European Encounters [2]

[2] The Marseillais on the train (from Aix-en-Provence to Arles)

I had initially searched for a way around Marseille, longing for the fresh air and picturesque views of nature I was moved by on the buses between Cassis and Aix-en-Provence. However, the practicality and convenience of the train soon emerged as lucrative, which is how I came to be seated opposite a loquacious Marseillais with steady self-assurance.

Introducing himself by way of offering an interesting observation in French, I replied "Je n'est parle pas Francaise" with kindness and curiosity, prompting him to switch seamlessly to English. Working as an English teacher had provided plenty of opportunities to perfect his second language. I forgave him the vaguely unkempt appearance because he seemed well-travelled. It turns out you can get away with having scruffy blond hair if you have charisma. 

The people in Paris were too tense, he admitted, after we paused for a moment to consider the cultural significance of his birthplace. Marseille represented a more relaxed lifestyle, warmth and sunshine, and the beautiful Provencal geography had an abundance of charming rural retreats on offer. Indeed, one of these was the current destination - work set aside for the year, and unstructured free time on the horizon, he had attuned to his surroundings anew.

The Frenchman stood up to appreciate the view from the other side of the carriage, leaning confidently against the luggage rack until it gave way a bit, almost toppling him over. With a witty remark about the facilities not being up to scratch, he resumed the pleasurable viewing, spirits very much intact. I recognised complaining about external circumstances to be a French custom, not indicative of one's real interior state. 

Back in his seat, I thought he might be being co-conspirational in confiding, "Everyone's afraid of something," with a twinkle in the eyes. Unfortunately he had something else in mind: "You know, that mask [you're wearing] won't protect you against the coronavirus. Its particles are so small, they just float straight through. It may protect you from some other germs, but as a shield against that affliction it's quite ineffective." Disappointed at this disinformation, but wanting to continue the conversation, I indicated I was protecting myself in general. He considered this, and revealed he trusted in God to protect him from harm.

We started to talk about climate change, and I felt the need to voice my despair that humans were bringing each other to the point of extinction. Thankfully he was aware of the threat and described a nearby river, whose water levels had been found to be receding. Not having reconciled my urge to travel by plane and my desire to protect the environment, preachiness was not mine to impart. I couldn't refrain from the sort of gloom one might experience when based in a city which might soon experience a shortage of fresh water, though.

The conversation moved on to science fiction, something I know little about, but have noticed many of my friends swear by. His eyes lit up as he recalled 'A Fall of Moondust' by Isaac Asimov, a book I read in high school, that had captured my imagination at the time. 

Reflecting upon my presence on the train as a solo woman traveller, the Marseillais said: "You must be brave to travel around the country by yourself." Pleased to be appreciated for my globetrotting ways, I nevertheless started to downplay the compliment by saying it wasn't my first time in France as a solo woman traveller. This was when another passenger slid into view, asking him for help. Locating her seat took about ten minutes, after which my time on the train was up, and while a part of me wanted to discover what Arles held in store, another part wished I could have stayed in the conversation a little longer. I bid my travel companion farewell, and made my way through the aisle. 

As far as transient encounters go, I was pleased to have connected with a local. One of many (internal) migrants navigating the Provencal port city's lifestyle, he was mercurial, sophisticated and savvy. I may not be enraptured enough with France's Second City to move there, but I can see how it would draw people in, and this means I am keen to learn more about Marseillais creativity. Here's hoping it will make an appearance in my future, soon.

European Encounters [1]

[1] The Swiss globe trotter in Grain De Folie café 

Google directed me to "the best coffee in Cassis," a search I might not have made if not informed by Australian coffee culture. An inviting interior with various shades of brown had to be quickly navigated in and out of (in this era of Covid). One of the three outdoors tables beckoned to me, and as I removed my mask I noticed that the bitter bean's aroma was of such strength that it lingered in the air outside the door.

At the table next to me sat an American who had tried to make conversation with me while I was ordering. While more amiable than the average American, he still carried the stereotypical assumptions of American Exceptionalism - so I quickly shut *that* down. Two tables over were an Australian couple, lean and enjoying themselves more than I was. Perhaps they had conducted the same search on Google. 

I pulled out my secret weapon against loneliness, my smartphone, and started to tinker with it, doing this for a while, when a cat, more familiar with the grounds than I, decided to find my feet intensely interesting. I watched with relief as the four-legged soul reminded me to be as deeply present as possible. After a minute or so it retraced its footsteps back inside, with an attitude that suggested the cafe was its steady base. 

Returning to a more interiority-focused experience, I struggled a bit to feel like playing with my smartphone was the best use of my time, but I *was* tired, and there weren't a lot of places to sit where I didn't have to spend money. Grain De Folie, at least, invited lingering. 

And then there she was: a fellow traveller asking to share my table. We recognised two things about each other fairly quickly: we both loved to explore the unknown (and had a track record of doing so), and we were both dissatisfied. I got the impression she was part of the LGBTIQ community, ironically because of the way she talked about her boyfriend. Her evocation of his presence suggested that she was willingly participating in a culture of heterosexuality where the more feminine of the two has to make certain sacrifices. I can't say I haven't flirted with a similar kind of subjugation myself, so I mentally shrugged and made the most of the encounter. 

She related to me with both interest and familiarity, because, as she explained, she had spent four months travelling around Australia and New Zealand. (What did she like the most? The coffee.) I had far less experience with Switzerland, but knew it well enough to note the similarities between the two - a proclivity for living close to nature, economic prosperity, and a certain kind of conservativism (compared to much of Western Europe). Learning that she'd spent time in Nepal, I asked her what the people were like, and was presented with one word: religious. Overall she'd found the whole trip enjoyable, so I took note: I will maintain an interest in travelling there. 

(It's always interesting to me how people choose their travel destinations. I speculated whether the Swiss woman felt at home amongst Nepalese mountains because of the vertical geography of her birthplace.) 

The globe trotter mentioned that the coffee in Italy was much better than any she'd tried in France - but of course she'd never tell the French that. At this, I noticed her dissatisfaction, and maybe even self-dislike. I have issues with my own inner critic, so I could relate. She left twenty minutes later, in search of her boyfriend. Cassis being a small place, we both returned to the same cafe later that day, acknowledged each other in a disarming manner, and I gave her the warm smile I couldn't muster up earlier on. This softened her brow, and I could tell that she respected me more for finding that positivity within me. (She couldn't quite return it.) 

As far as transient encounters go, this one was a case of instant connection over shared interests, reminded me of my own hard-won travel wisdom, and strengthened my ever-growing realisation that living in Europe can be as unfulfilling as living in Australasia.

Slow Travel in Torino

I've wanted to visit Torino, Italia, ever since I learned that the author Italo Calvino wandered its streets for a formative stretch of his life. Italo moved there to participate in its university culture, and secured a place at a progressive publishing company which was such a good fit that he was a long-time employee. The lyrical innovation of 'If on a winter's night a traveller' sparked much enthusiasm in my teens, 'Invisible Cities' was wildly creative, and 'Why read the classics' puts a new spin on our literary heritage. I wanted to understand the environment which nurtured such inventiveness. 

I first started crowdsourcing information on the city in 2008, but round about 2015 it made it onto a Lonely Planet 'Best in Travel' list, elevating its profile in the tourist industry irreversibly. I remained keen to visit but became apprehensive of too many other people having the same idea. Luckily, when I researched Italy thoroughly in 2023, this National Geographic article informed me that Torino could still pass for undertouristed (as of 2019, at any rate). A decision was made to incorporate it into this year's travels. 

It's no coincidence that I've linked to the above NatGeo article - it also praises Bolzano and Bologna, and while I didn't get around to the former, I did spend 6 nights in Bologna, right after those 7 nights in Torino. Sometimes a single text can be richly inspiring. 

I arrived in Torino just as its annual Chocolate Festival was commencing, and I have fond memories of drinking pistachio-flavoured hot chocolate, overlooking the piazza San Carlo, wondering how anything could taste so delicious. The silky, warm liquid was just the thing to soothe my throat, which had become a little tender in the late autumn chill. Classical melodies floated over the bustling space, a street musician adding romance to the elegant, cream facades. 

I never did see this most central of piazzas without chocolate stalls, side to side. They were universally white and imparted a glow of their own, thanks to the sunshine that persisted for much of my stay. Over those six full days of Torino I wandered back here often, carefully choosing which sweets I would buy, and which I would sample. Most delicious were the 200 grams of hazelnut praline (which was sliced out of a slab and set me back 5 euros), and a Cream Puff-like pastry filled with fluffy white chocolate. There may also have been cannoli, a dark chocolate made in Modica, (Sicilia,) almond cookies (only vaguely chocolate-related, but I'm not complaining) and candied fruit slices dipped in dark chocolate. 

My favourite experience in Torino was navigating Parco Valentino, which was large enough to contain a small but charming castle, garden complexes of dreamy gorgeousness (encompassing fountains, sculptures and squirrels), and an evocative recreation of a medieval village (whose high-contrast yet faded artworks make me happy to this day). I roamed the park for about four hours, spending some time standing by its river and feeling my spirits soar at the eye-catching reds, oranges, yellows and greens of giant trees on the other side. Little white canoes sped by, here and there, reflections ablaze in the water. Many well-dressed people shared the space with me, and this posed a challenge: I didn't know whether to admire the lush autumn foliage, the stylish outfits, or the elaborate hairstyles and make-up of the people on the feminine side of the spectrum. 

Italo Calvino may have been the original draw of the city, but once there, I found a high number of lucrative attractions which meant that he was relegated to the background. Some sights, like the Egyptian museum, were overtouristed, but mostly I felt that the traveller presence didn't interfere with my ability to enjoy the place. Relying on Google Maps and my own two feet, there was no need for public transport. Walking through an urban environment can be an ambiguous attraction, hard to pin down because street life is a highly variable thing... but it's my secret technique for garnering impressions, creating a mental map of the city, spotting colourful characters, watching suburbs morph/modify before my eyes, appreciating remarkable architecture which wouldn't be mentioned in official tourist guides, getting a sense of what makes for commercial success in an area, looking for patterns big and small, and overall trying to figure out make sense of it all.   

I understood there was a French influence in the light-coloured architecture, and perhaps even in the proud air of the people (though I am open to being wrong on the latter). I have to be honest: I found the local variety of patriarchy upsetting, as some people floated by with a pointed submissiveness, looking down, seemingly on the verge of apologising for their existence, while others still postured menacingly, comfortable in their machismo. Here and elsewhere in Italy, being a feminist means extra struggle (compared with Australia). At first this was a bit alienating, but the more I stayed, the more I was able to find compassion. 

Previously on my blog I brought up the practice of passeggiata, so I am sorry to report that I was only out in public at 6pm once... it gets dark early in late October, and I like the sense of safety I get from being home before that. The one evening I ventured out, I experienced another dimension to street life: Where the city had been lively before, it was now bubbling over with sheer vibrancy. The area around Piazza San Carlo thrummed with energy, as duos and small groups (there was rarely a solo person in the mix) bonded with an intensity which isn't as frequently found in the English-speaking countries. I envied the Italians their robust conversations, and the openness to emotional intimacy which was one of its foundations. Observing carefully between forkfuls of salad, I considered how the daily ritual of passeggiata might promote social skills, a degree of community spirit, a way of unburdening one's soul, maintaining connections with community members who may not be close friends but are nice anyway, deepening existing friendships, and being on one's feet.

Perhaps earlier, I was passing through a busy pedestrian street when a thoughtful person named Luigi put their Amnesty International sales pitch aside and asked me what I thought of the town. I complimented Palazzo Madama, a richly decorated palace I'd seen earlier, and recalled some of the nicer things about the city. Luigi had the look of someone who had alternative views, their ears being pierced and their hair being obviously styled. They also had the semi-detachment and slight resignation of someone with advanced intellect, but I didn't linger too long because their performance of gender was consistent with aspects of masculinity I find oppressive. From a sense of solidarity with progressives, however, I get the feeling that Torino is a good place to be left-leaning - compared to much of northern Italy, and also within the southern European context. It registered solidly on my 'Quirky Hair and Facial Piercings/Decorations Index'. 

On my second last day I had an interaction of a different kind - a local who looked (East) Asian listened as I asked a mixed business shop owner if he had paracetamol. The owner directed me to a pharmacy, and the Asian-Italian chimed in with instructions, but upon seeing that I was discouraged at the distance I would have to travel, they decided to part with some of the paracetamol in their own collection. This act of kindness caught me off guard and lit me up. Wanting the foil seals to stay intact, they asked the shop owner for scissors, then placed the resulting corner of the silver grid (a total of four tablets) into my palm. I thanked them enthusiastically, and when I emerged into the cold, windy air I felt insulated by the warmth generated by this experience. 

Reflecting upon altruism, and the abundance of ways in which I'd benefitted from it in the past, I was heartened to witness at least one person of colour in Torino remaining open to kindly exchanges with white strangers. May they be loved.

Of Milestones and Friendships

I don’t know that I approach turning forty with as much thought as some others before me have done. I feel like I have good ethics of learning, which is to say I’m willing to expand my focus when needed (or desired) in any number of directions. That is one thing I can congratulate myself on for cultivating: a solid foundation geared towards flexibility. 

Perhaps I can narrow my focus a little bit and meditate upon something I learnt in the last 12 months, which is the importance of losing interest in patterns, no matter how pervasive, that animated my past, but no longer serve me.

An old friend got back in touch with me and tried to re-establish  our old dynamic. I felt myself recoil, because, while I did not know it at the time, that dynamic was infused with toxic positivity and psychological manipulation. 

Something which once felt comforting, convivial and creatively inspiring, now felt like I was abandoning myself, and submitting to some kind of mental control. It was scary. 

I had to say goodbye. I did not offer an explanation, though I felt guilty about the suddenness of my departure. 

What I can offer now is a statement of what I want out of friendships:

- I want that person to value honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable and has potential to create negative feelings

- I want that person to be a feminist, because I treat myself as the equal of men, and I want my friend to also value my full humanity

- I want that person to have progressive values. The more progressive, the better. 

- I want that person to be interested in international travel (regardless of how often they can get away)

I can say that, whatever else I may have learnt, making and enforcing boundaries in my friendships is going to serve me well for the next however many years I have to live. 

Thank you, Epiphanie. Well done!

Still Childfree and Living Well

At the end of a three day stay in Cassis, a colourful village in the south of France, my AirBnB host and I were sitting at her kitchen table, having tea, and sharing stories about our lives. At some point she asked me if I had children, and seeing as the question seemed weighed down by pro-natalist expectations, I thought it would be a good idea to lower my head a little (just so) after I said no. There was a brief pause, after which my rebellious streak won over: returning my head to its previous position, I looked at her in the eyes with a no-nonsense look… “And you?”

A little surprised at my shift in attitude, she answered in the affirmative, and told me that her son inspires her to be a more empathetic person. I liked her stories about him, and it’s always nice to know about happy family relationships. I said something to this effect. 

My host was a nice person who hadn’t travelled recently. She couldn’t afford to. I was a window into an Australian living a different kind of lifestyle, my personality shaped by a variety of globe-trotting adventures which I draw upon for personal development, self-care, education, entertainment, and more. When I left I thought I could see some envy in her eyes, even though I must confess I envied her in turn - Cassis is a charming place to live.

Anyway, as I write I am in a cosy hotel room in Torino (Turin, Italy). I’ve been in Europe for about six weeks, and in the last two weeks I dived into a southern French adventure, admiring the art and architecture of Marseille, Cassis, Aix-en-Provence, Arles and Carcassonne. 

My slow travels are emerging now, as I get ready to spend my fifth night in Torino, reasserting my need for beautiful surroundings and intriguing masterpieces. 

I am where I want to be, and that does not involve making babies. My body is benefitting from delicious culinary offerings, walking around streets once new but now increasingly familiar, and relaxing in my room when I’m interacting with my friends, family, or writing a piece like this blog post. 

The life I find most meaningful - a life of regular travel - isn’t a life I could lead if I were to be responsible for a young person. I am grateful for my ability to choose who I want to be, and I choose to be childfree every time.

Some Thoughts on Living a Good Life

Most of the texts I’ve consumed about being single seem to be about the author consoling themselves that they are living a good life *even though they’re not in a relationship*. But living well, to me, looks like focusing on what you *do* have. Being single isn’t a consolation prize - it’s making yourself your top priority: time and time again. I’m ideally situated to nurture and protect myself, and sometimes I have found relationships a distraction from this.

I’m still open to romantic partnerships, but they can be a restriction… any commitment necessarily means limiting your options accordingly. 

So then, what does self-appreciation look like for me?

This year I am having a new overseas travel experience: Staying in Germany for the better part of autumn. I’ve had a rocky start, getting sick with an infection, but I’ve officially started enjoying myself, talking to strangers (including Bulgarian speakers), baking sweet potato rosti bought fresh from the supermarket, admiring the tasteful and stylish way people dress in Hannover, ogling everything from Peruvian ornaments in the Landesmuseum to the impressive collection of Abstractionist paintings in the Sprengel Museum… All of this would be rewarding on its own, but the raspberry on top is spending time with my best friend, with his kindness and originality. Being a writer, he expresses himself beautifully through (Facebook) Messenger, but it’s with renewed delight that I watch his facial expressions and body language change in real time!

Poem [Untitled]

A fine dusting of rain:
Where were you before?
We'd anticipated your presence
Enjoying the glossy finish of the pavement

Many months I've frowned at sun
Where moody greys could have added texture
Familiar rage in the form of storms
Was not to be

This paltry attempt at precipitation
I squint out my window, but
It's already gone
I'm left to wander - dry and forlorn.

In Defence of Pleasure

Who doesn’t enjoy biting into the layers of sugary goodness that is a freshly baked - and artfully presented - French pastry? 

Who doesn’t savour every subliminally sexy beat of an original song that wafts over the radio at the right moment?

Women and non-binary people who fear being perceived as desiring too much, that’s who. 

As Laurie Penny would say, women(, non-binary people and other feminised people) are relegated the role of being the desired object under patriarchy. It is far less socially acceptable for them to be doing the desiring! To welcome our natural and healthy desires becomes a work in progress, for those of us who aren’t willing to let patriarchy undermine our humanity. 

I am not immune to censoring or downplaying my desires. I sometimes have a desire to lick my lips, when sharing good conversation with a friendly and attractive individual. This is socially acceptable in Europe, where people are more relaxed about incorporating sensuality in casual or friendly social interaction… and ‘uncomfortably provocative’ with most people in Australia. So I either feel like I’m suppressing my sensuality, or feeling non-verbally slut-shamed. 

What I try to do is find novel ways to be intellectually stimulated and/or emotionally moved, in my daily conversations here. The pleasure of ideas, collaborated upon with people with different conceptual strengths (and weaknesses), is worth the effort. 

But sometimes I can’t be bothered hiding sensual impulses when they arise. One way I can tell if I’m going to feel comfortable with someone in the long run, is if they’re laidback about me expressing a subtle kind of eroticism.  

Something I feel more confident about is my tendency to frequently savour sweet treats, and indulge in the pleasures of arousing music. Maybe women, non-binary people and other feminised people can co-conspire and build each other up to find as much pleasure in life as possible. (Each of us has tips and tricks we can share.)

One leisurely afternoon in a LGBTIQ+ bookshop, my browsing took me to a chapter on masturbation in a book about women’s pleasure. And there was an idea there worth relaying: “How often should you masturbate? How much pleasure are you worth?”

Grab pleasure back from the patriarchy. Consult with other women and non-binary people on how to live life to your full potential. You have the power to work within the inevitable daily limitations, to experience as much pleasure as you could humanly want.

The Illusion of Moral Cohesion

I sometimes think many of us feel an imperative to represent ourselves as having moral cohesion.

I don’t know about you, but my moral life is messy at the best of times. Let’s get specific by choosing a way in which I strive to be moral, but frequently disappoint myself: in living an anti-racist life. 

There are things I do which I can say are oriented towards relating to different cultures and/or ethnicities, staying open to people of colour as they feel emboldened to be authoritative in ways which white Australians might censor or negate… when I locate that tendency to censor and negate within myself, I try to a) calm down, and b) ask questions which can get me to a more accepting place. The goal is to create space for people of colour to be themselves - messy, imperfect, variable - and still worthy. 

Now, I have personally benefitted from the knowledge of many feminists of colour, such as Bell Hooks, Audré Lorde and Sara Ahmed… But…

In my messiness, I have not always been able to be as generous to someone like Sara Ahmed as I can now see as ideal. For example, I articulated to myself the value of analysing the emotional states that feminism often results in (Sara writes of feeling like an ‘affect alien’ in ‘Living a Feminist Life’, describing, for example, feeling out of sync with the rest of society as they might laugh at a joke in which the punch line depends of gender stereotypes). But for ages I put undue focus on what I regarded as the least rewarding part of the book, its word-play. 

Browsing through Amazon.com reviews of ‘Living a Feminist Life’, I noted that just about everybody else was too enthralled with the revolutionary insights of the narrative to bother complaining at all. But, reader, I insisted that what I now experience as a minor flaw, ought to be duly called out. This eventually ended with me being passive-aggressive to a feminist I met on the internet who had noted that Sara Ahmed was one of her favourite authors. I regret this.

Rather than a tidy, open-and-closed case of me having been morally dubious (being overly critical of a Black woman, then being micro-aggressive to a woman of colour about it), and having atoned for it by recognising my rightful position as an admirer and amplifier of Ahmed’s work, and going forth into the world with more ardent anti-racism… I don’t mind sharing that I have made similar mistakes since, and will probably continue to make them in the future. 

I strive to be fair and just to everybody, but is it even realistic to expect constant adherence to this perfectionistic standard? As a white person in a white supremacy, I am a product of my environment, and I unconsciously act out what I have been taught… until I catch myself in the act, back off, get calm… and curious. Reflect, and change… Then reinforce the strengths in my anti-racism and expand upon them. 

But one thing I cannot offer is moral certitude, moral cohesion, or moral consistency. If my morality is a painting, it is constantly rearranging itself. Sometimes I am pleased with myself. Sometimes I am not. I notice I am more pleased if I opt out of representing myself as morally cohesive. Removing the pressure to be perfect creates space for more self-compassion, and giving myself permission to fail ironically gives me more freedom to take more risks. Self-compassion and a growth mindset helps me grow: as an anti-racist and as a person with moral agency.

Morally messy - that is how I am. It’s a relief to be open about it, and it would make me happy if I could encourage someone to feel more comfortable with their messy, ambiguous self. I am still worthy - and so are you.

Some Further Thoughts on Travel

Don't wait for the 'perfect' time to visit a country

In 2019 I enjoyed reading Shani Silver's 'Every Single Day' column in Refinery29.com (US). Shani's witty, conversational style defended single (hetero) women against social expectations of coupling up. She disavowed peer judgement for not having married, and other intrusive negations of her and others' single state. Defiantly feminist, she described the pleasures of sleeping starfish-style on a double bed, being soothed by your lovely pet, and the freedom to pursue a Parisian vacation on a whim. 

So I was a little surprised when Shani wrote that she was interested in experiencing Italy for the first time, but was saving it for the day when she could travel with a romantic partner.

I think to confine Italy to a solely romantic function is to bypass all the incredible experiences you can have in this country. What about viewing its exalted art, either by staying for a while in one of its larger metropolitan areas, or pursuing a path through several different cities, perhaps with a theme? Indulging your tastebuds multiple times a day with uniquely delicious dishes? Browsing the latest, impeccable fashion, or admiring the design of everything from moccasins to Murano glass? Finding an inspiration of your very own in one of many extravagantly ornamented churches? Discovering the motivations behind that colourful character you just fell into a conversation with, and trying to figure out to what extent they are an outlier of society or to what extent they fit right in? Joining in the passeggiata (the leisurely evening stroll with possibilities for socialising) and enjoying the cadences of the language, the theatricity of the hand movements and the fun of socially acceptable flirting? Admiring the hues of sunlight as they disperse further warmth onto the residential buildings coated in yellows, oranges and pinks?

When it comes to a large nation that's well-established in the tourist industry, finding pleasure there that has nothing to do with romance (in the strictest sense) is easy. If you really want to visit Italy, trust the many solo women travellers that have already made it there, and had an optimal experience. Who knows, maybe when you meet a romantic partner down the road, you can show them your favourite places, basking in the knowledge that they are benefitting from your experience. (Visiting the same place twice can also be a wonderful source of pleasure.) But even if it's just for you and you alone, you deserve to live in the moment and make the most of how things are right now. 

Reflecting on Travel Privilege

While I can't say I am the most privileged person in the world, I can say that I have privilege in the following ways: 

- I am white

- My family is financially stable, and middle-class

- I have time to travel

- I speak English fluently

- I have a passport from a nation in the Global North

- I have dual citizenship with an EU country

- I am cisgender

- I am able-bodied

My unique set of circumstances allows me to travel overseas every year, something which is inaccessible to the majority of the world’s population. I haven’t always been aware of just how lucky this makes me!

Ten years ago, I would occasionally try to implement a screen on friendships, where they would have to have travelled to at least two continents other than the one they were usually on. I became more open-minded with time, and currently pleased say that this defence mechanism no longer applies.

These days, I am open to friendships with people for whom travel is not a priority (or who simply can’t afford the luxury). I have learnt from the kindness and intelligence of many a colourful, well-rounded soul… and now know that you can be open to experience without ever having left your home continent. That you can appreciate other ethnicities without having witnessed their country of origin first-hand. That you can be wildly imaginative without moving between different locales. What makes someone appealing is their inner world. (And there are many well-travelled people who are emotionally unavailable.)

*

There is a different aspect to travel privilege which has caught my attention recently, which will be more relevant for those who find themselves in the travel community. The following short video introduces it:

I’d like to add that all travel joy is valid travel joy. In my twenties I ran around as many major cities as possible, visiting 2-3 attractions a day, being alive to every moment... it was fantastic. Nowadays I love getting to know locals and immersing myself in different cultures... it is also fantastic. Travel in a way that is aligned with your values, and you'll find yourself in the company of like-minded people. Together, we can build solidarity. 

Trans Literacy & Feminism

It’s still popular to refer to the “opposite” sex (or gender), which represents the idea that femininity and masculinity are mutually exclusive. But when I think of a trans person, I see their capacity for a variety of gender performances. They contain multitudes? Their body is the site of aspects of both what is considered traditionally feminine and traditionally masculine? 

There are no two trans people alike, but a feminist trans woman doesn’t change from considering herself a full (non-objectified) human being to a being that is as a collection of body parts (which must all be embellished to make them acceptable to the heterosexual male gaze). One would hope that the feeling that one is an integral, coherent organism would stay with her, no matter the new standard the world offers when she starts presenting as a woman. 

To be awake to the possibilities of all things transgender is to enhance one’s feminism. It’s like a superpower. When emotions (like anger, or crying in sadness) aren’t tethered to gender, emotions can proliferate. Any person can contain the full emotional spectrum. Right now a traditionally gendered person cannot legibly claim possession of the full emotional spectrum, e.g. the ability to punch a wall in anger AND weep openly in public. 

As far away as it may seem, I still think the best thing we can do for public health is to transition into a gender neutral society. Let today’s extremes of femininity and masculinity fade away. I, for one, won’t miss them. In my ideal future, I regard myself as an authoritative being, and am regarded as such by the people I come into contact with. I relate to those beings with kindness and empathy, humour and integrity. I have more freedom to move because my gender performance is not policed. 

I think the more trans literate you are, the more pathways you create for reaching your full potential as a human.

How do Australians with low self-esteem navigate its socially levelling philosophy?

I am an Australian with low self-esteem who has gotten to know other people in the same position, and I'm curious about how we make the socially levelling philosophy (pejoratively known as Tall Poppy Syndrome) work to our advantage. 

Perhaps I should begin by clarifying that, while 'Tall Poppy Syndrome' is the most popular way to address this unspoken rule of Australian social life, I will be looking at the positive aspects in this post, so I'll be using the more neutral term, 'socially levelling philosophy' - or SLP. 

Observing my community, there are people who 'lean in' to the SLP more than others - those that find it's in their interest to find their rightful place in an egalitarian social structure. In my personal experience, it's the people who are socio-economically disadvantaged and/or who have low self-esteem who find the most to gain by associating themselves with this policy. 

The SLP instructs us that everybody, no matter how inadequate they may feel, has the right to perform a certain amount of pride (not too much, but not too little) simply by virtue of belonging to the society. We have the right to act 'like a standard member of Team Australia' despite depression, anxiety, or more severe mental illness. Whenever we feel besmirched, we can always (signal that we) fall back on this social principle, to elicit the respect desired. 

To signal that we are as worthy members of society as the average person is a way of attaching ourselves to external standards of worth, yet we have learned that we get better treatment when we appeal to others' sense of egalitarianism. Little wonder, then, that we develop a liking for (sometimes dependency on?) the SLP as a way to work the system in our favour, and regulate our emotions. 

(If you identify as 'the underdog', there are also avenues you know you can take to boost your standing in society, particularly by appealing to people's sense of the underdog. It's a kind of self-consciousness which binds us to other people, helping us meet our need to be respected. I'm glad it's there for me when I need it.)

I once had a relationship with someone who was in a stigmatised minority group (or three - they were trans, a lesbian and on welfare), and one thing that we recognised in each other is how strongly we relied on the SLP to elicit a sense of worthiness and belonging from other Australians. We never verbally addressed the link between our low self-esteem and this 'urge not to stand out with negative consequences', but I believe it was an important part of our connection. 

In a similar vein, I notice people of all kinds of minority groups speaking up and asserting their right to be treated like the status quo - whether they be people of colour reminding a white person that they, too, deserve be taken seriously, or a person who is physically disabled keeping their head up high in their wheelchair, and speaking with accentuated authority. We all adopt our mechanisms for reminding more privileged people that we are owed that specific amount of respect that is the social contract of having an Australian identity. 

In an ideal world, I wouldn't need to reference an external set of guidelines to enjoy better treatment, but we do not live in an ideal world. Class divisions within Australia are real (and income inequality, for one, is growing). I have a certain amount of affection for the socially levelling philosophy which allows me to navigate the world with a little more respect and dignity, though. This is why I choose to call it 'the socially levelling philosophy' and not 'Tall Poppy Syndrome'. I feel that it softens the blow of belonging to a variety of marginalised groups, and offers a way to relate to other Australians despite differences such as class and mental health status.

The Right to be Hairy

Q: Why should there be one set of rules for cis men's leg and underarm hair, and another for cis women's and non-binary people's?

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Ever since teenagerhood I've observed the growth of innocent little hairs over my legs and underarms, and wondered why people waste time and money on obliterating their existence. The natural function of body hair is to allow the retention of heat, and to show that the individual has reached a certain maturity in their development. Yet we are taught to revile body hair in approximately half the population. 

When it became apparent that all my schoolfriends were mercilessly waging war on their bodies, I half-heartedly figured I'd join them. I tried creams which were messy, time-consuming and immobilised me physically for the amount of time it took for them to kick in. They achieved the desired effect - for a few days, that is. After that, it was time to repeat it all like a good masochist. I thought perhaps waxing would get it over with quicker - surely it couldn't be so painful if it was wildly popular? But it turned out that the pain was as acute as I had initially guessed. Why were so many of us willing to submit ourselves to this torture? I decided never to tear out my hair from the roots again. After a while the annoyance of using the creams led me to meditate on the regrowth and decide... what would be so bad about leaving it there? It seemed to resurface for a reason, and it wasn't bothering me. I would let nature run its course.

Due to attending a selective all-girls high school, most of my friends declined from commenting on my legs, but I did have an unpleasant experience when one acquaintance pointed to them and laughed. However, I felt comfortable enough in my own skin to shrug it off. I even believe I got the last laugh, because I have rejected the shame the patriarchy encourages me to feel. On the contrary, I feel proud of what I have achieved in integrating my body hair into a positive self-image. These days I mostly wear long pants, but on the occasion that my leg hair is visible in public I emotionally prepare myself for occasional derision from strangers, knowing that I am strong enough to handle it. 

It occurs to me that subscribers to the patriarchy prefer not to treat cis women as mature, grown, full human beings. They would rather infantilise and patronise them. A cis woman without body hair looks (and feels) more like a pre-pubescent girl than an adult. It's easier to treat her like an immature or underdeveloped being whose function is to be restricted, controlled and dehumanised. 

I have different ideas about the way I show up in the world. I surround myself with people who respect what I do (or, in this case, what I don't do) with my body. My friendships are egalitarian. If I'm to have a relationship in the future, it will be with someone who treats me as an equal, whether their gender predisposes them to this or not. I consider life to be too short not to allow my body hair take up its rightful place in it. I hope I can inspire my readers to revise the way they see norms and beauty standards around this.

Sense of Loss

I am looking at a world in which attending public events is not safe from a coronavirus point of view. Prior to the pandemic, I entertained myself by watching films at independent and mainstream cinemas, or being in the audience for talks, panels and discussions. It not only brought variety to my life, but helped me (witness and) take part in the cross-pollination of ideas in a city which can feel anti-intellectual. 

I miss this. It was with grave reluctance that I cancelled my (free) ticket to see Mona Eltahawy speak at UNSW. I want to be around other feminists and observe how they make sense of the vicious misogyny we all have to put up with these days. I haven't yet had the courage to cancel my ticket to see Gaia Vince (the author of Nomad Century) at the same venue. I have vague fantasies of finding a seat in the back row, or as far away from others as possible, making it in and out safely. With my mask, of course. 

Will I ever attend a comedy show at the Opera House again? A concert at Sydney Olympic Park? 

It's not looking good. 

And so, I grieve. 

Creative Representations of Gender

In my last post of 2022, I searched the walls of the Museum of Greek Folk Instruments for clues as to the gender politics of modern Greece. In 2023, I'd like to get more creative about representations of gender. This means stepping away from the assumption that most people are comfortable with the gender (binary) they are assigned at birth. It also means relying less on terms like 'woman' and 'man', and 'feminine' and masculine' to describe people. People are unique and multi-faceted human beings, with potential for performing different genders in different contexts, changing their gender dramatically through the course of a lifetime, and many other variations on traditional gender roles, so I hope to be as creative as I can in my representations of them. 

I am a good case study: Most of the clothing I wear comes from the women's section of a department store, but I also feel drawn to clothing from the men's section (and I even have some). If the world was more relaxed towards, or even rewarding of, gender diversity, I might feel more comfortable considering myself non-binary, genderfluid or genderqueer. Right now I have self-selected 'gender non-conforming' on my online dating profile, a more subtle rebellion, but I regard it as a signal that I wear my 'cis' label lightly.

While I indicate that my pronouns are she/her on Twitter, I also feel drawn to the gender-neutral stylings of 'they/them'. 

I might be able to express myself as such: I wanted to be treated by all people with as much respect and dignity as can be afforded any person. I can see that, in the current state of Australian (or global) patriarchy, I might achieve such a goal more quickly if I used 'he' pronouns. If I were less afraid of what people were to think of me, I could add 'he' to the end of my bio, after they, so that my list of pronouns would read: 'she/they/he' 

Maybe sometime in the future I will. 

In the meantime, I hope to be more attentive to gender variance in my work.