Basia Unleashed

New Year, new me, new you, new everyone. New hopes for you, me, world peace and Manolo Blahnik drastically reducing the price of his shoes. Every year it is the same, every year we say "ah but this year I'll make it so" and every year we realise that we haven't done anything.

Taking a chance seems the biggest risk imaginable, especially when it means giving up your comfort zone and striking out into the unknown. Jumping into the void with your eyes shut is, however, the biggest thrill that thrill seekers experience. Regret is not a word in my dictionary - especially when it comes to regretting things I have never done. If am lucid enough on my death bed, I do not, actually I refuse, to be thinking "what if I'd gone to....what if I'd done....how would my life have been?" Imagine ending your life with regrets.

Of course, wearing your heart on your sleeve ensures more than the average amount of heartache. Being open to the unknown brings with it a set of keys that can unlock unbelievable experiences of pleasure and pain. But eventually, the sleep walking through year after year, has to end.

As it is written, so shall it be...

Those of you who know me well will know that when it comes to upping and going, I am pretty good at it. My life has changed in ways I never imagined because I just did it. A holiday is nice, going to France and Ireland and catching up with those I love will be wonderful, but I'm talking about what I have realised is my life's work and maybe why I am here in this lifetime. I had an inkling of it on my first visit, on the second, something in my soul rang like a bell and now I wonder what took me so long to realise this.

And when I realised where I wanted to be, the soul bird, for so long curled up tight, huddled inside me, turned its face east to welcome the warmth of the rising light, spread its wings and it smiled....

Posted by Basia at 11:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I have a Kalashnikov. Yes, that's correct, you didn't misread that. I. Have. A. Kalashnikov. I keep it in the kitchen cos well I never know when I might fancy taking it out and admiring its clean simple lines, functionality and beauty.

And how did I get my hands on such a treasure? Well from the daddy of all things kalashnikov, from the General himself. Mikhail and I shared a couple of shots one evening. He is quite by far the most enigmatic and most humble person I ever met and left me with more than his clever invention for memories.

I've been reading several reviews lately of a new book about the AK-47 and its impact on the world. Beloved of armies, guerillas, terrorists and Quentin Tarantino characters, when you absolutely, positively gotta kill everyone in the room, the AK-47 is your only weapon of choice.

Most people know the history of how Mikhail Kalashnikov came to invent his deadly weapon, a weapon that also fires underwater, and the new book claims he wished he'd invented a lawnmower instead.

But on a cold day in London, in full Russian dress uniform, the most gentle of human beings, slightly bewildered by the all fuss being made of him, spoke about the mother of all necessity - survival. Mr Kalashnikov has been an inventor all his life - he invented a vodka glass for the Russian navy that would never tip over, not even on the highest of seas - and lately in his old age and not exactly the richest man in Siberia inspite of all his achievements - he put his name to a brand of vodka.

This is not a paean to a weapon but to the man I met. I have a wonderful photograph showing the moment when he, surrounded by photographers, saw me trying to sneak a photo of him on my phone and reached out to me. The photograph I have was taken by one of the snappers present and given to me later as a surprise gift. The General and I are laughing and look like we're down the pub having a few swift vodkas...which technically we were.

But that evening, at a party given in his honour, I received his favourite invention. The one that people can't resist touching, can't resist trying to defeat. Everytime I take my Kalashnikov out of the cupboard and fill it with Russia's finest, I think of that humble, honourable man and how I'd been lucky enough to meet a whole lot of history in one person.

Russian toasts are notoriously long and sentimental, he said, and once you open a bottle it must be finished. So even when I'm completely whacked on vodka, I'll never spill a drop, thanks to my Kalashnikov.

Posted by Basia at 5:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Every morning I drive to work, there is a group of small children waiting on a corner for the school bus. They are little kids, not more than maybe seven or eight years old, and one of them, a little dark haired, flashing eyed boy, every day I drive by, without fail, is hanging off the pavement, his face full of excitement, watching for the bus to come around the corner.

Now before I go any further, let me explain a little about Spain and how it deals with its children. The school buses are luxury coaches, they come on time, every day a parent is on board (having drawn up a rota with all the other parents), the police close off the surrounding streets during school opening and closing times and the buses are paid for, in the case of state schools, by local government.

A Spanish child would never be stolen from her bedroom because a Spanish child would never be left alone to guard a pair of infants while she slept. A Spanish child would be in the restaurant with extended family and friends all taking responsibility for her. And she would never be seen by any other Spaniard in the restaurant as a "bloody child who shouldn't be here."

Community means everything here. If Spain is losing a lot of its individuality because of EU inclusion, community responsibility is one thing (apart from endemic law breaking), thankfully, that remains.

Now back to the kids at the bus stop. My little man, as I said, every morning, practically jumps off the pavement with excitement, his face full of expectancy for the day ahead. And every day, his brother pulls him back from the edge of the pavement, while a posse of adults stand guard.

And I got to wondering, that little boy, cute as a button, will he spend the rest of his life heading for the edge? Will he always have someone to pull him back? Will he even want that?

And if he does always prefer to live on the edge, will people realise, will even he realise, he's not drowning, but waving?

Posted by Basia at 10:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Can a friend be a soulmate or is a soulmate just the one, the one person we have all been lead to believe is out there, just waiting for us, to the exclusion of all others? I am not altogether sure why we have been indoctrinated this way (is this the fault of Hallmark or religious types?) but I do believe that we are allowed more than one soulmate during our lifetime, and call me greedy, but we can have more than one soulmate on the go at the same time.

Of course I am talking about friends. Having more than one lover is just a recipe for disaster. Not that I would know anything about that of course, I'm really not the heartbreaking kind and besides, things like that always come back to bite you on the bum at some point. But due to the content of my last post, I thought maybe it was the right time to mention that sometimes you just get lucky with your friends. And new friends who come into your life and make you feel that you have known them for a long time and you feel comfortable with them, like your favourite pair of jeans, and you can't explain why this should be.

I have experienced this lately with new friends. Sweet, gentle people. Someone once told me that beautiful people have beautiful friends - and if this is true - then I surely must have done something good to have such beauty in my life. And I am not just talking about the physical, although, that is true of them also.

If a person shows you his or her soul without fear of being denied, then you are in the presence of a soulmate. For what is a soulmate if not someone who has given you the very essence of who they are? And that is the gift you treasure forever.

Posted by Basia at 1:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well not literally of course but I did require several shots of medicinal stuff to quell the thundering in my heart and all the stuff that tore through my head last night. Three years ago I ended a destructive relationship that had consumed me for the two previous years - a relationship based on pure chemical animal attraction that morphed into a kind of love. And last night, while watching trash TV, there he was, and I was rendered speechless.

It's funny because I have thought of him from time to time, wondered what he is doing, where he is living and what, if anything, I would say, if we ever ran into one another again. The scenarios change according to my daily mood, as you might imagine. But I often wondered if there would be any feelings left.

Now I know. And the answer is:

What was I thinking?

And yet there is still a tiny little corner of my heart, so tiny, not even NASA's spaceship or Google Earth's technology could locate it, that when I think of him it reminds me that so many people go through life incapable of giving or receiving love and no matter what, I am never going to be one of them.

Posted by Basia at 4:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Three weeks is a long time in the world - things change, people come and go, blossoms bloom - and the jacaranda trees all over Sydney cast the city in a hazy delicate purple glow. I first saw jacarandas in Buenos Aires and never got over their majestic beauty. They are big trees, with wide searching branches, laden with baby soft flowers when in bloom, bright and beautiful. There is a jacaranda in the centre of Cartagena, one of the biggest I have ever seen, and seeing the trees here, makes me think of Spain and home and what comes next. Being flung into the unknown again, far away from where I want to be.

A few months ago, when all was turbulent and a shade scary in my world, someone told me something that I will always treasure and carry with me in my heart. Something about a jacaranda tree in Sydney that meant something to him. A week ago I sat under that tree in a hot quadrangle and thought about a lot of things. About how people are in your life but then cross your path without a hello; about how I still feel lost in this world and probably always will; about why I can never settle.

Perhaps this is one of the most beautiful peaceful places I have been in since I arrived in Sydney and maybe it's only special because someone took the time to tell me about it when I needed it most. I found the tree of life - in more ways than one.

Posted by Basia at 2:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Was it the outrageously flirty Beckham-alike in the tattoo studio? Was it gorgeous Taika Cohen who just ran towards me out of his car smiling and chatting like I was his bestest buddy? Was it the far away friend who just made me smile because of an email (oh and I would so be your better half, never mind your other half haha)?

Whoever you are, wherever you are, you made me feel like a woman today. A pretty woman. A pretty sexy woman. Don't stop, don't ever stop.

Posted by Basia at 2:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last night in Sydney, the sky was particularly clear and for all the light interference of a big city, the southern sky was remarkable. There is something special about the southern sky, something bigger and wider and more infinite than its northern counterpart could ever hope to produce. It reminded me of Margaret River, of surfie glass blowing Gary and his hillbilly Hilton house in the bush, where I played chicken with a kangaroo the size of Tana Umaga (guess who won that one?) and lay out half the night on the trampoline in the yard just watching the heavens in all their glory. That was an amazing place to live - there was zero light interference, there was a skink under the porch who thrashed around a lot when beer got spilled, and the bathroom walls were made of glass. Comments like "Guys, I am going for a shower now, stay HERE!" always made me wonder - did they?

The Margaret River and the surrounding part of western Australia is a special place. One night in a pub, with my vat of beer, I bet on a dog race purely because the dog, Sheza Worry, had a pink coat on. She won. The bar was full of men peculiar to out of the way places in Australia, the kind of throwbacks who went to establishments that banned women and their carb-lite beers and white wine spritzers and even though times had changed and there were women drinking wine, it was one of the best atmospheres I had encountered. Maybe it's the Irish in me, but I prefer unfashionable pubs with grumpy old men who always come around in the end and have a laugh. You can make friends in places like that. Anyway, Sheza Worry's pub had this poster on the wall, a 1950s-inspired image of a clean cut man tipping a bottle of beer to his lips. And it said: Beer - because every man needs a hobby.

I have hunted high and low for that poster ever since. If you know where I can get one, email me...

Posted by Basia at 1:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Well it had to happen. I'm homesick. And it all started when I first sat at a pavement cafe on Norton Street in Leichhardt wondering why a particular Spanish establishment had moved to Sydney. Since then, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I miss Spain. Maybe the answer is I don't visit Norton Street again, with it's bijou stores, open air European-style cafes and it's yellow wedding cake architecture that so reminds me of someplace in Torrevieja. This is the heart of Sydney's Little Italy and it has fast become a magnet for me, not because the cafes serve beer like they do at home and show World Cup matches night and day, but because it IS like home.

There is a lot in Spain I don't want to go back to and a lot that I do. And ache to. For once I am at a loss as to know what to do about this. So in true Basia fashion, I won't do a damn thing, except prevaricate until the very last minute...

Posted by Basia at 7:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

It wouldn't be seemly to be in Australia and not write about spiders. Before I go any further, I would like to add that on my first visit to Australia, I was indeed bitten by a spider. We looked it up in a book going by the state of my three wounds which at first looked like mosquito bites but which then hardened into mini volcanoes that spewed out clear liquid. Nice. Attractive, too. Anyway, the said spider was declared to be a jumping spider, and lo! in the big book of spiders, there it was, described as being "kittenish". I was not impressed.

Now I find there is something lurking outside in the garden. It's the size of a cat and lurks in a web that could catch a German Shepherd. I kid you not. Apparently it "lives" there and "doesn't bother anyone". Well, it bothers me. Everytime I pass it, I wonder why I do not have a giant size can of hairspray in my hand, or any other kind of spider begone instrument.

I bet it knows now I don't like it and is planning to move webs and "bother" me....

Posted by Basia at 9:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My friend Jonny has spent most of his adult life spotting groupies a mile off. Actually he can probably spot them coming from half a continent away. They almost ruined his life at one point. They all wanted to know him - but only because his brother was (and still is depending on your point of view) a very very VERY famous popstar. Even when he says his surname, a name that is automatically associated with this popstar, people still say, "Are you related to.....?"

Jonny's mum told me she had learned the hard way many times over just why people make friends with you and eventually learned to recognise in people immediately whether they wanted to know her for who she is or for who her famous son is.

When I see this in people it makes me feel sick. Just wanting to get to know someone because of who they are or who they know. When I see it happen in people I know, it's doubly a shock and it's something that I cannot understand - but maybe because it is something that I would never do. Unlike Jonny and his family, I am a terrible judge of character because I can only see the good in people. But I'm learning, I'm learning....

Posted by Basia at 3:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

For those of you who need a little yumah before we launch into the night terror....as overheard....

Man at motel: I'm gonna have to get ear plugs, the girl in the next room seems to be a bit of screamer, sounds like two raccoons fighting over a pecan pie....

Posted by Basia at 6:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Spain near enough grinds to a frenzied halt during Santa Semana, where on the surface it seems that the Spanish are celebrating their unbridled passion for being theatrically Catholic. But bubbling barely beneath the surface is the desire to reaffirm and give reverence to what it means to be Spanish. A little bit of history: the present day traditions of Holy Week in Sevilla has its origins as early as 1248 when King Fernando III reclaimed Sevilla from the Moors. And thus Spain to Catholicism. The events of March 11th 2004 in Madrid were not lost on the Spanish, whose expulsion of Arab dominance is re-enacted in every city, town and village in former Moorish Spain every year without fail.

Spain is built on passion and blood. Passion for life, for the Madonna, for the family, for love. The blood of martyrs, the blood of Christ and the blood of innocents, whether they be Spanish or those who were victims of Torquemada's Inquisition or those who fell at the hands of the conquistadors. Blood and passion are the twin pillars of what it means to be Spanish.

When the Madrid bombs killed 191 people on March 11th 2004, the Spanish were the first to realise that history repeats itself. If the jihad is truly against those who seek to crush and destroy Islam, then Spain knows its bloody passionate past had a part to play. On March 12th, eleven and a half million Spaniards took to the streets in united grief and passionate, yet non-violent protest. Within days, José Maria Aznar´s Iraqi-war supporting government was uprooted in the general elections and Spanish troops came home when Zapatero's new government took office.

Semana Santa in Spain is an unforgettable experience that causes all who see it to reflect on their own culture and the history of humanity. This is a country of frustrations, petty bureaucracies and endless rule breaking. Yet it holds in its palm a race of people intensely emotional and deeply spiritual. The blood of the passion may refer to Christ's journey to Calvary, but that very same stuff flows in the veins and drives the heart of every Spaniard.

Posted by Basia at 4:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)