Poem

Dust me off with your mere presence

I've been languishing, my stories untold.

Search for me in your daily adventures

Let the joy of connection unfold.

One key at a time

There was a period in my life when I would write here more than once per week, and I'm interested in resurrecting it. 

The habitual practice of writing yields results in the form of working up inspiration which may not have been present at the outset. Write a terrible first draft, writers advise writers. From humble beginnings, good things grow...

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I will be 42 years old this November, and find myself wondering what sort of educational projects, self-organised or available for a fee, I might undertake to improve my well-being. 

Over the years I have made progress with learning languages. It might be nice to learn to play a musical instrument other than the guitar. I could read more books, or take up painting. I could join a physical activity group, like pilates or yoga or volleyball. Tennis?

I have some choices to make when it comes to where to travel during my 42nd year. Hannover remains very attractive to me, but I find that I'm not saving as much as I used to, and this will limit my other options. I may dream of seeing Bruges and touring Austria, but more realistic is slow travel in Portugal or other parts of southern Europe. 

I long for southern Europe in a different way: I envision passionate self-expression, a greater degree of extraversion, and more willingness to exchange thoughts with a stranger. As such, aiming for Portugal gives me something to genuinely look forward to. 

I don't have a Purpose in life as such - as the meme goes, I just want to wander around, indulging my curiosity about whatever interests me, until I die. Authoritative-sounding thought leaders champion the 'Purpose' idea, to the extent that I'm looking into having purposes with a small 'P', but is it really necessary?

My final paragraph will be about why I don't have plans to travel to Nordic Europe anytime soon: The inflation of 2020 shifted my spectrum of destinations away from there. You could say that I've been priced out of this region, as unfortunate as it may be. Switzerland is another place I'd love to spend more time in, but can't really afford. I will have to be contented with my previous experiences of these highly pleasant, peaceful and prosperous countries. 

Part 2: Fragments of Paris

I decidedly had a better time in Paris than I had in London, but somewhere along the way of writing posts about the experience, I lost sight of multiple displeasures there, and started thinking about spending a week there next year.

I had it all planned out: I was going to visit the Musée Cernuschi for Asian art, the Musée Quai Branly, which would continue my tradition of visiting so-called ethnographic museums in Europe (and show me more Asian cultural objects), the Musée d'Ennery (for a private collection of Chinese and Japanese art), the Musée d'Histoire d'Immigration (again, because an entire floor was closed in 2025), the Musée de la Orangerie (for Monet and other famous fine art), the Musée Jacquemart-André (for more fine art), and the Musée of Jewish Art and Civilisation. I was also interested in The House of Culture of Japan and the Arab World if I had time. 

Then I downloaded Nomadic Matt's guide to Paris, and I had a flashback to my feelings of anxiety through most of those Parisian adventures. The people felt inaccessible to me (even though I opened any interaction with French), and this caused me to feel lonely and like I couldn't rely on anyone to guide me. I felt an unmet need for human connection and the kindness of strangers. 

You may remember that I asked the barista at the 'City of Light' café to recommend a good salad in Le Marais. He dismissed my enquiry by commenting that the area was very touristy, and that no place came to mind. He could have redirected me to another person nearby who might have the knowledge I sought, but didn't. I managed on my own (and found the place with the delicious crêpes that also served salads), but I was disappointed in him. 

Admittedly, there was one chatty receptionist at our hotel who recommended French specialties that the locals were fond of, and that was how I ended up trying foie gras, but apart from her, my experience with Parisians was unfortunately uninviting. 

The pollution of the air and grittiness of the urban surroundings were other sources of displeasure, as were the high prices of hotels and other goods and services. All of a sudden it became clear to me that although visiting Paris repeatedly was lucrative to many Australians and people around the world, it was not, generally speaking, my sweet spot. I will look elsewhere for slow travel in the near future. 

Something curious happened during those four days in and around Le Marais, though. I was reminded of my former influence - French and otherwise - of postmodernism. Reproduced in the Musée d'Histoire d'Immigration is a photograph of Jean-Paul Sartre and Michel Foucault participating in an antiracism protest in the 1970s. Dad and I passed by the Latin Quarter's Café des Deux Magots and Café des Flores, where intellectuals such as Simone de Beauvoir and her long-time partner discussed their ideas. I had memories of a more innocent time, a time of abundant inspiration, jotting down story or non-fiction writing ideas in a journal, the outlines of the book I wanted to write in 2002-2004, words like 'fragments' and 'narrativity', sexual exploration and concepts of revolution (before I knew anything about social democracy and left-wing political culture). 

I remembered peppering my language with Ps, writing my name into narrative existence, and relishing the French connotations of 'Epiphanie'. I remembered efforts to bring the Chinese tones into the English language. I remembered trying to make my writing crisp and economical, and further on, incorporating Scandinavian terseness into English. 

This had the effect of reconnecting me to past versions of myself I had forgotten. Old Epiphanies had a lot of wisdom and talent that today's Epiphanie can be inspired by. There is power in each place to bring out a part of yourself you can't necessarily access anywhere else. Merci alors, Paris.  

The Joy of Smaller Places

Many travellers to Europe are excited by its megacities, London and Paris. Many more still appreciate its pulsating capital cities, such as Berlin, Amsterdam and Madrid. I find that, perhaps because I spend the majority of my time in Sydney, which fits the description of 'pulsating capital city' very well, I prefer the smaller places.

Upon sharing my post 'London and Berlin' with two friends, they both had the same follow-up question: Did you enjoy them? Reader, I must confess, that I felt mostly overwhelmed there. The sights (and some aspects of daily life) were stimulating in a positive way, but, well let's take London:

Two out of three of the attractions I saw, the National Portrait Gallery and the Museum of Natural History, were uncomfortably crowded. Viewing individual displays was a matter of waiting (in the case of the Museum in a hot room), bumping into other sweaty people, and processing a lot of human-generated noise and movement. I left both of these environments earlier than I could have because I ended up overwhelmed. Even though many of the displays were fascinating, the circumstances were such that I knew I would have a better experience if I left before I was totally frayed. 

In addition, travelling from my hotel to these attractions was draining, whether I caught the underground or the bus. On the latter, somebody near me was blasting Dua Lipa interviews on their smartphone. I usually enjoy hearing her voice, but on this occasion it made my eyes water. I tried to overcome irritation and overwhelm by telling myself that I was having an English cultural experience, but it didn't work - only after 30 mins of pain did I get to remove myself from there. 

On the street, I was ever-conscious of keeping a hand draped over my cross-body bag at all times (to prevent theft), while checking out of the impulse to consult my phone, as the place was notorious for phone-snatching. This inserted an element of stress into my pace.

(I will put in a good word for Leighton House, though - the nervy 25 min walk from my hotel was made worthwhile by the rich influences from Morocco, Egypt, Syria and other Arab countries adorning the walls, and incorporated into the interior design.)

So overstimulation was a regular feature of my stay. I can say that I had an interesting experience (one worth writing about), but not much of an enjoyable one. I don't think I'll return in the near future. Perhaps when I was younger and more energetic a month-long stay in London appealed to my inner architecture, but at 41 years of age it seems like a chore or an obligation - and why do it when there are other, more pleasurable options?

And this brings me to places I know I find pleasure in, such as Coimbra and Óbidos in Portugal - a small city and a village, respectively. In Coimbra, a woman went out of her way to help me and my Mum make the most of our stay, approaching us on the street after overhearing us discussing tickets on the bus. She explained that a multi-ticket card was available from a certain kiosk which would cut down on our costs. It was very friendly of her, and the kind of warm regard for your fellow human that is more typical of slower-paced, lesser populated places.  

Meanwhile, in Óbidos, every person I passed greeted me with "Bom Día," a polite custom that applied not only to regular community members but to this foreigner, who was wearing a rainbow image on my hat. Rural homophobia? I didn't see any. (Maybe I would have found some degree of it if I had stayed longer and had deeper interactions with the locals, but on the surface, at least, everything was fine.)

I do not yet have a clear idea of where I might travel next year, but for now I will remember my own hard-earned wisdom: stay off the beaten path as much as possible. This is my personal formula for maximising travel enjoyment. 

Key Words/Phrases

When I’m out in public, I will often guide my mind (and hence emotions) to less stressful states than I start the journey with.

I might tell myself to ‘just notice’ the sensations in my body, perhaps focusing on a specific part of it, like my neck or stomach. 

I tell myself I am a Person of Conviction. I tell myself that feeling comfortable is more important than performing feminist body language to passers-by. I remind myself to relax. 

At home, I listen to self-development podcasts like ‘Unf*ck Your Brain’. Today I ventured outside my comfort zone with 2 hours of reading. 

I care about eating delicious-tasting vegetables every meal, and enjoy putting it into practice. 

Sometimes I let myself down, and then forgiveness is hard. I make less time for self-compassion. But I try to get back to that.

I am learning.

Decision-making in Paris

I’ve come across many variations of the sentiment ‘You could spend years in Paris and not see everything’, so when visiting a city where analysis paralysis is always a possibility, how did I narrow down my options?

First of all, I looked for attractions close to my accommodation, in the 12th arrondissement. Paris’ official tourism website informed me that the Museum of the History of Immigration was on the edge of the district, reachable by a walk of about 25 mins. The theme of this museum appealed to my long-standing interest in immigration, anti-racism, French culture, anthropology, sociology and history. Visiting would be consistent with my values of supporting multiculturalism and educating myself on controversial issues. Furthermore, it was off the beaten path, meaning fewer other travellers to compete for space with. A decision was made.

Looking at the map, I realised that the 12th shared a border with the 4th, which meant that I could easily reach it by public transport. Thanking my luck, I resolved to spend all my free time there.

As you already know, I had a travel companion, my Dad. I took his preferences and needs into account, so we spent one of our first days walking from the Louvre to the Champs-Elysées, choosing a café/bar on the famous road and watching everybody go by, and finally dining at a fancy restaurant there called Fouquet.

I had a recommendation from my Mum, who once spent a month in Paris, of visiting the Petit Palais. I had decided before setting foot in Paris that I would prioritise this sight, as it resonated with my values of viewing beautiful fine art. 

Mum had also spoken favourably of the Carnavalet Museum, and, upon doing my own research on the 4th arrondissement attraction, I realised I was curious enough about the history of the city to prioritise it. Its position off the beaten path added to the appeal.

Finally, I had the vague idea of locating the Place des Vosges, which I was able to actualise, following a sign chanced upon while doing the flâneur thing.

And there you have it. My four full days in the megacity encompassed a kaleidoscope of experiences, leaving me grateful for this opportunity to revisit the city that looms large in so many imaginations, and have a distinctively Epiphanie time there.

A Memory of Hamburg

I had planned to take my time wandering around HafenCity's little commercial hub before selecting the most appropriate restaurant, but suddenly rain started quickening my pace and saw me dart into the nearest open eatery. 

This turned out to be a franchise, Katzentempel, which served vegetarian or vegan food, while providing customers with the company of freely roaming cats. I seem to remember that the cats had been former strays. They looked healthy and comfortable in the invitingly warm space. 

I was worried about the rain drenching me on the way back home, but I tried to find a little solace in the obvious contentment of the felines. There were three or four of them, and the two that wandered my way were grey, and orange-and-white. I watched a fair youngster with a nasal piercing stroke the radiant creature at their feet. I could see the steady rhythm of the cat's breath through its body, and thought about both living beings being changed for the better by this experience. 

I was served a 'Rainbow Bowl', which featured mock chicken and sliced mango (among other brightly coloured items of vegetables and protein) on a bed of rice. I wondered how often the cats were treated to morsels from the diners, and whether this was discouraged. Although I couldn't finish the sizeable portion, I left it on the table (so as not to contribute to overfeeding). 

I hadn't intended to come back to Hamburg as soon as 2024, but my parents had been curious about it after viewing my photos of the Town Hall, and incorporated the northern city into their European Summer plans. I revisited that site with them, and saw it from a new angle (this time with rain). But the Katzentempel stands out as a truly novel, serendipitous experience. 

After paying I lingered in the pleasant space, hoping the rain would stop, or at least ease up. Nobody seemed to mind. The orange-and-white cat lay down close to me, so I bent down to give it a pat. There was something soothing about it, but mostly I was anxious at the prospect of getting drenched, so I felt like I was reaching for a transcendent moment that never quite arrived. 

Instead of offering just one concept, Katzentempel offers two: Cat Café meets Health Food Restaurant. You can find out more about them here.