Belfast: Our happy new year. 

Posted on January 4, 2017 by Liz Barron

Purple floor length coat with tartan trim. Avoca— made in Ireland.  Nine pounds. Just reduced. War on Want charity shop,  open today so people can donate what they didn’t want for Christmas. The tag says Small. It isn’t. Good.  The Royal Ulster Academy exhibition. The mummy who used to scare me with her coconut hair and kindling fingers is no longer the only attraction at the museum.  Irish artists now dare to use colours beyond the dull, wet, damp end of the palette.  The painting I want, crooked houses and an oncoming storm in vivid blues and orange, is not for sale. Sausage soda for breakfast, cornflake and golden syrup tray bake to fill a wee gap, eat an apple to show willing later. ritaCocktails at Rita’s–shantung lampshades, paper parasols and velvet armchairs. A bucket of Bathtub gin in a building dark and derelict for years, the dead space between the most bombed hotel in the world and the BBC, where I used to work, when young. Archana curry (sauces better than the US, but not as good as Yorkshire.) Home for Port and Christmas Cake and a bottle cap of cherry linctus for my poor bad chest. A walk at Mount Stewart and a tour of the house where Lady Rose still lives. We want her stuff. And her view of the Lough.  Castlereagh, (a foreign secretary  I learned about at school), lived here. Stubbs painted somebody’s horse. They have dessert dishes to die for. B and F my BFF make Chinese food– garlic,ginger and chili in perfect proportion. Double wok action. Awristing. I read John Sergeant’s autobiography and watch the history of Graham Norton. They play cards and bicker and kiss. On Dec 31 we go to bed before midnight.  Belfast. It is bliss.

Posted in art, Belfast, clothes, friendship, Great weekends, joy, shopping, travel | 2 Comments

Making (no) sense of Morocco

Posted on December 30, 2016 by Liz Barron

You just know that this camel is a good storyteller for his face is droll.  His stories will have a world weary cynicism and a fair amount of bad language, because his life is of the “you have to laugh” variety. He has the misfortune to be a prop camel along the daily route for caravans of tourist buses visiting Berber villages in the foothills of the Great Atlas Mountains. Each day he must stand till footsore (and no one likes a sore camel toe) having his photo taken with and by sundry Europeans, and providing some of them with opportunities for swaying video footage of barren hills, and a lofty shag pile seat. “Prickly pair in from South London today–real Berber figs” he will tell his friends over a Camel cigarette and a trough of mint tea (drink it while you can) tonight . ” I told them I was allergic to willow and sneezed all the way down the track. Hump-shaking. Snot everywhere. Feet and feet of phlegm. She thought she’d be sick with all the jiggling and he dropped the lens cap for his Minolta.  I stood on it. Then I stopped to graze on some absinthe and told them it made me hallucinate sometimes, especially when I mix it with Aloe Vera like I did this morning. Told them that last week I’d charged a mosque–not many dead, but created a few more cripps to beg outside the Bahia Palace. Said I mistaken a call to prayer for a bad George Michael cover. May our holy Fat  Back Father give rest to his soul I said, but I won’t have that man mocked. Gets my back up.  Then I sneezed again before quickening to a trot and turning sharply towards the  shop that sells tagines and tea glasses,singing Wake me Up before You Go Go at the top of my lungs.   South London asked to get off pretty quick after that, and there were no more takers. Fondouk ’em. Fondouk em all” 

The day trip from Marrakech was a bargain 200 dh (about $20 or 20 pounds sterling) but of course there was a Berber accessory tax. At the camel pit stop we were surrounded by artisans peddling bangles and crystals and necklaces. It became clear our minibus would not be going further until we were bedecked and the peddlers’  pockets were suitably full of small change. I like my purchases and they weren’t expensive but I did have a lingering suspicion that my salesman’s next step was to dash home to get on the internet and order his next shipment from Beadazzled. 

Our next stop though was a Berber house (earthenware and textile shop attached, natch) and if they did have internet they hid it very well. There was electric light but cooking was done on an open fire, and the sink was a hole in the stone, filled by a hose running from a mountain stream. It was a little too real to be dismissed as a folk museum. There was one dirty sock on the bedroom floor and a well worn pair of wedge flip flops by the bed. The toilet was Western. That house had no satellite dish, but many do. Today we saw remote Berber villages where flat roofed houses clung to sheer rock face. Satellite dishes were the second highest structures in each hamlet, just below the crescent and orb on top of the mosque.  The Berbers are such polished and accomplished people, with a long history of entrepreneurship that it is almost impossible to believe that they are as poor as they look. I like to fantasize (when bargaining for frou) that they have villas in Marbella and pied a terres in the Portobello road and are buying and selling us all. This picture fades though when you see a young woman toiling along under an unfeasibly large pile of sticks tied to her back with a sheet,  or a rag bag Grandma working a small scythe in unkind dirt. Where the tourists stop, there will always be someone who can charge your iPhone via the computerized restaurant till. But right next  door there are also desperate-eyed men selling second hand trainers (tennis shoes) in children’s sizes from the back of a donkey cart. No USB there. Morocco has just unveiled the world’s largest solar power plant in the Sahara desert–it will provide electricity for more than a million people. Huge innovation that surely must change communities where people still grind argan nuts by hand, and stand in the street winding twine to hand-sew shoes. 



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Tips for Lady Travelers

Posted on December 28, 2016 by Liz Barron

My beautiful Riad is in the northernmost part of the Northern Medina, close to a launderette, a number of scooter repair shops, some foundry workers and an Islamic saint’s tomb which non- Muslims are not permitted to enter. The riad’s rooms are gorgeous, the service friendly and the hot water plentiful. The breakfast includes crepes with honey and lemon, and bread with homemade orange marmalade, fresh orange juice and coffee. Today I also got two fried eggs. Every day starts well, but I go to bed hungry more often than not.  The Riad has only a small number of rooms and only a few are filled at this time of year. Although their website boasts a restaurant and room service, any evening meal would have to be ordered a day in advance. While sitting alone in a busy restaurant is something I enjoy– the perfect combination of eating and people watching– it would feel a bit bleak to hurry home at night for a lonely tagine in a dark and deserted courtyard. If I were better organized, I would buy bread and oranges while out and about, and supplement those with dates or figs and nuts. If I were more energetic and less stingy I would book a central restaurant and cabs and go out every evening at 8pm. In fact, I walk home as it gets dark about 6pm, rest my aching legs,  and then decide that going out again is too much trouble, for no restaurants are walkable from where I am staying. For this reason I recommend accommodations closer to the action in the Medina when you come to Marrakech. The rest of my tips may be useful only to other middle aged white women with bad knees but I share them here nonetheless: 

  • When shopping the souks, decide what the object of your desire is worth to you. Ask the vendor to name his price. Offer in return about half of what you are willing to pay, regardless of what he says. Bargain with a smile. If it makes sense to take home two or three of the desired purchase, reduce the unit price by bulking up. Above all don’t be a jerk.  That last 50 pence you are haggling over will probably mean more in their pocket than in yours. Once you’ve bought want you want, don’t fret about the price you paid,  or compare it in other places. You decided what your must-have was worth to you, remember?  If you can’t make a deal, move on. Someone else will have what you want at a price you will be happy to pay. If they don’t, it suggests your expectations may be entirely unreasonable 
  • Negotiate cab fares before your journey starts. I have been quoted 350 dh for journeys then completed happily for only 50dh. 20dh is often plenty. 
  • Know you will get lost when you are walking. Accept it. Enjoy it. Sit down and have a cup of mint tea. You may want to ask the waiter to hold the sugar. Look at your map. Don’t assume that everyone who offers directions is out to scam you. Equally, don’t assume that any directions given are accurate. (See previous post on this vexatious subject). 
  • Don’t yell or be otherwise abusive to any would-be guide or salesman. You will bump into them again and again. 
  • Don’t assume that anyone who calls after you”remember me?” or “you came back, you promised you’d come back” has ever laid eyes on you before. I have a particularly good memory for faces and so when this was tried on me I said “I don’t think so– tell me where it was we met?”  My alleged chum muttered something about a hotel and moved on. On the other hand, people you have bought from WILL remember you when you next walk past and will run joyously after you. “You like your scarf?” “You take tea with me?” I always do. You can’t have too much tea, the young men are easy on the eye , and if you can help them move their use of English beyond “only look, no buy” you will be doing them a lifelong favour.  
  • If you seek strong drink, be prepared to climb stairs for it. Very few restaurants in the Medina are licensed and those that do sell booze are bound by law not to do so within sight of a mosque. This means that bars are built on rooftop decks. Stairs are uneven and hazardous even on the sober ascent. When I first arrived in Marrakech I wondered where all the tourists were. One afternoon I scaled the heights of the Cafe Arabe and found half of Europe encamped on the terrace, sucking on bottles of beer and double vodkas with sprite.   You do NOT want to be one of those people.  Stay on ground level and stick to the tea. 
  • If you want to visit the Majorelle Gardens get up early so you don’t have to queue. I failed to do this today and am thus having–yes you guessed it– a mint tea while hoping that the crowds will subside. There are some high end Moroccan designer shops near the gardens on the Rue Yves Laurent ( he used to own the gardens) which I liked better than those on Rue Mohammed V. Overall, I see little to recommend the Ville Nouvelle, unless you have an overpowering need for a MacDonalds or a trip to H&M. It, like the Jemaa el Fna is more depressing than delightful
  • Hammans. Do it. You will never feel as clean again. They will give you your hand-knitted scrubbie to take home. Forego this. You can use the space to stuff in an extra scarf. 

Warning: at least one cow was seriously harmed before these pictures were taken. 

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Men and Women in Marrakech

Posted on December 28, 2016 by Liz Barron

Three women wearing hijabs were taking pictures of each other close to the big square. In French, I offered to take a picture of all three of them. It took a moment for them to adjust to the fact that I had addressed them, and then to understand what I was offering. An iPhone was duly handed over and I took pictures of the group– two women about my age and another, who may have been their mother. The women thanked me with smiles and nods and then gestured that they would each like pictures with me, Marrakech’s only red head. They wore long felted black robes while I, as usual, was a jumble sale of colour, and dressed for sunshine. We posed with our arms round each other, smiling broadly. It was curiously heartening, I think for all of us. 

I came back to my Riad before dark today and spoke to little girls playing in the street.   Even small children speak French. As I lay on my bed, I could still hear the girls shouting and laughing. I remark upon it because these were the first girls I had seen out having fun. There are always groups of boys playing soccer with duct tape balls and goal posts chalked on walls. There are boys on bikes.  Everywhere, boys from 3 to 13 say Bonjour.  Older ones, speaking Franglais, offer to take you to anywhere you want to go. The only girls I have seen on the street are carrying trays of bread to be baked, or small siblings, or bags of groceries. They have been sent on errands. They do not speak unless they are spoken to. Unlike the boys and men, girls and women here do not try to catch your eye, nor do they nod when they pass in the street. When I smile and say Bonjour, they return the greeting but it is only males who seem to initiate contact. 

In the souks, most of the shops and stalls are, well, manned.  The men talk to every passerby loudly and in a number of languages. Some of the patter is very funny. “For you I make Asda price” Some sellers take your hand or touch your back or arm. It isn’t threatening, but it does feel unusually intimate– there’d be uproar if it happened in Macy’s or at a London Christmas market.  (For women younger and prettier than me, the level of attention they receive may well be intrusive, but to me it simply feels kindly). The stallholders can sell anything to anyone, or die trying. The once or twice I have seen women minding the shop they have looked bored and disconnected. They don’t speak. In one shop I was looking at scarves and feeling grateful to be ignored, when, out of the corner of my eye ,I saw the woman behind the counter moving towards me. I needn’t have worried. She was headed for the mirror by the door, intent on squeezing a pimple. No sale. 

In the hammans it is different. I’ve now been to two, and in each case a young woman led me by the hand from treatment room to tea room and back again. The bathing and anointing is both thorough and intimate. The women move softly and speak tenderly, although some of the scrubbing and stretching is bracing to say the least. It feels like being nursed, or possibly embalmed. All that hot water and steam is ruinous for the hair and so, for the last couple of days I have been looking for somewhere to get a blow dry.  I kept seeing signs for Coiffeur but the establishments clearly catered only to male customers. Barber’s chairs and cut throat razors abounded. I finally worked it out: women cannot be seen with their heads uncovered and so their hairdressers need to be upstairs or in alley ways or hidden behind dark curtains. As with the women themselves, you have to develop a special vision to actually see them. In the end I got my blow dry at an upscale hamman, paying western prices. The hairdresser was male, which was a surprise, although all the customers are of course European or American there. My stylist  dried each section of hair and then put it in a pin curl. The end result can only be described as frothy.  I’m thrilled. 

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Big Night Out

Posted on December 27, 2016 by Liz Barron

Hussain came to the Riad to pick me up about 6:30 on Christmas night. He wore a robe the colour of port wine and a matching fez. Real ‘wise man’ attire.  We walked past the mosque and through dark, uneven, narrow passages and talked easily in a mix of French and English. He’s 25, a Berber from the Sahara, and in Marrakech to work. One of his duties at Dar Zellij is to meet would-be diners and guide them to the restaurant. The roads are too narrow for traffic, and the zig zags  in the Northern Medina would be impossible to navigate in the dark. When we reached the restaurant he stepped backwards into the shadows. “Ask for me when you want to go”. 

A second young man, this time attired in flowing white robes , walked me up (many) stairs to the roof deck where I sat in splendour enjoying the first alcohol made available since I arrived in Marrakech– a glass of Moroccan rose. 

There was much about this experience to recommend– the tented deck was beautiful, opulent, serene …and licensed. Make sure to go when you are in Marrakech. 

Overall, I’d suggest that Hussain, the rooftop , the Aubergine caponata starter and the Moroccan pastries at the end of the meal were the highlights. I plumped (correct if unattractive choice of word) for one of the set menus but I wouldn’t do this again. It was too much food and, although the tagine and couscous cost ten times as much as those served in the souk, there was no deliciousness differential. Indeed the cous cous on the street had more variety and interest. The posh one was heavy on carrots, a vegetable disliked by my father and barely tolerated by me. My dad disapproved of carrots as part of Christmas dinner and in this he was definitely right.  I raised a glass of Moroccan red to him as a nearly full plate of carrots and semolina was returned to the kitchen. Sorghum loser. The fish in the tagine was overlooked and dry, and it too was surrounded by carrots and only carrots. Tut. 

Throughout the evening the service was attentive, polished and charming. They coped when an American from Louisiana loudly demanded lasagna which he insisted his hotel had pre ordered for him. They waited politely for a Japanese family of three– mum, dad and a six year old boy-  to look up from their phone screens before they served or cleared each course. The only “fur coat and no knickers” moment came at the end of the evening:  

Bill and (American-sized) tip paid, I asked for Hussain. “Who?” said the maitre’d, a young and energetic woman who had spent much of the evening arranging candles and perfecting the placement of bougainvillea petals. “Your guide” I said, eager to avoid the word escort. “You are sure he works for us?”she asked and went off to see if they had anyone of that name on the staff. Five minutes later she came back, still looking doubtful “red hood and hat?” “That’s him” I said, and asked her to be sure he got a whack of the tip. She barely nodded. She walked me to the vestibule where Hussain was waiting. “You’ll make sure he gets something to say thank you for his excellent service?” I pressed. She scowled. “How much?” Hussain pretended not to hear. As did she. 

On the way home Hussain explained he had learned French and Spanish at school. He speaks Arabic, and Tamazight. He knows a few words in Italian. He is working on his English, which is already good. He sees a big future. I hope his employer sees it too. He is an under-used asset at the moment. At least now she knows he has a name. 

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Mansplaining in Marrakech

Posted on December 24, 2016 by Liz Barron

All roads in the Medina in Marrakech lead to the big square, the Jemaa el Fna. Specifically, the road from my Riad. “Turn left at the mosque and keep left”, said Said. “About 20 minutes”. Despite this instruction, it took me about a day and a half to make it.

This is why it took so long: on every corner, and in every shop, there are men. Each is eager to direct you to “big square, big square” and no two of them suggest the same way. Of course, those not tethered to their tills will be happy to walk with you on their suggested route “Marrakech very hard”. When you smile and say thank you and point out that you know where you are going, they earnestly explain that they live along the road they are insisting upon, and are going that way anyway. You assert that you have no cash, and advise them not to waste their time. They look sorrowful and say “I am good man” or “I am student”; ” I only want to walk with you, and show you big square”. All of this is very time-consuming, but not actually harmful, provided you treat it like a game.

One man yesterday, let’s call him Mohammed (almost certainly his real name), employed an original and effective tactic: he convinced me it was too early in the day to get the full big square experience, and that I would be better to walk with him to the Berber auction.  He took me off in a direction that at least three other men had suggested was the best route to the big square. At first he wheeled his moped, then he suggested that I become his pillion passenger. This I declined. Along our route through almost deserted back streets, we bumped into some of my previously disregarded escorts, busily taking other people God knows where. They looked at me as though I had cut the heart out of them. “This way to the big square” each of them said, windmilling crazily in any direction we were not going.

Mohammed asked me my name, if I had a husband and children, and where I was staying. I gave him all the info requested. As soon as I mentioned my riad–and perhaps a little too quickly–he immediately beamed. “My sister Fatima works there. She cooks in the kitchen”. Imagine that? A man called Mohammed with a sister called Fatima and she happens to work at the very (tiny and hard to find) riad where I am staying. Coincidence–I don’t think so. Unfortunately for Mohammed, we crossed the very street I had started out on, proving we had walked in a very big circle. It was all over between me and the man with the moped. I sat down in a tea shop and refused to move. He kickstarted the Yahama–Very good bike. Safe. Takes Two–and rode off in what I believe to be the direction of the big square.

fullsizerender-15I took my tea–with mint and honey–and began to seek the big square in earnest. My left flip flop post was rubbing my big toe by now, leaving me little option but to stop and buy a pair of shoes. Green hand-tooled leather. Starting price £45 reduced to a very satisfactory £17. There are very few tourists in town at present, and even fewer shopping in the morning. The apothecary was next–a most enjoyable half an hour spent sniffing sandalwood stumps and amber perfume blocks, and discussing the merits of a natural form of viagra. I was given berber tea and what looked like a tiny tagine lid which you wet with rose water (or, I suppose, any water) and circle with your finger. You use the red dye that ensues to colour your lips. I explained to Adnan that the shoe shop man had had the last of my notes. (this was true–and is the story of my life). “I will come back” I told him, and meant it, for he was absolutely sweet. “They all say that” he told me sadly “I will wait for you here…”

I walked on through the souks and to the big square where hawkers of all kinds sell everything under the sun. It is busiest in the evening, but I am in no rush to go back there for a picture with a cobra, an exchange with a tooth puller, or the chance to buy a blow-up Santa. Neither did I like the streets around, crowded with men from Ghana selling watches, and phones. Time to repair to the hamman for a lie down.

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What’s not to like?: Marrakech

Posted on December 23, 2016 by Liz Barron

There are whole shops that sell tassels. Whole shops. Only tassels. Throw me a headscarf—Marrakech could be my spiritual home.

The city is noisy of course, but in a good-tempered way.  Children walking home from school call across the street to older women and young men, and run to them for kisses. In the souk, traders invite tourists to “look only” and shrug a “maybe later” as westerners keep walking. There are mopeds everywhere. “At TENNTTS see yon” shout their riders. Donkeys (who can’t be bothered to bray) wait by the side of stalls, ready to pull home swaying piles of rugs, sticky steppes of dates, and a tonne or two of firewood. The only fullsizerender-1place I found really hard to pass was a shop selling green pottery made from Saharan sand. Well, some of the rag rugs were tempting too, and then there were the tuffets covered in orange and cobalt carpet… Sigh. One of the downsides of having no fixed abode is that, without a home, there can be no shopping for home goods. I miss it.  I stopped for mint tea and chatted to the café owner, a Berber in his thirties. “I was born in the desert. I came here to run my restaurant. Easier, but the city is busy.” More shrugging.  Outside the mosque two women in neon pink and fluorescent green hijabs invited me for a rickshaw ride. An elderly man guided a blind friend across the square. A fifty-something with a red velvet fez and luxuriant moustache wished me Bon soir and another in a floor length brown hoodie gestured to my hair. “Beautiful” he said. They can see me, they can actually see me. No wonder I like it here.

In the souk, there was a call to prayer. Some men kicked off their shoes and kneeled in line on a rug outside a carpet shop. I hung back, fearful of getting in the way of their absolutions. “Sit with them” said a man selling slippers. Surely that wasn’t what he meant? I couldn’t imagine such a thing—there were no woman in sight and no one prostrate who looked remotely Presbyterian.  I noticed that, beyond the ranks of the worshipful, commerce continued. Following others, Arab and otherwise, I walked behind the raised behinds of the faithful to carry on business as usual.

Couscous for dinner with chickpeas, aubergines, courgettes, potatoes, celery and carrot and a lovely oniony goo. I asked for chili paste and also got some gravy—perhaps mutton broth? Delicious. Just the right sort of vegetarian meal.

I got lost on the way back to Riad Nabila. A young man in a glittered bomber jacket offered to show me where I could find a taxi. “I have no money” I warned him “I cannot pay a guide”.

“I am not a guide” he said. “I do it to help you”. I was sceptical. Every corner in Marrakech has young men standing on it. They do not seem to have anything else to do, which must make paying the bills difficult.I asked him to call a taxi driver recommended by Said at the Riad. He made the call, negotiated the best place for the pick-up, walked me there, shook my hand and left. The cab driver charged me 20dh to deliver me to the door—about $2.

My room has a burnt ochre silk bed spread. The black, white and bread-crust-coloured tiled floor is warmed by kilims in blue, sand gold, new-baked-biscuit gold, and orange. The bathroom shower surround is made of soapstone I think, and is the colour of topaz. God is indeed good.

 

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High Level Problem Solving in Pall Mall

Posted on November 30, 2016 by Liz Barron

” Be there early” said my friend, a most important member of the very important committee. “the room will be packed to the rafters but meet me at 5pm and I’ll find you a seat.”

turki_bin_faisal_al_saud_2014The lecture was to be given by a Saudi Prince–a former ambassador to the UK from the desert kingdom. Prince Turki al Faisal was to discuss the politics of the Middle East and a large crowd were expected, not least to hear his views on America’s President-elect.

I duly turned up both well turned out and on time.

The meeting room, at a distinguished address in London’s Pall Mall, was set up to seat about 100 people. There was no-one there but me. I lounged on a sofa near the back wall, and texted the committee member to be sure I was in the right place. It was warm and cosy so I slumped a bit, and tried to fight off sleep. Where was the woman with the clipboard about whom I had been warned? “She’ll say you’re not on the list, but just tell her you’re with me”. It seemed there had been a slippage in event security and a certain laxity in list management. I was yawning and wondering whether it would be okay to take off my boots and put my feet up on the sofa when a white-clad whirlwind blew into the room and grabbed me by the hand. “Hello, hello” he said ” You must be…” and then he tailed off. I was obviously no-one at all. ” I don’t know where everyone is” I said to the Prince, snapping into event manager mode ” Can I get you anything while you wait?”. The Prince didn’t think that would be necessary. He busied himself at the front of the room. I kept my boots on, and my feet on the floor. It seemed wise to sit up straight.

Slowly, the place began to fill–phewf–no need to entertain the potentate single-handed, or try to muster some learned-sounding questions. Minutes before the meeting began, my friend (a gentleman of a certain age) arrived, giggling and looking sheepishly pleased with himself.

” We were locked in the committee room” he said “The Prince was calling to say he was here and we couldn’t get out. In the end the chairman–he’s a former British ambassador — climbed out the window and people began to follow him. I think they were panicking really–can’t keep His Royal Highness waiting. I held [the meeting organiser’s] clipboard. The Countess bundled out the window next–she’s very game. Then I stepped on to the window sill and followed them across the roof.”

I stared at him in disbelief, for he is big and tall and has enormous feet. It is fair to say that he is not really designed for cat burglary.

“That’s the Countess” he said, nodding at a woman across the aisle “she wouldn’t let go of her handbag”.  I could see why not–an Older Person’s Freedom Pass is a valuable thing, even if you are landed gentry. ” We climbed in another window and went back for those left behind” said my friend, suddenly sounding very Special Forces. “There were half a dozen people there with a chisel”.

After the lecture (where the Prince declined to discuss the President elect “He doesn’t say the same thing two days running. We can’t know what he will do…”) we adjourned to an anteroom for drinks. I kept a nervous eye on the exit, as did my friend. “Ah, there’s our stranded colleague” he said, as a gentleman, very old and stooped, trembled into the room on his cane. “How long before they got you out of there?”

“About half an hour” said the father of the committee, unflustered. “But I made it just at the start of the talk. You did well to get out that window…”

“Yes” said gerontology’s James Bond ” narrowly avoided a foot through the asphalt. Could have arrived here through the ceiling.”

Arabists all, the members of the distinguished committee embody all that we know about expats. Undimmed by age and creaking joints, they remain adventurous, flexible, determined and courteous. The kind of people you need when a door won’t open.

 

 

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You’ll probably hate this, but…

Posted on November 25, 2016 by Liz Barron

My Thanksgiving day lunch was a Veggie Christmas sandwich, eaten at my desk in London where the holiday is not celebrated. Bleak, with a side of bathos. Three thousand miles away, my friends and family tucked into turkey, mashed potato, mac and cheese, sweet potatoes and any number of pies. I am sure there were collard greens, and stuffing, and other excuses to add bacon, bread and nuts to the already groaning boards. In the afternoon, the Cowboys beat the Redskins–good news for my maverick offspring who, although DC born and bred, follow the Dallas football team. For a lot of other people in the nation’s capital, the game was another bummer in a month of searing disappointment. While (white) people in the middle and south of the country are tr(i)umphant, on the outskirts of America we are worried sick. Part of me thinks it is our turn.

Washington DC has been sheltered from much of the pain that now-red states have suffered since manufacturing fled, and employers started valuing critical thinking above can-do capabilities. Jobs in and around the government keep a lot of us cosy in DC, Maryland and Virginia. The restaurants are packed every night of the week with lawyers and lobbyists and the likes of me discussing neuroscience breakthroughs and the marvel of digital developments while we enjoy another glass of wine. For lots of us, the world–with us at its centre– is all about looking outward, and doing great things, and sounding clever about it. It’s been lovely. We haven’t been scared about surviving, or felt threatened by change because, whatever the prevailing politics, the agenda was ours. While we opined about the economy, we didn’t look and so we couldn’t see that people who felt broken, and beaten and burdened had begun to live their lives angrily.  Angry now ourselves, we start to see how corrosive it is; and the kind of behaviour it drives.

We scoffed when the high wall salesman peddled his pictures of  a different kind of cosy, designed to appeal to people outside our own shining self-satisfied sphere: pictures featuring working mines, busy factories, a superhero boss with a beautiful wife and well-dressed children, and everyone looking and behaving like a gloved family in a 1960s school book. Millions of people dreamed of that life, more than we ever imagined.

Now our Camelot is crumbling and I believe the shake-up in Washington will cause after-shocks long after the 45th President is safely back on his golf course, putter in tiny hand. The politics won’t last, please God, but the disruption that is ‘the Donald’ could change how America sees its role in the world, and how Washington works.   While I dislike and disagree with everything I think the incoming President stands for, maybe some good can come of this? ( Bear with me. It’s Thanksgiving and I am doing my best…).

The President elect is centre of his own stage, but his audience he plays to is domestic, not global. From his gilted tower in NYC, he faces West towards his voters, not East to talk with the rest of the world.  Maybe all those other continents will find they get along without us very well? Maybe we’ll find that our bustling matron or bossy big sister costume no longer fits? Maybe we should plan an international relaunch for 2020, with market research to inform our positioning starting right now…?

Leaving aside all the griping about the cost of security details, is there any reason, today, why the US President should live in the White House? We hear about businesses decentralizing, and boards meeting virtually, so why not the Executive Branch? Admittedly, Fifth Avenue and a Florida golf resort mightn’t provide much of an eye-opener to the cabinet, but imagine if Hillary had said she would govern from Little Rock AK. What might a perspective like that have brought to federal government? What jobs and revenue and wine bars and coffee houses?  Maybe it’s time that somewhere other than Washington gets a turn to be the home of government? But please, not Mar-a-Lago.

The leader of the new administration has made it clear he has no admiration for the apparatus of government; and no need of the inputs typically supplied by the press, or traditional policy advocates.  His disdain and disregard for “the way we do things around here” will drive many true public servants to despair and retirement. Lobbyists once assured of any Presidential ear may find themselves muted. Journalists are already hopping mad. All these people are my people, and the best do their work with the Constitution front of mind. So far, I don’t like the look of any of the incomers the new President trusts (well, Ivanka looks great) but a crashing wave of people hitting Washington and challenging all protocol and process could allow we ‘swamp-dwellers’ to see things with fresh eyes. We do too much the way we did it a century ago. (However good Ivanka looks, and however smart she is, it’s good we have a law that stops people advancing their own–although if it had been around in the 1960s, it would have cost us RFK….)

‘But what about checks and balances?’ my Washington friends cry. ‘And the first amendment and Obamacare? And the progress we’ve made on everything from climate change to marriage equality and international relations?’ I know. I know. I don’t like it any more than you do.

And while we tremble about the loss of much we hold sacred in Washington DC, we do not tremble like Latinos terrified of deportation, or Muslims fearful their neighbours will turn on them,  or women terrorized by predatory bosses with grabbing hands.  And the young black men, like my son? They aren’t trembling, except with rage. Boiled sugar rage that threatens to overflow and burn.  I know this too.

All I am saying is that we blue state metropolitan professionals didn’t get it right this time, and we have to go on from here.  We can work to win the trust of those who chose Trump, and who may quickly feel let down. We can speak and write and protest and campaign. We can tweak and burnish and mend and strengthen. We can touch and support and follow and lead. We can learn. We have much to be thankful for.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in America, know thyself, personal failings, Politics, Washington DC | 3 Comments

Two Fat Ladies Ride Again

Posted on November 14, 2016 by Liz Barron

“Wrap up warm” she said “and don’t forget stout shoes.”

I grimaced. So far, it didn’t sound like my idea of a treat.

Then she tried to lend me her boyfriend’s fleece, and tutted when she saw one of my many layers “You can’t wear that tomorrow–it’s far too drapey”

My sister had decided to surprise me and was sure she’d found a weekend activity I would love. When the idea was first mentioned, I had dared to imagine a day on the sofa watching “The Crown” sipping Pro Secco and eating something Belgian and chocolatey. Perhaps there would be a Fijian spa attendant, ready to provide a pedicure. I would pack a peignor…

It was not to be. As we drove past Skipton up into Wharfedale I tried to guess what was in store. Oh, please let there be only a small walk and no muddy hills. I like birds and nature photography and crafty pursuits, but I didn’t fancy the idea of a morning spent admiring moss, identifying mushrooms, or listening to a lecture on autumn leaf eddies, or whatever well-meaning but mistaken idea my dear sister was pursuing.

It sounded as though equipment was involved. Surely she hadn’t hired a tandem? She doesn’t like heights so it wouldn’t be abseiling. Our last venture into underground caves didn’t end well, so it couldn’t be spelunking, could it?

“Is it learning to ride a motorbike” I asked, for this is something I really would like to do, supposing I could hold the bike up, which I admit is doubtful.

“You think I would let you on a motorbike?” said Anne at her most disapproving. Another hope dashed.

On the morning of the treat, Anne was noticeably anxious. Lots of phonecalls and tutting about the weather. I put on tights, trousers, a t-shirt, a big jumper, jerkin, scarf and anorak, plus a pair of sturdy boots.

“He’ll have waterproof trousers for you” said my sister, who owns her own pair. She was adjusting a knitted ski cap with patterned ear flaps. I would have shivered if I hadn’t been sweltered under all those layers of clothing.

“He’s here” she cried and I waddled behind her to the hotel door, moving like the Michelin man.

Jason was outside with his Boom trike. Sofa-sized, I still managed to run towards him, squealing with delight.  He gave us bikers’ gloves, waterproofs, helmets with microphones and strapped us in. Then he took us on a tour of the Dales, providing a commentary through speakers in our hard hats. We saw the village where the Calendar Girls baked their bosom-covering buns and the community hall that Helen Mirren and Julie Walters paid to build when the film made a fortune. We rode past Kilnsey Crag where the SAS sometimes have night manouevres. We roared around corners and stopped to admire bridges of Yorkshire stone warmed by apricot sunlight. Sheep stared as we zoomed by. On top of the moor, it was too misty to see much, but down below we raced past dry stone walls, bracken-bronzed fields and rivers rushing with the night before’s rain. The road was flooded in one place, but that didn’t stop Jason and the mighty trike. “Lift your legs ladies”. That’s how it is when your exhaust pipes are the height of your glove box.

We drove up and down the main street in Skipton, so everyone could admire us–the Clarissa Dixon-Wright and Jennifer Paterson of our day. We waved to all and sundry and they waved back–how could you not?

We stopped for coffee at the Trout farm and made Jason take our biker chick pictures. It was a great day out. I can’t wait to go again.

Book your own Yorkshire Trike Tour here.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in family, Great weekends, joy, personal failings, sporting achievements, straight-talking sister, travel | 6 Comments