profemanley

[profemanley]

Galway & Dublin

Week Thirty-Three (July 25-31) Part A - Guest Blog by Jennifer Manley

In which we trace our family heritage, as it were, as it were told, and as it weren’t.

It was a typical semi-quarrel. Elizabeth in the throes of research for a book. Me being the pestersome kid sister, insisting on knowing “why” does she care about everyone ELSES history and not OURS? This led to well-argued defense, a series of retorts, some taunting, daring, bargaining, and ultimately, deal making: She publishes a book about some other (certainly well deserving) families and we will go to Ireland together to learn about ours.

So this explains how we found ourselves, her on the tail end of this sabbatical and me on summer holiday- driving in a tiny rental car on narrow winding along the unfortunately named but beautiful Suck River north along the border of Galway and Roscommon Counties, towards the tiny City of Ballygar and the even tinier village of Killereron.

Growing up we were very fond of and lucky to spend time at Hampton Beach with our Nana- a woman of grace, the author and silent enforcer of the beachhouse outdoor shower rule, the keeper of the family secrets and a proud daughter of Irish Immigrant. Her mother, our great-great grandmother, had emigrated from Ireland to Boston in 1892. This much, and not a whole lot more before that, we knew going in.

I was charged with doing the preparation for our jaunt (naturally given my half a semester experience and education in history…) and luckily received a set of research from our Cousin Sandi- with records of Margarets’ parents, sibling and some geographic detail.

So, our our way up to Ballygar from Tipperary (home of the unparalleled Tipp Radio, but that is a whole other story) we stopped at the East Galway Family History Center, a small two story building that doubles as the Historic Society, where, for a modest fee, they will help you trace your East Galway roots. They had done the original set of research 10 years prior and were happy to dig a little deeper and we were happy to pay. We learned a bit more here: that Margaret’s parents Andrew and Mary (they really struggled with creativity in the lady naming department) had been tenant farmers with a lease of 6 acres on the land of one Dennis Kelly. That both her brothers had died young, and that one of her sisters had stayed, married and had a baby. In a family tree peppered with single, childless women, this was an exciting prospect to find cousins. (spoiler alert: it’s didn’t- or at least hasn’t YET). We also discovered myheritage.com a great (can be free) service for this sort of thing.

After a quick car picnic of leftover steak and Cashel blue cheese sandwiches, we headed out. Upon arriving in Ballygar, we did the thing that anyone tracing a Catholic lineage needs to do- we found the church. It’s set at the end of a short commercial “downtown” area. The building itself isn’t so remarkable, built of typical dark grey stone with a modern cemetery out back. The second thing we did, which again, is a must do, is wander into the nearest open pub (or in our case a coffee shop) to ask around. (Traveler’s note: You will be noticed in any such sleepy place, and its really best to announce yourself and your intentions.)

At the Coffee Drop, between catering to the regular, the proprietor shared with us the directions to the old Kelly property, including the graveyard and remains of ‘Castle’ Kelly, the landowners home. Armed with this map drawn on the back of the Hurlers fundraising envelope, we drove there, past grazing sheep and small stone cottages, to the old graveyard. It was a idyllic picture of pastoral Irish countryside- grey moss mottled headstones carved into Gaelic crosses set against the grey sky, with green pasture beyond.

With the help of some mapping technology we could easily overlay the Griffin’s valuation we had (which pre-dated the Census and tracked land ownership and tenancy) but we didn’t have access at the time. Much of the former 12,000 acres of the Kelly property had, through a series of tela novela worthly family dramas, landed in the hands of the government and had been kept as nature preserve.

In the graveyard, the markers had names that had no bearing on our family. We weren’t surprised or disappointed by this, as we had been advised that would probably be the case. A few days prior we had stopped by the Irish National Library in Dublin where we learned a great deal of valuable information, (not the least of which is that Elizabeth Manley could charm her way into a Mafia archive). In addition to a few specific family details, we learned HOW to learn more. Beverly (a brilliant former journalist and professional genealogist who volunteers at the library) walked us through the complexities of overlapping but rarely coterminous Church and Civil parish border, naming systems and traditions and availability of records (there is a printed list of resources we are happy to share.) I observed that some of the legacy of Irish poverty and colonialism is reflected in what you can and cannot find and what is thought be recorded accurately or not. (For example, Church Baptismal records are almost always trustworthy whereas births were recorded in civil records only under threat of a fine.)

Back standing in the graveyard, looking out at what was probably the place where Margaret came to the decision that changed her life, and I suppose mine, most dramatically, I let my imagination run in the most undisciplined, non-historical way. I enjoyed imagining how brave and smart Margaret was. (And how brave and smart Beth and I are, of course, for carrying some of her DNA, and for chasing down her ghost.) I thought about how this family history is inexorably linked with the history of native oppression and the systematic depravation of land, of agency, of opportunity. No wonder they took over Boston I thought.

We left and drove west to City of Galway, on the coast, then on to hike the cliffs of Moher. We returned later in the trip to the documents and began to sort and sift through what we knew, and how we knew, and then again, what we don’t know, which of course is the lion’s share at this early point. Genealogy is in some ways, of a selfish pursuit: chasing up those tree branches to better understand where one comes from, and thus, perhaps, to better understand who one is. I am not sure that I do, but it was a deeply interesting and satisfying experience to try. And on our return to Belfast, I felt a renewed contempt for the Empire. Shaking my fist in the air.

[profemanley]

Belfast, Dublin, and the Irish Countryside

Week Thirty-Two (July 18-25)

Despite feeling ready to head home for a little while now, it feel strange to begin contemplating the end to this eight-month journey. While still in Belfast I had a few things more I wanted to see, plus I needed to prepare for my sister to arrive and cram in enough work to both justify to myself taking ten days completely off and to feel like I was ready to head back to the US and draw the sabbatical to a close. There always seem to be things, at least for me, that inevitably shift to the next to-do list at the end of a stay somewhere but, for the most part, I think I succeeded in getting done what I wanted.

It may come from my mum, or my own quirky historical interests, but either way I love tiny museums and exhibits. They are totally digestible and not overwhelming but also frequently betray a real level of passion by a group or individual curator. This past week I checked out the display on at City Hall, and the Civil Rights Exhibit (mostly posters) at the Linen Hall Library. Given the differences in medium, audience, and directorship, it is unsurprising they told quite different tales. While the City Hall exhibit sought to aggressively narrate the local history to highlight the successes (ship building! Van Morrison!) it generally skim or ignore the blemishes, constructing a benign (if false) past and skipping over the Troubles altogether in favor of an all-white “reflection room.” Notwithstanding the need to be sensitive to multiple audiences, it seemed a simple cop out. Conversely, the library display, a fairly simple collection of posters from the beginning of the Troubles to the late 1990s, offered little narrative and simply let the various forms of protest, photographs and communications speak for themselves. Although the two locations were vastly different, I was reminded again (for like the millionth time on this trip) how crucial it is for us to provide opportunities for people to learn the histories of colonization, oppression, and injustice but to do so without creating the narrative for them.

Of course, there was still the food list, so I scheduled in lunches at Made in Belfast and Mourne that were simple and delicious. Many Belfast restaurants do a seafood chowder - cream based and served with a dense bread called wheaten - that is perfect for rainy days. After taking off for the Ireland road trip with my sister we also found more delicious snacks at Hatch & Sons in Dublin (where they do these little sandwiches on fluffy rolls called blaa from Waterford) and a cravable local Italian joint called Da Mimmo’s. In Kilkenny we ate at Rive Gauche (all our top choices being closed on a Monday) and we detoured to the Cashel Cheese Factory on our way out of town. Definitely one of my favorite spots on the journey, we gorged on the famous bleu and met the owner Joe who, now retired, just hangs out in reception to shoot the shit with visitors. We were the only ones there and we got to learn all about their process and, of course, take away so much cheese.

On Friday Jen arrived to Belfast, so I went out to meet her at the airport and we got settled with our rental car. I also took her around the city center and Titanic Quarter so she could get a little sense of the city. Together we wandered around inside one of the massive dry docks used to outfit the Titanic (just a little creepy) and take in the city sights and sounds. The next day we headed out, driving first north to see Giant’s Causeway, then eventually south to Dublin, Kilkenny, County Tipperary.

While it’s quite easy to get around Ireland on the train (as I discovered earlier) having a car is lovely because it means you can explore so much more of the gorgeous landscape. Giant’s Causeway, just north of the town of Bushmills (yes whiskey lovers, that Bushmills) is an incredible natural wonder of geometric rocks formed by some magical, er, scientific volcanic eruption as, my students might say, “back in the day.” It’s pretty hard to describe (although if you can imagine the album cover of Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy you get the picture) but it is truly stunning, plus a great chance to get out of your car and stretch your legs for a few 7-8 kilometers (if you do the full route). We then got back in the car to head south. There was little - well, no - fanfare when you cross from the UK into Ireland. I haven’t been following the debate much, but I don’t pity those who are gonna need to handle that mess post-Brexit. Sadly, no Ireland stamp in our passports, but we soldiered on to the big city and tucked into our two-day rental.

Having only about a day and a half in Dublin we had to strategize, so we decided to download a history walking tour called Rebellion! about the independence uprising, which would help us hit some key spots including Dublin Castle, St. Stephen’s Green, Trinity College, the Post Office, and views across the River Liffey. We also made a short stop at the National Library of Ireland where the amazing librarians in the Genealogy room helped us find more details on our great-great-grandmother who emigrated from Killeroran, County Galway in 1892. After that we headed to the castle-centric Kilkenny for a day, passed through the female-driven Avoca woolen mills, toured the cheese facility in Cashel, and checked into a farmhouse in Emly. Given my previous slow-paced travel and more leisurely exploration, we were moving at a fast clip, but there was so much to see that the trade off was more than worth it!

[profemanley]

Belfast

Week Thirty-One (July 11-18)

So Belfast, I’ve found, is generally great, except around July 12th (a Protestant celebration of the Battle of Boyne called Orangemen’s Day). I made it through that ugly colonialist fantasy, got a whole bunch of work done, and dug into some of the challenging history of the city. I returned to the Titanic Quarter to see the actual museum of the city and its most famous disaster, and walked the wonderfully more diverse Ulster Museum.

On Wednesday, after a good morning of work, I headed back to the Titanic Quarter for the museum they call an “experience.” The building itself is a massive gleaming structure that has four outcroppings that resemble ships prows, and it sits at the head of the old slips (now filled in) that were once used for the massive White Star Line Ships on Queen’s Island. The museum itself attempts a multimedia, all-ages presentation that can actually become overwhelming, particularly around the interactive Marconi display, the life-sized mural and audio of a Bruce Ismay (White Star Chairman) conversation, and the ship-building amusement-style ride, not to mention the many touch screens constantly being poked at (but not read) by children of all ages. I certainly learned a ton about the city, from its industrial origins through to the launch of the glorious Titanic and beyond, but the experience was a bit cacophonous at times and once I got to the discovery of the shipwreck, I was a little museum-wrecked myself. I managed to soldier on to tour the Nomadic, one time tender to the Titanic and only surviving White Star vessel, but I was left wondering what it means for a city that was once a ship building bohemouth to now be defined by this legacy of disaster.

Thursday left me even more confused. It was the beginning of the celebration of the 12th, which is set off (literally) by a series of massive bonfires around the city that somehow don’t light the city on fire, even though the throw massive sparks everywhere. The next day I hid out in the spa, a present I’ve been promising myself since the Camino. I was to find out more about the holiday later, but I was immediately turned off by the massive crowds of individuals all decked in ridiculous Union Jack attire. To sum up, it’s a celebration of Protestant colonization of the north of Ireland and the imposition of an unequal system of governance over the Irish Catholics. I’m no lover of organized religion, but it is certain the nonsense that led to over thirty years of civil warfare known as the Troubles. Not the only celebration of colonization and discrimination but certainly a pretty aggressive one.

Later that week I went to the Ulster Museum, Belfast’s City Museum, which provided me with more background on the Troubles. It’s a confusing and complicated history, as is usually the case in any effort to wrest power from a discriminatory ruling class, so I am still working out a narrative I can understand. Unsurprisingly it seemed to have a number of resonances with the present. In the end, I’ve enjoyed trying to piece it all together based on public history and precious little prior knowledge, and it was great to have a bit of background before heading to Dublin later the next week!

[profemanley]

Belfast, NI

Week Thirty (July 4-11)

Somehow, incredibly, thirty full weeks have passed since I left New Orleans and began traveling around the world. I figured this would happen, and I can honestly say I am ready to go home, but the time has truly rushed right past. I am grateful to have a little time at the nearing end of the trip to be in a chill city where I feel like I can explore, but also feel totally comfortable getting lots of work done, watching some Netflix, and cook for myself.

This past week was a great combination of all that. One afternoon I wandered around the city center to check out the “Big Salmon of Wisdom,” the towering old Albert clock, St. Anne’s Cathedral, and all sorts of great street art. I spent a Saturday in the St. George’s Market and Modern Art Center and walked several kilometers down the famous Lagan River to Shaw Bridge Park. I had several great meals (The Barking Dog, Love Fish) but also figured out delivery from the Tesco and cooked a bunch for myself. I also took the train to Derry - a really gorgeous ride - to meet up with a friend of a friend who had invited me along to see northern Donnegal, including the beautiful Port Salon beach.

I’ve spent a bunch of time at the kitchen table of the apartment where I am staying. In addition to feeling grateful to my dear friend Keira who has loaned me her flat for a few weeks, it’s lovely to be around some familiar things, most of them reminding me of her! The table, my new work base, has served famously, and I finished a bunch of research notes, organized my new found research treasures and wrote up my “accomplishments” for the year (the dreaded Faculty Update, form still stating you should save to the department’s floppy disk. Not kidding.) I also did some collage-ing, which I’ve come to find calming, and binge some Netflix (Safe and Secret City both enjoyable). Looking forward to getting to know Belfast a little better, but also being able to do so at a chill pace.

[profemanley]

London and Belfast

Week Twenty-Nine (June 27-July 4)

This past week has been a study in contrasts, swinging from the sprawling, busy, and somewhat impersonal London to the friendly, contained, and relatively quiet Belfast. Outside of the fact that my own family history draws back to the U.K in the late 19th century, the British Isles have only ever held a very minor place in my travel desires. I’ve always felt like I *should* know London, and I hold dear, if very amorphous, memories of Scotland from a family trip we took there to visit my dad when I was four. I’m grateful, however, that the UK and Ireland made it onto the itinerary because I’ve learned quite a bit about doing research in London (challenging in wholly new ways) and gotten a better sense of what was once the colossus colonial machine from its center (and its peripheries).

In my final days in London I worked on wrapping up some little bits of research at the Royal Geographical Society, the National Archives, the Parliamentary Archives, and the Women’s Library at the London School of Economics. I genuinely love research and even appreciate the wide range of policies and procedures at different archives, so I could tell I was reaching fatigue toward the end of the week when I started to get exasperated at the explanation of how to conduct myself at LSE. It was clearly time to just spend some time in a room, with a computer, the documents, and some blank pages. At any rate, I gathered the little pieces I was looking for, and decided to spend my final day exploring East London as several friends had suggested. I hit the Spitalfields Market and a bunch of vintage shops, got donuts for breakfast (passing on the famous hot beef bagels because of my intense dislike of mustard), and admired all the lovely street art and protest. Walking back toward central London I decided to climb the 311 steps to the top of the Monument to the Great Fire (way cheaper and easier than the Mobbed London Eye) to get a 360 of the city, then headed back to the Tate Modern to see the rest of the collection. On the way there I walked over London Bridge and by the Globe Theatre, and then passed Buckingham Palace and wandering through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens (again) on the long walk back to Bayswater.

On Sunday I had an early flight to Belfast that was made stressful by an extremely anxious Uber driver and a long way to the airport, stupid traffic heading into Gatwick (at 5:30 am!), and the “World’s Largest Automated Bag Drop.” Hate to break it to you, Easy Jet, but that’s not something to brag about. Conversely, the arrival in Belfast was smooth and simple. My bags rolled out almost immediately on one of the two carousels, and as soon as I walked outside I spotted the city bus that would take me to downtown Belfast in a quick 20 minutes. Eight pounds, WiFi included, and I was transported to the bus stop four blocks from my new digs. I spent the afternoon napping, watching Netflix, and sampling the Indian food take away from downstairs. It was glorious.

For the next several days I tried to (re)establish a pattern of morning work and afternoon exploring. I managed to deal with some things that had been piling in my email, work on revisions to a chapter on Dominican tourism development (that I presented the week before), and organize my research materials for the next couple weeks of work. I also got to explore Belfast, which, unlike London, feels extremely accessible and consummately walkable. One afternoon I wandered through the famous Titanic Quarter. While saving the actual Titanic Museum for another afternoon, I read all the plaques placed around what was once a massive ship-building operation run by Harlan & Wolf, the firm responsible for the three biggies of the White Star Line. I saw the graving (dry) docks, a tender to the Titanic, and a World War II warship, as well as got a good sense of the timeline of the city’s industrial development. In other words, for a dork like me, a fun way to spend an afternoon. I also explored Shaw Bridge Park, a lovely street of public-use land along the Lagan River (the city’s central waterway), wandered around the downtown area, and caught an open-mic night at one of the city’s famous pubs. There’s clearly a charm and hospitality to Belfast that is absent in London; it feels nice to be able to settle into a place for a little bit that more resembles my adopted home of New Orleans, with all its flaws and quirks, troubled pasts and un-shiny presents.

[profemanley]

London

Week Twenty-Eight (June 20-27)

Having never been to London, I had no idea where to really begin exploring as the city seems so massive and kinda overwhelming. I was grateful to have some things I had to do (conference, research) and a number of friends in town to catch up with for a few of the days in my planned two weeks in the UK capital.

By the time I had (mostly) recovered from the return of my nasty bug, it was time for the conference I was attending - Global Dominican - to begin at the Senate House. I caught up with colleagues (old and new) in the nights prior to the one-day event, then spent Friday listening to and engaging with a fabulous group of fellow Dominicanists presenting research on a wide range of topics. I much prefer small, intimate conferences like this, although time constraints limited what would have been likely to be even more engaging discussion. The event was capped with a lovely dinner (at a Turkish restaurant of all things) and continued socializing, maybe a little dork chisme, and lots of catching up. Over the weekend I got to spend time with a precious, dear friend and her son, both of whom I do not get to see enough. We enjoyed a lunch in Soho, walked around central London, and filled each other in on our travels and lives. The next day I had the distinct pleasure of taking her son on a ferry from the southern part of London up past Big Ben and the Eye to the Tower Bridge. It was incredible to see it all from the middle of the river, and I think he enjoyed it too (even if I perhaps sprung the idea on him). We returned via the Tube, both exhausted but pleased (I hope).

I returned to my rental in Bayswater, which I was grateful to have discovered was in a great neighborhood, both in itself and in terms of connectivity with the rest of the city. I swear that can be one of the biggest challenges, picking from the massive numbers of rentals now available thanks to the economies of AirBnb and Uber, without knowing anything about a city. It can suck hours from you life (and I’m so grateful to the friends with local knowledge who helped steer me in right directions in a number of my choices). At any rate, the place was super close to Kensington Gardens and three different underground lines. I was able to do a little work at my sunny (I know! Crazy!) kitchen table and walk through the gardens to the museums (Victoria and Albert on Monday for the fab Frida exhibit), easily dip into central London on any of the lines whenever I wanted, and also catch the District line straight out to Kew Gardens for research in the National Archives the next day.

While I could go on and on about the drawbacks of social media, one of the most thrilling (and redeeming) of the qualities of our über-connected world comes with the coincidences and interconnections of global travel. I’ve benefited from this in a number of ways on this trip, predominately with friends connecting me with their esteemed friends in the different places I’ve been. However, it’s delightful when social media alerts you that someone you actually know (and perhaps haven’t seen in, say, seven years) is in precisely the same city as you. This lovely coincidence happened to me in London, affording the chance for a delicious and relaxing meal with a friend I met many years ago working at Herbsaint. It was great to catch up (on each other and friends we had in common) and share a thoughtful dinner, something that happens less frequently when you travel solo!

[profemanley]

Madrid and London

Week Twenty-Seven (June13-20)

Somehow, just when I was feeling fitter than I had perhaps in years my body decided to remind me of its consummate upper hand. It came in the form of a microbial organism and it flattened me, my body refusing to cooperate with even simple tasks like laundry (which desperately needed doing after the hike). Maybe it was the final lesson (of many) of the Camino. This one was out of my control. Despite some mediation from panadol and ibuprofen, I basically lost two days in Madrid and whatever icky flu it was laid (somewhat) dormant to return for another day of bed rest later in the week in London. So much for feeling healthy and invigorated. Guess I’ll just have to keep that one stored up in my memory bank.

Minus the ick-iness I managed to squeeze out a few good days of exploration. On Friday I walked to the National Palace then meandered around a bunch of cool neighborhoods before meeting a friend for the ‘best pizza in Madrid’ in Anton Martin; the day I flew out to London I got in a lovely breakfast and wandered Lavapies, including the Tabacalera, a cigar factory turned community art center; once in London I explored Notting Hill and Portobello Road on a bustling Sunday; and finally after another day of bed rest I managed to rally and walked clear across the city from Bayswater to the South Bank (through the zillions of park acres) to see the Picasso exhibit at the Tate Modern.

Heading into my final month of travel and last bit of researching and conferencing I can’t hardly believe how much I’ve seen, but also how tiring extended travel can be. I’ve always wondered what it would have been like to have backpacked across Europe post-college. In addition to not ever having had the resources to do such a thing, I think I’m grateful my traveling came in the manner that it did. Negotiating first the Spanish-speaking Caribbean, in my early 20s as a non-native speaker, forced me to be adaptable in a way I’m not sure an un-focused European jaunt might have. I feel like I’m better equipped to get to know a place, capable of skipping the must-sees in favor of the more every-days, and willing to rest, read a book, and cook myself a meal when I can no longer stand being a tourist.

[profemanley]

Camino de Santiago, Part Two

Week Twenty-Six (June 6-13, 2018)

Over 300 kilometers. That’s the total of walking distance I racked up over 12 days carrying a 23lb pack (give or take) traveling from Porto, Portugal to Santiago de Compostela, Spain. Obviously, that distance could easily be covered much more rapidly via modern transport, but it would never reveal all the incredible views and reflection that the slow pace of the Camino affords. At the risk of contributing to its already fairly massive popularity, I feel compelled to recommend the journey to everyone I talk to. A level of physical fitness is something of a requisite, but I saw people of all abilities, and there are many ways to experience the Camino. If you enjoy exploring places unknown, seeing cultures from the most simplistic levels (the street, the small town, the cafe on the square), and pushing even a tiny bit beyond your comfort zone, it is so well worth the time and effort!

Wednesday morning, having completed six days of walking and one very challenging and wet marathon stretch, I took a casual morning in Redondela. Normally I tried to be out by eight or so, but I needed the rest and the time for my clothes to dry. Around noon I packed up, grabbed a very late breakfast (oh how I love the Iberian impulse to put eggs on all things), and committed to a 20km day. I was going to do less, but Pontevedra and another hotel room (with a bath tub!) were too appealing. My feet were pretty destroyed, but, the rain held out all day and I pushed through. Near to my arrival I ran into the couple I had seen, in my desperation the day before at the one cafe between Vigo and Redondela. We ended up running into each other multiple times over the next few days, which is one of the very cool things about walking the Camino. I also walked briefly that day with another couple from the Netherlands who were walking for the second time. The man talked about his mother who had, in her 70s, done this pilgrimage to Santiago from the Netherlands. Despite being pretty exhausted from the day before, I was beginning to see the appeal for people like the two retired Italian guys who had done 14 Santiago pilgrimages between them.

Pontevedra is a gorgeous city and I took my battered body to a delightful meal at a place called Loaira then for a super hot bath. The next morning I did another noon start, and projected only 10km to a small place called Portela (Barro). I thought, foolishly, that the albergue would be nice and quiet but the all-day rain had made it a popular stop. I got a top bunk in a damp and cold dorm room. I had a hard time containing my general crankiness and was very grateful to get through the group dinner they offered and climb into my bunk. The next morning I was happily off before 7am, eager to be alone again and headed 22.5km northeast to Valga. It was a beautiful day for all but the last ten minutes when it down poured, of course. The municipal albergue in Valga, however, was new and clean and spacious, much the opposite of the previous night’s lodging. I dried more clothes, made some dinner with the leftovers I had been carrying around (glorious chorizo), and went down the street to the one restaurant in town for some dessert and WiFi.

On Saturday I spent my penultimate day trekking 26km from Valga to the outskirts of Santiago, wanting to save my actual arrival for a clean, fresh, and hopefully rainless Sunday morning. It did turn out to be worth it to save those final kms for Sunday, as Saturday was rainy and gross for a large majority. I arrived (wet, again) to a super chic albergue in Milladoiro. I dried clothes, cleaned up, and awaited pizza delivery on the IKEA couches in the lounge. Not super sophisticated fare, but I didn’t have to go back out into the rain to get it. The next morning I departed before sunrise and arrived in front of the cathedral as the bells tolled nine. I decided to wait to tour it until the next morning, opting instead to drop my bag at the hotel I had reserved by the Convento Bonaval, and winding my way around the old center of Santiago. I got my credentials approved for the “Compostela” and bought a few little gifts and mementos. By three I was pretty exhausted and decided to just sit in a little restaurant and read until dinner service began a few hours later. The next morning, feeling quite rested, I toured the cathedral, which is stunning, and spent some more time wandering the serpentine streets of the old city. As if we had timed it perfectly, I was able to meet up with Greg and Nikky, who I’d met in the second day, as they entered Santiago and I was on my way to the train station. It was a perfect wrap to the journey.

The train back to Madrid was uneventful and I stared out the window for most of it, reflecting back on the previous two weeks. Once I arrived at Chanmartín I navigated my way back to the Atocha station, got the rest of my luggage out of storage, and checked into my Airbnb. Too lazy to go out to dinner, I ducked into the grocery store downstairs, then made pasta salad and watched Netflix. The next day I met up with a colleague who I had recently become acquainted with at LASA (and who coincidentally had just completed the Camino with her mom). She gave me her personal tour of Madrid, which included lots of walking, a glass palace, feeding ducks and swans at a pond, watching paddle boats at another pond, seeing lots of beautiful architecture, strange trees, and bookstores, and grabbing snacks at a lovely little food mall, a great tapas bar, and Madrid’s most famous churros spot. It was basically perfect, and cemented for me that Madrid is highly under-rated.

[profemanley]

Camino de Santiago

Week Twenty-Five (May 30-June 5)

About eight months ago, when I began planning my sabbatical “world tour” I decided to add the Camino de Santiago to my itinerary. The many caminos, or routes, to the spiritual center of Santiago de Compostela in Spain, date back to the Middle Ages. While it would have been customary to walk from wherever you lived to the St. James Mecca, today the most popular route starts in France and runs through Spain, thus dubbed the Camino Frances. Way-marked routes begin all across Europe and are supported by a significant network of pilgrim groups around the world.

Prior to seeing (quite accidentally) the lovely film about the Camino by Emilio Estevez (and starring his wonderful father) a few years ago, I don’t think I’d even heard of this dense network of pilgrimage routes. If I had, I definitely hadn’t paid attention. In my early sabbatical planning stages, however, it kept appearing in my life in various ways. While I neither practice the Catholicism I was raised with nor regularly hike any significant distances, it seemed an odd choice. Yet somehow, given recent changes in my life as well as the completion of the tenure gauntlet and the publication of my first book, walking for 10-12 days through Europe felt more and more appealing. I decided upon the Camino Portuguese da Costa because it was less popular than the Camino Frances and ran along the Atlantic for many of its kilometers. At Christmas time last year my thoughtful family helped me stocked up on some of the things I needed (rain jacket and waterproof hiking shoes being two of those clutch items). After a mere cursory glance at the guidebook and a plan to begin in Porto, I put the whole thing at the back of my mind, only reeling it off when someone wanted to know the rest of the itinerary. By the time I got to the LASA conference in Barcelona, however, it was upon me and I hustled to get the rest of the plan together - where to leave my remaining luggage, how to get to Porto (and back from Santiago), and what the heck I was gonna pack in my pack for this two week trek.

Having figured most of this all out, I flew to Porto on Wednesday. I took mass transit into the city center, found a coffee shop, and decided to get a hotel room before taking off early the next day. The plan was then to spend the remaining nights in pilgrim hostels - big rooms with bunk beds and shared facilities, only for those walking the Camino, so I wanted a little space before I left to get organized. I also wanted to go to the Cathedral and get my credentials, which the hostels (albergues) and other business can stamp along the way as “proof” of your journey. I was glad I did, as I hadn’t realized the first day out of Porto was a 35km stretch, still one of the longer days I’ve had so far. Subsequent days I averaged around 30km, wanting to speed up a little to coordinate with the reservation I’d made in Madrid at the back end of the trip, but also to get off the somewhat set segments as the albergues were a bit crowded. The Camino Portugués is less traversed than the French, but rapidly rising in popularity and many people seemed to have the same guidebook I did.

The first night I stayed in a parish-run albergue in Vila do Conde and learned that if you arrive late you likely get a top bunk, which can be a pain, figuratively and literally. The pilgrim hostels are either private, parish run, or municipal. They tend to have several rooms with eight to twelve bunks, communal bathrooms and showers, and variously equipped kitchen, common rooms and laundry facilities. Thursday through Sunday I worked my way north along the Portuguese coast, often directly on the seaside, although occasionally through gorgeous old villages and hilly interior section, staying at local albergues withe mostly (unwashed on arrival) masses. The stretch between Viana do Castelo and Carreço was particularly enchanting, as was the mountainous route into Baiona (Spain) early the next week. Sunday afternoon I took the ferry across to Spain, entirely uneventful, and started slowly moving inland.

One of the highlights of those first days was meeting a couple from The Hague. We found each other at a particularly crowded albergue in Marinhas, bonded over laundry tasks, and grabbed dinner that night at a local restaurant. Despite an array of language barriers, you can certainly meet lots of people on the Camino. Not all of them, however, do you feel like sharing challenging, long treks with. Or at least, I personally enjoyed my solitude enough to favor it over poor company. Greg and Nikki, both musicians, were more than a delight, however, and we talked and laughed the next day all the way to Viana do Castelo. While I needed to push on to meet my Sunday terminal point, we’ve kept messaging through the rest of our journey. It felt like a really important reminder of the world’s vastness, but also the thrilling commonalities you can find in others. I’m only upset we didn’t get a photo together.

One of my aspirations for the trip was to rely only on the guidebook, trusting the maps and directions it provided, along with the way-marks provided in the streets along the way. I planned not to make reservations for lodging and to use my phone gps only in emergency situations (having turned off cellular data months ago). On the whole, it has been entirely feasible. However, Tuesday really tested the limits of both my patience and my body’s capacity to keep putting one foot in front of the other. That day I was still pushing a bit to get on track to arrive in 11 days, so I charted a plan for a 32km day, landing just north of the Galician city of Vigo. Sadly, the albergue I had planned on staying at had recently changed to a homeless shelter. After a disheartening exchange with the guard I was sent to the manager, who very brusquely shoved an English sign in my face that read: NOT FOR PILGRIMS. After I told him I understood, I asked if I could use the bathroom, hoping to set my wet things down for a minute and reassess. The answer was, unequivocally and rather harshly, no, with zero space for further questions. I stormed off, wet and angry, suppressing the urge to flip off the entire campus of the Hermanos Misioneros de los Pobres. In my frustration, I headed back to the route, looking for a cafe that was on my guide map. By the time I realized I must have passed it, I was up the mountain, past the city, and back in the woods. The next stop for lodging - or anything to speak of for that matter - was in another 12 or so kilometers. And it was raining, still, and not lightly. The one shining point of light was a tiny cafe that appeared the middle of nowhere, about 5km down the way, which proffered hot coffee, a spell of dry, and a sighting of two other pilgrims, all of which lifted my spirits. Needless to say, I put on an audio book, shielded my headphones from the rain, and tried to make my body override my mind. I rolled into Redondela about 13 hours and 45km after leaving Baiona, drenched and beyond exhausted. That night, I got a hotel room, with a washer, and vowed to slow down for the remaining five days.

[profemanley]

Week Twenty-Four (May 23-30) So. LASA. The Latin American Studies Association holds a massive conference every year, including what seems like the majority of the Western Hemisphere’s Latin Americanist scholars. This year, held in Spain for the first time, it attracted a good number of Continental academics as well, bringing the registered total to 8,000. That’s a whole lotta dork in one place, and it can be overwhelming. It certainly was my first years attending; it still is, if in much different ways. After settling into an AirBnb near the convention center on Tuesday, I started slow on Wednesday, taking the morning to do some work in a coffee shop in the precious neighborhood of Poblenou. I joined the morass for a section meeting that afternoon, and had panels into the evening. (They ran from nine am am to nine pm this year). That day, and the several following, I remember finding sustenance, but never anything worth reporting as it was a constant search for convenient and/or now food. Which is a shame, as Barcelona can have wonderful snacks. Anyway, Thursday and Friday continued similarly, with rather full days of sessions and meetings, although I got some great catch up time with a number of beloved colleagues, and even made some new dork friends. By Saturday I needed a break so joined two colleagues for a walk around Raval and the Gothic Quarters where we managed to get some decent food (finally), do a bit of shopping, check out the ridiculous Columbus monument (why???) at the port, and wind our ways back toward the conference area. After clocking about 21 km I crashed early, scraping together dinner from less than stellar leftovers. The next day my roomie left me and I switched locations, moving to a hotel next to what is either the most phallic or the most war-like (or both?) building in Barcelona. I even had a direct view of said bullet/phallus building from my room. That evening I did some more wandering around with a colleague whom I had also met up with in San Juan in the very first week of the sabbatical. We got pasta, then walked for several hours past the Arco de Triunfo, through the Parc du Nord, below the hulking Sagrada Familia, and then, real triumph, for gelato! Monday afternoon I bid adieu to Barcelona. I really had failed to spend much quality time exploring, but it is in fact the one and only city I’ve ever spent time in (about a month five or six summers ago) so I was ready to move on and return to solo traveler. I caught the high speed train to Madrid which if not thrilling is, at least, fast. In less than three hours I was half way across Spain. Despite some confusion, a good half hour walking circles in the Atocha Train station, failing to find a non-pay toilet, and getting on the Renfe Cercanías rather than the metro, I managed to stow my big suitcase, pay to pee, and navigate to my cute hotel room near the Plaza del Sol. It was rainy, and kinda cold, and yet I got an immediate vibe - a good one - from the place. The next day I continued to get that feeling, and it was all helped by free entrance to the Prada (teachers!), delicious Mallorcan dinner, stellar coffee, and just a generally vibrant bustle. I ended up ditching my plan to take the train to Porto, opting instead for a flight for Wednesday morning and another night in Madrid. I figured it would be better to start the Camino from a slightly more energized place.

[profemanley]

Week Twenty-Three (May 16-23) This past week has been a whirlwind of endings and beginnings, travel frustrations and successes, and friends both old and new. I ended a wonderful near month in Sydney, then shuttled, awkwardly, half way across the world again to Spain to begin the annual onslaught that is the Latin American Studies Association conference. My final obligation at the University of Sydney was a talk for the history department, which I delivered in an dark wood-paneled room in the oldest part of the campus on Wednesday. It was well attended, but mostly by non-Latin Americanists, so I got to soft pitch my thoughts on tourism development in the DR during the Balaguer years (1966-1978). The attendees gave me lots to stew on as I revise the presentation for a conference in London in June. The next day I completed some research I had begun at the State Library, then mostly slacked off the next few days, walking around gorgeous Sydney and seeing more of the Biennale at The Carriage Works, White Rabbit,, and the Museum of Contemporary Art (MCA). I highly recommend the cafe at MCA if only for its stunning view of the harbor and the Opera House. On Sunday I went with a few friends to walk the Spit Bridge-Manly coastal walk, which is really stunning. Truth be told, all the Australian coast I saw was pretty stunning, and I've hardly met an ocean walk I didn't like, but this one was also filled with lively and meaningful discussion, laughs, ferries (and debate about ferries), great food, and perfect weather. In all, we walked 21 kilometers and were exhausted, but I at least, felt invigorated and ready for the next stage of my journey. That long trip to Spain began the evening of the next day, spanning 24 hours but dropping me in Barcelona at 2pm the next day. With the exception of my carry-on taking a header down the escalator in Doha, it was relatively easy. Or maybe it just felt that way after the saga of getting to Sydney. I can't say I've exactly mastered the 14+ hour flight, but I've done it a few times now! I was feeling a little grimy, but was grateful the little bit of salon time I'd taken before leaving left me at least looking nominally presentable. Which was good, because my Airbnb host decided a two hour orientation to the apartment and neighborhood was in order. Note to Airbnb hosts: if your guest is coming from half-way around the world, you might forgo the grand tour (really, it's only a two bedroom apartment) and offer to return later for coffee and your city wisdom. It's not that it's not wanted. It's just that we're likely not hearing it. Anyway, after extricating myself gently, I attended to a brief meeting with a LASA colleague, then tucked myself into my comfy new bed in preparation for the looming behemoth gathering (8000) of Latin American scholars.

[profemanley]

Sydney, Australia

Week Twenty-Two (May 9-16)

After three weeks in Sydney, I feel like it’s pretty easy to slide into life here. Although there are some strange habits of Sydneysiders, (the not-jaywalking thing, for one, plus that they call themselves Sydneysiders) it’s a very uncomplicated place. Things generally run smoothly, people are nice, and there is more than enough to see and do to keep a person entertained, even the solo traveler. It feels consummately safe and comfortable. Which would likely make me uncomfortable after a stretch, but for a short stay, particularly after some of the rigors of the Caribbean, it was extraordinarily lovely.

This week I completed another of my obligations at the university, a pre-circulated paper seminar for American Studies. I got some excellent feedback on what will likely be the first chapter of the new project, and met some more of Thomas’ friends and colleagues. I followed up on that with a few days in the archives of the State Library at New South Wales, gathering some fascinating materials on an Australian woman who traveled to Jamaica in the 1920s and 30s (among other ports of call). Through a mutual Nola friend I also got to chat with the library’s incredible director about their many public-facing digital projects, including their super cool vending Library which pops out tiny analog repros of some of the treasures of the collection after you tweet at them. Finally, I taught the last session of the graduate seminar where we had a great conversation about digital tools and historical methods.

Finally having a bunch of time to explore, I hit the Art Gallery at New South Wales and the Paddington Art Market, did some shopping on Crown street (and found a Jamaican restaurant wallpapered with tourism posters), wandered historic McQuarie Street, followed the coastal trail from Bondi Beach to Clovely and saw a movie (in the theatre, even!). I also had a few good meals (The Duck Inn, Salmon & Bear) and tested out a few Jamaican recipes for T and his friend and colleague Frances. A few days I hit some high numbers on the step counter, returning to my practice for El Camino, including one 21km day. I took the time (mostly in lieu of Netflixing) to read T’s copy of Marlon James’ A Brief History of Seven Killings, which was phenomenal (read it before it becomes an HBO series, which is happening). Reading it also allowed me some space to reflect on my time in Kingston as the opening is set around the real-life attempted assassination of Bob Marley (in the book merely as The Singer). James is such a phenomenon writer - Rushdian in scope, painstaking (but not painful or Dickensian) in detail. Its likely just that I’m paying closer attention, but I’ve had multiple instances in which the place I just was intrudes on the place I am now in both delightful and provocative ways. No doubt that will continue as I continue my sabbatical journey to Europe and reflect back on my experiences in both the Caribbean and Australia!

[profemanley]

Sydney, Australia

Week Twenty-One (May 2-9)

My second week in Sydney turned out to be just as busy as the first, filled with work at the University of Sydney, lots of walking and exploring, a little shopping, and a trip to a coastal town south of Sydney called Mollymook. Oh, and kangaroo!

During the week I continued to enjoy my office at the US Studies Centre. Seriously, a badass espresso machine in the workplace is a total game changer. I think every place of business should have one. I mean, the rest of the fancy in the centre’s kitchen is great (obviously marble counter tops and Breville panini makers should be de rigeur in every work kitchen, no?) but high quality lattes on demand really take it to a whole new level. Anyway, it’s also been great to have a place that’s quiet, but also filled with people, to do some of the review and organization of the materials I have been collecting for the last four months. I finished a draft of what will likely be the first chapter of the new project (for presentation at a seminar the next week), printed and reviewed my archival guides (written while gathering in the Archives), and began preparations for my end of my May conference in Barcelona. I was also able to attend a lecture by historian Paul Betts, meet more of the Sydney faculty, and work with one of the graduate students in the seminar I am teaching.

Since January I have had contact with at least half a dozen graduate students and I’ve realized it is something that I wished I had more of in my life. My undergrads are wonderful, but it is a completely distinct set of challenges and opportunities to work with students just beginning their graduate careers. Several students have approached me because of their interest in the Dominican Republic (thank you dear colleagues at Tulane and Brown!) while a few others found me through my recent work in Jamaica. The group in Sydney is not really centered in my geographical area of expertise but are interested in gender and women’s history. I hope this pattern does continue because I’ve found that advising around master’s and PhD research and writing is something I get really pleasure and gratification from.

So the (non-dorky) highlight of this past week was a trip southward to Mollymook, which is an adorable coastal town not far from what I shalll forever call the kangaroo beach. I went with Thomas in his car, and he had arranged for us to stay at a friend’s dad’s empty lake house. We left near the end of the work day Friday and got in around eight. Given the dearth of dining options along the highway we braved Burger Jacks, which is an eerie replica of Burger King (there’s also a bunch of Gloria Jean’s -hello 90s mall haunts - coffee shops around town). Like in Jamaica, they too have a veggie burger. While they, not shockingly, don’t offer pineapple as an add-on, the patty itself was even better than the US version (which isn’t half bad, for the record). Anyway, we arrived and settled in quickly as we had early morning surfing lessons the next day. The weather, while sunny and beautiful the next morning, was not exactly what I would call beach temperature, so luckily our adorable instructor had full wet suits ready for us. Our lesson included one other person (a woman in her late 60s who was pretty badass) and it was to be about three hours. Turns out our lovely instructor (surf boy extraordinaire) was also a history undergrad and a self proclaimed commie (although likely socialist as it seems he did not own the means of production in this outfit) which turned out to be particularly beneficial to Thomas and I. Well, mostly me, but I will claim that it was because he was interested in the Caribbean (as both surfer and commie). Not-to-long story short, I got a bunch of attention, stood up on the board more than a few times, and was completely spent before our lesson was completely over. I can’t say I’m gonna move to the beach and become Lori Petty’s character on Point Break (although that has always been my secret dream) but I think I might be a little hooked.

We finished our weekend with an incredible meal with Thomas’ friend (and some of her friends) at a place called St. Isadore on Saturday night and a trip to the kangaroo beach (technically, Pebbly Beach) on the way back toward Sydney on Sunday. I was skeptical at first, but as soon as you walk onto the beach area there were a mess of wallabies - and even more as you wander around the grounds of this beach / National Park. They are all obviously used to humans, and just kind of chill and watch you. It was both amazing, and a little creepy! I am hopeful to see other strange creatures during this time in Australia, but as far as I’m concerned, priority #1 (yes, kangaroo even if they’re technically wallaby) has been met!

[profemanley]

Sydney, Australia

Week Twenty (April 25-May 2)

Not-so-bright, and very early, on Thursday morning we landed in Sydney from Singapore. Luckily we were the first plane at the gate, and I breezed through customs and immigration. I’m not sure any of the officials were even truly awake yet, and I certainly was barely hanging on. Anyway, the week that followed was a bit of a blur, as I adjusted to literally being on the other side of the world (and in the future), but was also a fascinating foil to the former British colony I had just departed.

Knowing how crucial it was that I stay awake, I powered through Thursday despite having had caught about seven hours total sleep in the past 52 of travel. My friend Thomas, who had so sweetly been at the airport to greet me at six am, helped me check into my adorable Airbnb then took me to the University of Sydney where he had lined up a host of things for me to do. I checked out my temporary office and started organizing myself for a myriad of activities over the next month: several sessions of a graduate seminar, an undergraduate lecture, two presentations (history and gender & cultural studies), and an American Studies pre-circulated paper seminar. Everyone at the US Studies Centre, where my new office was located, was incredibly welcoming, plus they have a killer espresso machine (Aussies are obsessed with espresso, it turns out) and just generally beautiful digs. With some good distractions thrown in (lunch with the historian teaching the grad seminar with me, a brief tour of the University of Sydney, a good long walk, unpacking, delicious ramen from Ipuddo, and grocery shopping) I made it to nine pm and completely crashed!

Friday I finished preparing a presentation for the Gender & Cultural Studies Department that I gave with Thomas that day. The crowd was pretty impressive for a Friday afternoon and they all had excellent questions. While I hadn’t initially planned it this way (having dreamed blissfully of a month-long writing “retreat” post archives) I am really glad I was compelled to give some analysis on the broad scope of my work right away. Having to think again of the big questions that initially fueled my research was a productive exercise; the fact that those questions revolve around the development of female sex tourism in the Caribbean, coincidentally, made for a lively discussion. After a brief post seminar gathering Thomas and I walked back to his apartment (Sydney is imminently walkable) and prepared for a little welcome party he had planned for me with his history department colleagues. I’ve become accustomed now of arriving in new places and creating my own “welcome wagon,” so to speak, so this was such a wonderful change and a delightful group of people to get to know. Archives work can be really solitary, so I’m very grateful for this gentle re-immersion into society, albeit in (another) foreign place.

Over the weekend I got to relax a bit, do some walking and exploring, eat delicious dumplings, take the Harbour ferries, and check out one of the Biennale installations here in Sydney. On Saturday I met up with a friend from New Orleans who lives here now. We did brunch (very popular here), caught the metro downtown to Circular Quay (pronounced ‘key’, ahh British English), and then took the ferry to Cockatoo Island. No actual cockatoos were sighted, but we did see a fabulous set of art installations, including an incredible piece on refugee(dom) by Ai Wei Wei, and cruised back through the little bays and inlets back to the mainland at dusk. In stark contrast to Kingston, Sydney is very shiny. I’m sure my perspective is colored precisely by the contrast, but, man, it just feels very clean and orderly and polite here. People actually wait for the crossing signal, and no one jaywalks, like ever. Even the purportedly grittier neighborhoods, like the one I’m in, feel quiet and buttoned up. I’m sure it’s unfair to both cities to do such a side-by-side, but given that I have book-ended these two former British colonies, it’s pretty hard not to. I certainly miss some of the liveliness of the Caribbean, but at the same time I’m grateful to return to a land of excessive cheese selection and lots of walking commuters. I’m still looking the wrong way every time I cross the street, though. Not sure if I’ll get used to that ever.

Early in the week I tried to get into a somewhat regular work pattern, keeping up with daily writing and preparing for the things I had coming up that week, including teaching a graduate seminar on gender and women’s history. I managed to find the ID center and get my affiliate card (library books! fancy door opening!), drink lots and lots of fancy espresso from both the center’s machine and the cute coffee shops that are EVERYWHERE around this city, and even get some actual work done. I didn’t do much sight-seeing, with the exception of the walk from the unit to my little modern above-garage studio in the Redfern neighborhood, but I figure there’s plenty more time for that in the coming weeks.

[profemanley]

Kingston & MIA/LON/SIN/SYD

Week Nineteen (April 18-25)

This past week was an exhausting whirlwind of finishing up my work in Jamaica and making the huge (made even huger by air travel hiccups) journey to the other side of the world. It has left me a bit haggard, but also incredibly grateful for this unique opportunity to explore the world a bit!

The end of last week I made final trips to the Special Collections at UWI and the National Library, and well as a trip out to the National Archives in Spanish Town. I gathered the final things I could and made note of what I wanted to return to later. I know that there is still much more to be covered in terms of research and am glad to have gotten the lay of the land, particularly given the strict limitations imposed by many of the national institutions of no digital photography. It really forced me to think hard about what I wanted and needed, not to mention remember the less than thrilling process of getting photocopies of documents that you really, really want. I’m also now much more aware of the trek it is to get to the National Archives, which are essentially in another town. It took me three hours to get there on my first attempt on Wednesday and will need to work out a more efficient system upon my return. Overall though, I’m really pleased with what I was able to accomplish in my very first trip to a brand new place, and encouraged to continue conducting research on/in Jamaica! It’s a country with a fascinating and highly illustrative history, worthy of much more than the limited historiography it has been afforded in the North American academy and imagination.

On my last weekend I discarded any illusions of fitting in a million last things, opting instead for a trip to Devon House for a tour of the historic mansion, one last great Indian meal, and a little salon time to prep for the upcoming travels. The house tour was great because it was just me and the guide and I could linger and read plaques as long as I wanted - as I like to do - and they’ve done a nice job furnishing the house as it might have been at the end of the 1800s. Built by an Afro-Jamaican on a massive swath of land, it was the home of one of the country’s first black millionaires and a notable (if also aggravating to the racist white ruling class) achievement for the time. I followed the tour up with a nice long walk and late lunch at an Indian place on Barbican Road called Tamarind. I have really enjoyed Jamaican food - particularly jerk chicken, patties, beach seafood, and festival - but I’m also very easily swayed by Indian food just about anywhere I am, and this place came with praise from a colleague. Unshockingly, I ate way too much, had to walk it off for awhile, and had plenty for leftover dinner. On Sunday I made some banana bread for my host with the bananas I had gotten up in the Blue Mountains and took my time packing up all my crap. It’s amazing how different the regulations on luggage are depending on both the airline and the location of the security checkpoint!

On Wednesday morning I got in the cab of my new taxi driver acquaintance Roy and headed to Norman Manley International Airport (there’s something undeniably fun about the fact that my surname is all over Jamaica). My itinerary was supposed to take me to Miami, then LA, and finally Sydney, and I was gearing up for about 26 hours of straight travel. As things unfortunately often unfold in air travel, that did not happen and my travel time basically doubled, which was a pretty big challenge for someone whose longest travel had been one transatlantic flight. The first leg went fine enough, but what was a mere 15 minute delay (something with a messed up manifest) turned into a massive rerouting. That little quarter hour meant our baggage didn’t make it into the terminal for two hours because of a massive deluge. Subsequent rudeness and brusque responses from irritated airport employees resulted in missing my LA connector and having to consult with an AA agent for over an hour, of which the final conclusion was that the only way to get me to Sydney in time for my Friday presentation was to route me through London. It didn’t full sink in at the time, but that meant flying overnight for 10 hours only to be further away from my final destination. A pretty depressing fact to realize upon landing in Heathrow and facing a 12 hour layover. Luckily I had the wherewithal to demand some sort of accommodation and was hooked up with a day hotel room that at least allowed for a shower, space to reorganize my things, and a few hours of horizontal rest (even if sleep was too scary). Then I got to go through security again, with a whole new set of rules and regs, be forced to divest of a few things, and wander around the oddly hi/low brow assortment of establishments in Terminal Five. Leg #3 was the 12-hour flight to Singapore, a brief refuel and (shocker) fourth security check, completed with another 7 hours in the air. We were the first flight to land in Sydney at 5 am and we breezed through customs and immigration. I was exhausted, I’d had about 7 hours total sleep in over two full days, and it was now three days and 52-ish hours later (and Thursday morning). Still, I had arrived and got the added bonus of the arrivals-gate welcome of one of my oldest and dearest friends. It took nearly all of my patience and much fortitude, but almost immediately I felt like it was going to be worth all the trouble.

[profemanley]

Kingston, the Blue Mountains, and Portland

Week Eighteen (April 11-18)

So this, my last full week in Jamaica, was filled with lots of fun and exploration. I got to experience the Blue Mountains, the north coast beaches of Portland, Spanish Town (the old capital), and more of Kingston.

Wednesday I awoke in an adorable cabin in the Blue Mountains - Silver Hill Gap - to incredible views and the sounds of nature. Shannon and I decided we would enjoy our day reading and relaxing in the peaceful quiet of nature. Unfortunately, the nearby village (and the regular passage of life) had other plans for us. After preparing breakfast and settling into what we hoped would be a whole lot of nothing, very loud music began to permeate every bit of our mountain escape. It took some time to realize that it was coming from the distant valley town, as it sounded like someone had placed a massive speaker just on our doorstep. As the sound - beginning with reggae, moving into hip hop - continued into the afternoon and spoiled our hopes for peace and quiet, we wanted to know it’s origins and if it would ever end. What we discovered was that a “big man” of the valley’s town had recently died and today was the grave digging, replete with an extended celebration that was to be shared by all the surrounding hills and villages. The music - and accompanying DJ - was crystal clear and ranged from the opening classic reggae through dancehall, pop, religious, country, and nearly everything in between. And it lasted until nearly eight that evening. Given that we’d set aside this day - and traversed a mountain road for nearly two hours - to get to a quiet, scenic spot it was more than a little frustrating. Yet, how can you complain when the reason of your aggravation is, at its root, the loss of others? In short, you can’t; simply the travails - and forced perspective of travel. So we built a fire (or, our lovely caretaker did), made dinner, and hoped for some quiet the next day.

Thursday was indeed quiet, and we took advantage of our mountain retreat to climb up aways for a better view of the valley and distant Kingston, as well as down into the valley to swim in the river. The caretaker of the property, Devon, was a wonderful guide and we got breathtaking views, a bracing swim, and much-needed exercise. Aside from grave diggings for “big” men, the Blue Mountains are an incredibly rejuvenating place to disconnect and convene with nature. The farm on the property grows a huge variety of fruits and vegetables, including, of course, bananas and coffee but also tons of greens, pineapples, all kinds of citrus, pumpkins and squash, herbs, cucumbers, and on and on, all in the steeped terrain behind the cabin. Great to explore, even better to cook with - and the kitchen was fabulous! I had a blast playing kitchen McGuyver with it all!

On Friday we headed back down the mountain but on its back side headed toward the north coast and Portland. The road was just as curvy and narrow, but it seemed a bit easier as it was both no longer brand new to us, and early in the morning. We made it to the coast and drove east, passing through Buff Bay and Port Antonio. We made brief stops at a craft market in Port Antonio and San San beach, spent a bit longer at the gorgeous Winnifred Beach, and ended our eastern trek in Boston Bay for some of its famous jerk. We then took the long trek back to Kingston, stopping for some supplies, coffee, and patties for dinner, along the way. In addition to festival, patties are another wonder of Jamaican cuisine. They do a pretty bang-up version of savory-wrapped-in-pie that I recommend trying if the opportunity presents itself!

Shannon departed on Saturday morning so I spent the weekend cleaning, catching up on work, and preparing for my last work week in Kingston. I decided I would spend at least one day each at the Special Collections at UWI, the National Library, and the Archives in Spanish Town which I had yet to venture to. The last days of research in any given place always give me a little anxiety (did I get everything? what if I missed something crucial?) but I managed to put myself in a good headspace and make my last few days productive.

One of the things I love about solo travel is the time I have for reading. As a kid I was a voracious consumer of fiction, but through graduate school and now teaching the time I devoted to pleasure reading plummeted. In the past year or so I’ve tried to reverse that a bit, through both traditional reading and, as I like to call them, books on tape. When I travel I am always comforted by the companionship of a “real” book, although I’ve come to enjoy audio books and e-books since there’s only so much one can pack. Last year I read Jamaican Marlon James’ The Book of Night Women, which blew me away, so I was eager to pick up some more Jamaican authors while I was here. I am now finishing Nicole Dennis-Benn’s Here Comes the Sun which is both beautiful and heart-wrenching. I’ve been keeping track of my list on GoodReads (19 since January 1!) and am aiming for 50 books - mostly fiction and memoir, not counting academic books - for the year. I’ve read quite a range so far, but I highly recommend both James and Dennis-Benn’s work (even with its occasionally challenging use of patois) as well as Amor Towles’ A Gentleman in Moscow (epic and beautiful), Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles (stunning), Zadie Smith’s Swing Time (also heartbreaking but so smart), and Siri Hustvedt’s The Blazing World (brilliant). Given my 24+ hours of travel to Australia starting Monday, I’m sure I’ll have a few more to add to the list!

[profemanley]

Kingston, the Southeast Coast, and the Blue Mountains

Week Seventeen (April 5-12)

So this past week I got to do a few more touristy things in Kingston and get out of town a little bit. I kept plugging away at the research - this week at the Special Collections at the University of the West Indies - which is slow going but nonetheless progressing, and I got another slice of Caribbean carnival, Jamaican style.

I continued my work at the University of the West Indies Special Collections at the end of last week. They have some excellent materials related to early women’s travel narratives and tourism promotion by women. It’s been incredible to read some of these travel writings from the early part of the 20th century. While some of their observations are highly problematic I am still amazed at their intrepidness in journeying down or across the Atlantic to explore lands that must have been so foreign to their own realities. Of course, they never traveled alone, and always had near unlimited resources to hire private drivers, laundresses, cleaners, and servants upon their arrival in the Caribbean or even aboard their respective forms of sea travel, it is still quite impressive their willingness to explore places described by their peers as “ god-forsaken holes” (turns out, some things never change). And yes, they had no problems wielding their colonial/neo-imperial and white privilege, but they did ultimately want to change some mistaken impressions of the islands. In one piece, the writer - an Irish woman -arrived in Kingston in the late 1890s and journeyed up into the Blue Mountains. She, of course, traveled by buggy. This same trip, taken by me this past Tuesday by car, took two and a half hours and was along some crazy, cliff-ledged, barely paved roads. So yeah, still impressive even if accompanied by plenty of assistance and not the most enlightened of mentalities.

Outside of the research and my visits to random coffee shops (including the one above the Toyota car showroom; so weird), I got to do a few more of the touristy things that have been on my list because my friend Shannon came to visit. On Saturday I took a long morning walk, met up with a friend of a friend, visited a new (to me) bookstore, and got some jerk from the place I kept smelling while walking in Emancipation Park. (Yes, it was as good as it smelled.) Sunday Shannon and I took another long walk chasing Jamaica carnival, which we finally caught from Devon House, along with a generous serving of their delicious ice cream. Although I’ve never been to Trinidad, my hunch is that the Jamaican version of carnival is styled after theirs, including lots of women in tiny, feathered costumes and much loud music. For lots of political / religious (oddly enough)reasons they celebrate the weekend after Easter; I was also told that Jamaican bacchanal follows Trinidad’s so that the winning songs and bands can be featured. I have no confirmation on that, but it makes sense. At any rate, despite the clear distinction between participants and observers (unlike New Orleans) it was fantastic to see.

Before taking off for a quick mountain escape on Tuesday, Shannon and I visited the Bob Marley museum/homestead. It had been on my list since I got here, but just hadn’t gotten to it. Despite some not-awesome features (an hour long wait, mandated guided tour and requisite percentage of noxious selfie taking), it’s a pretty cool place. Obviously, it’s a great way to get a better understanding on the man (sorry, legend) and his impact on Jamaican / world music, as well as some insight into his private life. I was a bit surprised, however, to notice an article detailing Marley’s outspoken and very global stance against birth control as well as the museum’s very rapid glossing of both his father as well as nearly all his daughters. Still, I’m glad I got to see it and it set me to thinking a bit about the impact of reggae and Rastafarianism on broader constructs of Caribbean masculinity.

On Tuesday morning Shannon and I rented a car - man, it’s weird being on the “other” side of the road. I know, I know, it’s not wrong per se, but it’s definitely taking awhile to get used to (and I keep trying to get into the driver’s seat of cabs and looking the wrong way before crossing the street). Anyway, we bravely road tripped out to Fort Clarence Beach for a few hours of sun and surf and some delicious fresh seafood. Turns out, Shannon likes lobster (she didn’t think she did) and I like spiny lobster a lot more than I thought I did. Or at least, Jamaican-curry style spiny lobster. And festival (not fiesta, as I mistakenly wrote a few weeks back) is quickly becoming one of my favorite foods ever. Then we tore ourselves away, grabbed a few things at the house, got some groceries, and climbed (ever so slowly and cautiously) into the Blue Mountains. It was a little hairy, as the road hair-pins up the mountain on a single lane (yet dual directional), but stunningly beautiful. After passing Hollywell, the Newcastle fort, and the mysteriously named “Junction” we arrived at our charming get-away cottage in Silver Hill Gap. More on that in the next post!