings are in abundance. My life has not gone to plan lately (well not to my plan) and several things are falling through due to incompetent estate agents and inherited responsibilities. I have to return to the UK, move into my flat, pay the mortgage, and do exactly what I do not want to do for as long as it takes to sell the flat. With me actually being there it should be easier. It does mean that my trip to the US is postponed, which will cost me more money in the future. I'm still going to Las Vegas which is very exciting.

As I sat on that beach in Finisterre, I was over-whelmed with the desire to continue travelling - backpacking. Not forever, but to see places I've always wanted to see. Even my creativity felt insignificant in comparison. I now have to do the total opposite (stay still and be surrounded by unnecessary crap) but I'm trying to focus on positive things. I can watch telly again. I can eat English food again. I can see my friends and family without rushing. I can go to the cinema and understand the film. I can take up a fitness class and understand the intructions. And who knows, if this is where life is taking me, perhaps the Universe is still unfolding as it should. So bring it on.

The four sided peace pole at land's end:





Sculpture of a pilgrim's boot:

Winter's Way Part 6 - Up, Down, and Everything Inbetween

Friday 22nd June

I woke up at 7am. Most people had gone. I launched myself out of the albergue, eating some stale bread, and charged along in the pissing rain.

It is often said Galacia is very much like England (Yorkshire, for instance), and this is very true. Especially with the rain. For me, the scenary was no longer particularly exotic. But the freedom of walking remained intoxicating.

It also appears to be a bit Irish in places, with some ancient pagan icons. One of the icons of the region is a little witch, which is surprising for such Catholic territory. But when Christianity came to England, pagan dates and images were incorporated in to the faith in order to incorporate the people into the faith. The Easter Bunny is the sacred hare of the goddess, for instance, and the soltices and equinoxes have significant holidays attached to them. Easter takes place each year on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox. The actual date of Jesus' birthday is up for discussion, but the fact it is so close to the Winter Soltice is interesting.

While trekking through Galicia I observed the festival of San Juan. This included fireworks and leaping over fires - a very old custom (ever seen The Wickerman? The original work of art, I mean, not that Nicolas Cage, someone-has-too-much-money sacrilidge.) Here's what Wikipedia says about it:

"The evening of June 23, St. John's Eve, is the eve of celebration before the Feast Day of St. John the Baptist. The Gospel of Luke (Luke 1:36, 56-57) states that John was born about six months before Jesus, therefore the feast of John the Baptist falls on June 24, six months before Christmas. This feast day is one of the very few saint's days to mark the anniversary of the birth, rather than the death, of its namesake.

The Feast of St. John coincides with the June solstice also referred to as Midsummers. The Christian holy day is fixed at June 24, but, in the old way, festivities are celebrated the night before, on St. John's Eve.

St. John's Eve (or Bonfire Night) is celebrated in many parts of rural Ireland with the lighting of bonfires. This ancient custom has its roots in pre-Christian Irish society when the Celts honoured the Goddess Áine, the Celtic equivalent of Venus and Aphrodite. She was the Goddess Queen of Munster and Christianised rituals in her honour (as Naomh Áine) took place until the nineteenth century on Knockainy, (Cnoc Áine - the Hill of Áine) in County Limerick.

Similar festivities take place in Scandinavia. Bonfires are lit and effigees burned on the evening of June 23. People jump over the bonfires to prove their courage. Traditionally, three jumps cleanses one from sin and disease. One of the centers of the festival is in Ciutadella; but many different cities and towns have their own unique traditions associated with the festival. In recent years, public celebrations have begun cordoning off the fires for safety reasons."

In Spain, they don't have safety reasons. So they still have public fires and leaping over them (they still run bulls through streets).

So Galicia seemed to be a wonderful taste of Yorkshire and Ireland.

I stalked through the trees and lanes and babbling brooks before I became aware, a few kilometres in, that there was an old man behind me. He eventually caught up with me and began to chat to me. His name was Rudi, and he was a German (rather inevitably) from a town near Freiburg (the one place in Germany I've actually been to) known exclusively for its wine. He was retired, but had been a 'glueman' for over 40 years. He began walking on 2nd April from a town along the French/German border. He was 65 and as fit as a fiddle. His English wan't just proficient, it was better than that of a great deal of native speakers. He spoke poetically. He was the kind of man that you have in stories as a wise leader who's travelled everywhere. He should have been an old wizard. Actually he could have been Dumbledore. I was so enchanted by him. We spoke about all kinds of things - his children, his childhood, his battle with the rules of Catholicism, his travels (his job took him all over the world). He was able to speak a few languages. He'd spent time in China. He said that if I was going to the US I absolutely couldn't miss New York. I'm not intending to miss New York (when I finally get over there) but I wanted more details. "Why?" I asked. It is rare these days to hear a European speak so positively about the US. It's fashionable to put them down. It was therefore refreshing to hear New York spoken of like a planet of wonders, a mesh of cultures. He said it was a melting pot, but all the ingredients were still visible, meaning originality was not compromised. Cuisine, music, theatre, opera, dance, nationalities and all hours of the night. I told him I'd like to go to San Francisco also. "Fantastic city" he said, "But you must be prepared for the funny people". He gave me the low down on several world cities. He was not showing off, he was not trying to impress. I asked, and he told. Because he knew. He'd lived all over the world. He told me things about England I didn't know. Some things about her history. I said I felt a bit daft not knowing. He laughed and said, "It's nothing to do with research, or intelligence! Quite simply, I was there." Quite an effective way to learn something. Hopefully when I'm 65 I will have 'been there' too..

We'd stopped 11km along to take photos at the 100km milestone. There was a group of Italians taking photos as well. Rudi was able to converse with them. I thought of Juan Antonio the Monk and his opera and sang a bit of Nessun Dorma.

The path that day was very up and down. Eventually the rain eased off. Wet England started to look a little bit more like Spain again. I told Rudi it reminded me of Song of the South - the disney film. When I was very little, my sister and I used to sing "Zippity Doo Dah". He hadn't heard of it, so I sang it to him. He looked amused. I confessed I sang a great deal when walking along, and was sure that one day I'd turn around and with extreme embarrassment find a group of people behind me. He said that I was more likely to find him, with a cap in his hand, collecting for me. I can't believe I impressed a man like that with "Zippity Doo Dah".

I told him that I believed that simple stories often teach us more about life than anything you can learn at university or school. I recommended Phillip Pullmans' His Dark Materials, which contains this revelation, among many others. Exceptional reading. Rudi's stories about being here, there and everywhere enriched me no end.

We walked together to Portomarin and decided to get some lunch and a sello (stamp for the credencial). We walked past various shops and I saw a dress. "A dress!" I cried. "I can't wait to be a girl again!" Rudi laughed at that. "Looks just right for you!" he said. It was tempting but alas, it qualified as unnecessary weight. We walked into a bar, for a 'Menu The Pilgrim'. At one point the cafe owner came over and enquired as to the nature of our relationship. "Is she your daughter?" He asked Rudi. "No, I don't have daughters." Rudi replied matter of fact, before saying to me, "At least he doesn't think I'm your grandfather." I pointed out he was younger than my father. After the Camino had given me a mother figure in the form of Chexie, I couldn't help but feel it had now given me a father figure. (A wise one).

We grumbled over the lack of vegetables (pilgrim conversations mutated over time from the nature of one's feet to just how bad the pilgrim diet was, courtesy of Spanish cafes which consistently failed to provide necessary nutrients) and walked out to look at the main church.

"Alison?"

I spun around. On the steps was Jesse! With the girl from Hong Kong! How we'd managed to be in the same place at the same time on the same day was completely insane. I'd followed a completely random trail of my own instincts and impulses, and now here I was with someone from my very first day. Delighted to see each other, we exchanged some anecdotes before Rudi (who'd decided to join me for an extra 7km to Gonzar) and I walked on, promising to see each other in Santiago. That was one of the greatest things of that last stretch. Anyone you met, you were almost guaranteed to meet again at Santiago. There was a lovely sense of being caught in a circle that would see you there safely.

We walked 29km that day. Gonzar was a cowshed. But I was pleased to get there nonetheless. The hospitalario showed us to our beds. Or bed. Two bunks were pushed together, with two pilgrims already inhabiting the lower bunks. It looked like a double-decker double bed. Rudi looked to me to see if I was OK with that set-up. There wasn't a lot we could have done about it anyway, and frankly, there was plenty of space and I was so exhausted I didn't care a bit. I said, "I apologise if I wake up cuddling you." He blushed. I laughed at him. I showered in a lovely hot water (communal) shower, whilst having a great conversation with a german woman while we were both stark naked. It was communal but not uni-sex, though there were those on the Camino. I hid until all the men had gone. I haven't quite got that to that state of abandonment!

I had a nap, as did Rudi and about 15 others. I was waking up when I heard a picture being taken. The cheeky bugger had taken a photo of me in my sleeping bag. But then again, I had done it up, because I was cold, completely, and the only thing sticking out was my nose for air. I must have looked hilarious and he'd obviously woken up to find he was in bed with a cocoon. I feigned sleep and tried not to laugh, though I heard him chuckling. I went back to sleep for bit longer.

There was one cafe (Gonzar was a church, several cow sheds, a bar, two or three houses and a albergue) so I joined a table of Germans for a salad. The people I joined that night were all people I was with in Santiago in the end. I learnt a lot of German that evening. I complained about feeling like a man, and Rudi told me I should have bought the dress. "It would have been just right." He told me and everyone. I explained that red is not really my colour because I'm always so pale. "Not at the moment," he said. "You're bronzed". I felt attractive for the first time since I could remember. (Most of my clothes were mens clothes because I don't fit into female Spanish attire, so I spent most of the time feeling like a bloke.)

That night, we all filled into bed around 9pm/9.30pm. The naked German woman (now suitably clothed) was on the top bunk above an Italian, who'd chosen this moment, with a dormitory full of sleeping pilgrims, to make a phone call on his mobile phone from the comfort of his bed. It was 9.50pm. By pilgrim standards that's midnight. It's a testament to the character of these people, that most people found it crippling hilarious. Unbelievably selfish. He was blissfully unaware of the shhhing around him. The German woman was killing herself laughing - I mean it was so inappropriate, all you could do was laugh. He finished one phone call and began another. "Ciao ciao" he began once more. In the end someone went over and gestured to him. He immediately went quiet then. The lights were off - it wasn't like he could assume people were awake. And there was a garden and a kitchen where he could have gone. Extraordinary. Rudi had called out to him in Italian, though he found it just as funny.

I did my usual routine of waking up throughout the night, worried that I'd over-sleep and miss everything or lose everyone or whatever the hell the problem is. Rudi rolled over in the night and clocked me with his hand which was a bit of a classic moment. Bit like when he glasses fell through the gap in the middle of the beds.

Not your usual Friday night.

Saturday 23rd June

I kept looking over my shoulder that day. I was up and out before Rudi, who said he'd see me down the road at a cafe. But the problem was, I was going fast again, and he did not want to get to Santiago before Tuesday. He did not catch up.



I was delightfully happy, singing along, enjoying the scenary. The sunrise was beautiful and I felt full of energy. The temperature was perfect - very cool, and no rain. Ideal conditions. I charged on again until midday, singing along to Carmina Burana, the Beatles and Alice Faye.

I walked into Palas Du Rei, decided to find water, and bumped into Jesse again in a supermarket. We walked together and chatted non stop. He was very fast which was great for me because it was another 29km day and I needed the impotus to keep going. I stopped for breath after we overtook about 40 people on a steep slope at uber-warp speed.

"Is this an OK pace for you or is this suicide?" he asked.

"I'm fine." I replied, being British, and weezing.

The relationship blossomed; He talked, I listened (because I was too busy trying to breathe and compartmentalise the pain in my feet), and he got me to Molinde at the very reasonable time of 4.30pm. We spent a lot of time talking about world-wide conceptions of America and Europe which entertained us a great deal. The word 'Europe' means something completely different to someone living in England. To the US, 'Europe' is a land mass - a global location. To the Englishman, 'Europe' is a place of hairy armpits, cheap wine, olive oil, common currency, decent weather, raunchy films, driving on the wrong side of the road and strange languages. That's just not England. It is another planet, and NO-ONE coming from the UK considers themselves to be in Europe. Equally, to a Brit, and to Europe, the US is full of people who cannot speak properly, eat hamburgers and weak beer, are unaware there is a world outside of their borders, want God to bless their country only, cannot make a film without the US flag cropping up every 5 minutes, cannot make a film without the US being wonderful and saving all the inferior other nations, are responsible for continually putting under-weight women on screen whilst simultaneously having the fattest people on Earth, and voted in a maniac. On the other hand, to the US, the British ARE in Europe, drink tea, all speak like Hugh Grant, know the Royal Family personally, cannot make a film without Hugh Grant, cannot make more than one film a year, drink warm beer, are pointlessly modest, are overly polite, drive on the wrong side of the road and voted in a maniac.

We then agreed that people are people wherever you go, just as stupid, just as daft, just as fat and just as thin, and their films are just as crap. That's what I love about Star Trek. It takes people out of their nationalities so you can see what's left. Humanity. And the fact that by all of us being different, we are in fact all the same. The Camino is wonderful for also doing this. And of course the wonderful story of how the German and British soldiers played football together on Christmas Day, 1914:

"Christmas Eve, 1914, and not a shot fired. The Germans ask to play football and hand out drink and cigars. They are eager to swop almost anything for our bully beef," the 34 year old veteran of the Boer War, who spent Christmas in a trench near the Belgian village of St Yves, near Ypres, writes in his diary.

The much-decorated NCO (Beck won the Military Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal and was twice mentioned in dispatches) also writes about how the British and Germans sing together, exchange gifts and play football in no-man's-land.

“Point 63. Quiet day. Relieved 2 RDF (Royal Dublin Fusiliers) in the trenches in the evening. Germans shout over to us and ask us to play them at football, and also not to fire and they would do likewise,” the entry in his diary for December 24 reads.

He also describes how a German band sing Home Sweet Home and God Save the King, much to the amusement of the British troops who start feeling nostalgic about their home back in England.

“At 2am (25th) a German Band went along their trenches playing Home Sweet Home and God Save the King, which sounded grand and made everyone think of home. The music sounded grand and made everyone think of home,” a local daily quoted his diary as saying.

“During the night, several of our fellows went over "No Man's Land" to German lines and were given drink and cigars." - ZEENEWS.com

One of the few time football has lead to peace, mind!

That evening, I realised that I wouldn't see Rudi again. Jesse met up with the girl from Hong Kong (a very magical relationship was growing) and I had a look around the town. Having had such rich company the night before, such rich conversation, I felt quite a sense of loss. With everything being so intense on the Camino, I was beginning to feel what it was like for the human lab rats in Big Brother. I already had an idea - when you work on a play, it has its own time and rules - its own reality. Emotions get blown out of proportion at times - certainly in young student theatre! I was taken aback by how much I missed Rudi's company. But I was nonetheless glad I'd had it for a day.

I went back into the albergue having bought food for the evening and the next day (because the next day was Sunday and you never know what will be open). A few of the Germans I was with the night before were sitting around the table in the kitchen. Tired of bad wine I'd splashed out on a decent bottle of rioja to help relax my muscles. It was perfect - I was able to share it with everyone (I wouldn't have had more than one glass probably) and we had a good time trying to communicate in basic English and German. I went to sleep that night quite relaxed, which help me to ignore the snoring French (who are the worst) and the celebrations for San Juan.

Sunday 24th June

I awoke to a miracle. My cotton scarf was tied to my bunk. I had no idea how it got there and hadn't noticed I'd lost it. However, there was no-one around to ask.

Actually, it wasn't the first thing I woke to. The first thing was pain. It was my penultimate day walking, and for the first time, I woke up aching like hell. I hadn't taken pain killers - wanting to save them for when I absolutely needed them. So Sunday, I had one of the best days of the entire walk, off my face on codeine.

I had an energetic start when I went down to the kitchen to get my food for breakfast and lunch, and found that someone had taken it all. I'm still angry about that. There was bread, cheese, tomato, cereal bars and some garlic. It was in a bag next to my water and a can of tomato puree. (There was no fridge and the dormitory was too warm). They left the water and the can and took the bag. Furious, I ran the first kilometre (after my German friends made me sit and have breakfast in a cafe - coffee and croissant - cake for breakfast again - I could have gagged but I didn't know when I was going to eat again. Typically there was nothing savoury and no fresh fruit to eat. It's a wonder these people (Galicians) haven't died out. They are all round though) in search of someone with my carrier bag. Apart from anything else the food had been quite expensive. To assume it was left there for another pilgrim would have been totally outragious as my cheese (having had no knife) had bite marks in it, and everything was obviously belonging to someone. Entertaining fantasies of the cattle prod again, I took off at an absurd speed, enjoying the fact I could feel no pain. All around me was mist and smoke from last night's fires. Going through the woods was a little like the Blair Witch Project.

I walked and walked and walked, exclusively alone that day but for half an hour with Brian the ex-airforce pilot from the US. He gave me his life story, as punctuated by conquests of women, but with self awareness and a sense of humour which was wonderful. He was very kind to me. I would have liked to have talked with him more, but he was very slow (it was very uphill for a while that day, and I had 31km to cover) so I went on ahead after a while.

I took off, aware that I could only take so many doses of codeine without an over-dose, and that I therefore had to complete the day's walk before they wore off and I was crippled. I sang, danced, marched, laughed, and leapt through woods and villages. The last two hours were tough. The pain started to ignore the painkillers and I may as well have been walking on hot coals. I pressed on and on, free as a bird and loving it.


Feminism on the Camino - someone drew the skirt and ponytail!

I arrived at my destination, Santa Irene, around 4pm, having walked since 8am with a half hour break. I was quite shocked when I was told there was only room for one more person (this was the first albergue for 17km, so there would be plenty more pilgrims coming). I soon realised it was full of pilgrims who'd walked half the distance and got there early. There were another 15 or so people (my friends) due to get to Santa Irene that night, having walked 31km. They were sent on to the next place. It was awful.

I had a shower and found a bunk over a loud snoring man. I suddenly felt that I should check the domitories in case I knew anyone. I found a smaller one - one of the Germans was in there already. I said something to him, getting the attention of someone at the back of the room in her bunk.

Chexie. It could have brought the house down. We weren't expecting to see each other until tomorrow in Santiago! The bed beneath her was free, so I re-installed myself, having, in many ways, already reached the end of my Camino.

Monday 25th June

Santiago de Compostela.

Chexie and I agreed to walk in separately for the sake of having our personal thoughts for the last 21km into Santiago. We met at a cafe further down the path briefly as well. I had a chilling experience there, seeing on the TV how Spanish soldiers had been killed in the Lebanon in a terrorist bomb. The Spanish soldiers were there working with ONU, United Nations. And it had been my job on arriving to Madrid, to teach them English. I'd panicked and reached for a newspaper. I still feel quite bad about this. 6 boys of 19 and 20 were killed. But I felt relief when I didn't recognise any names - or a specific name, truth be told. Once I knew my friend was safe, I felt better, but it's nevertheless terrible. Spain is towards the Switzerland end of the scale when it comes to aggression.

Chexie asked me if my MP3 player helped me move along faster. I told her it most certainly did - and it set a pace for me. At that time a song had cropped up with the lyrics "F**k you I won't do what ya tell me" - a favourite of one of my sisters. "But I prefer Frank Sinatra!" I explained, which is true, but Frank doesn't help you get up the hill!!

I walked into Santiago around 1.30pm. I was tired by this point. It was all town/city so it was concrete and people. I went into the Cathedral, expecting...well, something. I was too tired. Tourists were everywhere, with their flash photography. There were no signs indicating where St James' remains were. I felt angry that the end of my walk was a total non-event. I left the Cathedral, hating all the people around me who were carrying nothing, had probably walked for 5 minutes to visit the Cathedral and insisted on bumping into me. I decided it wasn't the best time for an epiphany and trailed off to the pilgrim office to collect my Compostela, my certificate.


The Cathedral at sunset

Chexie and I checked ourselves in to the hostel we'd treated outselves to (a private room each!) and relaxed for the rest of the day. She went out to dinner with many of the pilgrims she'd met. The ones I'd been with had stopped at an albergue just outside of Santiago so they'd arrive early the next morning.

So the next day, bringing with it a thousand familiar faces, was when I really arrived.

Tuesday 26th June (Chexie's Birthday)

Mass was at 12noon. Every day there's mass for the pilgrims. If you've arrived before 11am that day (or the previous afternoon) your starting point and nationality is read out by the priest. I was the only UK person who started in Pamplona. But they read me out and I was over-joyed.

The Cathedral was full of pilgrims. Two French women asked me if I'd got my scarf. I'd never seen them before. "Yes!!!" I exclaimed. "Thank you!". With the language barrier I couldn't understand how it had all happened. "It's not us, it's the Camino," they said. I sat with the Germans. I'd helped one of them retrieve his wallet after he left it at a cafe, and he was incredibly grateful. But I was missing one person. Rudi. As I sat there, staring up at the world's largest incense burner (the Botafumeiro) I prayed and prayed that I would see him again, not knowing if he'd arrive before the evening, and this being the opportunity to meet other pilgrims I would have missed him.

The German man next to me then leaned forward and said, "Rudi is here too."

I spun around and he was there, a few seats back. He waved at me. I looked back at the altar with big eyes.

After the service, I went and spoke to him. As un-epiphany as I was feeling, he clearly was experiencing something, so I gave him his space. I later had the opportunity to say goodbye properly, and then I was able to draw the curtain on that particular experience. Brian the American had said to me that Voltaire's theory is that we take a bit of everyone we meet - if we like it, we incorporate it, and if not, we disguard it. I hope Rudi's stories can live on in me at least. He was going on to Finisterre the next morning and told me he'd think of me on my birthday. I would have liked to have walked, but I so much wanted to watch the sunset into the ocean on my birthday that I was fast-tracking on the bus.

I felt a dreadful sense of come-down that day. Emotionally it was my hardest day. I'd said only the night before to Chexie that I didn't feel as though I'd walked the Camino with an emotional struggle. It all felt effortless, as if I hadn't earned it. But I suffered on Tuesday. Chexie said she didn't believe suffering was always necessary. She told me she thinks I'm "Very good at feeling your feelings". Not that the buggers give me much choice! But I'd rather feel them than shut them off.

I saw so many people again - the lovely Canadian who gave me a beer, Kate the eccentric Brit, many Americans and Germans, and finally, as ever, Jesse and his Hong Kong girl. I feel bad that I can't remember her name, she was beautiful and friendly and her English was excellent. They'd walked almost the whole way together. Jesse explained that the French women had found my scarf along the road and recognised it from when he and I were at a cafe that day. They'd handed it to him and he'd tied it to my bed. He said he thought I'd like a little miracle to wake up to.

Chexie and I went out to dinner to celebrate our birthdays and I took some photos of the sunsetting on the face of the Cathedral. She gave me a silver pendant of a scallop shell - a sign of St James. I'd made her a card because I couldn't find a decent one. We said our goodbyes that night - she was rushing off first thing to get her plane. She'd borrowed Simon's long Johns to keep her warm (just like me she'd left her trousers somewhere!) and I had to leave them in the post office for Simon to find when he got to Santiago. I went back to my room and packed what I could for the next day's trip to Finisterre.

Wednesday 27th June (Mt birthday)

I was awoked by a faint knocking. It turned out to be the birthday fairy.

"I'm sorry but I couldn't leave without wishing you a Happy Birthday!" said Chexie, and she hugged me goodbye.

Then, just like that, it was over. And now, I had to go to Finisterre, The End of The World.

PART SEVEN


Moon rises over Santiago Cathedral as the sun sets.


The shadow of Senorita Invierno

Winter's Way Part 5 - Rabanal Del Camino

Monday 18th June (continued)

I'd thought it might just be me, but in fact there were 6 other people joining me in the monastery that day. I'd spent some time talking with pilgrims in the English hostal before the monastery opened later that afternoon. Ricardo the Spaniard showed up late in the afternoon and I told him I was staying in the monastery next door. He was such a sweet, shy soul, and like me was better off away from the madding-crowd. I was very glad the next day when he arrived to have a few day's stay. I was waiting outside for the doors to open for a while when another pilgrim approached me and starting chatting with me.

"Are you religious or are you just walking around?" He asked in English, despite being German, words carefully chosen and appealing quite gloriously to my sense of humour. The very idea! Wondering around for hundreds of miles? There's nothing 'just' about it!

"I'm quite spiritual but I'm not..."

"Organised?" He finished, again, hitting the nail on the head rather acutely.

"I'm definitely not organised!" I replied.

Finally a Monk emerged. Another pilgrim with me was a German lady who'd just completed the entire pilgrimage, but having seen the monastery along the way she had told herself she'd come back and spend a week there. You can spend as long as you like - it is run on donations and you help out with cooking and cleaning. Unlike the hostals/albergues, you are not thrown out at evil o' clock. You can stay all day and sit in the living room on the sofa reading a book from the library. A library which has books from at least 7 different languages. It was a haven. Pure and simple.

Other pilgrims staying were mostly German, but for two young women from South Korea. They barely had any English. They were just lovely. The hospitalerio (man running the hostal: they were once called hospitals, with the old meaning of hospitality!) was a wonderful young man from Valencia. He was also hilarious. And an excellent cook. He wanted us to phone his mother and tell her how well the meals were going so she'd stop giving him a hard time. Poor boy! Having a Spanish Momma must be oppressive at times!

I had grown concerned about how cold it was going to be (we were pretty high up in the mountains by now) so I'd made use of a large water-proof duffle coat that had been left behind at Astorga. I'd carried it all the way with the feeling I'd need it later. And I was right. It was bloody cold! The monastery did not have heating, and June was taking a year off. It was 10 degrees.

Obviously, what with being in a monastery, there was more of a religious 'angle'. The Camino, although a Catholic pilgrimage, welcomes everyone nowadays. There are a great deal of people spiritually motivated rather than founded in an organised religion. But there were even more just doing it for the walk. Especially the Germans. Late last year, a book was published in Germany by a famous comedian who'd walked the Camino and detailed his adventures. Consequently, 8 out of 10 people were German. And over 50. Anyway, I'd approached this with an interest in all things spiritual, having read Paulo Coelho's book 'The Pilgrimage'. I also adore walking and the freedom it gives me. I'd rather walk for an hour than get the bus for 10 minutes, for instance. But I have found myself trusting a force greater than myself in recent months - certainly more so in the last year. I don't know what that means. I wondered if the Camino might help me to discover something.

I attended church services/prayer (performed in Gregorian chant) which were open to the public (pilgrims) and tried to shake off any pre-conceptions or influence from my overtly antheistic immediate family. The services were very simple. They took one short lesson from the bible, translated it into German, English, Spanish and French and also had booklets translating their Latin verse into those respective 4 languages. Therefore, what came through was morality, decency and inclusion. A message for everyone.

You did not have to be religious to stay at the monastery. You did not have to be anything. It was the very shining example of acceptance, tolerance and brotherhood.

After the evening service there was confession. You could confess in 5 languages, as the Monk in charge was multi-lingual. I have no idea (and I still don't) what you're supposed to confess, or how you're supposed to do it. Never done it. I'm not sure what the Catholic Church considers to be worthy of confession (except for just about everything) so I didn't know where to start. But I was intrigued. I've always felt like I don't belong when I've walked into a church. Like I don't have the right to be there. Like I don't know the rules or I'm pretty much bound to have broken them anyway. But as this was the Camino, I decided that it was now or never. I said almost exactly all of this to the head Monk, Juan Antonio. He was very kind and rather amused by me. I told him I felt completely blind but I thought I should give it a shot. He advised that I read a certain passage of the Bible and talk to him afterwards. But he very firmly said that the whole idea is one of Love, and to have a relationship with Christ. He said that should be the focus, not the sins. As I related to my friend Kris, I immediately thought of the packet of Smarties I stole from a newsagent when I was 5. I didn't tell him about it. God surely already knows about that. My mother made me take them back, though.

Tuesday 19th June

The next day, I helped with the cleaning and then sat in the library reading. Juan Antonio had recommended the Gospel According to Luke. I recognised a great deal of it, even having never previously read the Bible. Feeling like a total fraud, I kept getting flashes of Mel Gibson's The Passion of The Christ. But I didn't want to go back to the Monk and say, "Hey it's OK - I saw the film version!!!". Jeepers. Can you say travesty??? I actually wanted to read more, but it took me most of the day besides other duties, and I could not take it with me.

Later that day more pilgrims rolled in. Frank the German was among them, still quite unwell. He was also tired. We shared English/German solidarity on the subject of continuous talking - a hobby of the Spanish and the Italians.

"They go to sleep talking, they wake up talking," he said, dryly. This made me laugh for some time.

I had the fortune that day, to finally meet someone else from England. Her name was Kate, and she'd walked from León. Despite the impressive proficiency of the Germans in English, it was a delight to talk utter shite (because no-one does that like the English) with Kate. Word-play, irony and understatement. It's an English institution that I sorely miss here in Spain. I used to have entire conversations in metaphor. Picking up on a ludricrous chat from 2 weeks ago. My, she was a breath of fresh air. We proceeded to incorporate 'malarkey' and 'shenanigans' into our discussion on the Camino, as well as liberal use of the words, 'thingy, doodah, watsit and fuck.' I hadn't felt so at home in weeks.

The pilgrims were given meals, included in the whole deal. It was the best food I have had during my stay in Spain. The hospitalario even provided me with vegetarian alternatives. We said grace before each meal. He said he'd developed a way of saying it as fast as possible to get to the food, but he was joking. He was an extremely devoted man, with a lovely sense of humour.

I went for a walk around the town before sunset. I found myself trailing up a hill towards a farm. Then I saw one of the Korean women. She was the quieter one. Her name was Mi (me) which I was happy about because I could pronouce it. She and her friend had taught me the word for good (it sounds like Chiwawa if you take off the last 'wa' and don't dawdle on the i, so it's Ch'wa). She was wandering alone. I'd felt sorry for her, because most conversation at the monastery was in German. I couldn't understand it either, but English would have been more inclusive. I smiled at her and said how beautiful I thought the scenary was (sounds trite but it actually really was breathtaking). She nodded. Most of our conversations had been in mime and when I spoke to her I used all my wits as a TEFL teacher in the hope she'd get the meaning. To my surprise, she asked me a question, in fairly coherent English.

"Why you do this road?" she asked shyly. We were a few metres apart. I felt towards her as I would feel towards a horse or an elephant; I didn't want to get too close - not for danger, but out of respect for a creature which I feel has tremendous grace and elegance. She was entirely in her own space, but inviting me in all the same.

"Um, I've wanted to do it for a while. I love walking. And I'm searching."

She understood what I said and gave me a warm grin.

"And you," I asked, "Why are you doing the Camino?"

She paused and tried to find the words.

"Ahh," she started with a self-conscious smile. Then she said, very slowly, "For peace in my heart. And prayer."

I was so touched that of the little English she knew, she had such beautiful words. As she said them, she mimed, and placed her hands over her heart.

That moment meant a lot to me. It was a perfect silence, in perfect nature, between two souls finding a way to communicate. I'd felt bad about encroaching on her space, but I was so glad I'd approached her. I felt sure she'd never have asked me that question around the others. Her friend was also so very kind and warm, but her English was better. She laughed and joked with the others. Mi was floaty and gentle.

I was due to leave the following morning, as were the Korean girls. We were packing. Mi approached me once more. She gave me a small token. It was a silly Korean mobile accessory - I'd seen them a great deal in Seoul airport a couple of years before. But it was never about the actual item with the pilgrims. She was giving me something to remember her by and as a token of affection. I knew I wouldn't see them again. I was again touched and quite embarrassed I had nothing to give in return. It remains one of my most precious momentos.

Wednesday 20th June

I awoke early to attend Lauds, the morning prayer. Another Gregorian chant. The monks were a little tired that morning and made a couple of mistakes. Well. I'm a singer, but not at 7.30am I'm not. And not in Latin.

Afterwards I returned to the monastery for breakfast. I said goodbye to all the people I'd met. It wasn't easy as I was so comfortable being there with all of them. I felt I'd no longer need the duffle coat so I left it behind for another pilgrim who was bound to need it. So I left a donation and the coat off my back.

Those two days could just have easily been on another planet. One pilgrim said, the most enchanting thing of all, was connecting with people of all ages, backgrounds, genders, colours, thoughts and nationalities. It became so irrelevant. It was pure peace. Not solemn, introspective peace, joyful, belly-laughing peace. Peace of sharing things with one another, laughing at ourselves and each other, respecting our differences. The milk of human kindness. I may well return to that haven on the hill. Just to remind myself what humanity can be.

Before I left, I owed a visit to Juan Antonio again. I told him I'd read Luke, and had almost a feeling of deja-vous, but then again the Bible and its message are fairly intrinsic in our society. He smiled. He reiterated that it's a relationship. That grows and grows. And it's about love. I told him how much my short stay had meant to be, and how material things mean so little to me now. When the material worlds disappears, what are you left with? I told him that after my mother died, everything external felt unreal, and everything inside me felt real. Same as my dreams which felt more real than my day to day living, which swiftly became 2 dimensional. I told him how I'd had a good job, a mortgage, a lovely flat with lovely things. And how the emptiness inside me was amplified by the fact that they meant nothing, how I realised that I needed more from life - that I wanted to be alive in the moment to live in the moment. I explained I'd sacrificed material comforts to have that freedom, to feel alive, in touch. In touch with what I couldn't be sure. I said that I'd prooved to myself that I could hold down a very good job and buy shiny new things and make a very good home for myself, but without someone to share it with it may as well been a coffin. I had come as far as I could with that kind of life. I told him I felt like a child playing on a beach. Once my sandcastle was built, I wanted to smash it down and build another. The pleasure is in building. Not having.

Juan Antonio invited me back, saying that they could use a good English teacher to help them improve their conversation. I said I hoped life would take me that way. He said that his Italian is ridiculous because as an opera lover all of his Italian is poetic. We laughed at that. I have the same problem with my German - I know lines of Schumann songs but that's all. He was a delight to speak to. We said our goodbyes and I began to make my way up the path.

Before I got very far, Ricardo joined me. He'd come out of his shell a great deal in the last day or so. He was good fun at the meals. And after glimpsing his photography, one hell of a talent too. With him I was fulfilling my role again (as I realised in retrospect) and the one who notices the shy and tries to include them. There were many times I needed someone to do that for me and I often still do. So I know how it feels. Ricardo told me he believed I was about to embark upon what he considered to be the best part of the entire Camino - and this is a guy who's already completed it 3 times. He then handed me a beautiful pink flower. Another flower!

"Buen Camino" he said.

I thanked him, and gave him the traditional two kisses and squeezed his hand. He had such a beautiful aura about him - peaceful, innocent, kind, but wise. Again I got the impression he would not have felt comfortable talking with me in front of anyone else so he'd sought this privacy. He made me feel special. There was nothing more to it - we hadn't even exchanged email addresses, but there was something richer about our exchange as a result of that. He waved me goodbye and returned to the village to continue his stay. I turned and began to walk, feeling like I'd been given the freshest air, and the lightest load.

I walked to Molinaseca that day. It was the toughest physical challenge, not due to reaching the highest point of the Camino (1517m) as that had been a gradual climb over a few days. But the decent lasted several, and I mean several hours, in the cold rain. It was 24km, with only the first 9 being uphill. Therefore I had 15km in which to drop from 1517m to 595m. The hardest bit was that so much of the path was not grass or earth, but rock. With the rain, it was slippery rock. At one point I stood staring at a steep slope in the rain considering that if I slipped and hit my head, that could well be it. I'd seen very few pilgrims that day and many were either further on ahead (I'd left at 9am and they'd probably left at 6am) or stopping in previous small villages. However, I just decided to be very careful. My hiking pole became a crucial aid.

These pictures are from the summit:


The Iron Cross. All around are tokens left by pilgrims at one of the most important shrines of the Camino. Having nothing to give, I left my pink flower, the gift of it always in my heart.


No camera could capture the beauty of that day.


Just in case you've lost you're way on your trip to Rome or Jerusalem.

After a dog attacked me, taking with it a large portion of my plastic coat, and a car drove by as I was urinating in a bush, I'd really rather had enough. I lurched into Molinaseca at around 5pm that day, physically exhausted. I got over the beautiful Roman bridge, saw that the albergue was another 2 km, and walked into a private hotel. It was still absurdly cheap, and to be honest, I would have paid what I paid just for the unspeakable luxury of having a hot bath. The fact that the bed was officially the most comfortable bed in Europe was just a bonus.

I had planned to get a bus to Ponferrada that would connect with another bus for Sarria - where most pilgrims start the final leg of the Camino. Sarria is the last place you can start which still qualifies for the Compostela (certificate). It is actually around 111km from Santiago. I was missing about 100km, and didn't like to get the bus again, but I felt that it was more important to meet up with Chexie in Santiago, and to be in Finisterre for my birthday, than it was to drag myself up the 900m climb of El Cebreiro with knees that were applying for annual leave.

Thursday 21st June

I met Frank the German again that morning, this time resolved to go home and rest. It wasn't working out so he was going to Santiago by bus that day. I was sorely tempted to join him as I was getting the same bus but merely getting off earlier, but I dragged myself off at the right point.

It was in one of world's most painful bus stations (soulless, waiting room, time has no meaning kind of place where you lose the will to live) that I was re-united with a favourite pilgrim. Pascal the old Frenchman from Bordeaux who'd reminded me so much of De Kelley. He was wondering around looking completely lost. We shared an absolutely priceless conversation over breakfast which he bought for me, being such a gentleman and all. We could still hardly speak to each other, but I managed to explain I was going to Finisterre, so he drew a little map for me so I'd know where to go once I was there. He had not been so well. He had a bad headache and he'd had a fever. So 'zee wife' was picking him up from a bigger town that he was getting a bus to. I gave him a Frenadol sachet (hot lemon, lemsip) and tried to explain that it was Spanish and very strong. I couldn't remember French for strong so I had to act the whole thing out, which was really something and amused him no end.

We were both tired and trying to communicate was quite an effort. I had the inevitable three hour Spanish wait for my bus ahead of me. His arrived and we wished each other well. I was so glad I'd seen him again.

By the time I got to Sarria nothing was funny. I felt more exhausted from waiting in bus stations and orienteering around towns than from rambling over mountains. I found an internet cafe for the first time in several days and sent out a reassuring message to anyone who might worry. I then went to bed. At 5pm. I got up at 7pm and ate my sandwich. I went back to bed at 7.30pm. I was done in. And now, it was 111km to go with no buses. This was a good feeling. Just expanse of walking and four days to do it in. Therefore getting sleep was my biggest priority. But I felt achy and lonely - the albergue was full of French and German pilgrims. Little did I know, one of the most enchanting parts of my journey was waiting for me the very next morning.

PART SIX