city – and so she thinks

A movie trip around Malta

admin — Fri, 08 Aug 2014 15:34:00 +0000

Sunny skies, historic buildings, dramatic scenery and the cleanest seas in the Mediterranean (as well as favourable tax rates – the Malta Film Commission offer various incentives to attract overseas film-makers) have seen Malta play host to film makers from all countries and genres over the years. Check out some pretty spots on this tiny island to inspire your next holiday.

Valletta

The island’s capital, UNESCO World Heritage City Valletta is steeped in history. The sun baked walls and steep streets are home to a cosmopolitan vibe and thriving cafe culture. Whether strolling along the waterfront and enjoy views of the Grand Harbour, relaxing in the Upper Barrakka Gardens, avoiding pigeons in Republic Square whilst you refresh with a Kinnie and a pastizz, visiting baroque masterpiece St John’s Co-Cathedral with its ornate frescoes by Caravaggio, exploring Forts St Elmo and St Angelo, or touring the Grandmaster’s Palace, now home to the President’s office and the Houses of Parliament, there is tons to see. You can visit the secret bunker Lascaris War Rooms, used in the Malta Story (1953), where the Second World War defence of Malta and invasion of Silicy were managed. As one of the most strategically important locations in WWII, the citizens of Malta thoroughly deserved their Victoria Cross, as this location will show. Located near the gates is the historic Phoenicia Hotel, which will also appeal to film-lovers, having hosted everyone from Charlton Heston and Oliver Reed to Joaquin Phoenix, Pierce Brosnan and Rachel Weisz.

Filmed here: Captain Phillips, World War Z, Alexander, The Saint, Midnight Express and Malta Story

Mdina

Midina was once the capital of Malta and a settlement of Imperial Rome, taken over by the Turks, Knights of St John, and even the British, This tiny walled city is known as the Silent City and is made up of winding cobbled streets and mesmerizing views thanks to its strategic position on the high ground of the steep Sciberras peninsula. A mix of medieval and baroque architecture, historic buildings include the 18th century Vilhena Palace, St Paul’s Cathedral & Museum, Palazzo de Piri and the Mdina Dungeons are just some of the places to investigate in this captivating setting. Outside the old gates, horse pulled carriage rides in a traditional karrozzin are on offer. If you want to see more of the ‘real’ Maltese, explore Rabat (which means ‘suburb’ and is a strong indication of the Arabic influences upon language and culture), just outside Mdina.

Filmed here: Gladiator, Game of Thrones and The Count of Monte Cristo

Vittoriosa

Known as one of the Three Cities, together with Cospicua and Senglea, Vittoriosa is steeped in history, dating back to prehistoric times. A fortified city on the south, harbour inlets have been in use since Phoenician times, and a home to local people and industry. Redevelopment in recent years has seen the docks and waterfront become filled with culture and cafes, and some of the country’s best local fiestas take place down here. For a dose of prehistoric history (did you know Malta was once wandered by native pygmy elephants and hippos), visit Hagar Qim – an imposing temple built around 3600 BC. Of course, history and religion abounds, and the Church of St Lawrence and Inquisitor’s Palace reveal plenty about this city. If you want to travel scenically, consider a boat trip from Valletta to Vittoriosa in a traditional fishing boat, a dghajsa.

Filmed here: The Da Vinci Code, Swept Away and Gladiator.

Mellieha

Situated in the north west of the island, Mellieha’s sandy long beaches with shallow water make it popular with families, and it’s a more touristy area than some others. However, being less densely populated, it’s also home to many rare and protected species of wildlife, incuding as Malta’s only natural national park, Il-Majjistral Nature and History Park. Again the Order of St John had a significant influence here, and St Agatha’s Tower, built in 1647, can still be seen, as can the Mellieha Air Raid Shelter. Malta has 365 religious places of worship, and the pretty little Sanctuary of Our Lady of Mellieha is another top place to visit. An those with families will love the Popeye Village, which was built as the set of the 1980 film starring Robin Williams. Today the climb over the wooden buildings allows for beautiful views.

Filmed here: Troy and Popeye Village

Cultural Guide to Wellington: The Coolest Little Capital

admin — Fri, 23 May 2014 10:21:27 +0000

The New Zealand capital of Wellington is a centre of creative activity, inspiring architecture and refreshing natural beauty. I wandered the Wellington streets to discover the most intriguing things to see and do in this highly underrated city.

The Lonely Planet has a habit of saying things that have longevity. A few years ago it dubbed Wellington the ‘coolest little capital’, and, along with the official tagline ‘Positively Wellington’, it is a label which has seems to have stuck.

New Zealand’s capital is indeed a vibrant, thrilling and creative hub. In a country of only 4.5 million people in total, it is never going to be big and bustling, but unlike say the South Island’s Queenstown or Christchurch, or Australia’s Cairns, it is a ‘city city,’ a network of people, places, motivations and lives all weaving their way around this harbour and the myriad streets that unravel from it. The word cool is not easily defined, or at least definitions vary. On this quest it is about finding a place of apparently effortless style, a laid back atmosphere, acceptance combined with innovation, and a place at ease yet evolving — all in the cultural and artistic space. This is a city that is creative by nature rather than trying hard to be and a place packed with passion.

Livin’ (Sustainably) in the City

admin — Sat, 19 Oct 2013 20:24:33 +0000

If ‘living sustainably’ was a colour, it would be green. Green: the colour of the countryside, rolling hills, nature and where being part of your environment is surely much easier. In the cities it’s all more grim and gritty; people are busy; there is too much technology and transport; and too many buildings and businesses to truly live sustainably. Right?
Read more at Blue & Green Tomorrow http://blueandgreentomorrow.com/features/livin-sustainably-in-the-city/

Athens, grittily getting on

admin — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 12:40:43 +0000

Pelts of heavy rain hit my highly permeable clothing, as I amble between cars and puddles, trying to avoid them both, all the while ducking trees and keeping an eye out for a place of refuge – a café.
The hen do hasn’t gone quite to plan. Our beautiful spacious apartment is indeed beautiful and spacious, but also miles from civilisation. Ironic, given we are in the nation that invented it. Suburbia Athens style, public transport is sparce, and the Acropolis truly a pilgrimage. Add to this the torrential rain and gloomy skies, and it is fair to say that the reality is a little different from our images of a sun drenched sophisticated city break.
But this is an opportunity to discover Athens through the eyes of the Athenians. Not the ancients, Zeus and his cronies, where deities an devotions ruled sway, but Athens in 2012, perpetually teetering on the edge of the economic lifeline of a tumble to the abyss of financial desolation.
As in any Eastern European of Mediterranean city, the café I sit writing this in is not full of the yummy mummys that frequent such places in leafy west London, but men at least twenty years past being ‘of a certain age,’ sipping their thimbles of coffee, stroking their balding heads, and waving their hands animatedly as they debate their manifestos for the way the world should be. Greek is a difficult language, and one I am unable to fathom, but one gets the feeling that the tirades of emotion or delicately and deliberately stated points, as well as the headlines on newspapers that line the walls of the shops where windows once were, are not concerned with the latest plastic celebrity gossip.The ‘chatter’ I find myself next to the plane warns me to watch my bags and to be wary of pickpockets. ‘ Like any city, I say?’ Living in London, I know the perils of leaving my valuables, or even non valuables, on show for all to grab at. ‘No, not like any city’ he says ‘the people are hungry.’ Everywhere we go in the suburb of Mardisoi, the suburb in which we are staying, we are met with bafflement as to why we are in Athens, and the joke is not lost on us that it’s not for the weather.
Everyone we meet is friendly, to the point at which it is alarming that the fact that it strikes us, shows how rare it must be to see seven girls in their mid twenties here on holiday, and interested in their surroundings. Harried shoppers not only painstakingly explain the directions to our destination, but even lead us there. The complexities of a Greek menu are drawn in pictures, and the owner of our apartment even pops round one evening with the most decadent chocolate cake this side of Belgium, in celebration of my friend’s impending nuptials.
Despite the bleak economy, bleak weather, and bleak crumbling buildings, there is a sense of stiff upper lip, although obviously administered with Mediterranean pizazz. Athens is a place obsessed with the perfect form. From the ancient Doric columns, elegantly tapering to the top, the dedication to the goddess of everything, to the intricate attention that is given to pouring the perfect cup of coffee.
The milk is thick, my coffee bitter, my feet wet, and my eyes tired. I won’t be sad to go home. But I do hope to return to Athens when it is in a good mood, as even this dampened Athens is one of welcome.

The Pink City – A weekend in Marrakech

admin — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 11:16:37 +0000

As I avoid the other commuters on the bustling Broadway, lugging my laptop, trying to appear an efficient Real Grown Up, the waft from one of the sheesha cafes now more prolific than Starbucks in London, hits me. It channels not just through my nostrils, but envelopes my brain and caresses my sense. Suddenly I’m back in Marrakech.
I’m laying in the Riad, the trickling fountain in the centre of the courtyard a little oasis away from the oppressive heat, laying back on the sumptuous cushions that are coloured the ever prevalent deep blue, simultanously seaside, sky and soul. I am soon awakened from my somnolence – our host has just placed a glass of hot sugary mint tea beside me, an instant reviver.
The smells of Marrakech having already suffused my bloodstream, I venture out to indulge the rest of my senses. A complete olfactory bombardment, the myriad sights and smell layer upon one another, each another thin sliver in the journey from history from future. Winding through the alleys I become intrigued the shops and market, each an Aladdin’s cave with every corner revealing a new treasure.
Although affectionately named ‘the pink city’ Marrakech is a sunshine spectrum, the red ruddiness suggestive of the sanguine nature of the city. Orange juice stalls dabble the square, the red of the sunset, the pink minaret of the Koutobin, orotund maroon domes and the tomato red of the now wordly ubiquotis Coca Cola signs all blend together to give the visitor the feeling that they have slipped inside a red marble, all swirling colours.
I step out of the final alley in my maze and am met by Jmea El Fna – the central square that is the definition of alive.
The square hums with activity. I eat at one of the many bbqs that grace the centre of the square, the bright green of the herbs that decorate the food drawing us into the freshness, and the fact that I could no longer hide that I’m visibily salivating
After, I avoid the many waiters trying to drag me in to their establishments, informing me I still need more of their ‘lovely jubbly’ food, and weave away from the women daubing their henna brushes in my face to be met by snake charmers on the left and dancing monkeys on the right, and confronted head on by an old lady offering to reveal my future with only the flick of a wrist and a flash of a tarot card – all these seem to have been eschewed by the locals, and a five deep circle has gathered around some spectacle on the left side of the square.
I try to wriggle through the crowd to see, and am met with men rolling around on the floor, standing up proclaiming words, acting out a play. I don’t understand a word, but the joy and intensity of simple creativity sums up the Marrakech mood.
An intensity that the road I walk in London just can’t match.

London Story Slam

admin — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 20:17:19 +0000

Written for the London Story Slam
The guy to my right takes a sip of his coffee, the thud of its stained base being placed on the table just masking the name of the person on the other end of the phone.
‘Yeah, I’m living in London unfortunately.’
Mid gulp, the hot syrupy liquid in my mouth swells, as difficult to swallow as the overheard comment. Over the rum of my mug I scan the room. No one else flinches. There is not a flutter. Heads buried in laptops, bottoms planted in seats, they don’t seem to have registered that last word. ‘I’m living in London…unfortunately.’
I push back my chair from the table, the chair legs scraping the tiled floor in the same way that his comment grazed my ears. A middle aged women in the corner twitches her disapproving head towards me, with a glare that surely made her soya milk curdle. Moving with ferocity is not on the menu here.
‘Unfortunately?’ I splutter. ‘Oh yes, one is so unfortunate.’
The poor guys looks up at me with a degree of bewilderment in his eyes.
‘You don’t deserve to be here’
‘8 million people call it home. All afflicted souls are they? I’d hazard a guess that the 26m who visit every year don’t share your views.’
He looks away from this madwoman, sips his drink.
‘London is still paved with gold in the dreams and hearts of many, the place for destiny to become reality. As a child I used o press my nose against the dirty window pane of the South Eastern service, my heart leaping with knots of excitement, the mantra of ‘I’m going to live here, I’m going to live here’ nestling in perfect unison with the soundless spaces left by the clackety clack of the wheels of the track. I wouldn’t say I am unfortunate to be here.
‘Where else, in one saunter, can you be Elizabeth Bennett, Oliver Twist and Septimus Smith, all by simply crossing the street or turning a corner?’
By now a few other members of the clientele have been jolted into, not motion as such, but a certain level of curiosity as to what the hell this frantic female is yelling about.
A paused for breath enabled me to to just catch the old man in the purple leather chair grunt a derisory ‘Hormones’ into his grey beard, then settle back into The Times.
‘Have you never stood on Parliament Hill and seen London stretched out before you, icon after icon, all in one neat row, a scenic snapshot of beauty over a myriad of activity.
He gathers his papers, eyes firmly fixed to the floor.
‘Or gazed on the moonlight on flickering on the Thames, a thousand million different mirrors, glistening at variegated angles, ricocheting lights of the city, sometimes right into your eye, so bright that your brain is dazzles and you tumble in love again.
‘Do you want to go for dinner? ‘ I venture enthusiastically, as though the last few minutes have been a witty interchange of banter between the two of us, rather than a tirade of abuse at his choice of vocabulary.
A vehement ‘No’ turned my offer down.
‘Yeah, let’s go out – I’ll prove to how lucky you are to be here. Lebanes on Edgware Road, or some Greek up in Green Lanes. Or maybe you’d prefer a snack – we can get a bagel from Daniels in Golder’s Green.
‘Think about it, what can possibly be lamentable where you can be anyone you like, changing identity through a desire for exploration or escape, faster than any superhero can by putting his pants on the outside. London is the ultimate date – looks and a personality.
He goes to take another sip, and stalls. The cup runneth empty. I now have his full, if not voluntarily devoted, attention.
‘I mean, yeah sometimes the tubes are delayed, light pollution is a problem, and it rains, but where else do you pass through places on your way to work that as a child you thought only existed in board games?
Needing support, I rack my brain for opinions of those more authoritative than myself. Plato said that what makes a city is the people. Do you think that everyone here is doomed, hapless souls wandering their cursed streets? Or John Berger, he reckons that London is perpetually a teenager. A heady cocktail of hope, desire and potential – sometimes tough to be sure, but exhilarating, and with all of life ahead, certainly not unfortunate. Or Blake, he believed there to be no finer sights that the view from Westminster Bridge, and he didn’t dish out praise lightly. I stop short of asking ‘when the sun is in the sky, why oh why, would you wanna be anywhere else?’
Except of course, I don’t say any of this. I push my chair out, pick up my bag, and walk out of the American coffee chain, into the soulless shopping centre, and vow that rather than think about how much I like London, I need to live like I love it.

Various Artists – London: Songs To Define The City

admin — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 17:49:49 +0000

Out on November 28th, on UMC, in conjunction with Time Out

Reviewed by Francesca Baker

For me this is pure scribal porn. Writing about my two favourite things in the same review – London and music. Only if I was sat at a desk with a ink well, glass of the finer stuff, windswept hills in front of me and my muse awaiting behind me could my writing fantasies be fulfilled any further. Before the writing is that crucial bit, the bit that is even better. The listening. I already know that despite themed compilations being usually a bit, well, sucky, London: Songs To Define The City is going to rate pretty highly, due to the fact Pulp’s Bar Italia features. A song makes me smile, and can lift a mood better than Calpol can.
As an album of songs that reference, pay homage to, are inspired by or criticise the capital city, this is a collection that aims to mirrorsthe thousands of Londons that there are. A question I often ask myself is what is the real London?
Is it the view from Embankment Bridge, the spires of St Paul’s and the London Stock Exchange stretched out ahead after a stroll with Roxy Music’s Do The Strand or watching a Waterloo Sunset serenaded by The Kinks. The myriad shops selling foods unidentifiable to my born and bred British eyes, down in Brixton’s Electric Avenue (Eddy Grant) and the hubbub of languages I don’t understand, not too far from where you might find one of Simple Minds’ Chelsea Girl. The place of hopes and destinies fulfilled, streets paved with gold where anything can happen, so long as you’re with The London Boys (David Bowie). Or dreams shattered, realisation dawning as you come to in the late night lighting of Bar Italia. A place to live or just exist, rolling along purposeless, as in the Streets of London Ralph McTell informs us of.
It’s all these, and London: Songs To Define The City does a good job of being its soundtrack.

Sohos Bar Italia, where all the broken people go