Meanwhile, over in Milan.

It was the Sunday evening of a springtime weekend elapsed in the beautiful north of Italy, yet one which was spent entirely within the sprawling concrete metropolis of Milan. A place where beauty is less apparent than the nearby hills of greens and blues that roll down from the snow-capped Alps to send all to states of utter tranquility. Yet it does exist here, we learnt, it remains safe of city-induced asphyxiation, you just have to find it.

Carlos and I had landed two days earlier and an hour late. Our delay prompting us to wait for Harry to land on his around-the-world flight from Manchester via Budapest (or somewhere else of random note) and take the opportunity for our first espresso in the arrival hall; what it is about Italy that is so conducive to a short black I'll never know (Ed – it’s when in Rome syndrome), there's something about ordering an espresso from Starbucks that doesn't quite work, saving even for the fact they only serve coffee flavoring, it just doesn’t feel right. In fact we would have had time to sip a grande chai frappucino, should it have existed and not ruled blasphemy of the highest order, as Harry had been legging it around the wrong terminal looking for us and would need another hour still to join us in T2. With our own delay rendered completely meaningless - he should have just met us in the city - it was near midnight when we eventually reached our final destination: hostel Zebra.

Hostel Zebra, rest assured, wasn’t the original plan. It was decided upon for its 24-hour bar facility while we were bored and restless in the check-in queue at Luton Airport. We had met a fellow weekend-tripper having had her shouting at us in stark Australian, as well as to someone who could apparently tolerate it through the cushion of a telephone, that Zebra was defo the best and where she was staying because, actually, like, her cousin could no longer let her stay at the apartment because she was still stuck in Thailand. Naturally, we discarded my earlier booking at the sweet Italian family albergo with nice coffee and breakfast and loving and trusting ‘no need to pay a deposit, just pay on arrival’ and ‘can I just confirm your booking for the third time, ah yes, good, we still have the rooms for you, we can’t wait to see you later today’ temperament, naturally.

It ticked over into Saturday morning by the time we had checked-in and were ready to get back out. On London time we knew we had, probably, about 59 minutes left to have fun before everyone’s told to go home. Armed with local advice we flew past the promising sight of the hostel bar and pool table, albeit in slightly damp surroundings, and hailed a taxi for Colonne di San Lorenzo.

We arrived beneath an old roman archway propped by antiquated columns that circled out around a darkly lit square in front of us.  In the centre of the square sat a faded cherubic fountain. To the right, the shadow of a cathedral that looked almost abandoned in the soft light lent an ominous air over the scene. It was wild. There were people everywhere. Scattered in clusters among the Roman ruins that littered the square and spilling out into the nearby bushes and streets and any of the heaving hole-in-the-wall bars and by-day restaurants in close proximity, they drank and smoked, they sat, stood, danced, clapped, sang. At first we thought it was a music festival but we soon noticed there wasn't any music playing- nothing. at. all... Just a typical Friday night for the Milanesi.

It was quintessential Italy, quintessential Europe. There they were out in their public spaces, drinking and laughing and socialising, no one was even drunk despite the cheap alcohol, yet everyone was more animated than an English pub in the throes of a 2pm happy hour. London time was gone. We had crossed the channel and reached the place where everything’s better; the weather, the drinks, the coffee, the food, I won’t go on for fear of being taken for a turncoat. We bought from one of the many hole-in-the-wall bars that spilled into the square and found some space on the piazza floor to kick-off.

The locals stunned, or rather, were stunning. Had any one of them returned with us across the channel they would have be praised and worshipped as the epitome of beauty upon arrival. Heralded as some rare commodity to remind us what ‘in full health’ actually looks like and that thick, dense bronzing agent does not in any way mirror the effect of that thing you see in pictures called the sun (note, I do not refer to the The Sun). Yet among their Italian peers, these flawless Dorian’s of Grey are adjudged simply as “cute”.

Next morning, late and in a slight daze, we rose to see the full European sun beating down upon the city. We walked aimlessly through the maze of wide and long streets leading to harsh fascist architectures on a grey scale not unlike a London sky. Milan comes under frequent criticism from the touring masses for its lack of beauty. Therein exists the great irony of being the fashion capital of Europe as tourists come to eye off the superficial splendor; they come and glance and leave with the city’s richest veins and most precious ores left untapped.

The grand architecture itself is something to behold. Monuments of exquisite vision such as Il Duomo, Centrale, Porta Sempione, Cimitero Monumentale, the list goes on. These are recognised landmarks in their own right and lend added grandeur to the city which one, especially being of Australian and palpably unhistorical origins, finds easily captivating. Lasting rewards for handling centuries of dispute resolution; of church and state, of left and right and of affording accommodation to the men who decided they wanted everything. Coming from an island on the other side of the world, where everything was sorted for us, like a Gloria Jeans (that's Australian for Starbucks) franchisee seeing the boardroom of the head office where things were once thrashed out, it is exhilarating in a glad-you-ironed-out-the-kinks-first kind of way.

Now, arriving at the great fortress, the coliseum of football that is the San Siro, and fascist icon if ever there was one, we remembered that we were actually here with an objective. It was Derby day. The grounds around us teemed with blue and red enlivening the city’s palette. A thunderous crack of a firework echoed around the inside of the stadium. Followed by a roar which felt even louder. The ultras were calling. We raced to get inside. A year on, I'd returned.

Giuseppe Meazza

I lent against the cheap white plastic bar that supported my espresso and sugar by tiny plastic cup (for one euro; as is usually the case in this country - grazie italia!). At one end, past the row of like-minded enthusiasts tending own little white cups, sat a glorious -- shining -- industrial-size espresso machine. There was very little else around the bar or the entire vast, faded and grayed expanse. I stood there, on the concrete walkway 10 storeys up, looking out across the orange lit gates crowded with black coats and scarves sporting hints of blue, over the long queues at the ticket offices, past the endless ocean of cars and vespas fitted into every conceived crevasse of what was probably a quiet neighbourhood cul-de-sac by day, and into the early evening darkness that illuminated the clustered lights of the sprawling Milan city centre.

‘The fish! the fish!’, a middle-aged smoky Italian man is shouting as he grabs my shoulder. His eyes squinting with laughter, checking I’m thoroughly entertained by this idea. 

I stared back at him blankly; he couldn’t speak English, nor I Italian, after all.

He pointed down toward the pitch cupping his hand while waving his arm in and out, as if to motion a fish swimming through the sea, ‘Nagamoto! the fish!’.

I grinned at the old bastard, it was actually pretty true: half an hour had elapsed thus far and Yuto Nagamoto had spent much of his time in the final third, gliding forward on the overlap in horribly haphazard fashion, successfully distracting and dragging much of the Cagliari midfield and defense out of position.  The Inter left back was working hard; super keen and eager to impress – almost too hard as Leonardo was persistently waving and shouting at his Japanese newcomer to drop. Samuel Eto’o seemed almost put-off as Nagamoto popped up randomly to his left and his right. But the crowd was behind him; captured in wonder by his energy and movement and some decent final balls. The Fish! 

The grayed man, happy with himself and my reaction went back to his preset anthems as Inter comfortably dictated play. The Nerrazzuri were already one nil up - owing to an astute Andrea Rannocchia. The young Italian defender, in the image of a tall and shorter-haired Alessandro Nesta, won a goal-mouth scramble to put the hosts ahead within 10 minutes. 

Such is the nature of Italian football there was no intention to press for further goals. 1-0 and you are comfortable. You are winning -- and have no reason that you won’t win. To extend yourself in seeking further goals simply increases the risk of conceding. At one nil, you stay. If you are the crowd, you celebrate. It was the Ultra’s who led on the position. They were up in unison, clapping, chanting, singing, as brilliant red flares kindled the atmosphere and - every so often - all bounced that weren’t the Rossoneri! Eh! Eh!

The other stands followed in kind. When things are going well it is the collective, rather than the individual, that succeeds. People are always willing to quit their own values and march to a mass-inducing beat when it is one which is assured. The collective identity – with unique characteristics, personality and charms – is always greater than one's own. A sense of belonging is overcoming when one adheres. It provides a simultaneous responsibility for all to support and help their team as best they can: to be present; to shout loud; to think positively; to contribute financially. The sense of responsibility is the drug that keeps them coming back - it is incredibly inviting. Like nationalism, religion or xenophobia it is all the same. It all exists on a deeply personal and introspective level. 

Some nifty work from Julio Cesar, successfully playing out from the back to keep possession, drew applause from all, then the ten square balls that followed -- almost a standing ovation from the 70,000 on hand.  The old-suited man next to me remained as enthusiastic as ever but not quite in tune with the general vibe. His expression more a confused cocktail of his own material; much of which was apparently offensive as scores of people all around were looking at him with a mixed expression of curiosity and indignation.

But the unknown, incongruous man was oblivious to any negativity. In his drink/drug fuelled haze he was enjoying the attention and acknowledgement of his genius. He stood for the 90 minutes in its entirety, enticing everyone to follow his lead. You sensed his comfort. He’d spent some time in these pews.  He knew every word of every song, and had his own to carry as well. He saw every pass, every touch, and praised and criticised every player by name, home and away. He was invested. He got it. And he knew – if Inter were in need of support; 1 goal down in extra time – the crowd would be with him too: they were on his side after all. A winner in the last minute of the game, the type that comes by maybe once a season at home, when all hope is lost, and the entire crowd rises erupting in ecstasy; jumping, air-punching, hugging strangers they've never met but suddenly completely empathise with. That’s for the real fans. He was simply there already. 

Tonight there was no such single moment of delight, or any real notes of pure footballing interest. Inter did it comfortably, as planned, it was a perfect 1 – 0. The crowd, satisfied with their night's work, left to await their next engagement. For me, to wonder where football – an equaliser for so much in this world – doesn’t lend itself, and of when I will next return to the Giuseppe Meazza.

That's it, then.

He stood watching the ride shrinking before his eyes, and it was almost by the horizon before traveling on and out of sight. He felt it an eternity, until the ’89 Lincoln finally lapsed into nothingness, as he waited for the desert silence to engulf it's purr and again he waited as the dusty, greyed, squared silhouette of the All American, of which he’d grown somewhat familiar and fond, abandoned his world. That’s it then, he thought to himself affording a sigh.

His right hand shielded his stinging eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, it was July and the summer kept it high for extended hours in the light blue sky, as he scanned the final reaches of views he could make out beyond the golden fields and plains bleached by sustained shine. Satisfied by the emptiness, he turned to look from where he’d come; and he had come some distance. The road mirrored almost perfectly; to the degree that, beyond the scattering of dilapidated farm houses, it converged on itself, lined by burgeoning copper cornfields, as far in one direction as the other. Despite not knowing exactly where he was, traveling east for so long had bothered him greatly and necessitated a change.

The surrounds were barren but he didn’t doubt the assurance of life; the number of pickups and old four-doors in respective yards vouched for a community of a decent descript. Standard Southern affair of red state America was unnatural and unfamiliar, and he as wary as he was curious in seeking out the unknown. By custom he had always avoided these parts and these people his entire life; of white picket fences, modest homes, dusty pickups, and washed Cadillacs prepared for the daily or weekly (whichever it is) church commute. 

He was best served prepping for when the folk do appear; he knew they’d be wary and think it queer to have a man of his portrait appear alone, on foot, out of nowhere. It was surely a matter of time before he was greeted and offered some assistance.That was one thing he knew first-hand from Southerners; when they saw something unusual or unfamiliar, even when it was threatening, they confronted it. He recited his familiar alibi, strolling down the road on slight edge, passing huge barren lots of brown grasses and dirts and black-grey gravels accommodating small brick houses and fading barns of peeling white, his rubber soles heavy on the steaming tarmac. 

He felt a sensation of great sickness and stickiness about him as beads of sweat collected and rolled off his forehead. There was little to distract from the suffocating heat: a small trad-brick house of the two bedroom variety fronted by a wooden porch shaded by an acutely slanted roof; three cars at idling out the front amongst a yard of gravel and dirt; two Ford pickups of maroon and white, a silver Chevrolet van. This is American oblivion. Sitting opposite, on his right, another brick house of similar size but with a kind of thatched roof was obstructed from view by a cluster of frail ironwoods and elms: the cluster of struggling, fading beings somehow heightened the desolation he felt. 

A sign by the roadside up ahead read in bold thick black print “Harry Hickey’s”. Finally, perhaps something abstractly representing civilization. It was the finest house on the street; a two story colonial with unspoiled white paint and its windows and doors intact. He trudged hopefully up the gravel frontage, watching his feet in ditches carved by thick-wheeled workers’ trucks, and onto the porch. The front door was open and he could see through the screen door a spacious restaurant floor. It appeared empty, as did the bar hiding in gloom along the back wall. He entered upon finding the door unlocked.

It was cooler inside, a corner fan sat on the wall slowly oscillating, quietly murmuring. The restaurant was homely and the liquor bottles along the wall behind the bar beckoned his attention. ‘Hey - hello - is there someone here?!’, he waited as no response was forthcoming, ‘what kinda people leave their restaurant open! Hey!’ Damn it, just great.  He walked behind the bar and fixed himself a drink of bourbon, cola and a ton of ice. What kinda place is so deserted for lunch anyway.. how the hell do they survive?  He must have a day job. He knew he could be waiting a while for company and made his way to a table that viewed out the generous windows onto the road. It was comfortable.

This place is alright: eight tables plus a space at the bar; and you could fit more in. And heaving on a July evening: with Southern tunes of blues, jazz, rock n roll - whatever they’re feeling; young waitresses in wispy dresses taking orders, collecting bills and workin’ hard for their tips; the whiskey flowing as round after round is shouted round the room by the local sycophant. Hell, after dark it could flow out onto the porch, into the yard. It could be something. He drew a long drink, the ice had already taken hold, and rejuvenation flew around his nerves. Within moments his eyes closed and his head tapped the window pane.

The sound of a rumbling ‘76 Chevy shifting gravel had his eyes alert and expending a moment to retrace his movements. The dull canary yellow Malibu pulled up slowly beneath the porch. A man of his forties, in blue flannelet and jeans and heavy boots, got out before bending down to release a discernibly younger and thinner man from the backseat. A woman in a floral dress emerged from the passenger side, also younger, tanned, with long wavy blond hair. He watched her as they approached the house and took another drink; it wasn’t as refreshing, there was no longer ice.

The young woman entered followed closely by the young man, they greeted their guest with a smile and a nod as they continued on into the back. The woman’s red heels caught his gaze as they clicked on the floorboards past the bar. ‘How do you Sir, can I help you?’ the old man offered, appearing at the door, as he considered the image of the young man with the disheveled thin, black tie over a soiled, white button-down, with sleeves half-rolled up, half-tucked into tanned slacks resting over brown leather shoes, that rested at ease on top of table eight. For sure you can.

4/6/10

i will miss this place. i will come back, but it will not be the same. the stuff will still be there: the bars, restaurants and fields and stadiums. but the people change; the context and structure of the relationships change. to leave is ultimately a selfish act; And there are traces of guilt. one comfort is that what is will change; it cannot be preserved. it is best just to be enjoyed, and then remembered.

and so to all the people in whom i love so much, i will see them again. it will be different, but it will be enjoyed just as much.

so we move on, and forward, and continue. what's next.

Firenze.

Firenze is a town I'd heard so much about without ever having visited. I’ve had friends who’ve travelled there, friends who’d lived there, and I’d only ever heard wonderful things about the place; about its beauty, its artwork, its buildings, even simply, the general vibe and feel of it. The feedback's always been consistently positive. As a result over the years I’d compiled these “kind thoughts” (thanks Russell Brand) and developed a pretty concise picture of what Firenze was actually like in my head. Then at times I would hear someone talk about their wonderful experience of the fanciful Florence and I would react in an almost knowingly ‘oh yes, isn’t it wonderful’ nod type of fashion as I played out my own imaginary scenes.

Of that magical Tuscan city set on the auburn plains of country Italia; with its wide boulevards of faded greys and whites; of flowing streams, and stunning cathedrals and shrines built of such extravagance with the sole purpose of housing the finest of artworks. The Florentines, all of whom I had down as artisans, poets and philosophers, sauntered around contemplating higher realities and confronted the problems of the divine that unwittingly affect us all; or something like that anyway – who knows where my mind is. Basically it meant that to be heading there after having heard so much brought on a sense of great anticipation. It was the case for the three of us, especially considering the disenchantment we’d felt in Verona and then Venice after the greatness that is Milan.

It was inevitable then when I stepped off the train from Venezia with Drew and Bob that I was ever so slightly disappointed with the greeting of a humble, square-ish and brown station of aged modernity and not the pre-1600 (+ or fantastical lord of the ring facades - there was no white gold anywhere. Actually I’m pretty sure that I had dreamt of a city plated in white gold come to think of it) architecture that I had anticipated.

The reality check continued as we made our way to our hotel; first negotiating the traffic-heavy roads encircling the station; then feeling our way up through the old cobbled streets lined of Louis Vuitton, Armani, Gucci, Ferrero Rocher, Ferrari, etc. stores. When we reached our desired street, it took another half hour to find, thanks to Drew’s keen eye, the size-8 font handwritten hotel sign hidden within a door buzzer. We ditched our stuff in nice enough digs then made for the Chinese across the road.

After lunch we relaxed, contented with further Asian cuisine (it was the same in Venezia), and began to open our eyes to the medieval streets of our surrounds. We wandered the afternoon away awhile then dove into a bar for the early evening espresso (for €0.70 cents - grazie Italia ♥), Bob with his Latte and Drew his hot chocolate and cake (that cost him something like €8.00 ha). The sun was setting as we emerged, and with my caffeine dependence becoming ever more apparent, we made for the spot on the edge of our tourist map marked as a lookout.

With Drew leading our trio we wound along the narrow paves for the X in our usual march formation: of Drew and I chaperoning Bob as he dawdled behind yet always, somehow, remaining in touching distance and able to tell us should he feel an aspect of the daily proceedings be objectionable. We crossed the river to meet the park on the edge of town and scrambled up the well worn tour-bus path to its summit. We reached the top to find a deserted car-park with just a handful of people milling about. The park appeared to continue on the other side of the concrete expanse before being enveloped by the wild hills of rough terrain that followed. There was cafe in the centre that was closed and a statue of some non-descript and I had the impression that this place would buzz in summer. I turned and headed for the lookout. And finally there it was: a small medieval town formed by the renaissance nestled in a low valley as if precisely placed by an artisan having carefully studied her subjects’ most complimenting features.

The town appeared as if it was a model of papier-mâché. Its surrounds stood as if delicately composed from fine brush work abstracting the subject. We found a spot to watch the sun fall. The tones of nature and man converged into a seamless composition. The aged autumn colours of early December, enriched by the late fading light, mixed with the redbrick, and yellow and brown wood and plaster, Florentine rooves. Il Duomo was undoubtedly the centre point of all focus standing above all else; its faded white, green and red facade flourished under the sun’s final gaze like a perfect sponge to its environment; the famous redbrick dome dominated the view as if an alternate source of the heightened colour of the scene. A few small groups of people had turned up for the display though the majority had come and gone after a quick glance and photo. Calmness and serenity were afforded and we stayed watching and musing and photo taking until the hills behind us eclipsed the light. It was chilled and snow peppered all around us. Satisfied and content, equipped with a knowing that this place was indeed exceptional after all, we made our way back to town to begin the chase for some proper Tuscan wine. 

To be continued.

.il cafe corto.

il cafe corto. the espresso was short; bitter and strong. it served quickly, thrown onto the bar, clinking cup and saucer. the barista in peak of morning routine. a daily rapid fire of thick and dark shots craved by the workers. il tren, il cafe, il lavoro. all the days. all jostling at a bar uninviting pause. space sought by the few advanced in track for a post allowing a second’s serenity. though already he had it. and he'd already intended to slow and savour: today was different. he slowed and savoured. as coat, scarf, buon giorno, un cafe, un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat continued around. only he and the greyed barista, one he had never met yet an amico grande, good friend, ever-present. it was strange, somehow new, and he felt foreign and irresolute. unsure as to why he usually was but a minute cog in the queer contraption he was observing. he watched, with equal unsureness, the faux friend at the helm. at the helm yet not master. as caught up as all. he considered on the peripheral contented. today unrestricted, unconstrained; unafflicted by immediate burden but not without time and not without plan - and never a master. the million noises and random dialogues patterned and were entrancing. after a while thought and mind only he attended. he wandered as the systemic roar softened then blurred. to why he was there; was it he or circumstance that had allowed this all. this scene. and to the night before even; its wave had never left - even in sleep - and each moment closer riled and lapped at him. he had glanced more than once in anticipation at the hands above the old man - and the hands were cautious and slow in movement. il caffeine was coursing, this he knew. but this was more; it wasn’t daily. and self-induced? No. Sadly – no. this he knew also, and would have no other way.

Indebted, un euro, an infinite sum. priceless. Money can’t buy me. he had been here before. and it never lasted long (enough). he knew to savour; and he sipped. his espresso was cold. and the noises had found their sources and redifferentiated into chaos: perhaps he’d savoured too long. the hands were changed. it loomed. it was imminent now. yet distant. and further yet, still at a distance. he steered his gaze away from the creep and from the infatigable machinist around the narrow bar past racks of il vino and spirits presented on show, and the diminishing paninis, croissants, pastries - as hotcakes - toward the source of the invited commotion and of his own. coats and scarves streamed by and on occasion, in a burst of cold and greater noise, one entered to partake. periodically one would stir him momentarily; deserving a second glance. and failed inspection only to rise anticipation and consent one further glance to the wall behind to tell still it was to come. But then one more, another inspection, another coat of promise. then a familiar scarf; to come through the doors. then removed, then the face he knew: the bright eyes; the mirroring glance; the smile. he swallowed the last of the cold distaste and bitterness as she approached: un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat.

The light of day.

The light of day

It induces all;

Of the sun resting

Gently on the streets;

Illuminating the canvas; and

The souls’ will to create;

The stroll checked though

For now it is blank;

And to paint the light

Nothing can be done.

Promise must flicker.

Oh Barack, it’s been a year almost to the date since I, in a gush of I think you can emotion, wrote your praises so. I cherished your inaugural speech to the UN. I lauded your ambition and, for me, your unprecedented audacity in that speech in Cairo addressing the other world. I was so taken with you, so sure of you, so instilled with the sense of hope that you'd instilled in most of us. 

Now, gone by a year has and, well, it has been a struggle. A year of protracted defense in many ways.  The said majority have been behind you, remaining loyal and explaining and justifying the days away. Dark days it was that enveloped the Bush years. All but diminishing the shining star over three interminable terms. The inherited remnants; a hollowed, depressed and tortuous, slow-ebbing silhouette of what once was, ungiven even a chance to consolidate ahead of further coming afflictions. No longer, for certain, the pioneer of our hemisphere; the peak ambition of Team America World Police once classified as simply foolhardy now looks a rational folly attributed only to the clinically insane.

Lit expectations, as bright new spark, you have been entrusted with a lot. Though much, I dare, your own doing. Yet now, till date, we need a renewed strike; an act, no promise, of change. And while nocturnal forces, which’ve been ever-present, have been staved off and such lawn-laying villains are surely only detrimental to their own cause. Your troops, I fear, grow weary - libertarians and others who stood for the cause begin to wane and develop their right to question and doubt.

Most minds appreciate the mire of multiple wars along with the impeccable timing of the GFC are the thick clouds blanketing return to brilliance. Though it is unknown if the shine is still there; if it is true and hidden. In any case, to continue in this manner indefinitely is impossible . Clouds shift, and promise must flicker.

The strides and efforts of moving the shadowed masses, to be used as evidence in our defenses, are not enough apparent. There is an emerging clarity in all of this. The administration has seemingly baulked at the sound of thunder fearing the threat of lightening. Promises are unfulfilled: Gitmo; heath care reform; financial regulation; don’t ask don’t tell. I believe the intentions remain and progress progressing; but idle threat has seen to your surrender.

It may be unfair to expect ALL promises be realised. We are only mid-term. Still will be time to deliver and make good for the next campaign. Not everything is in your control also. But appearances tell you aren’t doing enough. This is the real concern. My concern. PR is failing you. 

One of your recent speeches, addressing college students, had you acting out an analogy of surviving a car crash in a ditch. The Republicans had stumbled off in drunken haze while you, I suppose grateful to have survived the impact, are left with the responsibility of getting back on the road. It was then you proceeded to literally roll up your sleeves. Before stamping around the stage as if trying for that firm foothold in the mud. Then raising your arms to attend the bumper and heave it back on the road. Oh dear. The students were not laughing with you, they were laughing at you, in an awkward kind of shock. 

A far far cry Barack, from those lofty pillars you outlined in NY before the world leaders. Now you mime and scramble in a ditch. The fact is, no longer does one care how you found yourself in there. It has been enough established. We only care how you're finding your way out.

Café Nero.

The old, plump man stands animated; arms flailing in an emotive gesture. Attentively the woman is listening as if infatuated on every, single, word.  Friends contrived. An odd encounter sustains a relationship. But there is no context, missing, and as such permits the (re)uniting of kin. And so parley the state of the mother, of the children, of the shop: fine and tidy and just getting by with its top quality produce and reasonable prices. Some Marxist fantasy land. The altruistic delicatessen you wish to meet. But you cannot - no context.

The right’s corresponding: here the abundant Italian facade's spelled out. The store sign in rich gold plated lettering. Specials and offers and menus in delightful Italian speak of the finer things, without any requirement of translation.  The wares without distinction to the store, left, and similarly arranged. Though the trader finds himself a more streamlined industrious fellow; the type of Italian endeavoring to work twice as hard to vainly spur a leaky economy.

Both scenes are trying. It has all been done… over and over… and over again. It is fitting, then, that the bland freeze-frames are incorporated to such a significant (and arrant) extent to compliment the fresh burgundy, the fading wood, the worn brown leather. It is further fitting, then, that these pieces are overlooked.

Principally ignorant of the unworthy attention is an animated young pair. They sit under the passionate encounter deep amongst the leather, swept in conversation as heads bop to and fro and limbs figuratively fly to illustrate the most worthy lines of reason. They aren't here for the coffee.

In the opposite corner, to the dynamic duo, on chairs by tables, sits an overweight, middle-aged couple subdued under newspaper and books and coffee cups. Underneath decadent latin romance, the man nose deep in a miniature guidebook squints at the finer print. The woman, blank, poses a tough question in which he must delve deep and squint harder to reference. Excuse for silence. The answer, eventually, bricklane.

Obscuring the couple of pairs, and the aforementioned pair, sit three. Three: the all-consuming epitome.  One shrieks in a joyous high-pitched wail of pub crawls, walking tours, poor housing, lack of work, of new farm, of townsville, of brisbane, of portugal, of paris, of contiki, of an apparent perpetual undying… The others nod.

The brown leather lounges, bejeweled by the flailing philanthropic Italian and his ceaseless ability to surprise and enthrall through pithy comment and contentious opinion and his one-woman fan club, hosts a new couple, bringing identical cups of black tea, identical outfits and identical glasses, shoes and homely hair. Behold. They acknowledge each other rarely. Secure in each others committed presence, they sip their tea.

All with their chosen supplements considered worthy investments. They take. They talk. They listen. They reflect. One by one a couple leaves. A new party arrives to take their place. On-going til the lights are dimmed and the scenes shadowed. Then the chairs returned to order, the cups cleaned, the tables wiped, the floors washed. For it all beings again tomorrow...

Over and over, and over again

Lord's.

Sitting at Lord's and vitalising the spirit in the way only cricket can achieve. Basking in the glorious sun and tightening as passing clouds linger too long. Some sit absorbed in The Times and latest paperbacks. Others engage disengaged gazes. Sip teas and coffees, though most likely tea. And I sit here scribbling away.

We look up sporadically to observe the state of proceedings. Fixed with interest after the thick crack of a drive through cover or a forceful square cut guided behind point (all the shots worth playing are on the off side after all). Before singles and dots send most back to their literary worlds and blank distant thoughts; fading the play to conscious’ edge. The waves of cloud, endlessly passing, blunt the sun’s shine.

A juggled catch has disturbed us all. It was brilliantly taken: first slip managed to get his finger tips to a nick high above his head before spinning around and diving to the grass, clasping the leather before the bounce. Brilliant! And the next batsmen in is James Cameron much to everyone’s grin and idle comment. Worcestershire 104 for 5.

London and clouds are seemingly inseparable. And I don’t refer to metaphoric darkness of hard times. There are clouds FOREVER over London. And not like the everyday clouds witnessed over other sunburnt lands, but big, thick, menacing masses. Most queer is the phenomenon’s not only found in the sky; it comes up in everyday conversation as the locals seek to whine you of the presence above, of omnipresent tormentors seeking to haunt the city (and our lives!) below. 

Fortunately enough the rain's remained a rather distant threat to the afternoon session. Though the already dimmed September sun has been well contained by the sentinel spirits; sending a chill around the ground. The few hundred in attendance have felt fit to rug up, as English as they may be.

As a good ball invites a leading edge to second slip. Textbook. And then another, identical! The next ball is again caught by second slip this time slightly lower. Collins’ on a hattrick. For yet another nick too! Though the hattrick ball flies agonizingly between diving wiki and first slip. Groans followed by the wildest of cricket applauses sound around the ground. Mini collapse. Worcestershire 155 for 7 in their second innings and leading by just 76 with Middlesex having their second inning still to come. One only wonders what the state of the day four pitch will be like tomorrow. 

Most in the sparse crowd appear to have come straight from work serving corporate digs, or’ve since met with retirement and rejected the optional attire that such an arrangement affords. Very proper and well to do. Though I daresay many are failed attempts at the Pavilion.

The Pavilion is the members place of worship within this English Cathedral of cricket; the only remaining Victorian piece of architecture and resembling more a mansion than anything else. It hosts the team dressing rooms, trophy rooms and some fantastic viewing areas. One also finds many bars, a rooftop terrace and even lounging areas with wifi within the multi-leveled warren of winding passageways. Its main viewing room is the literally named Long Room: situated behind the bowler’s arm it features broad windows the length across and the players’ walkway from the field to their dressing rooms. The institution of tradition is abundant throughout and seems to seep through the muted walls and floorboards. It is all that one would come to expect from the refined English. Though making it inside is the tough part. 

The doors are guarded by the toughest bouncers of all: two critical, cordial, and constitutional grey-haired men pushing personal centuries sporting suits from the last. Access is granted solely on their discretion. Principally one must be a member, or be signed-in by a member, finely dressed with an EVENLY PRESSED (yes...) suit and accompanying tie and polished black leather shoes (shininess!).  Furthermore one must also be humble, know one’s place, and appreciative of the impending grand gift of tolerance that one is about to receive (it’s okay, they will suffer gallantly). Preferably also one mustn’t be from Pakistan descent or, undoubtedly, a woman. Then, and only then, will one have access to the overpriced bars, tweed fabrics and free wi-fi that one’s heart such desires.

Sometimes you don’t know how much you love something until it’s gone and then reappears; or at the least are usually served well with a reminder. At ten minutes to six, with seven overs to go in the day, the sun has reemerged at strength to bid farewell and to cast long drawn rich shadows across the field. Its warmth lost only by the Pavilion already shrouded in shade. 

Of course, the tradition of the Lord’s members and the Pavilion is effortlessly admirable: it’s typified in its façade. The Pavilion’s brown brick, outlined by white terraces and palisades, looks a majestic chronicle of history as it overlooks the vast expanse of pure green; bothered only by a scattering of white animations that draw in and out of formation every six balls. In a city of 12 million people it’s a haven, a heaven. Today especially as the stands, mostly empty (for only half have been opened), sit as fortifications of sheer, plain and uninterrupted white against the greys of beyond.

Only the alien craft hovering over my head reminds us this is London and this is twenty ten. The white pod with its glass face that is the media centre sits at the opposite end to the pavilion in remarkable contrast. It’s not even for public use. The scene is the epitome of London as it stands. Further reflected by the fact the Worcestershire batsmen Ali who’s raising his bat after a nifty 50 off 53 balls is also wielding a tremendous thick black beard.

And as the players saunter off to their rooms after earnest efforts to a round of applause, it is time for all to make their way from the sanctuary and back, revitalised, into the world.

El estación de autobuses.

The view through the smudged window was unextraordinary; the desolate brick and cement invoked not just no interest but a distinct restlessness that didn't help her temperament. She had the option of turning around and greeting the harsh fluorescent lights of the waiting room but decided the former was the better option and returned to the window and the soft vast expanse in the glass. She wished to be one of the buses hibernating in the darkness on the far side of the square.

The clock struck twelve and a woman next to her got up and left. She had been called, no doubt, saved from this transit purgatory. She felt envy and rather fixated the emotion on herself: why hadn't she just arrived later! But realising the behavior was not conducive with regard to the further two hours of waiting ahead of her, she tried to calm herself and went back to the stillness of the window.

She stared at the empty bays though found herself imaging the blast of white light that preceded the grand, air-conditioned, floating, cloudy bed with the orange sign warmly signaling B A R C E L O N A and the driver with his pressed collar and shiny black shoes who would ensure she traveled in her dreams.

So she got up and strolled over to the vending machines at the far end of the room. Usually she would have rolled her suitcase along with her but considering the circumstances she didn't care: the imminent bottle of water, and should her pockets provide any fortune some chocolate, carried the gravitas. Besides there was only a couple of middle aged ladies sitting at the opposite window across from her and an old grey haired man whose desire was just to pace the length of the window in keen interest as if he was viewing an aquarium.

Much to her great frustration, and verging on a rage-filled-screaming-fit, after an intense drawn out process of careful consideration, the machine wouldn't take anything less than 50 cent coins so she was unable to get either the water or chocolate. Compelled to buy something after making the decision and the move, she didn't want the ladies to think her strange or poor, she was sure the old man who had been still in an outward blank stare for the past few minutes hadn't noticed, she settled her lone euro for an unsatisfying pack of mints.

The mints at least provided some stimulation and her eyes had adjusted to the harshness of the room. The ladies sat whispering in front of her though they might have been shouting, the dimensions of the room had grown over time and it seemed to stretch full length across her flat world of eternal sunshine. Though their mannerisms suggested it might have been polite whispering. And she was satisfied, as she animatedly took another mint, that the whispering was not about her.

The window behind their heads was glared and she was unable to see if the ladies were neglecting a better view than hers they might have been privy to. Though to be fair, it seemed much the same, much darkness, much nothing, and her reflection caught her attention. Not good, she thought, this light would be doing her no favour. How she usually spent this hour of a friday night still preparing to venture out with her friends escaped her. It's just different, she concluded without pause for consideration and played at her hair in the window until she was satisfied - in case of the remote chance there might be a bus driver of interest.

Apart from her reflection there must have been something on the window because the old man persisted. He'd resumed his pacing the length of the glass as if he himself were in a cage fixated on the concept of freedom. She studied him a bit closer, with literally nothing else to look at, he walked slowly with that typical hunch that she was unsure why old people ended up with. He was dressed well, but not well, just neatly; with an ironed white collared shirt tucked into a black belt raising brown shorts to the knees; and with white socks pulled above polished black leather shoes; he carried a shoulder length leather bag, roughly the size of her purse, that was apparently empty the way it flapped about him. He almost looked like a bus driver. Yes, that was it. He was a bus driver, longing, forced into retirement with his gold watch (that might have been hiding under his buttoned sleeve) after a lifetime of service. With no foreseeable purpose in life he came to the waiting room of his old bus station to watch the buses flow in and out and reflect on his days when he lived this life at its peak. She wondered if he was even waiting for a bus, but without emotion, and eventually grew bored of the old man and returned to the window.

At one o'clock a bus arrived as if shipping in the Vegas Strip and unloaded a buzz of light and sound and movement; passengers fell about the station and hurriedly collected their suitcases before hunting down the exit like a wolf gang. Then the driver, after extinguishing his cigarette on the tarmac via the polished toe of his black boot, put the bus into a reverse of beep... beep... beep... beep... then the woosh as the clutch was stomped and the beast directed forward and its rumble faded from whence it came. It was all over so soon, in a matter of minutes, and a fading memory as the still darkness returned to consume the world.

A dog stood in front of her, blank and curious. She had heard a scurrying and had turned back from the window to meet it. She looked at the old man and the ladies - both displayed no interest. It seemed pleasant enough, it was obviously a stray but it wasn't bloody and didn't appear aggressive, she thought it was in a pretty good state. So when it settled, content with a certain area on the grey tiling for a place to sleep, she remained unmoved and just observed the brown, warm looking foreign thing as it fell into some strange state of alertness of which she could relate.

Her eyes were only resting, she insisted, when the pitter-patter of paws sounded again. She glimpsed them scampering back out the door and then heard the growl of a bus. She was the only one in the station now and she grabbed her things before walking out into the summer air. The white light of the bus was blinding but she could make out the illuminated destination. The screech of the brakes and then the release of the compressed air brought it to a stop. She gave her ticket and climbed on board.

Cerrado.

After a good while in the closeted, dark space that he so often frequented, Ignacio realised the rain was beginning to give way under the strength of the August sun and shortly he would be obliged to return to the city in which he was supposed to be living.

His visits to this part of the house were discouraged by his Mother, even an absent minded observer would have appreciated her will only strengthened her son's to be there, save for when the heavy and thick mass of rain brought normal activities inside. His Mother had always keenly desired him to be normal and Ignacio felt it wasn't even some unattainable normality in him that she sought, but a code for him to change to being someone else altogether. So the two fought regularly. And it was to his great relief and fortune that the summer heat swept over the Mediterranean from foreign lands, unspeakable places his Mother daren't entertain, had been shrouded by the muffling grey cloak of rain.

As he observed the gradual resurgence of light filtering through the window and on to the bed which he lay, Ignacio calmly and slowly finalised his plans. He closed his eyes and reviewed them carefully but without any further consideration. Then he rose, and made the bed so it was in the same state as he found it, and went down the stairs to where he was sure his Father would be waiting ready to head out.

The room upstairs was notoriously outside time; not because he had no source of it but because he would idly lose its concept. Therefore, he wasn't surprised when the kitchen clock read it was well after siesta time but rather adapted his running thought to its sudden return and the accompanying regime that intruded into his world outside the room upstairs. Understanding, he envisaged the shop must be opening for trading or at least undergoing weather induced repairs, without seeing his Father or Mother he left the house.

The air was cold and the wind ruffling the clouds pierced his summer attire. He enjoyed the dull discomfort; it was vitalizing. He walked the way with a vigour he didn't usually carry on the walk to work but there was no avoiding the energy of the time. People seemed to share his spirit, the streets were already a buzz of activity not seen since the rain had begun. Final thunderclaps were heard as shop shutters were rolled up and signs ignited its evening intentions. Others ambled aimlessly, and slowly, they kicked at the stony ground and skimmed their toes in the puddles and took heavy breathes and prospectively assessed the reactivating economy; licking their lips, catching themselves in the glass windows and fingering their pockets. In an apparent awe as if discovering a lost-land that by unknown means was vaguely familiar.

It wasn't the time for shopping but the weather had transcended the routine of time and dictated mass behaviour. Ignacio arrived at the shop ready to embrace the shift. It was closed but the interior lights were on; his parents must have been finalising preparations or even waiting for him. The door was locked and displayed cerrado. He couldn't see any movement in the front and he used his key to skip inside. He was disappointed at the condition of the store; it looked as if nothing had been prepared and he had to dodge the abandoned rebajas signs that were dumped inside when the weather initially approached. He could see the stock and the till hadn't yet been closed off from that day. It was strange nothing was done. He continued past the clutter and into the back room, the hall light was on, as was the light in his Father's office. Ignacio found it empty and in the same unkempt state.

Where his parents might have been he did not know nor could he find a satisfying scenario in his mind that would allow him to start work on the shop. Then on the desk he saw an envelope with a scribbled Ignacio. He opened it without thought and read it through, taking every word, in complete haste. Only then did he allow the handwritten words of his Mother and the cold cordiality of his Father to sink in. The words advised Ignacio they had left for unspeakable lands, leaving him the house and the shop.

Ignacio's expression was blank. He slowly reached into his pocket and retrieved the pages of his scribblings that he had spent hours and hours in the upstairs room devising. He grabbed at the folded papers with both hands and calmly tore it over and over, before allowing the shreds to fall gently to the floor.

The Gaze of the Red Fortress.

I intended to stay in Granada only a couple of days. It was in from the coast and meant a return to the oppressive heat I'd fled Seville to escape from. A week later, as I finally decide to take my leave, I feel there is much, much more to uncover in this small but compelling city.

The first morning I was very happy, with the two day call; it was surely more than enough time to see the place. The city centre on day one, maybe the cathedral as well, and the following day I'd do the obligatory Alhambra and its Palacios Nazaries; which for some reason I'd had to book days in advance to get a ticket despite a daily capacity of 8,000 visitors. Weird and surely there was a clue in there for me somewhere.

The city was entirely nice. The Gran Via Colon and Calle Reyes Catolicos that dissect the centre are impressive and wouldn't look out of place in the European Mecca that is Madrid. Michelle Obama even made a cameo appearance leaving the Cathedral with her daughters. I'm sure Bo was around too; somewhere amongst the cavalcade of jeeps and national police cars flashing their blue lights, or perhaps hiding in the jackets of the not so subtle American undercover agents patrolling the sidewalks in their cargo pants and pastel polo shirts.

The afternoon was spent with a couple of beers in an air-conditioned bar airing the fútbol, free tapas didn't go astray either. Totally pleasant and enjoyable and I could see why the first lady might have come to keep the kids occupied for a couple of days over their summer holidays.

Then after siesta time as I strolled from the grand madrileño city along the Carrera del Darrio in search of new restaurant for dinner everything changed. The sun had set, the air had dropped to bearable, people were emerging and bringing life, and I entered another land. The narrow and worn carrera on which I walked snaked over the Rio Darrio. The river, which at one time served a purpose as a life source as well as a moat, divided the Alhambra, it's walls and palace windows now glowing an awe inspiring lit red, and the seemingly untouched Moorish barrio that is the Albayzín; forged of indistinguishable white houses in that classic Spanish style you would expect to see on your travels. And as I slowly passed above the streaming Rio, under the eternal gaze of the Red Fortress I began to realise I actually had no idea where I was. This place, out of nowhere, was somewhere else.

At the top of the road was a small plaza where people dined in restaurants under terraced vines. Others were content to mill around the fountain and sit along the riverside avoiding the orange warmth of the sparse light. Musicians roamed the square searched for a euro or two. All the while taking in the majesty of the Alhambra and the isolation induced from the dark mass that hid the Albayzín.

Back down in the city and a slight exploration down the maze of back streets revealed cheap bars offering their free tapas with beer specials; multiple kebab shops asking to be recognised as the local specialty; and Moroccan style, deep and dungeon-like, tea houses where everything seemed to be made from beautiful sequined faded fabrics.

As for the Alhambra itself; if you can avoid the hottest hours and stand the mass excess of people, there is much to appreciate in how the finest in Islamic culture did business. They created a heaven on earth and it's a most alien and eerily beautiful experience. From which limitless conclusions and inspirations can be drawn.

I leave the romance of Granada, a place where east met west and surely won, knowing I've been affected. I will undoubtedly return.

Seville has not abandoned me.

His footing slid on the gleaming cobbles as he struggled to keep a decent pace. He cursed the afternoon rain that had turned the stone to ice and the lingering cloud that sent the dry summer heat to a screaming humidity. He knew it wasn't far, no where in town was far, but once in the labyrinth of the streets it could take hours to find yourself. He knew it as he stopped, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the rolled sleeve of his white shirt, to observe the fork in the road.

There was no sight of the Giralda as he studied his vacant surroundings; even in which direction it stood he did not know. It was buried somewhere beneath the suffocating walls that defined every street and alley. Behind the faceless shutters and iron doors, that frustrated him so endlessly, that hid the life of the town he was searching for. Follow the Giralda, it was the last thing they'd said to him before he left and he feared time; that it would sound again soon.

He'd strolled the endless maze without care since choosing to find his own way after lunch. Leaving his friends en route to the hotel for their routine siesta to explore the streets of their newest destination; the culprit of a sudden combined burst of energy, curiosity and a strong coffee. He most enjoyed the country at the hottest hours when all activity ceased and people dispersed to places unknown and he was able to wander undisturbed in the tranquility of his thoughts and his surroundings. But now the time for siesta had long since passed with the glare of the sun and he felt a growing anxiousness that the barrio hadn't burst into life around him.

As he faced yet another decision between left and right he felt his first flash of fear. It was not a conscious fear but one built over time of knowingly incorrect decisions; a growing understanding the streets were capable of defeating him accompanied a growing sense of weakness. He felt the left was right somehow, indeed it looked the more inviting; the stone reading copper in the diminishing light. The other way already covered in the deep shadow that had done little to cool him. He made left driving purposefully down the middle of the desolate road.

The emerging darkness was bringing no relief. The heat seemed to be stuck low in the street. Trapped without the usual gentle breeze to chase it out of the town. Convinced his friends would be waiting for him his anxiousness had turned to frustration and he ducked down an alley. Employing his blind sense of direction he continued in this fashion taking turns where he saw fit. Willfully challenging the streets, determined not to succumb to its oppression.

Then, as space materialised, he was forced a moment to realise the futility of his methods. Velázquez stood someway in front of him proud and forgotten. No sight or sound of life. He knew where he was. He had been here earlier. Despair began to creep forth from the shadow enveloping plaza. He wildly scanned the many exits, desperate to recall some piece of lost information, a lost clue, that would inform him of the way. Anything. Anything but the incessant insanity of the empty, lifeless, winding streets.

A blast disrupted his impending doom. The Giralda! The chimes swept across the plaza, piercing his ears, and down the avenues behind him hunting the silence. He ran as the bells rang again, and then again. There was no need to wait out the count, he already knew it, and he streamlined for a new exit in the general direction of the benevolence. He dashed down a narrow way that lent right, then took a side street and scrambled madly up a flight of stairs in an effort to keep true to the sound. He knew he was running out time and stole another hundred meters or so before the ultimate ring finally faded away into the obscurity.

The silence tore at him as he surveyed the darkness. There was just enough moonlight to make out the stones at his feet but he was convinced this was the right path. Convinced to keep the veil of madness at bay. He knew now he was homecoming and his stride broadened and his spirit restored. He continued a while. The abandoned streets took on a new look. For the first time he appreciated a cool beauty in the way the white moonlight infiltrated the greys and yellows of the stone creating a serenity that previously escaped him. He settled in the comforting thought.

Time passed and he felt progress. He envisioned the elevated bell-tower guiding him out. As if an actual brilliant shining light illuminated his return to the world. After an eternity the night finally opened in front of him and, relieved, he broke into a run toward the abyss. Then he stopped, skidding to a halt on the smoothed stones, his face a picture of horror. It was Velázquez; proud and forgotten.

Viva the boys, the boys!

We could feel the tension as we weaved through the explosion of gold. And, kindly, a couple of white guys downing castles shared their table with us. They were happy to meet some foreigners; even if we were Australians. Milo, the younger of the two, jumped up to include us in the next round and ran off to the bar. The other, who's name passes me by, sat back cigarette in hand as if tranquilly admiring the chaos around him. I looked up at what I could see of the screen; the boys, the boys were just stepping off the bus.

Milo returned with beers in hand and we began a pre-match analysis, 'well most importantly we can't lose', he added, 'we just can't afford it'. There was fear in his voice throughout the discussion. He talked of overrated players, the skill of Mexico and some less than impressive performances from the team in recent years (they haven't qualified for any recent major tournaments). However, a change of manager in the form of Brazilian Carlos Alberto Parreira and his six month training camp in the altitude of Johannesburg with the unfriendly jubalani ball had seen an undefeated run in their last 11 matches and had given rise to hope of success across the nation.

The players simply looked overwhelmed as they marched to the pitch for the ceremonies. Soweto's Soccer City provided the scene. The orange calabash turned yellow for the occasion. Over 90,000 were packed in, most with a vuvuzela. The stadium's design was deliberate: it was a reflection of Africa; the tournament's centrepiece; and a multi-billion Rand investment in a country that faces many crises; including extreme poverty and crime and corruption.

There had been on-going discussion in the press regarding the value of the World Cup considering the scale of investment. But it seemed that on the eve of the opening every South African had found a common ground for approval. Sepp Blatter, the FIFA president, was speaking, though intermittently when he found space between the vuvu blows, and championing Africa. He spoke it was proof South Africa can achieve anything, that to be here tonight was a victory already. The roar in the bar was deafening.

When the new democracy was united under the Springbok banner as they lifted the Rugby World Cup the players didn't know the words to their national anthem. Right now, it seemed every single South African was singing as if they held nothing dearer. Some players had tears rolling down their cheeks as they sang the trilingual tune and I suspected there wasn't a proper dry eye around us either. I had known it already and now I felt it: tonight had stopped being about football a long time ago.

Since the Rugby World Cup 15 years ago the hope of the nation had been in a slow decline because of a primary underlying problem evident in every aspect of life: every South African is still not equal. The laws of apartheid were banished and its physical aspects relegated to the horror pages of history but its influence has continued. Apartheid is not about the physical segregation; that is a by-product. Apartheid is a mentality, a mechanism to “divide and conquer”.

A majority that is oppressed, when united will overcome its oppressor. But a majority segregated further (by family, location, level of darkness) is prevented from doing so. By dividing the black, coloured and Indian populations into multiple miniature faux races the whites were the majority and thus were able to occupy the country. Nelson Mandela turned this around without the logical (seemingly inevitable) repercussion of a civil war and will forever be one of the great men of history. But now it is down to education, time and moments like these to banish apartheid for good.

And as the referee blew his whistle, and the boys kicked off, and the vuvuzelas roared, the country cheered. And there was hope.

The Procession.

The parade of people flowed from the city centre, beneath the omnipresent table mountain and out to the ocean; to the stadium. We met the flow someway along and stepped in to be carried the rest of the way. There was not anything you could do but shuffle to the mass beat of it all. We walked a while before our destination materialised in the distance. We were beginning the approach. There was a change in the atmosphere; the vuvuzelas became more consistent; drums and music floated around us; people danced and Africans busked in the street. High above on either side people hung out of windows; waving, shouting, cameras flashing. In temporary slits through the crowd I could make out rows of people, perhaps three deep, here just to witness the spectacle in the afternoon sun – it was a Saturday after all. They applauded us as we walked. The excitement grew: we were the lucky ones, we were here to participate.

The grass was a brilliant green. It appeared perfect; flat and sharp. The goals stood at each end, beckoning action. Encircling up, the white seats were filled; Argentine and German colours overpowered the scene. Straight beyond my view of the opposite corner flag, between the corrugated roof and the top tier was the silhouette of Table Mountain – seeing to it that perspective is duly maintained throughout. Behind me, behind the stadium gates, sat the Atlantic ocean and views to the horizon. Above, the sky was pure, a gentle sea breeze maintained a freshness.

The Argentine shirts were bouncing, their anthem had began. Thousands in the blue and white jumped to the rich tune. Then the vuvuzelas blared; time for the Germans and apparently an Opera. A deep voice bellowed a couple rows behind us, emphatically pounding out every word with all his might was an aging German. Skye took his photo. The stadium backed the man as those rough, harsh words sounded down to players below. Again the vuvuzelas; time for kick off.

The dream was over quickly. But down eight minutes in, it was always going to be tough. Those in La Albiceleste colours were resilient and continued to stand and to deliver support and the team came out determined in the second half. But they were ultimately silenced. So was Di Maria and Tevez and Messi and Higuain and then Aguero. Maradona consoled his former number and favourite though not the legal son as we looked on. A blur of the Germans and their fans celebrated on the peripheral. Though Skye seemed pretty happy with himself. It was my second time seeing Die Mannschaft and it was the same scoreline. My two teams had been done. I was done, twice. It's personal now... so come on Spain - my boys!

We slinked out to greet the night sky, Skye's German scarf ruffled in the cool sea breeze in some kind of symbolic victory. His friend had an apartment nearby, just off the foreshore. We farewelled Darryl and River and made for the braai. The scene was spectacular; the balcony offered endless views of the Atlantic on one side and on the other, green point stadium lit up in its brilliant best. It stood in great reverence, looking as if it was the sole culprit for its country's energy crisis. Though having been constructed by Germans it was apparently happy just to bask in its victory of a job well done, awaiting the next match.

CR7.

It was announced on the radio in the early afternoon, ‘Portugal to play Mozambique today at 4 o'clock at the Wanderers. Huge crowds expected, avoid the area wherever possible.’

Portugal playing here. This afternoon. I had to go! I pitched it to Alex and he was as keen as I. We emptied our pockets save for a couple of hundred Rand, conscious of the scenes that transpired last Saturday on the other side of Johannesburg between Nigeria and North Korea: a stampede before the match had resulted in hundreds of people trampled on as fans had tried to get in... Though, we did grab Laura's camera on the way out.

The car radio advised the road around Wanderers was already closed. It was 2:30 and we feared we may have left our run too late. As we closed in on the stadium, waiting at a traffic light, we saw a man in a fluro safety vest jump into the back of a maroon jeep up ahead. Then, hanging out the window, he waved Alex and I and the cars behind to follow. We did, turning off into the backstreets. It was wild. Cars covered the footpaths, gardens, driveways, every piece of earth possible. Fans making their way to the ground, many donning the red and yellow of Portugal, weaved in and out of the steady stream of cars of which we were a part. While dozens more ‘parking officers’ beckoned the drivers to follow them. There was just enough space to squeeze through as we inched along in the dense chaos of it all.

We caught the attention of another parking guy and were directed off another way. He fashioned us a park in a garden bed off a side street. ‘Pay me, pay me,’ he shouted. As I went to tip him, the initial guy from the maroon jeep, appeared out of nowhere. This guy waived a small scrap bit of paper stating ‘parking R50’ along with some other text I couldn’t quite make out, ‘you followed me didn’t you, pay me!’ I nodded, though the other guy was still expecting payment, ‘I showed you the park, give me something!’ Figuring the last thing we wanted was a vendetta against our lovely new rental car, I satisfied the jeep man’s piece of paper and gave a fraction of that to the second guy. They both ran off content, in search for more cars to park. Satisfactorily ripped off, we make sure the car was locked and alarmed and followed the flow of football jerseys to the stadium.

The road out front was sectioned off at the top by a massive gate and a ton of security. We muscled our way through the sea of red and yellow up to the front. ‘Ticket’s please.’
‘We don’t have any, can we buy tickets?’
‘Sold out.’ The guard gestured for us to move aside. Alex and I looked to each other - what now? ‘Move,’ we were told.

We turned around, a police car with lights flashing headed our way leading a massive bus. I could hear the fans. They were bouncing. It was Portugal! Deco, Nani, right there through the windows! Waving! Oh! The bus drove past without pause down toward the stadium. We needed a ticket! Wandering through the Portuguese fans I saw up on the street corner, near a market stall selling rip off Portuguese merchandise, a Socceroos jersey.

There were four Aussies in all and they had only just got their hands on tickets. The guy in the jersey handed me his sign, it was poorly scribbled on a piece of note-book paper reading, “BUY TICKETS x2”. Another gave a similar sign to Alex. ‘We were only here for 20 minutes, good luck!’ They waved and were off. Galvanised we stood on the corner, waving our signs about and yelling out like spruikers: ‘Tickets, any one got any tickets?', 'Spare tickets?', ‘We’re looking for tickets!’ We had no takers, no interest, apart from laughs and smiles; we were apparently the pre-match entertainment. There was another one who came, a young guy attired head to toe in the Portuguese gear, keen on a ticket and he was simply waving around money. Concerned about our competition, we split up; Alex went back down to the front gate whilst I kept on at the corner. He returned a while later with nothing, still nothing.

We were determined not to concede defeat: we had seen the bus; heard the fans; we were totally swept up in the fever. I turned around to see Alex talking to a man in a Zimbabwe shirt. He was saying that a guy up the road had been trying to sell tickets to the cars. Hope! We thanked him and grabbed the money waving Portuguese guy. We were walking up the road when a voice in front of us shouted, ‘what do you want!’ It was one of those ‘parking’ guys.
‘Tickets, tickets,’ we shouted back in unison as we caught up with him.
‘Well, I have two,’ He ducked down, hiding behind his car, and took two, and then three tickets from his pocket ‘Wait, three.’
‘They’re good?’
‘Yeah, check them, check them.’
Good enough! We each handed over a hundred Rand a ticket, thanked him, and headed for the stadium.

As we passed through that front-gate the feeling of satisfaction is hard to describe: We did it! We were on our way! Though, as the road sloped downward toward the stadium, we could see thousands of fans still waiting to enter the ground. The usual multiple entrances around the Wanderers had been closed in lieu of a sole entrance and we hit the human traffic a good few hundred metres before the next gate. It was 3:30 but our tickets told kick-off was still an hour away so we happily waited out the bottleneck. We had our tickets checked three more times before we were in.

Inside the stadium was alive. The vivid red of the Portuguese, curiously vastly outnumbering any Mozambique fans, coloured the entire ground. Our seats weren’t together so we entered the main stand in hope more than anything, just as a great roar and the drone of the Vuvuzelas erupted. The Portuguese team were coming out for their warm-up. We shoved our way through the overcrowded walkways looking for a decent seat. Unsuccessful. Then, next to the grandstand and behind the goal we spied the hill; grass-covered and not too full, it looked like the best spot. We quickly crossed to the end of the grandstand, jumped the fence in front of about six idle policemen, and made our way into the crowd on the grass.

Then an ultimate eruption, emerging from a swarm of photographers was Cristiano Ronaldo to join the team in the warm-up. The whole crowd cheered his every touch, engrossed with his every move. A group of Portuguese standing in front of us fully decked out in their nations’ shirts and scarfs and flags went wild.

When the players took to the field, after the formalities of the anthems were drowned out by the ever-present whine of the Vuvuzelas, the atmosphere was electric. The likes of Deco, Simao, Carvalho right in front of us. There was something special in the crowd. The idea that these fans had travelled so far for this team, just for these guys - it amplifies the emotion. Mozambique weren’t caught up in it, and took the game to the Europeans from the kick-off. They were desperately unlucky too, after hitting the post from a first time strike outside the box. Behind us a group of Mozambiques, who weren’t in colours, went absolutely ballistic. Then again, so did I. It was an awesome hit, inches wide. The Vuvuzelas roared on.

Half time called an end to a scoreless opening, but a fantastic match that was gaining pace as it went along. Alex and I mused over the first half action coffee in hand as the air began to chill and the sun began to set. We noticed a boy, perhaps 15 or 16 and draped in a Portuguese flag, running down to his family in front of us. He was openly weeping. His family launched into flurry of activity; some in shock, some shouting to people around, some holding and consoling him. The boy, tears streaming down his face, was shaking and, as if nothing else were as important, grasping ever-so-tightly to a Portuguese cap. We could just make out on the brim, in a thick black pen, the scribbling of what looked like a C.Ronaldo.

A massive roar went up someway into the second half as if a goal had been scored - it Ronaldo was warming up. A torrent of camera flashes crashed down on the Madrid man as he went through the usual motions. Next another roar and this time it was a goal, Portugal were one up after a nifty through ball, Danny evaded the off-side trap to round the keeper and finish off.

On the 65th minute it was finally his time, a standing ovation as 11 made way for 7, Simao for Cristiano Ronado, captain’s armband and all. His first touch came quickly and it was sharp, followed by a run down the right wing with his token step-over and cross. He was seemingly aware of the attention - and loving it.

Another goal came as Portugal’s class began to shine through. In the first half Deco had struggled to find time on the ball as the Mozambique midfield scrambled to shut him down. Now as the crowd stood totally transfixed beneath the floodlights, he was popping up everywhere stamping his authority on the attack. The entire midfield was enjoying themselves with flicks and dummies and back-heels littering the play.

The third goal came with 5 to go as Portugal countered through Ronaldo. He took the ball on half way, turned and set a direct path to goal. 30 yards out he hit it, early, low and hard at the keepers’ right. It dipped at the last second. It was a Ronaldo strike. The Mozambique number 1 got a hand on it but only enough to knock it into Almeida’s path for his second goal and tap in of the night. Mozambique was done.

So were we. We drifted back out onto the road and retraced our steps to the car. Some swift negotiations and our last 2 rand later, we escaped with our car and took off from the Wanderers’ in total awe at what we had just witnessed.

Viva Ronaldo!

The Landing.

I landed at 5am, after a 14 hour flight, on an hour or two’s sleep; predominately due to periodic awakenings by zealous South African Airways staff offering from a seemingly infinite supply of bottled water. The flight was also shared with the company of a rather lovely and slow moving old lady from Pretoria who had just been about Australia visiting her grandchildren. She apparently thought I was one of her own and that I might have been requiring constant hydration between the hours of 1 and 5 am. Still, it was pleasant enough and I sat back to enjoy the in-flight movie – ‘harry met sally’ or ‘you’ve got mail’.

My connecting flight, Melbourne to Perth, I had sat next to an Australian by the name of Mark, it turned out he was doing the World Cup and then traveling on by himself to London. The grand irony we both felt, after embarking on massive solo journeys, only to sit next to someone doing the same thing! We drank beer and killed time in the Perth terminal; killing really, the only thing to be done in the Perth terminal. As a country girl from NSW who was also on our flight, going on to work in Kenya at a Safari Lodge, put it: ‘We just flew four hours and we’re still in the same bloody country.’

I was greeted with a Mr. James sign after I’d passed customs, always a good feeling though I feel is somewhat cheating in the whole travel spectrum of things, held by a thick Boer Commander looking fellow named Morne; flak jacket, cargo pants and heavy negro-kicking boots, even an earpiece; though looking suspiciously like an iPod headphone. After a serious and firm handshake we were sprinting towards the exit as if a code-red had just blasted through his iPod-equipped ear.

We proceeded to his white panel van; I threw my gear in the boot and jumped up front in just enough time for him to slam it into gear across the car park floor. A black worker of no obvious descript, carrying a massive hessian bag over one shoulder, unluckily happened to be walking through the tunnel of the exit as we entered. Hearing Morne’s revs, he flashed the terrified whites of his eyes at us before running, almost diving, out the other end of the tunnel. Morne didn’t flinch, dropped it into third, and burst out onto the streets of Johannesburg.

It was still dark outside, for some reason I’d expected daylight, and we made swift turns for the freeway paying little attention to street markings and traffic lights. The main road out of the airport was attractively lined with flags of the 32 countries to arrive for the Cup and every roadside billboard somehow accommodated the South African flag, the trophy, Mandela, or the Bafana Bafana.

Then we hit the freeway and Morne cut across four lanes and into the far right, holding a steady 140k’s. He told me in his rough and deep Africana accent it had been built especially for the World Cup but wasn't yet complete. With a week to go until the Opening Ceremony work was now 24/7, even if that meant working through peak hour; which, incidentally, goes from about 5 to 10 every morning.

The car radio lit-up 6:05am as Morne flicked radio stations to find a traffic report. Initially, he found one in Afrikaans but, after a couple of minutes, the morning show began in English: it was your standard overly-enthused-for-dawn hosts, two men and a woman accompanied by inane sound effects - no traffic report and they cut to a Rihanna song.

Morne cut sharply left into the third lane - muttering about some Oak not knowing how to drive and ‘why the bloody hell is this wanker in the fast lane’ - before diving back through a gap on the right without flinching the needle on the speedo.

Then, over a crest in the road, we found the traffic Morne had feared. He hit the breaks hard to avoid smashing into the sea of red lights ahead. It seemed to be endless, four lanes at a standstill until the road wrapped away and out of sight.

Rihanna was muted as Morne reached for his special-ops walkie-talkie, disgusted, he had to tell the base he was going to be late; which he did so in rapid Afrikaans. Next he phoned a friend, another driver, this time in English. He was still seeking that traffic report; the friend wasn’t nearby but said he would let us know if he heard anything.

Morne asked me if I spoke any Afrikaans, as we crawled along in the fast lane, I’d already explained earlier that I was here to visit my family.
‘No, just a few words, goeie more, baie dankie,’ I was surprised he understood.
‘Ah alright that’s good, but you're a proper Aussie,’ he cleverly uncovered, ‘you should study it, it would be good for you to learn.’
'Yeah...' I shrugged. He switched the radio back on.

We were making little progress wading through the sea of red and Morne was still cursing the Oaks in the fast lane in some undoubtedly foul Afrikaans.
'You smoke, you drink?’ He asked, bored with the road.
‘I drink, and you?’
'I smoke, I used to drink a lot but I’ve cut down. I get aggressive you know, I don't want to end up in jail.'
'Yeah...'
'But listen, you take it easy, it’s real beer here, unlike your light Aussie stuff. Take it easy, you don't want to end up in the hospital. The public hospitals here man, they aren’t nice places to be ay.’

Then, for no apparent reason, the freeway opened up and we launched back into 140. Morne was energized again. He weaved in and out of the traffic as the radio started on World Cup news: squad reports, injuries, match info.. The caster presented a strong opinion in agreement with the current Bafana Bafana manager Carlos Alberto Parreira regarding the exclusion of forward Benny McCarthy from the team: ‘He is selfish, he only wants to play for South Africa when it suits him. And we need to be a team united. That is how we will find success.’ It was stirring and poignant, even for the early morning.

Sandton’s streets came into view as we exited the freeway. There were people everywhere; workers in their blue and grey uniforms and heavy boots heading to work; robot sellers at the traffic lights; and the many mini-buses (Maxi taxi like) stopping and starting on the side of the road as men and women hailed their driver down.

We passed the buzz of activity of the main roads and entered Bryanston. Here the streets were empty and alleyway like; lined each side with 8 foot tall stone walls, finished with barbed wire to enclosed each house. It had a different feel. We found our destination and headed up the drive, and into my next home.

Life is choice.

It is random collisions of circumstance falling in pieces at our feet as we blindly and naively form our own paths (and affect others), one decision at a time. We can construe would-be horizons based on previous experiences and those observed from others as a guide to mirror a hopeful future, or for some -- damned fates. Yet, of course, nothing is predestined, nothing is fated. Our dreams remain a reflection of our past. Our futures, once realised, the culmination of sequence. The future is contingent on the past, the past a cause of the present; and therein lies the present, forming it all.

Twilight Tuesday.

The four college get-out kids of Vampire Weekend took to the stage of the conspicuously spacious yet sold-out Palace Theatre amid pleasant applause and shouts emanating from a university student crowd apparently adept at blurring the fine nerd-to-indie line. The harder, perhaps more indie-sided, cliques who’d braved the usual hours of waiting (interrupted by a set from the Australian Cloud Control), crowded, delighted, the immediate landing in front of front man Ezra Koenig.

The band opened to a vibrant, vivid portrait of Manhattan (White Sky) immediately followed by the upbeat Holiday and A-Punk as Koenig attempted to incite some energy into the all-too-cool kids in attendance. The New Yorkers skipped around the stage, under flashing lights and dazzling, low-hanging chandeliers, as the crowd sat back admiring the quality of the refrain rather than involving themselves in any form of participation.

Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa drove the girls in the audience if nothing else, followed by pacier, and undoubtedly superior versions of One (Blake’s Got A New Face), Bryn and I Stand Corrected. The revised, wilder tempo invited dance and had those readily inclined bouncing along with the band. While the crowd favourite Oxford Comma had many singing and swaying but, despite Koenig’s efforts to get all involved, wasn’t overtly received by the majority in the Palace.

The introduction of the much maligned California English didn’t help his cause. Here the front man struggled to keep pace without the help of auto-tune. The crowd fell flat. Then as if having predicted a desired rest for the boppers, the set slowed into Contra’s second half as Diplomat’s Son, Giving Up The Gun and a cold, mellow and ultimately unsuccessful Horchata were rolled out.

The band reappeared for Mansard Roof with Ezra lecturing the crowd “I want some level of movement from all of you, this one is just two minutes” His American accent almost pleading with the Melbournians “Even if you just move a finger, it’s only two minutes”. There was energy in the room, but it seemed many in the class would be too self-conscious for school. Mansard Roof made way for him to finally say their last song was aptly about leaving and that they were Vampire Weekend. There was a hint of resignation. Walcott was briskly shot out, bright and buoyant, and a perfect tune to round out their set; but unable to atone for the preceding lack of enthusiasm and involvement from the audience.

Had the gig been in a warehouse with friends amongst friends in the backstreets of Fitzroy, you'd envisage an utterly ballistic crowd getting their kicks from every single beat pumped out by the American Quartet. Yet in the surrounds of fellow nerd/indie peers, in the more formal setting of Bourke Street, feeling for the nearest seat and railing had been preferential to letting loose for most.

Noticeably lacking were the band’s slower songs The Kids Don’t Stand A Chance and the title-track of their second album, Contra. The two tracks evidently didn’t fit the tempo of the show they’d aspired for, but both serve a purpose in grounding and giving a narrative to the respective albums. The introduction of these songs into the night could have helped fuse the crowd with the band rather than leaving a distinct disparity. Ultimately there was very little apart from tune after tune belted out, and “we’re Vampire Weekend”.

Stadium thrashers they are not. Indie kids of definite quality they are. Vampire Weekend need stay true to their foundations rather than attempting to stretch themselves to a different genre and pursue a Killers type road. The last thing they want to do is to further alienate their fans.