Milan-zana

The Milanese journey south for their holidays and return to Milan on one particular day. This is apparently pretty famous, but no-one told me before I went. So. My journey from Umbria to Milan took ten hours. At least my presence seemed to have been entertaining for the crowds of traffic. It seems that the Italians are amazed by the sight of a girl, alone, in a small jeep, with right hand drive, singing and practising the ukulele in an Italian traffic jam. Children pointed, people waved.

I arrived and met with SST (on the left), who is to be my co-pilot and co-conspirator for the next eleven days. SST’s amazing friend Lucia  took us through the city, first to the Duomo and then to the area of Navigli, where we set about finding a place to sing for supper. 

Along the way we met with SJ and HD, who had spontaneously arranged a trip to Milan to watch my performance – and to eat immense Italian ice creams…

Unfortunately, in Italy, there is a performance tax called the Siae, which means that an impromptu concert is almost impossible. Almost, but not quite. Along the canal, we found Bar Straripa, and it’s charismatic owner, Marco. Marco is a musician himself and loved the idea of the project, but had his hands bound by the tax. If only you had a guitar, he said, you could play outside and then you just have to sign a paper saying you were passing by. Even though there was a beautifully tuned piano in the bar, apparently you can’t claim to be a by-passing pianist, as that would just be too logical for the authorities. 

Undefeated, Marco had another option. A quick phone call later, I was chatting to Cesare, who agreed to come and be my accompanist for the evening.

Cesare grew up with a love of music from his father, who throughout his life amassed a treasured collection of records so precious that as a youngster, Cesare was never allowed to touch them. Cesare has made his living for years in Milan as a blues and soul guitarist. He has long had a love affair with England, which began with music and grew into ‘fifteen days of terror and love’, where he met a ‘crazy, beautiful, British woman’, and accompanied her to London, only to find that her crazy ways were beautiful, but just too much.

Having eaten our fill of zucchini, prosciutto, ricotta, patatinas, carciofi, pollo  and melanzana, Cesare and I played to the Navigli evening crowd. We played blues, soul and jazz, we harmonised, we had so much fun – playing with such a good musician is always great. 

SST and HD joined us for a never-before-rehearsed-and-actually-surprisingly-really-bloomin-great-four-part-harmony-version of ‘My Girl’. The crowd loved it. 

At the end of the night, we snuck into the bar with Marco and played and sang on the piano (DON’T TELL THE AUTHORITIES!) before wending our way home to Lucia’s, singing all the way.

At lunch the next day with some more gorgeous friends of SST, I conceived the idea for the ‘sing for your supper cookbook’. At the end of the trip, I shall put up the recipes for all my favourite dishes, in order of the journey. If you decide to make any – just remember that Alberto and Vale’s ‘Milan-zane’ is the dish that started the idea.

In general, I didn’t love Milan as a city. Mainly, it is industrial and not entirely beautiful. But if you want to meet the amiable, enigmatic Cesare and the joyfully enthusiastic Marco, and to eat great food, drink cocktails and listen to music - go to Straripa and say I sent you. 

By Giove

There is a place, deep in the Umbrian countryside, at the top of a mountain. 

There is a bee farm and olive groves.

There is an artist, Marco, who is a classical guitarist and is also the bee farmer. 

There is a kind, gentle woman, Ornella, who writes poems about her friends. There is a sprightly woman, who cares for animals, known as Tinkerbell.  There are cats called Matisse and Dali. There is a ballet dancing man. This man is developing a philosophical system to use the waves of the financial markets to distribute money more freely and creatively in the world. 

There is a gallery, run by the most amazing people, where I performed amid an exhibition of dramatic photographic seascapes. The sound of the piano drifting through the gallery and out to the tiny street outside, made me very, very happy. 

After the performance, I was taken for my supper, to a pizzeria with this wonderful group of people. At this pizzeria, no ordering of food occurs. Instead, round after round of anti-pasta and pizzas were delivered to the table, only stopping eventually after a unanimous declaration of ‘Basta Così” (nothing more!).

Until very recently, there was a festival every year in the woods near Giove. People searching to confront their mortality and find some peace, came to be hung by hooks in their flesh and to swing from the trees. This process of mortification of the flesh, stems from religious zealots of the twelfth century. Ornella and Marco hosted some of the flagelants, tending their wounds with propolis from the bees and wishing them well on their way back to the cities. 

I have found this piece of writing quite tricky, and I don't really want to post it - I think what I really want to say, is that for someone who has lived in a world influenced by stories and fairytales, I have never been somewhere that so much feels as if I fell into a very magical, storybook world. The name of the village is Giove. In English this means Jupiter. I think that kind of sums it up for me. 

Zurich and The Alps

My journey to Zurich may have been the most frightening of my life. Gale force winds, driving rain. The tiny red jeep is blown across the autobahn and aquaplanes constantly. I am a shaking state upon arrival. Luckily, I have a reconnaissance with GW, who is at the start of his own European journey.

We set up a tent in the rain, at the most expensive campsite (although very beautifully situated) in the world. At the edge of

the lake, we eat local fish and drink wine, before the storm pours down further.

Zurich in the sun is, of course, much more beautiful. No gig here, so a day of tourism, not touring, instead, wandering through alleys of artisanal shops and galleries, before eating huge cakes at the oldest conditorei in the city and later, wurst at a tiny Metzgeri, where a jolly man asks if “yes, I really want a whole sausage?” Of course I do (that’s what she said).  

I also have fun drinking, ‘without hesitation’ at some of the city’s 500 water-fountains, because that is what the free guide book in a bar said I should do. 

As the rain starts once more, huddled over a beer in a place that used to be the oldest railway station in Zurich, I decide I can’t face a two hundred mile journey that night. Instead, GW and I hatch an ingenious plan…

Back at the campsite, we blithely tell the man in charge that we are leaving and drive out, round the corner and then back on ourselves to the public car park across the road. Stealthily, I park the tiny jeep in a space behind a bush. From there, we swap coats and I put on my glasses and a hat: a brilliant disguise, I’m sure you’ll agree. We lurk in the shadows for a while, before strolling, as nonchalantly as possible, through the gates to the end of the campsite, where we pitch the tent in the dark.  At six am we decamp and scramble up the bank, over the wall, back to the car park. I do my best to justify ‘stealing camping’ to myself by the fact that we were there for seven hours and didn’t use any electricity or hot water. Yep, no shower before a five hundred mile drive. Lovely. GW wanders to Salzburg and I and the jeep trundle off to Umbria.

Driving through the Alps, I am heartbroken by the beauty and can’t quite take it all in. By the time I am halfway into the mountains, the weather has changed – I have broken the stormfront – hurrah!

At ten am I do as mamma Maurer advised me to in Wallhalben. Just over the Italian border, I stop at the first Italian services and have a perfect espresso: 1euro, my heart leaps. The sign overhead tells me it is 30degrees. As I get to the first toll, the sultry young man in the booth leans towards me and says, “beautiful car”. I am in Italy. 

Wunderbar Wallhalben

Wallhalben is, I have discovered, the German equivalent to Co. Down (where my Northern Irish family home is). Why? It’s beautifully green with gentle landscapes and a bit of rain (at least when I was there), it’s famed for potatoes and dairy farming and, most importantly, its inhabitants are warm and wonderful as toast and fond of good food and good drink. I felt very much at home. Ok – so maybe in Co. Down I don’t swim in a pool at the top of a hill like I did in Wallhalben…

The Maurer family have been in this tiny village (900 inhabitants) for generations. Hans and Gertrude (either end of the photo below) were born here, at home, after their parents came to the village as a young couple. Hans grew up with the village, its life and its ways. He briefly lived elsewhere but he and his wife Ulla (next to Hans in the same photo) came back when they had children. They built a house at the top of the hill, from where you can see all of the surrounding area.

Maybe the best thing about Wallhalben, is the fact that it is very much ‘alive’ unlike similar villages in the area and indeed in Europe. There are working farms, shops, community; it isn’t merely a commuter nest. Oh, that and the amazing dialect, which of course I learned. Almost all the Germans I met had no idea where Wallhalben is. Those that know it told me I would have a hard time understanding anything. I had a crash course in Wallhalbenisch and will demonstrate this to anyone who cares to hear (and probably those who don’t as well). I think if it were English it would be a bit like Yorkshire or rural Northern Irish, fittingly.

What to tell about my visit? It was basically one big party. We ate: amazing slow cooked beef, dumplings, bratkartoffeln (like sautéed potatoes), four kinds of cake, ten kinds of cooked meats, cheeses, pickles, breads. We drank: Prosecco, beer, wine, whiskey - we had an amazing blind whisky tasting, that I and Christina (second from right at the back)  won. 

There was music - Christina is a friend of the Maurers’ and a soprano who sings classical and gospel music in choirs and with a group. We played together; German songs, English songs and American songs. (I forgot my music stand - of course - but our human music stand did a great job). I played solo also and then somehow ended up doing an acapella performance of Irish folk. Like I said, it really was like being at home. 

Little Wallhalben tales

Ulla took me on a wonderful walk, on which I found this little slow worm and sent him on his way with a cheery 'auf wiedersehen'. 

Wallhalben Area Emergencies


In Zweibrucken (the next town), on the morning I was in Wallhalben, the entire town was evacuated by the fire service because an unexploded WW2 bomb was found near the foundations of a school that was being built.


The fire service were also called to evacuate a street last year, not for a bomb, but for fruitflies. For an as yet unknown reason, a plague of the flies swarmed along just one street to the extent where it was unpassable. It didn't happen anywhere else, has never happened before or since. Scientists are apparently writing reports, humming and hahing about it. The fruit flies are long gone. 

Some More Leipzig Bits & Pieces

After a wonderful brunch with my Leipzig flatmates, I have tootled off to Wallhalben, but just wanted to share a few photos and a rather wonderful thing that I discovered...

Leipzig is, of course, famous for music: Bach, their Opera orchestra, the Leipzig Schule. There is, however, a non-orchestral instrument that has become fashionable in the city recently. I was told about it by a couple of people and was slightly incredulous. Then, as I walked through the park in the city centre, I stumbled on the following incredible scene.... (pause of a very long and frustrating while, whilst I attempt to upload my video, only to be foiled by the internet connection of the place I'm in, and the uselessness of certain software).

So, no video right now but please believe me when I say the scene I stumbled upon was this: four young men in suitably alternative dress, in a park, playing, in a hippy/trance fashion, drums and....bagpipes

Yes indeed, bagpipes are the choice of the alternative German. The best thing about it all is that in German, their name is doodle-sack (that's the correct pronunciation but I'm sure that isn't how it's spelled, though I will forever see it this way in my mind). Tickled me, somewhat. 

In other news, I seem to be following a storm-front around Europe. Rain is assaulting me wherever I roam, but since I bought my rather attractive 1euro umbrella, I don't mind. 

The Leipzig Circus

My Leipzig mitbewohner: Dan, Florian, Ina, Pauline, Denise, Matze. Apologies for the poor quality and the dearth of photos. I got carried away doing other things. 


Tonelli's Circus is a bar in Leipzig. It's Thursday. It's packed. (side note: I can't remember the rule about apostrophes. I am ashamed.) We go in through red velvet curtains. A bar maid shoots through the crowd like a hunting shark, delivering beer and whisking empty glasses away with deadly efficiency. 


It's open mic night. It is deliciously cheesy. The house band are totally, completely great. They smile as they accompany renditions of Evanessence - bring me to life, that Celine Dion song about love being like a rose, some German songs I don't know and many others. 


The open mic ends, the band have a break. I am the 'special guest' from England. I play with the band. We do meandering jazz versions of songs that we know and songs that we don't. I think at one point we forgot there was an audience. The night winds down. I sing 'Easy Like Sunday Morning' with a great girl who lives next door to the bar and so sings here often.  The band play a lot of Police tunes. We go home. Tonelli's at the end of the night: - 

Warsaw Continued....

The Konsofa Creators


This is Wojtek and Kathi. They met on the Erasmus programme when Kathi pointed out "The first Spanish guy we've seen" on the flight to Bilbao. It turned out he was Polish. Austrian artist Kathi (www.kathilackner.net) lives in Warsaw with Wojtek and is exhibiting work in Austria, Prague and Portugal this year. I was privileged to spend a night sleeping with her drawings; her work is beautiful, not simply exotic or interesting but delicate, intricate and somehow calming. 

Wojtek comes from Kolna and is a sociologist, musician, local historian and possibly local mafia boss. I'm joking  about the last fact but I don't know how much...it all got a bit Carlito's way at times - sidelongs glances and handshakes with men playing cards at tables, hidden bars and respectful nods from various sources....


Ten years ago,Wojtek came to spend the summer in England. He spent his first week sleeping in a local park, sometimes camping, sometimes sleeping under the stars. On his seventh night, a man on horseback woke him, quickly followed by several security guards, to inform him that he had been illegally camping in Kew Gardens. Brilliant. He then moved to Dorset and worked the summer out at a fish and chip restaurant, after winning the respect of the locals by foiling a local bicycle thief by running after him and shouting at him in very uncertain English. 


The Crisis of The Cross

Earlier this year, very tragically, 96 government officials died in a plane crash. Scouts placed a remembrance cross in front of the Presidential palace. People started to pray there. After a few months, officials started to question what might happen to the cross. So started one of the biggest secular/religious arguments in recent Polish history. This became a debate, which led to protests and is now on the verge of being a political crisis. 


People stand before the cross praying, some claiming it has cured illnesses or given them healing powers. Others stand with radios or chanting in opposition to the prayer. Local, national, and now international news crews, are filming public opinion. Tourists are flocking to the sight to take pictures with either side. Politicians are involved (always dangerous). When local priests came to move the cross to the church around the corner, the supporters of the cross called them satanists and the priests left, cassocks between their heels. Is a WWF match between state and church called for? The latest protest is "Tear down the palace, it obscures the view of the cross!" No-one is currently sure what will happen...

East Meets West


Lars (the one pointing) grew up in East Germany. A late night  chat with him led to a huge revelation re: the biggest change in the joining of East and West. I asked this question to Micha in Hamburg and when I asked Lars the same question in Warsaw, his answer was the same and even more emphatic. How did life change, what was the biggest difference for those from the East after the fall of communism?

Strawberry Yoghurt.

Do not underestimate the importance of sweet dairy goods (I rarely do, having eaten ice-cream in every place I've been to). Lars told me that, after the fall of the wall, every time his father opened a strawberry yoghurt, he would peel back the lid, sigh, and say, "The Revolution was worth it." Muller, Dr Oethker, Onken, Danone - you are the face of the new world.


Children's Revolution - part 2


What do you do when you grow up as a child with an unquestioning view of authority and the state, then you discover that it is intrinsically human and hugely fallible? Use it. At the start of the Gulf war, children and teenagers in former East Germany started a spontaneous school protest and strike against the war. It started in one school where the children simply left and marched to the next school. Lars remembers hearing voices outside the classroom shouting to come out, so he and his entire school joined the protest. The teachers, having been so recently disrupted by the conflicting information around the fall of the wall, were helpless and confused. Many did nothing, some simply went home so that they were not considered culpable. 


Short Short Bits & Pieces

The Bears


They live in the park. There are three. They don't have names (except those that they call themselves). I really liked them. 


Goldilocks


Goldilocks came out of the woods after her encounter with the bears. Along the Polish highway, near the German border, girls emerge from the woods, with some money, after encounters of a different sort. 


Chopin's Bench 


In the middle of Warsaw is  a small bench. When you sit on it, it plays Chopin. The bench is black marble, the recording is midi. 


Old Town New Town. 

Here is a photo of the old town. But it is actually the new town. The old town got bombed. They built an exact reproduction in it's place. Pretty much straight away. Then they built a new town as well. Recently there is also a new part of the city called 'New World'. So Warsaw consists of Old town Old Town, Old town New Town, New Town and New World. At least, that's how I understood it. 

I'll Take You To A Hidden Place


This was my favourite bar in Warsaw. To get to it, you walk through an abandoned car park and a warehouse. There are a few places like this. If you don't know where they are, you will, quite simply, never find them. 




The Vodka Project


Brendan Jackson is an artist and a friend of Wojtek's. He is travelling around, seeing Poland through the bottom of (several) vodka bottles. His blog is great.


Warsaw


I will come back here. I love it. I learned five Polish phrases. The language sounds amazing, like Russian crossed with French or Italian and a wee bit of Germanic tint thrown in for good measure. 
 I am on my way to Leipzig now. In one day. 465 miles. I feel pretty hardcore. Wooooooop.  

Bits and Pieces - Berlin to Warsaw

It's been a few days without internet so I have some catching up to do, But before I start, just a quick note about  people. Last night in Warsaw I was fed the most incredible supper of baked fish stuffed with almonds, garlic and herbs, 

before playing a gig to an amazing group of people, who then fed me excellent Polish vodka. We talked long into the night, until the point where they got up to leave to stay elsewhere because they had given up their bed for me to stay in! 


In Berlin previously, I stayed in the amazing apartment of a girl who I have never met, who wasn't even there but simply gave me her keys. Before that in Hamburg, I was treated not exactly like a princess (I don't think princesses are allowed to laugh so much or get so drunk) but certainly hosted with charm, grace and excellent food (and drink). In Rotterdam, Renia - another total stranger, gave up her time, her space and was warm and welcoming beyond belief. I am blown away by the way people are inviting me into their lives. If your faith in human nature and society ever falters, simply wander off and throw yourself upon the kindness of strangers. Even the slightly strange lady who worked at the campsite in Wrzsenia ( I camped one night so far) was jolly lovely. Hurrah to you all. 


So, Berlin. Seems like a long while ago now...I love Berlin and as ever, had an amazing time there. Intersoup is a great place, very Berlin; cosy, kitsch and cooler than I'll ever be. Here would be a picture of their soup, but I ate it too quickly -  I hope you can tell it was ace. 



 The gig was  funny, brilliant and surreal - a hot Saturday night  in a basement playing to a handful of people who were a very interactive audience. Ray the Australian told me some interesting forays into the world of Berlin bureaucracy (sorry Germans, you know I love you and I hate to reinforce stereotypes but his 
tale will make it into a song as it made me laugh a lot.) He also sang me some of his own, spontaneous, fake Italian opera, fabulous. 






The highlight of the night though, was this comment from beautiful Danish actress Katrin, who was on holiday with her boyfriend - I think it might be the biggest compliment ever:
 I make pregnant women feel drunk.
 I have achieved. 


I then moved on to Wrzesnia.
I stuck a cyberpin into Googlemaps halfway between Berlin and Warsaw, and this is where I found. 

Through the joy of the internet and satellite navigation I found  a hidden campsite (there are signs on all the main roads to it, which then stop as you reach the final, vital directions). Super cheap and with a small open air communal area, the woman at the desk, after first looking a mite suspicious, then agreed that it would be a lovely idea if I played some songs in the evening. Alas, this was not to be. Having wandered to the town centre, I experienced the biggest thunder and lightning storm I have ever been in. No photos, as I was hidden for a while under big beer umbrellas in the town square, and then engaged in the process of dodging from shelter to shelter on the way back to my tent (after my fingers went blue). Hatches were battoned, shelter was taken.


 Post storm the next day, I continued my wanderings. There is a huge photographic project taking place in Wrzesnia.

 Outside in the square, pictures taken by Franciszek Wlosik show the town in the early 1900's. I love the 'tache of the man in the front row (reminds me of Hamburg) and the disapproving look of the woman in black. 


In the local museum, I met Ewa, the curator. Inside the museum gallery, photographers have been invited to exhibit pictures that show aspects of the town. Ewa is standing next to her favorite picture - a photograph of the house of a man who had decided to sell televisions. They are lined up outside his house like dominos. As Ewa said, she finds it not the most beautiful, but the most interesting scene from this picturesque town with some darker moments in it's history....



Historical fact of the day? Wrzesnia is the place of the children's revolution. Ewa told me this and I love the story. In 1901, under Prussian rule, children were supposed to be taught in German, including religious instruction. The children of the school in Wrzesnia got together and refused to take classes in German, even when they were physically beaten by the authorities. The strike then spread to other neighbourhoods and lasted until 1904. In 1908 a film was made of the strike by French film makers - who referred to the children as 'The Polish Martyrs' (though none of them died from the beatings). 


Ewa's own story of Wzresnia is much more beautiful. Her love for the town is so evident, in her speech and in the care with which she showed me around. She moved away once and felt like she had to come back, to 'her' town. As the museum curator, she has a responsibility to the preservation of the town's history and she does this with pride.  Her own son is now growing up in this place that she loves - although he is not a revolutionary (so far!) 




Onward, onward through traffic jams aplenty (Small rant coming, skip if you like). TRAFFIC. I may never drive again, the guilt is too immense. Through three countries in Europe I keep seeing almost empty cars, roadworks widening autobahns and autostradas to fit in more empty cars, traffic in every direction and people just ignoring what it means. I don't know how else I could have taken a piano, PA, ukulele, tent, camping equipment, clothes, food etc around Europe but if sitting in all this traffic makes me think, then surely some of the people in cars around me must be considering their transport methods too? Buy a bike, take a train, get a pair of skates. I love the tiny jeep, and I did research that it was better than flying, but this is a one off. Back to public transport in blighty. Sorry. But I do feel better now... and so to......

WARSAW! 

Warsaw, you have earned your capital letters and bold font, mainly due to my unbloominbelievably brilliant hosts, Kathi and Wojtek, seen above with friends Lars and Julia. I have already mentioned the brilliant food, fun and music that we shared. What I don't quite know how to start with is the stories I heard from them. Maybe I will take this photo as a starting point to tell you about them individually...

But not tonight as I have no more internet time or energy. Instead - deal with the unbearable anticipation with a picture of a Polish bear. (I'm really sorry about the pun. Honestly.)