Summer in the City - London through the Lens

I've been interested in photography since I was 3, when my father gave me a vintage Hasselblad. I instinctively knew how to operate it, and have been producing gallery-standard shots ever since.

Of course this isn't true, but it seems to be the story of a few photographers I've read about. Truthfully, I took one semester of photography in Year 10 at High School with my parent's film SLR, got a Canon IXUS 30 when I was 18, and bought my Canon EOS 400D just over 1 year ago. I cannot lie, this camera was what got me a bit shutter-happy to begin with, and now it weighs me down wherever I go. It is by no means the best thing out there, but the jump from the little pocket IXUS to this thing is worth it if you can (a) afford it, and (b) be bothered to learn how to use it.

I knew where the shutter button was, got my head around the Auto Focus and I could remember some of the basics of composition. I started reading about photography on the internet, looking at LOTS of photographer's portfolios, and spending time in the Travel section of book stores. I played around on my computer for hours, but there were still so many buttons and functions and I wanted to be better.

And so I arrived in London on July 19, having enrolled in Summer School at Central Saint Martins, part of the University of Arts. Apparently some very fine graduates have been produced here, so I thought a week's worth of instruction wouldn't hurt (bank balance excluded). We had classes from 10am till about 2pm each day, where we covered some of the fundamentals with a focus on Travel Photography. In the afternoon, we were given assignments to complete, which we did on our own. The following morning we brought our prints into class to be critiqued by the teacher and our peers.

The class was small and there was plenty of feedback for each student, which I think was the most valuable part. I did learn a few new buttons and now have a much better grasp on combining the different aspects (focal length, shutter speed, ISO, etc) to achieve in pixels the images I have in my head. The above pictures were my submissions each day, and I am pretty pleased with the results. Of course, I took more than 6 pictures, and part of the challenge is selecting the ones that best relate the story you are trying to tell.

I also now have a portfolio that I completed after I returned to Edinburgh from London, because printed photos are so much better than digital ones!

Summer in the City - Svenska

Kalmar Slott (Castle)

In my effort to catch up on all my adventures, and eventually arrive at a point where my writing is not 6 weeks behind actual events, I bring you to Sweden. I've mentioned previously my Swedish friends, a Yatzee-loving bunch who I shared my Normandy adventures with: our trip to Mont Saint-Michel, to Honfleur, and the "amazing" Bayeux Tapestry.

On Friday July 10, I left Edinburgh, bound for the city of Kalmar, where my friends study at University. The flight landed 4 hours away but such is the kindness of the Swedes that they still picked me up from the airport. Flying in over the forests and lakes, then driving late into the night while the sun remained low in the sky was an incredible experience (which I soon got over when the sun rose again at 3.30am).

The street at sunrise, 3.30am

Amanda, Thomas and Sofia had an itinerary planned for my stay, a recurring feature of which was our night-time festivities. A trip to Systembolaget was first on the list - it is the only store in Sweden where you can buy alcohol, a complete monopoly on the market (besides a few low-strength beers in the service stations). We also took in the local design culture at Ikea, where I ordered my hot dog and soft-serve ice cream in Swedish. And so began my education in the local language...

One day in Caen, I'd surprised the others by learning a phrase on the internet: Var kan jag hitta någon som talar engelska? (Where can I find someone who speaks English?) This was of course hilarious, as you would expect (?!). In Kalmar, 'speaks English' soon became 'poops', 'has a little penis', 'has navel lint', etc etc. Thomas and the other boys delighted in teaching me ridiculous words that I would innocently repeat at the expense of my pride. Unattractive people were inget att hänga i julgranen (nothing to hang on the Christmas tree) and håll käften was thrown about repeatedly.

We had a jazz brunch one morning, followed by an express tour around the town. We stopped in at the Kalmar Slott (castle) and relaxed with a glass of wine at Byttan. Sunday night was spent at the Strand bar on Öland, and we returned to the island for a road trip a couple of days later.

Road Trip on Öland

Byttan!

We cooked dinner together each night and even more Swedish friends joined us - Johan and Martin were our partners in crime for much of my stay and just confirmed my Swedish racial stereotypes - good-looking, friendly and a lot of fun! I even swam in the freezing Baltic Sea, if you can call a 1 minutes dip a swim. But all good things must end eventually, and luckily for me, where Kalmar ended, Gotland began.

Sweden's Ibiza, Gotland is an island popular during the Summer, and even more popular the week I was there. Of course, an Australian is always cause for a party but this was out of control. It was Stockholm Week - typified by the young rich (or the rich's young) who take Daddy's boat and sail to Gotland, where they cover themselves in champagne and dance in bikinis under mirrorballs on the deck of their boats. But I wasn't there for their company. Rebecca was my attraction, the one missing from Kalmar, who was working on Gotland.

I was met with a sign at the Visby ferry terminal, and we tore around the village in Becca's car (ok, drove slowly and sensibly). After 5 nights of parties in Kalmar, Visby was a welcome relief. We had quieter nights, played Thai dominoes and had another road trip to a different strand to lay on the beach (the water was no warmer here). We ate a traditional Swedish dinner with Becca's parents when they arrived by boat, and sat back to watch the brats disrupt the usually quiet marina. It was great to see Becca again, and meet her friends I had heard so much about in Caen.

The gorgeous Mrs and Miss Becca

Delicious Swedish shrimp salad

I left Gotland via ferry for Stockholm, where I spent one night before flying out to London. It had been just over a month since I'd seen my Swedes, but I was glad to see them again and sad to leave. With a little luck I will be back in the fall, but without a doubt I will be crashing their Christmas celebrations and hanging them on the julgranen in time for some decent snowfall.

Hi and Thanks!

Hello to everyone stopping by from Le Blahg! Miss B has caused a bit of a stir here, my lonely little blog has never had so many visitors, so thanks for coming and do stay to have a look around!

Kate x

Coming soon...

Summer in the City - Thistle Do Nicely

I've spent almost half of the last 2 months in Edinburgh. I've been there 4 times this year and written about it already but with the departure of my main reason for visiting, I bid the fair city farewell. Perhaps one day, when the tram works are finished, I will return for a while - but that could be years away yet.

We left Corfu and stayed 2 nights in London with our favorite Couchsurfing host, who threw a party in our honour. All of 5 people attended but it was a long night - too long for me as I was sent to bed for falling asleep during conversation. We flew back to Edinburgh where I whiled away the day wandering, sitting in the park, buying VHS movies for 20p at the car boot sale and then viewing them on a 'video cassette player' (look it up in the history books). There is a certain romantic charm in watching Beauty and the Beast with a grown man who knows all the words to the songs and claims the Ballroom Scene to be his favorite. Bless.

By this, my third visit, I'd made some friends and we had pub crawls and karaoke nights to attend. I had some gay clubbing to do also, and it was in the front bar of one such establishment that I pinky-swore with my friend Doug to get my nose pierced if he got a tattoo. I'd actually attempted to do this on my birthday in Athens, but it was Sunday and the requisite specialist was not available. So Doug and I set a date, postponed it by a day, then followed through. Call it youthful rebellion (my Mum called me a hippy?) but it didn't hurt as much as I thought it might and I had the sight of Doug being permanently inked to keep my mind off the cork up my nose and the large needle looming over me.

Interrupted by a trip to Sweden and a photography course in London, my life in Edinburgh was otherwise happy and comfortable. In August, my fourth encounter, I was lucky to catch the start of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, the largest Fringe festival in the world (coincidentally, the second largest is in Adelaide, one thing I am really looking forward to when I go home). The streets were filled with buskers, promo teams and charity collectors, not to mention a million tourists (literally). From blind theatre to interpretive dance and stand-up comedy, I saw a range of shows and can happily say they were all special in their own way - Tim Tams stuck down the front of flesh-toned g-strings was a first, but nonetheless artsy. I also attended a housewarming as a pink, flowery KKK member and passed the Meet the Parents Test (not the same event, thankfully).

So what do I take away from all this, the city that has featured so frequently in my European adventure? Well, I have an improved Scottish accent, lots of Canadian friends, a partner-in-crime (neither Scottish or Canadian but still charming), and a few good photos. I also have my birthday present, a Scottish Luckenbooth charm. Heart-shaped and surmounted by the crown of Mary Queen of Scots, it is decorated with the Scottish Thistle and hangs around my neck to remind me of everything I love about the city that was my second home away from home.

Bel Été

Photos by Me | Texture and Tutorial from Blah, Blah, Blagh

"Ahhh Paris…City of Romance, City of Lights. It is well known that at heart Paris is a Woman; matriarch, mistress, muse, slave and master to French decadence. In the dark of her narrow laneways, she whispers soft secrets; down Grand boulevards she trumpets her magnificence. She who has enamoured the greatest lives of art into a single spiralling and volatile core; she who has driven men to madness, women to suicide and the chaste to sin. Entwined around every limb, the fluter of her heartbeat in every ear, to her faithful she grants the soaring heights of perfection and the basest pits of degredation, without them ever telling the two apart. By hand, by heart, by mind she leads her frenzied dancers toward a precipice that all see coming but few ever rear from.

And she survives every mortal implosion.

You can hear Paris sigh when a lover does not return to her, but that single breath is the only memorial they will recieve, for her heart does not remember. Paris is ever chaste though her stones drip with the debauches of history. With all the hauteur of the Arc de Triomphe, from behind the coquettish promise of the Moulin Rouge and from the loftiness of her Eiffel Tower she looks down on her low town – narcissist and voyeur – safe from compromise."

- Grant Mills

The author of this piece captures beautifully with words what I hope to do with pictures. Of course, I cannot convey these sentiments as precisely as is acheived here but with each visit to Paris I notice something I haven't seen before, or learn something I didn't know. From the snow covered canals in January to the blossoming boulevards of April and now the sunny sidewalks of August, I have watched the scenery change with the seasons.

I wanted to share this because it is the work of someone very talented, someone who has notebooks of work littering the floor of his room. People cannot appreciate it when it is kept so secretly and I would like to see more made available for my own enjoyment at least! Posting my photos and getting feedback has been fantastic for my development as a photographer, and I hope this might encourage the writer to do the same.

So, with his permission of course, I have paired it with some artwork I hope does it justice. May it deliver some idea of this magical city I am fortunate to watch unfold over the year.

Summer in the City - Where's Kostas?

This exchange is actually the third of my university career - the first was a humid 5 weeks in Hong Kong in July 2007, and the second in freezing Busan, South Korea, in January 2008. Getting overseas once a year with the help of some generous scholarships and grants has benefited not only my academic record but also contributed a lot to personal growth. I now have a healthy appreciation for Asian food and every time I go to Chinatown I visit either Master Huang for won ton noodle soup, or Kim's BBQ for bibimbap, ordered in my dodgy Korean and served as a suitably large portion.

I also have an extra 160 friends on Facebook, which apart from helping me look popular, also means travel buddies (and occasionally, a free bed)! Greece was one such occasion to call in support, having spent enough time alone in Italy, and Wendy was ready to take on the islands with me. We had a shared bathroom in Hong Kong and I had a birthday coming up, so with the help of another 4 girls, we had a sisterhood-of-the-travelling-pants in the making.

First stop was 'camping' on Mykonos, affectionately remembered as The Isle of the Drunken Bikini Model. We had 3 girls to a bed to save money for gyros, which would later become a staple meal. I maintain that this was a sensible decision, because it meant plenty of girly conversation (I have been sworn to secrecy) and because the Gyros/Kebab contains all 5 food groups.

Our room was not actually a tent, but it did have its fair share of flying bugs. We arrived around 3pm, and refrained from joining the tabletop dancing in favour of a little Vitamin D therapy. We hit the town on our second night, where I was appauled at the provocative dance moves of the small gypsy boy who tried to sell me glowsticks in a club. During the day, we wound our way through the whitewashed souvenir shops and dined on frozen seafood. This was Greece, but not the romantic villagey Greece I had hoped for.

Fortunately, Santorini came to the rescue. A treasure trove of Australians and Greek people who's family had moved to Australia or those who had returned from Australia. There was the chef in our adopted restaurant, giving us free wine even on the nights we didn't eat there. There was the scooter guy, who Marlene married in the Kebab shop one night with a plastic ring. And there was Kostas. We knew we would find him somewhere in Greece, but did not expect him to be Russian.

I bartered our quadbikes down using a little Greek I had prepared earlier, and for less than 2 meals at McDonalds we had free roam of the island - that is until the battery on one bike died and I was forced to kickstart it for the next 2 days. And yet the wind was in our hair, the roads were winding and the beaches were ours. I ordered a Nescafe Frappe and laid back in my sunlounge and decided life was rather pleasant.

Rather than recount our 3am ferry trips and list every kebab we ate in ascending order of deliciousness, I shall leave you with some photos, as is my way of escaping typer's elbow. I will say though that I had an amazing birthday in Athens, joined by a gorgeous boy who flew all the way from Scotland for the occasion, made us Pina Coladas and then took me to Corfu to recover from the whole ordeal.

Tren Italia

I spent a lot of time on trains in Italy. Australia lacks the intricate network of intercity railways that make Europe reasonably accessible, and has no underground systems either. Granted, travel between Perth and Sydney is slightly more than you’d want to spend in a carriage but you get more room than a plane, you arrive right in the centre of town and the rhythmic hum of wheels on tracks is easier to sleep with than the roar of jet engines.

You see more on trains. My notebook is filled with observations – made either gazing out the window or within the carriage itself. Arriving in Milan from the sky, I left for Venice across the land and watched as the city quickly faded to housing and then fields, dotted with industrial blemishes and linked by power lines. On the horizon, darker patches of grey-blue became green as we approached the mountains. Yellow and pink housing blocks were topped with terracotta tiles, and peach-framed windows where enclosed in shutters of burnt sienna. Crumbling bell towers rested on the churches of Rovato, Brescia and Verona while vast lakes became ponds in the past as I approached Venezia St Lucia.


The people on trains are more interesting. Boarding the train in Pisa, I helped a woman get a suitcase on board and was thanked in a thick American accent. Her companions - a group of middle-aged women who smelt incredibly motherly but bore no physical resemblance to my own, got me thinking about my Mum and her sisters to the point where I could imagine one of them licking a hanky and wiping the basil pesto off my chin as I finished my pasta.

Local carabinieri on the train from Florence to Rome gave me no end of entertaining imaginings. Appearing from nowhere, they gave me little time to whip my feet off the seat and appear innocent. But I must have set off their guilty radar as they came back through the carriage and sat in the seats facing mine, rather like an official escort. They sat silent in their blue uniforms, even as I imagined them wearing gladiator costumes, golden helmets with red brooms atop and leather sandals on their feet.

The most senior-looking sat directly across from me. He looked kind - the corners of his mouth were turned up in a little wink of happiness, his eyes mirroring an honest contentment. They darted left to right as he looked out of the window and fell to the floor when we reached each station. His brows narrowed when his colleagues addressed him, more wrinkles forming as he rested his chin on his hand, pushing his cheek up under the weight of his head. His hair was all but gone, keeping only the skin above his ears warm as his day-old beard did for his jaw. His shirt was clean but faded, no doubt carefully pressed and starched a thousand times by housebound wife. He stared out at the vineyards, probably longing for a glass of wine at the end of a day's work. As his head came to his hand again, his eyes closed and he relaxed in the seat, perhaps concluding that I wasn't the trouble-maker he had imagined and he could go back to thinking about tonight's dinner.

I'd heard train travel could be unreliable but had been blessed with an almost perfect departure each journey. That was until my final trip - the night train from Rome to Bari, necessary for a budget flight to Athens. It was scheduled for departure at midnight but that changed to 12.30am and was further delayed until 1am. A friendly American from my hostel kept me safe in the station during those wee hours and despite my worst fears of sharing a booth with the homeless-looking Italian and his German Shepard, I was seated with only one quiet young man who slept the entire journey. We made up time overnight and I rushed from the train to the bus stop and on to the airport, with 20 minutes left to check in.

And so began the next phase in my adventure... Greece.

Postcards from Venice

Riomaggiore

A man sat stroking his moustache and let his pipe smoulder in his other hand. His eyes followed me as I carried my laundry across the street and disappeared up the stairs to my room. From the first story window, I leaned out and pulled the line along its squeaky runners, filling it with my clothes. Earlier, in Vernazza, that same smell of clean washing had been mixed with hot garlic and salty sea air but now I could smell the smoke from the pipe and the shoes of my roommates. Below the window, a black and white cat lay stretched out on the stone bench, absorbing the day's warmth. I went down and joined him, to watch the people go by and breathe in a little more of Rio.

It was early in the evening, still warm, and I watched as sun-leathered hikers came up the main street, exposed along the hike from Campagnio. I scratched the cat's ears and he shut his eyes, tired from a day of lounging. I was tired from walking - many steps up and down cliff faces, through streets and over rickety bridges, between the villages of the Cinque Terre. The waiter at lunch took a liking and gave us limoncello, brewed from the countless hillside lemon trees, tended by the generations of Italian who would take you in and feed you, put meat on your bones.

The women in the street were having a conference - local gossip, new arrivals, complaining about their husbands. Children in strollers that squeak when poked in the middle, arms and legs twirling around a healthy middle fed on gnocci and pesto. An old man came towards me, perhaps about 80, and I started on a greeting but he beat me to it: 2 feet from me, he pointed at my chest and croaked "Very nice," before continuing his stroll right on past.

One of the girls sharing my room brought down a rug and a magnum of red wine, and at sundown we made for the rocks by the marina to join the other cool kids eating pizza and drinking beer. I tried to ignore the obnoxious Americans discussing politics, pretending to know what they were talking about, and watched quietly as night crept in over the Mediterranean.

Summer in the City

I'm over 7 weeks into my Summer and with less than that again remaining, I find myself wondering where this year has gone.

The late snow of January melted quickly, the Winter rain lasted a little longer and then it was Spring. The sun came out, blossoms quickly followed and the little winks of Summer brought an end to the semester, not least with a beautiful sunny day for our last hurrah, the Gala Soirée.

Myself, Amanda, Sofia and Rebecca - Team Swedalia

Monday 1 June, what would usually mark the coming of Winter at home, was actually warm and sticky. A day of gathering belongings, locking doors and boarding the train for Paris, where I would say goodbye to my new best friends and begin a season for travel and adventure. 4 Swedish partners-in-crime, who'd I seen more than my own family, shared my ups and downs with over the last 4 months, were going home. It was not a goodbye though, more a 'see you soon' as I was already looking into flights to Stockholm for July.

I spent a few nights in Paris, the first with Grant and then a couple alone - the first real bit of alone I'd had in a while. I quite enjoy some reflection time... time for solitude and playing your choice of daggy music in your pyjamas. But alone in a hostel is different. There is no privacy, no fridge to yourself and they never have Lady Grey. It's a lonelier kind of alone, and it came as a surprise.

Gate 20 was full of stylish Italians, crowding the lounge without so much as an airplane to board. The internet kiosk wouldn't let me type 7, 8, 9 or 0 so was essentially useless and I cursed the wasted euros. The boarding announcements were in French and everyone was speaking Italian and my Australian brain was worn out and confused... I didn't even have a plan for Italy - I was just flying to Milan and leaving 10 days later from Bari. My years of Italian lessons were long gone and, quite frankly, I was just keen to go somewhere. Anywhere.

I woke up as we jetted over the still snow-capped Alps, some of which rose above the clouds, floating on puffs of white and grey. Dropping down, olive groves and terracotta roofs came into view and I looked at my passport - it said I was from here, that my roots were here just like those olive trees. Finding my hostel in Milan was a drama, but then my father had found long lost family here, so nothing was impossible. Under the guise of a misspelled surname, I was a local, the authorities spoke to me as though I would understand and I headed straight for the gelati stand outside the station, just like a local.

Milan, my first Italian city, paled in significance when compared to Venice, which was then challenged by the Cinque Terre as a favourite. Pisa and Florence were rushed, and spending just one night in Rome meant an express tour through the postcard sites. As with all incredibly photogenic locations, they are best portrayed with images - my words at least could not do them justice.

La Galleria, Florence

There are 4 stores at this central dome, one on each corner.
3 are designer boutiques, 1 is McDonalds.

Carnevale Mask, Venice

View from Ponte Rialto, Venice

Grand Canal, Venice

Vernazza, Cinque Terre

The Leaning Tower, Pisa (pictured straight)

Highly illegal and unauthorised image of a pretty good statue, Florence

Trevi Fountain, Rome

Real, holy sunbeams at 7.30am in St Peters Basilica, Rome

St Peters Basilica, Rome

Sistine Chapel, Vatican City (also unauthorised)

Vatican Museum, Rome

10 days flew past, and my feelings of being lost, destitute and friendless grew smaller and smaller as each city came and went. New friends were made, new flavours of gelati were sampled (for breakfast, lunch and dinner), and even a little Italian wriggled out of the cobwebs of my high school education and back into use.

I have stories to tell my grandchildren, like the Venetian calligraphy store owner who offered to close his shop and paint my naked body, but they are better told over time, scattered throughout like anecdotes once I've had a chance to laugh about them to myself first...

***

This post is dedicated to Grant, who, on the banks of the Seine in Paris, convinced me that solo travel was not something to be scared of and would be more rewarding than frightening. I was nervous but he was right.