Foreign Territory

2010-03-18T10:09:00.000+01:00

little braveries

2010-03-04T14:00:00.000+01:00

There are little things that you never pay attention to in daily life. They are walking to work, or to the store or into wonderous nature. We wander all the time and rarely to we take note of what we are doing.

We begin to pay attention to the little things when the little things become a big task that requires a trace amount of bravery. When does buying milk or going for a walk in the woods require bravery you ask?

The simple things become huge when you are in a foreign country, when you do not speak the language, when you have no idea which way is East, West, up, down, home.

I am in Denmark, in Odense to be specific. Denmark is completely flat with a few hills, there are no landmarks in which to mark your starting or ending point of wanderings. Danish is not a language an American can just pick up and decipher. I would wager a large sum of money on the fact that:
1) most Americans have never heard a Danish word in their life.
2) Most Americans don’t really know where Denmark is.

So here I am, visiting my man, and trying to fit in, which I don’t think will ever happen so I am actually trying more not to stand out like a beacon of foreignness flashing insecurity and timidness.

It takes a little bravery, and acting “as if”. I went to the grocery store called Bilka the other day. I have been here a few times, with Niels, but yesterday I went alone. I can’t stand being totally dependent upon him for every little thing, so I sucked it up and went alone.

I acted as if I knew exactly what I was doing, where I was going and pretended that I too, like any normal Danish person, could read the ingredients on the labels of food. It was awesome! In my mind I kept practicing : undskyld Jeg tale ikke Dansk, which aptly means, sorry I can’t speak Danish.

I didn’t even need to say those words. For 80% of communication is body language, and I found myself surrounded by a people I could actually understand. Moms, friends, lovers, buying milk, bread, not really noting what they were doing.

On my walk home I felt proud, and yes…a little more brave than I did when I woke up that morning.

Today’s adventure…to be decided.

Weapon of Choice

2009-12-22T19:54:00.000+01:00

There is nothing worse than missing an opportunity that could have changed your life. There is nothing worse than wondering, “what if.” There is nothing worse than dwelling on the past and fretting about the future; while life cruises right past you. It is easy to lose yourself in the concern of what you haven’t done and what may or may not come to pass, and we are all guilty of doing this.

In my experience when an opportunity presents itself I am immediately faced with a dilemma: I have to make a decision, I have to choose between two things. I say it is a dilemma because unfortunately for me, I am not psychic, I cannot foresee the outcome my choice will create, and so I am instantly in a state of indecision. Oh what to chose? How do I know if I am doing the right thing? Is this good or bad, right or wrong? AAAAAKKKKK what if? What if this works? What if this does not work? What if.

Being in that state of mind is immobilizing and I become so wrapped up in the “what ifs” that I take no action at all…and eventually…lose the opportunity. How awful.

Fortunately as I am gaining years on my life I have become a bit wiser as well. I have learned that what Theodore Roosevelt said is true. He said, “In the moment of decision the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing you can do is the wrong thing, and the worst thing your can do is nothing.” Regardless of right or wrong, and what if, I must make a choice and stick with it. I’ve learnt that personal responsibility, with a grain of confidence, is a beautiful hidden form of freedom waiting to be unleashed.

I may be stating the obvious but don’t you always feel better after you have made a choice and decided to stick with it? I do. I feel free, free from the mind babble that had been warping my thoughts with their silly ‘what ifs’. I also feel more confidant as the, ‘this might be wrong’ thought slowly slips away to be replaced by the ‘who cares, I am going for it’ thought.

“You are the person who has to decide. Whether you’ll do it or toss it aside; you are the person who makes up your mind. Whether you’ll lead or will linger behind. Whether you’ll try for the goal that’s afar, or just be contented to stay where you are.”- Edgar A. Guest.

The lesson to be learnt is choice. Making a decision with confidence and choosing one instead of another takes practice, it does become easier. Choice is a tool of power when used with confidence…even the tiniest amount, and when you make a choice with confidence and stick to it, those opportunities that require decisions become less daunting. You start to realize that you, yourself, are the cause of life changing occurrences, not the opportunity. That is the beauty, the freedom, and the weapon, of choice.

Self Rightous Gardening

2009-11-07T06:54:00.000+01:00

Self gratification is not allowed in society. It is deemed egotistical and uncomfortable to speak of oneself with pride and praise. I have often found myself among a group of people and when one person speaks of their own great quality or accomplishment every other person there: rolls their eyes, shifts their feet uncomfortably, and raises an eyebrow so high it disappears, or shoots the speaker down verbally.

We joke about it and tease anyone who thinks highly of themselves and tell them that, well, they are full of themselves. We cannot wait to bring them back to a level where we believe humility exists. We do it out of spite and without self-confidence whether we are aware of it or not. In many countries this is known as the Tallest Poppy Syndrome.

The Tallest Poppy Syndrome is essentially the tallest poppy in the field being mowed down because it is the most eye catching. When we relate this to humans it is to attack and cut down visibly successful/happy/confident people.

We are all a part of this sunshine robbery. It is human nature to point out flaws and faults in others, we do it so as to feel better about ourselves. It is like we are hard wired to judge one another, it is in the genetic make up of our beings and there is nothing for it. How disgustingly average of us to stifle the growth of another living creature, physically, mentally, spiritually you name it.

Is society giving us mixed messages? You bet! We are told to reach for the stars, to go for gusto, encouraged to succeed! Only, don’t talk about your accomplishments after you have achieved your greatest dreams because people will think you have a big head and are totally into yourself. And, of course, if you do not succeed, well, you are a loser like the rest of us so don’t worry; those people who make it big in life suck anyway.

Excuse me?

We have to justify our good fortune constantly. It cannot be enough that I have a good job; I have to explain that I have worked hard for it, and it hasn’t always been easy for me, blah blah blah. Is it ever socially acceptable to gush about how great we are? Four out of five say no. What a bummer. We want to feel good about ourselves and I really do think that most of us want others to feel good about themselves too.

I propose a challenge: Don’t be the tallest poppy. Be the towering Redwood.

For an entire week: only speak about yourself in the positive, speak about your amazing qualities, how great you are and everything you have accomplished. Take it a step further and only speak about others in a positive way, about their amazing qualities and how great they are. When someone is spouting off about their awesomeness, jump on their wagon and agree with them that they rock!

You might just discover how good this makes you yourself feel…and how much less energy you expend when you give praise rather than dragging someone down. So all you poppies out there, put down your axes and put a little love in the soil.

You might just be able to break your criminal record of happiness theft and be charged with the gift of gratitude.

Art Imitating Life

2009-10-30T05:58:00.000+01:00

I often toe the line between making the right impression on others and being true to who I am. When we travel we are routinely surrounded by new people and new situations. I find that these habitual and nouveau experiences open the wonderful opportunity to become a highly skilled artist of the impressionist kind.

You know the saying, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”? Well, it’s true, we all want to do what the locals do but I believe that, given the chance, most of us fall along the lines of, “when in Rome, do whatever the hell you want to do.” When you land in a new country, city, town, you don’t know anyone or anything and suddenly you realize that you can be anyone you want to be.

Enter the artist. Impressionism was a 19^th century art movement in which radical artists broke the rules of academic painting. Impressionism was a different way of seeing. It was an art of immediacy with an emphasis on the ever changing qualities of the subject. I read about Impressionism on Wikipedia and applied what it said about painting to the life that surrounds me. It got me thinking that I, and many I know, are quite like the Impressionists of the 19^th century. But instead of painting a canvas we paint ourselves.

Our magnum opus encompasses our appearance, speech, thought, actions and personal history, and we create it on-the-spot in any given country, town, or situation. The best thing about my impressionistic attitude or façade is that, unlike the painting, mine is not a permanent canvas, it is simply who I am today, in this county, and around these people. I can start all over tomorrow should I so desire.

Which, in turn, leads me to ponder this: by painting who I am on each new occasion, am I still Gentiana? Or am I pretending to be something else so I integrate successfully with who and what I am environed by?

I think that we all have a little bit of personality impressionism in us. After all, there are very real situations in which we must act and present ourselves in a certain and defined way. It may not be who we are, but we do it for the betterment of all involved.

Every person has many personalities within them; it all pertains to our likes and dislikes, jobs, hobbies, and social tendencies. By day I am Gentiana a Work New Zealand coordinator who lives and works in the big smoke (Auckland, NZ), by night I am Gentiana a book lover who can’t wait to spend time outside in the Wops (Nature). Sometimes I pretend I am from Scotland, sometimes I am an intellectual, and sometimes I am a mystic, I like reggae today but tomorrow I might abhor it. I can do and be whoever the hell I want cause I am in a different country.

Some people know me as Gentiana or G, others know me as Tiana or T. Some people do not even realize the connection and have no idea who I am if I say they name they are not accustomed to hearing.

The point is, in some way or another I have made a different impression on everyone I come into contact with. I change to suite a situation because I can. And, all those various impressions I create are really just the pieces of the puzzle that when combined create the whole canvas that is me.

2009-10-04T09:10:00.000+02:00

There is a man in a wheelchair surrounded by grandchildren. He has a shock of white hair cut in military fashion now growing out. His glasses reflect the dim light and every time he turns his head the glass darkens a shade protecting his eyes from the overcast sunlight breaking through the the windows of this otherwise shady place.

Its a shady bar both literally and metaphorically that I sit in. The Aviators Club located in Denver International Airport does a roaring trade in liquor sales on any given day, but there is really only one reason that patrons come here; to have a cigarette. In all of my travels, through a slew of airports, DIA may be the last to have a bar where a weary traveller can light up.

Many people are sipping beer, wine or spirits, many are like me, fiddling with a straw in a cup of soda. Half have a smoke dangling from their lips the other half have their hands on a lighter and are eyeing up their pack sitting on the round bar table in front of them debating on weather to light up another one. Should I have one more? How long till I board? Can I be strong and wait? Meaningless questions a smoker asks themselves when we know ultimately that, we will, indeed light up and have another one before the final boarding call.

DIA is my ninth airport on a trip halfway around the world. I used to call it my local airport but feel that way no more. It has been 18 months since I wandered this terminal. Many things have changed, most are the same. It is still an enormous tent in the plains of Eastern Colorado.

The wheelchair man's grandson has put on a Davey Crocket raccoon cap and is giggling with his little brother who swings on and off his high bar chair animatedly talking to his mum. And just like that they depart. Young Davey Crocket pushes pops out the door for their final boarding call leaving the round bar table empty, straws protruding from the soda cups.

Denver. The mile high city.

I came from New Zealand, I landed in LA. La bores me terribly and I look upon it with the smugness of one

who lives in beauty, sleeps in beauty, breathes beauty. I look upon LA with disgust. I had to spend the night there and my skin crawls with the memory of it. I flew onto Seattle, home of great coffee and alternative everything

. Too bad I only had two hours to kill. Two hours to wait drinking a chai latte in a non smoking airport. I passed my time with a bag of Boulder Crisps- salt and vinegar flavoured and the Rubik's cube my boyfriend gave to me. I don't drink coffee when I am flying, even the best coffee.

I sat enthralled with my multi coloured cube until all six sides were their proper colours and the boarding line around me grew. I put the cube down triumphantly and a Danish man smiled and said, "Wow, very good!" I asked him if he wanted to have a go at it. "No" he politely declined, satating it would take him 10 years to figure it out. Final boarding call, so I joined the line for SAS flight 925 non-stop to Copenhagen.

Nine hours, 45 minutes, four bad movies, two crappy meals and two glasses of red wine later we were on our final descent into Denmark. I drink red wine when I am flying but only on an overnight flight, even it its shitty red wine.

Denmark: "Once upon a time" comes to mind here. Once upon a time the biggest country full of seafaring, adventurous and waring vikings. Once upon a time Hans Christian Anderson was a wee boy wandering the streets of Odense unaware of the billions of children he would help send off to sleep with his stories. "Once upon a time" still exists in Denmark. The city and landscapes come from a story book page. The country appears to have been written by a master story teller. I was a character wandering its pages side by side with my love. Our romantic fairytale but a paragraph in the epic novel of this Northern nation.

One week later we caught a train to arrive back in Copenhagen at 3 am. Nothing in the airport was open so we sat on cold concrete and waited for 3 hours without a chai latte, with the comfort of each others presence for the airport to open. Three hours and 30 minutes later we were browsing duty free shops and a further 40 minutes after that we had our final boarding call. Guten Morgen und Willkommen on board. One cup of tea later we were in Berlin.

We quickly deciphered the German boards and walked outside, up stairs and back inside. Final boarding call for Air Berlin flight 208 to Bonn/Cologne. Only 20 minutes later we were once again deciphering German instructions to buy bus tickets.

Into the city and across the river and into the town center. Bonn, you either live on the light side or the dark side of the city. The river splits the city in two. My friend lives on the dark side and laughs because the dark side gets more sunlight than the light side. She gives us her apartment and insists on staying with a friend. One night she takes us to a Spanish tapas bar. There is me, my love, my friend, a set of twins and one other. Our waitress moves us to a table reminiscent to the last supper because we have ordered so much food. My love is the only boy, the conversation throughout the night is hysterical, he gets such great insight into the feminine mind.

We are on the bus and the driver has short changed me by 5 Euros. Its no big deal and my love asks for the correct change. The driver asked him if we are true and honest. My love assures him that we are indeed true and honest. The driver does not believe him but gives him the 5 Euros anyway. I am now in a sulky mood for the duration of the ride to the airport. I cannot stand for anyone, even a stranger, to think of me as dishonest.

We are in the check-in lane for our flight when a frantic wife cuts us off. It is her final boarding call to Naples. She waves her husband forward and they check their single black suitcase. Then they have to check their umbrella as well. Umbrellas are not allowed on planes. I like to think that this is becuse of the superstition against opening an umbrella inside, what if it accidentally opened?! Bad luck. I do not like to think that an umbrella is not allowed on a plane for fear it might be used as a weapon by a frantic wife trying to get to Naples.

Gutentag. We check our single black suitcase and proceed to customs. I have a coffee, even though I do not drink coffee when I fly, and my love has a sandwich. It's shitty coffee. We ponder playing in the kids ball pool but decide against it and instead sit in front of the big windows and make fun of people who wear sunglasses inside. Final boarding call for Tui Fly to Berlin.

A bottle of water I paid 4 Euros for and one lollipop later and we are back in Berlin. My friend is there to greet us. Her fiance points and me and my love, he laughs out loud and gestures wildly, acknowledging the foot and a half height difference between us.

Berlin. Where history is recent and you can straddle a brick land that once was a wall, that once stood announcing a city divided. Our personal tour guides brought us to all the hot spots. The Wall. Checkpoint Charlie. The Wall. Brandenburg Gate, the museums, the Holocaust Memorial, the beer gardens, The Wall.

The Wall is unavoidable. It is in our lifetimes, we remember it. She grew up on the east side. He grew up on the west side. East Berlin had rough toilet paper and absurdly cheap beer, but only in the eyes of a West German.

Our last night we went to a Schnitzelei, snizzel my schnitzel, dinner was the biggest schnitzel I ever laid eyes on. It was delicious, so were the bauermachen cocktails to wash it down. Berliners are a happy people and they feel they can once again be a proud people.

We say our goodbyes with promises to see each other again soon. My love and I are through security and watch the TV above us. There is a commercial that begins with a pro skier skiing down streets, slaloming through parking meters and cars, when he comes to a halt the skier has turned into an Audi. Very German, but filmed in San Fransisco, the marketing company did not edit out the American Flags, or the California license plates. We've eaten 3 packets of Haribo Gummi Bears, its the final boarding call to take us back to Copenhagen.

Air Berlin is a great airline. They still give you tea and cookies for free, even on an hour long flight. Once landed we go down the escalators to the train stop. We do not have allocated seats this time and as it is not the 1 am train there are a lot more people on board. The train takes longer and makes more stops but I get to see the Danish countryside by daylight once again.

For the next two and a half weeks I am fully immersed in the Danish sticks, small villages and a couple of cities. My character gaining a greater presence in the book, travelling here and there. I meet my loves' grandmother. She speaks no English but handed me an atlas of flowers and I knew she was asking me to show her the flower I was named for. She lives in one of the oldest cities in Denmark, it is charming and full of a character of its own with a twist of mystery that only really old cities seem to have.

I love Denmark and I am even more in love with my love. I do not want to leave and wonder what events I would put into motion if I simply refused to go to the airport and catch the plane.

I go to the airport. My love and I do not understand the self check-in kiosks and are sent to speak with someone at the counter, "Yes, one passenger, one bag" I buy and absurdly overpriced soda water and we go sit outside in the sun. I hold his hand, and he holds mine, I like they way our fingers fit together. I want to cry but fight back the tears. We make a plan for a 'hot date' at Christmas time.

Time. Its time.

We are at the bottom of the escalator below security. I am still wondering what if I just do not get on the plane. My eyes are burning and I can't let go of my love, I don't want to wait until Christmas. His eyes must be burning too because he is crying. I am crying. "I love you". "To the stars and back". I am going up the escalator. I give the man my passport. They all look at me with a mixture of pity and alarm because the tears will not stop. I am in my gate and an asked by the airline attendant if I wouldn't mid being moved as I am travelling alone.

There are international newspapers, I grab a couple but do not read them. I look in my bag and see my Rubik's cube, and a black softball cap with DK in red embroidered on it. It is my loves, given to me after the promise that I would not wear it everyday and hide my beautiful hair. I go to the bathroom. I come back. I have his sweatshirt too, from the Danish Softball team world championships in Canada in 2005. I hold it close, it still smells like him. Final boarding call for this afternoons flight non-stop to Washington DC.

Two really bad movies, two average meals, and one lovely conversation with an old Swedish lady later and I arrive in the land of the free, the capital city of the most powerful nation in the world with two hours and 40 minutes to spare. Airport personal shout at all passengers which lines we should be in, those of us in transit and those who are locals. The old Swedish lady is rolled passed my in a wheelchair and I half envy her for being at her final destination. I pick up my bag and declare my worldly possessions, am told "welcome home" and then shoved off into another security line. I am back in the terminal with two hour to kill.

My gate is D5, the smoking lounge is D56 "it is a very long walk" I am assured by the Asian American airport info man. I've got the time, I will walk it. Its a room with vents. I light up immediately and smile at the woman across from me, she tells me this smoking room is much better than the one at C4 and offers me half of her beer.

I asked myself the question every smoker does, "should I have another? Do I have time?" I had another smoke and began the walk past 51 gates to my own, stopping to buy water and pretzels as I belatedly remembered that airlines in the US no longer serve you food. I sat down and took my loves sweatshirt out of my bag, it still smells like him so I inhale deeply. Final boarding call for flight UA973 to Denver.

Denver. The mile high city. Three and a half hours drive to home in the mountains. I am almost there, almost. I see my dad, he doesn't look much different, maybe a bit more frail. We overnight at a motel and the next morning I drink coffee, lots of it, I am not flying so its okay. I eat a bagel with butter and cream cheese and stare at the two, no, five obese Americans in the dining room.

Me and dad go to see my grandmother; she is tiny and does not hear very well, she is 92 and looks bored with her living arrangements with my uncle, his wife and their daughter and her children. She loves me and I her, I have long believed myself to be her favourite grandchild.

I insist on driving home from grandmas house. I love to drive. I always honk when I pull into the driveway and mom is there waiting for me.

The Roaring Fork Valley: home to Aspen, the playground for the rich and famous, home to Basalt the town where the millionaires moved when the billionaires pushed them out of Aspen. My home. My mountains. It is the same, and it is different. I am a bit of a stranger here now, but I am okay with that. I am here for mom and dad and the mountains. My spirit recharges, I reconnect, I rest, I talk to my love everyday and tell him about what he will see someday. I take long walks with my mom and I talk about my travels.

I am in Aspen looking at the runway and the private jets. I am saying "see you soon" because I cannot say "goodbye". I am through security in 30 seconds. I see a friend from high school and we catch up on ten years and say we will find each other on Facebook. On the plane and in the air for a very bumpy ride in a very small aircraft. Six songs on my Ipod later and I am back in the mile high city. I feel moderately ill so I go for a BLT and a Pelligrino from a restaurant called Por Le France. Good food settles the stomach. Two hours to kill and I think the Aviator's Club may still exist, so I head there to have a smoke and do some people watching before I fly to San Francisco and run through the airport to catch my plane to New Zealand.

The Aviator's Club is open, I walk in and grab a seat at the round bar table and light up an American Spirit ciggy. I am staring at a man in a wheelchair when a voice asks me what I want to drink.

"Soda water with bitters please"

I like to drink soda water with bitters before I fly.