Photo February Day Twenty Nine

Fountain, The Alcazar, Seville, 2010

My last photo for February. Ah. No more trawling through the external hard drive late into the night. No more pressure. Yay. Actually, I've rather enjoyed this effort - it's been fun.

Normal blogging resumes in the next few days.

I want to leave you with a peaceful photo, because at the moment, all I want is a bit of peace, and another day to the week where I can clean my tip of a flat and sleep in and read.

Hope you've enjoyed Photo February. I've enjoyed not writing about my day-to-day life for a month, reflecting, looking back and revisiting some of the wonderful places of been and experiences I've had over the last few years. I've looked over the photos from the last month and I realise just how blessed I've been.

Of this fountain. It was in the gardens of the Alcazar. I stared at it for a long time. What a place to sit and refect. Oh what it must be like to be able to take your book here and read in this pavillion. What would it be like on a hot day, listening to the trickle of the water, catching the odd breeze, glass of sangria nearby, when you want to stretch your legs there are acres of gardens to enjoy just outside.

This little place is part of my idea of heaven.

Photo February - Day Twenty Six

Ruin, Pearson's Bridge, Co Cork, Ireland, 2006

Visiting Blarney and Barney in 2006, we spent a day visiting what Blarney refers to as "old shit".

This was one of the bits of "old shit" we saw. I just prettied up the background because it was a grey day and it makes the ruin stand out a bit more.

We had a great day. The first stop was to the Jameson's factory where we had a tour of the site with a very corny tour guide. This was followed by an Irish whisky tasting, which is always fun. Then we went down to Bantry Bay for a look around, then back to Cork via this place - which was pretty magic.

I love Ireland an have been there on many occasions. It was the one place I could visit freely outside of the UK when I was living as an illegally in Britain, only because you didn't need a passport to get there. The people are lovely, the guinness flows freely and for somebody who was raised in an arid country, I can never get enough of the green of the countryside, the music in the pubs or SuperMac's garlic fries. And there are no snakes there either because St Patrick drove them all away ages ago.

Of the places I'd return to again - Galway and Glendalough stick out in my mind, though I'm very fond of Dublin - even if I did end up in the Mater hospital with suspected pneumonia on one trip.

Of this picture, the other thing it reminds me of is the poster I used to have on my wall at college. A large poster of "The Unforgetable Fire", the U2 album. This is not the castle used on the cover short, but it brings back memories from what now appears to be a simpler time.

Photo February Day Twenty Two

Really Big Buddha, Bangkok, 2010

This is allegedly the biggest reclining Buddha in the world. This would belong somewhere in Queensland, but it's not made of plastic, nor is it sitting by the roadside east of some nondescript town. This golden boy, 46 metres long and 15 metres high, gilded, etched and peaceful, lies in this massive hangar-like structure in Wat Pho, Bangkok.

Visiting him is a must. Other than he's very photogenic, it gives an interesting insight into modern Thai life. You can also get a good, cheap Thai massage at the onsite massage school - though Thai massage is a form of torture for some, pleasure for others - depends if you like somebody trying to forcibly insert your foot in your ear.

For me, I just love this guy's eternally peaceful face. 

Photo February Day Twenty One

Afternoon Street, Granada, Spain, 2010

Love this photo, the long shadows, the lane ways, the man at the side of the Cathedral doing heaven knows what. Granada sits in the shadow of the Alhambra in so many ways, this maze like city of churches and students, with its rough and ready feel and a palpable heartbeat throbbing away.

My time here let me witness some of the miracles of of Spain. The prayers of  cloistered nun. A joys of the Hammam bath house. The veiled threat of the peaceful demonstration. The wonders of getting lost in an area you would never do before.

Magic place, Granada. A place of shadows.



Photo February Day Nineteen

Temple Cat, Bangkok, 2009

Temples are as much a part of life in Thailand as eating. They are revered and enjoyed by the population. Thai Buddha's are wrapped up and dressed with the seasons, they are visited, left offerings and treated like kings - which is probably the point of being a deity.

So wandering around the temple complex of the Big Golden Bhudda, finding these guys wrapped up in plastic while renovations were done, it just felt a little out of character. The cat skerricking away, t, the drums of paint, the plastic sheeting, the lack of workman, the lacksadaisical way the buddha's are wrapped - it's hard to work out whether this is all being done out of duty or care.

Then there's the cat. What's he doing there? Who does he belong to? Who feeds him?

I discovered over the ten days I was in Thailand that surly cats are a temple feature, pissing in pot plants, swiping at visitors, other demanding a flea providing cuddle or just sizing you up, protecting the buddhas as if they were infirm people.

They're like the silent heartbeat of these magnificent places.

 

Photo February Day Eighteen

Little Girl at the Alcazar, Seville, November 2010

I came to the Alcazar late on my trip through Spain. After experiencing overwhelming deja vu in Toledo, wandering the Thyssen-Bournemisza in Madrid and nearly passing out from the beauty of the Alhambra in Grenada I got to Seville with the distinct feeling of disengagement. Another bloody palace. Fine. It's just another bloody palace.

The Alcazar is not just another bloody palace.

I've got this inkling that there is a part of me which is undeniably Moorish. I have dark eyes, unruly hair, olive skin (when it gets a lick of sun) I'd fit in very well in the Ottoman empire. Being of Cornish and Welsh tin mining stock is just far too ordinary.

Anyway, on my last afternoon in Seville, I braced myself for yet another bloody palace - but I shouldn't have worried. The place is entrancing.

I like the juxtapositions in this shot. The intricate, aged masonry, the parquetry and colourful woodwork, the greenery. You can imagine this as a working palace hundreds of year ago, courtesans wandering aimlessly, pomegranate in hand, withering under the Seville heat. The child, dressed in a flamenco costume, wandered into the shot. A princess in waiting. She had a right to be there. It was if she owned the place, galivanting around in her little red dress, the Alcazar atrium her playground.

How this place must appear to a child. Another spot in the world I'd go back to in a heartbeat.

Photo February Day Thirteen

Door Knocker, Durham Cathedral, 2006

I'm a cathedral junkie.

Not many people get this obsession, but there is something about cathedrals that I can't get enough of. The older the better. They're like cats, or children. They all have their own personalities and foibles and indiosyncracies and a very vibrant life of their own.

I really like English Cathedrals and the rich history they provide, what with the reformation and the disolution of the monasteries, the pure destruction and tentative rebuilding of these megatliths which were built out of love with what are now primitive tools and have somehow stood the tests of rampaging time. Could you imagine them building a cathedral in modern times (okay, scratch that, the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona is still not finished 100 years on - with modern tools... and modern unions... and modern standards...) 

I spend hours wandering through these structures when I get the chance. My record would be spending seven hours going through York Minster on my first visit there - time well spent pouring over chapter houses, vaulting, masonry, right down to the little mice carved into the pews near the Lady Chapel.

Ely Cathedral is breathtaking, this 'Ship of the Fens' visible on the horizon for miles, the pure white light of the Lady Chapel, exquisite. Love the place. Lincoln's dog legging nave is a testement to time and engineering (and goes to prove that modern engineering would have put the structure out of the town on firmer ground. St Paul's whispering gallery still gets my imagination, even if it does mean scaling these large, circular staircases. Westminter Abbey, a Royal Peculiar rather than a cathedral can be dwelled on for days - there's so much to take in.

Yeah, you got it, Cathedral Nerd. (She shrugs and sighs)

Another favorite place that I go back to if I'm in the area, is Durham Cathedral, with its unusual fluted vaults (as seen in the flms Elizabeth and the Harry Potter films) a structure has been on the site for over a thousand years. It's one of the oldest standing Cathedrals in the country and a fine example of Norman architecture.

This photo is of the door knocker on the North Door of the cathedral. Known as the Sanctuary Knocker because of its former use.

"The knocker on the Cathedral’s northern door, known as the Sanctuary Knocker, played an important part in the Cathedral’s history. Those who ‘had committed a great offence,’ such as murder in self-defence or breaking out of prison, could rap the knocker, and would be given 37 days of sanctuary within which they could try to reconcile with their enemies or plan their escape." The right to sanctuary was recinded in 1624.

The original one is sitting in the cathedral museum, but this is a great replica.

I love stuff like this. Finding out information such as this on an item as trivial as a door knocker... like, cool!

It makes travelling all the more enriching.

Photo February - Day Eleven

Monk and Doorway, Bangkok, 2008

I take lot of photos of windows and doorways on my travels. You never know what you're going to find down a passageway.

I've been with travellers who knock on large doors in castles and cathedrals wherever they go - just to see who will open them, so it seems we nutty people with a fascination for buildings are around the place. It comforts me.

Me - I'm forever looking for what is around the corner or down the lane. I look down passageways, out windows and through doors - just to see what is there. It has to be done.

I found this monk in a courtyard in Bangkok, quiet in contemplation.He stood there for ages, just watching whatever he was watching. He was so peaceful.

One of my dream holidays is to travel to Chiang Mai and spend a week at Wot Doi Suthep learning about Buddhist meditation - what a great way to do very, very little in an incredibly beautiful place.

Until I get that dream holiday, I'm just going to have to ponder this monk, pondering whatever he may be pondering.

This is one of my favorite photos I've taken in my life.

 

Photo February Day Ten

JFK Library Flag, Boston, 2010

Americans do flags really well.

As a rule, Australians don't.

I find it quite distubing seeing these yoofs at the cricket draping the Australian flag across their shouldres like a cape, wearing Australian flag tattoos on their cheekbones, or the new seemingly eponymous Southern Cross tattoo plastered about the place. See, what happens when move country, or get another passport? Then there are the people who fly the flag in their front yards - again, don't know if I agree with this - though it comes down to personal choice. Personally, I don't think the Australian flag is that inspiring - nor does the website "Bad Flags of the World" which give our flag a C  -something about being colonial rubbish - worth a look the site - though I do think it strange that the nearly identical Australian and New Zealandish flags are rated very differently. (The website is really worth a look for a giggle - some people have too much time on their hands)

As a kid, nobody had the flag flying in their front yards - now, it's becoming more common. Then you have the Aboriginal Flag, the rather menacing Eureka Flag (you know when that's being flown men in the building trade are about) and the completely uninspiring state flags. Think about it - what is a flag other than a bit of material with a uniform pattern on it?

In the US, the flag is EVERYWHERE. You can't look right and not the see the good ole red, white and blue flying in your face. When you're not used to such rampant patriotism, it's all a bit confronting.

Regardless, I look at this photo and see a poignancy to the American flag that I don't reckon I've witnessed before.

This shot was taken in the atrium of the John F Kennedy Library in Boston.

It's a remarkable place for a number of reasons. Firstly, it's a bugger to get to if you don't have a car. You take the 'T' the Boston Metro out to what feels like Woop Woop, then you hop on a free bus which takes you the rest of the way. The building is stark, standing on a bit of land near the seafront of Columbia Bay. There is nothing else around. It would have been peaceful there if it wasn't for the biting wind.

JFK is an American icon. He lead America though an era of change, an incredible era era where America started to live out out some of it's dreams. And battle some of its demons.

The museum is fascinating. Unlike Australia and much of Europe, the Americans charge through the nose for you to go to museums and galleries, so you hope that the visit is going to be worth you dishing out your hard earned coin. I arrived late afternoon, only just making the final cut off for visitors. I wish I had a lot longer. This is an amazing place. Fascinating. Reverent. And very, very well done.

I stayed in the atrium and pondered this flag for a long time before I was ushered out the door to the bus stop. It was a cool, blowy Boston day, the sky overcast, the night drawing in quickly as it tends to do in Massachussetts in October. Looking up amongst the railings and struts of the ceiling, the flag hangs as a symbol for everything America stands for.

In this majestic setting, you get an inkling into the greatness that America can be.

I don't make statements like this often.



Photo February Day Nine

Daggers, Canterbury Cathedral, 2006

I'm one for pilgrimages. I have this desire to do the Camino Compostella de Santiago one day, traipsing across the North of Spain checking out cathedrals and pondering the steps that millions have taken over centuries.

This photo is of one of my pilgrimage places.

Every time I'm in England I like to come here and sit for a while and ponder. I've been drawn to this place since I read the Canterbury Tales at uni. These daggers mark the spot where St Thomas a Becket was murdered. The place - Canterbury Cathedral.

So why does a murdered twelfth century saint have such meaning for a woman in the 21st Century? Thomas a Becket, a common man, a merchant's son, a soldier and a lawyer, who rose his way up through the ranks to finally make Archbishop of Canterbury, the most powerful role in the country beside the king at the time, tha king being Henry II. Henry and the turbulent priest were the best of friends in the early days. Once a Becket rose to the bishopric, he wouldn't let Henry walk all over him, stopping his old friends desires for the throne to take on more power and to weaken ties with Rome. Thomas, agreeing with what the king was saying, but had massive reservations wouldn't sign Constitutions of Clarendon - stormed out of the talks and fled to France, effectively exiling himself. During his time as Archbishop of Canterbury, Becket was exiled many times. Becket was seen as a bit of a ratbag.

Thomas returned to Canterbury some time later and took up his place back at the Cathedral, but the King was pissed, and whether by royal decree or misunderstanding, sent four knights after him after asking who would rid him of the turbulent priest.

These daggers mark the spot where he died on 29 December 1170.

Thomas a Becket was a man of principle. A man who believed that he was accountable to his faith first and his government second. A man who was taunted and tainted and stood up for what he believed. A man who overcame many odds. A self-made man.

It may also have something to do with the fact I saw Derek Jacobi and Robert Lindsay in Anouilh's plau, Becket on the London stage in the early nineties- still one of the best performances I've ever witnessed.

I'll go back to Canterbury and commune with Becket once again. I can sit at the place where he died and feel him, stomping around in his sandals and hair shirt, uncomfortable in body, but still in mind. He stood his ground in times of struggle.

Thomas a Becket will continue to fascinate me, no matter my faith, beliefs or reasoning. He's somebody I mention in my fantasy dinner party guest list.

He's somebody who holds a great deal of meaning for me. There is something very inspiring and very special about this man and this place.

Photo February - Day Five

Rainbow and Observatory, Parkes, NSW, 2009.

Reindert and I bonded on this road trip. I look at these photos and they bring back memories and reminders of  just how wonderful a friendship it helped to forge.

Reindert and I had flown up to Newcastle to retrieve a landcruiser and bring it back to Melbourne after our colleague had been in a dreadful accident. Our colleague, Wubbe, another crazy Dutchman, was going back to the Netherlands to recouperate and something had to be done with the van because it couldn't sit in a hospital car park for the year or so it would take him to come good.

For those not in Australia, Newcastle is 1100 kilometres (700 miles) north of Melbourne.
 

So Reindert and I went up on a wet winter Friday, spent and evening with Wubbe, who was finally released from hospital and able to fly back to Holland. The next morning we started the long drive home, taking the long way through Parkes -  because Reindert wanted to see the big dish. It was only 500 kilometres out of the way. It was nothing to travel in a weekend.

Reindert and I have the same disregard for distance.

Now, there were some issues with the trip. First up, somebody had been tinkering with Wubbe's van - and the radio wasn't working. A road trip without a radio! Never fear, Reindert is and electrical engineer by training. He had jerried the radio by the time we got to Dunedoo. We stopped for lunch at Dubbo. And finally, mid-afternon, we got to the Dish.

For those who haven't seen the movie, which is a bit of an iconic Australian flick, we are introduced to the radio telescope as "this big dish in the middle of a sheep paddock'. Which is pretty much what it is. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a paddock, is this stonking great radio telescope which sticks out like a pimple on a pumpkin.

We were there a week before the fortieth anniversary of the first lunar landing and preparations were being made for the anniversary. We had a good look around the Dish's Museum and the site. You can only get up into the dish on a couple of day's a year, so my dream of playing cricket on the dish was not going to materialise. See the movie, The Dish - it's wonderful.

After an hour or so, we left to start the rest of the drive home. Driving away, it started to rain. And this is what we saw as we looked back. We sat and watched the rainbow for twenty minutes or so, never expecting to see such sight.

It proved to be a good omen for a great road trip and a wonderful friendship - if you disregard the speeding ticket Reindert copped coming out of Rutherglen the following day.

You have to love nature.

And this is the Dish. It was a good day for photos.

Photo February - Day Three

Sangeet, Christchurch, 2008

One of the things that I love about my life is some of the interesting places I find myself with no warning.

This day was not so much a strange day or event, but it was unexpected in many ways.

This shot was taken in Christchurch, New Zealand, about four years ago. I was over the ditch visiting my friend Geetangeli and her husband and she took me along to a friend's Sangeet - a pre-wedding party for an Indian bride. Not one to say no to a party, complete with Indian sweets, I jumped at the chance, knowing only my friend and nobody else and knowing that there would be a feed of gulab jamuns at the end of it. Can't say no to gulab jamuns. 

The party was held at this architectural wonder of a house high on the nearly cliff like hills outside of Christchurch. I wonder if the house was damaged in the recent earthquakes. I was standing at the house's entrance looking down a light trap - and this is what I saw. Cool, eh!

However, here I was, one of the few people at the party not in a sari or a salawar kameez, but I was made to feel very welcome.

The colours of India take my breath away. Even if we're in downtown Christchurch.

I remember a friend telling me how on coming to Melbourne that should couldn't believe how everybody wore black - there were so many wonderful colours out there to wear - why would they choose to wear dull old black all the time?

That comment has stuck with me and I do make and effort to wear colour now - even if it feels a bit strange to be out of the "Melbourne Uniform".

Photo February - Day Two

Slippers. Philadelphia, 2010

In 2010, I won two airline tickets to anywhere in the world through a competition at work. 100 words or fewer. What will the National Broadband Network do for our fair nation? Be creative. That was the instruction.

At the time I was working in a telecommunications company with a heap of engineers. I had to be in with a chance being the token airy-fairy-arty-fart and the engineers were well - engineers - the extroverts are the ones who look at your shoes when they talk to you.

My response to the competition can be found here. (I won another competition last night, but nothing as astounding as airline tickets - two movie passes for knowing that Bryce Courtney penned the tune of Louie the Fly (might be something about the comment that it was the only classic that he ever wrote that got me the tickets...)

Anyhoo...

One of the places that I found myself on this trip was Philadelphia in the United States. After a day in New York, swearing to come back so that I could enjoy the place without food poisoning,and after five great days with Reindert and Corazon in the relative gentility of Boston, I rocked up in Philly where my Aunt, Uncle and associated cousins live.

My uncle is my father's brother. He moved to the States over twenty-five years ago with his family. My uncle is a pilot and has a week on, week off schedule, so I was lucky to catch him when I was there. We spent my second day in Philly together having a look around the place and getting to know each other again. I remember my uncle taking me to the zoo when I was five years old, an my grandmother taking me out to the airport to see him fly around in his light planes. As he's lived most of my life in the states, we never got to spend much time together.

Regardless, on this day, we hung out - which was fabulous. We went to the Mutter Museum taking in the weird and wonderful exhibits, following which we went for a stroll around central Philadelphia. It seems my uncle and I have a similar fascination with the macabre.

I liked the streets of Philly with their rougher edge - a slight hint of danger, not knowing what was going to be found around the corner. It doesn't have the feel of apparent affluence found in New York and Boston. My family live in the Northern Suburbs near the New Jersey border which plays with the mind in oh so many ways. For this happy little vegemite it was a little confronting. I had landed in middle America, complete with shopping malls, pee wee football, mega-Churches, strip malls and Pro-Bush sensibilities.

Then you see things like this in the city. Downtown Philadelphia reminds me of the streets they showed on Sesame Street. Unexpected things coming out of basement windows. Red fire hydrants. People hanging about doing not very much. The recession has hit Philadelphia hard.

Of the photo. The juxtaposition of the slippers sitting outside a window appealed to me. Who put them there? Why were they there? How did they get out there? It wasn't like they were sitting outside an open window. Yet they appeared to belong there.

Stuff like this is why I love travelling so much.

The First Flight

As a city dweller, there is so much I take for granted. Clean streets, public transport, decent coffee, food, drink, services available any time of the day or night. There are people around everywhere. You can do what you want, when you want and there are few limitations on you. It's normal. It's just how the world is.


Another thing I take for granted is travel. Ostensibly air travel. I had my first flight at the age of five, when my family and I went to Kangaroo Island for a holiday (Cute fact, I lost my first tooth on Kangaroo Island and I remember being worried that the tooth fairy wasn't going to find me). From my early twenties, climbing on a plane to go places far and wide has not daunted me at all. I've been in and out of airports regularly for the last thirty years, whether it be picking up friends or dropping them off - or just heading off somewhere from a weekend to a few months.

I love travel. It makes my soul sing.

So, yesterday's trip to Sydney was going to be nothing out of the ordinary.

Although it was.

Yesterday, I was on a mission.

Leaving work mid-afternoon, I took the Skybus to Tullamarine and waited for my short flight to Sydney. Of course it was a little late - flights often are. I'd already had my flight moved forward an hour, but for my pains I was shoved in Virgin's version of business. A seat in the first row with lots of leg room and a tray table between me and the person in the other seat in the row. The flight was fine - barely a bump was felt, and for a change, the plane wasn't shot down in Sydney. (I'm suere there is a man with a big gun who goes duck shooting at planes in Adelaide and Sydney sometimes)

After disembarking, I changed terminals and found the object of my mission.

I'd come to Sydney to accompany a friend back to Melbourne. That's the only reason I went up there. To hold a friend's hand and escort her down to Melbourne.

She was easy to find. Sitting with a cup of tea and a large, animal print suitcase, she didn't seem nervous or out of place. I was very proud of the fact that she'd made it there after a three hour journey from her home town in the middle of New South Wales.

"This is the first time I've been to the airport." she told me.

Que! What?! My friend is 32-years-old. Okay, my brain in having a slight paradigm shift here. At 32, I'd been to nine or ten countries, mostly on my own. I'm rather adept at getting around places, even if I can't speak the language. To not have even seen a plane up close. My, my. As a child I remember my grandmother taking me to the airport to "watch the big birds." Then again, Adelaide airport was 15 minutes away from her house and my uncle was a pilot, stationed at Adelaide airport regularly.

"You're really not sure about this?" I asked.

"I have no idea. I'm not scared, but I don't know what to do. But you'll help."

"Don't worry, ninety percent of the people are in the same boat - just muddle through or ask somebody." Which is true. As long as you are pleasant, you don't normally end up having a body cavity search. Australian domestic airports are kittens compared to their American counterparts. You're not going to run into trouble unless you mention the words "bomb" or "drugs" or act like an utter cretin.
We went up to the departure hall.

"Okay - you're doing this. Book yourself in."
"Really."
Yep, what do you think you have to do?"
"Go to the computer kiosk like everybody else."
"Good call."
Five minutes later, boarding pass in hand, behemoth bag stowed in the hold, we tackled security.

"The trick here is making sure you have no metal on you. Coins, mobiles, belts, boots with buckles - shove them on the conveyor and send them through the box."

"Okay. I'm good. you warned me about that."

Which I did in a conversation earlier in the week. Leave the hairspray at home, I have heaps. Keep your big camera in your hand luggage. You'll have to unpack your laptop at security if you bring it. Those sorts of things which make travelling easier. It 's always less of a chore if you're prepared.

No problems with security. We both sailed through.

We found some dinner and spent an hour looking around the Sydney Qantas terminal. Not the most inspiring of places, but it's something different if you've never been there before.

"All airports are pretty much the same. Overpriced shops and food, lots of people running everywhere, crying babies, people hugging. All you have to do is know which gate your plane is going from and at what time - and you can see that from the board. So where are we going?"

She looked at the board.
"Gate Four - board at 7.10."
Excellent.
I
 don't have to think about this stuff. I haven't really considered this stuff for years. I think about things like - how the hell am I going to transit Frankfurt airport in my transfer time, or what if my taxi driver Greek doesn't get me straight route or what do you mean there are squat toilets here in this godforsaken hell hole. Or the best one - can I scavenge a couch to sleep the five hour transit time here in Darwin. (The way home from Bali - arrived 2.30 am - few out 7 am - but they have great two seater couches you can nap on)

She wasn't nervous - well, at least she didn't appear to be. We chatted about things - what we're getting up to over the weekend, the people we'd meet, the things we'd do - the 1000 Steps, a session with Pinochet, a big party and getting all dolled up, the shopping, the doing things different.

The flight was called.

"Come on, get your boarding pass out."
"Okay."

We queued up with the rest of passengers - mainly business people returning home after days of in endless meetings. I know the look. Rumpled suit, laptop in hand, on the mobile asking to be picked up. Been there.

We were scanned in. I mentioned to the flight attendant that it was her first flight.

I'm going to remember this tidbit - the service you get is impeccable if the crew think you're on your first flight. Mind you, I have a silver Qantas Frequent Flyer card - it's hard to fake that one.

The one hour flight was uneventful from a flight perspective. Smooth take off and landing, no turbulence. The cabin crew were lovely - and we both came away with a bottle of wine and a colouring book (I asked for the latter - I always do - but don't normally get one)

Five minutes into the flight she said,"Wow, I'm flying - this is a bit trippy."

Well it is a bit trippy. You think about it. You're sitting in a large metal tube being thrust through the air by jet propulsion. I'm still unsure how a multi-tonned lump of metal and plastic stays up in the air, but somehow it does. And air travel is still safer than crossing the road.
An hour later, we arrived at my place. She's staying with me for the weekend. It's not the Hilton but there is a room to call her own, a clean bathroom, a kitchen with teabags and safe haven. She's now in the know about how to get into town, to use the trams, the make sure she keeps her handbag on her person at all times and other city protocols that we city-dwellers don't think about.

My job is done.

I've been asked a few times about why I flew up to Sydney to go and get my friend. It seemed improbable that a woman wouldn't be able to get on a plane by herself. On Monday morning, when she goes back to Sydney, I have no doubt at all that she'll be fine after I drop her off at the Skybus on the way to work.

But how cool is it to be able to take the fear away from somebody? To show them the ropes, however simple they may appear to be, let them know that even if they feel like a nuff-nuff, chances are, most of the people around feel exactly the same way. To take the time to say, "Hey, it's alright. You can do this."

If the smile on my friends face as we took off yesterday wasn't enough, the knowledge that I've empowered her - hopefully instilling a desire to travel is a reward in itself.

As we were about to board the plane, we talked about this.

Dr Spencer Johnson in his book stated it as a tenet for change. "What could you do if you weren't scared?"

We nodded in agreement. In this process of change that we're both going through, the smallest of rewards bring the greatest knowledge and joy.

A Day of Blessings

Yesterday morning I rose at 5.50 am, briefly showered, grabbed my pre-packed bag, drove to the airport, hopped on 6.30 Qantas flight to Sydney, dismbarked, found the train station and make the quick trip into the CBD and walked about half a kilometre to be with a special friend on a very special day.

I'll let Amy tell her own story. You can find her blog at http://www.aim-to-change.blogspot.com/ .

I've "known" Amy for three years online. We've been forum buddies - only in the last six months or so we've become friends, along with a group of us who are on similar journeys. We refer to each other as "The Posse". These bright, articulate, fun, courageous wome are there to watch your back, pick you up and dust you off when things get rough, applaud your wins and offer friendship, love and support unconditionally. It's a blessing, not only for this weight loss journey, but for life.

There wasn't a second thought about going to Sydney yesterday. Over the last few weeks the group and I have watched as Amy's jumped through a lot of hoops - at times at the expense of her physical and mental wellbeing. Being there for her photo shoot on Saturday needed to be done - not that she wouldn't have been okay by herself, but I really wanted to lend her some moral support. Both Trin and I felt the same. We were going to be there to help her celebrate as well as let her know she wasn't alone.

Trin and I are in the middle of our own journeys. We're aware of how hard and confronting a total makever could be. Gee, we can get emotional when you buy something in the next size down - what would it be like to be totally transformed?!

Being in Sydney yesterday was a no brainer.

Meeting up with Amy for the first time was like being with a very old friend after years of separation - as if no time had ever passed - even though we'd technically never met. The Biggest Loser support staff were amazed that the three of us weren't the oldest of friends. But Trin and Amy and I are old friends - we've just never physically been in the same space. Strangely, it feels like this with all of the support group.

During the course of the morning, we watched as Amy was tranformed. With a lovely, patient, encouraging stylist and a very down to earth makeup artist our friend was zhushed into the glorious being we know her to be on the outside to match insides - not that there is anything wrong with her outsides now as they normally are. The photographer on hand was a great fellow as well, funny, approachable and able to put our girl at ease.

In the background, Trin and I kept a watchful eye. With the permission of the photographer and crew, I was on the other end of my camera taking photos of proceedings for posterity. Amy couldn't see what was going on in the background - but Trin and I could. We've taken a suitase full of shots to record the day.

It was a great morning, watching over the process as Amy and two others had their photo shoots. At times, there was a bit of chicken dancing going on in the background to take her mind off things (my speciality is the Chicken Dance - goes with my chicken legs) We were there to prop her up when needed and just be there to let her know things were okay.

Things came a little unstuck for a few minutes when they asked her to pull out an "old" article of clothing. I will also let Amy relate this if she wishes to - but it was an incredibly poignant moment as we watched our friend face her former self. A few tears, some reiki and a lot of encouragement and things got back on track again.

I had a chat the managing director of the Biggest Loser Club - a laid back Kiwi, who was mooching around the set. Being the nosy person I am I asked who he belonged to and we struck up a conversation. Had a good chat about life, the club and the journey in general. He asked what I liked about the club. The tools and the forums - realising you're not alone on this journey was a powerful message. And what I didn't like. Well, I found the meal replacements and the express model they have going a sell out - but as an occasional user of the meal replacements I couldn't judge too harshly. And what was the club missing? More on the psychology of the journey. Eating right and exercising is nearly pointless if you don't have your head in the right spot. More should be done about getting you through the journey emotionally. It takes time to get your head around the changes as not only I, but every one of the club members in the room has experienced.

Karen, another club member receiving a makeover was in exactly the same boat. She was shown the photos of herself on the computer and burst into tears. She hadn't realised just how far this journey had taken her. Karen looked incredible. Losing 50 kilos will do that to you. A beautiful spirit inside and out as well - and that not only because she's from Adelaide.

Trin and I now have it in our heads to keep going. We want a makeover! It's quite a few kilos away for both of us, but gee we want one. Watch this space.

Once the shoot was over, after we'd met a couple of contestants who'd come to the studio for further shoots Amy, Trin and I went and found some lunch and has a walk around Sydney, taking in the enormity of the morning. It was huge. What Amy has done is nothing short of incredible.

I'm honoured to call her and Trin my friends.

Of course, the obligatory shots of the big coat hanger and the "Nuns in a Scrum" building had to be taken.

Yeah, I know, you can't really make me out - but I have a waist now and here's proof - and I'm loving that!.. (And just like the Stig, I'm The Pand - nobody knows my real identity...)

After a bit more mooching and some lunch, it was back to the studio to grab our stuff. We left Amy to get back to her sister's place in outer Sydney and Trin and I went to the airport to make our way home.

A day filled with the best blessings imaginable. The blessing of friendship.

The full force of yesterday hit me this  morning. I'm exhausted - a little headachy even. I missed pump - feeling too blah to even give it a go, though I met up with Emm after for a coffee. I cried off the engineering barbeque - too tired. And now I'm off to Blarney and Barney's to wish Chance and Lance a happy first birthday. I made them a cake.

When I told Blarney I wanted to make them a cake she said not to - she'd buy them one. Then I said that I wanted to make them a cake as I don't have kids to make a birthday cake for - and I'd sorta like to make a tradition out of it. So here is a dinosaur cake for the baby dinosaurs (as they are affectionately known) that was made and iced this morning. It's nearly as cool as the "Old Git" cake. Hope they like it - mind you're they're only turning one....

It's been a memorable weekend. I'm pretty sure the weekend in two weeks time will be even bigger. 12wbt finale, the whole of the posse is getting together.

Think I'd better stock up on berocca.

Balmy Daze

Setting yourself the task of blogging every day is a bit silly. You would think finding something to write about would be easy - but it isn't. Especially when you've been stuck at home coughing up a lung and the highlight of your day was a gentle walk down to Aldi half a kilometre away.

Pudding Cat has been keeping me company - I've changed his name to Pudding for he is a little on the tubby side and he loves showing off his belly. He's going home on the weekend. Blarney's confirmed that they'll be back sometime Friday and I'll return him the following day.

So today - on the agenda was an interview - that was postponed until tomorrow or Thursday. I'm thankful for this as I'm still coughing a bit - though I do feel quite well in myself. Fingers crossed for this one - that is all I will say.

Other things on the agenda. Put some stuff on ebay, fill in a few more applications, make some phone calls, cook lunch for the next two days (a very yummy roast vegetable and chick pea salad) and spend some time reading. All got done.

Then, when speaking to Kath from "Blurb from the Burbs" she made the suggestion of writing on the subject of a photograph. What a good idea.

After photographing my items for sale - some books, the odd CD and some trousers that are way too big now, I stumbled across this on the SD Card.

I remember this day. The shot was taken in Granada on a day not unlike the weather here in Melbourne today. The weather was balmy for mid-Autumn, with a hint of chill coming off the Sierra Nevada mountains. Being early November, the shadows seemed to get long early and stay that way for an eternity.

The lane way, like all the streets in Granada, are cobbled and narrow. Eliot put it well - "streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent." These streets, in grid formation, were easy to get lost in - and to lose yourself in. The lefthand wall is part of the Granada Cathedral - a particularly underwhelming building, slapped in the middle of the town to show Christian might in a place that had been dominated by the Moors for centuries. In the shadow of the Alhambra, these streets existed in relative mediocrity.

Granada is also a university town. A place filled with students, unkept buildings, flyers for bands pasted to ancient walls, over flowing bins and young people, lethargic in the day, energetic at night. Like most Spanish cities, the place becomes alive around 9 pm. It feels safe, though where I was staying  I felt a small element of malice - I don't know why - nothing happened to me there.

Looking back at the photo, I see the busker slumped against the cathedral wall. the booted woman making her way home, the long shadows, the expectation of the evening.

I love this shot.

Then I remember how much I love travelling, how I have no idea when I will be travelling again and how I wish I could find somebody to pay me to be a travel writer. It's my one dream job.

Mind you, I'm pretty good at manifesting things like travel and I have to remind myself of this.

Dreaming big can be a great thing.

How in Heaven's Name....?

I received a call from one of the directors of Tin Can, String and Whistle today.

Okay, I need to start this blog earlier than 2 pm today. In my life good things happen sporadically. I can say hand on heart that other than three short story competitions and the odd movie ticket, I have won very few things. I wouldn't say I'm unlucky, but I don't win things. I'm much better and working towards something and gaining it that way.

So just before Christmas last year the company of Tin Can, String and Whistle announced a competition where employees were asked what the National Broadband Network would bring to Australia in the future. A great prize was on offer. In a fit of boredom in a spare fifteen minutes, I threw in an entry.

The director was calling to tell me I'd won the competition. And now, I have until 30 November 2010 to use two cattle class tickets to anywhere in the world where Singapore Airlines flies.

Linda Blair in the Exorcist has nothing on my head spins.

Okay, I'm excited. I'm thrilled. It's fantastic. How often do you win two tickets to anywhere in the world? Where do I go? What do I do? What sort of holiday do I go on? Too much to think about.

And then what about my goals - if I go away, what about the running, what about the saving money, what about finding somebody? Won't that detract from some of these things? Or do I incorporate the New York Marathon into my training? Now there is a goal.

Breathe, Pandora.

Something this monumental happens rarely.

And it happens for a reason.

I have some contemplating to do. Being alone, who do I go with? Do I take my mother away for her 70th birthday? Do I try and amend the ticket to a single round the world jobbie and take six weeks off? Ah, it's all too hard.

Will go for a nice cleansing run at lunch tomorrow to clear my head.

Tarot card for the Blog: Six of Pentacles.

What is my worth? Am I giving or receiving? Balanced, measured giving. Being given what you need. Having enough.

Okay that changes my perspective a bit.

I have no idea how I'm going to sleep tonight.

Pand

Kilometres walking since 29 Jan: 13 km
Kilometres runsince 29 Jan: 0 km
Currently Reading: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies