Holding on

"So what do you think of my monkey?" the stranger standing behind me asks after he closes the door.

"Your what?" I twirl around alarmed.

"My mon-keeeys," he wags his swollen hand toward some plastic figurines on the mantelpiece. "They are for my surrogate grandson. I've never seen my real grandchildren. I've waited for 24 years for my boys to come see me. They never do. That's when their mother kicked me out of the house. 24 years ago. And what good did that do? Now I'm 71 and alone and she's 67 and alone. Just a few streets away from here!"

He's wagging his swollen hand again. Bert: "Divorce is the perfect diet. I lost 30 kilo's in 3 months. Hey! Are you even listening to me?"

Me: "I'm listening."

Bert: "Then why don't you say anything?"

Me: "Because. I'm listening."

Wheezing, he grabs his chest. That's how I got here in the first place. Worried that a seemingly friendly old man pushing a walker at top speed in the heat won't make it home alive, I accompany him on his walk. So here I am in his living room, trying to decide when it's ok to leave and if I should continue to interview him.

As he pants, the moisture in his throat settles and he continues: "May an old man give you some advise? Don't give your children an inch. Not an inch! Before you know it, your boys are perming their hair and wearing earrings. Like queers! My Eric, we were like two peas in a pod. Loved that boy. Loved all of my children. That woman…!"

Me: "Outside we were talking about the street. Why are you proud of your street?"

"Who said anything about being proud? This street is full of foreigners and drug addicts. Should I be proud of this street?"

"Well, that's the title of the column I write: 'Proud of my street'. But ok. You're not proud. So why don't you move, Bert?"

"Move? Move? You can't replant an old tree. Besides, look at how beautiful this house is. And the gardens. Have you even looked around you? I work out there twice a week for 30 minutes. It's good for the arthritis… No. I'm president of the billiard club. I know every one here and they all know me. Why would I move?"

Me: "Shall we go outside and take a picture?"

"You're not going to put any of this in the news paper, are you? I forbid you to put any of this in the news paper."

Going out I notice portraits of his children hanging above the front door. Bert: "That's how I remember them. Before they left me. And that clock, that was my brother's and when he died it went to my sister and when she died, I got it. I'm the youngest of 18 children."

He magically seems to shed all of his anger and frustration at the doorstep. Once outside he turns back into the charming, crippled Magoo I thought I was interviewing. He shuffles as fast as he can to the street corner. Before we make it to the curb, five people have greeted him. "See everyone knows me. You're not listening again. Don't you ever smile? You've got to laugh once in a while. Look at me, everyone loves me because I always laugh. I'm 71 going on 17."

I peer at the old marine through the lens. He poses like he's been photographed a million times. "You sure are a beautiful, child. Not all made up and powdery. I'm looking for someone to take down my curtains and wash them. I can't do it myself. I've had two heart attacks already. If someone picks them up at say 7 am, they would be done again at 9 am. Then the nurse could hang them back up after she wipes down the windows."

No way. "I bet your new neighbor could do that for you."

"Ha!" There's 24 years worth of accusation in that 'Ha!'. He shakes his head. "Thanks for a lovely morning. Now, I'm going to eat lunch. And then I'll go sit on a bench in front of the YMCA and hope that my children walk by, like I've done since I retired. I worked for the same company for 40 years. Bet you won't be able to say that when you get my age."

As I bike back home, I think of a hundred things I should have said to him. But I'm not a shrink. I'm a journalist.

I come around a corner and I hear a pedestrian say: "Have you ever seen anything so precious?"

Ahead of me is an ancient couple sharing a double-seated scooter for invalids, sitting side by side. I pass them to take a frontal picture. The lady laughs when she sees me.

"We get so much attention with this thing, we're used to it," she explains.

"How long have you been together?"

"65 years."

"That's amazing. Congratulations."

"Well it's not all sunshine, but we wouldn't last a day without each other."

BAIT BIKES

One summer, wearing shorts and a tank top, I wrecked my scooter on a gravel road. The whole left side of my body was one big dirt filled wound that my aunt cleaned with iodine and a tooth brush.Painful.

But that probably didn't hurt as much as gassing up does in Holland. You think $3.50 is bad, try $10 the gallon on for size. The first time I spent 120 euros (about $170) to tank the Volvo, I decided it was time for a new strategy.

That's why I'm biking to work again. I've even purchased a rain suit. Nothing fancy. Gray and dull with reflector stripes. So though I'd like to say I'm doing it because it's healthy or it's environmentally friendly, I'm really just avoiding a trip to the gas station.

A FEW STATS

Luckily biking here is about as normal as eating turkey at Thanksgiving. They have these cute little brick red bicycle paths literally everywhere, about 18,500 miles of them. There are probably as many types of bicycles and bike accessories as there are types of cars. In fact there are more bicycles in Holland than there are people, around 19 million. The government spends around 400 million euros a year on bicycle infrastructure. And if you can bear one more statistic, the Dutch bike an average of 560 miles a year going to school or work, running errands and picking the kids up from school. There are bikes with baskets, bags, child and pet carriers, one, two, three and four wheels, ones you lie in, ones that look like bullets. The newest edition is the 'lokfiets', translation the Bait Bike.

TRUST NO ONE

My first year in Holland, I very unwittingly parked my (mother's) bike at the station on a Saturday night, locked it and went back for it on Monday morning. It was gone.

What I didn't know then was that stealing a bicycle is also about as normal as turkey at Thanksgiving. It's hard to say how many get stolen per year because often the victim doesn't bother to report it and just steals someone else's. An educated guess is about 900,000. And it's often someone too drunk to drive and too lazy to walk. The bait bike could be the solution. My hometown Amersfoort was the first city to try the bait bike out. The police park a locked bicycle bugged with a GPS device somewhere in town and just wait for a idiot to reveal him or herself. And it has been very successful. There are 15 bait bikes in Amersfoort that help catch about 14 two wheeler thieves a month. Hopefully this will scare off the thieves for a while and I'll keep this bike longer that my first one.

Credit illustration: Sam Henry

Treasure hunting in Dublin

Ironically traffic was no punishment today. In my rearview mirror I witnessed a huge ball of fire slowly rise above the seemingly endless flow of automobiles as it submerged everything in its salmon colored glow. Ahead of me a neon rainbow arched high above my journey's path, one that lead into a dark gray horizon. East and West the prism touched down on the earth. It's the second time in my life that I have seen a rainbow in January.

The first time was in Ireland. After Rick and I gathered with friends and thousands of other Dubliners at the Christ Church to countdown 2005 and celebrate the new year, he returned home to prepare for a business trip to India. I stayed in the country for a few more days.

The first day alone I decided to take it easy, so I bought a day-ticket and took a train down the coast. I got out in a town called Bray, just as a train going to Graystones pulled into the station. It sounded interesting, so I jumped into that train and off to Graystones I went. The train climbed up the mountain just at the end of Bray. At the top it carefully slinked alone the lush green cliff’s edge, winding along and through the massive rock. There was nothing up here but an occasional goat grazing on shrubbery and a group of boys mooning the train. On the other side of the mountain the train sneaked into Graystones.

There wasn’t much to the town, just a gasping view of the sunlit, florescent green velvety mountainside and a beach of, yes you’ve guessed it, gray stones. I sat down on the bed of silky smooth cobblestones and looked out to sea. You know the sound you get when you turn a kaleidoscope and the pieces inside cling and clang as they fall over each other? That is the happy sound the waves here make as they splash and flow over the shiny wet stones.

That evening I stopped in the seaside town Bray to get a bite to eat. I picked an old house converted into a restaurant. Upstairs there was a glassed-in porch and from there you could see the whole stretch of beach all the way to the mountainside. As I sat down, the woman at the table next to me said “Was it rainin’ when ya cem in?” I looked at her confused. She swung her head in the direction of the window. “Thare’s a rainbow over the sea. Rainbows mean rain,” she explained. I looked out over the water to see a vibrant rainbow stretched out across the horizon. 'That would be a hard pot of gold to get to,' I thought. And sure enough, it began to rain.

That night I got to see an old friend, Laura. I told her I wanted to see some more nature, so she came up with the brilliant idea to send me to Powerscourt Falls. “You just take the line 44 to Enniskerry. The bus will take you straight there. It’s a bit out in the country, so I’d take a bus to the falls if I were you. You don’t want to be walking about the woods by yourself.” So the next day me and my camera were off to Enniskerry. Or that is what I thought.

It did strike me a bit odd that the bus destination said 'Balliogan'. But I was standing at the Enniskerry bus stop, that I knew for sure. So the worse thing that could happen would be that I would have to get out at this Balliogan place and wait in a pub for 30 minutes until the bus to Enniskerry came, right? Wrong. See Balliogan isn’t really a place. It’s a field with a few low-income houses. And no, this bus wasn’t going further than this field. After the bus driver informed me of my misfortune, he opened the door and let a bellow of wind in that wailed and screamed through the double-decker bus. Childhood tells of Irish banshees ran through my head as I pulled my coat tight around me and forced my way past the wind and into the outdoors.

There was nothing to do but wait for the next bus. I turned my back to the wind and tried to become as small as possible in my fat suede coat. Just then I spotted a rainbow in the distance. 'That pot of gold is too far away,' I thought, 'but aren’t they always...' The corners of my mouth started to turn up, but then I remembered the old woman in Bray. Like magic the next gust of wind brought sharp drops of rain that stung my bare cheeks and ears.

The bus did finally come and I was off to Enniskerry and the Powerscourt Falls. The winding road went up into the mountains and ran parallel to a shallow brook that tumbled over raw rugged rocks. Mist hung between the tall majestic pines, and if I thought the bus away, it was just like being in Virginia. Enniskerry, however, was typically Irish. It was a quaint little village nestled between the crevices of old mountains. The Victorian style houses, pubs and stores, all painted a different pastel color, stood around a traffic circle with a fountain in the middle. I asked the bus driver how to get to the falls. “Oh there no busses goin’ this time o’ year. But it’s jus op de hill. ‘Bout a twenty minute’s walk,” he guessed. I knew what Laura had said, but it had taken me almost two hours to get this far and there was no way I was going back.

I decided to have something to drink before I went to the falls. Inside the old pub, I was the only customer. There was an old man behind the bar polishing glasses and a younger man mopping the floor. I sat down in front of the fireplace and ordered a cup of hot tea. Despite the fact the place was deserted, the scent of the wood fire and the Christmas decorations made the pub cozy. I sat stirring the tea with a silver spoon, watching the television. There was a crime investigation program on. It was about a British man that murdered two women in their mid-twenties in the woods. I took a sip of my drink and turned away from the television. 'I was going to the falls and that was final.' But then shivers went down my spine when I realized what song was playing on the radio. “Knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s door...” 'Do you think people get signs the day they die?' I thought.

I started to squirm a little in my seat. I shot a glance across the room. For a split second I made eye contact with the man who was mopping the floor. His eyes shifted to the ground and he continued to yank the mop back and forth. ‘Maybe I should stop by the police station before going to the falls.’

The police station was a light blue gingerbread house with white curly trimming along the roof’s edge. There was a black iron lantern hanging on the house’s front with 'Guard' written on the glass. The reception area was nothing more than a desk, a bell, a brochure rack and a poster that stated: “Stop violent crimes against women.”

“May I help you?” the copper behind the desk asked.

“Yes, I’m going up to the falls and I wanted to know if it’s safe to go up there alone,” I replied.

“Is it ever safe for a woman to go walking in the woods alone?” he sounded annoyed.

“Going up to the falls, are you?” a voice sounded from behind me. I turned to see a scruffy, bearded man with blue overalls covered in mud. “Hello Frank,” he directed his glance to the police officer. Then he turned his attention back to me. “It’s an awful long walk. I’m going up there if you want a lift,” he offered.

I looked at the police officer, who didn’t blink an eye.

“Don’t you trust me?” Tom asked.

“No,” I replied with a weary smile. The two men laughed hardily, but they seemed friendly enough. “Sure why not,” was my answer. “Oh, but was it the alarm number in Ireland... just in case I fall and break a leg or something?”

“Don’t actually know,” said Frank.

Perhaps at this point alarm bells should have started ringing, but it had become a personal mission to get to those falls. Outside I climbed into Tom’s muddy 4x4. After we started rolling, I peered over my shoulder and saw large, jagged tools, including a chainsaw, in the back. “So, Tom, what do you do for a living?” I tried to sound casual.

“I’m a prison guard. I’m on holiday just now and I’m doing odd jobs for people around here.” Meanwhile we had gone up the mountain and back down the mountain. And I started to get worried. 'Are the falls this far?' He must have sensed that I was uncomfortable because Tom said: “The gate is about 4 miles from town. It’s another mile from the gate to the falls. I’ll drive you all the way in. It will take you at least an hour to walk back into town, unless you can hitch a ride with someone.”

I was trying to remember the way and keep an eye on Tom at the same time. It started to sprinkle. By the time we got to the gate it was pouring. Tom let me out close to the falls. I wrapped my scarf around my head because I had no umbrella. I watched Tom’s SUV disappear down the path to make sure he was really gone. Then I turned to face the amazing work of nature called Powerscourt Falls. Water crashed down the front of a high cliff to be distributed between vibrant green moss-covered boulders. The water rejoined in the form of a creek that disappeared into a dark, evergreen forest.

Mist rose and hung between the trees gathered around the falls, as if to admire the fluid energy. And how enormous these trees were! No wonder tales of leprechauns are told. If the tiny people of Ireland stand beside trees this big, then yes, they would look like leprechauns. One of the trees had a cubbyhole that I crouched into to get out of the rain, but standing still made me cold. I left my hiding place and stood in the open space between the trees and the waterfalls. I was small and I was completely alone.

I started the five-mile walk back into town in the pouring rain. By now everything was soaked, everything but my woolen Icelandic sweater. No one was going to offer me a ride as wet as I was, so I trudged along the winding mountain road, all the way back to Enniskerry. And even though I was cold and tired, I wasn’t miserable. The wet earth and woods smelled sweet and rich. Deep down, I felt very happy. Being away from worldly distractions and worries was mind clearing. During the long hike back to Enniskerry, I felt like I was reconnecting with simplicity. There was no quick fix that would get me back into town dry and also no media that was telling me how I should feel. For a while, I didn’t feel crippled by uncertainties.

When at last I climbed the last hill, nothing looked as inviting as that little Irish pub in Enniskerry. I draped my soaked coat over a chair, took off my drenched shoes and socks and sat before the open fire with a bowl of soup. As the feeling slowly seeped back into my bare toes, I was flooded with a sense of bliss. I realized that I was right where I wanted to be in life. That can be just as terrifying as not being there or not knowing what you want. However, I would be a fool if I dared to complain. I have great friends and family that offer great advice. I have experience, a drive to explore and I have my health.

So maybe I didn’t find a pot of gold or catch a leprechaun in Ireland. But I found peace of mind. And that is real treasure.

Things you can do with a soup can

Eleven days. That's how long a traffic jam in China recently lasted. Eleven days. I guess that puts Thanksgiving traffic into perspective. But you won't hear me make empty promises like "I'll never complain about traffic again." Because I will. I hate traffic. Sometimes I hate computers and TV and even my iphone. I catch myself dreaming of a secluded house on a lake. And then I remember my September of solitude.

"There hasn't been a murder or rape on this island for 120 years, but you come here at your own risk." I imagine the stranger on the phone thinks he's real funny.

"Ok, where do I rent a bicycle?" I ask. "And which way is East?"

He lets out a mean little chuckled: "You're the journalist. Figure it out."

I can't resist a challenge. So I'm on a train headed north. After a three hour trip, I take a bus to the coast and then the second to last ferry out to the Dutch island Ameland.

All the while, I mentally run through his instructions: "Come to the island on Sunday. Rent a bicycle and take it to the East end of the island. At the end of the bicycle path, climb the dune on the left. From there you can see a black trailer out on the dunes. The key is under the stairs. If you're there when I start work at 7.30 Monday morning, you can do the story. If not, you're out of luck."

Luck seems to be on my side. You never know what the weather will be like in September. But today the clear blue sky is promising to serve as a perfect backdrop for a photo documentary of a nature preserve ranger. It's the last one I'll make before I graduate from a Dutch college with a Bachelors in journalism.

On my rented bicycle I follow a map to a village called Nos, pass a campground, a few farms, a patch of trees and I've reached the end of civilization. There's another 2 miles of dunes between me my destination.

By now my heavy backpack full of camera equipment and cans of soup is cutting into my shoulders. I meet very few people on the path, but the ones I do see are heading back into town and warning me that I should do the same.

I smile, half to disarm them, half because I'm enjoying the irony of knowing something they don't know. Finally I reach the end of the path and just like the voice on the phone said, I find the trailer and the key.

There's not much more than a few dusty nature books, some rabbit skulls and a gas burner. A huge window allows me to gaze out over the remaining dunes and the oil rigs that speckle the horizon.

Out here, my phone has no reception. There’s nothing to do but warm up some soup and lean back in my chair to witness the Grand Artist paint the sky with strokes of florescent orange, sorbet pink and gold. As the sky turns cornflower blue and the first stars and the light of the rigs appear, I light a candle and make my bed.

Then everything turns black and I can see more stars than I have ever seen before. I'm lost in space.

I snuggle into my sleeping bag, but seclusion is a lot noisier than I had anticipated. The wind is pounding against the trailer but it’s not enough to drown out thousands of thoughts that scream in my head. No distracting television or radio. No internet to check tomorrows weather. No one to share my victory with.

Also the insanity of this plan is starting to dawn on me. How loud my worries, fears, and complaints suddenly are. And I'm developing a new complaint. The temperature is dropping fast. Between the roar of the wind and the chill leaking through the flimsy walls, I can't sleep. I put on all of my clothes, layer upon layer and crawl deep into my sleeping bag.

Foot steps

What's that? I sit straight up and strain to filter the sounds. Despite the wind, I'm sure I hear something moving around the trailer. All doubt is removed when I see a stream of light flash across the window. Now the light is shining right in my face. It's too late to hide.

I'm paralyzed. The only thing moving is my heart which flutters violently like a moth against a floodlight. But I'm alone and it's dark. I was dreaming. So I’ve been asleep, but for how long? Fifteen minutes. Will this night never end?

I'm so cold, tired and now I’m scared too. I can't stand it anymore. Spiders or no spiders, I climb into a storage cabinet and close the door. Comfortable at last.

And then I have to pee. I hold it up until my nose starts to sweat. I look at my watch. Just another hour and the sun will come up. I can’t wait that long. I climb back out of the cabinet. Cramped with fear and chill I stand at the door, my numb fingers clutching the key. But as miserable as I am, I can't get myself to turn it. There is only one thing to do...

I pee in my empty soup can.

Fear factor

Dora the Explorer and I have never been good friends. Oh, I admire her for raising awareness for minority groups and for her willingness to educate our young'ns on being courteous, assertive, and bilingual.

But Dora's voice! I can't stand it. I don't know, maybe she'll grow out of it. Maybe all she needs is a good speech therapist and a singing coach. But in the mean time she has to be quiet in our home. In fact, at our house Dora spends most of her time standing with her nose in the corner. Not because I'm prejudice when it comes to her voice. (I would never send a child to the corner for that. That’s what they make earplugs for.)

It’s because she has a really bad staring problem. She stands on the edge of the bath with her pink flippers on and just bores wholes into your naked body. I must give her credit for our decreasing water bill, though. Our showers have become short and to the point under those huge all seeing eyes. Because even with her nose in the corner, I swear I've seen her looking over her shoulder.

Just like I know that when I was little I saw one of my dolls jump back into bed one morning while I was waking. I quickly closed my eyes again so not to embarrass her and gave her plenty of time to settle back under the covers before opening them again. Ok, so I was probably unconscious of the fact that I was dreaming (we‘ll never know for sure), but at the time, it was a comfort to know that my dolls came alive at night and were watching out for me. This comfort; however, would transform into a nightmare.

For some reason, a friend's mother saw it fit to install fear in us and told us that not all dolls were good. In fact she knew a child whose dolls had to be thrown away because of their repeated attempts to murder the family. From then on, I would pile ALL of my dolls into bed, so not to offend them, and apologize out loud to the ones I could not find. I no longer played with my plush and plastic companions because I wanted to, but rather out of fear of angering them and provoking them to harmful actions.

In much the same way, the joy of the things I have come to love in Europe has been stolen. Special things like going to a European championship soccer match, going to Sail Amsterdam or visiting the Eiffel tower. But also simple things like taking the train to work. Subconsciously, I breathe a sigh of relief every time I return home safely. Nine years ago a fear was installed that is kept alive by a seemingly unbeatable force. The paper says that the security status in the major European cities has been red for months and that another attack is just a matter of time.

Another attack. The draw back to having such a vivid imagination is that I spend way too much time inventing worst case scenarios. To filter the fear, I’m a selective reader and watcher. I can tell you more about the 98 year old woman in our town that still goes bowling every week than anything that appears on the front page of a paper. Does it make me a bad journalist because I will never win prizes, especially not a news quiz?

I guess it’s a survival strategy. It’s too bad I need one. Wouldn't it be great to go back to those few years that you believe that bad guys always ware black or stand crooked and the good guys always win? That no one ever dies, they just pass out. That dolls party in the middle of the night and that Dora is oblivious of your nakedness and just wants to have a swim in the tub?

From four wheels to two

I once saw on Discovery that the nose of Saabs are designed so that they can hit a straying reindeer without endangering the life of the driver. I don't know about the reindeer, but this winter was a stressful time for Saab-lovers, like me, across the globe.

We waited with our fingers crossed as General Motors sought a buyer for the Swedish car brand. Deliverance came from a small Dutch car maker, Spyker. To the many fans of the peculiar little car, CEO of Spyker, Victor Muller, was a hero (girls don't loose me here, it gets better).

I've always been fascinated by machines with wheels. I was one of those kids that stood by the road waiting for a coal truck to pass by. My mini heart filled the cavity of my chest so that I could hardly breathe while waiting for the massive grill of a MAC or Peterbuilt to appear around the corner. In the 80's the trucks had the most amazing colors. Easter egg purple, grass green and Pacific blue glowed as sunbeams collided with the glitter in the paint.

“Bruuuur,-putter-putter,-putter,-put,-put,” the exhaust exhaled as the truck down shifted. I lifted a trembling arm into the air to pull an imaginary cord to let the truck know I wanted to say hello. I would pull again and again; half hoping he would answer, half terrified of the tremendous sound the horn of such a mighty machine made.

As with any vehicle of this size, whether it be a fire truck, semi truck, or locomotive, I was oblivious of the man steering inside. To me he was nothing more than a passenger upon the back of a living, breathing dragon of steal and chrome.

My own set of wheels

As I grew, I became one of those passengers. I was a reckless go-cart driver and my fearless approach to life resulted in many a scooter crash and gravel-filled wounds. I couldn't wait to get my licence and dreamt of the day my palms would clutch the steering wheel of my very own car.

It finally came in the summer of ‘96. I was 17 and visiting my dad in the US. He had already said he had a surprise for me and I just knew it would be a car. I wanted a pink Suzuki Sidekick or a blue Volkswagen California or even a purple '84 Pontiac Firebird. What I got was a sage green ‘86 Saab 900S.

When my dad showed it to me, I simply cried. There were no words to describe how ugly and uncool this monstrosity was. Even though it had a sunroof, a stereo system that "was worth more than the car", a flawless paint job and chic brown tinted windows, I thought I'd rather die than be seen in that granny car!

However, it had an interesting catch. Apart from being a stick shift (I had no idea how to drive a stick shift) it was missing the 2nd and 3rd gears! If there is anything I love, it's a challenge. To make a long story short, even though she nearly cost me my life on a few occasions and a gas station its side wall, I fell in love with Sage the Saab.

Shortly thereafter I moved to Holland where I didn't have a driver’s permit, as they are very expensive. So when I got to collage I spent a huge chunk of my student loan on my licence and another huge chunk on a gas guzzling tuned 2.6 liter Audi A6 Avant. I also had love affairs with a rusted Toyata Tazz in Cape Town, South Africa with a steering wheel and stick on the 'wrong' side of the car and a blinking red Austin Martin Vantage Roadster in Amsterdam (but that’s another story). I eventually moved on to a quick little economy car and then graduated to a family car, the Volvo V70.

The mama bike

Then the bank crisis happened. Rick and I found ourselves both out of work and for the first time in our marriage, we had to share a car (I know, boo-hoo). This meant that when we both found work again, I had to go to work on a bicycle or take the bus (now there's a vehicle I have little appreciation for). I finally got the long-dreamt-of job at the local paper and here I was rushing to interviews on my ‘mama’ bike; complete with basket on the front and child seat on the back!

Life is back to normal now; I have a car again and we're both working hard to fix the damage done in 2009. But I still take the bike when I can. It keeps me fit, it's good for the environment and I have to admit, in the city, two wheels are better than four. But sometimes I can't get over the crazy contrast of a 17 year old in a Saab and a 30 something year old on a bicycle for mothers. So how did I get from there to here?!

It’s a really long story but I can’t wait to share adventures like looking for a key in island dunes, photographing Nelson Mandela, and climbing on rooftops in the heart of Amsterdam. The bizarre existence of an expat, behind the scene moments in journalism and the odd privilege of being a mother will unfold as I keep you up to date on a monthly basis via this blog.

I look forward to sharing my estranged life with you and hope we can all have a good laugh. Happy reading!