Paris, je t'aime

Keeping company with Shakespeare

"Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise." It is a haven in the city. You fight your way over Pont Neuf to the Left Bank, through traffic and bicycles and dogs and cafes spilling out onto pavements and waiters flagging down tourists, until you reach a quiet, tree-lined square that was once a monastery and later a slum, and finally cross the threshold of the little English-language bookstore called Shakespeare and Company, Paris.

Once inside, it is as though you have come home. That is, if home was a place with little nooks and crannies of bookshelves stretching right up to the medieval ceiling, lined with exposed beams and strung with chandeliers. You gather up books to buy later, drop some coins in the wishing well, and climb the narrow stairs.

Up here is perfect peace. Ancient, cloth- and leather-bound books line the shelves, and the tiny rooms are dotted with couches and armchairs that have been well-worn to faultless comfort. You hear birds. Following the sound, you take a seat by one of the open windows where geraniums flower in pots and, just beyond them and across the Seine, Notre Dame rests in centuries of sleep.

You pull out one of the old books and start to read. Hours and visitors come and go, browsing, reading, softly talking. From the other room, someone opens a piano and begins to play a classical tune you don't recognise. It is lovely. They play another, so you put down the book and close your eyes to listen.

The bookstore's founder, George Whitman, long ago spent many years walking through South America. "I walked from Mexico to Panama," he said, "where the road ended before an almost uninhabited swamp called the Choco Colombiano. Even today there is no road."

He was touched by the hospitality of the locals, who would often feed and accommodate him. This had a profound impact upon his life, and led him to create a bookstore that would become a sanctuary for writers and artists.

First called Le Mistral and then changed to Shakespeare and Company as an homage to Sylvia Beach's famous Parisian bookstore of the same name (1919-1940), the lovely little space where you now rest your eyes and listen to classical music first opened in 1951.

Since then, hundreds of thousands of writers, artists and friends have found a place to rest in this haven in the city, including Anaïs Nin, Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, Gregory Corso, William S Burroughs and Alen Ginsberg.

And now you.

The long French dusk gathers, slowly, while you read and rest. When at length you step back outside, golden light spills from the bookstore onto the square, and festive, coloured cafe lights loop across the night sky.

You re-enter the crowds and find a restaurant with friends but somehow, while the waiter buzzes past delivering crepes and olives and fries and wine, you carry the peace of Shakespeare and Company with you into the city.

And all around, Paris glows.

Paris flea markets

Reason #612 why I need an apartment in Paris: so that I will have a place to put all the amazing and ridiculously cheap finds at Paris' several marchés aux puces (flea markets). I need space, par example, for that antique typewriter; that gloriously carved and upholstered chair; that ancient Turkish lantern; those three concertina cameras; that tarnished, silver tea set; and that sweet little watercolour by a little known artist from La Belle Époque.

However, finding myself somewhat wanting in the Parisian apartment department (give me time), I have had to make do with these small mementos.

* A beautiful, tall antique bottle * Another antique bottle, this one a heavenly dark blue * Four antique postcards (later, I'll try to translate the messages) * A lovely, rusty old key. I wonder what it once opened * Three unused antique postcards, to send to friends * A little book on French history * Antique Queen Elizabeth tin * A colourful woven basket (not pictured because it was too big)

And some other reasons why my bag was so heavy:

* A hand painted Christmas bauble from Paris * Little glass bird, found in Carcassonne * Reproduction of an ancient map of Venice * A fantastically trashy and touristy Rome mug * A Venetian mask (the girls bought us one each for my birthday party) * Two tiny vials of perfume from Grasse * A glass Christmas bauble from Murano, Venice (Santa driving a gondola) * Glass candy, also from Murano * Sweet little purse depicting Marie Antoinette fashion * A flipbook with a romantic Paris street scene * Flower stickers * Leftover stamps, since the kids didn't send as many postcards as expected * Three watercolours from an artist in Monmartre, and another two from Venice * Novels The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and The Lady and the Little Fox Fur, and children's picture book Paris Y Es Tu? (too big to be pictured) * A wonderful notebook with vibrant squares of Pantone colour * Piece of handmade Venetian lace * Shoulder bag from my favourite bookstore EVER, Shakespeare & Co (Paris)

Floating through time

Float with me a while, along Venice's strangely silken waters. The morning is unseasonably hot and when the canal takes an eastward turn, you shade your eyes in the glare. At unexpected corners, the water sparkles in the sun like shards of fine Murano glass.

Your gondolier isn't of the singing persuasion, only whistling fragments of tunes at intervals, but this suits you because the soft splash of oar on water lulls you into gentle thoughtfulness.

You still your imagination: you wouldn't want to be anywhere but right here.

The air is thick with centuries past. Each sweep of the gondolier's oar takes you further back in time.

You float.

From this window, Vivaldi once watched over the canal with symphonies in his heart. Behind that window, Casanova practiced glorious seductions. And out of that doorway Marco Polo once walked, en route to discover new worlds.

The gondolier holds your hand to steady you as you step back onto the path.

You discover time was unfolding while you were drifting. You are now in a world as ancient as it is beautiful. Twisted laneways, rough with cobblestones, wind in picturesque labyrinths that make being lost a glorious joy.

Life on these islands is lived in concert with the centuries. There are no cars, not one. Family laundry is strung across narrow streets. Small children leap like seasoned sailors from footbridges into waiting boats. Mossy steps slope from home front doors directly into canals. A fruit vendor sells his wares from a watery stall.

In these narrow streets, colour explodes out of tiny, ancient shops. You long to buy it all: the hand-stitched, marbled paper notebooks; spectacular glass bowls, vases and chandeliers; menageries of phantasmagorical carnivale masks; delicate lace that smiling women stitch while you watch; and antique decoupage music boxes depicting dancing jesters and masked lovers.

You think, "this is the closest we have to Atlantis."  You are right.

Travel envy

A guest post from Gillian of Ink Paper Pen. I'm so happy to introduce you to Gillian today. Not content with one blog, Gillian is an author on two: creative writerly Ink Paper Pen (fabulous community 5-min writing exercises every Wednesday if you want to join in), and down-the-rabbit-hole-esque Alice Becomes. On top of that, she manages to be a mum to two small boys. But most of all, Gillian is incredibly thoughtful, gentle and downright lovely. And I can personally attest to that!

On a Sunday afternoon not long ago, a group of friends and I were sharing a bottle of wine and a chat about the time we shared together in Edinburgh. I was moved by the reminiscing. Edinburgh is vibrant, beautiful and historical but I have a soft spot for it as it is where I met the person who became the father of my children and my partner. I found myself getting carried away in memories, trying to recall the names of our favourite bars, tiny pubs and restaurants. But my fond recollections were brought screaming to a halt when one friend began to scoff. “You were a lazy traveller in Edinburgh”. I looked at him, baffled, waiting for an explanation. “But you didn’t visit the castle” he continued accusingly, putting his glass down abruptly on the table. “You can’t go to Edinburgh and not visit the castle”.

My scolding friend went on a guided tour of Edinburgh Castle the day he arrived in Scotland.  But in the two years I lived in this glorious city, I didn’t think to officially “visit the castle.” Instead, I walked past it every day, loving the sound of my feet on the cobblestone streets of the city. I read books about the castle’s history while lying in The Meadows on warm afternoons.

I think travelling is an art form. People travel for different reasons. Escapism. Self Discovery. Work. Fun. Inspiration. Spiritual Pilgrimage. All of the above and more.

For me it is about the getting there. The movement. The sleeper train to Bangkok. The bus ride in Borneo. A ferry to Calais. You will find me staring out the window, dreaming and thinking and writing. Absorbing the new sounds, foreign words, different smells and tastes.

Others prefer a guided tour. A good friend and I travelled to Paris together a few years back and we were not a good travelling match. Arguments began over where and what to do. To keep the peace, I begrudgingly followed her up the Eiffel Tower. We reached the top and she snapped away on her camera, pointing out the bright sights of Paris as she went. I had lost my patience hours earlier, somewhere in the never ending lines and sea of snap happy tourists. I wanted to be on the ground, devouring cafe visits interspersed with the discoveries that can only come from wandering without a plan.

It’s funny. The approach to travel is different from person to person but the appeal of travel? Well, that seems to be universal. Most people I know are half way to Barcelona in their minds upon the first mention of Sangria.

This fascinates me. Why do we travel? I suspect it has something to do with the journey we take in our imagination beforehand. And of course the journey we take for many years afterwards. Perhaps embellished in our reverie. Does the reality of travel match the wonder of our imagination? People circumnavigate the globe, all alone, with only the sound of the ocean for company. Others cross deserts and dangerous lands for the experience of driving their motorbike overland. This is more than desiring a holiday.

I love the delicious anticipation and thirst of curiosity. The satisfying feeling that comes with knowing you are going somewhere. I love to stand alone, no longer defined by the people and places around me.

Why do YOU travel?

Hawk Hill

A guest post from Brandi of Not Your Average Ordinary. Oh my, you are in for a treat today. You know those rare blogs that never cease to surprise you? On one day you'll find something inspiring to look at, the next, a journey through a dream, on another, practical and lovely ideas for work... That's what you'll find on Brandi's blog. To cinch the deal, this lady is also thoughtful and sweet. All of which makes me very happy to announce: Brandi is RIGHT HERE today. Hooray!

It was a place of fog and mist. On occasion, the sun broke through long enough to see the city that lay below, but this place belonged to the fog.

The path away from the iconic bridge and city led through a tunnel. The wind whipped around, as if time itself were being erased. All sounds were caught up and brushed into a corner, never to escape past the archways.

There, on the other side, were woods and an undulating landscape that looked like the western coast of Ireland: green, cliffs, and wide ocean.

The road wound in an almost dizzy way, but it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t the road that was important; it was the fact that it hugged the coast, that it lead from one gorgeous scene to the next, that it was the place to watch the sun dip into the water. This place was one moment of a long journey.

This place is Hawk Hill, just north of San Francisco. It was one of the many stops on my long road trip from the West Coast to the East Coast. And it was where I fell in love with northern California. (I, of course, hadn’t even seen Napa yet.) The unexpectedness of it all caught me in my chest, and it still hasn’t let me go. Places between two worlds like this one are truly something special.

The secret journey

Here is a little secret that I haven't shared on this blog to-date: I am off on a holiday. Tomorrow bright and early I hop on a plane, and I will be a-travelling for a month. London - Paris - Languedoc - Provence - Venice - Rome. Oh, methinks there will be grand adventures. I didn't sleep last night for the excitement, just like a little child before Christmas. To keep you entertained in the meantime, I have lined up some absolutely wonderful guest bloggers to keep this site alive. They are creative, kind, surprising, inspiring and clever people, so I know you will love what they pull together. Please show them lots of love and support, and remember to say hi to them in the comments box so they know you're there.

I'll return in October, and I dare say there will be stories to tell.

Yours truly, Naomi

New York

I had all kinds of happy stories planned to tell you in my post today, but I find I can't do it, because my heart is breaking a little bit for New York.

As I type, the whole city is being battered by a slow-moving hurricane that, the last time I saw the news, was the apparently size of Europe. Is that even possible? Could I have misheard? It's terrifying. New York is not set up to withstand hurricanes. A week ago the east coast suffered an earthquake (thankfully, my friends in Richmond Virginia are ok, but others are not).

And on Thursday, I found out that the apartment I used to live in in SoHo - filled with many, many good friends - burned up in a fire earlier this month. I feel so saddened for my SoHo friends and neighbours. Thankfully, none of them were harmed in the fire. But some lost absolutely everything: their homes, their possessions, everything from clothes and toothbrushes to travel mementos, wedding certificates and family photographs... as they rushed from the burning building in terror at 2am. Today, my friends are still homeless.

I have all these conflicting emotions: I'm grateful my friends weren't harmed; deeply saddened for their loss of everything they value and everything they need; so glad that other friends recently moved out of the building; relieved I wasn't living in the building at the time; and selfishly at a loss because 68 Thompson Street, that place in my mind that has represented the epicentre of my homesickness for New York for 18 months since I left, no longer exists.

Now, I am wishing upon every lucky star in the sky that my friends make it through Hurricane Irene unharmed, too.

My ancient, isolated, inscrutable country

This weekend, Mr B and I packed up our suitcases, the dog, and the cat, and drove more than 2000 kilometres across Australia to our new home in Adelaide, South Australia. The drive took us through the heart of the Australian outback and I wish I had the words or pictures to do it justice.But we covered the distance in just two days, so there were few stops, and the only photos I have are Instagram snapshots taken from the moving car.And words... well if you've been in the Australian outback, you'll know it pre-dates words by about 30 millennia.

The outback is too ancient, too isolated, too harsh, and too inscrutable for a city dweller like me to be granted the right words to tell its story. So here, instead, are snippets - little totems - from the journey.

Day 1:

The houses disappear first. Then the hills, and any tall trees. The road stretches into a distance where the horizon starts to curve, and we drive an hour without meeting another car in any direction. It is all very silent.On the rare occasion that we do pass another vehicle, most often they are shipping trucks or road trains, Mr B gives them what he believes is the Salute of the Road, an unspoken camaraderie. This consists of him straightening the fingers of his right hand into a stationery wave, without actually lifting his hand off the wheel. To Mr B's dismay, most truckers appear oblivious to the Salute of the Road, but he persists in hope.I put on a reading of The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, a welcome and very entertaining diversion as the desert relentlessly unfolds.

As dusk gathers, our drive becomes dangerous. This is the hour that kangaroos get lively, and a Big Red leaping onto the road at the precise time that we meet a rare oncoming fellow motorist almost has us. When you're hurtling along the open road at 110, 'roos crossing are a lethal hazard.

After the sun sets, quite spectacularly and blindingly in the red dust and directly in our eyes, the tension builds and we are both on high alert for animals appearing out of the darkness. We turn off the story. Night draws in. From our place directly underneath the Milky Way, the stars appear as big as plums. We encounter more 'roos but manage to avoid catastrophe, and Mr B spots an echidna ambling by the side of the road, going about its private business.

By the time we pull into Bourke, our stopover for the night, we are both wrung out. Pets are not welcome, so the dog sleeps in the car and we sneak the cat into the hotel bathroom in the little fruit box she has slept in all day.

Day 2:

We wake before dawn and are on the road as the sky begins to open up. It's almost two hours before we get to the next town (the next town = breakfast, so I am starving).Today, we see all the animals we mercifully missed last night. Kangaroos of course, grey ones, red ones, and the smaller wallabies. We pass emus, mostly in twos but once or twice in a whole flock. Feral goats are everywhere, and cattle, wild boars, foxes, and a sheep that sends the dog into a frenzy when it runs clumsily away from the car, unshorn wool dragging along the ground.(Oh! Joy of joys! Someone has just returned Mr B's Salute of the Road. He lets out a "WOOP!" and then "YEAH!" and punches the air with his fist. You'd think he just won an Olympic gold medal.)

When we stop for fuel in a remote little town, a flock of red-crested black cockatoos lands noisily in the tree above us. With their wings spread, the sun glints through the red underneath and the cockatoos appear otherworldly: dark and fiery and unpredictable.

Fuel and food stops are fascinating. We pass through towns of utter isolation, rotting fence-posts and rusting corrugated iron buildings bowing in the winter wind and sun. There are wildflowers, this time of year, but no pasture. It is a cruel place. We wonder how people survive out here, and why they choose to. I admire but I don't understand them.

At one stop, Mannahill, an abandoned race track sinks back into the desert. We think about the town it must once have been.

Then I put The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie back on, and we drive into another dusk.

Have you ever felt like a foreigner in your own country? Tell me I'm not alone.

Weekend on instagram

Saturday: a road-trip toward the tropics; surprisingly good latte from McDonalds drivethru; mapping out our next 20 years together while rolling past banana plantations, deserted farmhouses, lovely Queenslander homes and strange monoliths; a birthday party in a house at the end of a country lane; long table on sunny porch, spread with white cloth and strewn with flower petals; warm winter sun gleaming off wine-glasses, quickly drunk and refilled; children playing piano inside; a toddler in the vege patch; crochet cupcake for the birthday boy; dog and chicken sharing scraps; a tropical garden: trees laden with grapefruit, lychees and avocados; jokes and laughter; coffee inside as afternoon shadows lengthen. Sunday: cushions soften the steps of the stone amphitheatre at Bond University, in the company of the famous Aunty Bev and friends; stretch legs, hug hands to hot drinks; and tap toes to the lovely, warm vocals of Nadia Sunde and guitarist Michael Fix as the breeze catches a chill and the sun slides over the lake and into the night.