Fiddler on the Souq

Photos: Ireland

pearlswine — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 17:18:00 GMT

Photos from the Old Country

Photos: Where the streets have no name

pearlswine — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 19:46:00 GMT

Marrakech, through the Atlas Mountains mostly

My Scholarship entry - Seeing the world through other eyes

pearlswine — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 19:44:49 GMT

The Moroccommodation: The Riad Villa El Arsa in the heart of Marrakech.The winding little streets did not allow access to cars, so at the closest possible point on the cusp of the Mellah, the old Jewish quarter, the taxi service dropped me off where I was met by staff member Hussein. I was ushered through tiny manic streets, chock with locals many dressed oddly enough like the Jedi, bicycles flying along at terrific speeds and noisy mopeds whizzing past, bipping and honking as they traversed the narrow packed alleys leaving in their wake, whorls of dust and fumes. Marrakech is one of those places where a blind man could be mistaken for an expert photographer: all that is required in this colourful, dusty, busy, pungent place is the ability to point the lens and press the button.

I booked a 2 day trip to the Zagora Desert, staying overnight. This involved almost 8 hours driving through the Atlas mountains, stopping at gorgeous locations and sometimes just at the side of the road to admire some stunning valley or distant village. The scenery ranged from barren rocky chocolate coloured mountains and valleys to lush green irrigated pastures dotted with little orange coloured houses spread between the legs of huge tree speckled mountains. The snow tipped Atlas always watchful on the horizon. We had our lunch in a restaurant on the edge of the ancient Kasbah of Ait Ben Haddou: I opted for salade Moroccaine for starters and the couscous for mains. Jamal the bus driver had told us the couscous made in that part of Morocco is the finest you will ever taste. He was right. Locally produced, it was the perfect fluffy consistency, not a hint of sogginess which I had taken for granted nearly as a feature of couscous. And a stack of steaming spiced vegetables perched neatly on top. The Salade Moroccaine: a big bowl of chopped tomatoes, cucumbers and onions with loads of corriander and some very light salty dressing. Delicious and simple, this is organic without the labels.

August in Paris

pearlswine — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 23:53:00 GMT

Trip to Paris: August 2011
Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris

Day 1: arrived late in the evening. The trip itself was to be a surprise for the gang who were over there: I had told them that I could not come so it was just Tara they thought was coming for the short week. We took the directions that Julie the host had given, taking the little airport train to the main metro line. At that point, I sent Tara out to the platform where Julie was waiting, and from behind a ticket machine I watched as they hugged greeting each other, grinning away to the bemusement of strangers passing by. When they were deep in conversation about the travels, I approached from behind and muttered towards Julie "This isn't Nørreport..." She swung her head in my direction, stared for half a second in confusion before breaking out in a huge grin, French exclamations and a big hug! We chattered and giggled intermittently, then boarded the train heading to the city. Half an hour later, we emerged from the underground weaving journey into the 5e arrondissement and to her door within minutes from there. And what a door it was! A gorgeous old horse entrance leading into a cobbled courtyard where her house was tucked away discretely behind larger apartments. In the courtyard the gang were lounging about, on benches and chairs, the table set with baguettes still in their bakery pockets, a selection of cheeses, wine and salads ready for a late supper. After the hugs, greetings and chatter we settled down to a simple but stunning supper. Plans were set for the next day to visit Pere La Chaisse and we went to our rooms to rest for the next day.
Pere Lachaise
Day 2: the weather was stunning. Even in early morning, the heat of the day was building. Breakfast was to be a lengthy affair: firstly with a trip to the local bakery to pick up the bread and croissants. Cups of coffee, grapefruit juice, cheeses, marmalades were on offer and we ate well, predicting a long day out strolling the streets and graveyard. It was early afternoon when we were all ready to set off to say our hellos to the dead in Pere La Chaisse. Not my first trip there, but the first for some of the others, so the usual tombs were visited: Balzac, Chopin, Merleau-Ponty, Jim Morrisson to name but a few. It was not as green as I remembered, perhaps the grassy squares in Nørrebro's cemetery filling in gaps in memory. We spent several hours wandering about, sometimes aimlessly, just enjoying the art work of statues and tombs against the green leafy filtered light in the heat of the day. Coffee and late lunch was the next plan to be fulfilled so we wandered around to a cafe / bar called Chat Noir in the same arrondissement - a colourful mixed area, a very different feel to the 5e arrondissement which being a mere 10 minute walk to Notre Dame is quite an exclusive area. We sat indoors and ordered coffees and ate the sandwiches we brought with us - cheese and the baguettes bought that morning with a jar of kosher vegan pesto - not that we had any Jews among us - rather it was a random purchase, and one I would make again! Tasted excellent. Coffees were followed by a cold French beer. And before we knew it, 5o'clock came around and it was happy hour, so we ordered €2 crisp white wines and sat outside in the baking heat sipping. We eventually made our way back home and prepared a delicious dinner of couscous, stewed vegetables, hot sauce and melon salad. With this we drank more wine and stayed out late in the garden until it was time to retire again.

Midnight in Paris
Day 3: The usual long lazy breakfast of still-warm-from-the-bakery bread, cheeses, marmalades and croissants, coffee and teas, sunshine in the garden. The only set plan for the day was to go to the Louvre for which we had free entrance as Julie's friend was working on Friday evening and could get all of us in. Since the others had been there for several days before we arrived, Julie took this morning / afternoon to walk Tara and I around the 5e arrondissement, showing us the old Roman arena behind her house, the Luxembourg jardin, and the corner which Woody Allen has put on the map with Midnight in Paris. We picked up fresh bread on the way back for the late lunch were were to have since dinner time would be occupied with the Louvre visit. At 6pm we met outside the Louvre, having strolled there from Julie's, ambling by the Seine pausing by many of the vendors selling books and trinkets, past Notre Dame over the island and to the square outside the Louvre where we stopped for coffee having arrived a bit early. All gathered there at the designated time and our guide arrived minutes later, whisking us through some staff entrance, skipping all the queues in the giant pyramid topped centre. Since people wished to see different artists and exhibitions, I took off on my own, heading to the Dutch section, the Scandinavian section, Egypt, Greece and Iran and planned the tour based on these locations. So for three hours we all pottered around soaking up the grandeur and loveliness. We met outside at 9pm just as the sun was setting. There was a fareground in the gardens so with our museum weary feet, we drifted that direction, bottles of wine purchased nearby in hand, and sat between the ferris wheel and the fountain, chewing on sandwiches and swigging gulps of red. We stayed until we could stay no longer and were shooed out by caretakers. We drifted along the Seine for an hour or so, stopping eventually at a cluttered little bar where they sold €3 beer - no name, just 'beer'! It was quite nice despite its generic identity. As the early hours of the morning crept in, we took our tipsy selves home.
Day 4: there was nothing at all planned for Saturday. Some talked of visiting the Eiffel Tower and other touristy things, but I've done all that tourist business on previous trips, so I declined, instead settling into a late morning sitting in the garden with a book, then doing the grocery shopping with Julie in the afternoon. For the evening, I had plans to go see Midnight in Paris in the cinema that is featured in the film. About a 20 minute stroll from the house. It's been playing in the cinemas in Paris for many months now, but still the theatre was jam packed. Lovely film, lovely experience, made even more lovely by being right in the centre of the film location. Arrived home to find the gang splayed out in the garden, awaiting the arrival of the final members so they could begin to make the crepes and drink the cidre that Julie had bought from a tiny farm in Brittany near where her family has their second home. It was every bit as delicious as she claimed - sweet, bubbly and refreshing. I could have drank a gallon of the stuff! After crepes and cidre, we took our full bellies out for a late night stroll, stopping on those Midnight in Paris steps again.
Day 5: final day. There is a fresh fruit, vegetable, flea market half an hour away across the river on weekends so four of us got up early enough to visit and buy vegetables. The weather had turned; this day it was grey and drizzled intermittently, but pleasant in its own way. If you've seen Midnight in Paris you'll understand! We ambled around the market for an hour or so, then stopped at a grotty looking cafe for coffee. We had skipped breakfast, knowing we could find some interesting foodstuffs at the market. And we did. I chose an Algerian delicatessen and ordered a sort of soft layered savoury pastry, filled with tomato and onion, then a sort of corn biscuit sandwich filled with pressed dates. The others choose sandwiches and other odd pastry things from the various tiny shops dotted along the streets. We headed home with some fresh fruit and vegetables. We got home, packed and then headed out for one final Parisian coffee shop experience. Up to a small cluttered square in the far reaches of the 5e arrondissement where we were genuinely shocked by the prices for the first time since arrival. Truly a tourist trap, they were charging between €8 - €9.50 for a simple pastry, and that did not include coffee. We eventually chose a small bakery on a corner which had some chairs outside and had some reasonably priced coffees and delicious pastries.
All too soon it was time to say our goodbyes and head back underground along the weaving rails to Orly.
Copenhagen postcard sent to Paris, Aug. 1935
At midnight the flight touched ground in torrential rain Denmark. As the aircraft pulled up on the tarmac, an apologetic sounding pilot informed us that there was no sheltered exit walkway from the plane to the terminal available, and to make matters wetter, the entrance we pulled up by was undergoing repairs, so we would have to make a dash to the next one further away. Needless to say I was saturated to the skin by the time I got indoors again. You really do get what you pay for with budget airlines.
C'est tout.

Easter in Copenhagen

pearlswine — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 00:21:00 GMT

Friday 22nd / Good Friday, one of those rare days in Ireland where it is illegal to sell alcohol: bought a bottle of Prosecco on the way to Danish friends Christina & Jonas' house for the arranged Easter lunch - traditional Danish style, naturally. There were approximately 15 in attendance and so the basement had been reserved for the banquet. Six large tables pieced together to accommodate the crowd and the dazzling abundance of food. Baskets of rugbrød (rye bread) dotted the table, punctuated by bottles of glistening-from-the-freezer Snaps (almost pure alcohol the Danes love to drink at seasonal events). Baskets of boiled baby potatoes, boiled eggs, fresh chives, mayonnaise, remolade (like a lumpy tangy mayo), the Mexicans brought a bean dish dripping with melted cheese on top and a large bowl of delicious spicy guacamole, various types of fish: dried white fish from the Faroe islands, marinerede sild, karry sild (types of traditional pickled herring), a giant and unbelievably delicious veggie quiche just bursting with spinach, tomatoes, peppers and various other colourful delights. It was like Babette's feast without the bankruptcy. Prior to sitting down indoors, we basked in the hot sunshine, dotted around the big garden on chairs, benches, grass, and sucked on juicy dribbling slices of cool sweet watermelon, just shooting the breeze to the drifting tones of New Orleans jazz humming away like sweet sounds of distant honey bees hovering at blossoms. The cool shade at the banquet table came as a relief, our appetites now whetted by the watermelon and wine, and we set to work building ever more creative smørbrød (open face sandwich), interrupted regularly for another round of "skål" (cheers!) and a quaffing of ice cold Snaps (potent alcohol!).

So after a long lovely lunch, with the loveliest bunch of people one could hope to dine with, we shuffled gently out to the garden to bask in the afternoon sun once more. The wine long gone by now, it was beer for the afternoon and evening, with no less than two more outings to the local shop to restock. That sunshine kept evaporating everything! Sweet things for dessert started appearing late in the afternoon. Banana bread, French crepes, little chocolate eggs, all grazed on slowly by full bellied folk as a cow might distractedly chew cud. As the sun set and the cool early night air started to raise goosebumps, that was the cue to drift homeward. A spectacularly lovely day, followed by an 8 hour coma.

Saturday: a slow start to the day, vague notions of going to the library were dismissed in favour of sitting in my back garden in shorts, t-shirt and bare feet with a compendium of readings in search of some topic interesting enough to fill 25 pages. I should say that summer arrived nearly 2 weeks ago, so it's been shorts and t-shirt weather. I'm a bit tanned actually. The day was interrupted several times, welcome interruptions I might add, firstly by Belfast boy Paul from University out and about on his bike enjoying the sun. We had coffee and a chat for an hour then off he went on his merry way. Back to the sunny reading, then another visitor: Alina the Romanian from University this time arrived with a few cans of beer, and who was I to say no to some ice cool beverages on a hot day? We sat there until the afternoon sun was cut off by the high buildings and then went to make food - a homemade pizza this time, I had prepared dough the night before so it was fat and swollen as it should be. A delicious pizza later, we headed into town to see one of the CPH PIX (film festival) films - I had lots of tickets from volunteering I did for the festival, so I got to go for free. We went to Gloria cinema on Rådhuspladsen (town hall square) to see a film about red haired people, the translation roughly being "Our Day Will Come" or something like that. A French film starring Vincent Cassel (he was in Black Swan). A wonderful, dark comedy, very action driven which was lucky for me, as when the film started, the subtitles were in Danish and the dialogue, naturally, was in French. It didn't actually make much difference, I read the subtitles, and listened to the French - a language I once had a basic level of - and it was fine! And funny, a great film, really enjoyed it.

Never being one to celebrate Easter, I had no plans for Sunday. I woke up early as had been a spring habit with the morning sun waking me directly, so I decided that a long run was in order after the Friday Feast. Now usually I decided my occasional runs based on routes that I already know the distance of - such as Frederiksberg Have, the local park, is 2.4km per circuit. But on Sunday I decided that I would simply run for an hour, just focusing on time not distance. I took in a lap of the park for the scenery and elephants (it backs onto the zoo) - I still delight at the sight of those weird prehistoric looking things and just kept on going, occasionally telling myself in a southern drawl to 'run Forrest, run'. Not that I needed much spurring on. The warming morning air was just perfect for trotting around the pretty, leafy roads of Frederiksberg. So exactly an hour of weaving around, I trotted back indoors. I measured the distance which came out at exactly 8km. Now, it had slipped my mind that morning that I had said to Belfast boy Paul that I wanted him to take me along to this yoga class he takes up in the far reaches of Nørrebro, a neighbouring area. I may not have run 8km had I remembered that, so perhaps not a bad thing. We met up in the afternoon and cycled to what looks like a hippie reclaimed warehouse, up some dark weaving stairs and into a beautiful large light filled studio in the attic room. There were about 8 or 9 people in attendance, and we all fished out rolled up mats from a little cupboard at the end of the room and laid them out. I might add that I have never done yoga in my life, but being rather bendy in ways, I always suspected myself to have innate yoga skills! In some respects, I took to it fine - a few balance issues on the standing poses, but I can grab my two big toes and bring one toe about halfway up to my ear while sitting down (the bow and arrow pose) which I was chuffed with, 'cos you never know when you'll need to bring your toe up to your ear. The class went on for 2 hours: I was expecting an hour, tops, but it went pretty fast all the same and ended with a 15 minute relaxation which was so nice I had trouble staying awake.

My body felt so 'worked' after all that, so it was time to abuse it again, we figured. I headed home for some much needed lunch, then arranged to meet up with Vida the German, Alina the Romanian and Paul again at Nørrebro Bridge to sit lakeside and have a beer in the late afternoon sun. It was so picturesque: the Dannebrøg (DK flag) had been flying on the bridge for a while now (perhaps since the christening of the handsome Prince's twins a couple of weeks ago?) but as the sun drew nearer the horizon, the flag removers came to take them down. It was quite lovely to watch then lower these four giant beaming red symbols of lovely Denmark against that perfect clear blue. And we fell into a thoughtful relaxed silence watching these men at work, when out of the blue (literally) appeared no less than 14 hot air balloons of every colour you can imagine, drifting across the skies over the lakes, their perfect reflections doubling their number! It was gorgeous and whoops of delight and clicks of cameras became the symphony to the drifting sight. The day had surely peaked... but no, there was more to come. A ringing telephone. Chatter in Romanian. Laughter and many many "bina bina bina" - Romanian for an affirmative. Click, the phone is hung up. A beaming Alina excitedly announces that a woman who she had befriended on Twitter had just docked her yacht in Christianshavn, and did she want to come over - the posse too! Easter on a Swedish yacht? Yes please! A few bottles of wine purchased and a high speed cycle to Christianshavn, we found a beautiful white yacht, adorned with the Swedish flag, with two smiling faces on board. We hopped on and thus began a wonderful evening which would end in the early hours, after much interesting conversation with these Swedes (one originally from Romania). Still in shorts, sandals and t-shirt by 2am, the cold was beginning to catch up on the wine, so it was time to head home.

That’s how it ended. Easter in Copenhagen. For a thoroughly secular place; they sure do know how to have a happy Easter.

It doesn’t snow in Ireland

pearlswine — Sat, 1 Jan 2011 00:07:00 GMT

I eventually made it back to Denmark - I say eventually because it took several days to get out of blizzardy Dublin and involved an overnight camp in the airport - which actually turned out to be an amazing night! I’ll get back to that in a bit.

About lunchtime on Monday 20th December, the skies got dark and large flakes of snow started drifting down, ever the heavier. The airport was still open and functioning when I got on the Aircoach at 16:30. Plenty of time to make it in for the 18:45 flight to which I had already checked in online. Just a bag drop to do. BUT - the roads and the millions of drivers were not prepared for the snow which was now coming down at an alarming rate! So obviously everybody seeing the snow panicked and immediately took to the roads to get home. I have never seen traffic so bad. The M1 was a car park. What should have been a 40 minute journey took 1 hour 40 minutes and we only made it that quick because the driver took off his usual route and cut through Swords village. With finger tapping at bruising point, the moment the bus pulled up at the airport the anxious passengers leaped up into the aisle, no exception in my case, grabbed my case and I ran at speed through the airport in a scene not unlike the Home Alone panic airport rush and luckily enough there was still a staff member at the otherwise deserted SAS Check-In desk 9. She took my baggage with an air of trepidation not quite masked, but with typical flawless Scandinavian efficiency. I proceeded to run to security, now only 15 minutes before the flight was due to leave, tugging my belt off as I darted through the crowd control tape leading to security. It was ominously quiet at security so I got through in record time. But as I glanced at the board to see what gate to go to, the depressing words "CANCELLED" started flashing. Groan. I calmly re-threaded my belt, and asked a staff member where I collect my baggage. That sounds like an easy task, but I omitted the throngs of people circling the yellow vested woman so that alone took 10 minutes of forcefully eyeing and vying for her frazzled attention. Standing at the carousel for 40 minutes with a bunch of Danes, the familiar sound of Danish was somewhat comforting. I just wanted to be back here. Once the bags finally re-emerged, dazed and confused from their futile trip around those underground belts, it was a quick dash to the SAS desk to re-book on the next available flight. The next morning flight was full, so they put me on the 18:45 flight instead. Okay, grand. But now I had to get out of the airport and find somewhere to stay for the next 24 hours. I had heard South Dublin was the worst hit, with record amounts of snow, so heading back to the parent’s house was out of the question. But my buddy Mildred who lives close to town kindly offered me her couch for the night. It took over an hour of standing in the snow to get on an Aircoach; the queues were that long and the roads were that bad. Eventually I got back into town and made my way to Mildred's. Normally a 20 minute walk from O'Connoll Street, but this time taking 40 dragging a heavy case through the foot of snow leaving in my wake a cleared path for the lucky street walkers headed my way.

She had the heating in the house blasting when I got there, it was heaven! I cracked open a bottle of Bailey's I'd been given, and we drank a few glasses of that. Very necessary after the evening I had. Next day I refused to get out of "bed" until 11. Felt great to get a lie in - the first one all week, in spite of many many many late nights! The weather had eased considerably, and flights were coming and going from the airport so it was looking good. I couldn't risk another looooong bus journey so I was back on the Aircoach by 15. However, the snow decided to start falling again around that time; more of the heavy variety. Got to the airport around 16, in what were pretty much blizzard conditions, on a bus that was sliding and skidding on the hidden ice all the way. A huge queue had already formed for the 18:45 flight. I stood next to a guy from Northern Ireland, a Swedish woman and a Lithuanian woman. The latter two trying to get home for Christmas, Northern Ireland guy trying to get back to DK to spend Christmas with his kids. We whiled away the time waiting for SAS to make a definitive announcement by trying to explain to the women that it doesn't actually snow in Ireland and that's why there's no such thing as snow tyres or tyre chains here! Funny against the backdrop of a blizzard so bad, the building across the road was invisible. Finally SAS confirmed what we were all dreading yet expecting: no flights tonight. Seemingly it takes 4 hours of no snow falling to clear the runways and there just wasn't going to be a break in the weather for that length of time on Tuesday evening at all. But the SAS staff passed on some promising news too: SAS were going to charter a special flight just for us at 09:30 to get us all home for Christmas. It was good to hear, especially as every 10 minutes on the loudspeaker, a gruff announcement was made that "Any passengers on cancelled Ryanair flights, please leave the airport, go home and re-book your flights". And to add salt to the wound the announcement continued: "Please return any duty free you have purchased back to the duty free shop." Owch! They won't even let you drown your sorrows with cheap booze!

Since it was about 17 when SAS announced the rescue plan, I had made up my mind to spend the night at the airport. There was little point in spending 3 hours getting home only to have to be back in by 07:30 to check in. The Northern guy said he too was going to stay overnight while the women said they were going home. Mad pair! So I had an airport buddy for the evening. We immediately set a direct course to the bar upstairs and ordered ourselves a couple of Guinness's. We got on like a house on fire, yapping away about this and that, until the bar closed at 20 and we had to find somewhere else to pass the time. We found another bar, The Fáilte Bar, downstairs at Arrivals and found ourselves squashed in a booth with two older women and a son in law of one of them. They were waiting for the arrival of two young kids from Belarus. Saw Adi Roche, founder of the Chernobyl Children’s Project, was there too sitting on the far side of the bar. We sat with the ladies and the fella, laughing and joking, reading trashy newspaper horoscopes to each other, until their time came to head off. Our next recruit was a Polish guy who was standing at the bar when I was ordering yet another round. He was all smiles and a bit shy, so I insisted he come sit with us. Jarek was his name, and I remember little else about him except laughing long and hard when he insisted that he could not sit in the middle because "he didn't want to split up a lovely couple"! We howled laughing at that - and explained to him through ruptured gasps of laughter that we had no idea who the other was, and that we hadn't even swapped names yet! We did at that point though – “Hi, I’m Damien” and “Hi, I’m Sue. Nice to meet you!”
We parted ways with Jarek when the bar closed and Jarek wanted to head out with his friend (who had been snoozing on a nearby couch) to puff on a few cigarettes. So we bid our farewells and best wishes and so Damien and I had to find something else to occupy us. It was late but we were too wired to even think about camping for the night just yet. So we set off on a mission to find the elusive entrance to the brand new Terminal 2. Barely open, it only services two airlines: Ethiad and some other Middle Eastern airline. We wandered until we found the innocuous door leading to the beautiful and glamorous Terminal 2: down a long unfinished tunnel which was very much exposed to the elements brrrr! It had a roof, alright, but cheap runner carpet over chipboard on the floor, and air vents which had not been sealed yet so it was minus temperatures in there. A quick dash through and we emerged in this almost empty cavern of a place. The strangest thing was that the Ethiad flight from Abu Dhabi landed that evening? The Sheik must have a magic carpet Damien mused, sending us into fresh gales of soused silly chuckles. We wandered around discovering all the nooks and crannies of the new Terminal until the sleepiness started to creep in. We went back through the arctic corridor to Terminal 1 and went in search of a spot on the floor to set up camp. But since there was reportedly 40,000 people staying overnight that night; finding a spot in what looked like a refugee camp proved impossible. After a long and futile round trip through Terminal 1, finally we decided to trek back through the arctic corridor to the opulent loveliness of Terminal 2. Why didn’t we just stay there? I’ll have to blame the Guinness for clouding the obvious. We found a cosy spot in The Oak Cafe. Others had the same idea, but there was space and enough chairs to make makeshift "beds". The marble floor looked a bit cold. So that's how my night in the airport ended.

Now, what struck me most about Night in the Airport, was the sheer brilliant mood of everyone there! I have never had so much fun in an airport in my life - people were ready to make jokes and strangers were finding airport buddies for the night and little groups of people were forming to keep what were already high spirits even higher! It was wonderful. Something Damien and I had commented on at the time even; comparing Danish and other cultures with the social ‘more the merrier' attitude of the Irish: best summed up in the word ‘craic’. Danes have they word for a great night out. They call it ‘hyggelig’ – a word approximating to ‘cosy’. Not quite the Irish style which seems to involve the infecting of strangers with good humour. I had thought when deciding to stay overnight that I'd find a book, a corner and read till I fell asleep and that would be as good as it could possibly get.

How wrong can you get?