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Day 7(?): In-flight and wandering.
England looked so beautiful from the air. Possibly an unremarkable observation if you live there, but for me it's pure Tolkien. Even the man-made rises fringing the runway, dotted with trees, was intensely and indulgently verdant. I first, properly, had a chance to be inside a forest when I was sixteen. I saw it from a distance at a school camp to Lake Tinaroo on the Atherton Tablelands north of Cairns. It was on the other side of the lake (that itself was manmade, the product of damming up the river and flooding the valley - submerging the Chinese goldmining community that had made the place their home. You can still dive what's left of the ruins.)
The buildings were on one side, the pine forest (again, a manmade plantation) was on the other. I had arranged to skive off something and attempt to walk around the lake. Figured it'd take hours but worth it if I could spend even five minutes vanished inside it. On that day I walked for hours, and never made it, though a stray dog kept me company the entire way. I'd seriously underestimated the distance and so headed back. Felt bad having to leave the dog, at the end.
A year or so later I arranged a camping trip with Eric and Drew. Got dropped off at the township and hiked around the lake. Finally go to sleep inside that forest.
Lifting off from Gatwick and looking out the window showed a countryside deeply emerald and carved into floppy squares by rounded, fluffy treelines. And, man, did I just want to get out and walk.
It wasn't until that moment, actually, lifting higher, that I properly realised just how long it would be before I was back in the UK. August at the earliest, possibly longer. Until then it had felt like I was just stepping out for a bit. And then, abruptly, it vanished beneath the clouds, green submerged beneath white, a flash of riverwater and that was that.
DK went back to Istanbul and walked the streets where his mother grew up, visited a few landmarks. It was quite a significant experience for him. I'd like to have the same. I think I'd like to feel some kind of connection to history, even if I can't sensibly claim any kind of role in it. I've had Russian cabbies assume I was Russian from my look, I've had Americans and English people assume wonder if I was French. It leaves me feeling a little insubstantial, not really knowing. Like I was built and installed, cold and abrupt and stand-alone, rather than concieved as part of a genetic continuity.
Captain just announced we're on approach. Holy crap, I can see the archipelago. It's beautiful.
The buildings were on one side, the pine forest (again, a manmade plantation) was on the other. I had arranged to skive off something and attempt to walk around the lake. Figured it'd take hours but worth it if I could spend even five minutes vanished inside it. On that day I walked for hours, and never made it, though a stray dog kept me company the entire way. I'd seriously underestimated the distance and so headed back. Felt bad having to leave the dog, at the end.
A year or so later I arranged a camping trip with Eric and Drew. Got dropped off at the township and hiked around the lake. Finally go to sleep inside that forest.
Lifting off from Gatwick and looking out the window showed a countryside deeply emerald and carved into floppy squares by rounded, fluffy treelines. And, man, did I just want to get out and walk.
It wasn't until that moment, actually, lifting higher, that I properly realised just how long it would be before I was back in the UK. August at the earliest, possibly longer. Until then it had felt like I was just stepping out for a bit. And then, abruptly, it vanished beneath the clouds, green submerged beneath white, a flash of riverwater and that was that.
DK went back to Istanbul and walked the streets where his mother grew up, visited a few landmarks. It was quite a significant experience for him. I'd like to have the same. I think I'd like to feel some kind of connection to history, even if I can't sensibly claim any kind of role in it. I've had Russian cabbies assume I was Russian from my look, I've had Americans and English people assume wonder if I was French. It leaves me feeling a little insubstantial, not really knowing. Like I was built and installed, cold and abrupt and stand-alone, rather than concieved as part of a genetic continuity.
Captain just announced we're on approach. Holy crap, I can see the archipelago. It's beautiful.
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No matter how flimsy it is: I am related to Charlemagne, which is a hell of a bitchslap if one finds someone who (a) knows who Charlemagne was (which is hard) and (b) gives a toss (which is harder) and (c) can be convinced it matters (which is easy).
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I'm related to murderers, gunmen, gamblers and reprobates. Two gen ago, anyway. Kinda hoping elder ancestors redeem them.
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/srsly, not. I like Queensland more than NSW. Southern Qld at least.
Also, go, fuck off, be European.
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Being provably related (i.e able to actually trace the family line that far) is another matter though!
My family are from a small mining community new Newcastle. My family name (not the one I use now) is the name of a town a few miles away from where I grew up. It's frankly embarrassing how short a distance my paternal line has managed to move.
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Oh, there's always a smarty-bloomers.
Also, (d) pays attention to history. ;)
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And it's quite often me, I'm afraid. Sorry to pop your Bubble of Specialness!
Also, bloomers, HOW DO THEY WORK?
(Does the UK have bloomers?)
/Smart grrls can pop by bubble and squeak any time.
Re: Also, bloomers, HOW DO THEY WORK?
Re: Also, bloomers, HOW DO THEY WORK?
The meme du jour, based on that is "BLOODY OBVIOUS THING, How Does It Work?"
It's Thursday AM there? Save it for Friday after a drink or two. Or nine.
Then look on the You Of Tubes.
Re: Also, bloomers, HOW DO THEY WORK?
(I can actually tell you how bloomers work, in terms of the mechanics of being able to use the toilet while encumbered by layers of skirts, petticoats and voluminous underwear. Many early bloomers were 'splitters', i.e. crotchless, or had a removable panel, so didn't have to be completely removed in order to urinate. It wasn't until the late 1910s, when women's fashions became more practical and simple and allowed more freedom of movement, that full gussetted underwear became the norm. WHY DO I KNOW THESE THINGS?!)
Re: Also, bloomers, HOW DO THEY WORK?
That would have made primary school MUCH MORE FUN!
I don't know, but there's probably a career in it.
Re: Also, bloomers, HOW DO THEY WORK?
(There is the possibility that bloomers means something slightly different on that side of the planet.)
Re: Also, bloomers, HOW DO THEY WORK?
(* Bloomers, are not unlike granny pants)
Re: Also, bloomers, HOW DO THEY WORK?