Piste à Piste

I have just received in the post a tour du monde musicale from my language teacher/confidante.
Alongside a map detailing each stop along the way, several of the pieces of music are accompanied: sample bags of coffee from Guatemala, a beer mat from Liverpool, loose tisane from Montreal. As a whole, it reminds me of the polaroids - stood before various wonders of the world - sent to Amelie's father by his garden gnome.

Like Amelie's father, I am sedentary - in his case it is due to age and force of habit, in mine laryngitis following la grippe. In less than a month I will travel to the Czech Republic for the first time, to live and teach until December. While I want to pick up the basics of the language, steel myself for change and get a sharp haircut, rather I languish, unable to speak, and quick to tire.

My musical tour also recalls the films of Wes Anderson; in their intricacy, laid out like the cross-section of a plane engine. Anderson's films - especially The Royal Tenenbaums - recall the writing of J.D. Salinger, whose protagonists share a similar psyche. This age has always been a touchstone for me. I am drawn to the work of Balthus and Gorey.