rocky horror bittersweet.

last time i saw the rocky horror show i was 17 and i didn’t actually see it as much as i was in it. it was my second season as an extra during my hometown’s annual festspiele, an open air theatre festival which is put on every summer in the stiftsruine. now bad hersfeld might not be terribly exciting, but i think that the remains of this old church are magical even during the rest of the year and the festival is usually something to write home about as it attracts some of the best actors and singers from all over europe. being directly involved in it all only made it better of course. i was allowed to sit at the tables at the theatre canteen that said reserved for cast, spent long hours amongst my friends practising dance scenes, snuck around the hidden nooks and pass ways in the crypt beneath stage, and like any 17 year old with an odd affinity for men in speedos, i developed a mad crush on the actor who played rocky. true to the part his body was chiselled, his hair was as golden as his shorts, and he had the most adorable swedish accent – he only had to say the words verpiss dich! (which means as much as fuck off!) on stage and i was lost.

unfortunately i found out only in the later stages of my crush development that he was gay and in a relationship. i was sad for some time, but as it turns out not all god like creatures, who can sing and dance heavenly, are disinterested in girls and so i found myself in an at least outwardly steamy affair with frank n. furter. i say outwardly because even at that age i knew that it ain’t too hot if a guy stares more at his own reflection in the mirror than at you while you are both naked in bed. oh well, i did enjoy the attention it got me from my girlfriends and some free tickets for cats in which he starred in afterwards.

yesterday i went down memory lane as i saw the rocky horror show for the first time since at the fugard theatre. as much as i forgot most details of the story, i still knew every single word to every song and some of the moves and it felt somewhat bittersweet to be confined to my seat. if you ask me how it was i will be honest and admit that i had a hard time being objective. i saw a handsome rocky, but he didn’t smile like my rocky. i saw an alluring frank n. furter, but i wondered if he would still be alluring without all his make-up like mine was. brad was adorably dorky, but it wasn’t the same as knowing that the person behind the glasses is still adorably dorky once he gets off stage. riff raff was evil and brilliant, but nobody can ever be as evil and brilliant as the late peter heinrich to me. and obviously the background dancers had nothing on me and my friends!

i guess in the end it just made me feel a bit disconnected to observe and not participate anymore and i didn’t like that feeling. i always preferred the real behind the scenes, the being part of the something to just watching a perfect façade.  

having that said, i still think it was an amazing show and i highly recommend you go see it if you are in cape town. the newly renovated fugard theatre is beautiful and since it is around the corner from me i definitely want to see more shows there. they also offer an amazing bar service that lets you pre-order your drinks for the intermission, which people like you - as in all of you, because i don’t know any other kind of people - and me will highly appreciate.

the only real critisism i had, had nothing to do with the show, but with the audience - capetonians what is wrong with you??

where were your costumes?

your fishnets?

your wigs?

your garters?

your toiletpaper?

and men, where were your heels?

someone clearly didn't get the memo and as it was we were the only ones dressed up last night. and as my friend shaun realized – yes guys, heels hurt. but not only do they give you a new viewpoint from their staggering heights, but they can also make your bum look quite desirable at least judging by the old lady who pinched his while he was waiting at the bar.

the right shoes for travelling the world.

so today i have some exciting news and a champagne headache.

i'm going to be a contributor for travelettes.

that's the exciting news and you just don’t see me shrieking because of the headache. however i  am shrieking  and jumping up and down on the inside.

travelettes is a travel blog with a group of awesome girls who go out into the world and prove that backpacking in heels is not a contradiction. i like that premise and so i sent them an application and some stories. katja, the founder of the travelettes apparently liked my application letter so much that she already posted it on the blog and put my already fragile head into a slight overdrive.

reading important mail on my phone while still in bed with one eye closed is tricky business. i still gathered though that she really seemed to like my writing and since she is neither my mother nor am i paying her to say that, i was genuinely touched and happy and proud.

we may call a blog an online diary, but in the end we write to get read, don't we? a story told needs an audience. it's a bit like that thought experiment "if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" if we write and nobody reads it, does it matter that we write? we think that our words matter in one way or another and if someone else reads them it affirms this notion. 

at least that it is one of the main reasons why i write. i like writing, but i do write to be read. having someone tell me that they like what i write makes me happy, makes me want to write more, makes me want to write better, makes me even write in bed on sunday with a headache and it makes me grin silly.

now here is a little problem i have with this whole excitement though. i think i may have lied by omission in my application.

i don't wear heels and i certainly don't travel in them.

ups.

i dare say, i get shoes.  my taste in shoes is impeccable. i may not have many for women’s standards, but the ones i have are really, really good.  i have prada, dries van noten, vintage charles jourdan, pierre hardy, and repetto. however none of them have more than 2-inch heels. i hate to admit it, but i cannot walk in heels. it's not the pain, the pain usually one can drink away, but i simply cannot walk without looking odd and stumbling, sometimes i even add a full-on fall and/or ankle sprain. i don’t do it to myself when i go to work so why would i do it to myself when i go on vacation?

but now you probably wonder if i don't i want to be fancy sometimes and need shoes to go with it? the truth is, i don't think i am a very fancy person at heart. yes, i am sitting here with a champagne hangover but i also spilled a lot of said champagne very un-fancily all over my dress last night. truthfully as a girl it's usually enough to be fancy on top, most people don't care about the fanciness of your shoes. which i guess is a bit sad for the shoes, but also a reality of the world outside of fashion. years ago an ex visited me in new york before christmas. the visit didn't go very well so i was already in an unpleasant mood when our last evening finally came along. we had reservations at the rivercafe, the one truly fancy old school place where they still make men wear ties and stuff. i had already packed most of my wardrobe as i was leaving the next day and left with a choice of wearing strappy summer sandals or sneakers. they were light blue pumas and awesome as far as sneakers go, but obviously an odd choice for the rivercafe. since we were having a snow storm i didn't care and chose them over summer sandals. the ex wouldn't stop moaning and complaining about how they wouldn't let us in due to my shoe choice. he was right in that we didn't get in. however it was due to his lack of tie. because unlike they make it seem in the movies, restaurants like that don't keep a collection of spare clip-ons, they just give your table to some other dude who came without a reservation but wearing a tie.

so i’d say i am more cool (can i say that about myself without sounding like a complete ass?) than fancy and therefore my preferred choice of travel shoes have been my old vintage motorcycle boots. what can i say, unlike heels, they were actually made for walking. i have walked in them to fashion weeks in paris and new york, they have been to the vatican and the dome in milan, they have slept in five star resort in st. barth’s, park city and miami, and have ridden with me on a basotho pony in the lesotho highlands. they have lived by far a more exciting life than any heel that i ever bought, failed to walk in and which subsequently died alone and unworn in my closet.

having explained all of that, dear travelettes, i hope you won’t mind that i will therefore adhere to the credo of backpacking* suitcase-wheeling in vintage motorcycle boots.

*i did admit that i don’t even own a backpack and they didn’t seem to think that was a problem.