Naomi Bulger: messages in bottles

There aren't many photographs, which is why I didn't post about it earlier, when I shared stories from Paris, Nice, Carcassonne, Venice and Rome.

Sometimes when I travel, I take a million photographs. Can't put the camera away, annoy everyone travelling with me to breaking point. But for some reason, I never seem to remember to take out the camera when I'm in London.

It's possible this happens because to me, London represents something that can't really be captured by camera (at least, not with my limited skill). That is, friendship and love. I have three dearly loved friends in London: Hayden and Nina, and their little boy Jack. A visit to London for me is about drawing closer to them; brief moments of reconnecting, feeling at once the distance of years and oceans, and yet no distance at all. Do you have friendships like this? These three are in my heart, and they are what I think of when I think of London. Its music, its history, its parties, its food, its architecture, its red buses and its rain... these are all relegated to a lesser place in my mind behind Hayden, Nina and Jack.

They have a little summer tradition, and sometimes I join in. If the weather is warm, we pack a picnic and wine and rent the green-and-white striped chairs in St James's Park, and spend a sunny afternoon together. We did this the first time I ever visited London. I was recently alone, fragile of heart, and this simple picnic was a joyous, comforting time.

Fast forward four years, and I am introducing my friends to my new husband, my mother-in-law, my youngest stepdaughter and her cousin! We converge in London; I've only arrived from Paris, but they've flown all the way from Australia and they are exhausted. Hayden and Nina take our bags, since we can't check in to our apartment yet. They tell us, "Meet us at the park in two hours." I know where to go. We rent the green-and-white striped chairs. We open the wine, the packets of olives, the good bread. We tilt our faces toward the sun. We are together again, my dear friends and my dear family.

Emily and Maggie play chasings with Jack, who is now in school. He was a bub in a striped onesy the first time I saw him, in a photograph held out to me by proud dad Hayden as we worked together in the Australian outback.

My own camera sits forgotten in my handbag.

Somewhere on Route 66

It was more than 100 degrees outside the car. As I rolled the window down to place our order at Burger King, I swear my eyelashes singed. The sun-faded speaker box asked what I would like for lunch today.

Me: One fish burger, and...

Speaker box: Chicken nuggets, yes. Y’all want somethin’ else?

Me: No, a fish burger.

Speaker box: Ah beg pardon, two chicken nuggets. Got it.

Me: No chicken nuggets! None at all!

Speaker box: Take a deep breath, honey. We’ll get there. Speak slowly.

Me: F-I-S-H burger. Fish, like, um, fish swimming in the water.

Speaker box: Got it. One water. Anything else?

You cross the drawbridge and enter the ramparts searching for ghosts. There should be many; Carcassonne has a sad and brutal history that spans 3000 years. But if they are in the cité today, the ghosts are silent.

You are in southern France, not far from Toulouse. There have been Celts living here, then Romans, who built the northern rampart of the cité you are exploring today. Under the basement of the medieval Count's Castle, Roman mosaics and sculptures still glow from the walls.

But century upon century of bombardments, murders and changes-of-hand followed for Carcassonne, from the Visigoths to the Saracens.

At the dawn of the 13th century, Carcassonne enjoyed a brief period of peace and religious tolerance. Catholics and Cathars shared neighbourhoods and even homes, and the Jewish community was not far away. But in 1209 the city fell to a wave of Crusaders, and then the horror truly began.

The Cathars believed in living lives of humility and poverty. They saw God as the creator of eternity and spirituality, while material life and even time itself were creations of evil. By most accounts, they were a peaceful people. By contrast, the religious wars declared upon them were brutal.

Carcassonne as you wander through it today belies its history. Filled with sunshine and shops and cobblestones and tourists and pointed blue turrets, it appears more Disney than Dracula.

Yet throughout its 3000 year history, this picture-perfect cité seems to have suffered under a violent curse. Turbulence continued throughout the ages. Even as recently as 1944 when Carcassonne was delivered by the Allies, many people were killed around the train station.

It is such a beautiful place, overlooking a medieval town and a wilderness beyond. You whisper a prayer that this windswept, hilltop castle and the ghosts that haunt its stone walls may now enter peace at last.

October 2011

We got home from Melbourne last weekend to discover the jacaranda trees were in bloom up and down our street. Aren't they just summertime special? 

It was one of those gentle, magical days. A gift. We were in Nice, France.

We wandered through the Old Town until I found the perfect striped straw bag I had been searching for, then took it with us to the open-air markets. There we bought olives, strawberries and enormous green grapes, warm from the sun, and ate them as we walked. Down at the beach, sinking through pebbles, the girls dipped their toes in the Mediterranean Sea. 

The day grew hot. I left the family swimming, and escaped for one of those perfect, lonely explorations that are best to be had in an old, foreign town. If a narrow laneway appeared, I took it. If steps curved around the corner, I climbed them. I passed shrines to the Mother Mary, washing strung from building to building, and stepped in and out of shops - refreshingly cool like caves - of olives and lollies and crisp, white linen. 

Way up high in the distance I could see a waterfall, and the cool sparkle of its water was like a beacon. I asked a man, "How do I get to the waterfall?" and he answered, "You mean the castle," and pointed the way. The climb was long, and my throat dried with the heat. At the top, the pathway branched back into trees. Between them I could just see glimpses: now the ocean glinting far below me, now circles of terra cotta rooftops, casting patterns in the view. 

The waterfall cascaded over barely-visible stonework, almost all that was left of the ancient castle. I sat on the edge of the pool where the water plunged, grateful for the soft mist that blew into and over my face. 

Back down at the beach, I found my family splashing in the shallows in front of a row of blue and white striped chairs and umbrellas. Lazily, we drained one iced tea after the other, then wandered home as the sun set. 

But it was more than the tea that refreshed me. Sometimes, even in the company of those you love the most, a breath of solitude can revive a weary spirit. I came out of those few hours of exploring Nice alone like the girls came out of the sea. Each of us was new. 

(How about you? Do you ever need to take 'time out' during a holiday?)

On Friday Mr B and I took to the road (again) and drove 1500 kilometres in two days. That's not even close to a record for us, but it was still bloody exhausting. We do love a road trip, but this one somehow left us feeling old. 

On the other hand, what a wonderful weekend it turned out to be. So wonderful that I completely forgot to take photographs, except this one from the car. 

We stopped for dinner along the way at a pub in Nhill (pronounced Nil, I think), that looked positively derelict from the outside but inside had a delicious menu with things like duck crepes in hoi sin sauce, fish served up with cous cous and minted yoghurt, and an Asian style vegetable stack. You won't understand how welcome this was unless you've travelled in outback Australia where, more often than not, burgers, steak sandwiches and chicken kiev are the full extent of the menu for mile upon lonely mile. 

Other highlights... getting out of Adelaide just in time to avoid the 38C day (will someone tell Adelaide that it's not even summer yet?); spending nearly two hours by myself exploring the fascinating Tutankhamun exhibition before it closes forever next week; wandering alone through Carlton Gardens, just one minute from my very own home (that one day I will live in, I'm sure); exploring the Melbourne Arts Centre with my fabulous friend Tonia while catching up on months of friendly gossip; cheap n cheerful Chinese dinner with friends; a morning visit to the Kangaroo Flat bakery for old fashioned cakes like finger buns, vanilla slice (aka "snot blocks" by Mr Glamorous B), lamingtons, chocolate eclairs and all kinds of other country-baked goodies; a family gathering in Bendigo; kids on sugar highs doing laps of the kitchen on scooters; chasing goats out of Gran's falling-down old house; a call from Olivia (aged 4) who missed out on the fun because she was sick: "Can you drive past our house and wave at me before you go back to Adelaide?" And we did. 

Met on the path to the castle in Nice, France. Happy Thursday!

Yours truly,
Naomi

I walked into a church last month and it felt like a mother's arms around me. I don't even like churches, let alone grand cathedrals. But in this one, you could almost see the prayers like butterflies, floating to the heavens.

The church was the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Paris, and I couldn't have been more surprised. I entered expecting tourism and history. I discovered prayer.

Here I was warm, I was safe, I was welcome inside the arms of Our Lady. Here was peace, bubbling around me in the hushed hub-bub of hundreds of different languages. Here, a priest blessed two tourists. There, a nun taught a little group of men. 

I thought, "prayers are alive." I didn't know who heard them, but I knew they were heard. 

Together, we lit a candle. Our little prayer mingled with the others, dancing like the tiny flame upon which it was cast. It was answered, of course.