Dedicated to Louise Cabral Jackson
A beautiful lady enters the lobby
Of the Waldorf Astoria. And it is you.
You stop to look at the grand chandelier
And the black and white prints of a golden era.
Sparkling pearls and beaming smiles
Frame the walls, stolen moments captured in time
Such as flawless Gershwin tunes
Serenading old lady Manhattan.
You carry yourself gracefully,
Hand in hand with me, your adoring wife
As champagne on ice awaits us,
Early days in our charmed life.
Mahogany lifts and fur coats
The forty-first floor overlooks
Tall skyscrapers and neon lights
As the full moon rises above the Hudson.
We lovers smile and our reflections dance
In long corridors with mirrors
Past bellboys and tipping waiters;
Caught in our perfect dreamland.
We are enticed by New York
Guess handbags and Tiffany’s
And the company of its gentle giants,
And the shores of Ellis Island.
You pause again to take it all in
The constant hum of yellow cabs
The season’s bells and Broadway shows,
Pretzel vendors and Times Square.
It’s Macy’s Parade and Thanksgiving Dinner,
We walk past the animated crowds,
From the sinuous streets of Chinatown
To the grandeur of Park and Madison Avenues.
We stand on Terrace Bridge
Amongst the fallen leaves in Central Park.
As runners and carriages and tired horses go past
And the city breathes, air filled with promises.
The city has known many fates
Of highs and lows, much given and much taken
Of lovers and warriors, of hopes and broken dreams.
And yet she still stands proud, unshakable.
You befit the city my love
As you are kind as you are beautiful
Pale blue eyes which smile with so much love
Nurturing and wanting, forever in mine captivated.
Janete Cabral Jackson
Writer's Blog
All work Copyrighted Janete Cabral 2003-2011. All rights reserved.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
As the sentence printed on the cover reads, Paulo Coelho's "The Alchemist" is a fable about following your dream. It is the story of an Andalusian shepherd who decides to follow his dreams after a chance encounter with a Gypsy and a King and the subsequent trail of omens which lead him to his Treasure. They take him from his Spanish home to the markets of Tangiers and across the desert to the Great Pyramids of Egypt.
In his travels he meets those who inspire him to move on and those who have forgotten to listen to their heart. It is a cautionary tale of the dangers of following prey to fear. However this is not a story of bitterness and sorrows but an inspiring and uplifting fable of a man daring to understand his heart. It is in the simplicity and the mystical lyricism of the story that Paulo Coelho's work translates into a modern classic. The theme is universal and knows no boundaries across language, culture or faith. As such it is no wonder that it is has captured so many people's hearts and imagination across the globe.
"So, I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you."
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Paris in March
Dedicated to Louise Margaret Jackson
The bells toll in the high sun
As gentle waters of the Seine
Bathe the old cathedral of Notre Dame.
The large Rose window invites us in,
Amongst candlelight and incense;
And whispers of old, wandering souls.
The cold stonewalls are lined by statues
Of Saints, Green Men and ivy.
Promises and prayers, as pilgrims to and fro,
In traditions of new and old,
In this eternal play of light and shadow.
Then a sudden turn
And the purple light blinds us.
There is so much love in the detail,
It just takes our breath away.
And in that moment, I want to hold your hand.
We walk the spiral stairs
To the dizzy heights in the crisp air,
Overlooking the ancient city,
Guarded by giant gargoyles and lost chimeras.
There is a serene calmness, which guides us
As there is not much need for words,
Such is the comfort in knowing
It will stand against the test of times,
Always elegant and strong, above the skyline.
And so in the lazy afternoon
We find ourselves in its shade
In the dusty courtyard, amongst lovers
And passers by, dreaming of a different life
And what it would be like; and you my love,
The keeper of Notre Dame.
These are languid times
And we do not want to leave.
So we follow the bridge to a nearby café,
Sitting by the window as the white wine is poured,
And the palate meets the light taste of soft bread and fromage.
Night is falling with such ease,
There are brandy glasses and red velvet chairs,
Verdi’s Opera and Champagne coupes
And the opening night of Luisa Miller.
Such is the lyrical chant of voices past
As I sit, in rapture, by your side.
Stealing a look, unseen, as I watch you
Beautiful and poised in the Paris night.
Street lamps and headlights
Colour the city in this March night.
It still feels cold, and yet I am lost in your gaze
As it meets me halfway, smiling.
The piercing eyes, I am learning to navigate.
Like everything in this city
You seem to know the way.
Leading through the maps and long corridors
Of the Metro and my adoring heart.
I am vulnerable and whole,
And yet caught in your embrace.
And though I have sailed past many ports
In yours I will stay, my anchor, my city of lights.
Janete Cabral Copyright 2003-2011
The bells toll in the high sun
As gentle waters of the Seine
Bathe the old cathedral of Notre Dame.
The large Rose window invites us in,
Amongst candlelight and incense;
And whispers of old, wandering souls.
The cold stonewalls are lined by statues
Of Saints, Green Men and ivy.
Promises and prayers, as pilgrims to and fro,
In traditions of new and old,
In this eternal play of light and shadow.
Then a sudden turn
And the purple light blinds us.
There is so much love in the detail,
It just takes our breath away.
And in that moment, I want to hold your hand.
We walk the spiral stairs
To the dizzy heights in the crisp air,
Overlooking the ancient city,
Guarded by giant gargoyles and lost chimeras.
There is a serene calmness, which guides us
As there is not much need for words,
Such is the comfort in knowing
It will stand against the test of times,
Always elegant and strong, above the skyline.
And so in the lazy afternoon
We find ourselves in its shade
In the dusty courtyard, amongst lovers
And passers by, dreaming of a different life
And what it would be like; and you my love,
The keeper of Notre Dame.
These are languid times
And we do not want to leave.
So we follow the bridge to a nearby café,
Sitting by the window as the white wine is poured,
And the palate meets the light taste of soft bread and fromage.
Night is falling with such ease,
There are brandy glasses and red velvet chairs,
Verdi’s Opera and Champagne coupes
And the opening night of Luisa Miller.
Such is the lyrical chant of voices past
As I sit, in rapture, by your side.
Stealing a look, unseen, as I watch you
Beautiful and poised in the Paris night.
Street lamps and headlights
Colour the city in this March night.
It still feels cold, and yet I am lost in your gaze
As it meets me halfway, smiling.
The piercing eyes, I am learning to navigate.
Like everything in this city
You seem to know the way.
Leading through the maps and long corridors
Of the Metro and my adoring heart.
I am vulnerable and whole,
And yet caught in your embrace.
And though I have sailed past many ports
In yours I will stay, my anchor, my city of lights.
Janete Cabral Copyright 2003-2011
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
The Anatomist
The clock had struck ten and the study room in the faculty was dimly lit, fallen silent from all the hustle and bustle of the day. A sudden tap on the shoulder had wakened Steven. He looked up in a daze, still confused, wiping the drooling from the opened textbook page.
“Hello? Anyone there?” He said gathering his notes. Something or someone must have woken him up. But no one answered. He had been left amongst the voluminous medical textbooks and the dimmed lamps. He went past the corridor and stairs to reach for the main door but it was locked. He was stuck, how could the porter have missed him?
He sighed and then thought to try the fire exit. He had seen it by the Anatomy Demonstration room so he retraced his steps down the corridor. At the end, he pushed the door opened, greeted by the clinical coldness of the dissection room and the overpowering smell of formaldehyde. There was always something fascinating and mystical about this room and it looked even creepier at night. As medical students they gathered in groups of four per body every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Steven always stood in awe of the retired surgeons and teachers who skillfully navigated the surface of the human body. He still remembered being told not to be afraid and to touch the dead body. A few in the class went a colour resembling pale green at the time. He had a few nerves at the start too but it is remarkable how quickly one adjusts to something as surreal as dissecting a body and accepts it as normal.
Steven was actually quite fond of the body he had been given to practice, an old lady who had died of old age and blocked arteries. Even the body, which lay next to their group, had a pleasant rose aroma and a coin was found in his right antecubital fossa just last week. They did put it back as it had obviously been there for a reason and clearly wanted to take it with him to his final resting place.
However there was something about the deceased man across the room. Steven just could not bare the putrid smell as soon as he approached when summoned by the lecturer. Perhaps it had been cancer or even the mark of a lost soul? Nonsense, he thought, he didn’t even believe in that kind of stuff. He needed to find an exit before he lost his mind too.
He went through a narrow entrance and tried a door to his right, which easily opened. He flicked the light switch on and his eyes immediately caught the two large steel freezer compartments standing side by side and a faded three quarter length white coat. He suddenly felt this urge to try it on and could not explain it. He had seen plenty of white coats; he had a medical student one himself. Perhaps because it wasn’t his? Curiosity and impulse got the better of him so he tried it on.
“It’s a perfect fit.” A firm man’s voice said.
Steven jumped on his feet; a man was stood right behind him just a few inches away.
“I suppose you have come for the body?” The stranger said, his breath bitter and stale, his grin old and broad. He was no more than five foot, his hairline receding into a patch and his eyes dark and impenetrable.
A bewildered Steven tried to speak but no sounds came out.
“Well, which parts were you looking for?”
“What?”
“Well, you are a student doctor, aren’t you? Which part have you come for?” the man asked
“Oh, of course, sorry. For a moment there…” Steven said, still trying to work out who the man was.
“Well I don’t have all night, come on” He proceeded towards one of the freezers and opened it for Steven.
“We have got upper and lower limbs over here. Now here, are the more delicate specimens such as the brachial plexus and the branches of the inferior aorta.”
“Wow, they are incredible, almost textbook like. How come we don’t see these in class? “ Steven said moving closer to examine them
“No son, not almost, they were precisely cut and measured. I am constructing the missing parts before it is ready to be shared. Want to see where we get them from?”
“Constructing, I am confused? But sure!”
“In a moment, yes…. I see you are wearing my white coat.” The man said pondering.
“Oh so sorry, just could not help it. Here, please, let me give it back to you” Steven said.
“It suits you, as I said earlier a perfect fit. Plenty of memories, you know, it seems to bring me good luck. It seems to bring me exactly what I need when I ask for it”
“Oh? It does?” Steven said in a dubious tone.
“Yes, you see. I am the Anatomist.” He presented Steven his right hand and shook it.
“Steven Trousseau. Pleased to meet you. How come I have not seen you before?”
“Ah, the department keeps me working at night, no distractions from the likes of you. But in your case I shall make an exception. You see you have the most perfectly structured hands. Dare I say, hands of a surgeon?”
“Well, thank you. Not sure what to say to that. I hope I can do them justice one day.” Steven replied.
“Well my boy rest assured they will take pride of place. Follow me and I will show you how it’s done”
As Steven followed him into an adjacent room, the temperature dropped abruptly. A tray of finely set sharp blades and different sized saws set neatly on a silver trolley. The Anatomist closed the door behind and click was heard. He stared at Steven for a few seconds, which made him uncomfortable.
“So where are the bodies?” Steven asked.
“We are a bit short at the moment. You see random bodies won’t just do. Oh no, if you want perfection you have to find it first. This is my life’s work after all. But I am sure you will do just fine.”
Steven stood frozen, confused, thoughts racing through his head. Everything inside him told him to run and when he tried to reach for the door, it was locked. Again he was stuck, but in a far more dangerous position with a man holding a knife and wearing a horrific grin.
“Not so fast son, I have been waiting for you for a long time, now. The door locks on itself, didn’t you hear the click?”
“Why?” Steven barely managed to utter the words as the Anatomist had already crossed the room and blood was pouring from the right side of his chest.
“Easy now, don’t fight it. Your right lung is punctured, the air will run out soon. Shush don’t struggle. You see, you will be remembered for eternity. I will make sure you are my finest work. I promise.”
The End
Janete Cabral Copyright 2003-2011
“Hello? Anyone there?” He said gathering his notes. Something or someone must have woken him up. But no one answered. He had been left amongst the voluminous medical textbooks and the dimmed lamps. He went past the corridor and stairs to reach for the main door but it was locked. He was stuck, how could the porter have missed him?
He sighed and then thought to try the fire exit. He had seen it by the Anatomy Demonstration room so he retraced his steps down the corridor. At the end, he pushed the door opened, greeted by the clinical coldness of the dissection room and the overpowering smell of formaldehyde. There was always something fascinating and mystical about this room and it looked even creepier at night. As medical students they gathered in groups of four per body every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Steven always stood in awe of the retired surgeons and teachers who skillfully navigated the surface of the human body. He still remembered being told not to be afraid and to touch the dead body. A few in the class went a colour resembling pale green at the time. He had a few nerves at the start too but it is remarkable how quickly one adjusts to something as surreal as dissecting a body and accepts it as normal.
Steven was actually quite fond of the body he had been given to practice, an old lady who had died of old age and blocked arteries. Even the body, which lay next to their group, had a pleasant rose aroma and a coin was found in his right antecubital fossa just last week. They did put it back as it had obviously been there for a reason and clearly wanted to take it with him to his final resting place.
However there was something about the deceased man across the room. Steven just could not bare the putrid smell as soon as he approached when summoned by the lecturer. Perhaps it had been cancer or even the mark of a lost soul? Nonsense, he thought, he didn’t even believe in that kind of stuff. He needed to find an exit before he lost his mind too.
He went through a narrow entrance and tried a door to his right, which easily opened. He flicked the light switch on and his eyes immediately caught the two large steel freezer compartments standing side by side and a faded three quarter length white coat. He suddenly felt this urge to try it on and could not explain it. He had seen plenty of white coats; he had a medical student one himself. Perhaps because it wasn’t his? Curiosity and impulse got the better of him so he tried it on.
“It’s a perfect fit.” A firm man’s voice said.
Steven jumped on his feet; a man was stood right behind him just a few inches away.
“I suppose you have come for the body?” The stranger said, his breath bitter and stale, his grin old and broad. He was no more than five foot, his hairline receding into a patch and his eyes dark and impenetrable.
A bewildered Steven tried to speak but no sounds came out.
“Well, which parts were you looking for?”
“What?”
“Well, you are a student doctor, aren’t you? Which part have you come for?” the man asked
“Oh, of course, sorry. For a moment there…” Steven said, still trying to work out who the man was.
“Well I don’t have all night, come on” He proceeded towards one of the freezers and opened it for Steven.
“We have got upper and lower limbs over here. Now here, are the more delicate specimens such as the brachial plexus and the branches of the inferior aorta.”
“Wow, they are incredible, almost textbook like. How come we don’t see these in class? “ Steven said moving closer to examine them
“No son, not almost, they were precisely cut and measured. I am constructing the missing parts before it is ready to be shared. Want to see where we get them from?”
“Constructing, I am confused? But sure!”
“In a moment, yes…. I see you are wearing my white coat.” The man said pondering.
“Oh so sorry, just could not help it. Here, please, let me give it back to you” Steven said.
“It suits you, as I said earlier a perfect fit. Plenty of memories, you know, it seems to bring me good luck. It seems to bring me exactly what I need when I ask for it”
“Oh? It does?” Steven said in a dubious tone.
“Yes, you see. I am the Anatomist.” He presented Steven his right hand and shook it.
“Steven Trousseau. Pleased to meet you. How come I have not seen you before?”
“Ah, the department keeps me working at night, no distractions from the likes of you. But in your case I shall make an exception. You see you have the most perfectly structured hands. Dare I say, hands of a surgeon?”
“Well, thank you. Not sure what to say to that. I hope I can do them justice one day.” Steven replied.
“Well my boy rest assured they will take pride of place. Follow me and I will show you how it’s done”
As Steven followed him into an adjacent room, the temperature dropped abruptly. A tray of finely set sharp blades and different sized saws set neatly on a silver trolley. The Anatomist closed the door behind and click was heard. He stared at Steven for a few seconds, which made him uncomfortable.
“So where are the bodies?” Steven asked.
“We are a bit short at the moment. You see random bodies won’t just do. Oh no, if you want perfection you have to find it first. This is my life’s work after all. But I am sure you will do just fine.”
Steven stood frozen, confused, thoughts racing through his head. Everything inside him told him to run and when he tried to reach for the door, it was locked. Again he was stuck, but in a far more dangerous position with a man holding a knife and wearing a horrific grin.
“Not so fast son, I have been waiting for you for a long time, now. The door locks on itself, didn’t you hear the click?”
“Why?” Steven barely managed to utter the words as the Anatomist had already crossed the room and blood was pouring from the right side of his chest.
“Easy now, don’t fight it. Your right lung is punctured, the air will run out soon. Shush don’t struggle. You see, you will be remembered for eternity. I will make sure you are my finest work. I promise.”
The End
Janete Cabral Copyright 2003-2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
"My Reading Life" by Pat Conroy
A little gem has come out recently into our bookstores, Pat Conroy’s “My Reading Life”. For those who are not so familiar with the author you may have read or seen “The Prince of Tides” or “The Lords of Discipline”. The truth is that Pat Conroy’s masterful skill for storytelling has been delighting some of us for many years. So it comes has no surprise that the writer is an avid reader himself and has chosen to share his love of books and the English language with the wider public. As I opened the first few pages of “My Reading Life” it felt very much like sitting down with an old friend and indulging into some secrets of his soul.
Themes such as his Catholic childhood, his relationship with his parents and being brought up on the ever-changing military bases, pervade throughout the entire book. We have much to thank Peg Conroy for instilling her son’s love affair with books. Indeed much of his past is mirrored in Pat Conroy’s writing and there are clear reflections of this in his choices of books as well as in the friendships he forms throughout his reading and writing life.
How easy did I find to follow the steps of Conroy into the “Old New York Bookshop” and revel in what it might have been like to have lived during those literary soirees, or how I wished I could have been part of the influential Gene Norris’ s English class in 1961. It seems only too few of us are lucky enough to have had an educator which can both inspire you and challenge you.
He describes the greats such as Dickens and Tolstoy and other master novelists but his passion shines through when he writes about his emotional connections to the likes of Thomas Wolfe and James Dickey. Writers who have utterly consumed his soul with their art to the point it has changed both the teenage Conroy and the more mature one.
Another chapter, which I found particularly enlightening and honest, was “On being a military brat”. He describes his father’s history of domestic violence, the mask with which the family had to grin and bear and the ultimate pride on being raised “ a military brat” and serving the army.
Upon reading this book I could not help myself taking notes, particularly on writers I had dismissed in the past or simply not heard of. His passion for reading translates in each sentence. And what else could an author ask for, but to have others hold them in such great respect as to trust them to guide their way.
I salute you, Mr. Pat Conroy.
Janete Cabral
Themes such as his Catholic childhood, his relationship with his parents and being brought up on the ever-changing military bases, pervade throughout the entire book. We have much to thank Peg Conroy for instilling her son’s love affair with books. Indeed much of his past is mirrored in Pat Conroy’s writing and there are clear reflections of this in his choices of books as well as in the friendships he forms throughout his reading and writing life.
How easy did I find to follow the steps of Conroy into the “Old New York Bookshop” and revel in what it might have been like to have lived during those literary soirees, or how I wished I could have been part of the influential Gene Norris’ s English class in 1961. It seems only too few of us are lucky enough to have had an educator which can both inspire you and challenge you.
He describes the greats such as Dickens and Tolstoy and other master novelists but his passion shines through when he writes about his emotional connections to the likes of Thomas Wolfe and James Dickey. Writers who have utterly consumed his soul with their art to the point it has changed both the teenage Conroy and the more mature one.
Another chapter, which I found particularly enlightening and honest, was “On being a military brat”. He describes his father’s history of domestic violence, the mask with which the family had to grin and bear and the ultimate pride on being raised “ a military brat” and serving the army.
Upon reading this book I could not help myself taking notes, particularly on writers I had dismissed in the past or simply not heard of. His passion for reading translates in each sentence. And what else could an author ask for, but to have others hold them in such great respect as to trust them to guide their way.
I salute you, Mr. Pat Conroy.
Janete Cabral
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Cafe Marina
I love attention to detail, especially when strangers turn to kindness when you least expect it. There have been many such occasions, but I will just mention the last one as it is still fresh on my mind. I work part time in a Health centre, doing mostly late shifts, which means half the time I miss lunch and head over to start work; hurriedly trying to grab a quick soup and toast if I can. I mention it in the context of the small fishing town where I am working. You see, for many of the local businesses this has been a very hard winter and they wear it on their faces. Tramway works have disrupted the main road and affected trade, may it be the newsagent, the multiple fish and chip shops and cafes. A few people have lost their incomes and jobs and there is little that the local council can do to help them, apart from some meagre pounds. It broke my heart yesterday, when I saw a patient who did not have enough money for a prescription for painkillers as she was not breaking even with her business...You can only do your best to suggest over the counter medications and how to help them via prepayments cards, etc...
But as the title suggests, I am meant to be writing about Cafe Marina, this little cafe across from the Health Centre, where I am greeted every time with a smile and a hot pot of Redbush tea as soon as I walk in the door. You see lately I promised myself I would try to be a healthier me, leave home early and sit down for a proper lunch before the start of a hectic day. It is a quaint little corner cafe which has obviously aged with time but still stands with grace. There are only a few handful of tables and chairs and individual menus advertising mushroom pie. The walls are filled with signed photos of actors from the 1950s mostly, all autographed to "Derek". Comedy actors, British actors and a few Hollywood stars. There are even two little gems of number one takes from the productions of " The King and I" by Walter Lang and " Gentlemen prefer blondes". And just as you start to feel you are lost in a different era, the radio starts playing "Every time we say goodbye" by Ella Fitzgerald. I could not help a smile and when the old couple sat next to me started humming the tune to the next song "It's...Strangers in Paradise" as soon as the first few bars started. They looked content as they definitely got it right. The young teenage girl sat across from me looked a bit uncomfortable and growing restless, as if she had been dropped from an alien spaceship which made the whole encounter incongruous and that more delightful! She did not order I noticed as she appeared to be waiting for her father. But even after he did arrive and sat down to eat, still she did not order.
I, on the other hand, was day dreaming during this whole scenario, wondering who Derek was and what he might have been like chasing all those precious signed photos from all over the world. I must ask the new owner, but I am still building the courage to do it. Perhaps I just don't want to spoil the fantasy I have created in my mind... There is a lot of that going on.
Before I digress again, kindness is the word, as they always welcome me with a smile and the brewing tea and head in my direction to take the order. I know I am a paying customer and always leave a tip and this might not seem like much. However I love the familiarity of the place and the way that they just leave me be without asking too many questions and yet there is this quiet air of acceptance. The new owner has not had a day off in a few years, he is a tall, calm gentleman and very quietly spoken. I suppose you would have to be in the current financial climate to be able to cope. The lady serving has visibly gone through a lot of problems recently as I can not help listening to the local chatter; after all I am now one of the "regulars"... Her sister works in the kitchen and does a lovely scampi. I have ordered it a lot, and actually have to stop myself for fear of sounding too boring with my choices! I usually get a smile and a little laugh when I reply " I think I will go for the scampi today".
So there it is, small gestures and acts of kindness and attention to detail which lends themselves to appreciation and contentment.
UPDATE:
I asked the owner and it turns out that two men used to run the cafe and were involved in the catering of theatre and film productions before it was sold 7 years ago. Apparently there are walls full of autographed pictures upstairs which the new owner hopes to share it with the public once they have done renovations.
But as the title suggests, I am meant to be writing about Cafe Marina, this little cafe across from the Health Centre, where I am greeted every time with a smile and a hot pot of Redbush tea as soon as I walk in the door. You see lately I promised myself I would try to be a healthier me, leave home early and sit down for a proper lunch before the start of a hectic day. It is a quaint little corner cafe which has obviously aged with time but still stands with grace. There are only a few handful of tables and chairs and individual menus advertising mushroom pie. The walls are filled with signed photos of actors from the 1950s mostly, all autographed to "Derek". Comedy actors, British actors and a few Hollywood stars. There are even two little gems of number one takes from the productions of " The King and I" by Walter Lang and " Gentlemen prefer blondes". And just as you start to feel you are lost in a different era, the radio starts playing "Every time we say goodbye" by Ella Fitzgerald. I could not help a smile and when the old couple sat next to me started humming the tune to the next song "It's...Strangers in Paradise" as soon as the first few bars started. They looked content as they definitely got it right. The young teenage girl sat across from me looked a bit uncomfortable and growing restless, as if she had been dropped from an alien spaceship which made the whole encounter incongruous and that more delightful! She did not order I noticed as she appeared to be waiting for her father. But even after he did arrive and sat down to eat, still she did not order.
I, on the other hand, was day dreaming during this whole scenario, wondering who Derek was and what he might have been like chasing all those precious signed photos from all over the world. I must ask the new owner, but I am still building the courage to do it. Perhaps I just don't want to spoil the fantasy I have created in my mind... There is a lot of that going on.
Before I digress again, kindness is the word, as they always welcome me with a smile and the brewing tea and head in my direction to take the order. I know I am a paying customer and always leave a tip and this might not seem like much. However I love the familiarity of the place and the way that they just leave me be without asking too many questions and yet there is this quiet air of acceptance. The new owner has not had a day off in a few years, he is a tall, calm gentleman and very quietly spoken. I suppose you would have to be in the current financial climate to be able to cope. The lady serving has visibly gone through a lot of problems recently as I can not help listening to the local chatter; after all I am now one of the "regulars"... Her sister works in the kitchen and does a lovely scampi. I have ordered it a lot, and actually have to stop myself for fear of sounding too boring with my choices! I usually get a smile and a little laugh when I reply " I think I will go for the scampi today".
So there it is, small gestures and acts of kindness and attention to detail which lends themselves to appreciation and contentment.
UPDATE:
I asked the owner and it turns out that two men used to run the cafe and were involved in the catering of theatre and film productions before it was sold 7 years ago. Apparently there are walls full of autographed pictures upstairs which the new owner hopes to share it with the public once they have done renovations.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Happy New Year 2011
To all my friends out there and kindred spirits. Happy 1.1.11 !
May you get all that you wish for (just beware what you do wish for as you might get it!). I have a feeling 2011 is going to be the best one yet. Or so I am told.
May you get all the love you deserve without the Ego interfering, or ghosts from times past. Learn to forgive and be kind to yourself. It is but a small step to allow happiness in. You just have to remember to make room for it. Heartache makes you who you are now. The sum of it all prepares you for greatness.
So here it is to new beginnings, friendships old and new, aspirations, dreams and hopes. Life is magical and beautiful.
Janete Cabral
May you get all that you wish for (just beware what you do wish for as you might get it!). I have a feeling 2011 is going to be the best one yet. Or so I am told.
May you get all the love you deserve without the Ego interfering, or ghosts from times past. Learn to forgive and be kind to yourself. It is but a small step to allow happiness in. You just have to remember to make room for it. Heartache makes you who you are now. The sum of it all prepares you for greatness.
So here it is to new beginnings, friendships old and new, aspirations, dreams and hopes. Life is magical and beautiful.
Janete Cabral
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wish
That feeds a heart,
At loss of a stronger beat.
That humbles a life,
Grander than its planted seed.
That unveils the passion,
Behind all blinding truth.
Janete Cabral Copyright 2003-2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Angel
ps: the ad from google is quite distracting, just click the upper right corner to turn it off...
Aria ( Archives)
All that you are
Breathes inside me.
My words captive,
My bare soul enwrapped,
In this urgency of longing.
This quilt of naked fire,
Like forces full of spring,
To loosen my senses
To no beginning nor end.
All that you are,
Your fire, the brilliance
Of your smile, pulls me in
To a home I have never known.
A simple touch; your sounds
Entice me, I am bound
To the years and to the kisses
Not yet lived, my Aria
I am here, our time awaits.
Janete Cabral Copyright 2003-2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Changes
I have just realised that for the first time in my life for a long time I am going to be living by myself. I had a house of my own for a short while and I did live in hospital accommodation in the past during my rotations, but that doesn't really count as there was always someone around or an opened late night canteen. Friends in university used to quite happily knock on my room at 2 am as they knew I would still be up. As an eternal insomniac my reputation preceded me. And certainly a few unusual bonds and firm friendships were born out of it.
I have always been independent and a free spirit but I also loved company, sharing information from the mundane to the more subtle nuances of daily life. I am lucky to still have friends from that era. All before we grew up too quickly and each went in a different direction.
I supposed that was the magic of the twenties. This spark, this feeling that somehow things would work out ok. This belief that propels us forward without too much thought for consequences. By the age of thirty your perspective changes, you may have a career, perhaps a family, responsibilities and you feel accountable. Though I must confess that I believe the same idealism and enthusiasm is just hiding a layer deeper under the skin waiting for the right circumstances to emerge itself.
So at the age of thirty-four, I am packing and moving to the first space I can call my own in a long time. It has taken me a long time to reach the decision. I am sure it has just been simmering under the surface until it screamed back at me; time to move on! I had spent too long living as a spectator, though many will find this a contradiction when you look at the amount of travelling I have done. Sometimes though it feels like I have been trying to challenge myself just to see my reactions and how far I could go. You learn though pretty quickly it does not matter where you are in the world, you are still you.
I don't think it is a delayed 30th crisis as I usually pay little attention to age, but who knows? Once the seed of possibility grows, the thoughts become more pronounced and soon after you have nothing left but to take action. August and september came and went all of a sudden I had this wake up call, "what am I doing with my life? Is this really what I want?". The Universe certainly gave me a good kick in the butt. I ended a long term relationship which had not been making either of us happy for a long time, started seeking out old and new friends, regained some of my old joie de vivre and even dared to dream of a future love.
I am waiting to hear news about the house I have applied for to rent. A gorgeous little semi detached three bedroom house with a drive, garage, small front and back garden and a little patio. It is fully furnished and made me feel at home as soon I walked in. It just felt right.
So as much as I may fear loneliness in a big house on my own, a good part of me can't wait for my life to start. There is a vacuous unknown and immense opportunity. As someone told me recently I need to spread my wings. So I suppose it will be akin to going on a journey of self discovery.
I know though I will be calling on friends and keeping busy still. I like my space but I was not born to live in solitude. One day I will have a full house.
I have always been independent and a free spirit but I also loved company, sharing information from the mundane to the more subtle nuances of daily life. I am lucky to still have friends from that era. All before we grew up too quickly and each went in a different direction.
I supposed that was the magic of the twenties. This spark, this feeling that somehow things would work out ok. This belief that propels us forward without too much thought for consequences. By the age of thirty your perspective changes, you may have a career, perhaps a family, responsibilities and you feel accountable. Though I must confess that I believe the same idealism and enthusiasm is just hiding a layer deeper under the skin waiting for the right circumstances to emerge itself.
So at the age of thirty-four, I am packing and moving to the first space I can call my own in a long time. It has taken me a long time to reach the decision. I am sure it has just been simmering under the surface until it screamed back at me; time to move on! I had spent too long living as a spectator, though many will find this a contradiction when you look at the amount of travelling I have done. Sometimes though it feels like I have been trying to challenge myself just to see my reactions and how far I could go. You learn though pretty quickly it does not matter where you are in the world, you are still you.
I don't think it is a delayed 30th crisis as I usually pay little attention to age, but who knows? Once the seed of possibility grows, the thoughts become more pronounced and soon after you have nothing left but to take action. August and september came and went all of a sudden I had this wake up call, "what am I doing with my life? Is this really what I want?". The Universe certainly gave me a good kick in the butt. I ended a long term relationship which had not been making either of us happy for a long time, started seeking out old and new friends, regained some of my old joie de vivre and even dared to dream of a future love.
I am waiting to hear news about the house I have applied for to rent. A gorgeous little semi detached three bedroom house with a drive, garage, small front and back garden and a little patio. It is fully furnished and made me feel at home as soon I walked in. It just felt right.
So as much as I may fear loneliness in a big house on my own, a good part of me can't wait for my life to start. There is a vacuous unknown and immense opportunity. As someone told me recently I need to spread my wings. So I suppose it will be akin to going on a journey of self discovery.
I know though I will be calling on friends and keeping busy still. I like my space but I was not born to live in solitude. One day I will have a full house.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Rising veil (Written in 1998, from the Archives)
Times we search with the eyes of blindness,
To break these thickened walls called sadness.
For what is silence which brings no peace,
But a faded cry of an inside emptiness.
And yet the true season lies within,
And real the moves behind what is seen.
Janete Cabral October 1998
Saturday, November 20, 2010
NanoWrimo
Every year, I tell myself this will be the year I will do it... I will write 50, 000 words manuscript in a month and get it out of my system. That is the event of NanoWrimo ( National Novel Writing Month), which begins every year on the 1st November. The focus seems to be quantity rather than quality to force the more inertia driven writers to take risks and lower their expectations and perhaps finish that novel they have been meaning to do.
This is my problem. You see, I love the actual art of writing. I take pleasure in choosing the words and playing with them and testing them out on the page. And unlike life, you get plenty of second chances and you can just press erase and start again. Some writers see it as a form of therapy, expel their demons or write because they can't do without. And I have known some people plagued by writers block and obsessed with it. This is where I differ. My first passion is reading and the writing followed on from that. Probably because I am an insomniac by nature and found an outlet in writing which was better than midnight television...well it makes sense to me anyway.
I think that up to the age of 15 I was a very shy kid, writing, teaching myself the guitar to blend in a bit better and then joining drama club. I had wonderful teachers who kindly encouraged me and challenged me to think outside the box. I was shy but that does not mean I liked to conform...If anything it taught me to question everything. Ever since, the early exercises in writing helped me shape my opinions and thoughts on paper. The only drawback is that you can become so introspective you lose all eloquence to actually say what you mean.
I must give credit to Drama club as well in high school. I loved every minute on stage. It made me come out of my shell more, make new friends and explore new avenues of expression. I wasn't very good at it, I remember wanting to do a drama part and being offered comedy instead. But it do not matter as I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, from the camaraderie, to the breathing exercises and ultimately forgetting to wipe off the fake moustache on the bus ride home after rehearsal...I got some very strange looks at the time as you can imagine!
Anyway I digress which is so easy to do when you first put your thoughts on paper ( or a computer screen) and let it take you on a journey.
I do have short stories and novel ideas and a couple of chapters written and I could probably do with a kick to complete it. However I don't think I will be imposing looming deadlines on myself and turn the art of writing into a pressure cooker. I have a complete manuscript of 50 odd poems I might send off to some agents and publishers. But that's a whole other story for another day.
This is my problem. You see, I love the actual art of writing. I take pleasure in choosing the words and playing with them and testing them out on the page. And unlike life, you get plenty of second chances and you can just press erase and start again. Some writers see it as a form of therapy, expel their demons or write because they can't do without. And I have known some people plagued by writers block and obsessed with it. This is where I differ. My first passion is reading and the writing followed on from that. Probably because I am an insomniac by nature and found an outlet in writing which was better than midnight television...well it makes sense to me anyway.
I think that up to the age of 15 I was a very shy kid, writing, teaching myself the guitar to blend in a bit better and then joining drama club. I had wonderful teachers who kindly encouraged me and challenged me to think outside the box. I was shy but that does not mean I liked to conform...If anything it taught me to question everything. Ever since, the early exercises in writing helped me shape my opinions and thoughts on paper. The only drawback is that you can become so introspective you lose all eloquence to actually say what you mean.
I must give credit to Drama club as well in high school. I loved every minute on stage. It made me come out of my shell more, make new friends and explore new avenues of expression. I wasn't very good at it, I remember wanting to do a drama part and being offered comedy instead. But it do not matter as I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, from the camaraderie, to the breathing exercises and ultimately forgetting to wipe off the fake moustache on the bus ride home after rehearsal...I got some very strange looks at the time as you can imagine!
Anyway I digress which is so easy to do when you first put your thoughts on paper ( or a computer screen) and let it take you on a journey.
I do have short stories and novel ideas and a couple of chapters written and I could probably do with a kick to complete it. However I don't think I will be imposing looming deadlines on myself and turn the art of writing into a pressure cooker. I have a complete manuscript of 50 odd poems I might send off to some agents and publishers. But that's a whole other story for another day.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
SOS children
I thought that since I have been away to spend time with family, albeit short, I would write a little entry about SOS children Villages.
I have been sponsoring little Graca who is now 18 months in Mozambique and contributing to the Haiti Emergency Relief Service. Especially in times like this of economic recession charitable organisations probably suffer the most.
SOS children's Villages is actually the largest orphan and abandon children charity in the world. The difference from other children charities is that all the money donated actually goes to the child in full rather than pay campaign advertisement costs like others do. You probably won't find them on TV ads or newspapers and yet the Dalai Lama himself has said they were a charity where deeds speak louder than words.
This is the link if anyone is interested: SOS children
Little Graca ( Mozambique )
I have been sponsoring little Graca who is now 18 months in Mozambique and contributing to the Haiti Emergency Relief Service. Especially in times like this of economic recession charitable organisations probably suffer the most.
SOS children's Villages is actually the largest orphan and abandon children charity in the world. The difference from other children charities is that all the money donated actually goes to the child in full rather than pay campaign advertisement costs like others do. You probably won't find them on TV ads or newspapers and yet the Dalai Lama himself has said they were a charity where deeds speak louder than words.
This is the link if anyone is interested: SOS children
Little Graca ( Mozambique )
Friday, November 05, 2010
Autumn
Autumn
The chair rocks back and forth,
Wooden floors creak keeping pace
As the fresh breeze picks up,
And the first leaves sweep the porch.
The colours of summer are fading
Into brilliant red and yellow tones,
As dark skies of rain threaten in the distance.
The fields have been harvested
And plot-by-plot the farmer plows the land.
Fresh soil unearthed carrying the wishes
Of new hope and abundance.
This is the year, the farmer whispers
As a tear rolls down the hardened cheek,
I will be able to provide for us all.
The house stands alone,
The windows rattle in the wind,
And an old woman waves back.
The smell of fresh coffee fills the air
As she sets the table and reaches for her journal
These are the words you will read one day,
Before time erases them.
She has lived through it all.
The love, the losses, the uncertainty of our times
Still I would do it all over again,
Her frail hand spells, no regrets.
She smiles as she puts the ink to rest.
Autumn is here, time to lit up the coal fire
And step into this secret world of dreams.
Janete Cabral Copyright 2010
The chair rocks back and forth,
Wooden floors creak keeping pace
As the fresh breeze picks up,
And the first leaves sweep the porch.
The colours of summer are fading
Into brilliant red and yellow tones,
As dark skies of rain threaten in the distance.
The fields have been harvested
And plot-by-plot the farmer plows the land.
Fresh soil unearthed carrying the wishes
Of new hope and abundance.
This is the year, the farmer whispers
As a tear rolls down the hardened cheek,
I will be able to provide for us all.
The house stands alone,
The windows rattle in the wind,
And an old woman waves back.
The smell of fresh coffee fills the air
As she sets the table and reaches for her journal
These are the words you will read one day,
Before time erases them.
She has lived through it all.
The love, the losses, the uncertainty of our times
Still I would do it all over again,
Her frail hand spells, no regrets.
She smiles as she puts the ink to rest.
Autumn is here, time to lit up the coal fire
And step into this secret world of dreams.
Janete Cabral Copyright 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Self
I have lived
Enough days to fill a book.
The blood, the sweat
The love and the tears,
It is all there.
Moving pieces,
Remind me I have to wait
For someone, for something more
But I do not know what I wait for.
I miss the days
I have yet to live
And this unstoppable force. Although
I do not know all the things I miss.
I am the lives
And the changes I reflect.
I have learnt to forgive
And I am all that is left.
I have shed the layers
Of doubt and worry;
As I welcome the future, relieved,
I do not need to know.
I breathe new truths
That calm the mind.
The voice that shouts: you have one go,
And this is your lifetime.
Janete Cabral Copyright 2010
Enough days to fill a book.
The blood, the sweat
The love and the tears,
It is all there.
Moving pieces,
Remind me I have to wait
For someone, for something more
But I do not know what I wait for.
I miss the days
I have yet to live
And this unstoppable force. Although
I do not know all the things I miss.
I am the lives
And the changes I reflect.
I have learnt to forgive
And I am all that is left.
I have shed the layers
Of doubt and worry;
As I welcome the future, relieved,
I do not need to know.
I breathe new truths
That calm the mind.
The voice that shouts: you have one go,
And this is your lifetime.
Janete Cabral Copyright 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Wish
The wide eyed school boy
Hides the drawing, as black
Ink drips, in his tainted hands.
He looks up, but no one
Has noticed; quiet in his corner,
He remains king.
As the window draws in
The light, he rocks his chair
Back and forth, to the tempo
Of the grandfather’s clock
Standing guard by the desk.
He follows
The shapes and figures
In the sky, building
His world of make belief.
Such is the longing escape
Yearning to break out.
And so the boy will grow
Too fast or too eager
To put his mark, to lend
His name, to the papers,
The kisses and the grand city lights.
But he will fall,
In sin and in love,
And like the rest of us
He will know sadness
And the best of times
As he rises a man.
Janete Cabral Copyright
Hides the drawing, as black
Ink drips, in his tainted hands.
He looks up, but no one
Has noticed; quiet in his corner,
He remains king.
As the window draws in
The light, he rocks his chair
Back and forth, to the tempo
Of the grandfather’s clock
Standing guard by the desk.
He follows
The shapes and figures
In the sky, building
His world of make belief.
Such is the longing escape
Yearning to break out.
And so the boy will grow
Too fast or too eager
To put his mark, to lend
His name, to the papers,
The kisses and the grand city lights.
But he will fall,
In sin and in love,
And like the rest of us
He will know sadness
And the best of times
As he rises a man.
Janete Cabral Copyright
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Sea
After a request from a friend I have posted both written and spoken words.
The sea hails,
As the wind favors the set of sails,
Stretching across the azure waters.
Inch by inch, the fisherman
Pulls the anchor, as he prays
For the bountiful catch.
He wipes the sweat,
The tense lines across his forehead.
As he stares at the skies, just one more
Season, one more good omen.
And then life without the ocean.
What would become of him,
For all he has known
Are the rods, the nets
And these salt burns;
And the fresh smell of bait
He carries with him home.
He knows the language
Of waves, the tides and the full moon.
And even his bleeding hands never
Cease to work, to admire
At the sea’s harvest. For it humbles
Him, and it fills his soul.
Time is short.
As the bittersweet tune
Plays, to the sound of his leaving.
But not so easy does the story go,
As the mistress owns
The mermaid chant; whispering,
I am in your blood,
And I will never leave you.
Janete Cabral Copyright
The sea hails,
As the wind favors the set of sails,
Stretching across the azure waters.
Inch by inch, the fisherman
Pulls the anchor, as he prays
For the bountiful catch.
He wipes the sweat,
The tense lines across his forehead.
As he stares at the skies, just one more
Season, one more good omen.
And then life without the ocean.
What would become of him,
For all he has known
Are the rods, the nets
And these salt burns;
And the fresh smell of bait
He carries with him home.
He knows the language
Of waves, the tides and the full moon.
And even his bleeding hands never
Cease to work, to admire
At the sea’s harvest. For it humbles
Him, and it fills his soul.
Time is short.
As the bittersweet tune
Plays, to the sound of his leaving.
But not so easy does the story go,
As the mistress owns
The mermaid chant; whispering,
I am in your blood,
And I will never leave you.
Janete Cabral Copyright
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Perfect Summer Home
These are not my photos but excerpts from different places in the world. I would love to buy a beach house, where I could sit in the porch looking out into the Ocean as I lose myself in a good book or sipping a late morning coffee with a special someone.
It is nice to dream!
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Object of my Affection (In Venus Retrograde)
The object of my affection
(In Venus Retrograde)
The old woman, dressed in black and grey tones, enwrapped her in long scarf, with which she hid her face, sat in the bench. She was throwing corn to feed the pigeons. Others in the square avoided her gaze and her presence altogether. A couple went past her and stopped.
“Look, it’s that woman again. She is here, day in and day out, feeding the pigeons.” The girl pointed out.
“Really, I never noticed it. Except for the pigeons, they are nuisance.” The boy said.
“It’s hard to miss her. She is quite the character. I always wondered about her, everything that she must have been through. To lead her here, I mean.”
“One word, a loser.”
“How can you even say that? I am sure she is lonely, but if you look at her now she actually seems happy. You can see her smile every time they come back to her for more. Besides she could have this whole other life.“
“Oh this is just so typical of you Jen. Romanticizing any given hopeless situation.”
“What do you mean, Ryan? “
“Open your eyes Jen, You are naïve at times.”
Jen stared back at Ryan, trying to find the words. Damn, why is it that every time she was put on the spot she could not think of any. She would find plenty the day later. So she walked away from Ryan, the pigeon lady and the Square.
“Jen, wait. I didn’t mean to be.” Ryan said following her.
“To be so condescending and completely insensitive.”
“I like you Jen, sorry”
“Really, you like me Ryan? Is that your answer? Fine then answer me this. Why are you even with me?”
“Well, I think you are great. You make me feel good about myself.”
“You could have fooled me Ryan. You belittle me, you never take me serious.”
“That’s not true. But you have to be honest that this incident in the square.”
“It’s what, ridiculous? You know what Ryan. I am going to apologize here. I was wrong about you, I was wrong about me.”
Jen touched his face and patted him on the back.
“This is me, with all my quirks and imperfections. I need someone that gets me, Ryan. You and I are on completely different wavelengths. “
“Now, Jen don’t do anything irrational”
“See, this is exactly what I mean. I call it a wake up call. It’s not your fault Ryan. We all take the next step because society, parents and even damned films tell us to. You thought I was just this perfectly well adjusted and conformed human being. That’s what everyone expects.”
“Is that so much to ask?”
“That’s not me Ryan. I want more out of this life. I want magic and I want to share it with someone who gets me. Someone who may not always understand but never hesitates to give me another try. And I am prepared to wait.”
“You are going to regret this Jen. You probably won’t find anyone as patient and tolerant and one that loves you.” Ryan said holding out to her.
“That’s just it Ryan, I am at the end of the day the object of your affection. But love should not be effort.” Jen kissed him on the cheek and then pulled away.
“ Isn’t it about time we be honest with ourselves?”
The End
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
My new guitar
I took this picture in the RV- wow seems like a long time ago! This is my new Epiphone Guitar, plays like a beauty and I just fell in love with it...New Orleans gift to me.
Chile Miners Rescuer
Working late shifts and my pattern of sleep is completely deranged, however just tuned in to BBC and watching the medic go down the narrow shaft to reach the trapped Chilean miners. I can't imagine the claustrophobic feeling inside that capsule under extreme heat, but he is certainly one brave medic. He will be very experienced of course but still it must require guts!
On the ships we had training to reach trapped or injured crew members in the water tanks which was nerve wrecking enough and required a lot of organisation and team effort. So I can only have a sense of what what is going on. To be all those meters under the surface...
It is quite emotive watching the local miners and family members and even the Chilean President cheering them along and singing their national anthem. I believe there is a twenty minute wait.
To everyone in Camp Hope, my prayers and best wishes, hope all goes well.
On the ships we had training to reach trapped or injured crew members in the water tanks which was nerve wrecking enough and required a lot of organisation and team effort. So I can only have a sense of what what is going on. To be all those meters under the surface...
It is quite emotive watching the local miners and family members and even the Chilean President cheering them along and singing their national anthem. I believe there is a twenty minute wait.
To everyone in Camp Hope, my prayers and best wishes, hope all goes well.
Monday, October 04, 2010
The Literature of the South
There is something about the literature of the South which has long fascinated me. I read Margaret Mitchell's masterpiece when I was fourteen and fell in love with it, but have since discovered writers such as Pat Conroy, author of Prince of Tides, The Great Santini, The Water is Wide, Beach Music amongst others. I am currently reading South Of Broad, his latest work as a matter of fact. His descriptions of the Carolinas and his beloved Charleston as tickled my imagination for a long time.
I have since decided to spend my next big holiday in North and South Carolina. I have always wanted to visit the Outer Banks and Cape Hatteras. This time I will not be spending a lot of time in the cities but hopefully visiting a few more National Parks, the coastline and the Smokey Mountains. I am also wanting to sample some of the famous Southern Cuisine. I admit it, I have seen the Food Network channel on Sky ! I can make a mean blueberry pie, that's about it.
Here are a few links worth a visit :
There are many authors out there whose work I greatly admire. And some not at all from the South and some not even American. Hopefully it won't be too long till I dedicate a post to one my favourite writers of postmodernism, the genius Paul Auster. But since this is a post about the Literature of the South I will not digress now as I often do. Sorry about that !
The lyricism of the prose poetry of Pat Conroy 's writings and his acute intimate portrayal of human relationships have made me a loyal fan of his work. I do not want to finish South of Broad, as I do not want it to end. Always the sign of a great book and a gifted writer. So here is a toast to you Mr. Pat Conroy and many happy years of writing and thrilling your fans.
Note: Do you know any good Southern writers you would recommend? Let me know.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
The South, USA Roadtrip 2010
I recently travelled to the South. The American South that is. I had saved money for a few months, took two weeks off and rented a 30 feet RV on arrival in Atlanta. I did it last year about the same time and thoroughly enjoyed it, especially crossing Nevada, Utah and Arizona. The grandeur of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon left me wanting more. The vast open spaces, the stunning natural beauty and the freedom to plan my next move all was too tempting.
This year I decided to follow an alternative route. I have always loved music and recently picked up the guitar once again. So it made sense to follow the musical roots of blues and rock and roll. I have already posted some photos in the last few days but just thought I would give you some background.
We did not get into Nashville until midnight the first night so the following day we chose to gently stroll in Nashville downtown and stopped at a local restaurant ordering lunch at 11am not realising we had gained an hour. I think after a long haul flight, and the extreme of temperatures all we wanted to do was rest.
We headed west to Memphis the next day. The KOA campground however although saying Memphis, Tennessee was actually in Arkansas. It was miles from downtown Memphis and they weren't particularly friendly so we decided to stay in that first night in the RV, make our own barbie and move out in the morning. The free wifi though helped me find this random campground called "Mississippi RV Park" which although had poor ratings for amenities on the internet was only a 5 minute drive from downtown. We risked it and although it did seem a like an abandoned RV lot next to the railway and the interstate it had its picturesque charm. Perhaps it was the large Neon sign and the old RV model hanging a few hundred feet in the air as advertisement... The owner a French lady in her 70s was not present at the time as she was visiting her daughter having chemotherapy a couple of hundred miles away. A local and also RVer at the site, had just woken up at 3pm when we got there and was walking Papillon, the landlady's dog. She was kind to let us know to park anywhere we liked and gave us the local taxi cab number. It was all very surreal but still it felt safe and the proximity to town was a bonus.
We headed to Beale Street to enjoy some of the atmosphere, visit some bars and blues gigs. We randomly walked into the souvenir shops and even tried some of their world famous ribs. (I don't usually eat them). And as there is always an Irish bar in every city, we ended up listening to live music and sipping some cocktails. I wanted to buy a guitar but the Gibson Factory was already closed for the night so we just admired it from the other side of the window. It was a good evening and I was glad to move RV sites.
We did meet the owner in the end. She was quite a character and invited us in to her house to see some of her heirlooms. She was a delight. I was mesmerised with the way she went from a very French thick accent to a broad Southern one. It worried me when she told us it would take 10 hours to drive down to New Orleans if we went slowly so we left pretty quickly after that. I was only counting on 6 hour drive and perhaps another hour or so for stops.
We left a few minutes after 10 am and arrived at 6 pm after a few stops in Mississippi along the way. Thankfully not the 10 hour drive time predicted. I drove the last 150 miles and the best part of the journey was joining the causeways taking you into New Orleans along miles and miles of swamps and boat houses. Simply beautiful.
Sadly I had some bad shrimp in my first night in New Orleans and had to move to a hotel for 3 days, so I didn't get to experience all that I wanted to. Bourbon Street and the French Quarter were very much like I had imagined. But I never got to go on the evening dinner cruise on a steamboat, or the tours that travelled New Orleans and the neighbouring swamps. I never got to visit the voodoo houses, the cemeteries or try out the Cajun and Creole cuisine which are part of this city's soul.
I did however buy a beautiful acoustic guitar on my last day there, determined to make good of the situation. The bad deep fried shrimp could have happened anywhere in the world. I did feel very poorly at the time but it has not deterred my intent to go back to New Orleans in the future. Everyone we met was friendly, polite, open and warm. A taxi driver even came back to the Westin, where he had dropped us off, after I had left my mobile phone in his car. He was quite a character and spoke openly about his life, his girlfriend and his faith and of course the effects of Katrina on the city. It is a city like no other in the States that I have so far visited.
Inevitably we had to change plans. And although I lost some of the campground reservations, that's the beauty of travelling in an RV in a quiet time of the year, you can do whatever you like. Originally I had hoped to travel from New Orleans via Tallahassee into St. Augustine and then head up to Savannah and Charleston. Not meant to be this time around, however the unexpected beauty of the Florida Panhandle and the beaches of the gulf of Mexico really made my second week of travel.
We arrived just before sunset and drove along Pensacola Beach to Navarre along the Santa Rosa Sound. The sugary white beaches, the way the sun lit up the evening tide and the quiet miles of turquoise water on both sides of the road were breathtaking. This is probably Florida's best kept secret. And not a drop of oil. Believe me I swam twice. Apparently this is where they had filmed Jaw 2.
I was really excited we had decided to stay in Navarre for two nights. The campground was impeccable and it had its own pier, which under the moonlight was simply magical. The gentle waves, the lights in the distance but otherwise silence.
Carabelle had its own charm as well and in fact the campground was right across the road from the beach. I could not help taking lots of photos and swimming once again in the warm waters. It was lovely to just sit outside facing the beach, although we did succumb to plenty of mosquito bites despite the Deet pouring out from our clothes and arms and legs alike.
The last long stretch of road was between Carabelle to Forsyth. The most direct route was also slowest but it made sense to take our time and it was spectacular to see the multiple cotton fields and plantations.
We had decided to stay in Forsyth for the night as it was only 60 miles south of Atlanta which meant it would a quick journey up the road the following morning to return the RV. We arrived at the KOA around 6pm and they were the warmest people to greet me on arrival actually. I just loved the Georgia accent!
On our last morning it came as a bit of a surprise that we were only 8 miles west of Juliette where "Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe" had been filmed apparently. So we headed up a bit early and decided to try Georgia's speciality of Fried Green Tomatoes. The cafe was just like the one in the movie, and I think I was a bit star struck actually. Except for the extreme loud noise of the train going past whistling at the exact moment we had parked and walked up to the cafe. It was quite deafening! I am a huge movie buff so I had to visit the local gift shop and get some film memorabilia. One of the owners came up to me and talked me through some of the cast photos and stories. It was a great way to spend my morning before heading back to Cruise America, the RV rental shop. I made a mental note of visiting the Tara Museum of "Gone with the Wind"next time I am in Atlanta as well as Margaret Mitchell's house.
My last day in Atlanta was spent mostly in the Georgia's Aquarium which was probably the most relaxing way to spend an afternoon before the long haul flight back to Heathrow. I wish I had stayed longer. I feel like I had one week of holiday instead of two, but at least I made the most of it and came back a few pounds lighter and rejuvenated.
Note : Friends ask me why the States, why the RV? I have but a simple answer. Wherever I have been in the States I am mostly greeted with friendliness and warmth. Travel should be an escape from the mundane, and the wide open spaces present a world of possibilities. Of course it is nice to stay in fancy hotels which I did do in New Orleans and Atlanta. But I felt the most relaxed just helping prepare the barbie outside the camper under the stars or by the side of the Ocean. And hopefully I will do it again soon.
Travel Dates:
9th Sept Atlanta, Georgia
10-11th Nashville, Tennessee
12-13th Memphis, Tennessee ( although stayed one night in Arkansas)
14-18th New Orleans, Louisiana
19-20th Navarre Beach, Florida, Gulf Of Mexico
21st Carabelle, Florida, Gulf of Mexico
22nd Forsyth, Georgia
23rd Atlanta, Georgia
This year I decided to follow an alternative route. I have always loved music and recently picked up the guitar once again. So it made sense to follow the musical roots of blues and rock and roll. I have already posted some photos in the last few days but just thought I would give you some background.
We did not get into Nashville until midnight the first night so the following day we chose to gently stroll in Nashville downtown and stopped at a local restaurant ordering lunch at 11am not realising we had gained an hour. I think after a long haul flight, and the extreme of temperatures all we wanted to do was rest.
We headed west to Memphis the next day. The KOA campground however although saying Memphis, Tennessee was actually in Arkansas. It was miles from downtown Memphis and they weren't particularly friendly so we decided to stay in that first night in the RV, make our own barbie and move out in the morning. The free wifi though helped me find this random campground called "Mississippi RV Park" which although had poor ratings for amenities on the internet was only a 5 minute drive from downtown. We risked it and although it did seem a like an abandoned RV lot next to the railway and the interstate it had its picturesque charm. Perhaps it was the large Neon sign and the old RV model hanging a few hundred feet in the air as advertisement... The owner a French lady in her 70s was not present at the time as she was visiting her daughter having chemotherapy a couple of hundred miles away. A local and also RVer at the site, had just woken up at 3pm when we got there and was walking Papillon, the landlady's dog. She was kind to let us know to park anywhere we liked and gave us the local taxi cab number. It was all very surreal but still it felt safe and the proximity to town was a bonus.
We headed to Beale Street to enjoy some of the atmosphere, visit some bars and blues gigs. We randomly walked into the souvenir shops and even tried some of their world famous ribs. (I don't usually eat them). And as there is always an Irish bar in every city, we ended up listening to live music and sipping some cocktails. I wanted to buy a guitar but the Gibson Factory was already closed for the night so we just admired it from the other side of the window. It was a good evening and I was glad to move RV sites.
We did meet the owner in the end. She was quite a character and invited us in to her house to see some of her heirlooms. She was a delight. I was mesmerised with the way she went from a very French thick accent to a broad Southern one. It worried me when she told us it would take 10 hours to drive down to New Orleans if we went slowly so we left pretty quickly after that. I was only counting on 6 hour drive and perhaps another hour or so for stops.
We left a few minutes after 10 am and arrived at 6 pm after a few stops in Mississippi along the way. Thankfully not the 10 hour drive time predicted. I drove the last 150 miles and the best part of the journey was joining the causeways taking you into New Orleans along miles and miles of swamps and boat houses. Simply beautiful.
Sadly I had some bad shrimp in my first night in New Orleans and had to move to a hotel for 3 days, so I didn't get to experience all that I wanted to. Bourbon Street and the French Quarter were very much like I had imagined. But I never got to go on the evening dinner cruise on a steamboat, or the tours that travelled New Orleans and the neighbouring swamps. I never got to visit the voodoo houses, the cemeteries or try out the Cajun and Creole cuisine which are part of this city's soul.
I did however buy a beautiful acoustic guitar on my last day there, determined to make good of the situation. The bad deep fried shrimp could have happened anywhere in the world. I did feel very poorly at the time but it has not deterred my intent to go back to New Orleans in the future. Everyone we met was friendly, polite, open and warm. A taxi driver even came back to the Westin, where he had dropped us off, after I had left my mobile phone in his car. He was quite a character and spoke openly about his life, his girlfriend and his faith and of course the effects of Katrina on the city. It is a city like no other in the States that I have so far visited.
Inevitably we had to change plans. And although I lost some of the campground reservations, that's the beauty of travelling in an RV in a quiet time of the year, you can do whatever you like. Originally I had hoped to travel from New Orleans via Tallahassee into St. Augustine and then head up to Savannah and Charleston. Not meant to be this time around, however the unexpected beauty of the Florida Panhandle and the beaches of the gulf of Mexico really made my second week of travel.
We arrived just before sunset and drove along Pensacola Beach to Navarre along the Santa Rosa Sound. The sugary white beaches, the way the sun lit up the evening tide and the quiet miles of turquoise water on both sides of the road were breathtaking. This is probably Florida's best kept secret. And not a drop of oil. Believe me I swam twice. Apparently this is where they had filmed Jaw 2.
I was really excited we had decided to stay in Navarre for two nights. The campground was impeccable and it had its own pier, which under the moonlight was simply magical. The gentle waves, the lights in the distance but otherwise silence.
Carabelle had its own charm as well and in fact the campground was right across the road from the beach. I could not help taking lots of photos and swimming once again in the warm waters. It was lovely to just sit outside facing the beach, although we did succumb to plenty of mosquito bites despite the Deet pouring out from our clothes and arms and legs alike.
The last long stretch of road was between Carabelle to Forsyth. The most direct route was also slowest but it made sense to take our time and it was spectacular to see the multiple cotton fields and plantations.
We had decided to stay in Forsyth for the night as it was only 60 miles south of Atlanta which meant it would a quick journey up the road the following morning to return the RV. We arrived at the KOA around 6pm and they were the warmest people to greet me on arrival actually. I just loved the Georgia accent!
On our last morning it came as a bit of a surprise that we were only 8 miles west of Juliette where "Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe" had been filmed apparently. So we headed up a bit early and decided to try Georgia's speciality of Fried Green Tomatoes. The cafe was just like the one in the movie, and I think I was a bit star struck actually. Except for the extreme loud noise of the train going past whistling at the exact moment we had parked and walked up to the cafe. It was quite deafening! I am a huge movie buff so I had to visit the local gift shop and get some film memorabilia. One of the owners came up to me and talked me through some of the cast photos and stories. It was a great way to spend my morning before heading back to Cruise America, the RV rental shop. I made a mental note of visiting the Tara Museum of "Gone with the Wind"next time I am in Atlanta as well as Margaret Mitchell's house.
My last day in Atlanta was spent mostly in the Georgia's Aquarium which was probably the most relaxing way to spend an afternoon before the long haul flight back to Heathrow. I wish I had stayed longer. I feel like I had one week of holiday instead of two, but at least I made the most of it and came back a few pounds lighter and rejuvenated.
Note : Friends ask me why the States, why the RV? I have but a simple answer. Wherever I have been in the States I am mostly greeted with friendliness and warmth. Travel should be an escape from the mundane, and the wide open spaces present a world of possibilities. Of course it is nice to stay in fancy hotels which I did do in New Orleans and Atlanta. But I felt the most relaxed just helping prepare the barbie outside the camper under the stars or by the side of the Ocean. And hopefully I will do it again soon.
Travel Dates:
9th Sept Atlanta, Georgia
10-11th Nashville, Tennessee
12-13th Memphis, Tennessee ( although stayed one night in Arkansas)
14-18th New Orleans, Louisiana
19-20th Navarre Beach, Florida, Gulf Of Mexico
21st Carabelle, Florida, Gulf of Mexico
22nd Forsyth, Georgia
23rd Atlanta, Georgia
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