Sticky, heavy, humid air wraps itself around spacious mansions, big trucks, wide streets, tall palm trees, and big tourists. It is late afternoon in St. Pete’s Beach, Florida. It is one of those moments when time pauses, the tipping point between unbearable tropical midday heat and flashy neon bright night life. Most people are busy washing off sweat, sun, salt, sand, booze, chlorine, dirt, and sunscreen, while getting ready for a night full of gator bites, boiled peanuts, key lime pies, cocktails, beers and other drinks.
Down at the beach most families have left, a few are slowly packing in, too lazy and relaxed to hurry. The water is warm and calm, inviting anyone to dive in. Happily chatting, two white skinned bodies move slowly through the peaceful sea. They are swimming parallel to shore, endless ocean stretching to their left. Suddenly a large dark back arches out of the water right next to them, disturbing the sense of tranquillity and total relaxation. Wasn’t alligator a specialty of this area? As fast as they can paddle with their average short human arms, they swim towards a group of round bellied white skinned humans standing in the more shallow waters. So far the sea monster has not made a move yet. The group of people that has been targeted for the possible alligator attack suddenly gets very excited and cries out “A manatee, a manatee.” Whatever that means, the huge dark body seems to belong to a human-friendly species. Accordingly, the biggest bellied white person excitedly starts petting the friendly sea monster, which the huge animal does not seem to mind. Eventually it remembers that he belongs in the sea and starts to part. Not ready to let his new friend go, the big bellied white man hangs on to the manatee’s back. We just hear him call “I am riding a manatee.” And that was the last anyone ever saw of him. (Almost) completely true story.
Oh you bitter sweet soft dolce tiny little thing called Gelato
Countless tiny cars and scooters speed their way through the narrow streets of Italy’s north, while people cycle and walk somewhere in between the maze of metal ants. Meanwhile the Lago Maggiore is lazily lying in the middle of busy people and stoic mountains like a sleeping giant. German tourists are moving in from all sides, pointing their pale faces towards the sun on the deck of busy ferry boats. The same groups of German tourists among others have come to realize that there is something to do for everyone: The laid back traveller is drinking Aperol Spritz by the lakeside; the culinary lover is feasting risotto freshly dished out of a gigantic parmesan cheese; the adventurer is climbing local mountains; the spiritual is going on pilgrimages to dazzling sanctuaries; the historic is visiting the Borromean Islands, where castles, paintings, and gardens let one dream of living a life as a painter, a puppeteer, a sculptor, or a royal.
And then there is moment of the day, when day time adventures threaten to come to an end and night time ventures still seem out of reach. Satisfied but tired from a day full of nature, art, architecture, and people watching the only reasonable thing to do is to roll into one of the many small villages to visit a Gelateria. Excitedly a queue of people of all ages buzzes with joyful anticipation and difficult decision making. By the time the order is placed, one has to be ready. How many scoops? What flavour? Cone or cup? Prego e grazie. Please and thank you. And then the world misses a beat, while this soft, creamy, full-flavoured art of ice cream melts away. There is no rush, no anger, no stress; there is only the perfect scoop of gelato at the end of a satisfying day.
Pellworm – Idealistic, stoic and Nordic by nature.
We have all seen or even experienced it: hundreds of people crossing a busy intersection in Tokyo, framed by blinking, fast moving, attention-eating advertisement; tourists and party people taking selfies on Time Square in the midst of a wild mixture of people, taxis, dogs, busses, traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, and huge neon signs; larger, louder, longer traffic jams in various major cities in China, India, or the United States. We have all done it: checked emails or messages during a dinner or drinks with friends; watched television, got stuck in the YouTube loop, or surfed the net until the wee-hours; connected our work computer to two separate monitors, while simultaneously watching a football match on TV, listening to the radio or favorite music program, and chatting on the phone and facebook with various friends at the same time. We are living in a time of sensory overload. Even the beauty of the world around us can often only be enjoyed when converted into pixels and viewed on a 5 inch smart phone screen. Yet, there seem to be places around the world that still manage to hold on to a slower pace of life. The ferry between Nordstrand and Pellworm runs 5-6 times a day. If you miss one you wait for the next. That’s just how life works on an island.
At low tide it looks like the ship is actually gliding over wet sand. Slowly it finds its way into open sea. Sailings under clear blue skies or stormy dark grey clouds are equally impressive and soul warming. People are chatty, but calm and general in good spirits. Seals lazily open one eye as the boat floats by. The crossing takes anything between a few minutes and hours depending on everyone’s set of mind. Once landed on the other side, passengers are greeted by grass-covered dikes, weatherproofed houses, cycling families, distant horizons, as well as a lot of sheep. Gradually the average walking speed slows down, breaths are taken more deeply, heads spin with imagination and creativity, new friends are made, experiences are shared, there is time to laugh and cry, to be cheerful or pensive, to discover or to relive, while the importance of existing phones, computers, messengers, and social media seems to be forgotten.
The one with the dumpling drama
Suffering from lack of food in Montreal is like having a shortage of tourists at the Niagara Falls: inexplicable! Patisseries, brasseries, smokeries, bakeries, confectioneries, breweries, eateries, and poutineries stand shoulder by shoulder guarding their city. In the unlikely event that one managed to pass all these without entering the respective 'etablissement' first, and a food coma second, there is always China town. Let’s assume one were to tour the city all day. One walked around on foot and cycled on city-bikes, visited parks, streets, and churches and miraculously forgot to feast for most of the day. One were also to meet a friend unlucky enough to spend all day at work. One was then to go to a Chinese dumpling place. In a clear state of mind one would realize that ordering 2 wonton soups and 3 trays of dumplings with 15 piece each might be a little excessive, but one is near starvation so screw any reason. The dumplings arrive, the protagonists dig in. The soups arrives, the eaters sigh. The soups are gone, the dumplings slowly diminish, the chopsticks move slower and slower. One has to make it past 30 to justify ordering 3 trays. Then one can relax and order a take-away box. This story would be rather boring if it ended here. But evenings in Montreal rarely end just after dinner. Come night time the city buzzes with high spirits, festivals, and events.
So one decides to drag the dumpling filled bellies across town to a show that is part of the Fringe Festival. The show is called Nerd Fucker. The title provocative, the expectations range from curious to probably interesting. One needs to half sprint to make it on time, while wontons and dumplings are having a party of their own in digestive parts of the body. One arrives out of breath, sweating like a pig, and slightly nauseated from rushing, but just in time to see the beginning of Nerd Fucker. The theatre has mistaken its identity to be a Finish sauna without the herbal smell of water being poured over hot rocks. The show starts as a middle-aged, half naked, rather bigger sized woman walks on stage with only a towel wrapped around her waist. A large chess board is drawn on her bare back, in front her boobs dangle unmissable. As part of the show the audience has supposedly come an hour early for a chess match to be played on her back. She leaves and re-enters with now wearing a bathrobe that is open in the back. The chessboard needs to dry. The hour to come she is giving a monologue wrapped into the fake mistake of the audience being there too early. All the while one is sitting there uncomfortably hot, painfully full, and unpleasantly smelling of take-away dumplings. The theatre starts to blur away and the one-woman show metamorphoses into a large talking dumpling. Oh Montreal, food is your culture and yet culture is your food.
