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'Distance' - Wednesday 23rd July 2008

I can't say the days leading to this particular summer holiday have been calm and relaxed, but never mind: hopefully this just means my nerves will be all the more grateful for the serenity of the Med.

This site is also being given a rest until about the end of August, so don't forget to check back in a few weeks. Until then, stay safe, eat well and don't read the newspapers.

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'Excuse' - Thursday 17th July 2008

Some songs are hard wired into my psyche. Even if I haven't heard them for a while, the moment the first few notes begin to play, I'm back in a totally different state of mind. Below is a track I hadn't listened to for years, but the other day I was driving around and suddenly the partly-plaintive, partly-ominous piano opening came through the speakers. In less than a moment, I was sucked back into being a version of 'me' whose shoes I hadn't stepped into for a while, a version that had no trouble at all relating to the sense of smallness expressed in the lyrics.

Quite a few years have passed since Little Earthquakes was essential daily listening for me, but I guess the whole point of hard wiring is that you can never quite get rid of it. You find methods and strategies of maintaining your emotional equilibrium - and most of the time you do genuinely manage to get through your day without being aware of insecurities and anxieties from the past - but every now and then something comes along - something that knows how to push your buttons - and you feel like you're twelve years old.

It's odd that I heard this particular track again recently because, sure enough - as if by some karmic mockery - a couple of days later, a situation arose which well and truly pushed all my buttons to the extent that I spent a few days back in the mind of my adolescent self. I'd forgotten what a forlorn space that was. Still, I'm not sure many people around me noticed, which must mean that I've made some sort of progress... right?

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'Wonder' - Sunday 13th July 2008

I recently picked up a copy of a very readable magazine called Intelligent Life which features a section where people are asked to describe their personal 'seven wonders of the world', according to the categories below. Always up for a good list, I decided to have a go myself.

City: Venice

Generally speaking I'm a fan of all cities. I enjoy people-watching, shops and having my buttons pushed whilst being able to maintain my anonymity, so yes, most cities are pretty much guaranteed to do it for me. But Venice hits me in deeper ways. Maybe that's because I see tantalising metaphors in every single one of its details: the fact that it's sinking; its genuine claim to be a gateway between East and West; its lack of cars; its ability to go from being open and inviting to downright terrifying within the space of a few meters; its architecture... and I haven't even got on to the masks. London too holds a very special place in my affections and I always feel a thrill when the train pulls up at Waterloo. But if I were offered a free apartment in any city in the world, I'd want to be near the Rialto. (City I most want to see: Tokyo.)

Beach: Calella De Palafrugell, Spain

I enjoy beaches only if the company's right; I tend not to seek them out on my own. Having said that, the small bays that curve around the edge of this surprisingly untouched Catalan town are irresistible. You've got the Med, you've got very few tourists and you've got the best paellas and sangrias I've ever tried. Definitely worth a return visit one day soon. (Beach I most want to see: none spring to mind.)

Building: The Taj Mahal, Agra

I found this category quite difficult. Although I'm usually an admirer of all things urban, I couldn't instantly come up with anything here. I've got lots of favourite statues and monuments, but they don't really count, I suppose. In the end I settled on the Taj because it surpassed everything I'd hoped it would be. When the Divine L and I saw it, the sun was up, other tourists were conspicuous by their absence and as I walked through the entrance gate and caught my first glimpse of the dome, I remember being transfixed. 'It's the Taj Mahal,' I thought to myself, 'and I'm standing right in front of it.' The experience was magical from start to finish. (Building I'd most like to see: the interior of St Peter's Basilica, Vatican.)

View: Seeing Venice from the Alilaguna Water Bus

This is especially effective if a mist is hanging in the air. The boat bobs up and down, the fog clears and suddenly your eyes take in the whole of Saint Mark's, dominated by the Bell Tower and the dome of the basilica. Instant postcard perfection. (View I'd most like to see: the Earth from space.)

Work Of Art: Hamlet

Here's a question I was once asked at a job interview: "What's your favourite book and tell us why in no more than 3 words." I immediately said, "Hamlet. It. Has. Everything." I didn't get the job, but I still stand by that statement. I'm not sure what's more amazing: the possibility that one day a piece of work might come along that surpasses the story of the mad prince or the unlikelihood of that ever happening. (Work of art I'd most like to see/read: Ulysses by James Joyce.)

Journey: Anything involving the Divine L, a convertible with the roof down, an MP3 player on 'random' and France.

French roads are easy to love. They're long and straight enough to give you a satisfying sense of travelling and they take you past one spectacular landscape after another. And I know the journey isn't always meant to be about the destination, but when the destination is a cup of coffee served with a mouth-watering pastry, the journey becomes even more fun. (Journey I'd most like to go on: London to Venice on the Orient Express.)

Hotel: Ratan Vilas, Jodhpur

The Divine L and I had just got off the train from Jaipur. The short walk from the platform to the rickshaw wasn't short enough to stop us from getting a thorough monsoon soaking. Everything around us was in darkness. For all we knew, the driver was taking us to the other end of Rajasthan. We were tired and hungry and just wanted to find any old pillow on which we could lay our heads. But before too long, we passed through an open gateway and curved around a circular drive. At the entrance to a gorgeous 1920s house (think: veranda and elegant columns) stood a man holding an umbrella. He rushed over to our rickshaw, trying his best to shield us from the pounding rain.

"Is it Mr Alavi?" he asked.

And something about his voice - kindly, attentive and authoritative - made us think we were in good hands. We weren't wrong. The place was an unostentatious, note-perfect bubble of old world charm, from the home-cooked meals to the conversations with the proprietor and his family. If only all hotels did as good a job of treating their guests like guests. (Hotel I'd most like to stay in: Old Cataract, Aswan, Egypt.)

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