Moving statues: from Ballinspittle to Budapest

Quare things have been known to happen in Ireland, especially on the long walk home from the pub after a feed of pints and extra vinegar on yer chips. The year 1985 will probably stand out as one of the strangest of all. In Ballinspittle, Co. Cork, a statue of Our Lady in a grotto, moved. And in moving drew crowds from around the country who came in their droves to witness the miracle. And she wasn’t the only one moving, or weeping, or bleeding. Over 30 cases were reported in the summer of 1985, all, interestingly, from Ireland. None from Northern Island.

Author Colm Tóbin, in an essay for RTÉ puts it down to 1980s Ireland – a time when people needed so desperately to believe in something.  I wonder if that time is coming around again.

Those of you with an interest in Our Lady, will know, of course, that she appeared in Knock, Co. Mayo, back in 1879, she appeared alongside St Joseph and St John. Crowds still flock there to pay pilgrimmage and I have memories of attending the annual Pilgrimmage of the Garda Siochana (the Irish police force) as a child. I was back once as an adult when my mate DW had a vision – but that’s another blog.

IMG_0927 (599x800)There have also been myriad stories of faces of Jesus and others appearing in stones, tree trunks, and even in hotel windows. One of the most credible I’ve seen has to be the Jesus tree in Malta. I’ve even had a shadow of my own, when I was in Bangalore back in 2008.

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But back to moving statues… how many of you living here in Budapest have had Bajcsy Zsilinszky turn on his perch and follow you as you pass by? Now there’s a statue that really and truly moves!

What was wrong with the original?

It’s been more than a year now, and I still can’t get it right. And I’m not a stupid woman. I actually credit myself with a modicum of intelligence. So why, oh why, can’t I get the new responses into my head?

Up until November 2011 (for practically my entire adult life to date, give or take a year or so), whenever anyone said ‘The Lord be with you’, my rote response was ‘And also with you’. In Hungary, this isn’t a problem. I don’t go to mass in English, so for one hour on a Sunday evening, I’ve very little to say for myself. Surprise, surprise, I hear some of you think. But when I’m in Ireland, I go to mass, in English. And it’s so annoying not to know the words after all the years I’ve invested in Roman Catholicism.

massAs I miss my cue, speak out of turn, and say the wrong words, I can feel the eyes turning towards me, wondering how long it’s been since my last confession. Troubled by this, I finally took the time to see why the words were changed in the first place, when what has been embedded in our collective Catholic memory seemed to be working just fine.

vatican2_500_363_242I’m too young to remember Vatican II  when the Roman Catholic church moved from the Latin mass to the spoken language of each parish.  Apparently though, the English translation strayed a little too far from the original and ten years ago, Pope John Paul II ordered revisions to better synchronise the two versions. It took a while, but now they’re in and accepted.

Interestingly, whenever I went to mass in a foreign language, the Confiteor included the three-time beating of the breast in the traditional Latin fashion of mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa and this was missing from the pre-November 2011 English version. But it’s there now…and sounds most peculiar as ‘through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievious fault‘.

It’s odd to think that the English version of the liturgy was the one out of step with the masses (ahem) for all this time. It doesn’t make much difference to me, though. I’ve missed the learning period and don’t go often enough in English to reprogramme my brain. Perhaps this is a symptom of a greater issue – I’m still reeling at the Pope’s retirement. I didn’t think that was allowed…

2013 Grateful 45

I met a lovely man yesterday. A dote of a chap. He could have come straight off the set of Finian’s Rainbow were it still 1968. Or he could double for Mickey Rooney, were he still alive. DH, a man of indeterminate age, says openly that he has a lot of mileage on the clock, but no one is quite sure where the odometer is at.

As we enjoyed a cup of coffee, the conversation was peppered with amusing sayings and colourful descriptions. Commenting on the youth of today and the fact that he’d survived heart surgery and outlived most of his siblings, he spoke of the ould dog for the long road, and the young pup for the path. He talked of times gone by, when he’d been famous enough for his partying and commented somewhat soberly that it wasn’t a big job to fill him now. He told me that he goes dancing every weekend – and still enjoys it – despite the fact that no one else in the family would dance culm.

I’ve sat through many a similar conversation and thought I’d had a handle on all such Irishisms, but this was a new one on me. Apparently, back in the day, poverty drove people to mix waste coal slack (culm) with other material (i.e. dance the culm) so that they could burn it.

Recounting this conversation later that afternoon, more village stories came to light. A man with a hump on his back went into the hardware shop to buy something or other. He thought the price very expensive and when he said as much, the shopkeeper said that the cost of everything had gone up since the war. After some idle chitchat, the shopkeeper asked him what had happened to his back – particularly where the hump come from as he hadn’t been born that way. Ah, says he, sure it’s just me arse – it’s gone up since the war!

black puddingThe same shopkeeper would display his wares on the street outside the shop and had a good range of chamber pots for sale. The publican across the road thought he’d get one over on him and offered a local lad a free pint if he’d run a message for him. He gave him half a black pudding and a bottle of ale and told him to go across the road and pour the ale into one of the chamber pots – and then to drop in the pudding. The lad duly obliged. Free pints in those days never came as easy. When 6pm came, word had travelled and a crowd had gathered in the pub,  glued to the windows, waiting for the shopkeeper to come out and collect his pots. This was back when people made their own entertainment.

This week (which has been a good week all round) I’m grateful for the Irish in me. I’m grateful for the wit that has been handed down through the ages and keeps the country alive and interesting. And I’m grateful that there are still ould lads out there who can hold their own in conversation.

Note: For a reminder of what the Grateful series is about, check out Grateful 52

Words, in their many manifestations

Defining times

Did anyone else notice the classified that ran in last week’s Budapest Times, the one entitled ‘Looking for?’ Or am I the only one, apart from the editors, who reads the paper, cover to cover, ads and all? In it, a person (gender not given) currently living in Germany (nationality not stated) is looking for someone (again, gender preference not noted) who is over 45 and wants to share a future, to travel around Europe (I wonder what’s wrong with the rest of the world and if it’s off limits for a reason) and see the world (oh, no, it’s just that the world in this instance is limited to Europe).

Ask and you shall receive

As I’m a firm believer in putting the ask out there, in challenging the universe to deliver, I commend this person for being so bold and for taking that step forward. I sincerely hope it works out and that they get the answer they’re looking for, in whatever form or fashion it takes.

What got me thinking though was the sentence ‘My financial relations are very good; so I have no economic sorrows’. It isn’t strange how we define ourselves, and even stranger how we define others. That this would be the one thing the writer thought important to highlight says so much about their perceived notion of the world and what they believe potential applicants might expect. I can’t quite imagine ever introducing myself as such: Hello, my name is Mary. I’m financially solvent.

The gift of the gab

Some of you might know that I front the speech slam Gift of the Gab [shameless plug: final is Thursday, 14th March, at New Orleans on Lovag utca]. Each month, five contestants all give a five-minute prepared speech on a topic of their choice followed by a three-minute impromptu on a topic chosen by the audience. My job is to keep the audience engaged as the judges, randomly chosen, decide their scores.

Ideally, my blathering will in some way connect to what the speaker has just spoken about – and as I’ve just heard the speech for the first time, too, it involves some quick thinking to come up with a relevant yarn. For the most part, my stories all have a kernel of truth which I embellish with the intention of amusing those who have come to support the cause.

The 100 or so people in the room know me by name; some of them I know to varying degrees, some I don’t know at all. But each of them forms an opinion of me, based on what I say. I’ve had people sympathise with me about my weight; commiserate with me about my single status; and offer hugs when I’ve spoken about being an emotional wreck. It would seem that everything I say is taken literally – and, truth be told, that’s no one’s fault but my own. What I say, the stories I tell, define me. For those listening I become that person. Nietzsche is on record as saying that ‘All things are subject to interpretation. Whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.’ Perhaps he has something there.

A life without issue

Some weeks ago, I noticed a spate of headlines that confounded me: grandfather describes crash that killed boy riding tricycle; NYC mother killed in Turkey; father of four found guilty of assault. That these subjects were defined by their children got me thinking. Does being a grandfather make you a better witness? Does being an NYC mother make your death more awful? Does being the father of four kids make you prone to assault? Where’s the connection here?

Were I to do something newsworthy, I wonder what the headline would read? Perhaps ‘Childless woman’s mint sauce recipe makes millions.’ I doubt it.

words-1Who are we, really?

I have spent the greater part of my life being my parents’ daughter, my brother’s sister, so-and-so’s girlfriend, or someone else’s friend. My character has been compartmentalised with similar abandon – you know Mary… she talks a lot, she’s not at all backward about coming forward, she’s very particular about her punctuation. It seems as if we’re all destined to have such strap lines attached to us, strap lines which depend in large part on other people’s perceptions of what we do.

Who? Her? She’s a drinker. She plays around. She’s got no sense of humour. Who? Him? He’s neurotic. He’s needy. He’s mad in the head. We throw out these one-liners, which are, in effect, a knee-jerk reaction to some part of the person we’ve seen; rarely the whole person, just some part that we’ve been exposed to. We react viscerally to something in them that strikes a chord in us. And, as Jung so rightly pointed out, ‘Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.’

I know. I’ve found myself doing it lately when asked if I know someone… I can’t just stop at a simple yes. I have to qualify it by offering my tuppence ha’penny worth of insight into their character. It’s a dangerous practice, though, because it’s nothing more than my opinion – and sometimes, opinions are best kept to ourselves.

First published in the Budapest Times 22 February 2013

The loneliness of loneliness

friends 2I’ve spent the last three hours crying my eyes out. All because of a five-minute telephone conversation. San Francisco to Budapest. My best friend’s husband and me. This time last year, Lori was to be in Budapest – between trips to Prague and Subotica. Two days before she was due to travel, she had some tests. The doctors suggested that she waited on the results before she travelled and six weeks later, she was dead.

I have some of her ashes sitting in an urn on my kitchen table. On March 28th, I will take them to Prague and the next day, on the first anniversary of her death, I will scatter them from the Charles Bridge. She always wanted to go to Prague. Typical American – her terminology, not mine.

My friends in Ireland met her. They know her smile, her irreverence, her attitude to life. My friends in Budapest never got to meet her. They never met the woman who has had such a profound influence on my life. It’s not their fault. It couldn’t be helped. The plan was there.

But although I know I’m surrounded by good mates who mean me well; although I know there are many who would talk me through the night; although I know I have as good a friend in one or two in this city, I still feel so horrendously alone because no one here knew her.

friendsI spoke tonight to her husband. I know what this month will entail for him, and yet in a strange way I’m envious. He gets to grieve with those who knew Lori, with those who loved her, too. It won’t make it easier, or better, or happier. It won’t take from the fact that a woman in her prime, with so much to offer, was taken from this life too early. But at least he’s not alone. For that I’m thankful.

For me – I need to get on with living. And to accept the fact that I chose to live away from home. I’ve made my bed, and if, at times, it’s uncomfortable and lonely, I’ve made that choice and I need to learn to live with it.

To all those who have lost a loved one and have to grieve alone – my sympathy. To those in BP who might see me dissolve in tears in the course of the next month or so, take heed. Ignore me. In the words of Gloria Gaynor – I will survive.

To my mate Lori – I so wish you’d made it to Budapest and had met the friends I’ve made. You’d have liked them  … well most of them, anyway! Be at peace my friend – watch over me and mind my way.

Severed tongues and ghettos

I’ve been dreaming a lot more than usual lately. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I’ve been sleeping a lot more than usual lately, too. I have a bug and have had it for about 10 days now. It comes and goes and my voice comes and goes with it. So I’ve taken to my bed as often as I can and stayed in it for as long as possible. More sleep, more dreams. Hardly surprising.

Yet two dreams in particular stand out. And they’re topical enough for me to comment on them and to invite your interpretation.

In one, all the Jews and Roma in the city of Budapest were moving en masse into the VIIIth district. Streets leading into the district were being closed off with ornate Transylvanian gates. Those living here will know that the VIIIth is often referred to as the ghetto and that in and of itself is nothing new. In my dream, I was running around trying to convince people NOT to move. And not because I live in the VIIIth and didn’t want to be locked in – that wasn’t an issue. My argument was that they shouldn’t be locking themselves in but rather locking their accusers out. I’m still not sure I see a difference but in my dream there was one – quite a definite one.

IMG_5221 (800x600)The answers I received to my series of whys – why are you moving, why all together, why now – were the same. ‘We need to stand together and face our oppressors as a united group.’ I thought it a little too much like easy pickings – I thought of how easy it is to eradicate a problem or issue when it’s contained. When I tried to argue more, pointing to the ghettos of yore and what happened back in the 1940s, I was told repeatedly that a) I was not Hungarian; b) I was not Jewish; and c) I was not Roma so therefore I simply couldn’t understand. This still troubles me.

It could be a reflection of a conversation I had some months ago with a 30-something-year-old professional in which they asked how long I intended to stay in Budapest. I said it depended on who won the next election. They asked why. I said that I didn’t want to live in a society that elected politicians who talked of putting Jews on registers because they posed a threat to national security; I didn’t want to live in a country that seemed so openly anti-Roma in its policy (and I’m still smarting from the Azerbaijan fiasco). They couldn’t see my point. ‘Why should it bother you?’ they asked. After all, ‘you’re not Hungarian, not Jewish, not Roma – so why should it bother you who is in government? But that was a couple of months ago….

In a second dream this week, I was taking care of two children aged about 8 and 10, boy and girl. They weren’t my kids. I don’t know how I ended up minding them or who they belonged to. We seemed to be living out of the back of a truck which was nothing out of the ordinary as in my dream, buildings were all commercial and static and living accommodation transient.Life was trundling along just fine (surprising in itself!). Then both of them decided, for no apparent reason, to cut off their tongues. Which they did. No tears, no blood, no histrionics. They came to me smiling and handed over their severed tongues, each of which had two overlapping layers. I freaked on the inside but stayed calm on the outside. I found some ice, boxed up the bits, and called the ambulance, managing all this in Hungarian (aren’t dreams great!). My biggest problem was that I forgot to label the bits and couldn’t tell which tongue belonged to which child. It was this and not the cutting of tongues that was causing my angst.

I’m left wondering whether these two dreams are related – whether there is something I don’t want to say or have said – whether I am more concerned than I think about the state of the nation… Perhaps I just need less sleep.

Any thoughts?

2013 Grateful 46

‘I am a citizen, not of Athens or Greece, but of the world’ – Socrates

I get to cross yet another ‘thing to do in Budapest’ off my list this week – attend a citizenship ceremony.  My good friend, who shall from now on be known as MGJ, took the oath and is now officially a Hungarian citizen. Along with eight others, (one Austrian, one Szerb, and six Romanians/Transylvanians), and presided over by the district Mayor, MGJ was given the keys to EU kingdom with Hungary as a portal.

It reminded me of the day I became a card-carrying American. There were 80 or so in the room and, to my shame, I was the only one doing it to get out of the country rather than to stay there! I had won a Green Card in a lottery some five years before, under the terms of which I couldn’t leave the States for longer than 364 days at a time. And this bothered me. Not that I had anywhere to go for longer than 364 days, but that I simply wasn’t allowed to.

Once I’d clarified that I would NOT have to give up my Irish citizenship, I decided to take the plunge. There are very fews times in my life that I look back on with shame. I’ve long since realised that the key to an easy conscience is not to screw up in the first place, so I have few regrets. But this ranks up there.

US flagIt’s not that I’m ashamed to have a US passport – far from it. Uncle Sam and his family have been extremely good to me; I have second homes in many states where I know I will always be welcome. I enjoy the country, its accents, its idiosyncracies.  I even like country music, jalepeno poppers, and digging for clams on the Kenai. On my list of things to do before I die (which I intend crossing off this summer) is to sip a mint julep while a swingin’ on a porch in the South. I also want to stick my feet in  the Rio Grande and go to a real, live, rodeo. But those might have to wait.

Back to my swearing-in. An old Korean woman in her 90s with what seemed like a string of 90 relatives cried with happiness when she took the oath. Some young Asian families announced their new easier-to-pronounce American names with pride. Everyone but me had an army of well wishers; and everyone but me saw this as the opportunity of a lifetime.

citizenshipI can’t change the fact that, at the time, it didn’t matter to me.  As I watched it all from the fringes of fervour, I mentally chastised myself for treating such an important occasion with what bordered on disdain. What had come so easily to me, others had had to work hard for. What I was treating as yet another piece of identification, others saw as the Holy Grail. I was ashamed of the fact that I had failed to recognise the true meaning of taking another country as one’s own. Although I was there, in body, I missed out on the whole ‘welcome to the brave new world’ experience – and looked on those celebrating with some degree of pity. How arrogant of me. In my smug Irishness, I failed to recognise that not everyone has had it as good as I have had it. Not every country has made its people proud enough for them to want to remain citizens.  And not everyone has had the same chances, opportunities, and good fortune.

I was humbled then and I am humbled now. Citizenship is a big deal, bigger for some than for others, admittedly. But it’s not something to be taken for granted or treated lightly. I’m glad that I was there to see MGJ take that step.

At the end of what’s been a good week for me, I’m grateful that I’ve been reminded not to take for granted those things that make me proud to be Irish. I’m grateful, too, that I’ve been reminded of all I’ve gained since Uncle Sam gave me the key to his front door. To my American friends – at home and abroad – ta much for the experience. And to my Irish friends for keeping me grounded – go raibh mile maith agaibh.

Note: For a reminder of what the Grateful series is about, check out Grateful 52

The secret weapon of stalkers

Staggering. Who ever would have believed it. I’ve just read that women – yes, women – purchase 85% of all Valentine cards. Back in the day when I was thrown out of class for trying to read a Valentine’s card under my desk, it was the boys who bought the cards…for the most part. And, back in the day, the cards were unsigned. So what’s happened between now and then?

Let’s go back to the 1840s, when the mother of Valentines, Esther Howland, began to mass produce cards made from scrap in America. Think kindergarten – card, glue, ribbon, lace, coloured pictures – and you get the idea. A sweet idea for a time when sweetness was in vogue and women and ribbons and lace all went together in one nice pretty sentence. Old Esther did well for herself and probably never in her wildest dreams imagined that not two centuries later, 1 billion cards would be sent each year in the States on and around the 14th of February.

anonymous valentineDo people in this part of the world even send anonymous Valentines any more, I wonder, as I sit and think about who amongst my male acquaintances even has my mailing address and knows what the inside of a post office looks like. Is splashing out hard-earned dollars, forint, euro or pounds on a bouquet of flowers and having it delivered without a name considered a poor return on investment? The thought of some other unsuspecting bloke getting the credit must be galling and a huge turn-off when it comes to weighing up the price of anonymity. Or would sending something unsigned now amount to stalking? But back in the day, that was half the fun – figuring out who the card or the flowers might be from.

The most imaginative Valentine’s gift I ever received was a real buffalo heart … still warm but not quite beating. The most considerate was when I worked between two offices – one in the morning, the other in the afternoon – and received flowers at both of them…from the same chap. The cynic in me now gags at the amount of money wasted on this one day, while the romantic in me says that every day in love is a day for thoughtful gestures. The child in me though, is secretly hoping that when I open my mailbox this morning, I’ll see an envelope and when I open the envelope, there’ll be a card… unsigned. Imagine, my very own twenty-first-century stalker!




The difference that daylight makes

IMG_2360 (600x800)There was a time when Szimpla Kert was my last port of call on a night out. When I first arrived in Budapest, it fascinated me with its nooks and crannies, its clever (re)use of junk and other people’s cast-offs, and its eclectic mix of people. But that was years ago. Before it made the guide books. Or before I realised that it had made the guide books. So now it’s somewhere I bring visitors for a look-see. to show them what a classic ruin pub looks like and to show them a side of Budapest that many don’t get to see during their weekend-stay in the city.

IMG_2377 (600x800)In  addition to being  a late-night hangout, Szimpla has now added a Sunday morning market to its repertoire. And seeing the place in daylight is quite an experience. Room after room is furnished with bits and pieces from everywhere and anywhere. Graffiti passes for decor and the whole place has a sense of old-style destitution that once laid claim to regality. I’ve heard tell of those who can spend hours in front of  a painting in a museum and still not see everything it has to show – I feel a little bit like this about Szimpla. I thought I knew the place inside out but each time I turned my head, I saw something different.

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IMG_2390 (800x600)Vintage toys seem to litter the place but on closer inspection appear more strategically placed. For all is mismatchedness, everything seems to fit and have its place. Perhaps that’s a reflection of Hungarian society in general  – or simply the way it is in Szimpla. Perhaps its beauty lies in the depth of its shallowness and nothing more.

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IMG_2380 (800x600)I was there a few months back with an Australian mate who had dropped in for a few days en route to Ireland. We sat upstairs and through the window watched old black-and-white silent movies from way back when  – fashion shows of days gone by. This Sunday, the silent movies were replaced with cheese and sprouts and jams and jellies and all sorts of homemade goodness.

IMG_2368 (800x600)I’ve been converted to sprouts and have them now for breakfast, dinner, and tea. Who’d have thought that Szimpla could have wrought such a change in my diet? It just goes to show that surprises lurk in the strangest corners. I’m still working on the cheese thing though. IMG_2367 (600x800)There’s plenty going on and lots to choose from, so if you’re in the neighbourhood on a Sunday morning and fancy a snoop ’round Szimpla, drop by. You can stock the larder at the same time and indulge in some homemade cakes and pastries on the top floor. Something for everyone really.

And seeing the scene that was the ‘night before’ in broad daylight isn’t the disappointment it usually is. Funny how nothing quite looks the same when the real light of day shines on it.

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2013 Grateful 47

IMG_2399 (600x800)Living away from home, or choosing another country to be at home in, will at some stage beget the question – So, what do you miss most about XYZ?

Family, friends, the neighbour’s dog are all a given. But when it comes to ‘stuff’ – that varies hugely. In my early days in the USA, the black-market currency of choice comprised Tayto crisps and Major cigarettes. These were impossible to find and topped the shopping list of any visitor travelling Stateside to see a friend or relative who had emigrated, permanently or temporarily. Living in the UK, it was red lemonade – impossible to find outside the 26 counties.

Everyone who has lived away from home has had that one thing they miss more than anything else. When I go back to Ireland from Budapest, I have a standing order for winegums,  Cadbury’s mintcrisp chocolate, and Barry’s teabags. Not for me – for my mates. When I go to Malta, my list is shorter – Maltese sea salt and tins of artichokes in water. When visitors come from Ireland, they know to bring some Butler’s chocolates and a copy of Grazia magazine… and if they’re checking a bag, some Hellmann’s light mayonnaise and some Campbell’s condensed chicken soup are most welcome.

But it’s the mayonnaise that tops my list. This particular bottle travelled with me from Ireland, to Hawaii, and then back to Budapest. It has to be the most-travelled mayo out there and came within an ounce of being left out of the suitcase a couple of times, but this time, it won.

That hasn’t always been the case  though – which is why I rarely, if ever, travel with Ryanair any more. In Dublin, one November, my suitcase was tipping the 15kg limit and it was a choice between shoes or my mayo. I tried to slip the mayo into my hand luggage, but security caught me. In Hawaii, I was lugging home a bottle of wine, a present I’d received because of its label – Murphy-Goode. I was down to the wire weight-wise and the choice was between the wine or the mayo. The pragmatic DF wondered how I’d feel if I arrived home to find that the wine was actually horrible… and my trusty mayo was still sitting in her fridge. All I wanted was the bottle, so we drank the wine (or tried to!) … problem solved.

I have tried every brand of mayo on the market and Hellmann’s reigns supreme. I might only use it once a month, but the  comfort of knowing it’s in my fridge if I need it keeps me warm at night.

Mayonnaise was invented in France [1756; Duke de Richelieu’s chef] and popularised by the Americans [1905; the first ready-made mayonnaise was sold at Richard Hellmann’s New York deli; mind you, he’d just arrived from Germany so was hardly American yet]. Interestingly, in 1932 Hellmann’s was bought out by Best Foods. West of the Rockies, it’s sold as Best Foods, and east of the Rockies and in the rest of the world, it’s Hellmann’s. But the manufacturers (Best Foods) say the contents are one and the same. The public disagrees.

Its provenance is still disputed though. Hey, even I was living under the grand illusion (or delusion) that it was Irish to the egg. So, given that it was invented by a French chef and popularised by a German immigrant in the USA, why is it what I miss most about home? I have no idea. And it’s not important. That’s just the way it is.

I do know though, that this week, coming out of a very nasty dose of bronchitis and an intense full-on workshop in Malta, I’m ever so grateful that my mind is finally clear enough to be concerned with such trivialities and that there’s nothing more serious on my agenda right now than a minor obsession with the origins of mayonnaise.

Note: For a reminder of what the Grateful series is about, check out Grateful 52