Jingle Bells, Morris-Style

Jingle Bells, Morris-Style

‘I’m off to find England. MY England’, I announce to my American husband. ‘Great,’ he says. ‘Bring back some Club biscuits.’ Tut. Eyeroll. Like Club biscuits epitomise my national identity. (They’ll be in my luggage anyway.) But if not Club biscuits, what exactly is ‘My England’? I’ve met many Brits abroad who crave the comfort of all we left behind, without being able to pinpoint what that is. Hiraeth (or hireth, Cornish spelling) ‒ a deep yearning for home with a sense of loss ‒ has taught me to beware the rose-tinted dangers inherent in returning to the land of my birth. After all, what exactly do I think I’m returning to?

Sounds like a fieldtrip’s in order. I head across the Pond to search for …well, England. A white handkerchief flashes in my peripheral vision. Enter the West Somerset Morris.

Morris dancing, that most quintessential of ancient English folk dances, prances proudly through my youth. May Day festivities, royal jubilees, Christmas pub crawls, the Morris dancers were always there in sashes, tabards and tatter jackets. The sounds of the concertinas and fiddles blending with the bells attached to the dancers’ shins. To the rest of the world, the scene may be evocative of cosy murder mysteries; Morris dancers used as a cinematic cue we’re in jolly, quaint, quirky, hankie-flapping England. It’s bound to be one of the dancers who trips over the dead body.

But I digress. I’m here to discover my connection to this English tradition. The West Somerset Morris is brave enough to let me visit a practice session.

I drive to Sampford Brett, a village just outside Exmoor National Park. As I check directions to the village hall, a peal of bells makes me smile. I roll down my rental car window. The joyful tones cascade from the church belfry and wash over me; memories of childhood Sunday evenings. Nowhere else in the world do bells sound like this. But I mustn’t tarry. The Morris waits for no one. Gathering up my pen and camera, I pull open the door to the village hall, and step inside the beating heart of English tradition.

‘Bagman’ Ray greets me ‒ Bagman an infinitely more interesting title than secretary. Ray is also the Foreman of this Morris, aka the dance teacher. Next, I meet Squire Joe (the leader). Other dancers arrive. In a corner, the musicians set up: fiddle, concertina and flute.

I’m placed in a safe position at the side of the hall – there are spinning bodies to avoid after all. Members line up and the music starts. Foreman Ray names the dances for me: Maid of Mill, Banbury Bill, Nuts in May (this one involves chunky sticks. I’m here to tell you, they don’t hold back in taking swings at each other), Border Dance, Skirmish, Jenny Lind, to name but a few. It’s a chilly night but there’s soon a sweat on brows. This is a workout and then some.

I manoeuvre carefully round the perimeter to take photos as Foreman Ray calls out dance steps. Squire Joe wants more energy from the dancers. The dancers want Squire to take smaller lateral steps so the lines remain true. This is an art steeped in tradition, and members are sticklers for maintaining form. I try a discreet little hop step myself. It’s harder than it looks.

During the tea break, I ask the group about their own roots and ties, both to this dance and this part of the country. Members recount stories of global travel, coincidences and genealogical flukes. These stories follow tomorrow in Part II.

Members finish their tea. The fiddle, flute and concertina fire up, and they’re off again ‒ sticks clanking and whoops whooping. The steps have exotic names like Whole-Hey, Half-Gyp, Caper, Hockle Back and Cross-Hop. Handkerchiefs must be flicked outwards from chest level, no lower. Ray explains these little details distinguish one Morris from another and one area of the country from another. It’s fascinating. I’m so joining the Morris when I move back here!

Or so I think until Bagman hands me a pair of handkerchiefs and invites me onto the floor for the final dance. Let’s just say, it’s a good job I wasn’t trusted with the sticks. As I cavort gamely, trying not to trip anyone while flicking my handkerchiefs with abandon, I’m reminded of the description of Morris dancing in Cecil J. Sharp’s book, The Morris, written in 1907: ‘…the Morris dance is a bodily manifestation of vigour and rude health, and not at all of sinuous grace or dreaminess.’ I may have the rude bit down as I crash around. No one declares I dance with ‘sinuous grace’. Maybe I’m a natural after all.

All too soon, it’s 10pm and practice is over. Ray tells me I’ve only been privy to half the experience so far. It’s on to the pub for a pint, as much a part of Morris as anything, with its history steeped in ale since mediaeval times. Unfortunately, I have an early assignment tomorrow, so have to pass on the offer. Good excuse to come back for the rest of my education though.

I wind along the inky-black lanes towards Porlock, wrapped in a sense of history, of belonging, of roots. Was it the dance? The tea? The tradition? The comradery? Yes. Yes, it was.

I’ll never take for granted the work and dedication of individuals preserving traditions. They mean so much to the expatriate ‒ this one, anyway. Can I fully explain my connection to home? Not really. It just is. But I reconnected with part of my England in a tiny hall in a tiny village, dancing with people I’d never met. I found kindred spirits in the jingling heart of my home, complete with church bells and Morris bells. I can’t thank the West Somerset Morris enough for pulling me back into the dances of England.

For more photos and video from my visit to the West Somerset Morris: https://www.facebook.com/author.traceygemmell/

Here are some resources if you’d like to learn more – or even join the dance!

http://www.westsomersetmorris.co.uk/

https://themorrisring.org/publications/morris-tradition

https://www.rattlejagmorris.org.uk/history-of-morris-dancing

The Morris Book by Cecil J. Sharp, 1907

https://www.scribd.com/document/2397140/The-Morris-Book-Part-1-A-History-of-Morris-Dancing-With-a-Description-of-Eleven-Dances-as-Performed-by-the-Morris-Men-of-England-by-Sharp-Cecil-J

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By The Way, The BBC Called

At the BBC studios in Taunton, Somerset. Photo by Simon Parkin

I’ve just returned to the United States from a promotional book tour in England for Dunster’s Calling. Let me repeat that. I’ve just returned from a promotional book tour in England. I know, I know. You heard me the first time. But I needed to hear it again myself. You see, I can’t quite believe it happened. I’m not very good at self-promotion. I’m better at sitting alone and writing. I knew I had to ‘do’ social media to build my brand, but I questioned its efficacy. In all that noise, no one hears you, right?

Wrong.

It’s still hard to believe that a Facebook post led to a live presentation. Oh, and did I mention the BBC called? (I’d repeat that but I’m afraid I’d lose you, so I won’t repeat that the BBC called.) I write fiction so you’re right to check my credibility and/or mental state. That’s why I took photos to verify the account that follows …

After writing my debut novel, Dunster’s Calling, I thought the hard part of being an author was over. Ha! Marketing a novel, as it turns out, is much harder than writing it. But I got stuck in on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. My social media strategy was 1) to establish why I was the person to write this story of an expat’s search for home, while exuding humour (well, my mum thinks I’m funny), and 2) to connect potential readers with the setting for my novel: Exmoor, a National Park in England’s southwestern peninsular. I felt as soon as potential readers saw Exmoor’s beauty, they’d want to read a book in which that glorious setting becomes a central character. My job would be done and sales would roll in. So I posted photos of thatched cottages and moorland views over the Bristol Channel. Based on follower reactions to the photos, the beauty of Exmoor struck a chord. However, the translation into book sales was less … struck chord-y.

As time passed, I grew weary of battling to promote through social media, of limited traction, of endlessly attempting to drown out the ‘you-just-can’t-do-marketing’ voices. I almost gave up, deciding social media was a time suck and no one was listening anyway.

But someone was listening. Someone I’d never met. Someone who saw my photos while setting up her new store that sells all things Exmoor. Enter Elke.

Elke is also an expat, moving from Germany to England nearly twenty years ago. Maybe my tale of life in a foreign country, of homesickness and of the pull of Exmoor spoke to her. Anyway, she asked me to write a guest blog for her website and to provide some signed copies of my book for her store in Minehead, Somerset. I did so, gratefully. I figured that was the job finished ‒ until Elke asked if I’d be interested in giving a talk at the store.

Why, yes. Yes, I am interested.

I book my flight.

I arrive in England to discover Elke has sent press releases far and wide. There’s a writeup in the paper and an invite to record an interview for West Somerset Radio, to be played on air the next day. Before I know it, I’m sitting in a sound studio, headphones on, mic check done, Bryan Leaker counting me in:  three, two, one … ‘Tell us about Dunster’s Calling’. Bryan makes me laugh, despite my nerves, and offers to give away a copy of the book in a competition on the show. I sign a copy like it’s no big deal.

It’s a very big deal, to me.

At the West Somerset Radio studio. Photo by Bryan Leaker

I leave the studio after my first radio interview. It’s more than I ever dreamed possible and I return to the place I’m staying for celebratory tea and biscuits. The interview plays the next morning and I listen in, disbelieving it’s my own voice on the radio. There’s more disbelief to come.

The phone rings. It’s Broadcast Assistant Luke, for the Simon Parkin Breakfast Show on BBC Somerset. They’d like me to come into the studio for a live radio segment early Saturday morning. I believe Luke said he was pitching me the idea of possibly appearing on the show. I believe I said he didn’t need to pitch very hard. We record some promotional soundbites while talking. Long after Luke hangs up, I’m still staring at the phone in my hand.

It’s an early start Saturday morning to drive to Taunton in heavy rain. I’m not exactly displaying nerves of steel. More like nerves of wet noodles. Impostor syndrome goads from the passenger seat. But I needn’t have worried. I’m greeted with a cup of tea, a welcome tour of the impressive new BBC studios, and a friendly chat with another guest waiting to go on air; a veteran commemorating one hundred years since the end of WWI. Simon Parkin comes out of his studio to introduce himself before showing me to my seat.

No headphones this time, a glowing red light says we’re on air and Simon leads me expertly and kindly through my first live interview. At the end, he asks me to come back soon. Maybe he says that to everyone, being such a gracious host, but at this point I don’t care. I’ll come back soon.

Floating on air, I return to Minehead to prepare for an afternoon author event in the gallery section of The Exmoor Store. Elke has filled the space with homey furnishings and artwork, all produced locally. The kettle’s on. Guests arrive, and I’m engaged in a wonderful hour of sharing stories of travel and the meaning of home with delightful people. It’s all surreal. Because I’m enjoying it! Me! Enjoying promoting! Words I never thought you’d hear coming from my lips.

There’s security for introverts (as most writers tend to be) in posting to an audience you can’t see. Hiding behind your keyboard, it’s easy to get comfortable there, to not push yourself out into the world, to blame all the other voices for drowning you out. Connection to readers and listeners can feel tenuous in our lonely writing spaces. The last few days have reminded me being a writer is only half the equation; readers/listeners/followers complete the whole. They aren’t as scary as you may think when you first begin the process of building your brand.

I’ve asked myself many times if social media is a productive use of my time as an author. I now have the answer. Yes. It. Is.

I have more stories to share from my recent trip and will be blogging about them in the weeks ahead. Until then, I can only say how grateful I am to all out there in Social Media World and to offer this advice: If you’re an author struggling to be heard, don’t give up. You never know who’s listening. Sometimes it’s no one. And sometimes it’s just the person you need. Thanks, Elke.

Here’s the link to the BBC Somerset interview. (If link won’t play in your location, try logging into BBC Sounds and searching Simon Parkin 11/10/18.) My segment begins at about 1:53.00: https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p06pswh8

Link to my guest blog on the Exmoor4All website: https://exmoor4all.com/2018/11/02/the-green-eyed-monster-of-exmoor/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/author.traceygemmell/

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LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/tracey-gemmell/

Tilting At Towers

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I’ve wanted to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa since childhood. Its scary, yet giggle-inducing, tilt just seemed like something I should witness before its inevitable collapse ‒ not so inevitable, as it turns out. Much more inevitable was getting trampled by the crowds. And being bonked on the head by a selfie stick. Or poked in the eye as hundreds of tourists threw their hands out in a hilarious (sigh) attempt to capture the moment they held the tower up. Or knocked it down. Or got squashed under it. Seriously, the overwhelming memory of my recent visit to Pisa will be of an off-kilter tower surrounded by floating hands.

Yet, steps away from the errant tower, sights existed of which I was previously completely unaware. Miraculous sights, hence the name: ‘The Field of Miracles’. This ‘field’ contained structures of such stunning architecture, I was struck dumb. Those who know me realise this is a big deal. I’m never speechless. But the Duomo, the Baptistry, the Monumental Cemetery, even the ancient entry gate and the surrounding walls, were all breath-takingly beautiful. And … no one trying to hold them up!

(Full disclaimer: these other buildings are not perfectly straight either due to the uneven ground in the area. But compared to the tower, the lean’s not nearly so obvious. But I digress …)

How had I gone through life unaware of these other spectacular structures? I must have seen at least part of them in photos of the tower, right? Apparently not. Which begs the question: why had I ‒ and the rest of the world seemingly, based on crowd patterns ‒ focused all attention on the glaring ‘mistake’? The structure most likely to fail?

As I beat off another selfie stick assault to move away from the tower towards the Duomo, I wondered: was this unhealthy preoccupation with failure whilst filtering out success a metaphor for my life? The answer may be, yes. I can write 100,000 words and wake in a sweat over one typo. I can remember a mistaken action from decades ago yet struggle to recall the good deed of yesterday. I can still cringe at the heartless comment I made in high school and forget the kind word shared today. I know I’m not alone in that. We seem to hold onto failure more tightly than success.

Maybe the roiling crowds around the Leaning Tower of Pisa are a tilted reminder: success is not synonymous with perfection or lack of error. Fail. Get up. Try again. And sometimes let your imperfection show. It may be your imperfection that leads to your greatest success. Just ask Mr. Pisano, credited with designing the tower.

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Image: author’s own.

Tuscany: To Gallop or Not to Gallop?

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Tuscany: To Gallop or Not to Gallop?

I’m off to Tuscany in a few weeks. Haven’t been to Italy since a school ski trip saw me in the Italian Alps and Venice—so long ago the Alps were shorter and Venice wasn’t sinking yet. Loved Italy back then and sense I’ll love it even more now. But when I venture into unchartered territory, I always find myself wrestling with the same quandary: gallop like a mad woman all over the place to take in as much as possible as quickly as possible, or chill the heck out? It’s a holiday, for crying out loud! A chance to relax, stroll, sip, live in the moment, save something of myself for later. It’s a retreat from the craziness of life. From minutia and housework and diet plans. From deadlines. A chance to stop and smell the Chianti. Why do I find that so hard?

I sometimes wonder if my fear of missing out is something to do with being an expat. As you know, I tend towards the “grass is greener” philosophy of life, always worrying I’m missing out on something somewhere else. This results in hurtles through foreign cities, blurred sightings of famous artifacts—Louvre Lite, anyone? —scarcely slowing down long enough to smile at the Mona Lisa. It leads to studying maps on the sightseeing boat ride, planning the next venture before this one’s absorbed and filed for posterity in the memory banks of life. Why would I add more craziness, more wake-up calls, more deadlines? Even if the deadlines signify more enjoyable reasons to be on time, like closing hours at the winery, restaurant reservations, sunsets from castle battlements?

My get up and go has its advantages. I’ve lived several lives, several careers, several manifestations of myself; all driven by hard work and a sense of ‘better get it now while the getting’s good’. But I’m starting to think trying to take in everything means I’m missing out on something vital to existence: peace. Serenity.

Tuscany, if everything I’ve heard about you is true, I’m going to be relying on you to show me the way. Don’t let me down.

To read more about finding your serenity, check out Pauline Wiles’ blog, The Serenity Project at https://www.paulinewiles.com/serenity-project/. She is soooo much better at it than I am!

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Image: Pixaby

 

The Day I Missed the Mark

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The Day I Missed the Mark.

The best piece of author branding advice I’ve received to date was to be myself in my social media interactions. So that’s what I am; an oddball mix of England, America, dogs, horses, gardens, world travels, cream teas, books, epic fails and homesickness all bundled up in self-deprecating humour. And, it seems, I’m slowly finding my tribe online.

But one day I missed the mark. I shared me on a bad day.

The US administration began separating children from their families at the border. That should have been a bad day for all of us. But I took it very hard. After all, I write about finding home, about separation from home, about missing home. I’m also an immigrant and a mother. I couldn’t imagine losing my children in exchange for a shot at a safe home. I. Just. Couldn’t.

So, I posted the following on Instagram and Twitter on June 20th, along with a photo of one of my dogs staring up into the camera: ‘Not feeling very funny today. I’ll be making a long journey with this face soon. If he’s taken away at immigration, I’ll die. And he’s just a dog!’ I hash tagged ‘children first’, ‘immigration’, ‘keep families together’ and ‘no separation’.

Within a few hours, I lost five percent of my Instagram followers.

Now, I’m no JK Rowling with millions hanging on my every word. Five percent can hardly be defined as a mass exodus in my case. But to me it was significant. We indie authors compete for attention against millions of other voices and I treasure each follower on my social media platforms. I’m honoured you’d want to spend a few seconds of your day with me. Losing you hurts.

I asked myself why I lost followers. Was the subject matter unexpected, coming from goofy old me? Was it taken as politically biased? I didn’t mean it to be. I figured every affiliation would be struck dumb by the cruelty. Were followers just jaded by the barrage of negativity? Possibly. I know I was exhausted by it. Maybe you were all bots and got booted at that particular moment. Truth is, I don’t know what happened. But, slowly, over the next few days, I came to this conclusion: I don’t care what happened. If you look back at the list of criteria for being me, you won’t find ‘cruel’. And I won’t let ‘cruel’ be added to that list by default because I didn’t speak up.

As I write this, an effort is underway to reunite families. That’s good. It’s a better day. But what about the next bad day? Will my followers tolerate me sharing my bad days? Guess what? That’s the last time I’ll ask that question. Because if you want me to be myself ‒ and I hope you do ‒ you’ll need to add ‘not cruel’ to the list of fun facts about me.

Note to self: being you is not going to please everyone. Be you anyway.

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The Birthday Present

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Birthdays are funny little things. We look forward to them yet dread them, celebrate them yet lament them, plan them yet attempt to ignore the fact they’re happening at all. That single twenty-four-hour period makes us crazy, doesn’t it?

This year, I’m attempting to make my upcoming birthday more like New Year’s Day: an opportunity to clarify, reassess, make course corrections ‒ only with cake and an earlier bedtime. This year I’m asking for two gifts. Firstly, a wheelbarrow, owing to a perpetually flat tire and a rusty, crooked frame on my current twenty-five-year-old model. Secondly, I’m asking for the ability to live in the here and now. You see, I’m horrible at it. Not gardening – I have a green thumb that practically glows in the dark. I mean, I’m horrible at living in the present. If you’ve followed my trials and tribulations with hireth and making plans to return to England, you’ll know this already. I spend way too much time wishing I were somewhere else. And that has to stop.

Or does it? Is the drive to be somewhere else at the centre of all human progress? If we were completely happy where we were, we’d never have left the ocean floor, or climbed down from the trees, or left the African continent or the tiny village of Flamstead where I grew up. Following that logic, predisposition to NOT live in the here and now, to NOT accept the status quo, could actually be the cure rather than the ailment. Now I’m really confused. Is my hireth an ailment or the cure for an ailment? Should I live in the present or not? Constantly think about going home or not?

Well, that puts a spanner in my birthday plan works. Maybe I should just settle for the wheelbarrow and call it good.

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Wedding Cake and Role Reversal

Wedding Cake and Role Reversal

Cake IMG_20180519_122901Today I watch the royal wedding with billions of others around the world. The joyous scenes of castles and bunting and English flowers and beautiful veils and adorable bridesmaids never gets old for me. But I can usually watch these occasions with a sense of separation; that this vision of life is not part of my world. Today is different.

Today I watch the lovely Meghan become an expat and I understand the consequences of that decision. For all she gains, she will have time over the years to reflect on the joys and anguishes of exchanging a birthplace for a different culture.

Meghan and I reverse roles. I ‒ a Brit through and through, never dreaming I would ever give up my life in England ‒ married an American. The 1989 ceremony was held in an ancient church on Exmoor. English tradition and bridesmaids in Wedgwood blue dresses all spoke to me of my homeland. The heavy wedding fruitcake, standard fare in the UK, was a novel experience for my husband. He tapped his slice of cake on the side of his plate to see if he could chip the china with the icing. He assumed there’d be something vanilla sponge-like under a thick layer of buttercream, apparently. (He should have married Meghan. She’s having that kind of cake.) Turned out our cake was only the first of many surprises as my husband learned about British culture through my eyes ‒ and stomach. It’s been a fascinating journey for us both and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. That said, it’s not always easy to live as an expat and days like today are the hardest.

I enjoy every moment of the wedding and marvel at the sunshine and the glory of Windsor Castle. I hold my homesickness at bay. Until the bells.

It’s the church bells that break the teary flood gates. That quintessential English peal of wedding bells from an ancient tower moves me like nothing else. I can’t pretend I listen to them from inside a church very often, but they stir memories of Sunday evenings, birdsong, cobbled lanes, hedgerow flowers, teaspoons tapping gently on china tea cups, cottages and … home.

I wish Harry and Meghan all the best. I hope they find home together, wherever that is. I hope they discover the best in every culture, as I’ve tried to do. But those church bells – they call me back to England. It’s time. Luckily my husband understands and is ready for our own role reversal. We’ll make the journey together, as he becomes the expat.

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Reviewing Reviews

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I’ve been an avid reader since birth. (Yes, the plastic, floatable book about duckies Mum put in the bathtub with me counts.) I now read multiple books a week, so can’t even guess how many that is over a lifetime. But I’m here today to confess to a crime. I’ve only recently started reviewing books. Only since I became a writer have I realised the importance of participating in the author’s journey.
We all dream of quitting the real world and writing full-time from a yacht in the Caribbean, a lighthouse in Maine, an overwater villa in the South Pacific, or a cottage on Exmoor. (I vote last one.) Okay, that may just be me as a travel addict and homesick expat. Other authors may dream of covering publishing costs and paying a few bills with their writing, but you get the point. Anyway, do you, the reader, realise your part in helping an author achieve that dream? Buying the book is a lovely start; reviews are just as important in driving the machine. So here are a few points for your consideration:
1) Just fifty reviews on Amazon gets a book more exposure.
2) Reviews shape future work, and not just the good reviews. The author learns much from the reader who found their child-killing dragon’s love of teddy bears unreasonable. But the author is also encouraged by the reader who ‘gets’ their vision: dragons have needs too. And they’ll write more of what the reader wants.
3) A review only needs to be a few words. Sure, we’ve all seen the thousand-word theses on Goodreads. But ‘I enjoyed this book’ on Amazon is equally as helpful.
4) Giving a book lower than three stars impacts rating algorithms. I’m unlikely to finish a book I’d rate one or two stars anyway. It may not be a bad book, just a mismatch for the reader.
5) You can review a book on Amazon even if you didn’t purchase there, which brings me to my next point.
6) All the books in the photo were found on a charity fundraiser table for $1.00 apiece. I bought them, because, well, I’d have been stupid not to. But I did worry about the authors. Not one of them got a single penny from my purchase, which may not have worried Stephen King, from a financial viewpoint, but could have impacted others. And forget the money, what about the talent? John Green spent six years writing ‘Turtles All the Way Down’ and, in my humble opinion, it’s a work of genius. That deserves to be rewarded. So … if you borrowed from a friend or a library, purchased at a garage sale or half-price book store, please consider reviewing. If you paid full price, first, thank you! Second, you’ve definitely got skin in the game. Help shape what you want to read next by reviewing.
From all of us writing in basements or on the bus to work or at 5am before the household wakes, thank you for playing your part in the author’s journey. You and your reviews are appreciated more than you will ever know.
Now, I’m off to review that bathtub ducky book. My apologies to the author for my tardiness.
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Expat No Longer

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Up to this point, my traveller’s life has involved ping-ponging across the Atlantic ‒ except for a few southerly dips to places like New Zealand and Bora Bora. But last week I added a third continent to my travels: South America. Brazil, to be exact.

I’d picked the rainforest mainly to check a bucket list box about seeing flocks of parrots fly in the wild. You don’t see these birds on Exmoor in England, or in the snow drifts of Wisconsin. But as I lived this long-awaited ‘parrot moment’, I found the most moving experience wasn’t the parrots at all. It was finding myself deep inside two million square miles of ancient forest.

I never got too excited about North American history. So much had been written over in order to fit what the early European settlers needed this continent to be; a blank slate. European history wasn’t my ‘thing’ either. I got an F grade in ‘O’ Level history. (Keep that to yourselves. My mother doesn’t know yet.) However, the older I get the more I appreciate ancient castles and abbeys, Roman ruins and Iron Age settlements; an attempt to understand one’s place in the world before leaving it, perhaps? That said, a few thousand years was the extent of my limited historical understanding.

That all changed in a split second in the Amazon rainforest.

I was on a small skiff, deep into a narrow tributary of the Rio Negro. Night was falling fast. The captain cut the engine. I sat, surrounded by the hums, cracks, buzzes, howls, screeches of the jungle. I became primordial, part of millions of years of history, evolution happening right in front of my face. Trees adapting to life in sunken status ‒ full of secret compounds and potions. Caiman staring from the waters, straight out of Jurassic Park. Tapirs – the likes of which I’d only pictured posed next to wax figures of early Man in museums – picking their way through the trees. As I stared in awed silence, I became a million-year-old tree frog, a pink-nosed Boto, a squirrel monkey, a seed pod so advanced it put NASA to shame. I mingled with the stars, the night so dark I reached up and pulled a planet into my lap. I asked it questions about its origins as it sparkled and nodded to its forest acquaintances. Or maybe I was just suffering the effects of the anti-malaria pills, known to give one strange dreams. No matter. The impact of that experience will rewrite my own history.

At the risk of sounding clichéd, I’m now hyperaware of how small I am, how much I don’t know, how an indigenous child understands more about life than I ever will, how pathetic the current US political situation is ‒ well, maybe I was already aware of that last one, but you get the idea.

Most importantly, I finally understand the line from ‘Desiderata’:

‘You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.’

I am changed. In this alien rainforest, the likes of which I’ve never seen, I realised something: I may still be an expat in a superficial, border-controlled manner. But as a being on this planet, I am home.

Image: author’s own

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It Takes More Than a Cheap Ticket

My_collection_of_passport_stamps

I recently heard a fellow expat say they couldn’t afford to renew their passport; therefore, they couldn’t go home for a family funeral. This struck me as sad on so many levels. Of course one should be able to attend a loved one’s funeral. Of course a passport should be an affordable document. Then I asked myself, why do we have to pay for a passport at all?

I did a little research. A United States passport costs $110. It costs $450 to renew a green card ‒ which needs to be done every ten years ‒ and a whopping $680 to get US citizenship once you qualify. A United Kingdom passport costs £72, more if you apply while in a different country. And you’d better sit down for the next one. It will set you back £1282 to get British citizenship once you qualify. That’s right, £1282 for one person. Can you imagine the cost for a family? And, that’s if there are no complications requiring legal assistance. Then there are the notarized copies of birth certificate fees, travel costs to interviews, photos of yourself fees … Well, I could go on and on.

Passport control Flickr

I know we have to save up for airline tickets and hotels and other travel expenses. These are luxuries I don’t take for granted. The financial ability to travel, or lack thereof, is something that will never be equitable. But if you are eligible for a document that proves you are who you are and entitled to live where you live, or entitled to travel across a border and back again, shouldn’t that document be accessible to all, regardless of income level?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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