Category: Travel

“It’s so many miles and so long since I’ve met you / Don’t even know what I’ll find when I get to you.” Train Song, Vashti Bunyan

In On The Road by Jack Kerouac, Sal Paradise follows a constant rhythm of movement in order to gather the life experience he believes Dean Moriarty has, and that he must acquire. Chasing something unnamed, and immaterial, a fulfilment of sorts.

For myself, and for many of us, immaterial grief has guided me in the days of the abyss toward a shroud of warmth, as well as deep desolation. The body can take so much of it. New Orleans is, in every fashion, a city of loss and reconstruction. What is ours, and what is permanent? At the mouth of the bayou, a priest-chronicler in 1721 describes the land as a “place of a hundred wretched hovels in a malarkey’s wet thicket of willows and dwarf palmettos infested by serpents and alligators;”. From 1721 to now, all has been stripped from the beginnings of New Orleans, and buried, and rebuilt – yet the willows and the serpents remain. It’s always worth noting the way the devastation of the slave trade has shaped the rural South, but as Hannah pointed out to me, Louisiana particularly still carries its past of slavery on its forehead. Hannah told me in Oak Alley Plantation, a gardener and an enslaved person named Antoine succeeded in grafting pecan trees.

Many of my favourite shows, recommended by Hannah, take place in the rural South, namely Sharp Objects and True Detective. On our road trip from Georgia to Alabama to Louisiana through Mississippi, I am plagued with visions of Reese’s adaptation of Creature from the Black Lagoon, bodies in swamps, the green humid stickiness. There’s a lot of things I don’t know and a lot of things I do – like Jeff Buckley I know about what’s real and what’s not, and Louisiana is the dream humid parallel of Alabama, a fantastical mystical world, suffocating deaf heat.

Whispers of a snake-handling church, a seance, visions of relinquishing suffering. Reese and I find ourselves on the side of the highway getting devoured by mosquitoes. We talk about the breadth of human experience. Reese suggests reading my tarot when we get home, I say I have no questions, no doubts. I feel PJ Harvey’s conviction: in the rain in the evening, I will come again. I am sort of inevitable which is fun, I’m in your walls. I wonder nothing, I am The Oracle, so I know everything.

“The trees are broken because of tornadoes, or hurricanes.” Says Reese. I ask her: Lightning? She says no, when trees are struck by lighting they either split in half or catch fire and turn white. Driving into Mississippi we see white trees amongst other evergreen rich canopies. If the bayou is a wet thicket of willows, Alabama is Appalachian density and vastness. Chickens! Cows! And baby cows, and horses, of all beautiful colours. I dream of living on a farm, I dream of open fields that never end.

Between Johnny Cash songs on the car stereo, and gas station tea, I tried to finish South of the Border, West of the Sun. I don’t know what I’m trying to tell you – I am trying to say I’m filled with fear and grief, that everything scares me. I am trying to say I have so much life sometimes I don’t know what to do with it. That my life is a fever dream and I am wading through it in the dark with eternal Lexapro joy.

Who would’ve thought that one of the best trips of my life would be to Alabama? The friendships I have been allowed the sanctuary of in this timeline mark the unrelenting passing of time. In a world that pushes women to find meaning and worth in partnership, what is more healing than being able to reach your arms out and feel the tangible immensity of love in close friendship? What is more freeing than embracing the people which weave the fabric of our will to survive? I hadn’t seen Reese for nearly three years, which felt immeasurable to me as she is my star.

I would have loved a rural life where all that surrounds is loving community and open plains. I have never lived in a house. I would like to give my cat space to run, and myself somewhere to read and write under the shade of the trees. I have seen my life on the road with Reese, I know what love looks like because I have friends that drive me through state after state so I can just see and observe. I saw my future while getting devoured by mosquitoes in the bayou. I hold my life tenderly in my hands. I want to live on top of a mountain in silence, but I do not want to eat American food.

I am drinking an extreme amount of spearmint tea to see if it flushes out the Red40 before the microchip in my brain starts running ads.

ill travelled as i am, i’ve never been on such a short flight. they have tended to stretch infinitely, across oceans and sustained by meals of lukewarm chicken and rice, mysteriously possessing both qualities of mushiness and Crunch. lucía and i sit on the end of each aisle and hold hands during takeoff. perhaps it is due to my dopamine receptors being intrinsically out of sync since birth, but i always get the strangest thrill from the roar of the engine as the plane moves from solid ground to weightlessness. 

before we know it, we are Muniching and i queue for an extra forty minutes with my non-EU passport (thank you brexit, held on my twelfth birthday). then we are deposited safely in the back seat of an Uber as we plan our future band tangtang, which turned into something else very familiar. i wrestle my suitcase around and remember how kush the Kitty curled up in it the night before, against my clarice lispector. he is wise beyond his years (barely a year old, mind you). susana hauls it up six flights of stairs before we gain eternal rest in her lovely apartment, which is light, airy, and refined with the trinkets of a woman who knows her shit. feasting on pho loaded with teriyaki sauce from the viet place downstairs we reflect on the current states of our lives. there is Much to Say that won’t be repeated here. susana tells us tales from her youth as we sip on jasmine pandan tea, perched on red plastic stools. the rest of the night is spent on susana’s balcony with red wine and wiseness. this was not my healing hysteria seaside holiday, but nevertheless i find a certain comfort in the padded seats of the outside bench and saying repeatedly, “oh, and of course he could never understand…”

there is something so delicious about these days. we wake around noon, and have eggs and bacon and avocado seasoned with herb infused salt for breakfast (my plate finished with a generous serving of pickles). despite rain and generally dreary weather, we tourist in an appropriately lucíahannah way: buying scented body oil from the french perfumery, stopping to collect taro brown sugar tea, sifting through crystals for an unspecified amount of time. when susana finishes work we drift in and out of solemn churches and pause to light candles for our opps. this time of indulgence is punctuated by quiet moments in which lucia reads, and i potter about in my usual fashion. it is only a few stops to Marienplatz, where the city centre and old town resides, so we can flit back and forth between the city and susana’s quiet flat with ease. the Residenz München is near impossible to find, but once we traipse in, damp and slightly Over Things, there are decadent sights from bavarian monarchs and delights in the tiny gift shop to be discovered. once home, i find myself drifting to our familiar resting place of the terrace, armed with a pint of bergamot sorbet. something about the fresh air is unquestioningly perfect for debriefing for hours at a time. we can always find new ways to beat a dead horse. if we find something we must rehash in increasingly granular detail, beat it we must, and beat it we shall.

on some nights, we stay in with pho and face masks and horror movies, and play our very own Zombie Apocalypse game for over two hours (we would do marvellously, despite missing our many rituals and treats). on others, we share a bottle of yuzu aperitif as the munich skyline dims and my spell candles flutter in the twilit breeze. together lucía and i arrive at the conclusion that time and a trip away can heal all wounds, especially with the aid of a few glasses of yuzu. not that this time away was about food, but oh did i dine. carbonara after church-seeing, pan-fried dim sum, cheesecake and hojicha from the little café downstairs. that was healing in its own way. ed asks if i will have yuzu withdrawals, and frankly, he is entirely right.wandering through the ‘trees / time / architecture’ exhibition was another joy amongst the many Joys of munich, naturally coupled with my frequent and repetitive singing of Hoochie Coochie on the metro. oh, the joys. i show lucía annihilation, curled up on susana’s couch, and she tells me of the book differences, which i still really need to read. i find myself healed from something i cannot quite put my finger on, some malignancy i have not named. perhaps some luxuriating with your best friend is all you really need. munich i will be in you again, trust and believe.

I get into Emil’s shower and feel my mascara uncrusting under the hot water. Last night we got home at 6am from Lokschuppen (which on a bad night is just Chantal). After 4 hours of house music (God forbid), we called it quits. I am ever grateful for Emil’s filtered shower-head and lily-scented shower gel, I only had 3 drinks and still I feel like I’ve been shot 16 times.

Oracle Revelation #1: A hangover is only cured with carbs, shopping, and another drink. Kreuzberg offers up a Cavalli F/W 2004 jacket and wine bar happy hour, who am I to say no?

As we wait for happy hour to start at L’apero, Emil reads excerpts of the BUTT Magazine interview between Gaultier and Margiela to me. I’m trying to read Tristessa by Kerouac, but the intense discussion about Gaultier’s denim kink is so entertaining. We dive into an extensive discussion on it (impermissible on Tangtang, sorry, inquire further). After happy hour and dinner (charcuterie at the wine bar, the last apricots of the season), we have three drinks in the dark red of Mano. The heavily tattooed bartender at Mano says he understands I’m thirsty, but if I ever take my drink again without letting him put a garnish on it he’ll bite my hand off… heavily tattooed bartender at Mano, I have a crush on you.

When I wake up Saturday morning, I still feel the bass in my chest from the absolute baby rave at Club OST, and all I care about is that they had Fountain of Youth coconut water at the club bar. The rookie 7 hours I slept Friday night are amended by the cup of tea Emil hands to me in a blue Le Creuset mug. I smudge the remnants of my eyeliner and head out haphazardly. As I’m browsing around vintage stores, I reflect on how my rhythm of life is incessant and I’ve had to defend it plenty of times. Yet beyond this, my bandwidth for patheticism, and inconsistency is shortening rapidly. I hardly drink, I yearn for about Hope Sandoval on vinyl, slow nights with my cat, and a glass of orange wine. My life is so romantic, I purge it of everything that isn’t.

Oracle Revelation #2: There’s very little romanticism in industrial techno, you don’t have to force it.

Now, I must brag that I did really strike luck with the thrift on Saturday (the highlight is a little D&G denim skirt I wear to Borchardt that night). That night, we’re circling back to Lokschuppen for actual good music (unlike Thursday) after a very languid bottle of Rioja over dinner. I feel so lazy post-risotto that when we’re getting drinks at the Späti (Fritz-limo Apple-Cherry-Elderflower with rum, trust me) I call off our Sunday morning Berghain plans completely.

Oracle Revelation #3: Being a 365 party girl is an extremely short-term commitment, choose beauty sleep sometimes. Go home.

I walked out of the 3-4.30 set in the boiler room at Lokschuppen with my right meniscus more fucked up than ever, and it was the best night out of the three. Sunday morning Emil and I go over to Mano for a fresh tea (and a margarita). I’m waving around a cigarette as we debrief, we’re really too old for this shit (the meaning of “this shit” is up for interpretation). Emil demolishes me at chess, and the evening fades into dinner at Amrit. We’re not going out tonight, I finish Tristessa and go to sleep early. Back in London, I put on Sigur Rós on vinyl and reflect with a mint tea…

Oracle Revelation #4: The key to surviving Berlin is not reading Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico, and therefore not giving a fuck. Everyone cares so much about their image in Berlin, people are so bad at committing to the grime. See the city, maybe. Fake piercings, bad cheap tattoos, idolatry of clubs, disrespect of the scene, constant desperation for taking photos. Everyone knows someone, the commitment to being fucking grimy and edgy has to be absolute. Commit or don’t attempt it at all. The ‘vibes’ that will get you in are authenticity. Put down that MAC Carbon!

I throw my bag under the very window Matisse once looked out of to paint Window At Tangier in 1912. So absent from Western metropolises, the ultramarine blue that he uses so consistently in his paintings of Tangier is apparent everywhere I look. I see, very clearly, what he meant by calling Tangier a “paradise of light”. In the interludes between rain, the blue tinge of the light seems to stick to clothes and skin and when, in the evening, I go to wash my face, I find myself radiating a sort of blue halo. Perhaps the shrieks of a bird I have never heard before, and the muezzin who features faintly in my dreams through other visions are also what guided Matisse to the Otherness of the colour blue, so as to indicate distance and departure from his normality.

Here’s what I do know for sure: there is a fundamental human necessity to lounge by the pool half-naked and read. Solitude, leaving the phone in the hotel room, eating shellfish and drinking mint tea. All of that time to think is sanctified and pure from the ritualistic overpacked headspace of everyday life in London. I love my rituals and routines, but the oppression of memory doesn’t exist in a pool lounge chair shielded from the sun. In retrospect, I spent all my week-and-a-half-long holiday by the pool. So much so, I ran out of reading material and had to venture out into the Mexique Bookshop to find more (insane stock of Haruki Murakami and (weirdly) Tolstoy).

Around day 4, I find it in me to get up early and be driven to Chefchaouen by my friend Yahya who the entire time is blasting revolutionary songs. My favourite one is a 1997 about Che Guevara that he plays about 3 or 4 times each way. Driving through Tetouan, the grassy mountains obscure most of the sky, Moroccan flags appear roadside every few minutes, so you won’t forget that the immensity and beauty of the landscape has a name. On the side of the road, there are sometimes ornate top-heavy homes in vibrant colours. Then, similar structures ten minutes down the road—broken down, unfinished. The wonderful thing that follows from Tangier to Chefchaouen is that there are infinite cats. Was I very sad because they don’t get the daily love and pets that my cat Kush gets? Yes, I cried. Do the locals feed them and make them little cardboard houses? Yes! I cried. Chefchaouen is painted all blue, every city in Morocco has a symbol, and the symbol of the blue door is nothing but fitting for this city. Yahya and I talk about the state of the world over a meal of falafel and hummus and a restaurant in the city square called Twins. “You have to have really banal concerns in your life to have time for fascism.” He says, waving his fork around. I tell him that I have all the time in the world and still I can’t imagine such extremism. After I force him to spend 20 minutes reviving an overheating orange kitten and asking the restaurant owners to care for it (they oblige excitedly), we wander the Kasbah and I refuse to climb the steps to the tower in 2pm sun smack in the middle of the sky heat. Unfortunately, my SPF100 and I are not made for hot beach holidays, but I insist on them regardless.

Between glasses of (ice-cold) Merlot at the hotel piano bar and pages of Sex and Rage by Eve Babitz, I moved through days lethargically, writing in my journal, thinking about the turbulent months of summer (entertaining, but wild). Eve says on page 4, “The two girls grew up at the edge of the ocean and knew it was paradise, and better than Eden, which was only a garden.” On the afternoons I’d venture down to the beach, as late as possible as to avoid the sun, I swam as far as I could into the water and floated with my eyes closed, rising up and down with the waves. Sometimes adulthood is doing really fun things your mother would’ve never let you do because they’re kind of dangerous. I did not drown. In the mornings I went on walks to the Medina, Museum of Contemporary Art, the Kasbah Museum. Another morning, Yahya called me to ask when I was going to Cap Spartel, the northwesternmost point of Africa. I said I didn’t plan to; he was parked outside within the hour. My favourite part of the trip was the Maritime Museum and so I am glad I decided to abandon the pool that day (I love a lighthouse, Robert Eggers you have influenced me greatly). I opted out of the Hercules Caves; I know an American tourist hotspot when I see one… it’ll have to be for the next trip.

The reflections one is capable of in the immense silence of a beach holiday are so unexpected, but it is a speedrun to peace. Every morning, looking over Tangier and its coast, drinking the mint tea and eating flat peaches, I felt that there was nothing bad that could ever happen in my life. That, always, I could return to Tangier and turn my phone off, live through the radio music channels, the strange stock of the bookstore, and the lobster risotto at the hotel restaurant.