Homesick and Hiraeth...

The Welsh language has it's very own word for homesickness.

It's a word that has no literal translation into English, but the best way to try to describe it as a grief and longing for the homeland. The word is Hiraeth. And I have it bad.

I am pining for my mates, Sainsburys, shitty weather, Primark, Coronation Street, Roath Park by my house and irony. For some inexplicable reason my Hiraeth has also manifested itself in a deep desire to once again see the concrete monolith that is the Gabalfa roundabout in Cardiff.

I haven't added my Mother to the list because she has a special way of making me feel like she's in the same room as me when she nags me transatlantically. It's quite the unique talent. It has nothing what so ever to do with the fact she didn't buy me a flight home this summer when I was skint. That would make me spoiled and entitled. But can I just point out that Bank of Mum is only supposed refuse withdrawals if the child works in a stable industry, which clearly doesn't include the media. Instead of a flight, she sent me anIlovestheDiff t-shirt.

I loves the 'Diff t-shirt posing by classic NY fire escape. It's raining, so it feels at home.

In my Mother's defence she'd already stumped up a load of cash up for The Teenager to go home in July. For a few months of the summer return flights were starting at $1000. I have never seen prices that high. Was there a fuel crisis that had passed me buy as I no longer own a car?

I know there are worse places to be stranded than NYC, so I tried to see the positives of being in sweltering, rubbish stenched 100 degree heat for the summer.

I mostly focused on the Teenager going home and the resulting break from Motherhood-having been hard at it for 16 years without parole. I was really looking forward to being an adult life free of responsibilities- ready to go out banging pills of Meow Meow and sleeping with hot hipsters in nightclub toilets. Then I remembered I am not only 35, but married. Seems there is always someone to spoil the fun.

I was determined not to remain in NY. for the whole summer. So there was Plan B to have our long awaited honeymoon to California. Until The American's new job put an end to that.

"Hooonnneeeeee. What can I do?" says the American.

"Nothing. I just hate New York right now. I just want to home and reset."

"I feeeeeel bad." he says.

"It's not your fault." I say and look up at him with an expression that says: Really it is your fault cos you're American and the collective you is responsible for most of the crap in the word, especially the stuff that involves fuel prices.

It gets me a little depressed. For at least a few days. Which is a lot for me, as usually the only things that make me moody are hormones and The American eating my stash of British chocolate.

I begin to wonder will I always feel like this this? Sort of...displaced? Will being away from what I still call home forever feel like I'm escaping something? Even though there is nothing I want to run from in Cardiff? Quite the opposite in fact, I would quite like to put on my trainers and do a Forest Gump and sprint all the way back to Arran Street.

Like other expats, I've started to create my own little Welsh Alien corner of home in New York. Brit friends coupled with an inability to make any American mates, two Brit shops and a Chip shop within walking distance, an ongoing mission to hack the BBC iplayer and my small but perfectly formed NYC Bluebirds supporters club. New York home is still not home though.

After days of wallowing in my Hiraeth I stagger out onto my street and into the late afternoon sunshine to head for the coffee shop around the corner.

I buy a large iced caffeine boost and sit on the bench outside next to a strange looking, slightly Albino woman. Turns out she is just Scandinavian, I can't be more specific as I wasn't really listening at first, after initially judging her to be a nutter. After 10 minutes the conversation turns to the subject of freckles, of which she had a lot, as do I. Except hers are red and pretty much blend into one big splodge.

"Frickles arrre so pre-tea!" she says

"I think so too!" I say

"Ven I vos lidl girl in school, a boy say to me sumting lovely bout de frickles"

"What did he say?"

"He say dat a girl vivout frickles is like a sky vivout da stars."

The weird albino nordic woman smiles at me and I smile back.

New York always does this. Just when I am feeling like I don't want to be here anymore, like I love her less-she throws me a scrap. Just something small like this, a moment. And she knows that I am fickle, just like the city. She knows that this moment, this one moment will mean that I will love her again.

I say goodbye and walk down 7th Avenue, sip my coffee and check my Hiraeth.

It's still there, but not so much...

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Fireworks on my first 4th

I am stood on the rooftop of the W hotel in Union Square on the night of 4th July dressed in the colours of the USA.

It's 90 degrees at 9.20 p.m. and I have broken out into a full body sweat after racing back from a BBQ in Brooklyn. I have dashed through the Brownstone lined streets of Park Slope, battled a packed 2 train, followed by an ambling L. I have sprinted across the square from the subway exit to hear the crackles and rumbles of the Fireworks starting up in the distance. I have stopped in dry mouthed panic at a street vendor to buy water, scrambled for a dollar, but didn't have any cash. The man looked at me and told me not to worry about paying. This never happens. I can only guess I am that adorable shade of beetroot again.

Now I stand 25 stories up, with my Scouse Welsh mate and The Aussie. Another friend who works at the hotel has snuck us in among a small group of staff members to get an enviable vantage of the Macy's Fireworks.

Unspecified $$$ worth of Pyrotechnics are lighting up the inky sky, shooting off 6 barges on the Hudson River. Somewhere nearby NBC are broadcasting live off a cruise liner with Canadian and exercise in medocrity Justin Beiber leading the proceedings.

To my left is the back of the giant 'W' that sits atop the hotel. From here I can see the tangle of wires that light it up. Tonight the 'W' stands for a string of superlatives. Wow. Wonderment. Wicked.

To my right- there is the phallic greatness of the Manhattan skyline. The usual stalwarts like the Crysler and the Empire State standing proud, like concrete cocks.

I don't have my camera and I'm anxious about what a perfect photoblog this would have made. My brain scrambles to write the scene in my head but despite the breathtaking allure, all I'm thinking about is how Fireworks are really quite sad. A lot of beauty that poofs and piffs and goes as quickly as it arrives. Tremendous but transient.

There is an almost eerie silence atop the roof. No "Owwws" and "Ahhs", just everyone watching and thinking their own thoughts. As the gold, greens, reds and blues color the sky I wonder what those thoughts are. Maybe some are simply craving the drink they're gonna get when they get off work? Or as giant exploding firework Chrysanthmums burst into the horizon, how they want to go home and fuck their wife? Is anyone else feeling mournful? Hot and sticky and sorrowful?

My thoughts have fallen inevitably to my Dad.

I wonder if I will always feel sad to see something spectacular, because he won't. My eyes feel wet and I realise I may sob right there on the roof, in front of everyone and they will think I am crying with joy at the Fireworks and that will make me look like a massive twat.

So I bite into the inside of my lip and breathe in hard and steel myself.

A little tear has escaped and is blobbing down my cheek. If anyone could see it up close they would catch the last burst of colour from the fireworks reflected in it.

It is really hot. I breathe.

Tonight I am red, white and a little bit blue.

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Street Style with Banksy

Posted: April 15, 2010 - Although initially I was as interested as the next person to see Banksy's 'directorial debut' : Exit through the Gift Shop, narrated by Rhys Ifans and originally the brain child of Thierry Guetta. It seems there's no chance of the documentary revealing the ID of Banksy after all. Guetta, an avid self taught video obsessive dreamed up the idea of infiltrating the inner sanctum of the super stealthy Street Art community. It seems the tables were turned on the French director by a still incognito Banksy, who stepped in with his creative hand to salvage what he deemed as the mess that Guetta had weaved himself into with the documentary. These days it matters not where you stand on the 'Street Art is/isn't vandalism' argument, it's complicated for sure. Sadly this dip into the creative and very athletic skills of this tight knit community reveals no more about the identity of the main player but does reveal some great Art. Doubtless my teen son and his skatepark buddies are sure to still treat the guy with awe and reverence for years to come. Catch it at New Yorks Lincoln Plaza or the Sunshine Theatre Friday April 16th. If you liked this post, take a peek at these from Notes from a Stylist Notes from a Stylist is now an Art collector Notes from a Stylist has joined a Book Club Notes from a Stylist is feeling slightly French

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Overexcite at the museum

Posted: March 17, 2010 Under the category of 'Spontaneous Sunday activity' The American and I are at The Natural History Museum. We are in the queue arguing over the admission fee. He wants to pay the 'suggested' donation of $16, I want to pay a dollar. ''But why pay more when you don't have to?" I protest. "This is not the way I want to budget Emma, ripping of the Natural History Museum." "It's not ripping them off, it's a suggested entry! They they are suggesting that we don't have to pay loads of money. You can pay what you like!" "No. They are suggesting we pay sixteen bucks each." "Why spend money we don't have to?" "Well, we'll have to spend more anyway, as I want to do an exhibition. If we just do a suggested donation we don't get to go into any exhibitions." "I'm fine with that. I just want to see the Gorillas and stuff."' "We're paying the full rate Emma." "I'm freelance! There should be a special rate." Turns out there's a dizzying array of entry options, when you factor the exhibitions in. Suddenly it's gone up from $16 to $24 and we have to make a quick decision on which one we want to see. I grumpily vote for Journey to the Stars (because it looks like the least boring option). He votes for The Silk Road. "The Silk Road? Seriously?" I protest "Yeah, that is like totally interesting." "How? What is there to say? Men in The East travel on camels through the desert, it's really hot, they trade silk-The End!" "Fine! Stars it is then." he concedes, probably to distract me from the fact he is handing over 50 bucks to the guy at the desk. ''Next time why don't you tip him 20 percent too!" I shout as I stomp off. 20 minutes later and I am standing in the Hall of Biodiversity in front of the guard who's next to the roped off entrance to The Hall of Ocean Life. "Hi, when do the fishies re-open?" I ask cheerfully Silence, accompanied by a menacing stare. God, I need to get in there. There is a giant whale hanging temptingly from the ceiling in the distance and I want to stroke it. ''Excuse me, I say, with authority this time "When do the fish re-open?" He looks up. "I dunno." "You don't know?" "Nope." he shrugs 'Right, well is there someone who does know? "Listen, they're like...doin' some stuff in there right? So I can't call it." "Great, so you just don't even want to guess?" Another shrug is all I get in response. We are in The Hall of Biodiversity. I admit that I don't really know what Biodiversity is. The American claims he does, so I ask him and he says: "It's like...lots of different life and...like... lives and stuff" Hmmm. I try and read this more in depth description but The American talks and it interrupts the voice in my head: This becomes a feature of our trip, The American imparts his knowledge without it being requested while I try and read the information on the brass plates. Then I try reading out loud to indicate that his talking means I can't concentrate. He doesn't get the hint and becomes especially feverish when we are in the North American Mammals hall and there are lots of native Alaskan animals. He lived there for 3 years and takes great pride in telling me how he once woke up to see an Alaskan moose grazing outside his window. I don't know much about Alaska, aside from the fact that Sarah Palin lives there and online shops are always at pains to stress they will not deliver there (or Puerto Rico) but now I can add another fact to my arsenal: They have a lot of animals there with really big antlers. There are lots of antler animals in the museum generally. To be honest, I think they totally overdid it on the antlers. We head off for the Asian and African animals halls via the dinosaur bones in the regal main entrance. The American explains how the tall one with a long neck and a small head was a vegetarian. He tells me that the ladder-like neck allowed him to munch the leaves out of the trees. "Like a giraffe!" I say. I tell him that I reckon that this particular dinosaur must have evolved into the giraffe, which I think is quite an intelligent comment, but The American cracks up and says "You don't know shit." Asian and African Mammals are a bit 'seen one you seen them all' so it turns out. Predictably there's elephants in both. I insist on leaning over the velvet rope to stroke some hide and The American tells me off. Then it's time for the stars thing and I am worrying it's going to be really boring and long and a bit like Techniquest in Cardiff. You know, one of those teachy preachy experiences ''Oww yeah, science is fun boys and girls! Now watch my bow tie light up powered by these 16 Hamsters in a cage!" Hundreds of us stand in line for a giant white dome, that looks like the Epcot centre in Florida. We file into a humongous circular cinema with a domed ceiling at least a 100 ft high. Whoopi Goldberg's voice booms out as a giant panorama of Central park in the summer sunshine spans 360 degrees around the screen. The American and I look at each other and mouth "WOW". The arena goes dark and planet Earth appears at the top of the dome and then drops down from the sky. Comets and other planets pop up and move across the dome and flashes of light come right at you. Hundreds of stars rain down from the ceiling and Whoopi talks about supernovas and auroras as they dance around in front of us. I can't stop oww-ing and arr-ing and am squeezing The American's hand in wonderment. I begin to have all these unexpected existential thoughts about who or what I am in this vast existence. This is the Universe and I am a teeny tiny me in comparison. Whoopi asks us all to concentrate on a star and stare at it and watch what happens. I fix intently on the brightest one I can find. I stare and stare and tears start to prick at my eyes. It makes me remember how Dad and I used to do the same thing when I was a kid. How we would gaze up, necks crained at the inky black sky and look for the brightest star. Then he would say that star was mine. Two fat tears roll down each cheek because I miss him but I try and hold it in, like you do in the cinema at a sad film. When the lights come up I feel silly, like people will think I've been crying about the stars. I hurry outside the dome and find a bench to compose myself on. The American follows and comes and gives me big bear hugs. "Wanna go to the giftshop honey?" he asks gently *Sniff, sob* "Oh...yes please." *sniff sniff sob* "Can we go see the Gorillas too?' "Sure honey." *Sniff sniff* "Will you let me take a picture of you beating your chest next to them?" "Of course honey." *Sniff, sniff sob* "Thanks. Love you." "Love you too honey." 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Prada does Opera

March 8, 2010 - 0 comment(s) [ Comment ] - 0 trackback(s) [ Trackback ] I know today of all days I should be blogging about Oscar 2010 dress hits and misses but as usual, I couldn't resist this Prada piece... Although Miucci Prada's costumes for the Met opera Giuseppe Verdi's Attila, which opened in New York recently might be heralded by some as revolutionary, there has been much controversy around the Designers first stab at big time Opera costume design. There was talk of her complaining about dressing 'real' sized people when first costume fittings were processed - doubtless she is more used to dressing the giraffe like models that she deals with daily on the runway. Fast forward to the actual Opera and a buddy who was at one of the early opening nights was bemused to hear a strange noise that wasn't operatic as the ensemble took to the stage. The weird noise, it turns out, was people booing at the costumes. There were LED lights, biker chic and all sorts of bizarre over sized stage sets created by star architects Herzog and de Meuron (remember the Olympic Bird's Nest stadium in Beijing and the Tate Modern?) According to most reviews the novelty factor of their work has won plaudits but what's the real scoop? It's not a new trend for Designers to go poking their creative noses into an alternative area and I'm all for diversification - think Givenchy dressing Audrey Hepburn in her stand out movies Sabrina and Funny Face, as well as Armani for The Untouchable and the latest Italian Job. But judging by audience reaction on this occasion, maybe Miuccia should stick to the day job. For more from Notes from a Stylist, follow my blog. Or follow me on Twitter

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