For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been doing a series of posts in aid of living the sweet life — even if you’re feeling displaced! The key, of course, lies in cultivating an approach to travel involving the five senses.

We began with the eyes and the ears, and we’re now moving on to the nose. Have you ever had the experience of catching a whiff of something and instantly being transported back to a specific moment in time — to a memory so sharp and clear you can picture it exactly? And then it’s gone, almost as quickly, as the smell wafts away and your other senses take over again, feeding the real world back into the loop…

Smell is the oldest sense, it touches the most emotional part of the brain.

– Roja Dove, the world’s sole Professeur de Parfums

Smell, like taste, is tied very closely to memory. Actually smell and taste are almost the same sense, but we won’t get into that right now — largely because we’d be talking about how in order to smell something, you have to get tiny particles of it up your nose. And that particular conversation rarely ends well…

Because smells create such strong associations with individual memories, your ideas and my ideas of an intoxicating smell are probably rather different.

Ah, the smell of…Thai petrol?!

For example, everyone loves the smell of freshly mown grass; but how many of you like the smell of petrol (gasoline, for those of you across the pond)?

I love it. I associate it with long, busy days in Thailand, running errands for the animal clinic where I was volunteering, driving around looking for stray dogs in need of vaccinating — on my tiny little Yamaha motor scooter.

I could always smell the petrol when filling up the scooter tank — because most of the gas stations had only one barrel of the stuff, with a hand-pump and a rubber hose just long enough to reach your tank.

So that smell always brings back happy memories…even though it’s not widely considered a delicate fragrance!

The most noxious of Thai odors — bread?!

Here’s another odd one. I’ll say it slow, in case anyone is likely to faint from pure, unadulterated, lust: Freshly. Baked. Bread.

Mmmmmm! Right?

Wrong. For me, anyway! At one point during my stay in Thailand, I had a job working shifts in a bread factory, where that gorgeous smell permeated the whole building 24 hours a day. Perhaps because I was the only guy, and therefore resilient (or expendable?), I got to be in charge of the enormous, stainless-steel walk-in ovens. I put the bread trolleys in and, twenty minutes later, took them out again. It’s a process that has to be done quickly, or else the oven loses too much heat — but the trolleys themselves get rather warm in the process, and of the four of them, two had broken wheels.

You know how hard it is to steer a supermarket shopping trolley with a jammed wheel, right? Now imagine trying to do it fast — very fast — with a trolley approaching 200 degrees Celsius…and for 12 hours straight. Even my burns had burns.

I survived a whole two weeks in that job, and then as soon as my paycheck hit the bank, I fled straight to Bali to spend it!

To this day I can’t smell baking bread without thinking that pain — the kind that accompanies searing, scorching flesh — is about to follow…

Another smell to avoid: live jaguar!

Now I’ll tell you something you don’t ever want to smell: anywhere a jaguar is living! When a jaguar is confined in, say, a remote mountain-top rescue centre in Ecuador (such as the one I worked in and on which my book is based), you have to clean the enclosure out pretty regularly. Now what goes into a jaguar — especially when you’re doing this on behalf of a nonprofit that’s operating on a shoe-string budget — isn’t particularly wholesome.

To begin with, the jaguar’s body odor isn’t noted for its appeal, unless perhaps you’re another jaguar. And of course they scent-mark everything.

But what comes out of them? Bearing in mind they are pure carnivores, living exclusively (in captivity) on carrion. It’s not…I mean, it’s just…. Look. Just don’t ever go there. Trust me on this!

And now for some winners!

Okay, back to the good. Toward the top of my list of intoxicating smells is that of the traditional Australian Sausage Sizzle. Usually held as a fund-raiser for some charity or other, they never fail to rake in the dough because the smell — of frying meat and frying onions — is utterly delicious, utterly irresistible, and carries for miles.

Now that I’m living as an expat in Perth, I get to experience this smell on a regular basis, as there’s a Sausage Sizzle held directly opposite the entrance to my gym every Saturday morning.

The moment I finish my hard-core workout, I come outside and walk full-tilt into that heavenly smell…at just the point when my body is starting to crave sustenance.

It’s almost as though those cooks are waging a personal crusade against my willpower. And my waistline.

And you know what? They win every bloomin’ time.

But my absolute favorite? I’ve got to tell you mine, right? Then you can tell me yours… It’s food again (of course!): the aroma of fresh donuts!

This dense, cakey scent takes me right back to one small stand in Morecambe Bay, in the north of England, where I went on holiday as a child. Yes, to one of my very earliest trips with my parents. I loved that I could get three donuts for £1! And, if I ate them quickly enough, I could pretend as thought I’d never had them, and convince my parents to give me another pound to buy three more! Ah, happy days indeed.

So there you have it. Now it’s your turn to describe the most delicious smells you’ve encountered on your travels — meadows, Himalayan incense, sunlight on rainbows…? Tell us in the comments! And if you happen to have a photo to illustrate this intoxicating scent, send it to me at tony@thedisplacednation.com. Yes, I may make that “la dolce vita” slideshow I’ve been promising before too long…

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post, when expat Anthony Windram recalls some chance encounters with “locals” that have enhanced his sense of the bittersweetness of life in his adopted home.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to register for The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of weekly posts from The Displaced Nation, with seasonal recipes, book giveaways and other extras. Register for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

• EXPAT BOOK REVIEW: “Chique Secrets of Dolce Amore,” by Barbara Conelli
• THE DISPLACED Q: What’s the most delightful sound you’ve heard on your travels?
• Living La Dolce Vita with Susan Ross Donohue, Canadian artist & Francophile
• THE DISPLACED Q: What’s the most heart-stopping view you’ve seen on your travels?
• Welcome to May: A month of living La Dolce Vita

Images: The nose is from Morguefile, and the other two photos — of the gas pump and the jaguar — are from Tony James Slater’s personal collection.

A fly-on-the-wall observer of our household would see nothing wrong.

They’d see a family who has time-travelled from the 1950s. A young wife at home with a preschooler and two babies; a granny who hovers solicitously around her daughter and oldest grandchild; a husband who is polite and calm and doesn’t shout. A large dog that slobbers, and spends all his time between back yard and mud room.

The perfect family, even with slobbery dog, the observer would conclude.

But here’s the catch. My husband is not polite and calm by nature. He kicks electrical appliances when they fail, and shouts when he treads on Lego bricks in his bare feet. A month ago, he was experimenting nightly in the kitchen after becoming addicted to the Food Network Channel, and the air turned indigo as he tried to out-curse Gordon Ramsay.

He does none of this now. He is silent, detached, an observer himself.

I don’t like the new version of Oliver one bit.

Although you’d think this Oliver would be an improvement on the old model, he isn’t. He’s an automaton, with his studied manners. He pauses before he replies to anything I say, as if I’ve said something so stupid that he had to stop and count to ten.

His forays into the kitchen take place in silence, as if he is not creating with culinary pleasure but conducting a serious lab experiment; my efforts to compliment his cooking are met with shrugs, grunts, or monosyllables. After a pause, of course.

I want the old Oliver back so much.

Why did I send that bloody email to his sister? I can only think that I’ve watched too many episodes of Oprah or Ricki Lake in my past. Families, it seems, do not always need reuniting thirty years down the line.

“Can’t we talk about what’s happened?” I asked him one night.

That slight pause before he spoke.

“No point.”

“But we need to talk!”

Another pause.

“Everything’s fine, Libby.”

They’re not fine, at least not from where I am. They’re very far from fine. But how can you make something right between two people when the other person won’t admit there is something wrong?

Meanwhile, to Jack, I have to pretend there is nothing wrong. It’s very difficult, when your four-year-old repeatedly asks you why you have red eyes, not to answer “Because your father is a cold bastard” but so far I have managed to refrain.

Now that Kate’s gone home, I have no one to talk to. Maggie is on vacation, and as for talking to my mother, forget it. I know what she would say, and it would be along the lines of It Being My Own Fault and I Shouldn’t Do Things That Upset My Better Half. She’s spent her entire married life appeasing my father, so I wouldn’t expect anything more.

She made a Lightning McQueen cake for Jack’s fourth birthday on Sunday, and we all pretended to be a happy family around the dining room table. I hadn’t arranged a party, but promised Jack we would have one in the garden when the weather is better and Mummy isn’t as tired.

When we’d had some cake and Jack had opened his presents — thank goodness for internet shopping and express delivery — Oliver excused himself.

“Going to the office,” he said.

“But it’s Sunday,” I said. “It’s Jack’s birthday.”

He looked at me for a few seconds. I shrivelled inside. Then he left the house.

“Where’s Daddy gone?” Jack demanded.

“To work, sweetheart,” I said, bending over one of the twins so that Jack couldn’t see my face as I blinked back tears.

Tears, I’ve found, are never far away.

“It’s my birthday! Daddies shouldn’t go to work on birthdays!”

Jack was right, of course. Daddies shouldn’t do that.

Outrage surged inside me, which had the welcome effect of banishing the ever-ready tears. It was one thing to punish me, but another thing entirely to punish Jack by abandoning his birthday tea before we’d had second helpings of cake.

George started to howl for his dinner, and Beth joined in. I carried them into the living room, plonked them in their bouncy chairs, and sat on the floor between the two of them with my back against the sofa, stuffing a bottle in each mouth.

In the slurping, hiccuping peace that followed, I could hear Mum tidying up in the kitchen and talking to Jack, who was still luxuriating in his whinge-fest.

“I didn’t want Daddy to go to work today.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. But sometimes grown-ups don’t want things either.”

“You mean Daddy didn’t want to go to work?”

Clattering as a cupboard opened and dishes were put away.

“Hmm. Now that’s a tricky one. No, I think if Daddy didn’t want to go to work, he wouldn’t. What do you think?”

Goodness. Now there was a turn up for the books: my mother, badmouthing Oliver, and in her grandson’s presence?

No doubt some earnest couples-counselling guru would frown upon this, and tell me I should not encourage such blatant side-taking, but sod it. I need all the moral support I can get.

It occurred to me that I might not be giving Mum a fair chance by not confiding in her. She’s different from the demanding woman who arrived a month ago, but she’s not how she is with Dad either. She’s…well, I guess this is who my mother really is.

I heard her telling Jack to go and draw a nice picture for Mummy with his new crayons, and a second later, she came into the living room and sat down on the sofa behind me.

I leaned further back against the sofa.

“Are you comfy down there on the floor?” she asked.

“Mmm-hmm.”

I felt her stroking my hair, and imagined that I was six years old again. I remembered stroking my hair like that one day in 1986 after I came home from school, crying, and telling her that Cheryl Stokes had said I smelled bad, and it wasn’t true, was it?

How could it be? Mum said. I make you have a bath every night. “Which is more than can be said for Cheryl Stokes’s slovenly mother,” she added under her breath.

Not being familiar with the word “slovenly”, I thought she’d said “heavenly”, and for a long time after that thought that Cheryl Stokes’s mother was married to God, which made complete sense to my six-year-old logic, because Cheryl Stokes didn’t seem to have a father.

“Mum?” I asked now. “What happened to Cheryl, from the big Stokes family that used to live up the road from us?”

“Married twice, divorced twice. I see her every now and then in Sainsbury’s. She’s got three children. Maybe more.”

I sighed. “Like her heavenly mother.”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it? Her mother was just the same.”

I thought some more, my eyes closed. About my battle with Patsy Traynor, my fierce protection of Jack against Caroline’s devil-child. It’s what Mum would have done. This apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree either.

“Do we all turn into our mothers?” I asked. “Are you like Grandma? Oliver’s not a bit like his mother. He must be like his…” I trailed off and sobbed.

The hand on my head faltered a little before it carried on stroking.

“I know you meant well,” Mum said. “Sometimes it’s hard for other people to forgive good intentions, though.”

“He’d kept a birthday card from his dad since he was six!” I burst out. “And a stuffed tiger! You don’t do that if you want to forget about someone! Why would you keep that stuff otherwise?”

George finished his bottle. I lifted him out of the chair and passed him across to Mum to be winded. She put him over one shoulder and patted his back.

“You might keep it,” she said, not looking at me, “if it represents something good. Like the only good thing you can remember about that person.”

George burped. Beth started to fuss, and I realised that I’d let the bottle slide from her mouth.

“What are you getting at?” I said at last. “Do you know something about Oliver that I don’t?”

Mum shook her head. “I’ve probably said too much already.”

She put George back in his chair and bounced it gently with her foot.

“Speak to Sandra,” she said.

.

Previous post: Me and my shadow: LIBBY’S LIFE #50-Home Again

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for Friday’s post — another Displaced Q from Tony James Slater.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigit

Place of birth:

What made you leave your homeland in the first place?
Originally, I left to go travel the world when I took a career break from the corporate world in 2007. When I left, I didn’t know that I was going to start as an expat. But, while traveling, I met someone here in Colombia and wound up staying.

Is anyone else in your immediate family “displaced”?
I have many family members who have a bit of wanderlust in their soul. But, I think I am the only one who is living as an expat.

Can you describe the moment when you felt the most displaced?
That would probably be my trip to Egypt in 2008. I normally feel at home on the road. I love to travel. But, in Egypt, I just couldn’t seem to make a connection with the people, the culture or the country. I spent about ten days traveling with a friend. The combination of the heat, the constant sales pitches in the streets, and the culture of backsheesh just wore me out. It wasn’t all bad though. I had a few days on a felucca on the Nile and a few days to hang out in Luxor. But, when we returned for our final two days to Cairo, I didn’t go out. I hid in my room — not my travel style at all. I just wanted to rest and wait until it was time to go to the airport and leave.

Is there any particular moment that stands out as your “least displaced”?
That’s easy. I was an exchange student to South Africa just after high school. I had such an amazing year. Between four host families and a lot of great friends that I made at my host school, I didn’t want to leave. It’s probably why I’ve been back six times since then. On my last trip in 2009, I got to see the country preparing for the World Cup. I was so proud of South Africa. I’ve seen it go from pariah apartheid state to emerging world influencer — with many bumps along the way. It really is a special place. It’s been a few years since I’ve been, so I’m probably due for a visit again. I’m missing a good braai (barbeque) with my friends. My dream is to have a place in or just outside of Cape Town someday, with a view onto the ocean.

You may bring one curiosity you’ve collected from your adopted country into The Displaced Nation. What’s in your suitcase?
From Argentina: Breakfast foods — coffee, facturas (sweet Argentinian pastries with various fillings) and medialunas (Argentinian croissants).
From South Africa: Some bottles of wine, probably red. No, definitely red.
From Colombia: My mochila (over-the-shoulder daybag). These are used by everyone in Colombia, men and women, and they are perfect for carrying your stuff while you’re out running around.

You are invited to prepare one meal based on your travels for other members of The Displaced Nation. What’s on your menu?

Oh, this is going to be fun!
Appetizers: A selection of dips and finger foods from Turkey. I love the food there and really miss it.
Main course: A pork barbecue prepared by my dad who is a national award-winning BBQer in the US. Maybe we’ll have some fresh Patagonian lamb with it too. The meat will be served with a Greek salad and lots of veggie dishes — the veggies will have been bought fresh from La Vega Central, the produce market in Santiago, Chile. Finally, there will be plenty of my Dad’s award-winning sauce to go with the meal.
Drinks: Of course there will be plenty of wine from South Africa and we’ll also have sparkling water for a non-alcoholic option.
Dessert: Why select one? It’s a dinner party so there should be a variety! Brigadeiro (chocolate bonbons) from Brazil, ice cream from Argentina (unexpectedly amazing!), fresh fruit from Ecuador and Colombia, and churros from Spain (that can be a dessert, right?).
Nightcap: Amarula (cream liqueur) from South Africa, served with Segafredo coffee from Italy.

And now you may add a word or expression from the country where you live in to The Displaced Nation argot. What will you loan us?
Chucha (pronounced choo-chah): This Spanish word has multiple meanings across Latin America. In Chile, Ecuador and Peru, where I picked it up, it’s an interjection meaning “sh**” or “shoot.” In Colombia, it has two entirely different meanings depending on where you say it. In Bogotá, it means armpit odor and in Cartagena, it means vagina. People often look at me funny here when I say it. I’m sure the Displaced Nation has occasions when you could use a confusing swear word…

Put it this way: we like anything that makes people laugh! And this month we are looking at ways of achieving “la dolce vita” — by that we mean, indulging in life with all your senses. Can you describe an instance on your travels when you felt you were living la dolce vita?
In 2008, I traveled through Patagonia and had an amazing six weeks. The first part of the trip was on a Chilean ferry called Navimag, which cruises north to south from central Chile to the southern tip. You are in protected waters (most of the time) and on both sides of the ship is this beautiful, untouched landscape full of snow-capped volcanoes, lush green countrysides, enormous glaciers (some of the biggest in the world), and tiny, remote villages. You can also see marooned ships and the occasional dolphin. The weather can change from clear, sunny skies to blustery snow in a heartbeat. That trip is one of my most special trips ever. I really felt like I was living La Dolce Vita during those four days.

I personally think that the yearning for la dolce vita increases as one grows older. I know you are an expert on adult gap years. What made you decide to take one for yourself?
My catalytic moment was the night I went out with some friends to dinner on the River Walk in San Antonio, Texas, on a hot, balmy Friday night. They could tell I was down, and had been for some time. They asked me what it was going to take to make me happy. I didn’t have a good response that night. But, the question haunted me all weekend. I finally had an epiphany that I really wanted to leave my corporate job and get out in the world and travel. I traveled for almost two years mostly through South America, parts of Europe, Turkey and Egypt.

And then you decided to set up a business to encourage others to do the same?
Once I decided to settle in Colombia, I chose the entrepreneurial path and set up CareerBreakSecrets.com. I wanted to help popularize the idea of taking a career break and show other people that they can do it with just a little bit of guidance and inspiration. We’re now in our third year and will be releasing a book and launching our show, The Career Break Travel Show, globally later this year. I love hearing from real people who have decided to take their own break and if they set up a blog, follow them around the world on their travels. The people I’ve encountered have ranged from teachers to social workers to business people who have done some amazing things like volunteer and share their skills, hike Patagonia, bike across New Zealand, or take transcontinental train rides.

Readers — yay or nay for letting Jeff Jung into The Displaced Nation? Tell us your reasons. (Note: It’s fine to vote “nay” as long as you couch your reasoning in terms we all — including Jeff — find amusing!)

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s diary entry from our fictional expat heroine, Libby, who is desperately trying to hang onto her sanity…and her marriage. (What, not keeping up with Libby? Read the first three episodes of her expat adventures.)

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to register for The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of weekly posts from The Displaced Nation, with seasonal recipes, book giveaways and other extras. Register for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

• RANDOM NOMAD: Isabelle Bryer, French Expat in the City of Angels
• RANDOM NOMAD: Suzanne Kamata, American Expat in Japan
• RANDOM NOMAD: Wendy Williams, Canadian Expat in Austria
• How to throw a party for a bunch of global nomads
• RANDOM NOMAD: Annabel Kantaria, British Expat in Dubai

img: Jeff Jung with baby cheetahs near Oudtshoorn, South Africa, September 2009.

TITLE:

Author Bio:

Born in London to an Austrian mother and an Italian father, Barb now splits her time between Milan and New York. Her first book, Chique Secrets of Dolce Vita, was published in 2011. She is the host of  Chique Show at Blog Talk Radio, where she interviews authors and talks about life in and her passion for Italy.

Summary:

Fascinating, enthralling and seductive travel and life tales about unexpected encounters with the capricious, unpredictable and extravagant city of Milan, its glamorous feminine secrets, the everyday magic of its dreamy streets, the passionate romance of its elegant hideaways, and the sweet Italian art of delightfully falling in love with your life wherever you go.

(Amazon product description)

Review:

In their instructions for describing someone’s appearance, “How To Write” gurus advise you not to reel off physical characteristics in a shopping list. Don’t write “blond hair, brown eyes, even teeth”, they say, but focus on a couple of arresting features: stripy but chipped nail polish, or a wrist laden with silver bangles.

By describing in detail only personal, quirky aspects of the whole, these teachers rightly insist, you create a vivid picture for your readers.

This is exactly how Barb Conelli brings to life the Milan she knows and loves.

Instead of reciting a shopping list of Places You Must See, which you could find in any guide to Milan, Conelli figuratively takes you by the hand and says, “Forget the official tour. Let me show you my Milan, the people and places I love.”

On this off-the-beaten-track tour of Milan’s streets, we visit The Paradise of Pink Feathers: the garden in Via die Cappuccini number nine, with its many flamingos, whose owner’s identity nobody really knows. We eat panettone at Marchesi’s, while Conelli relates the fascinating legends behind the pastry’s origin. (Tip: you should first try it on 3rd February, because on this day panettone has magic powers. Who knew?) On one day, she brings you along to visit the studio of an artist friend; on another, we go to the ballet school of Annamaria Bruno and her daughter Liliana to live out our dreams and become ballerinas in point shoes for a day. We meet the ghost of Mrs. Giuseppina Luini, an enterprising baker from Puglia who came to Milan in 1949, and turned the family recipe of Panzerotti into a Milanese legend.

Milan’s beauty, Conelli says, does not just lie in its breathtaking architecture, but in its inhabitants, past and present.

To me, the city is not an inanimate cluster of buildings and their architectural elements; the city is a living organism boiling with energy, its features are being recreated every day by the people who walk its streets.

It’s a city full of secret corners and quiet clusters of serenity; of shadows of people long dead, and the vibrance of those living today.

In taking a walk with Barbara, we discover the magic that is Milan.

Words of wisdom:

In order to see the world, you must know how to look at it.

~

When the streets of Milan ask you to dance, there’s nothing else to do but put on your ballet shoes and surrender with confidence to the arms of the city.

~

As an Italian, [my father] had rich experience with diabolic temptation and enjoyed surrendering to it very often and with great delight.

~

Despite its fickleness, vanity, unpredictability, and fancy for sophisticated elegance, Milan is an immensely simple city whose inhabitants know that real joy means seeing miraculous moments in everyday ordinariness.

Verdict:

At 76 pages, this book is a short but very satisfying read. If you have not been to Milan, it will make you want to visit; if you’re not a newcomer to the city, you will want to rediscover it.

Chique Secrets of Dolce Amore can be purchased here.

Or you can register for The Displaced Dispatch and hope you’ll be one of this month’s lucky winners!

Editor’s note: Kate Allison interviewed Barbara Conelli in March: “An Italian with a passion: How to live the Dolce Vita, with Barbara Conelli,” which is what inspired this month’s Displaced Nation theme of La Dolce Vita.

STAY TUNED for Wednesday’s Random Nomad interview with mid-life gap year expert, Jeff Jung.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to register for The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of weekly posts from The Displaced Nation, with seasonal recipes, book giveaways and other extras. Register for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Image:  Book cover – “Chique Secrets of Dolce Amore”

Related posts:

• Kidding yourself over La Dolce Vita
• The Displaced Q: What’s the most delightful sound you’ve heard on your travels?
• Living La Dolce Vita with Susan Ross Donohue, Canadian Artist & Francophile
• Welcome to May: A month of living La Dolce Vita
• An Italian with a passion: How to live the Dolce Vita, with Barbara Conelli

As you are doubtless aware, this month’s theme is la dolce vita, an Italian phrase meaning the sweet life. It would be remiss of us to choose that theme without referring to Fellini’s 1960 masterpiece of the same name.

Regular readers of The Displaced Nation may not be surprised to learn that I was a somewhat pretentious teenager. A thin youth, callow and pallid, I could be found most nights ensconced in my bedroom reading the novels of Thomas Hardy or writing in a notebook my own cringe-worthy poetry. However, I would sometimes, late at night, usually on a Friday, descend from my literary lair and head down to the living room where I would turn the TV to BBC2 or Channel 4 to watch some classic foreign film that I felt I ought to know about.

Though my teenage years aren’t that far behind me (the late 90s, if you must know) they exist in another epoch, a time of old media, where nobody normal blogged, where there was no twitter and there was most definitely no streaming online of every movie you could ever wish to watch. Instead my cultural endevours were rationed. The northern town that I grew up in had no bookstore (unless we rather generously classify W.H. Smith as a bookstore) or cinema, so I found myself spending a lot of my time in my local library or scanning the Radio Times to see what (if any) interesting examples of world cinema where being shown on either of the two niche channels (BBC2 and C4). Invariably, something was being shown late most Friday nights. It was in these circumstances that I first came across Fellini’s La Dolce Vita.

I can’t in all honesty say that I “got it” when watching it for the first time that night, but on a superficial level, I loved it. More particularly, I loved the effortlessly cool, brooding Marcello Mastroianni who anchors the film. This, I reasoned, was how manhood should be, how I should live my life: apertifs in the cafes, dances at the Cha-Cha-Cha Club, a midnight wade into the Trevi Fountain with an Anita Ekberg figure, two lonely souls enjoying a fleeing moment of warmth.

So I pondered about how one goes about affecting a similar style to Mr Mastroianni. The problems quickly became apparent. My clothes came from Marks and Spencer’s men’s department and gave me more the appearance of a Mormon missionary than Italian heartthrob. Then there was the impossibility of finding in Hartlepool a Cha-Cha-Cha Club that played the music of Nino Rota — now, the Bikini Fun Bar played 2Unlimited, but between you and me that wasn’t quite the same. Most disappointingly, I had no Anita Ekberg; none of the girls in school would take up my invitation to wade with me in the duck pond in Ward Jackson Park.  So the attempt to give my teenage years a Fellini spin were dashed. I couldn’t recreate the Rome of 1960 as seen through Fellini’s lens in the Hartlepool of 1998 (hardly a surprise).

But if I stopped pretending to act like I’d stepped out of a Fellini film, still I think this might have been when I was unknowingly inoculated with wanderlust — and the thought that somewhere out there is a place where cafes serve apertifs, not sausage rolls, where the club plays Nino Rota, not 2Unlimited, and where Anita Ekberg is waiting. That’s the sweet life.

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s post, Kate Allison’s review of Chique Secrets of Dolce Amore, by Barbara Conelli — the book that inspired this month’s theme!

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to register for The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of weekly posts from The Displaced Nation, with seasonal recipes, book giveaways and other extras. Register for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

• THE DISPLACED Q: What’s the most delightful sound you’ve heard on your travels?
• Living La Dolce Vita with Susan Ross Donohue, Canadian artist & Francophile
• THE DISPLACED Q: What’s the most heart-stopping view you’ve seen on your travels?
• Welcome to May: A month of living La Dolce Vita

But just in case those ears of yours have been missing some vital input — of the kind that would help you to appreciate life’s sweetness — let’s do an exercise in aural comprehension and memory.

Yes, it’s time to pay some attention to those great big flappy things on the sides of your head — you know, the ones that help cartoon elephants to fly? Yes, friends (Romans and countrymen), I’m asking you to lend me your ears. Don’t worry — I’ll give them back. And, by the time I do, you will understand why there’s a photo of wet grapes on this page!

Today, in the service of living a fuller Dolce Vita, our question is: What is the dreamiest, most beautiful sound you’ve heard in the course of your travels?

Beauty in serendipity

Now, because La Dolce Vita is all about finding beauty in unexpected things, I won’t wax lyrical about waves lapping on foreign shores, morning birdsong in uninhabited fields, or other somewhat clichéd ideas of a “dreamy sounds.”

True, it was incredibly sweet to hear my girlfriend say “yes” when I asked her to marry me; I’m sure the same is true for everyone who’s been through this stage in their life. In fact, I hardly heard her at all because she was crying so much. (I was crying too as it happens, but that was because I was kneeling in an ants’ nest at the time and Australian ants really hurt when they bite! Damn them!)

Now, I’m the sort of person who takes great delight in discovering life’s hidden treasures in the moments you’d least expect them. And I take even greater delight in pointing them out to everyone else, which apparently is one of the most annoying qualities a person can have. Especially if you’re having a bad day.

So, what’s the most delightful sound you’ve heard recently? Is it some gentle-voiced stranger, mentioning how bright and sunny the day is, even though the train is making you horribly late for work? Or is it the sound of someone telling that well-spring of positivity to shut the f@&8 up and p*$$ off?!

I apologize in advance for being that guy. I should try to keep my happy-happy joy-joy observations to myself more often!

But in terms of the most wondrous sounds I have come across, I’ve decided not to opt for the obvious — the soft harp music at my wedding in England; the sound my footstep makes in deep, fresh snow at 10,000 feet; or the poignant jingling of a Spanish music box, dearly remembered from my childhood, which I inherited from my granddad when he passed last month.

Instead I’ll go for the unexpected: the sound of rain on my tent.

Raindrops are falling on my tent!

After three months of living under canvas, doing agricultural work in the hope of extending my Australian Working Holiday visa, hearing that particular sound would fill my entire being with joy. Why did it have such an effect on me, you may ask? Was I looking forward to soggy clothes on the washing line or to a cold, wet sprint to the block of toilets? No, even a cheerful person like me isn’t that much of a glutton for punishment.

For me, the sound of raindrops simply meant…FREEDOM!

Because as any budding grape-picker knows, you can’t pick ‘em when they’re wet — so any downpour of sufficient strength to wake me meant a day off work, for sure! No hours of bending over in the scorching summer sun; no cuts and prickles of delicate fingertips; no hauling of endless buckets, boredom, drudgery and indelible purple juice on everything. (Trust me, there are parts of you that just shouldn’t be purple — ever.)

Most of all it meant 6:00 a.m. was not the time to be wriggling out of bed, out of a nice warm sleeping bag into the miserable grey dawn — and into a set of filthy work clothes. No! 6:00 a.m., when the rain fell, rattling the flysheet and threatening to overwhelm its scant moisture resistance, meant only one thing: time to go back to sleep.

For me, that hard, driving rain was the world’s most blissful lullaby!

So there you have it. No magnificent concertos, no first cries of your first-born baby — even though no one will dispute the loveliness of those sounds.

My challenge to you today is to think of a sound that holds an interesting story about your travels abroad. What’s a sound that struck you as the dreamiest and most beautiful, but that’s unique to your own wanderings?

Let me know in the comments! And if you have a photo that accompanies that sound, send it to me at tony@thedisplacednation.com. As mentioned in last week’s post, I hope to be staging a “la dolce vita slideshow” before too long!

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post — a contrarian view of La Dolce Vita by none other than Anthony Windram!

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to register for The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of weekly posts from The Displaced Nation, with seasonal recipes, book giveaways and other extras. Register for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

• Living La Dolce Vita with Susan Ross Donohue, Canadian artist & Francophile
• Ask Mary-Sue: Is the mid-life gap year a good idea?
• THE DISPLACED Q: What’s the most heart-stopping view you’ve seen on your travels?
• RANDOM NOMAD: Isabelle Bryer, French Expat in the City of Angels
• Welcome to May: A month of living La Dolce Vita

Img: Grapes in the rain, courtesy of Rachel Kramer, October 2009.

Oh, thank the lord and all his angels. I am on my way back to England, after an extended stay with the Patricks.

How extended, exactly? Two weeks, two months, two years? Who knows?

Time expands to encompass the drama available.

~

Never have I wanted to be somewhere else so badly as on the evening that Tania Patrick appeared on Libby’s doorstep and refused to leave. She wanted to meet her big brother, come what may — and never mind the collateral damage to his family.

The awkwardness, the embarrassment, the toe-curling please-God-get-me-out-of-here-ness of that meeting. The sister seemed oblivious to our shuffling feet, the nervous coughs, and our collective intake of breath as we heard Oliver’s car pull onto the driveway.

“Oliver!” Tania Patrick cooed, as she elbowed Libby out of the way, opened the front door, and and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.

While she’s not unattractive, she’s never going to feature in a Pirelli calendar either, and Oliver’s not the touchy-feely type without a good reason for being so.

“Do I know you?” he asked, leaning back to avoid her embrace.

Libby, meanwhile, watching the scene as intently as her husband would watch a penalty shootout between Arsenal and Spurs, couldn’t bear the suspense. It occurred to me afterwards that she could have exonerated herself by blaming the sister for tracking Oliver down, but, guileless as she is, she blurted out her version of the truth.

“Oliver, this is Tania. She’s your sister. We met online after I emailed her.”

I couldn’t help but cover my face with my hands, shaking my head. Libby would not only have shaken hands with her executioner but apologised for treading on his foot on the way across the scaffold.

Oliver sidled through the front door into the house, pressing himself against the walls so he didn’t have to touch the visitor.

“And you didn’t think to tell me at the time?” he asked Libby.

“Well…” She floundered. “I mean, I didn’t tell her where we lived or anything, so I didn’t think she’d come here.”

“Took a bit of detective work to find you!” Tania’s voice was raspy. A recently ex-smoker’s cough. “Dad never talks about you, but my grandma told me once I had a brother somewhere.”

“Did she.” Oliver’s question dropped at the end to become a statement. “I bet he doesn’t know you’re here now.”

For the first time, Tania seemed unsure of herself.

“He doesn’t, no.”

Oliver nodded.

“Keep it that way,” he said, opening the front door wide, and indicating to his newly-discovered and quickly-abandoned sister that this particular game of Happy Families was over.

~

I wasn’t sure what happened between Libby and Oliver after that. They disappeared into their room with the twins, and every now and then I heard the sound of raised voices, followed by one of the twins’ wailing.

Jane and I put Jack to bed, and had a whispered conversation while his bath was running.

“It will blow over,” Jane said, sounding more certain than she looked. “It has to. She meant no harm.”

“Things will look better in the morning,” I said.

~

They didn’t, of course.

They looked worse.

And the morning after that, too. Every day was worse than the last.

Libby put on a brave face and bright smiles during the day — while Oliver was out — and for minutes at a time we would forget anything was wrong. The babies always knew something was wrong, though, and cried alternately with hunger and colic. On Day Three, Libby abandoned her principles and gave them formula milk.

When Oliver came home in the evenings, the atmosphere changed in the house. Jane and I would scurry for cover in the basement, pretending that we were keeping Jack entertained and out of the way.

Bad enough to bear were the frozen silences whenever Libby and Oliver were in the same room together. When Jane and I prepared dinner in the kitchen, we whispered, as if by whispering we could dissipate the cloud of anger and resentment that billowed forth from Oliver.

Worst of all, though were the nights. When everyone was in bed, we could hear — although we pretended not to — the increasing volume of Oliver’s voice, as the same argument was rehashed again and again.

“You had no right! None of your business!”

An inaudible murmur from Libby. More raging from Oliver.

“How would you like it if I invited a whole bunch of your long lost, naff relatives to barge into our life and turn it upside down? You wouldn’t, would you?”

Another murmur from Libby, this time louder so the quaver in her voice is detectable.

“I don’t care how good your intentions were. I’ve spent my entire life trying to forget that bastard ever existed, and now I have to deal with him and a TOWIE half-sister, thanks to your good intentions. If those are your good intentions, God help us all when you have bad ones.”

And so on. Every night. Libby looked shattered — a normal look for a mother with new twins, but this was exhaustion on a different plane.

~

Sunday arrived, and I had to leave. I wished I could take Libby as well.

She had refused to talk about what had happened. Perhaps she felt that ignoring the problem would make it go away.

“I’ll be all right,” she said, as she said goodbye to me. “Mum’s still here, at least.”

Jane had stepped up her game in the last few days. If she previously thought Libby was confident, and felt inadequate around her, this was no longer the case. A mother is always a mother, no matter how old her children are.

“You’ve got to talk to someone, Libs,” I said. “You can’t bottle it up like this.”

She shook her head. “Can’t,” she said, pressing her lips together in a thin line. “You have no idea what a Pandora’s Box I’ve opened.”

I had an idea. “Then write. Get it out of your system that way.”

She nodded slightly. “I’ll think about it.”

“I can’t do your blog next week,” I said. Actually, I could, but this would be good therapy for Libs.

“I’ll think about it,” she repeated. She sniffed, straightened up, and put her shoulders back. “You’d better go. The traffic will be awful if you leave it any later. The Red Sox are playing at home today.”

I sat in the car, put it in reverse, and backed out of the driveway. As I stopped at the end of Juniper Drive, I looked in the rearview mirror. Libby was standing by her mailbox, still waving.

Even from this distance, I could see she was crying.

.

Previous: LIBBY’S LIFE #49- An unwelcome blast from the past

Stay tuned for Friday’s Displaced Q testing your ability in another aspect of La Dolce Vita!

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Img: Map of the World – Salvatore Vuono

The artist Susan Ross Donohue revels in city life, art, literature and anything that makes her laugh. She lives physically in Montreal but mentally in Paris. As she has such a good handle on La Dolce Vita, I asked her to share the sensory highlights of her travels and some advice on enjoying the sweet life even if you stay at home…

Most heart-stopping sight

Our first visit to Paris. My husband and I were very young, and this was our first time abroad. Upon arrival, we took the métro to Charles de Gaulle Étoile, the station closest to where our hotel was located. We walked up the stairs et voilà — there was the Arc de Triomphe just as I imagined it would be, only better. I was stunned. Speechless actually. But I have to say that this still applies. The Arc and the Eiffel still bring tears to my eyes, I’m not sure why.

Most intoxicating scent

The flowers — jasmine, lavendar, roses — in Grasse, in the south of France. Grasse is considered France’s perfume capital as it produces over two-thirds of the natural aromas used in perfumes. Touring Parfumerie Molinard is an education in itself. I thought I knew scents until I took the tour but then I found out how much more there is to learn! But, you don’t have to be an expert to appreciate the aromas of this area. Just breathe in and enjoy.

Dreamiest sound

This is strange — it wasn’t in France! My husband and I had driven from Nice to Sanremo, Italy, just across the border. While wandering through the town, we heard strains of a violin coming from the art gallery (which is what we were looking for in the first place). We went in to check out the art work only to discover the music was “live.” A girl was practicing the violin and she continued to play while we looked at the exhibition. No one in the gallery, which was called Tunnel Dell’Arte, spoke English or French, and our Italian is nil — but we did manage to understand she was practicing for a concert that night. We bought a small painting and the owner mimed that he could send it to us by air (with much flapping of the arms to get the idea across).

Most delicate flavors

It’s a toss-up between the hot dogs at Harry’s New York Bar in Paris and a white wine served at a dinner in the Loire Valley (unfortunately, I can’t remember the name).

Softest physical sensations

Walking in the Tuileries one day, we came across a man feeding the birds out of his hand. We were watching him when he motioned to me to put my hand out, and he filled it with seeds. Sure enough, these tiny little birds landed on my fingers to have their lunch. This was an amazing feeling. Very delicate, very soft, very special.

Most interesting unexpected encounter with another human being

There is no one particular person that I can single out because we’ve always had nothing but good experiences with people during our travels — I’m remembering, for instance, an entire café full of people trying to find a street address for us.

A place that stimulates all five senses

Montmartre stimulates all five senses with the mixture of music, art and restaurants. Further up the hill in Montmartre is the local vineyard, the wonderful restaurant La Maison Rose and the Lapin Agile cabaret, with its fascinating history. I couldn’t go to Paris without some time in Montmartre. I especially like going on a week night, when it’s a bit quieter, and I can picture Picasso, Modigliani or Utrillo sitting at a café talking about art. Bliss.

Favorite contemporary artist with a sense of dolce vita

The American pop artist Jim Dine is a favorite. I’ve loved his work for years and have met him a few time at exhibition openings. He is equally talented in printmaking, painting and sculpture. His work is very personal, but the viewer doesn’t feel like an intruder.

Favorite historical artist

Who had more heart and soul than Van Gogh? To see a real Van Gogh is a totally different experience from seeing a reproduction. This is something else that led me to tears the first time I saw one of his canvases. (Truly, I don’t cry a lot — Paris seems to do that to me!)

Favorite travel quote

″A traveler without observation is a bird without wings.”
– Moslih Eddin Saadi

We travel to open our minds and hearts, and to learn from the experience. For me observation is the whole point of traveling.

Advice for living la dolce vita at home

La dolce vita is whatever you want it to be. Try evenings with a particular country theme — a Spanish night with paella, a Parisian evening with raclette, French wine and music. All the information you need is on the Internet: recipes, lessons for learning a foreign language, instructions for adding a foreign touch to your decor… The possibilities are endless.

Susan Ross Donohue is an artist who lives in Montréal, Canada. She makes frequent trips to Paris, a city she considers her second home. Her travels are recorded in her blog Life, Laughter and Paris, and you can see her artwork — much of which is inspired by the sights and sounds of Paris — at her art site, Susan Ross Donohue. Follow Susan on Twitter (@srossdon) and on Facebook.

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s bulletin from Woodhaven, where our fictional heroine, Libby, is not so much courting trouble as dragging it handcuffed to the altar. (What, not keeping up with Libby? Read the first three episodes of her expat adventures.)

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to register for The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of weekly posts from The Displaced Nation, with seasonal recipes, book giveaways and other extras. Register for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

• Ask Mary-Sue: Is the mid-life gap year a good idea?
• THE DISPLACED Q: What’s the most heart-stopping view you’ve seen on your travels?
• RANDOM NOMAD: Isabelle Bryer, French Expat in the City of Angels
• Welcome to May: A month of living La Dolce Vita

Images: Susan Ross Donohue in her favorite city; feeding the birds; “L’Accordéoniste,” one of her paintings.

I moved from South Africa to London when I was 18 with my parents. Everyday my feet straddle the line between two very different places that I consider home, and sometimes I lean more toward one side than the other. For example, I absolutely love the opportunities that London affords, but I miss the warmth of South African people.

While I will forever be torn between my two homes, one country will forever win when it comes to food: South Africa. You see, South Africa offers not only a great variety of different and amazing landscapes, it is also home to people from diverse backgrounds. A rich combination of cultures, traditions and religions results not only in a unique way of life but also in a wide menu of food items.

I miss everything about South African food: the access to affordable fresh fruit, the healthier diet, grilled meats on the braai (barbecue), to name just a few.

I even miss those packaged foods that you don’t realize you often crave until you don’t have access to them anymore.(Over the years, I’ve met a lot of South African expats and discovered just how much of a hold those packaged foods have on our memories. While you can try to re-create homemade South African foods in other countries, it’s a struggle to replace the items for which you need to find a specialized grocery.)

Out of curiosity, I decided to conduct a study among South African expats here in London to see just how widespread these cravings are. Luckily, as my job is to represent South African Hotels in offering accommodations for travelers to the Rainbow Nation, I was able to utilize their resources for my study of which foods my people miss most.

According to my findings, South Africans who live and work in London miss the following 10 food items from their home country most of all. (Note: I’ve added explanations for the benefit of those who aren’t familiar with our culture.)

1) Biltong

A type of cured meat usually made from raw fillets of beef, ostrich or other meats. South Africa’s biltong can be compared to beef jerky as they are both spiced, dried meats, but biltong has different ingredients, is produced by a different method, and isn’t at all sweet.

2) Dry wors (also known as droëwors in Afrikaans)

Literally, dried sausage. Because it is dried quickly in warm and dry conditions, droëwors does not contain any curing agents as found in most cured sausages. As a result, it should not be kept in moist conditions (such as exist in the UK!). Droëwors is a popular snack.

3) Crème soda

A sweet, carbonated soft drink, usually flavored with vanilla.

4) Nik Naks

A popular brand of maize snack, available in the original real cheese, fruit chutney, cheese & onion and BBQ flavors.

5) Mrs Balls Chutney

A beloved brand of chutney often served with South African meals, with roots firmly planted in the country’s heritage. Made from apricots and peaches, it’s slightly sweet and spicy.

6) Peppermint Crisps

Milk chocolate bars filled with thin cylinders of mint-flavored toffee that were invented in South Africa by Wilson-Rowntree (it’s now produced by Nestlé). Kids in South Africa like to break off both ends of the bar and use it as a “straw” to drink milk.

7) Boerewors

A very popular sausage in South Africa that is used for braais/barbeques. Boerewors is made from coarsely minced beef, sometimes combined with minced pork and lamb as well as spices, and preserved with vinegar and salt. This quintessential South African sausage contains a high proportion of fat; no wonder it’s so tasty!

8) Rusks

Hard, very dry biscuits that were originally prepared by the Dutch for traveling long distances in South Africa’s hot climate. Rusks can be plain or with added texture from nuts, raisins or seeds. We often dunk them in tea.

9) Maize meal, locally referred to as mielie/mealie

Ground maize/corn that you mix with hot water and stir until you get a porridge-like mash (also called pap) — especially delicious when served with a nice homemade meaty tomato sauce.

10) Bakers Tennis Biscuits

A square coconut biscuit with a distinctive petal pattern, made with real golden syrup, coconut and butter. The brand has been around since 1914, when the South African biscuit/cookie manufacturer Bakers first introduced them.

* * *

I hope this gives you an idea of the unique South African palate. If you are an expat, then you’ll know what an adjustment it can be to live in another country, but for me the most profound difference among cultures comes down to cuisine.

Have you had a similar experience? I’d love to hear what foods you miss from back home in the comments!

Lexi Mills is a PR professional living in London. You can find her chatting up Brits all over the Foggy City and enjoying the National Gallery on her days off — a luxury she could not enjoy in her native South Africa. Follow her on Twitter at @leximills.

STAY TUNED for Wednesday’s post, featuring the first of several practitioners of la dolce vita.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to register for The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of weekly posts from The Displaced Nation, with seasonal recipes, book giveaways and other extras. Register for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

• 7 foods to seduce your Valentine (or not) — wherever your home and heart may be
• THE DISPLACED Q: Can travel and the expat life lead to a healthier diet?
• A Julia Child for our times: Expat author & French cookery expert Elizabeth Bard
• 7 deadly dishes — global grub to die for
• Jamie Oliver, culinary expert — and now expat?

Img: Octopus, anyone? Lexi Mills at a seaside cafe in Brighton, UK, in 2011.

Mary-Sue Wallace, The Displaced Nation’s agony aunt, is back. Her thoughtful advice eases and soothes any cross-cultural quandary or travel-related confusion you may have. Submit your questions and comments here, or else by emailing her at thedisplacednation@gmail.com.

Welcome to May, dearest readers. I’m sure like me you find this to be an absolutely delightful time of year as a long and delicious summer stretches out before us. This month’s theme is la dolce vita — or the sweet life in American. For me that means a summer making full use of my grill and dusting off my Paula Dean cookbook. Anyhoo, let’s get on with the queries that you’ve sent in for me, hopefully I can turn someone’s frown upside down — if anything, that’s the real sweet life. Ha, who am I kidding? It’s still baby back ribs!

__________________________________________

Dear Mary-Sue,

My wife and I are middle-aged, middle class Americans with two kids and a house and jobs. But now that our kids are grown up with lives of their own, my wife seems to have gotten it into her head that we should quit our jobs, sell the house, and have an adventure. I said, “Don’t be silly, gap years are for kids,” but she seems determined to do this. I wonder if I can talk her into taking a “gap year” at home. What do you think?

Dan from Denver

Dear Dan,

It sounds to me like you’re not that excited by your wife’s suggestion. This really needs to be a joint decision between the two of you for it to work, otherwise you’ll end up resenting your wife and she’ll feel hurt that you never shared your reservations with her initially. Talk to your wife about your misgivings. It’s a big step to quit your jobs and “have an adventure.” What does that mean anyway? Does she want you to move somewhere entirely different or travel the world? Take your wife out to your favorite restaurant, your local waffle house say, and over pistachio and strawberry waffles find out if there’s anything that excites you both. If it’s that you want to buy motorcycles and travel across the US, then maybe you could look into hiring bikes and doing a few long weekends. Find your common ground and then dip your toes a few times before you decide to take the plunge.

Mary-Sue

———————————-

Dear Mary-Sue,

I am an American who has lived in England for the past twenty odd years. Initially, I was married to an Englishman but that didn’t last. Now that the big 5-0 is approaching, I’d like to take a break from this place — having had my fill of rainy weather and jobs that don’t pay well. I’m thinking about volunteering at an orphanage in Africa or somewhere like that. I told my best friend, who is English, about the plan the other day, and she said: “Why do you want to reinvent yourself in the years when you should be winding down?” Do you think she has a point or is just being negative?

Elaine from Essex

Dear Elaine,

As a committed Anglophile with a younger son who has shown me how to download from torrent sites, I have unfortunately watched The Only Way is Essex and as such it’s my considered opinion that spending a few years in an orphanage in Africa is preferable to remaining in Essex.

Yours in commiseration,

Mary Sue

———————————-

Dear Mary-Sue,

I recently finished reading Susan Griffith’s Gap Years for Grown Ups, and now I’m torn between three different ideas for my mid-life gap year: 1) build walkways in the Costa Rican rainforest; 2) crew a yacht across the Atlantic; or 3) take a gourmet cookery course in the Loire Valley. Can you give me any advice on which one to choose? I should tell you that I’m a middle-aged German, twice divorced, and hoping this gap year will lead to meeting a significant other, preferably from a different culture.

Helmut from Hamburg

Dear Helmut,

I suspect that your true intentions lie in the end of your letter where you write, “I’m…twice-divorced, and hoping this gap year will lead to meeting a significant other, preferably from a different culture.” Let’s  face it Helmut, you’re a little horny, aren’t you? Don’t be shy, there’s no shame in that. I’m convinced that Mellisa from my Tuesday night Bible class who is always so excited about going to Marrakech once a year isn’t just looking forward to her “voluntary work” if you know what I mean. Wink, wink. 

Well, let’s take each option that you’ve presented me with. This idea of taking a yacht across the Atlantic? Hmm, well unless you’re planning on dating a sperm whale, I think you might find the Atlantic slim pickings. Maybe if you ended up yacht-wrecked off the Azores you might have a chance, but really let’s forget this one. Second thought, a cookery course in the Loire Valley. Well, as we’re seeing with President Hollande and Chancellor Merkel, I’m not sure about the long-term benefits of a Franco-German relationship. So that leaves Costa Rica. Last time I visited Costa Rica I was stunned by the amount of sad, lonely, pasty-faced middle-aged men in garish Hawaiian shirts who were on my flight into San Jose. Apparently, they’re getting action, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t as well.

Mary-Sue

___________________________________________

Anyhoo, that’s all from me readers. I’m so keen to hear about your cultural issues and all your juicy problems. Do drop me a line with any problems you have, or if you want to talk smack about Delilah Rene.

Mary-Sue is a retired travel agent who lives in Tulsa with her husband Jake. She is the best-selling author of Traveling Made Easy, Low-Fat Chicken Soup for the Traveler’s Soul, The Art of War: The Authorized Biography of Samantha Brown, and William Shatner’s TekWar: An Unofficial Guide. If you have any questions that you would like Mary-Sue to answer, you can contact her at thedisplacednation@gmail.com, or by adding to the comments below.

STAY TUNED for Tuesday’s post. Mary-Sue has heard it’s going to be great.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to register for The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of weekly posts from The Displaced Nation, with seasonal recipes, book giveaways and other extras. Register for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

Related posts:

• Dear Mary-Sue: Dyngus Day and other great excuses for partying
• Dear Mary-Sue: Mad mad mad expat men & their fashion and beauty quirks
• Dear Mary-Sue: Fashion tips for the hapless traveler
• Dear Mary-Sue: Finessing Valentine’s Day abroad
• Dear Mary-Sue: A brimful of Ashram and other travel-related spiritual quests

img: Close, by Corina Sanchez.