JandalsnAll

I woke up early the other morning – about 4am early – to the sound of the wind howling around outside. Usually I like the sound of a storm when you’re tucked up in bed, but this was a more-than-is-comfortable sort of a storm. Windows rattling, wind whistling, tent lifting kindof a storm. As I lay in bed and listened, I thought I heard the sound of someone or something on the gravel in the carpark outside my window. In fact it sounded just like a bike being wheeled across the ground. I knew there were two bikes in the carpark that night. And I knew that the owners had had a particularly hard days biking the day before and would not be going for a leisurely ride at 4am in the morning. Someone was stealing the bikes. I jumped out of bed and moving the curtain open just a slit, looked out to the carpark below me. Nothing. Then the sound of gravel again. I got up, peered out the door this time, making sure there was no-one out on the balcony waiting to get me, then I cautiously stepped outside n my pajamas into the dull grey of the early early morning. Just in time to see the offender rushing down the stairs. I dashed after, intent on the catch, but before I could stamp down a foot and trap the bastard, the wind whipped him up and out of my reach. A plastic bag, and not even a big one, had got me out of bed at four in the morning in the middle of a howling storm. Once more that bag did rush up the stairs swirl around outside my door, running its wispy fingers along my door. And once more did I get out of bed to try to catch it. And once more did it lead me down the stairs onto the gravel in bare feet, before whipping away, laughing all the while. I still hear that laugh in my dreams.

The weather has been violent for the last week at least. Im talking sideways rain ramming the windows kind of violent. Its the wind thats the worst. Ive never seen weather like it. which is maybe why I rather prefer this kindof drama to the boring grey drizzle Ive become used to in Ireland.

The problem with the wind is, combine it with the autumn equinox and a full moon and you have a recipe for crazy. Last weekend when I was working and these three natural phenomena coincided, all the crazies came out of the woodwork. One of them was certifiably crazy – had a letter to prove it and all. Another was sent to drive me crazy and did nearly succeed. Ive never seriously wanted to scream as much as I did when dealing with this particular nutter. I had to consciously try really hard to stop my mouth from opening and letting loose. And all weekend I was hearing stories of people acting just plain loopy. Fearing I too would succumb to the effects of the wind, and already feeling the effects of cabin fever, or hostel fever as may be more appropriate, I decided yesterday that I’d have to blow my recent attempts at saving and get away to Galway sometime soon.

Continuing with the theme of nighttime offenders, three times early this morning someone tried to open my door which opens onto a balcony. The first time I had that horrible horrible experience where my mind woke up and knew someone was trying to get in, but my body hadnt yet awoken and for a nightmarish second I was paralyzed. Then I convinced myself I was dreaming and that I hadnt heard anything and that I hadnt woken up paralyzed. Until someone tried to open my door again. This time I just couldnt be bothered getting up. I figured it was someone who had forgotten the code downstairs and was trying to find an alternate way in and thought my door looked like a possibility. Which makes sense since it is a door. So Im just getting back to sleep and I hear a rattle. No a scuttle. Like some multi-legged scary thing scuttling across the lolly wrappers strewn across my room. I jumped up, turned on the light, examined the wrappers. Nothing. I get back into bed. THEN about a sleep hour or so later (sleep hours often only corrolulate to several minutes of real time) Im almost asleep – who should come a door rattling but the crazy door rattler of the night again! Obviously mine looked like a magic door – rattle three times and it will open. This third time I was just pissed off and figured I’d have to stop the madness, especially since they sounded kind of frantic from the way they were trying to tear my wonky door from its hinges. I got up and sure enough the door rattler had forgotten the code and thought my door was another way inside. Wrong. Back to bed finally for another few sleep hours of rest. And then… a whisper of a scratch….and again…under my bed…I jumped up, turned on the light and pulled my bed out from the wall. Its got to be a mouse right? I did find a small hole but none of the usual small brown deposits of evidence of a mouse. Maybe its a ghost mouse. I blocked up the hole turned off the light and got back into bed, but there’s no way I could sleep knowing there was possibly a ghost mouse under my bed, so I resigned to get up at 6.30am.

I got dressed, thinking this would be a good day to get away, let the ghost mouse have the room to himself for a bit. So I go to put on my earrings and find one of them is missing. I search high and low and finally find it under my bed! And then I see Im dealing with something a little more serious here. This is not a case of a mere ghost mouse, as ghost mice can make noise but have trouble moving inanimate objects (unless they are of the poltergeist variety), this is obviously an alien mouse with the telepathic power to move objects. An alien mouse who likes to dress up at that. Possibly even a transvestite alien mouse. Sounds a bit crazy really doesnt it?I mean of all the accessories a transvestite alien mouse could choose, my earrings are not exactly high fashion…..

At this point you’ll probably be very relieved to know that I did make it to Galway for a bit of a sanity review. I spent the rest of the day after my eventful morning in the city, sheltered from the wind. And today back in Doolin, the sun is shining and probably will do for a record of five minutes today. The wind is still here. And my earrings are all where I left them. I guess my friend the transvestite alien mouse realized his mistake and found someone else with a decent jewelelry collection.

A How To for Kiwis and Specially for Little Sisters.
Disclaimer: Em takes no resposibility for the injury or insult to any persons brave/stupid enough to actually follow her advice.

PRE-DEPARTURE
Before one actually sets out for the big journey over yonder, there are some steps, mostly tying up of loose ends and the like, necessary to make your leaving a smooth and successful event, for both yourself and those around you.

STEP ONE
Sell all your worldy possessions. Or, just sell the things you dont really like and find sucker(s) to store the really important things like your collectors card album, your cool volkswagon model car and other items you just cant live without. A garage sale will do the trick. But be wary not to undersell your prized possessions – remember $1 will buy you five elephants in India. By the way, parents fulfil the role of ‘sucker’ beautifully.

STEP TWO
Decide on your destination. Maybe one of the most important elements of travelling, selecting a destination will ensure you are not doomed to wander aimlessly neither here nor there, never stopping, never starting – a most unrewarding form of travel. I’d suggest starting with somewhere that speaks some English, or at least somewhere that deems the consumption of human foreigners indecent. But then I guess it depends on how much of a challenge you’d like to set for yourself.

STEP THREE AND ALL THOSE LITTLE THINGS
Sort out your accounts and pay off any debts. Or dont and pretend you never left.
Plan ahead and get any necessary visas, credit cards etc.
Cancel any mailouts etc or leave them for your designated suckers to sort out.
Be really nice to everyone so they miss you alot when you leave.
Get internet banking, a really handy way to manage accounts from overseas.
Gmail is a great email account to use as you dont have to worry about junk mail or mailbox limitations – you do need an invite though but if you ask me nicely I might just send you one.
Find a good travel agent who will go out of their way to help you – dont bother with the ones who just give you a quote then leave you to it.

PACKING
There are just some items you really must never leave your country without. The national flag of your country, a photo of the primeminister/president, your traditional national costume. As well as those things, you can study up on what to take here on the ever-helpful BootsnAll site: About three pages on theres a basic list of what to take. Heres another list – maybe a little too overexagsh but it seems to have everything you could possibly think of that you might need and some good ideas.

Some things that are really really useful or that I wish I’d brought:
large microfibre towel – unless youre wanting to travel really light I’d get the largest size. Those teeny little ones are just a pain to use and dont cover up anything if someone nicks your clothes.
sleepsheet for sleeping anywhere grotty
torch (a headtorch would be useful if you’re camping – but theyre quite expensive and make you look like a caver)
small scissors/tweezers/pocket knife
notepad and pen
watch with alarm
copies of cv, passport, tickets etc in one of my email folders
jandals
Marmite – tastes great and has added bonus of freaking out non-Australasians
Photo of PrimeMinister Helen Clark.
Rechargable batteries and small travel battery recharger (only if you’ll be needing batteries of course)
Lonely Planet Guide
earplugs – necessity
longjohns (lyserious) its frickin cold away from home.
International credit card

Things that havent been useful at all:
adaptor plug – because I didnt actually bring anything electric from home.duh.
packsafe – I havent used my once yet, though I will carry its leaden weight around with me just incase…..
books – much easier and lighter to buy over here or ‘borrow’ from a hostel.
Anything that you cant bear to part with in the event that you have to throw things away – and you will have to throw things away.
Basically anything you can buy with ease in your country of destination eg. sunscreen, soap, laundry powder, chocolate. Unless your fussy like me.
Sewing kit – you’ll find a sewing kit on all the lists but I brought one and havent used it once despite now owning several holey items of clothing. Mending clothes is for Mums – so if you do bring a sewing kit try to bring a Mum with it. Safety pins and needles are handy though.

Basically fill your pack with the essentials (deciding what these are is the tricky part), then add anything you might want extra but that you also dont mind throwing away later on down the track. Dont fill pack to capacity or you’ll have no room for buying pressies and more useless junk to add to your collection back home. Plus it gives you extra room if you cant be bothered rolling everything up as small as small and prefer to shove everything in side and shut it without even having to jump up and down on it..

In reality Ive found you dont need much at all but there are still things that are nice to have with you if you dont mind compromising in terms of weight. Even in writing this, despite my efforts and yours, I know that you will manage to bring at least one completely useless thing with you, maybe your own NZ to Europe adaptor – in some situations, sure, it may be very handy but I can tell you now it is utterly useless when you arent bringing anything electrical from NZ ….and you arent going to Europe….

DEPARTURE
The first step in actually travelling is obviously to leave your current place of abode and this is as easy as simply picking up one foot, placing it down in front of you and following this with the other foot. Of course you could also travel on your hands and knees or wriggle about on your stomach if you so wished, but these methods are most suitable for use only over very short distances and preferably not in view of other people. When travelling long distances such as between countries most people choose to fly overland and sea.

Give yourself two hours to get to the airport then give yourself one extra hour if you are me and then two more extra hours if you are Tonia and Liam. That way you should arrive just on time.
Say goodbye to your poor family, look at all the tears. Walk away quickly and dont look back – this way you avoid risking catching them in the act, jumping around like children cheering ‘Shes gone! Finally shes gone!’ – better put your hands over your ears too.

Hopefully youve requested an aisle seat with the extra legroom with your trusty travel agent especially if you too are a giant freak and hopefully your trusty airline has actually given it to you and not stuck you in the middle seat in the middle aisle between two rather overweight men like they did with me. If you do find yourself trapped and desperately needing to pee, which you most surely will, and at which time both overweight men will be asleep (and snoring) there is nothing for it but to save yourself the agony and, very carefully now, give the one who looks least likely to go into a rage at the event of being awoken a gentle poke with your forefinger, being sure to keep all other fingers well clear, and ask them politely if they’d mind letting you past. And then make sure you dont drink anything else for the rest of the trip.
Other aeroplane tips:
Vege meals get served first.
Hot towels are a gift from God.
Little kids on planes are not a gift from God.
Toilets are best used during the first half of the trip then avoided at all costs.
The flight attendant demonstration provides as much inflight entertainment as it does valuable safety instructions.
Of course do the sensible walking around thing.

ARRIVAL
Leave the plane in an orderly manner or as orderly as you can manage after 25 hours on a plane and proceed to customs. If your lucky, and if youve kept a good eye on your bag, youve no need to worry. If your unlucky, deny all knowledge of any baby possums and good luck to you.
After landing, but before leaving the airport pop into the toilets and change into your national costume so as to provide your new friends with a positive and lasting impression of your beloved country. Ignore the points and stares – theyre just jealous of your pois.

Follow the exits and find transport to your pre-booked accomodation. If in doubt ask! Especially in Ireland people will go out of their way to give way too detailed directions. Theres no point wandering around in a daze when there’s a walking talking human map at every step just begging for you to ask them for directions so they can put their vast geographical knowledge to use.

And now, take a moment to look around, breathe in all those foreign pollutants and enjoy your first steps in a new country.

Coming Soon: ‘Good Guinness its a Leprechaun!’ Em’s Guide to all things Irish.

And so it came that on the 15th day of the 9th month of the one thousand, one hundred and senventy nineth year I was given unto the world that I may show you the truth and the way of all things chocolate and thus that you might have eternal sugary goodness through me.
Yesterday morning, I awoke to the sound of the rains falling on our humble hostel, and the delightful if persistent trumpeting of angels – which I soon realized was actually some person blowing their nose in the bathroom next door. I peeled the dreadlocks from my face, peered out the window and saw that it was indeed pouring from the heavens on this most glorious of days. The Gods must be crying with joy. And with good reason, for on this day I was to open many presents. I scrambled to the end of my bed, dug out my hoard and with a victorious shout that stopped the noseblower mid-trumpet, I began to rip and tear, pull and push at my packages until they spilled forth their treasures. And oh the treasures! Sugary delights of every variety, with such brilliant colours that did nearly blind my eyes and that did make my body tremble with anticipation of a sugar-induced, foodcolouring and additive enhanced coma. Oh and there were some clothes and some shoes and books and jewellery and things in there that were good too.

I threw on all my new clothes, rushed down stairs and ran through the hostel shouting hysterically, ‘Its my birthday! Its my birthday!’. Actually I didnt but the temptation was strong…. No, deciding to leave my fellow hostel-stayers in peace, I instead grabbed the phone in the laundry, rang home and shouted hysterically down the receiver ‘Its my birthday! Its my birthday!’ After and hour or so juggling the regular phone, my cellphone and other general hostel distractions as calls flooded in from all around the world, and the washing machine beside me jumped for joy out-of-control around the floor, I retired to my cave for a good old fashioned breakfast of sugar. So began my celebratory day.

The rest of the day was actually fairly uneventful as I slipped back and forth between coherent thought and the magical world of candy. Though I did receive best wishes from the members of my surrogate family here in Dools, and was at one point during the day subjected to the strangest of rituals from one of our older Scottish guests. Upon hearing that it was my birthday, she rushes up to me and says ‘How old are you? Quick tell me so I can give you your bolms’ Or ‘poms’ or ‘barms’ or something equally unintelligible. She had hold of my arm as I bewilderedly told her that I was 26, so that I expected a hug or some similar expression. But what does she do? Still gripping my arm so I can’t escape, she starts pounding me on the back with brute Scottish strength, the way your mother might do if that piece of lego got stuck in your windpipe. ‘One, two, three, four, five…’ she counts up to ten. Then she goes for my left ear and proceeds to tug on my earlobe the way… well the way nobody in their right mind would ever do and nobody has ever done before. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six….’again up to ten. After that, thankfully, she goes back to pounding my back ‘one, two, three, four, five,six’ And then the madness just stops, she lets me go, and Im standing there like a stunned mullet staring at this strange grinning woman, wondering why, why shes been touching my earlobes. That apparently is how the Scottish say Happy Birthday. I can only thank God that Im still in my twenties and that I didnt have to find out what kind of tugging or pinching proceeds the back slapping…

That afternoon I was given strict instructions to have a shower, have a shave, put on my prettiest dress and be ready at 9 o’clock. And so abandoning my much anticipated dinner of pancakes I instead spent the afternoon wondering what the evening held in store for me. At about 8.30, K tells me to follow him and we head up to C’s house, where I walk in to the sound of Happy Birthday and find C and R there with a delicious looking sponge cake complete with candles for me, for me! Ten candles in all of course because I was turning 26. Well that was a lovely suprise and I would not have expected anything more but wait, there was more. At 9 oclock, washed, shaved and in my prettiest pretty party dress, I am driven into Ballyvaughan and treated to a great meal and the equally great company of C, R and K, at a great vegetarian Italian cafe called ‘The Holywell’. How spoilt am I? After stuffing ourselves silly we headed back to Doolin where I retired to my sugarcave full of good Italian food, too full to make a dent in my mountain of sugar even (NB. We are talking real sugar here, not ‘sugar’ as in a Neil Young’s Sugar Mountain kinda way – just so we dont get our wires crossed).

So ended my first birthday in the Green Isle – my first birthday away from home. In the days leading up to it I did expect that it might turn out to be a bit of an emotionally charged day, with me missing home more than ever. But while I would of course have liked to have spent the day at home with the whanau, opening and not sharing my presents with them, my birthday here in Doolin was a good substitute, and I suspect that when I leave here I will feel a homesickness for Doolin aswell.

And the date of departure may not be too far off – possibly the end of October but we’ll see what happens. On the art front, Ive got two blank cavases staring at me in my room, taunting me to paint them. Down at the gallery the two sculptures (here and here) in my permanent collection are holding up fairly well though I have had to spend a bit of time on restoration and maintainence of the works. I do have two more planned and Im just waiting to get them out of my head and into reality but everytime this week Ive set off for the beach with the the sun on my back, upon entry to the gallery, the weather betrays me. The wind itself is cold enough – must be straight from the antartic and it numbs my fingers til I can no longer hold my hobo stick lady stick. Then when Im on my knees the fascist anti-art clouds roll in and pummel me with their icy drops. Of course just after I make the mad dash back up the side of the cliff and bike like a maniac back to the hostel, the weather clears, the sun’s rays stabbing me in the back as I stumble soggy and exhausted upstairs, dragging my blankie of un-realized sculpture dreams behind me. Such is the suffering of the artist.

Ive never really understood what that means so if anyone would care to enlighten me, go ahead. Well I mentioned Em’s Junk Symposium a few weeks ago – and I wasnt joking. Yes I AM actually playing with rubbish. (photos coming tomorrow). I went down last week to check out how things were holding up with the latest storm and to make a few repairs and was highly suprised to see that I seem to have started a trend. I dont think I’ve ever started a trend before.

The first thing I noticed as I approached the beach was a tall object sticking out of the ground in the distance. I got closer to my gallery and saw someone had erected my comfy artist’s sitting log by supporting it with stones and other pieces of wood and rope. Interesting. Or rather – just a really big piece of wood re-contextualized in a rather prehistoric megolithic sort of a way (cue correction from geek) if you know what I mean. Next thing I noticed two separate piles of junk a short distance apart, in which I could see objects tied together and lying across the stones . From what I could tell these two assemblages had once stood upright, a higglety-pigglety conglomeration of assorted objects strung between two or more posts, but the enduring wind and less than secure fixings had blown them over – and yes they were like that when I got there. I didnt push them down.

So this is all very well and Im happy to be promoting the recycling of rubbish through art, only problem is these artists have chosen (or randomly grabbed) all my best pieces of hard earned flotsam and used most of my painstakingly collected fishingline and rope! And to make things worse they’ve taken all my interesting inspiring objects and thrown them together haphazardly, stringing odds and ends together, stuffing a piece of wide black corrogated pipe with everything they could lay their hands on so bits of rope and metal and vacuumcleaner hose spilt out of it, the uniqueness of my treasures unrecognizable amongst the total rubbish mass. Quite frankly it seems to me these ‘artists’ were more intent on creating an artwork based on very little concept at all and trying to make up for this by using as much junk as possible. Quantity not quality. No rhyme or reason to it – its just madness it is. Those were my first thoughts. Unless…. What if these are more than just two relocated rubbish piles? Could the concept really be a rejection of the aesthetic conventions of Modern Art? A spit in the face of Minimalist sculpture, a kick in the guts of those obssessors of the aesthetic? How can I continue in the face of such brilliance? How can I compete with this anonymous yet obviously contemporary art collective who are so ahead of their time? And well, feck, I couldnt possibly vandalize such masterpieces to retreive my pieces of junk from their brilliant entanglements – to do so would be to go against the artist’s unspoken code of honour (Rule number one: Dont touch the art man), not to mention envoke the wrath of the artist geniuses who would no doubt take their rage out on my own inferior artworks.

And so in the end I am resigned to hoarding away my precious findings like the true hobo stick lady I always knew I was. One hiding place would not do. Oh no. I must distribute my treasure in multiple secret spots along the presiding cliffs so if one is discovered and infiltrated by the enemy artist geniuses I will still have more. They’ll never find it all. Its mine, all mine I tell you. Eh he he hee heh!!

And the sad thing is its all true. I really have resorted to hoarding and hiding rubbish. Feel free to deny knowing me until Im dead and all my artwork is reverred and sells for millions – then milk our relationship for all its worth.