This is long overdue, as actually the UK premiere of Calladita (The Quiet Maid) was held exactly one week ago. The World of Women NFT community, of which I’m a proud holder, hosted a screening at the Shoreditch Arts Club for 30 or so lucky guests. We were treated to a specialty cocktail and invited into a small, intimate cinema. Not only were we among the first to experience the first (European) film funded entirely by NFTs, we were also treated to a short Q&A with the director, Miguel Faus.
While I can’t say I was a massive fan of the film itself, the following discussion more than made up for it. And, incidentally, imbued the film with more meaning. What made the conversation particularly engaging was the mix of crypto natives and absolute beginners in the audience. We spent the first portion of the Q&A on the mechanics of raising money from NFT sales and whether it’s a strategy that can be replicated, followed by a deep dive into the message(s) conveyed by the film.
On the former, Faus was keen to impress that we’re still early, and that while he was able to use this strategy to fundraise, it was limited to the existing web3 community. In his words, “selling NFTs to raise money from a web2 audience is still a stretch too far”. However, I would like to see this strategy – or some variation thereof – used in the future, as I see the levelling of the playing field as crypto’s biggest advantage.
This advantage was, in some ways, reflected in the film’s storyline. The event organiser and moderator described her analysis of Calladita as representative of the moralities of the crypto sector. The titular maid rebels against the “establishment” (the wealthy family who illegally employs her) in small ways, much like the technology’s application, especially in finance, offers new opportunities for the disenfranchised by disrupting the incumbents. While Faus said this wasn’t necessarily the intention, he’s on board with the interpretation.
He spent more time exploring other themes present in his film, such as the power dynamics between an undocumented migrant worker and a wealthy, privileged family who seem to be trying to out-do each other in awfulness. One quote that stayed with me is Faus’ assertion that, while the daughter was probably the most sympathetic of the bunch, “just being a decent person isn’t enough”.
Though to Faus the idea of Calladita wasn’t about crypto, the plot borrowed from the technology and, in my view, from the culture and values that have grown up around it, particularly relating to moral ambiguities such as whether it’s acceptable to steal from those who have wronged you. This reading, in addition to the topics discussed after the screening, have given me a much more nuanced understanding of the film. I thoroughly enjoyed the event, and highly recommend viewing the film, even if only to contribute your own thoughts to the conversation around it.
I’m so grateful to live the life I do. There’s always something happening. I had something scheduled for every evening this week, including a film screening of The Master and Margarita and a candlelight concert of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, featuring ballet. The former was absolutely brilliant, taking creative license with Bulgakov’s novel to weave his lived reality into the fantastical narrative, but doing so in a way that feels as relevant today as it did in the 1930s. The latter was less impressive, but was nonetheless enjoyable. But my point is that it was a saturated week, so I was looking forward to the weekend for a well-deserved break, but then a friend group chat lit up, “who’s up for opera on Sunday?”
And that’s how I ended up joining a massive group of Russians, most of whom I had never met before, for the final showing of Lucia di Lammermoor at Royal Opera House. Apparently, one of the girls likes to celebrate her birthday in style — treating herself, her friends, and friends-of-friends to a cultural experience. It’s a wonderful idea, one I am already considering co-opting for the future.
Although I’ve grown into quite the opera fan (if my annual Glyndebourne visits are anything to go by), I’m still not anywhere near to being an expert. In fact, while I’d heard of Gaetano Donizetti before, I was not familiar with any of his works. Lucia di Lammermoor is based on Sir Walter Scott’s The Bride of Lammermoor, and despite all the Italian-sounding names and the Italian libretto is actually set in Scotland. It’s a tragic tale of a woman again getting the blame for everything and only being vindicated upon her death.
The storyline seemed like a fairly standard 19th century doomed romance, but Lucia’s eventual murder of her new husband on their wedding night somehow reminded me of Machinal, though, of course, the settings and storylines were completely different. Perhaps it was the parallel of one last gasp attempt to reclaim agency — before, inevitably, succumbing to madness. The singer in the role of Lucia, Liv Redpath, conveyed her complexity of character with such grace, and had an absolutely marvellous voice to match. But my favourite — as well as the audience’s favourite, judging by the reactions — was Xabier Anduaga as Edgardo. His last aria brought me to tears.
Reflecting with a few of the other opera goers after the performance, we realised we aren’t too familiar with the stars of modern opera. I’ve heard, of course, of Freddie de Tommaso, though I’m still not sure I’ve ever seen him perform (I was meant to, but I think there was a last minute casting change). Beyond him, I don’t know anyone else, but I would definitely place Xabier Anduaga among the rising talents. I may not know the judgment criteria of the most established opera critics, but I do know that I could feel his voice deep in my soul. Hopefully I’ll have more opportunities to catch him on stage.
Lucia di Lammermoor finished its run at Royal Opera House on 18 May.
I’ve long dreamed of attending a kitty yoga session. After all, it combines two of my favourite things. Finally, thanks to a gift from my husband, I finally got the chance to spend an hour amongst twelve week old British blue shorthair kittens this past Sunday.
And, well, it wasn’t quite what I’d imagined.
We were a group of twelve, and dispersed between the yoga mats were all sort of kitten toys, scratch posts, and baskets. I didn’t count, but I think there were seven kittens. They were running around and playing, not paying much mind to this group of strangers that had just come in.
As we were about to begin the yoga portion of our “experience”, a latecomer appeared at the door, disregarded the fact that everyone was starting the exercises, immediately grabbed a kitten, then dropped the kitten from a significant height. I was shocked — she wasn’t treating the kittens as living, breathing beings, but only as decoration.
It annoyed the instructor, too. She went through the rules of participation, stressing that we must treat the kittens with care. We then started a gentle, short session — a few stretches and a few breathing exercises.
The kittens’ breeder walked around the room with a laser pointer, encouraging the kittens to climb all over us. While it was definitely cute, it also felt a bit exploitative. She later told me that it’s not demanding on the kittens — they do it every weekend for 2-3 hours, but just for a month.
Somewhat unexpectedly, I really enjoyed the yoga portion of the experience. It wasn’t strenuous at all, but it was just what I needed — a reminder that my body requires regular stretching. In other words, my main takeaway is that I need to do more yoga. Probably minus the kittens.
I’ve wanted to go to Albania for a long time. Mostly to the mountains, if I’m honest, but since this bank holiday weekend getaway was a family trip and the majority wanted to go to the seaside, I reconciled with the fact that I’d visit the mountains some other time. Even without the (northern) mountains, the trip was a lovely taster of what Albania has to offer and, I must say, I’m impressed.
We squeezed in quite a lot for the three days we were there. As soon as we arrived to Tirana, we picked up our rental car — the rental cars are all very fancy — and drove to Dajti for the view. The weather wasn’t ideal for this activity, because it was foggy and raining and therefore the view was mostly a white cloud, but the food and atmosphere at Ballkoni Dajtit more than made up for it.
On the way down from the mountain, the fog cleared up and we stopped for pictures. A friendly Turkish guy who’d recently moved to Tirana to be with his Albanian girlfriend struck up a conversation, and as the girlfriend works at one of the ministries, I guess I can now say I know someone in the Albanian government. You never know when that might come in handy.
Our next stop was Berat to check out the city’s Ottoman-era buildings. We saw the famed castle, built in the thirteenth century by the Byzantines, from below, but didn’t have enough time to climb up — it’s a good thing, too, because after a short walk by the river, the rain started pouring down and we barely managed to stay dry by running to the car.
The sun had started to set by the time we left, and the rest of the mountainous journey down south to Sarande was mostly in the dark. By the time we arrived at our hotel, it was very late and I immediately went to sleep, leaving exploration for the morning. Sarande is a typical seaside town — full of cars and full of people. The beaches are quite rocky, but the sea is a lovely colour. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem that the local Albanians or the foreign visitors respect nature, because there was rubbish absolutely everywhere. I hope this will soon change.
After breakfast the next morning, we drove to Butrint, a settlement initially founded by the Greeks in the seventh century BC and later controlled by the Romans, Byzantines, and Ottomans. Their influence is visible in the many ruins, but the most striking element of Butrint is the surrounding nature and visible wildlife. There’s even turtles basking in the sun beside a Roman ampitheatre!
Unsurprisingly, everywhere we went in Albania referenced Ali Pasha, including, of course, Butrint. But what was interesting to me was the different discourses that even this one ancient city told about the ruler — one translation called him a tyrant, another heralded him as the “Balkan Bonaparte”. My only familiarity with Ali Pasha is references to him in The Count of Monte Cristo, so clearly I have a lot more reading to do.
After our visit, we drove to a nearby restaurant, where we encountered a strange Albanian custom — it seems everyone wants to tell you how to park. In the coming day, we encountered this phenomenon often. There was even an incident where a young woman was trying to park and the man behind her got out of his car, came up to her window, and ended up parking for her! Our hotel parking involved four or five employees standing around and shouting directions.
We spent the evening enjoying drinks by the promenade. The next morning, we were off yet again, this time to Durres, where we would spend the last night of our trip. On the way, we made a few stops — first to look around the Porto Palermo Castle (or Ali Pasha Fortress) and swim in the surrounding blue waters, then at a viewpoint overlooking the mountains and seaside, and finally at St Mary’s Monastery on Zvernec.
Climbing on the fortification offered a wonderful view of the sea and even the submarine bunker nearby. My brother-in-law is Albanian, and he shared the story of how, back in 1961, the Albanians stole four submarines from the Soviets. Not sure what ended up happening to them, but it seems like the Albanians still have them.
The monastery at Zvernec was probably my favourite of all the places we went and saw. We arrived closer to the evening, so the colours were absolutely stunning. It felt like a truly cultural experience, because the first people coming towards us on the pedestrian bridge connecting the island to the mainland were dressed in traditional outfits. The whole experience felt almost like a pilgrimage, and we left candles for the living and the dead at the tiny church.
Our stop for the night was Durres, so we drove the final stretch to the hotel, settled in, then ventured out again for a small evening meal. I didn’t have high expectations for Durres, as I’d been told it was a port city. While the traffic wasn’t great, the promenade and the city itself exceeded expectations, particularly the city’s Roman ampitheatre, which is the largest in the Balkans.
My feelings towards Albania are overwhelmingly positive. I definitely want to go back — and next time, I’m staying for longer than three days!
When I ran my first marathon back in 2018, I thought “never again”. But then, you start to forget the pain and remember the joy of the experience. So I made a deal with myself — my next (official) marathon would be the London Marathon, whenever and however I manage to get in.
Despite applying every single year, I wasn’t having any luck. Only something like 8% of applicants get a place. But six years later, my dream came true in an unexpected way. In November, I got the news that I had won one of my running club’s places.
Though I should’ve learned my lesson about preparation last time ‘round, after a succession of running, falling ill, running, and falling ill again, I became complacent. After all, I’d run 100 km in three days (including marathon distance on the first day) with minimal preparation last year, so how hard could it really be?
So, again, I failed to follow a training plan. Again, I failed to prep any fuelling strategy. Again, I ended up winging it. But, well, I’m six years older, so I ended up half an hour slower than my PB. In all honesty, I don’t care. Not only did I manage to raise money for a good cause, but I genuinely relaxed and enjoyed the atmosphere.
My husband was volunteering again this year, so I started my marathon journey alone. Luckily, I wasn’t alone for too long — I met some Sutton Runners in the underground, and we made our way to London Bridge together. We had different start zones, so we split up to catch different trains, but their enthusiasm was contagious and I was feeling pumped.
As I made my way to the runners grid at Blackheath, I was awash with emotion. The crowds, the music, the celebration — it was phenomenal. The big screens showed the elite runners start after a fitting tribute to Kelvin Kiptum, a tragic event that still brings tears to my eyes. He was such a talent, gone far too soon.
There’s something so special about mass events like these — they really bring people together. As we waited for our start wave, we were all smiling, laughing, wishing each other luck. And that energy carried through the entire route, bolstered by the crowds. I wasn’t running for time, so I made sure to high five as many children as I could, tap the “power up” signs, enjoy the sights, and even do a bit of celebrity spotting.
I happened across Russ Cook, or “Hardest Geezer”, just after Greenwich and even managed a sneaky selfie. I also ran past someone from Masked Singer in a piranha costume, which I noticed for its extravagance, but was only later informed that it was someone famous.
The Sutton Runners were managing the crossing at Westferry Circus again, so I did my best to run to them — so much so that my body clearly decided that it was the finish line, because after I finally reached them at mile 21, it gave up and decided to walk.
I walked for a bit, then started running again. As I got closer to the final stretch from City onwards, it was as if I had my “second breath”, because I sped up more and more as I neared Westminster and, finally, the finish line.
After the finish, I picked up my kit bag and headed to Green Park to get back to Westferry Circus to meet the team. The trains were surprisingly empty, so I managed to rest my weary legs before being forced to navigate Canary Wharf and all its road closures, which took twice as long as it should’ve because (a) I was slow and (b) I walked back and forth at least four times trying to find a crossing.
Finally, we made it home. I followed my triathlete friend’s marathon advice — first, a bath with Epsom salts in the evening, followed by a short 1km run in the morning. Honestly, I feel great, and even though I don’t think I’ll be running another marathon anytime soon, I applied for the 2025 ballot, so who knows?
I have a few friends who are die-hard lovers of The Old Vic. Maybe I’ve been unlucky, but I haven’t quite understood the fascination. It’s a lovely venue, but the performances leave something to be desired. Of course, I’m not a theatre critic and I don’t know the different methodologies used by actors, but I do know what I like. To me, powerful theatre is the actor’s connection with the audience. It’s intimate.
When I talk, as I often do, of “the next great thing”, what comes to mind are impactful pieces where I don’t just watch someone reenact something on stage, I live it. In recent memory, these are pieces like Arinzé Kene’s Misty, Enda Walsh’s Disco Pigs, Richard Gadd’s Baby Reindeer. Unfortunately, neither yesterday’s Machinal, nor Jitney, which I saw at The Old Vic back in 2022, fit the bill.
Reflecting on the performance yesterday, which centred around a young woman who murders her husband – inspired, in part, by the case of Ruth Snyder in 1928 – my friend and I agreed that the staging was good, but we weren’t sure about the acting or the screenplay. The story felt flat. I didn’t feel connected to any of the characters, the broad New York accents were all over the place, and the main character’s struggle – her descent into madness – felt, well, scripted.
I won’t give any spoilers, but the strongest part of the performance, in my opinion, was the very end. It was very well done, not necessarily due to the acting, but rather the staging, the lighting, and the beautiful singing voice of one of the actors. In other words, I don’t regret seeing Machinal, but it definitely wasn’t the “next great thing”.
As I was doing a bit of background reading for this review, I watched the trailer for the piece. Even in that short one minute video I saw more passion, more emotion than anything I witnessed during the live performance. But maybe I’m misunderstanding something, because the Ustinov Studio was packed and there were a number of theatregoers who gave a standing ovation.
Marathon training is well underway — or, well, nearly over. Race day is this Sunday and I’m severely underprepared, yet somehow relaxed. Que sera, sera. I’m raising money for a good cause, who cares if I walk the whole thing? Not caring about setting a personal best does allow for a certain joie de vivre. Like spending my lunch break exploring the Flaming June exhibition at the Royal Academy of Art.
The exhibition is quite small, but, as most things from the nineteenth century, leaves an impression of grandeur. I was introduced to the work of Frederic, Lord Leighton for what I thought was the first time, but was surprised to discover that I’d actually appreciated his sculpture in the National Gallery. In addition to Flaming June, he’s also the sculptor behind An Athlete Wrestling with a Python.
The description for the miniature plaster cast he made in preparation of the full scale sculpture read, “the final piece, when unveiled, was greeted with immediate, rapturous applause”. I’m paraphrasing, but the idea stuck with me — how often do we celebrate new pieces of art in the same way these days?
The rest of the exhibition featured works of artists who either inspired Leighton, such as replicas of sculptures by Michelangelo and paintings by da Vinci, as well as those who he himself inspired. There was even a small section dedicated to a contemporary artist exploring colonised identities. And, of course, the masterpiece, Flaming June, almost in the flesh. Regardless of what critics say, I thought it was a gorgeous display of colour.
Don’t miss the chance to see Flaming June, on loan from the Museo de Arte de Ponce in Puerto Rico until 12 January, 2025.
It may have taken almost four years since we got married, but my husband and I finally had our honeymoon. And we could not have chosen a better place for it — a road trip through the national parks of Nevada, Arizona, and Utah! We picked late March as (a) it was quieter, (b) we caught the Easter weekend, which was early this year, and (c) there were no snakes.
We arrived in Las Vegas late on Friday, checked in to our hotel, and managed a few hours of sleep before jet lag woke us up. It was the perfect time to explore Las Vegas at night! We walked all the way down to the strip, which was about 2km away. It was certainly a sight to behold — and even better, no people.
After making it from the “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign all the way to the Venetian, we somehow managed to catch enough WiFi from a nearby casino to hail an Uber and make it back to the hotel for another nap. The next morning, we killed some time in a nearby shopping centre before catching another Uber — our first Tesla ride! — to the campervan rental place.
It was our first real taste of the local Americans. It was an odd experience. We got everything from being completely ignored at an empty AT&T Mobile to Mormons attempting to speak to us about the Bible to our Uber driver asking questions like, “how could the UK leave Europe if Europe is a country?” In his defence, he made some interesting parallels with the US system once we’d explained everything, and he did treat Cristian to a doughnut.
We picked up our massive Ford Transporter nicknamed “Shroom” and made our way to — where else? — Walmart. It was incredible. The sheer amount of stuff. We got what we needed and more, and started our long drive to the Grand Canyon. Turns out, we weren’t completely over this whole jet lag thing, because as soon as it grew dark, we grew sleepy and had to pull over for the night.
When we woke up at 4 or 5 in the morning, it had snowed absolutely everywhere. I had not prepared for this turn of events. We put on all the jumpers we had, stopped at a petrol station for hats (US Army branded, of course) and coffee, and drove the final stretch to the South Rim. When we got there, it was around 6 in the morning, but the place was surprisingly lively — despite the low visibility. The bottom of the canyon was concealed in fog.
Which probably explained why there was no one on the trail. But we persevered, and after a few minutes, the sun came out, the sky turned blue, and the fog dissipated. The views were stunning. We couldn’t get enough. I was running around and jumping in delight. I couldn’t believe it — there was just so much space. The canyon was so deep, it went on forever. And every step opened a new viewpoint, each one more impressive than the last.
We walked to the end of the trail we were on — I can’t recall the name off the top of my head, but it was partially under reconstruction, hence the last 2km or so were fenced off. It was right about the time we got there that the weather started changing, so it made sense to head back to the car. It was lucky we did, too — as we approached Shroom, visibility was back to zero and it had started hailing.
We were famished after an entire morning of exploring, so we drove down Route 66 to the town of Williams, which was the (very touristy) epitome of Americana — diners, dive bars, lots of souvenir shops selling rock memorabilia. We loved it. We weren’t sure where to go next, but we’d seen something called Bearizona and decided to check it out.
It’s like a nature reserve, except you mostly drive through the animal habitats. It was a bit strange, especially because it didn’t feel like the animals had much room, but we later learned that most, if not all, were rescues. Unfortunately, the weather had deteriorated by the time we got to the wolves and bears, so we barely saw anything. Luckily, there was a portion at the end where you got out of the car and walked around the enclosures, so we read about the park and how the animals had ended up there. My favourites were the otters.
Our next destination was Horseshoe Bend. It was a lovely drive through gorgeous scenery, all red clay and tumbleweeds. At one point, we pulled over for a snack — this would prove an unwise decision. Turns out, Shroom was too heavy for the clay, and we sunk significantly when we tried to drive away. We were beginning to panic — middle of nowhere, barely any cars, no signal. But, as luck would have it, a pick up truck pulled over in front of us and a lovely Navajo lady named Laverne asked if we needed a hand. She pulled us out with no trouble at all — must happen to unwary tourists all the time in these parts.
We got to Horseshoe Bend right in time for the golden hour. There were lots of people, but so much space that it didn’t feel crowded. We sat and soaked in the view — and took lots of photos, of course! The natural beauty is incomparable. As the sun was beginning to set, we decided to search for a place to spend the night. We thought we found a nice campground, and Cristian was going to prepare dinner while I explored the nearby rock formations. Unfortunately, after I’d returned from an exhilarating solo hike, I found out he’d been chased out by a rude American lady who thought he’d parked too close to her.
No problem, we found a huge car park on one side of the Glen Canyon. As it turns out, there are free camping spots and paid camping spots, and as the neighbouring campervan told us, there’s an app to determine which is which. The one we were chased away from was a paid one, whereas the new one we’d found was free. We downloaded the app to make sure we wouldn’t make the same mistake again and enjoyed a stress free night.
The next morning, Cristian offered to make breakfast while I wandered around some more rock formations. There was a hike to something called the Hanging Gardens a mere 2km away, so I figured I could run there and back while he was occupied. The Hanging Gardens themselves proved not particularly noteworthy, but I went off-piste to explore the adjacent hills and was rewarded with phenomenal views. The amount of space was staggering.
We replicated the hike after breakfast, because I wanted to show off what I’d discovered, and then stopped by Lake Powell. Cristian risked a quick dip, but I preferred to stay dry and warm. Shortly thereafter, it was time for Antelope Canyon, which we’d prebooked a week before. We actually got pretty lucky, as there were only two spots available that entire week, and they were on the day most convenient for us.
Antelope Canyon is an interesting place. It’s only accessible by private tour, because of flash floods that have killed unsuspecting tourists in the past. The wind and water have hollowed out the canyon in intricate ways — particularly beautiful under strong sunlight, we were told. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to experience it for ourselves as the sky was overcast. The expedition was nice, but everything was targeted at getting “that Instagram photo”, which didn’t sit entirely right with me. Still, we enjoyed the walk and the views — nature never fails to amaze.
Our next destination was Zion, but we were ahead of schedule and figured we’d hang around town for a while. We’d passed a shooting range and, well, when in Rome. Before going inside, we agreed that we’d spend a maximum of $60 per person — a decision shot to bits, pun intended, when we saw the prices. Cristian got one of the more expensive packages for $179, but on the bright side, he got to try out a hunting rifle, a handgun, and a semi-automatic rifle. He was surprisingly decent — all his shots went through the target’s chest or head.
We then drove for five hours or so to Moab, where we’d booked a motel for the night. It was amazing to finally have a proper shower and sleep in a massive king size bed. After a refreshing sleep, we were up bright and early to make our way to Arches National Park. We missed the stop to Delicate Arch and decided to catch it on our way back, instead setting off from the Devil’s Campground. After checking out the immediately accessible arches, we headed off on the Primitive Trail, which promised a much less “polished” experience.
We got more than we bargained for. We thought it’d be easy — the first few kilometres were a straightforward trail, maybe sandy in places, but no steep inclines. It soon became apparent that we didn’t actually know how to follow paths, because Americans block off incorrect paths with stones. We simply stepped over those stones and ended up deep in the middle of a canyon with no idea where to go. On the bright side, we found wild deer. On the less than bright side, we were lost.
After trying to reach higher elevation, I pointed out that there was something that had clearly been a river at some point, and our Arches map showed that the path diverges at the river. By my logic, all we had to do was follow the remnants of the river and we’d make it back to where we’d started. It worked! And even better, we found a middle-aged American couple looking for the path as well, except that they were familiar with the way things worked, and managed much better than we had.
We found our way up to the Private Arch, followed by the Double O Arch and a few of the other ones, after which we made it on top of the canyon and looked down at where we’d been less than an hour before. By this point, it was getting pretty crowded, as the Primitive Trail came to an end. We made our way back to the car and were shocked at the amount of traffic in this remote area — hundreds of parking places were full and cars were circling, waiting for a spot to open up. We snacked on some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and headed to the Delicate Arch viewpoint.
As it turns out, the Delicate Arch viewpoint is very much not the Delicate Arch hike. You can see it in the distance, but just barely. But we were tired, and the amount of people we could see beside the Delicate Arch was enough to put us off. We drove back to Moab and grabbed lunch at a food truck park. I don’t drink, but I was craving a beer — turns out, Americans don’t have the same concept as we have here in the UK and the food stalls didn’t have an alcohol license. So we popped into a bar, but, well, the idea was much more pleasant than the actual pint of Moab Pale Ale itself, and I only managed a third or so before abandoning it.
We weren’t ready for Zion just yet, so we popped over to the nearby Canyonlands for the evening. I think Canyonlands is one of my favourite destinations on this trip — the views were incredible, the weather was warm, and there were much fewer people than anywhere else. We didn’t get a spot in the local campground, nor in the first external campsite we visited (despite a friendly Canadian couple offering to share their pitch), but we did find a place in the wonderfully named Horsethief, where we bedded down for the night.
The next morning, we woke up early again and headed to the Visitor Centre, where Cristian made us a delicious omelette. Our tour of Canyonlands began — first with Mesa Arch, then the Green River Outlook, then a hike down the canyon and back up on the Alcove Spring trail. It was a bit surprising to us that the Americans we encountered didn’t have the same culture of greeting fellow hikers, so we felt a bit awkward with our cheerful hellos that went completely ignored, but it didn’t deter us too much.
Our last hike in Canyonlands was a visit to the Upheaval Dome, where I wandered out further and meditated on a rock overlooking the valley. We then finished up by stopping at a few more overlooks, my favourite of which displayed the beautiful La Sal mountains in all their glory.
The drive to Zion National Park was long, so we stopped for the night at a rest stop en route. In the morning, we popped over to a town called Beaver, where we had breakfast with real American portions (read: we couldn’t eat more than a third). Our Zion adventure began at the Kolob Canyon, where the rangers at the Visitor Centre informed us to expect long queues due to the Easter weekend. Which also explains why we didn’t get an Angels Landing permit despite applying two days in a row.
In Zion proper, we did a random hike from where we finally found a parking spot. We followed the river upstream, but there wasn’t much there in the end. I’m not sure if we missed a turn, but we ended up (as usual) in the middle of the canyon. Still, it was a great experience — we saw bighorn sheep and chipmunks, and found incredible rock formations. Our last stop that night was Canyon Overlook, where we finally got to look into the canyon and saw even more bighorn sheep, this time with their offspring!
As we came back down into Springdale, we figured it was time for another motel. I snagged one of the last rooms in the lovely Zion Park Motel, where we took advantage of the nearby launderette to wash all our clothes. The next morning, we grabbed breakfast at the restaurant next door and headed back up to the canyon on the bus. We had decided to hike to Scouts Overlook, which is the starting point for Angels Landing. A ranger we met on the way up recommended we walk the West Rim, and it didn’t disappoint. Equally steep drops, but without the crowds. We also had a look down The Narrows, which would’ve been fantastic, but we hadn’t realised preparation (and equipment!) was required.
Back in town, we picked up a few souvenirs and headed on our way. We stopped to try a prickly pear smoothie and visit a tourist shop done up as an old Western town with a petting zoo. Cristian finally met some alpacas! Our next (and last) stop was the Valley of Fire, so we tried to fit in as much as possible. We did the scenic drive and the Fire Wave hike, followed by quick stops at as many attractions as possible — the park closed at sunset, and it was already getting late.
Finally, we made it out of the park and found a spot to spend the night. Unfortunately, our first stop was beside a grumpy old man, who started berating us for parking too close (if you consider 10m too close). No problem, we found a much better spot away from his negativity. But it’s one of the mysteries to me on this trip — Americans have a reputation for friendliness, but apart from people in the service industry, who have vested interest in getting a tip, most of the people we encountered weren’t very nice.
We woke early again and drove straight to return our car. We then grabbed breakfast, put our bags into storage, and walked straight to the pick up point for our Hoover Dam tour. The tour guide was very knowledgeable — her grandfather had worked on the Dam back in the 30s and never called it after the President he felt betrayed them, preferring to use its original name of “Boulder Dam”. Too bad the tour was very quick, with only three short stops at great height, so we didn’t see very much before it was time to head back.
Back in Vegas, it had started raining (to the delight of the locals), so we stayed indoors. We had a tasty lunch at Buddy V’s and decided to try our luck at the Venetian casino. Our budget was $20 each. We sat down at the roulette table and won a combined $15…only to lose it along with everything else within five minutes. Still, at least we got a voucher saying our winnings (read: balance) was $0.15, which I think I’ll frame to remind ourselves of the ills of gambling.
We wandered around some more, checked out the Sphere — which, interestingly enough, they wanted to build one of in London and didn’t get permission — and got absolutely drenched walking back to pick up our bags. The flight back was uneventful, just sleep and F1 documentaries. But all in all, a real one-in-a-lifetime experience.
Last Friday, it was the 8th of March — International Women’s Day. As an Eastern European woman, it’s one of my favourite days of the year. This year, it was particularly special — the sun was shining, there was warmth in the air, friends and family were calling all morning with well wishes. And I was heading to the Women of Web3 event at Google.
I’ve come across many of the organisers or panellists at other events in the past, but I’d never been to one hosted by Women of Web3. I was clearly missing out. From the second I stepped foot in the Google reception, I felt right at home. Everyone was incredibly friendly — the Coinbase team I chatted to when I first arrived, the blockchain engineers, investors, and entrepreneurs seated around me when listening to the talks, and even a woman working for a direct competitor that I made friends with not long after the event began.
One of the panellists — Lavinia Osbourne, founder of Women in Blockchain Talks — mentioned an often repeated phrase, “your network is your net worth”. I’d never given it much thought before, but the truth of it struck me as I was chatting to some of the other panellists during the networking hour. A few in the group were mothers, and conversation turned to the skills being taught in schools and whether girls can be encouraged to study engineering. Soon enough, we had developed a business idea to open a series of accessible after-school clubs.
Of course, talk is cheap, and unless one of us is really going to pursue the idea further, it will forever remain just an idea. But the point is that within five minutes, we’d identified a gap in the market and come up with a proposal — how often do things like that happen? It’s only when you actively put yourself in an environment where there’s a free flow of ideas, where everyone is feeling inspired, where constructive dialogue and thinking outside the box is not only encouraged, but celebrated. In other words, when you’re surrounded by people who complement your own skillset.
There were lots of ideas I took away, but the most important one is to keep seeking out these sorts of events. After all, it’s my net worth I’m building while I’m chatting to these brilliant, inspirational women.
This year, I committed to learning to sing and learning Latvian. I mentioned this while walking with a Latvian friend last month and he mentioned that I should join the Latvian choir. Indeed, I thought, why not? I emailed the conductor in my broken Latvian and she graciously replied in English. It was clear from the onset that they’re at a high level, whereas I’d only been singing for the past two months.
Still, I came along to the Wednesday practice at the Latvian Welfare Fund in Queensway and immediately felt like a fish — or should I say foosh — out of water. Everyone knew what they were doing, they knew each other, they had their little rituals. I was asked by the conductor to sing a few bars with her while we were waiting for practice to start, but as this was in front of the entire hall, I felt incredibly anxious. I did my best, but I could tell she was disappointed by my lack of skill.
She placed me with the altos in the front row and told me to absorb how the others were singing. Once I’d get the melody, I’d try to replicate it, but it seems like I was a bit overenthusiastic, because I was later told I was throwing the others off their pitch. Despite the disappointing feeling that comes with the understanding that you’re not good enough, I genuinely enjoyed myself.
The ladies seated on either side of me were lovely, I got to learn three new songs, including the very catchy Līgo dziesma. I learned about different vocal parts and about how the notes look for harmonies, I practiced both speaking and comprehending spoken Latvian — all in all, exactly what I wanted. So I’ll definitely be back. Again and again, until maybe it finally clicks one day and I can keep up with the best of them.
Swordfoosh 