Sardinade

Zut.  Today I'm taking a break from all things island and returning to France.  I don't know why I didn't post these photos at the time (they were taken at the end of June) but I thought they'd be a nice celebration of the summer before we get into September and autumn - and an antidote to a Monday morning.

Alors, HTLT presents la Sardinade: starring sardines, sardine grillers, the village square, bright colours and two adorable nephews.

Just a few euro bought you a plate of grilled sardines and bread; frites were also available with mayonnaise or ketchup or both, for the indiscriminate (like me) who like to mix.

The eldest adorable nephew discovered candy floss.

The slightly smaller adorable nephew discovered sardines, frites, churros and ice cream.  He likes to eat, this one.  Like his auntie.

A la prochaine!

A Big Fat Greek Baptism

Reader, have you ever been to a Greek baptism?  If not, I will do my best to describe it for you.  Imagine a wedding: special outfits, everybody dressed up in their best clothes, a solemn church service, reception and dancing afterwards, gifts.  Now imagine that the bride can't talk (or walk); that the bride is, in fact, nine months old and male; that there's no groom but there is full body immersion and you might start to get an idea of what my nephew Alex's baptism was like.

It was a beautiful spring day and we all gathered outside the small church.

 The to-be-baptised-one held court outside with his mama;

I took photos of icons inside.  (My little sister and I mused about why Saint Helen appears in all Greek icons with pink hair.  Can anyone enlighten us?)

The priest took up his position at the church door at noon precisely.  Alex's lovely nonna (that's godmother to you and me, but in Greece the godparents have an especially important place in the family) took him, affirmed her faith, rejected Satan and held Alex firmly as he was exorcised.  (Yes, that's right.)

The priest asked Nonna Nikki what the baby's name was and she told him ... at which point the baby's father threw money for the kids outside.  Apparently this tradition stems from the time when nobody knew the name until the christening so the father would pay local kids to go and find out at the baptism while he warmed a seat at the taverna.

Then we all went inside and Baby Alex had his clothes taken off him (he held up manfully and played with the smart white leather case containing his trousseau.)

The priest said many prayers and filled the baptismal font with water.

Then Baby Alex was stripped of his nappy and dunked ... at which point, I'm sad to say, he lost his sense of humour and yelled 'I hate you all' - at least that's how I interpreted the wailing.  Before and after the immersion, Alex was anointed in holy oil - Greek baptisms are a three-for-one deal: baptism, communion and confirmation all in one.  Efficient, those Greeks.

(The Adorable Nephew - Original Version - likes a good 'bloom', as he's taken to calling baptisms.)

After the oil, Nonna took Alex and with help from his mama, put him in the special underclothes and cap for soaking up the oil.  Then Alex was dressed in a very fine suit of clothes: the tradition is that these all have to be new, to celebrate the baby's newly cleansed status; further tradition is that the outfit should be lavish - I guess to symbolise the hope that the baby's future life will be full of good things.

After the redressing (and, I'm afraid, more wailing - Alex isn't keen on being dressed at the best of times) there were more prayers.  The mama kissed an icon and the nonna's hand and was then given her baby back.

Exhausted by all of this, Alex fell asleep in his pram afterwards ... but the party was just getting started.  The reception was held in a local winery and aside from excellent wine we had delicious salads and twelve or so kinds of meat.  Soutzoukakia!  Souvlakia!  Gyros!  (What is a party without gyros?)  There was ouzo, of course, for those that wanted it (not me, not a fan) and the baby was passed around to be cooed over.

One of the things I like most about Greek baptisms is the traditional wish that people make for the family: na sas zizei  - may he live for you.  That's not live in the literal sense but more in the sense of, I suppose, to be a credit to you, to lighten your lives.

So there you are: if ever you're invited to a Greek baptism, you'll know what to expect.  Na sas zizei.

Easter Eggs

It's traditional at Greek Easter to dye eggs.  Regular eggs are boiled, placed in dye, painted with shellac and then - well then comes the slightly mystifying egg-based version of conkers.  On Easter itself (or after the vigil service on Easter Saturday) people take it in turns to boff their eggs against each other.  The winner is he or she whose egg has fewest cracks.

I took the egg-dying as an opportunity to try for some arty egg shots.  See what you think ...

They look sort of unearthly, no?  Like miniature blue planets.  Strangely mesmerising but I don't think I could bring myself to eat them afterwards as some of the Greeks do.

Easter Treats

In Greece for Greek Easter, feeling slightly guilty because we've already had a week of eating chocolate and other post-Lenten delights. I took this photo of all these treats being readied for tomorrow and the woman in zacharoplasteio was so amused she gave me a hug.

St Patrick's Day Parade

Or as it now seems to be officially called, the St Patrick's Day Festival Parade.

This year I was seized with an urge to attend the parade on St Patrick's Day.  I hadn't been for 20 odd years and the last time I went it consisted of some bands, some majorettes shipped from overseas and some random Americans.  (Being American was so glamorous in our eyes that it seemed obvious that any American tourist should be eligible to march in the parade.)  I also remember it being very cold and not being able to see much over people's heads.

So what's changed?  Well, the parade now consists of lots of street-theatre style floats paying tribute to Celtic mythology (and also, confusingly, this year there was a Science theme so you got Vikings explaining where electricity comes from...), plus bands, majorettes, dancers and my Cousin John playing a drum in a boiler suit.  (I said to my friend, 'hey, that guy looks like my Cousin John', then got home and spoke to John's sister and discovered that it was, in fact, he.  Ireland is ridiculously small.)

You'll note that I still had to peer over people's heads.

I was glad I went, though obviously what I should have brought was my own ladder (excellent example of Dublin ingenuity):



However, when I went home and watched Flight of the Doves I realised that in my heart of hearts, the parade I was hoping for looks something like this:

Christmas Was ...

1. NEPHEWS

 (absorbed in a new train set)

 (loving his new book)

 (not very bothered by any of it, really)

2. SILLY HATS

 (Christmas tree antennae)

 (it's a paper crown!)

 (making silly hats look good)

3.FOOD

 ('most peculiar afternoon tea' at The Westin = gin in teapots)

(champagne and home-made sausage rolls = taste sensation)

(Lady Traveller's Little Sister's divine Buche de Noel.  

The eldest nephew stuck his face in a bowful and declared, 'I LOVE chocolate cake.)

Now I'm slowly getting used to the new year and making plans - including, of course, travel plans.  

Happy Easter! (I'm Still Here)

The problem with having a blog that you update (semi)regularly is that when you go quiet for a few weeks people start to wonder and even worry.  Thank you for the messages of concern.  No, I'm not dead, or in a ditch or even stuck in New Zealand.  But if I have a hint to offer travellers to New Zealand it is that free wifi is not standard in hotels - of course you can pay for it and the price of a small car will buy you about an hour online.

So since your correspondent last checked in 12 (oops) days ago I have:

- been back to Heide

- been to Auckland

- done lots of work 

- climbed a volcano (and had weird dreams afterwards)

- had a drink in the Hilton in Auckland Harbour and watched the container ships load and unload (I find this mesmerising and could watch for hours) - the Hilton looks like a ship and has a great view over the water

- been to St Patrick's Cathedral in Melbourne for the Easter Vigil (two and a half hours, including archbishop, baptism, much incense, two choirs, 20 seminarians - where did they find so many young would-be priests??? -  and kneelers with no padding.  Hard core.)

- been to the Melbourne Comedy Festival

- drunk champagne outside in the unseasonably warm sunshine

- started running again

- eaten chocolate, because it's Easter and it is my duty.

I hope your past fortnights have been equally varied and fulfilling and I promise, hand on heart, that there will be more blogging this week.

With love (and best wishes for ANZAC Day - you should try an ANZAC biscuit, they're delicious) from HTLT.

Pancake Daaaaaaay!

I was on my way somewhere else, when I remembered that today was a VERY IMPORTANT FEAST - or at least an excuse to eat pancakes.  Luckily there was help close at hand.

I had a late lunch/early dinner at Breizoz on the corner of Getrude and Brunswick Streets, where I've eaten some of the best crepes outside Brittany.

Being a purist I had a galette jambon fromage, followed by a crepe beurre sucre.  

Yummy.  Anyone out there have pancake-related adventures to share?

Homesickness

I haven’t gone in much for homesickness. Or more accurately, I haven’t been feeling what the French call mal du pays. I miss family and friends, but I haven’t been missing Ireland. I’ve been too busy sampling the delights Australia has to offer while I’m here.

But I confess to a pang when I saw that the Rose of Tralee had been crowned on Tuesday night. It’s very hard to explain the Rose of Tralee to anyone who hasn’t grown up with it. A beauty pageant that’s about inner beauty and cailíní deasa? Where grown women deliver party pieces and there’s a singalong at the end? The fact that, with no intention of ever entering the competition, I was still devastated when I discovered that I was officially too old to be eligible? Nice as the people are here, that stuff can’t be translated.

So I’m just going to sit here and sing along with the Count. You can sing too: The pale moon was rising above the green mountain… Sniffle.

Winter Olympics

I’m clearly in a loving mood this week – well, I guess Sunday was Valentine’s Day. Anyway, along with Dublin bikes and Winter light, something else I love is (are?) the Olympics.

I will watch any sport, provided there’s a promise of a podium, a national anthem and some crying at the end of it. It's the mystique of the Olympics, I suppose; the fact that the Olympic gold is the one everybody wants to win.

My new-found favourite sport is snowboard cross. Four riders (see, I'm picking up the lingo) at a time shoot down a course, ducking and jumping over obstacles (and each other). The first two across the line proceed to the next round until only four are left in the final. This is a sport for insane people, but when you see them whooping and bouncing along the bumps you start to think, ‘hey, maybe I should take up snowboard cross.’

I’ve also been picking up skiing tips from the men’s downhill … I need to jump up in the air more, I think.

I’m watching coverage even as I type. Coming up: curling (meh), luge (more exciting), pairs figure skating (love it when they’re really good, love it when they fall – can’t lose!) and women’s snowboard cross. Good times.

Zimbabwean Christmas

In the end, there were no giraffes, but there was turkey and mince pies and Christmas cake and carols and Santa Claus.

On Christmas Eve, we went to a nativity play at the local Catholic Church. Excellent nativity play – though was slightly incongruous that Baby Jesus was played by blond, pink-fleshed doll easily half the size of child playing Mary.

Christmas morning went to church, opened presents by the tree (thank you to the lovely people who sent presents via Robbie!) and ate Toni’s divine (that’s the South African influence on me – but it was divine) Christmas cake.

(Robbie's impossibly glamorous grandmother, Ethelwyn, and his niece, Jessica.)

(Robbie + cake)

In the afternoon, we went to Robbie’s Uncle Rick’s farm – where there are giraffes, honest, but they just didn’t feel like coming out. All was not lost, however, because a much rarer example of wildlife was spotted coming across the dam:

It was a lovely day and I was beautifully looked after by the whole family but I have to be honest: it didn’t really feel like Christmas. 29 Christmases in the Northern Hemisphere have conditioned me to associate Christmas with early darkness, frosty mornings, woolly jumpers … the kind of weather where candles and roast dinners and fur trimmed clothing (poor Santa) make sense.