this could be the last time
or not.
Last time I went to Europe I wore one pair of orthotic shoes, a brace and a crutch. This time, alas, I am packing shoes. No, not alas – it’s great but they do weigh a bit more than no shoes at all.
I’m off to Valencia, land of orange groves, if old school songs are anything to go by. To a digital storytelling conference.
I’m meeting up with an old friend with whom I’ve weathered many a storm and with whom I’ve had many a wonderful trip: Patmos, Naples, Auckland West Coast Beaches, Hatepe, London, Brighton and possibly a few others.
Here he is at Pompeii.
I’m also collecting the last of a sister set: Sharon, Judy, Rosie and finally Margaret.
And I hope to dance some tango, thanks to my wonderful, fabulous, chiropractor David, who after about 10 attempts finally worked on the neck so that it came unstuck. Finally, after 3 weeks I feel sane again.
Phew.
And then I visit some new friends in Buenos Aires. And, just maybe, dance some more.
tremare
My Italian ‘word for the day’ link is ‘tremare’. Apt, since I have just spent a day in Christchurch. After my day in Chch I went north to Waipara where the pinot noir is very fine and the hills very dry and cream coloured.
I stayed in Chch in Colombo Street and walked to the casino where I hoped to find a meal. We walked past broken fences and vacant lots to the almost restored casino.
Christchurch lot
It was sobering being there. It was also sobering walking along streets that undulated, past houses that once were full of life. Everyone I met talked about the earthquake and I was impressed by the good humour that was displayed.
I did not find a meal at the casino as the service was inadequate so I wandered back past rubble to the Himalayas restaurant on Colombo just off the red zone. The service was delightful and the food delicious. Later I heard that the place had gone down in the first earthquake, been revived and gone down again in the second ‘quake. If you are in Chch, go there. It’s a hymn to fortitude.
Another place that warmed the heart was the pop up/start up shops in Cashel near the red zone.
boys, boys, they’re no fun
http://locallytoned.wordpress
E entertained her grandmother and myself (see post for previous ref). She made a pact with me: I would learn Cinderella and then she would demonstrate (again and oh yes please, again) Apple on a Stick. Of course G and I had to reminisce about our school games: marbles, french skipping (also known as elastics), skipping, four square and hopscotch.
Anyway! I looked up Apple on stick and of course there are several versions. E’s went a bit like this:
Apple on a stick
Makes me sick
Makes my heart beat ’2-4-6′
Not because you’re dirty
Not because you’re clean
Not because you kissed a boy
Behind a magazine
Boys, boys they’re no fun
Here comes one with a pickle up his bum
He can dance (?)
He can do the splits
Betcha ya $5
He can’t do this
Close your eyes
and count to ten
If you muck it up
You gotta start again
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
We didn’t muck it up
And now we’re friends
Apologies to E if it’s not quite right.
Cinderella, btw which B also attempted to teach me goes a bit like this: Cinderella, dressed in yella, ate a snake, tastes like cake, now she has a tummy ache. Hmmmm that’s not quite right either but I reckon B or E might have another go at teaching me. Maybe.
Check this for another version. http://www.kidsplaybook.com/?p=569
Oh and check this website. Interesting survey of racism too! http://www.odps.org
E also showed us My mother and you can find versions on the net. E’s goes ‘girls have a shower to get more power.’ I like it.
I intended my next post to be about the nature of narcissists and sociopaths on the ‘net but this is much more fun.
almost annual event
E's summer pud
And every year E makes this wonderful summer pudding.
She made it this year too. I am not sure if this is the recipe she uses. But it’s always delicious. With custard. mmmmmmmm
And yep. We had a lovely time.
stepping up, if not out
The top shoes are part of the list I had when I started on the journey to improve the foot. Not these exactly, but the idea. They are perfect wear for women with shonkey feet. Note the support over the shonkeyist part of the foot and the secure heel part. They are from Overland shoes and I love them, even if I still totter a bit.
It’s two years since I threw away the crutch and the fabulous items (lower pictures) that I wore for two years. I wore these in Italy, Amsterdam and England as well as Rarotonga. It was a relief to rid myself of them, but then I would not have been without them either.
Last month I threw them out and bought the new, higher, and well, just a bit sexier, version.
tango blurb
Tripalbum.net / Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic licence / Wikimedia Commons.
A good night of tango and not much to say except that it’s an up and down life in tango.
There are the nights when you go home wanting to cut your wrists, the nights you can’t do anything right and the nights that someone says you dance smoothly and that it’s a lovely time they have with you.
It’s hard learning a new thing at this stage in your life. But at least you are mature enough sometimes to take the good with the bad and know that sometime it’s right and sometimes it just isn’t.
And sometimes is the key to all this.
And the tongue firmly in the cheek.
one more
Te Hau ki Turanga was the centre of the Maori Hall at the old National Museum in Buckle Street. It was used as a retreat to sit and think, a place for learning raranga and waiata and a focal point for any hui.
The carver, Raharuhi Rukupo represents himself on one of the pou as he should. It’s a beautiful piece of work which created a sense of comfort.
Its present incarnation at Te Papa shows it off as a piece of beauty but, in my mind, fails to recreate that sense of comfort and calm. It’s a bit more hectic.
So, I’m pleased to hear that at last the house will go home to sit near its sister house Te Mana o Turanga.
The story of Te Hau ki Turanga is not a happy one, so I’m hoping there’s a happy ending to this story and it provides comfort for people as it did to the staff of the ‘old’ museum.
REF: Volume 105, No. 1, Te Hau ki Turanga, by Deidre S. Brown, p 7-26 Journal of the Polynesian Society.
native intelligence
Oscar Hokeah's blog banner. Reproduced with permission. Use underlined text in blog to teleport.
I’ve recently discovered, and have skim read, Oscar Hokeah‘s blog. It’s headed “Oscar Hokeah
~ A Blog for Intellectually Excitable Readers!” And it is.
He writes about finding a way to develop Native Theory, chats about Foucault, ponders about power/knowledge and ruminates on what it is to be a Native American. I enjoy it immensely and although I am not his target audience I find a similarity between what he talks about and what some of my friends talk about.
It reminds me of my friend Bella Graham who died 4 years ago. She was a committed Focauldian and wrote about Maori identity. In particular Ngati Hako identity.
Her last presentation was about the ways Maori are identified and colonised through images of tourism. It’s a topical idea still, as we as New Zealanders host the, somewhat overhyped, Rugby World Cup. A friend commented that it was painful to see the hype of the opening ceremony and the money that was spent using people from South Auckland (mostly Maori and Pasifika) who despite our famous cries of “it’s all right here” belong to the poor and often disenfranchised of our country.
But that then too is an oversimplification because we also need and want to show and appreciate Maori. And many Maori are in fact middle class, so I’ve just perpetuated a myth. Well, no, it’s not a myth. Is it? And besides who are we to say what they should choose to do?
It’s tough. And on that note I am hoping to get along to the Tainui show at Te Papa which I gather celebrates the Tainui story as told by Tainiu (perhaps with some interpretation alas by Te Papa). And that’s what Bells was about. Telling her stories her way.
epiphanies
Like “potentially” which I am finding the most irritating of words overused in the media (not as irritating as the vernacular use of “like”), “epiphany” may be my over-used word. I suspect we are expected (by whom? God?) to have only one in our lifetime, but I’ve had one or two recently.
So, the value of being a tourist in my old university town was many-fold. A couple of epiphanies, unstructured wandering and quality time with two people I am fortunate to call “friends”.
mid year
In New Zealand it has become popular to celebrate Matariki: it’s the time when the Pleidedes are visible in this part of the world and marks what the rest of us have come to call the Maori new year.
It is also the time when we remember the signing of te Tiriti o Waitangi in this area. The time when local iwi, Ngati Toa Rangatira signed the Treaty on a ship off the coast of Mana Island. We used to walk up the local puke (hill) called Whitireia, which means “light of day” – Whiti te ra. We used to get there so that when dawn broke we were ready to welcome it in with karakia and at times haka. 
So it was both wonderful, and a relief, yesterday to join staff at Whitireia Polytechnic inside the library and to watch the hill as dawn broke. It was also lovely to hear elder, kaumatua and friend to many of us, Turoa Royal give the speech for the day. He wandered around the history of the Treaty and gave his own impression on how things are: better than they were but with room for improvement.
This week is also the week that our friend Krysia died. Not passed away, on or over. Died.
Krysia
She went to Malaysia, had her stomach stappled and died. Four years ago. So today we went to her unveiling. Stood on the damp ground and remembered her. Cried when her cousin sang, in te reo Maori “Over the rainbow.”
And it was wonderful to see her daughter last week, taking on the old Krysia style and organising a Matariki festival at Whitireia.
Whiti te ra.
