The bar was located in an underground archway. I was momentarily transported back to New York... the roar of the train passing overhead, the smoke filled room, the sound of beer glasses clinking and loud laughter.
The woman on stage (Diana) spotted me immediately (I was the girl with the "What the hell is going on?!" look on her face, so I must've been easy to pick out). She waved me over excitedly and pulled aside a waitress and ordered me a beer. She introduced me to her co-host, MiezeMedusa (stage name... obviously). They both spoke beautiful lilting english, and were so excited and dynamic I was immediately hooked. They showed me where I could set up my camera and as I turned to leave the stage, they started giggleing nervously and said they had a present for me. Out of her bag, Diana pulled a t-shirt with the logo of the poetry collective on it. It was so cool! I thanked them and set up my camera.
Seeing as we were in Vienna, the slam was in German. But it was such a cool experience, sitting there in the corner watching a poetry slam in a language I can't even remotely understand. The most interesting aspect was, of course, that even though it was in German, and even though I coulnd't understand the words, much of the sentiment (from the poet and the audience) was easily understood from gestures and intonation.
I had the priviledge of catching up with MiezeMedusa and Diana again last night at a book launch. We got to talking about the rarity of women in poetry slams, an issue which seems to be pretty universal around the globe. For whatever reason, women are aways in the minority when it comes to competing in poetry slams, although their presence in the audience is evenly split with men. It was really interesting talking to MiezeMedusa about it, because in addition to being a poet (Diana is just a slammistress, not a poet), she is also an MC in a hip-hop group. As rare as female slam poets are, female MCs are even more rare. We theorized about it for a good hour or so, and just couldn't come up with a reason for this gender divide.
Afterwards, I wandered to a nearby cafe and encountered a friend from Hamilton (who was visiting Vienna with her boyfriend), He introduced me to a group of university students, one of whom lives with a collective of MCs, and another who knows the slammaster of the other spoken word collective in Vienna. I took down numbers, tried my first bit of Schnapps (not my favorite) and then wandered home. It was on this walk home, accompanied by my friend and her partner, that I realized how fast my year has gone by. And yet, when I think about how things were when I was just starting in Canada, I laugh to myself. I truly had no idea. And although this trip has been full of its ups and downs, it's been an experience for sure- one I will never ever forget.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Vienna in the Springtime
I had stumbled off the bus from Prague to Vienna into a live snowglobe.
The snow stuck to streetlamps and tree branches, and matched up against the frilly white baroquesque buildings, it all looked like lace or a world made of decadent icing on a large wedding cake.
I wandered towards one of the large buildings, hoping it was a bank to exchange money into euros. It was. I groaned slightly as I walked through the doors, glancing at the neon red numbers: USD: 1.67
Why oh why does this have to be the year the dollar loses all value?
I walked down the streets a bit longer, enjoying in some silly way the manner in which the snow fell and stuck to everything, simply everything. I hate cold weather but I love snow. Snow in 80 degree weather would be heaven. I didn’t recognize any of the street names. All the signs were in german. The two people I asked for directions didn’t speak english. I felt like an alien. But for some reason, I wasn’t worried. My familiar travel companion “Anxiety” did not rear his ugly head. And for a brief few minutes, I enjoyed the feeling of being completely anonymous and alone inside a snowglobe of a city.
Backpack firmly stuck to my back, protected by a scarf, woolen hat and mittens and my small orange suitcase and a pocket (not quite) full of euros, I hailed the first cab I saw and handed the driver the address of the apartment.
My friend Maggie once told me that when you travel, your soul lags behind a few days. If that's true, I think it takes me about 5 days to rejoin myself. The first five days in a city are filled with panic: "I've made the wrong decision" or "why did I come to a country where they don't speak english" etc etc. And thusly went my first few days in Vienna, full of ups and downs (unfortunately, more downs than ups, but so it goes). I traveled to the smaller city of Melk for the weekend, where I stayed with an adorable family on a farm.
Flash foward a couple days later, driving through Melk at night in a car with 3 Austrian guys, talking over loud Goa electronic music in German. We're speeding down winding country roads, passing through landscapes that look a little too much like pennsylvania. It is day 5 in Austria, and just as the winter clouds clear, so does the thick layer of my discomfort, revealing the star filled night sky and myself, breathing it all in.
The snow stuck to streetlamps and tree branches, and matched up against the frilly white baroquesque buildings, it all looked like lace or a world made of decadent icing on a large wedding cake.
I wandered towards one of the large buildings, hoping it was a bank to exchange money into euros. It was. I groaned slightly as I walked through the doors, glancing at the neon red numbers: USD: 1.67
Why oh why does this have to be the year the dollar loses all value?
I walked down the streets a bit longer, enjoying in some silly way the manner in which the snow fell and stuck to everything, simply everything. I hate cold weather but I love snow. Snow in 80 degree weather would be heaven. I didn’t recognize any of the street names. All the signs were in german. The two people I asked for directions didn’t speak english. I felt like an alien. But for some reason, I wasn’t worried. My familiar travel companion “Anxiety” did not rear his ugly head. And for a brief few minutes, I enjoyed the feeling of being completely anonymous and alone inside a snowglobe of a city.
Backpack firmly stuck to my back, protected by a scarf, woolen hat and mittens and my small orange suitcase and a pocket (not quite) full of euros, I hailed the first cab I saw and handed the driver the address of the apartment.
My friend Maggie once told me that when you travel, your soul lags behind a few days. If that's true, I think it takes me about 5 days to rejoin myself. The first five days in a city are filled with panic: "I've made the wrong decision" or "why did I come to a country where they don't speak english" etc etc. And thusly went my first few days in Vienna, full of ups and downs (unfortunately, more downs than ups, but so it goes). I traveled to the smaller city of Melk for the weekend, where I stayed with an adorable family on a farm.
Flash foward a couple days later, driving through Melk at night in a car with 3 Austrian guys, talking over loud Goa electronic music in German. We're speeding down winding country roads, passing through landscapes that look a little too much like pennsylvania. It is day 5 in Austria, and just as the winter clouds clear, so does the thick layer of my discomfort, revealing the star filled night sky and myself, breathing it all in.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Czech me out!
It took all my energy not to purchase every single beer mug, shot glass and tshirt which sported that corny pun. But I needed to maintain my image as a serious poet, right?
After a wonderful week spent in Italy, visiting family and a friend from Hamilton (Allison) I had decided it was time to cntinue on my journey. Next destination: Prague. Ah yes, Prague, supposidly the most beautiful city in the world, with good food, cheap beer, friendly people and awesome architechture. Prague, the home of Kafka and apparently a lively spoken word scene I had to see it.
Stepping off the plane to Prague was like stepping into an ice box. My poor blood was so thin from spending the past 6 months in warmer climates (Mexico, Australia, New Zealand), I had to bundle up like I was back up at Hamilton. One tshirt, two sweaters, two jackets, a scarf, woolen mittens, a hat and sunglsses to keep the snow out of my eyes. Oh yes. Snow. In March. Just my luck.
We wandered through the streets of Prague and I was filled with a sense of incredible joy. The buildings were dark and looming, spiraled and ornate covered in light touches of gold that sparkled when hit by the sun. There were beautiful friendly people everywhere, many spoke English but with accents as ornate and dark as the buildings. And they sold us beer in huge glasses for 50 cents. I loved it. I wanted to move there. Immediately I began searching for a job- there had to be some opening with a Peace and Conflict resolution Center there, right? Or maybe some firm needed an events manager? Perhaps a travel writer? Ok Bartender? Fine, Fine.
Because it was Easter week, all the poets had left the city. It was a heartbreaking discovery, that was soon soothed by a hot chocolate made by a Scotish bartender. We asked him how he ended up in Prague. His story is one of those stories that makes me really and truly believe in the goodness of humanity, and the power of being in the right place at the right time with the universe on your side.
He had landed in an airport while coming back from a trip out east. His bags were lost, and he did not have a ticket back to scotland, nor did he have any money to buy one. He had 5 euro in his pocket, so he did what anyone would do. He found the closest bar and bought a beer. while at the bar he sat down next to a man, and told him his story. They got to talking for a while, and then Chris left for a moment to go to the washroom. When he reurned, the man was gone but had bought him another beer. As Chris sat down, he saw that wasnt the only thing that man had done for him. Underneath the glass was folded approximately 300 Euros. Chris bought a plane ticket to Prague with the money and has lived there ever since.
I talked to many foriegners while I was in Prague, especially ones who owned English Language bookshops. I had the great pleasure to stumble into one english language bookshop that happened to run the Prague Writers Fesival in June. When we entered, the owner, in a loud American accent (Boston, I believe) was reccomending to one of his customers alternatives to 1984. `Oh Oh wel if you liked Orwell and you liked Animal Farm, youll lke this book too, its political without all that... animal stuff.`
I liked him instantly. I liked him even more when he gave me his card, told me to email him when I knew for sure if I would be attending the writers festival and he would set up a media pass for me. Hooray for networking.
Prague was mostly spent with wide eyes and full bellies. Its officialy on my list for `places to visit in warmer weather´ and also my ´if i ever becme a broke poet, i will move here´ . Rent, I´m told, is only 600 dollars a month. Who needs Brooklyn?!
After a wonderful week spent in Italy, visiting family and a friend from Hamilton (Allison) I had decided it was time to cntinue on my journey. Next destination: Prague. Ah yes, Prague, supposidly the most beautiful city in the world, with good food, cheap beer, friendly people and awesome architechture. Prague, the home of Kafka and apparently a lively spoken word scene I had to see it.
Stepping off the plane to Prague was like stepping into an ice box. My poor blood was so thin from spending the past 6 months in warmer climates (Mexico, Australia, New Zealand), I had to bundle up like I was back up at Hamilton. One tshirt, two sweaters, two jackets, a scarf, woolen mittens, a hat and sunglsses to keep the snow out of my eyes. Oh yes. Snow. In March. Just my luck.
We wandered through the streets of Prague and I was filled with a sense of incredible joy. The buildings were dark and looming, spiraled and ornate covered in light touches of gold that sparkled when hit by the sun. There were beautiful friendly people everywhere, many spoke English but with accents as ornate and dark as the buildings. And they sold us beer in huge glasses for 50 cents. I loved it. I wanted to move there. Immediately I began searching for a job- there had to be some opening with a Peace and Conflict resolution Center there, right? Or maybe some firm needed an events manager? Perhaps a travel writer? Ok Bartender? Fine, Fine.
Because it was Easter week, all the poets had left the city. It was a heartbreaking discovery, that was soon soothed by a hot chocolate made by a Scotish bartender. We asked him how he ended up in Prague. His story is one of those stories that makes me really and truly believe in the goodness of humanity, and the power of being in the right place at the right time with the universe on your side.
He had landed in an airport while coming back from a trip out east. His bags were lost, and he did not have a ticket back to scotland, nor did he have any money to buy one. He had 5 euro in his pocket, so he did what anyone would do. He found the closest bar and bought a beer. while at the bar he sat down next to a man, and told him his story. They got to talking for a while, and then Chris left for a moment to go to the washroom. When he reurned, the man was gone but had bought him another beer. As Chris sat down, he saw that wasnt the only thing that man had done for him. Underneath the glass was folded approximately 300 Euros. Chris bought a plane ticket to Prague with the money and has lived there ever since.
I talked to many foriegners while I was in Prague, especially ones who owned English Language bookshops. I had the great pleasure to stumble into one english language bookshop that happened to run the Prague Writers Fesival in June. When we entered, the owner, in a loud American accent (Boston, I believe) was reccomending to one of his customers alternatives to 1984. `Oh Oh wel if you liked Orwell and you liked Animal Farm, youll lke this book too, its political without all that... animal stuff.`
I liked him instantly. I liked him even more when he gave me his card, told me to email him when I knew for sure if I would be attending the writers festival and he would set up a media pass for me. Hooray for networking.
Prague was mostly spent with wide eyes and full bellies. Its officialy on my list for `places to visit in warmer weather´ and also my ´if i ever becme a broke poet, i will move here´ . Rent, I´m told, is only 600 dollars a month. Who needs Brooklyn?!
Friday, March 21, 2008
Verona Sonnets
Verona is the perfect city to sit at a cafe and write sonnets.
Sititng next to the river in Verona, munching on brioche and café, I enjoyed the momentary silence of the Shakespearean city. Wandering around those medieval streets, it was easy to see why Shakespeare had chosen Verona for the most tragic of love stories.
I’ve just recently started in the habit of writing sonnets again. It’s a good exercise in the archaic, and I find the strict form forces me to find alternative symbols and metaphors.
There are a few popular types of sonnets: the or “Italian” sonnet (ABBA, ABBA), the “Shakespearean” or "English" sonnet (ABAB, CDCD) and the "Spenserian" sonnet (ABAB, BCBC). I chose to write mine in the style of the Shakespearean sonnet. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been partial to that rhyme scheme:
ABAB CDCD EFEF GG
Each sonnet has 14 lines total, written in iambic pentameter (10 syllables per line that give it a heartbeat feeling: “TA-dum”. Or atleast it should… I’m still working on that aspect).
The rhyming couplet at the end allows for a relevation of sorts, or some type of emotional turnabout or catharsis.
Typical sonnet themes include death, love, and heartbreak. They’re pretty much stereotypical in every way. Though they may seem a little trite, they’re quite difficult to master without sounding silly or pretentious. I’ve just sort of embraced the fact that, although heartfelt, my sonnets could be laughable, especially since they are so dramatic and use the stereotypical middle english iamb fillers (O! Or Alas! Etc etc)
There are modern spins on sonnets (read Edna St. Vincent Millay, for example) some with less lines and looser rhyme.
Some people play sudoku. I write sonnets. Boh.
Break up sonnet
So the waves of romance have come and gone
Fickle, like the tides we watched from your shores
The mystr’y of moonlight gives way to dawn
Revealing secrets we dreamt of before
The morning lark chased away fantasy
A love at once lost, though never quite gained
I do not ask your sky reflect of me
Only that some fond memory remains.
I won’t break the silence, calling your name
Nor my precious nights dreaming of your voice
I am not a school girl, playing a game
I’d shut off my heart, if I had the choice
If only I could’ve seen this from the start:
Beneath those warm sweet eyes rests a cold heart!
Secret Sonnet
When brought face to face, they hardly did speak
Remaining distant like orions stars
Alas his eye to hers they dared not meet
Just admir’ng eachother from afar
In dreams she often heard him calling out
Her name in a voice so lovingly clear
To her from mountains high he did wish shout
A declaration of love she might hear.
Though fate has driven them so far apart
With mountains and seas standing in between
But as it’s known, with matters of the heart
Love’s made the all magic this world has seen
But though this love tale may make them swoon
Fate’s fickle hand may end it all too soon.
Sititng next to the river in Verona, munching on brioche and café, I enjoyed the momentary silence of the Shakespearean city. Wandering around those medieval streets, it was easy to see why Shakespeare had chosen Verona for the most tragic of love stories.
I’ve just recently started in the habit of writing sonnets again. It’s a good exercise in the archaic, and I find the strict form forces me to find alternative symbols and metaphors.
There are a few popular types of sonnets: the or “Italian” sonnet (ABBA, ABBA), the “Shakespearean” or "English" sonnet (ABAB, CDCD) and the "Spenserian" sonnet (ABAB, BCBC). I chose to write mine in the style of the Shakespearean sonnet. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been partial to that rhyme scheme:
ABAB CDCD EFEF GG
Each sonnet has 14 lines total, written in iambic pentameter (10 syllables per line that give it a heartbeat feeling: “TA-dum”. Or atleast it should… I’m still working on that aspect).
The rhyming couplet at the end allows for a relevation of sorts, or some type of emotional turnabout or catharsis.
Typical sonnet themes include death, love, and heartbreak. They’re pretty much stereotypical in every way. Though they may seem a little trite, they’re quite difficult to master without sounding silly or pretentious. I’ve just sort of embraced the fact that, although heartfelt, my sonnets could be laughable, especially since they are so dramatic and use the stereotypical middle english iamb fillers (O! Or Alas! Etc etc)
There are modern spins on sonnets (read Edna St. Vincent Millay, for example) some with less lines and looser rhyme.
Some people play sudoku. I write sonnets. Boh.
Break up sonnet
So the waves of romance have come and gone
Fickle, like the tides we watched from your shores
The mystr’y of moonlight gives way to dawn
Revealing secrets we dreamt of before
The morning lark chased away fantasy
A love at once lost, though never quite gained
I do not ask your sky reflect of me
Only that some fond memory remains.
I won’t break the silence, calling your name
Nor my precious nights dreaming of your voice
I am not a school girl, playing a game
I’d shut off my heart, if I had the choice
If only I could’ve seen this from the start:
Beneath those warm sweet eyes rests a cold heart!
Secret Sonnet
When brought face to face, they hardly did speak
Remaining distant like orions stars
Alas his eye to hers they dared not meet
Just admir’ng eachother from afar
In dreams she often heard him calling out
Her name in a voice so lovingly clear
To her from mountains high he did wish shout
A declaration of love she might hear.
Though fate has driven them so far apart
With mountains and seas standing in between
But as it’s known, with matters of the heart
Love’s made the all magic this world has seen
But though this love tale may make them swoon
Fate’s fickle hand may end it all too soon.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Venetian Glass
If Rome shouts, Venice whispers.
At least when it isn't high tourist season.
I had the great pleasure of visiting Venice with a friend from college. It's really wonderful to take a few days and spend some time with a familiar and friendly face. It's exactly what I needed, I think, to recharge myself for the next few months.
We wandered through Venice, picking through tiny side streets, over and over tiny bridge after tiny bridge, bracing ourselves against the strong breeze which flies off the water, and taking deep breaths and photographs in the breaks of sunlight.
There is a Titian exhibit at the Academia, and because both Allison and I are Art-History nerds (although I think she's a bit worse than I am...) we gobbled it up. "Love Love Love" was all she could say as we walked out of the building, and I couldn't agree more. Art like that is truly a gift, and I was happy we got to experience it.
While in the gallery, I received a phone call from a teacher at my boarding school who was leading a group of students and faculty through Italy. I knew they would be in Venice that day, and had left him a message earlier that morning, posing the possibility of a meetup. And meet we did. There was a happy charm to meeting up with Doc that day; the man who took me on my first overseas adventure when I was a 6th former at The Hill. It was the trip that prodded my travel bug to life. It was great to see him, years later while I'm on my own excursion around the world. In a way, I owe much of my curiosity and bravery to him and that first trip.
It was a day filled with adventure, singing gondolieri, hole in the wall pizza joints, familiar faces, twisting canals and a piazza I've dreamt of seeing since I was a little girl of 8 years, learning to play Vivaldi on the violin.
At least when it isn't high tourist season.
I had the great pleasure of visiting Venice with a friend from college. It's really wonderful to take a few days and spend some time with a familiar and friendly face. It's exactly what I needed, I think, to recharge myself for the next few months.
We wandered through Venice, picking through tiny side streets, over and over tiny bridge after tiny bridge, bracing ourselves against the strong breeze which flies off the water, and taking deep breaths and photographs in the breaks of sunlight.
There is a Titian exhibit at the Academia, and because both Allison and I are Art-History nerds (although I think she's a bit worse than I am...) we gobbled it up. "Love Love Love" was all she could say as we walked out of the building, and I couldn't agree more. Art like that is truly a gift, and I was happy we got to experience it.
While in the gallery, I received a phone call from a teacher at my boarding school who was leading a group of students and faculty through Italy. I knew they would be in Venice that day, and had left him a message earlier that morning, posing the possibility of a meetup. And meet we did. There was a happy charm to meeting up with Doc that day; the man who took me on my first overseas adventure when I was a 6th former at The Hill. It was the trip that prodded my travel bug to life. It was great to see him, years later while I'm on my own excursion around the world. In a way, I owe much of my curiosity and bravery to him and that first trip.
It was a day filled with adventure, singing gondolieri, hole in the wall pizza joints, familiar faces, twisting canals and a piazza I've dreamt of seeing since I was a little girl of 8 years, learning to play Vivaldi on the violin.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Roots
"Everything you need to know about Italian culture, you can find out about in our architecture. Anglo houses are built with brick and wood. They are moveable. Italian houses are made of heavy stone, with deep foundations. We remain."
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Kiwis and Ozzies
Some poetry antics and goodbye shots from the southern hemisphere:
Kiwi Poets
I don't know if you can see that, but it says "<---prose 10 km Poetry---->" At the Newtown Word Collective in Wellington
The singing word, I only wish I could've experienced a bit more of it.
Maori dedication
Guerrilla street poetry, painted on a sidewalk in Auckland by a Professor at the University of Auckland (!!!). The city liked it so much, they decided not to paint over it.
Emilie Zoe Baker, Ghostboy and Tug
Post-Night Words festival poet love.
They wouldn't let me leave the country till I tried some vegemite. It is as bad as everyone says. Sorry guys. :)
Kiwi Poets
I don't know if you can see that, but it says "<---prose 10 km Poetry---->" At the Newtown Word Collective in Wellington
The singing word, I only wish I could've experienced a bit more of it.
Maori dedication
Guerrilla street poetry, painted on a sidewalk in Auckland by a Professor at the University of Auckland (!!!). The city liked it so much, they decided not to paint over it.
Emilie Zoe Baker, Ghostboy and Tug
Post-Night Words festival poet love.
They wouldn't let me leave the country till I tried some vegemite. It is as bad as everyone says. Sorry guys. :)
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