Rooted in rootlessness
A whirlwind September: Part 1
I am trying to sit comfortably in the unknown. To feel rooted in my rootlessness. To identify building blocks… cornerstones of the life I hope to create. Some days they feel more like intangible characteristics, than any solid sort of reality.
Three weeks ago, you found me in my tiny Swiss summer house. Whiling away a never-ending August. Time seemed to slow. I worked and wrote. Cycled and swam. Necessary seclusion to rid myself of all I had been carrying. I could finally hear myself think.
My August confessional left me feeling golden. I said the things most don’t and didn’t die. The world didn’t end. Everyone survived. I received only one outraged email demanding I take the piece down, and restrained myself from simply replying with, lol. Space was created for other women. A secure repository where they too can whisper the stories they’re not yet ready to tell…
Life is rarely how it looks on Instagram, however. In truth, Swiss sleeping arrangements were uncomfortable, the wifi terrible and I may never truly rid myself of all the cat hair. Those hot late-August days stretched on forever and as September dawned, it was something of a relief to feel the real world calling us home again.
At the beginning of the month, we left Winterthür and headed for Ticino. A kind friend had offered us a home, just on the Swiss side of the Italian border. We took some days to try it on for size, before ultimately realising it’s just too isolated to be able to make work. It’s hard not to feel disappointed when a plan seems to open up so perfectly. I find I’m still a sucker for romanticising tricky situations. I tell myself I can work with a fixer-upper. There’s potential in the smoke-stained fireplace. The twisted, wooden bannister... If I just plaster a wall here. Paint a mural there… It’s all a little Eat, Love, Pray. The Universe might gift me a McConaughey to help with renovations.
If I was alone and there was nothing to do but walk and write, and grow vegetables, I’d probably give it a go. Bourgeois me loves fancy dinners and crisp linen sheets, but wild and hobbity me could find contentment living in a yurt.
Sadly, I don’t currently enjoy the privilege of time to simply write and be. Not yet anyway. No matter what my heart may long for in the quiet moments, the fact is, I’m starting again from scratch, with two children to support. Children who, quite understandably, require me to have a home and income they can depend on. The tiny Swiss village is a step too far for my son. At thirteen, he requires a school within easy reach, and access to friends his own age.
I’m learning not to make life harder than it needs to be. So, it’s back to the drawing board to find somewhere that feels right in the longer term. I’m looking at spots closer to Italian friends and existing networks. But, the need to settle is increasingly urgent.
If August sat thick with time and space to reflect, September spits me back out into a roller-coaster of reality. We leave Switzerland for a team intensive near Milan, before trepidatiously flying back to Bristol. I reconvene with my ex for the first time since July and hand-off our second born. There’s a weekend pet-sit for a highly reactive dog, near Long Ashton. I pop into Broadmead and am shocked by how run down the city centre feels. Meet a friend for drinks at No.1 Harbourside and get asked four times in an hour if I have any change to spare. I watch two different guys check if empty bottles on the next table are, indeed, empty.
Bristol is famous for its love of a good party. Great for those able to dip-in and out again. But, what about the people that fall through the cracks? The ones for whom the dance runs on too long? Is there more brokenness here than other places, I wonder? Or, do I just see it all differently these days?
I take my girl to Sonny’s Stores in Southville. She is leaving for University in a week and I’m selfishly keen to enjoy as much of her as possible. We sit inside the beautifully refurbished windows, discussing her summer of enforced independence. There’s a solid pizzette with burnt onion and hot honey. Though not quite to the wood-smoked standard of those served at Erst. Those ubiquitous Calabrian anchovies, at risk of over-saturating their market imho. Elevated here, by being served in a perfect puddle of gently warmed olive oil. A delicate fritto of squash and sage, and a pork-shoulder twist on a vitello tonnato, come out on top. The latter studded with salted capers and fatty nuggs of crispy pork skin.
The chefs eye me somewhat warily, but are cautiously kind. A member of staff tells us of her own recent heartache. Another hospitality husband turns out to not be all he seemed. When lunch ends, I squeeze her tight.
You’ll survive this.
You’re stronger than you think.
You deserve so much more.
We walk through the Tobacco Factory Sunday Market, and immediately run into a pioneer farmer, who’s fighting tooth and nail to prevent property developers and the council from encroaching on her land. We fall over ourselves trying to cram six hours of conversation into six minutes. She is joyously unfazed by my confessional, and I am grateful for it. Quick witted and bright-eyed as ever, she’s still fighting the good fight. She is a string pulled taught, however. Tired of the disappointment. Desperate for solace and security. We thought a political Green shift would be the key to necessary change, but the new council are proving disappointingly ineffective.
As I walk back to Long Ashton, I think of all the women I know here. How much I miss them, and how many are still struggling simply to exist. Trying to divorce well. To show up for their kids. To afford suitable housing. To stay sober. To remain on land they have nurtured over a lifetime.
I find it hard to shake the feeling I was supposed to stay. I have to consciously remind myself that remaining meant not being fit to help anybody. Still, my heart sits heavy with the weight of it all.
Leaving for London is a relief. The expos are calling and there is business at hand.
My life can feel a little schizophrenic at the moment. Vast differences between solitary days, filled only with work, time with the boy and telephone conversations with faraway friends. Followed by intense periods of travel, thousands of steps, a million conversations, ridiculous hours and endless social engagement. It’s good, if strange, to have the opportunity to attempt to balance both.
My work has slowly brought my business-self back to life. Reinstalled my confidence. Communicating, pitching, unfolding a vision of what a project or product can be. I get to do so with a boss whose desire for gastronomical adventures surpasses even my own. It’s a privilege.
Perhaps, it’s the only way to sustainably balance this sort of thing. Periods of expansive calm, interspersed with bursts of intensive, outrageous living.
Someone has recommended a Georgian restaurant near Barnes. The Grade-2 listed Hammersmith Bridge proudly displays her dilapidated splendour. The brazzen heat of summer is giving way to soft, damp Autumn days. The air thick with drizzle. Lights twinkle on the surface of the Thames, while a Coxswain barks orders at his rowing team from the sidelines. I am unexpectedly falling in love with the city where I was born.
Samaia Restaurant is a hidden gem. An unassuming family-run Bistro, (can it be a Bistro if it isn’t French?) on an equally unassuming London high-street. Aunties in the kitchen. Busy for a Tuesday night. All good signs.
We cram into a too-small, corner table. Elbows tucked in, but a view out over the dining room. By the time I return from the bathroom, my dining partner has perused the menu and ordered a solid Georgian red. I’m delighted when they bring proper wine glasses, allowing space for things to open up correctly.
Tiny orange peppers come stuffed with herby minced beef, drowning in a punchy pepper sauce, rich with generous dollops of sour cream. Homemade Khinkali, big as your fist, arrive steaming on the plate. We’re instructed to treat them like soup dumplings. Turn them upside down, make a hole, slurp out the juices (carefully, so you don’t scald your mouth) before devouring the incredibly clean, lightly seasoned centre of pork and beef.
A plain Khachapuri - a traditional Georgian pizza boat - is by far the best I’ve eaten. Filled with molten ewes-cheese, finished with an egg yolk and knobs of salted butter. We mix it ourselves at the table, before ripping and dunking from the outside in, attempting not to burst its banks in the process. For mains, there is a simple lamb Shashlik. Thick smokey hunks, charred on the outside, pink in the middle. Served with homemade sour pickles and a mint, pomegranate salad.
Sometimes, a meal brings joy because of the company. It’s the social cohesion we appreciate. Then sometimes, not often, but sometimes, a good meal can lift the soul. Elevate your sense of well-being. Usually, it’s simple food cooked with care. Well-rested meats. Doughs given time to rise. It’s both subjective and intangible… the love and care a cook can pass-on to their eaters.
I’m reminded of the scene from the 1992 Mexican film, Como Agua Para Chocolate. The lead character sobs into her molé, only for her guests to subsequently find themselves in pieces. We impart something of ourselves to those who consume what we create.
We leave Samaia feeling like family. We pass our compliments to the kitchen, and walk back to our apartment near Charring Cross Hospital. We talk long into the night in that way a good meal tends to facilitate. A week later, I leave the Latvian removal man who helps deliver my daughter to University, scribbling down details and making promises to visit.
The next day, we close out the London expo. I’m enjoying my change of focus. Experiencing the product development side of the industry. I’ve done the creativity and events, the food and change, the hospitality industry and social cohesion. For now, at least, there’s something refreshing about playing a straight numbers game. The expo is a success and we want to celebrate.
After a long East meets West debate about where to meet friends - bloody London! - I take an executive decision and insist on cocktails at The Nomad. It’s my current favourite. A highly indulgent treat. The service is impeccable and the liquor top drawer. We sit up at the bar, with folks I’ve known since our Slow Food youth network days. It’s been a while since we were all together, and there’s much to catch up on. I opt for a perfectly balanced mezcal old-fashioned from a temptingly naughty list. We add one guacamole and a portion of distinctly - average prawn croquettes to stave off hunger. I pay £54 for my share of the privilege, but honestly don’t care. It’s London, it’s been a quiet summer and it’s nearly my Birthday. I could sit up at that bar for hours, just watching the world go by.
Unfortunately, we cannot stay or I’ll be bankrupt (again). We spill out onto the street and kill twenty minutes waiting for a table to open up at Xi’an BiangBiang Noodles. We order like you do when tipsy. Cold seaweed salad. Crispy tofu skewers. Hand-pulled noodles in chilli oil. A country-style chicken stew. We get the crunchy jellyfish I always see on menus, but have never felt brave enough to try.
It’s all fun and games until I accidentally flick chilli oil into my eye. Much to the amusement of my friends, I spend the next 15 minutes trying not to die.
The morning is bright with cold, crisp Autumn sun. You can feel the season changing. I make a last mad dash to Bristol again. I collect my girl, throw her in a van with the aforementioned Latvian man, and drive almost immediately back near London to drop her off at University for the first time. The logistics are expensive and wildly inconvenient, but it’s the sort of thing I need to be able to do for my kid. Decent parenting 101.
We hawk boxes up three flights of stairs to her shockingly tiny attic bedroom, eat a reasonable pub lunch and unpack a big-shop, before it’s time for me to go again.
My baby is the same age I was when she was born. It’s time for her to fly free.
I just about make it onto the train before the tears start to flow.
Tomorrow, it’s onto Paris for another expo and my 42nd Birthday.
