Sunday's sunshine

Gosh darn it's a beautiful sunny Sunday!

Everest's Epic tale

Apparently prosciutto without fat is like a kiss without a cuddle. I reckon reading ‘Into Thin Air’ without ‘The Climb’, would be like watching a David Attenborough documentary without the volume turned up. Sure you get the images and you can sort of figure out that something important is happening to the sleeping newt as it’s been on screen for thirty minutes. But you miss out on Attenborough’s docile tones giving rich insights into why it’s so important that the newt just flicked its tail. Is it because they're alleviating themselves of gas? Having a bad dream? Does it stem from the primordial soup? Are they sending out mating signals? I won't get sidetracked on Newts, I'm not even entirely certain if they have tails, but I will say that you won't get the full gist of what went down on Mountain Everest in 1996 unless you read both books.

In 1996 eight climbers were killed attempting to climb Mt Everest. Was it the weather conditions? Poor altitude acclimatization? Poor communication? Poor leadership? Both authors achieved submit Everest that day and through interviews, radio transcripts & experience they try to breakdown the events leading up to and during the tragedy. So if both books attempt the same thing, why read both?

Jon Krakauer is a born storyteller; ‘Into Thin Air’ is a white knuckled ride of terror. He delves into the characters of each of the climbers, their motivations of attempting this extreme feat, so when they are in peril you fret for their survival. I became utterly consumed by their attempts of survival against the sudden white out from a fast moving weather system.

Whilst the book went on to become a best seller, there was backlash amongst the climbing community against Krakauer. It was suggested that he transformed the climbers into characters and was more concerned with creating storytelling drama then recounting facts.

One climber in particular who’s their reputation was severely tainted by Krakauer’s account was Russian guide Anatoli Boukreev. Krakauer suggests that Boukreev demonstrated a lack of leadership and questionable concern for the climbers he was guiding.

Boukreev subsequently released ‘The Climb’ partly in response to ‘Into Thin Air’, but also to deal with his feelings after the tragedy. It definitely lacks the slick storytelling style of Krakauer as it did feel like I was wadding through facts and transcripts, but this adds to the authenticity and authority in Boukreev’s evaluation of the events. To be honest I thought Boukreev was a bit of a cold-hearted man prior to reading ‘The Climb’, but I think I was definitely skewed towards this option by Krakauer’s characterization of him. By reading ‘The Climb’ I learnt a great deal of Boukreev’s solo rescue attempts of some of the stranded climbers on the mountain. It made me feel somewhat cheated by ‘Into Thin Air’ as I went on to question a lot of what was present in the book. Yet I enjoyed reading it so much I would heartily recommend it to anyone – on the condition they read ‘The Climb’. I agree that it is a bit of Everest overload but it is such a fascinating topic.

I suppose the only reason I initially had any bit of interest in the books was because I travelled to Everest Base Camp (the Tibetan side) last year. Standing in the subzero temperatures with wispy oxygen thin air floating around me, I became armored by the mountain with it’s hauntingly crooked peak, shrouded in clouds. To be honest I felt the desire of having climbing it. Reading both books has since cured me of any desire to attempt submit. In fact I'm probably happy to just say that I've used the highest public toilets in the world (which is that concrete bunker in front of the mountain).

Tunesday #3: Johnny Flynn

An ode to trains

I once had a job that was a twelve-minute walk from my house. Seven minutes at a push. I had a handful of jobs during uni that were within a fifteen car commute. Now I trundle along the train tracks for forty minutes to get to work and I've never been happier.

School children slouch along, schlepping their ignoramus school bags through the narrow aisles. Office workers with dower expressions pull at their neckties. The occasional loner has an animated conversation with the crowd of voices in their head. Teenagers desperately suck at one another's faces or pick at bulbous pimples. Shift workers snore from their seats, stirring at the rustle of board-sheet newspapers being wrestled into more readable origami-sized proportions. I love every minute.

Sure the Sydney train timetable is scant, the vinyl seats grimy and ticket prices shockingly steep. But I still love it. It’s like being back in primary school and having ‘reading time’, an entire hour dedicated to slipping into the pages of a book or catching up on correspondence. This week I’ve been roaming through Middle-earth and scribbling notes for a novella.

But probably the train journey that takes the cake was a 35 hour-long train journey across India on the 'Golden Temple Mail'. Bliss. Though the thought of Bombay mix makes me queasy. I suppose that is the consequence of consuming a kilo of it single-handedly.

Though my heart still belongs to the London underground. I was so enamoured by the tube, particularly the 1980's geometric fabric covered seats, I started a small photo album featuring a selection of the 'party printed' seats on the different lines.

Victoria Line

The Bakerloo Line

The Metropolitan Line

Bossypants

For all the bells and whistles of returning home there also the thistles and thorns, namely serve declines in snacking and napping. Through these blood sugar crashing lows and forced daytime alertness, one woman has cushioned the blow - Tina Fey.

I've just finished her memoirs now very much wholeheartedly consider Fey as a bosom buddy. It's hard not to consider someone a close, personal friend once you've heard all the awkward details of their first period, acne scars, boyfriends gone astray or lack thereof. Yup, confidences have been shared. Sure it's only a one-way street and said confidences were bound in the covers of a bright yellow, hard spine book - but I still feel the bond.

My new BFF has gently but firmly kicked me up the arse about my bitching about stress. As my cortisone levels skyrocket whilst I stumble about in a blind panic over having to do a couple loads of laundry, submit an overdue tax return and making it home in time for dinner - Tina Fey is the bossypants of 200 people, has a kid, works a gazillion hours writing a TV show, has the added stress of getting Oprah in the can* or perfecting Sarah Palin's accent. On top of that she wrote a book. A damn funny book.

However 'Bossypants' not just a book bemoaning her work life, Fey recounts how is worked her way through the ropes of improv** to SNL and how this has helped her become a better person. These are handy dandy life tips and believe it or not don’t include carrying a banana peel in your pocket or other comedy props.

The book isn't about how to lead the ideal life, nor is it meant to empower the reader (I now have a morbid fear of Fey's feet and cruise ship entertainers). The book is a series of heart warming vignettes strung together including the blissfully awkward 'suburban girl seeks urban healthcare'. Which is possibly the most cringe worthy Pap smear episode ever recorded in a memoir.

Tina Fey’s self deprecating deadpan humor sucks you in. You care about her life story, as it’s full of foibles. In fact you may even begin to care a bit too much. I admit I started google image stalking her. Like any good mate would do, right?

* This is of course a reference to the Oprah episode of 30rock NOT to Tina popping a can of whoop ass on Oprah

** Though perhaps theses ropes she worked her way up suddenly turned into spaghetti. But then suddenly the monkeys start attacking the spaghetti – such is the scope of improvising comedy scenes.

Tunesday #2: Booker T & the MG's

Committed to correspondence

Whilst on the road I followed a fairly haphazard approach to journaling; fluctuating between overzealous devotion to showing less commitment then a one-night stand. Thankfully I kept more than one style of journal. Besides the ol’ fashioned notebook, I was far more successful at journaling via postcards.

Before leaving I promised everyone from street cleaners, to hairdressers to the little old woman up the road, that I would send them postcards from every country. That was before I discovered the cost of postcards and stamps. So I pretended that I never make such promises, and instead sent endless emails to the promised. My pennies were spent on (cocktails and art) postcards to my bombastically charming Irish grandparents* and parents.

My parents thought I was just being conciseness in updating them in my whereabouts. My siblings thought I was boasting about my endless summer. Nope, I had far greedier intentions. To sooth my inner scourge, I crammed these tiny pieces of cardboard with long-winded stories, so they became diary entries on the fly.

But other then recording my trip, I discovered that I truly enjoy correspondence. I’m enamored by emailing and putty with postcards. Since returning home my journaling has fallen by the wayside in the most dramatic fashion** so I’m resurrecting my commitment to correspondence. I’ve bought a stack of envelopes and I’m going to aim to send at least one letter a fortnight****

Knowing that writings about my day/life will have an audience (including a nosy postman) is enough for me to put the extra effort in making stories interesting, readable and grammatically correct. Elements I can guarantee are severely lacking in my journal!

*Who are STILL running a farm in their nineties – if that doesn’t give me confidence to abuse my gene pool every weekend don’t know what else will.

** More like fallen into a gapping hole of oblivion – akin to Gandalf plummeting into the depths of Moria in ‘The Fellowship of the Ring”. Yup a LOTR reference, I’m totally zer***

*** And I’m clearly far too addicted to urban dictionary and footnotes (seriously footnotes IN footnotes?!)

**** Yay for semi-realistic goals! Pft imagine if I claimed I would send one letter a week – we all know that would be an outrageous lie!