South Africa

"Ninety percent of white South Africans have never set foot inside a township." our 'driver' says heavily as we sit at the restaurant - all 3 of us making an effort to let the day sink in. To understand it.

His name is Julian. He is of German and Polish descent, third generation South African. A tall, powerful, blonde man around 40 with big, sincere blue eyes and a boyish smile. But he is not smiling now. He looks into my shell shocked face and shakes his own. Then into Stuart's sharper gaze. There is a moment of silence before the conversation can resume. All 3 of us are somewhere else.

I stare into the middle distance of the cozy restaurant, unable to see anything around me. I am still at the orphanage. I can not take my mind away so quickly from the children in that sandy, dirty yard - or from "Momma Amelia". Her voice, her face, the folds of her body like big rolls of soft, melting dough cascading down to her swollen feet and ankles - her raspy,contagious laugh (mouth thrown open in a wide smile, unselfconscious of missing teeth) - all of her beautiful energy still had me in her spell. Unable to be present in a world only 30 miles away, but a dimension different.

Stuart, Julian and I have spent the day at an orphanage in a township outside of Cape town, South Africa. I've been to an orphanage in Romania many years ago and thought I knew a bit what we were in for. I was wrong.

Stuart is my oldest friend. We've been thick as thieves since we were 14 at boarding school together. He has dreamed up an arranged this visit. He found Julian and Momma Amelia (an angel on earth) and I am just tagging along. I think the idea was for Julian to just drop us off and pick us up later, but he got sucked into Momma Amelia's magic and stayed. Julian drives and cares for HUGE celebrities. His interest in this place could be invaluable.

The thing is - that I really had no idea what a "township" was before today. It sounds so much more civilized and decent than it actually is. Turns out, a "township" in South Africa is a MASSIVE section (miles and MILES ) of shacks piled up on one another without proper plumbing or electricity - often without any sort of roads. People living crammed together in old shipping containers. Cooking outside in old oil drums. Barbed wire and trash and building debris everywhere. No trees. Nothing green. A giant gypsy encampment without any of the charm. It's what I imagine the world would look like shortly after a nuclear war.

And in the middle of this God - awful shit hole, Momma Amelia has created a haven. It's not much by our standards. In fact, I was shocked to see how small and dingy it was - all the while Stuart was saying "Wow! It's so big! I had no idea it would be so big!"
I smiled and nodded thinking, "I can't believe ALL these kids are crammed into such a small, stuffy, dirty space!"
But it's all relative. That was the 'house' the orphans, Momma Amelia and a couple of teenaged caretakers live in. And where the very little ones spend their day. Inside. No yard.

All of the cherubic babies wanted to hold our hands and hug us. They were so pretty and sweet and full of smiles. I wanted to cuddle and spoil every one of them! None of the children speak English. Not even 'hello'. But smiles, warm squeezes of a hand, music - these things cross all language barriers.

After the original orphanage, we were taken to Momma Amelia's second installment. A playground of sorts that she has wrangled from the township. Meaning they gave her a small piece of land where everyone had been dumping their garbage. Through hard work and donations (from people like you and I, gentle readers), she cleaned up the space "bit by bit", Momma explains to us. "We pick up the broken glass and rubbish - bit by bit. They move the sand with a bulldoze..."
"Oh, a bulldozer." Stuart chimes in, nodding. He is capturing her words on his i-phone in the hopes that we can raise some money for her when we get back home. "That must have been expensive" he says.
"200 Rand per hour.." Momma explains, "very expensive!"

I watch the children intently as we listen to her story and her dreams for this place. She is old and not very well. She has devoted her life to this place for over 40 years. the children are beautiful, happy, and well behaved. They appear to feel safe here - which is more than I can say for myself.

By the end of the day, 2 things seem clear to me.
1 : Momma Amelia is an angel on earth and is CLEARLY doing something of GREAT value here. And,
2 : Theses beautiful children NEED to learn to speak English if they are ever to have a chance of getting out of this 'Mad Max' like world and into one with solid luxuries like indoor plumbing.

I am curious to see what tomorrow will be like in the township. And, princess that I am, am already scheming about how to get through the whole day without peeing.

Doha, Qatar.

My first stop out the U.S. (and after New Orleans, which I will get back to - good stories THERE!) was Doha, Qatar. I had heard about people moving to the Middle East to stockpile money from jobs like teaching English. I wanted to check it out. Let me set the scene:

I get on Qatar Air, not knowing what to expect, but thinking I might see a few ladies with their heads covered in scarfs - or something. There does not seem to be a one on this flight. As we are ushered onto the plane, soft Middle eastern music is tinkling softly in the background and EXTREMELY good looking flight attendants with maroon uniforms and jaunty hats are smiling and welcoming us aboard with various accents. As I look around me I see loads of people who look and sound like they are from India. A few seem to be Chinese....and me. I am only slightly disappointed. Like many people from the U.S., I am both fascinated and a little nervous around the more old school Muslims. My sister, Alice, has advised me to bring a scarf and dress in a very covered up fashion - so I have.
"I bet it's nothing like that 'Sex and the City' movie..." I think to myself on the long, but super comfortable flight.

In the Doha airport, I am instructed to go with all of the other passengers to the transfer area. "This way, Madam." the little man instructs me in a strident voice.
"I'm not transferring. I'm going into Doha." I explain. He looks shocked, but allows me to go into the 'arrival area'.

Wow.
The doors open and I step into another world. I immediately have the thought that Qatar Air tries to keep the non-muslim transferring clients OUT of this section. For as soon as I step through those doors, I am the ONLY person in eye sight in Western attire. I am the ONLY person in my special foreigner line to get my visa, so it goes quickly. I am trying not to let my eyes look as big as saucers as I soak in all of the very different costumes these people are wearing.The woman who checks my passport and sells me my visa is covered in a giant black tent, but her face is allowed to peak through and I can see that she is young, very beautiful and wearing a LOT of make up. She looks like Kim Kardashian.

Once through, I have to look for the bathroom. I find it next to the female mosque. "They can't pray together?" I think, realizing I know VERY LITTLE about this religion.

In the bathroom, I am the freak. The outsider. All of the women are wearing black tents. Some of them have brought their face veils down to put make up on, some are giggling into i-phones with pink and diamond cases. I notice that one particularly fancy phone is swathed in neon pink and diamond 'Hello Kitty' patterns. They all stare at me when I wash my hands as if I were a cockroach. Interesting.

(to be continued.....running out of battery!)

Leaving Home

Let me backtrack a moment.
But just for a moment.
The story of how my house was ultimately sold is such a good one - I will have to come back to it when I have more time/free internet. Right now, I am sitting in an expensive (by my standards) hotel in Capetown, S.Africa. And the internet here is EXPENSIVE.

Let me just say, that the actual selling of the house -and packing/cleaning of the house were GIANT stories in my life.
So many tears shed. So much gratitude.
People have told me through the years that I was generous with my house - sharing it, lending it, housing homeless or lost friends and family....some even accused me of being too generous.
But in the end - it was - and is - I who am grateful for that house. That home. And I know now more than ever how well I had it there for all those years. What a LUXURY that place really was.

The last night in the house - the VERY LAST NIGHT - I was there with Angela, Mark (my gay BFF), Max (my son) and his great friend, Jake (my 'adopted son') and Jeff (new friend and tenant). Stuart (my very oldest friend in the world) stopped by as well for a few minutes. Angela, Mark and I had been working like dogs non -stop for days. With help from Max and Jake when they could. We were all exhausted.Physically, mentally,emotionally. Fried.

But despite this, we all decided to have a picnic/sleepover that last night. No furniture, no plates....
Angela brought pretty glasses from her place for cocktails. Mark grabbed a chinese looking coffee table from the trash pile outside and put down my Thai 'carpet' in front of a roaring fire. We lit candles and Jeff and I brought picnic supplies and plenty of whiskey from the grocery store down the street. Everyone slept on blankets and sleeping bags - all of the beds were packed. We ate, drank, told stories, sang, laughed and cried that last night. It was a night to remember - and the perfect way to end my 22 yr long relationship with a house I bought and paid for and fought for and loved passionately.

Then Mark and I packed my cat, Zyll, up in my new car and drove her to Texas to stay with my Dad. The drive was an adventure, and a story of it's own. I shall get photos from Mark and post them to help tell it properly.

My stuff was all in one storage container, and will stay there - somewhere outside of L.A. - until I find a new place to live. I didn't keep much. Mostly just art and sentimental things. New furniture can be bought. I gave all the good stuff to Max so that he can find a place and make it home.

The moment Mark got into the car and we headed east on the 210 through the pouring rain, I knew I had left my home for real, and wouldn't be back for a very long time.

"The world is big.." I thought to myself."There must be somewhere in this giant world that is just as nice as  the perfect spot in the Hollywood Hills...or nicer."
I thought this to myself over and over again on that long drive. Trying to convince myself. Trying to allow hope to overcome and conquer the hollow ache that was quickly filling up my insides.

The Black Bali Sea

I find myself in Bali.
A tropical paradise. An island teaming with life. An eco system working like mad in crazed but perfect harmony. The cats of Bali are in heat. And the flying bugs here love to eat me. I tell my traveling partner, Mark, it is because I am so sweet.
"I'M not getting bitten!" he declares in his superior,gay voice - a derisive tone to say the least.
"That's because you're so bitter." I reply sweetly. (Mark is always referring to himself as a 'bitter gay man').
He chuckles. "Well, maybe so.."

A petite brown woman with a long pony tail of jet black hair, wearing a Winnie the pooh shirt has just approached me at breakfast.
"Good morning." she says in a beautiful Balinese accent (they roll their r's in a lovely way) "How was your sleep last night?"
I smile back at her wanly,"It was ok..." I say.
She can tell I'm full of it. "You did not sleep well?" she asks, concerned.
"Oh, it's just me. It's not this place....I...I have trouble sleeping." I confess, feeling like a freak. I say this to her as I am sitting in the cafe of a mountain side hotel, perched high above the Bali Sea - a plate of exotic fruit being brought to me before the words have even left my mouth. How could I NOT sleep in a paradise such as this? And as a pot of steaming hot Bali coffee is put before me, it is all I can do not to throw my arms around her and burst into tears.
I want to go home.
I'm tired of tropical paradise and villas and bungalows. I love it here - but I can't sleep.The worms make an assault on my room, and when it's not worms it's roaches or mosquitos.   I am so sleepy and tired - I just want to back home and sleep in my own bed. But I don't have one anymore.
No bed. No home.

2  days ago, I was swimming in this black sea at Amed. The Northern coast. You can't put your feet down there. It is very shallow for a long,long way out and the ocean floor is covered with sea urchin and coral. But it is easy to float. I felt like I was light as air, floating effortlessly in black ink. The clouds above me seemed so low. As if I was in a very,very large room. The sky was the ceiling,the mountains and black sand the walls, and on the ocean side - it seemed as though I could see the curve of the earth. It was surreal. I felt like I was in a children's novel. 'Alice in Wonderland'. Or in Narnia. A perfect pace / time to meditate.
"This is my home now." I thought.
"Right in the middle of the black Bali Sea."

I know where I've been, but I don't know where I am going or where I will land. I miss my children and my family and friends. That didn't take long. I am a Taurus - and although I am not entirely into all that astrological stuff, there do seem to be a couple of things that ring true. Taureans love their homes. And I loved mine for over 20 years. After all of my amazing travels and adventures - I always loved coming home. No matter what chaos or mess I was coming home TO - it was home. And I managed to make a pretty damn great one for all of those years. I haven't accomplished much in this life, but I am proud of pulling that off. My home in the Hollywood Hills was just as magical as this place in it's own way. My terraces were also filled with lizards and exotic sounding birds, deer in the back yard instead of monkeys - but I prefer deer in the long run. And it was MINE. My Tara. My earth. MY HOME.

Mark is diving today. He is diving to see a shipwreck very close to here. The sun looks like it may finally appear after a morning of harsh wind and rain, so I suppose I will snorkel. Go look at some pretty fish.
After all, this is my home.
For now.