language | Inappropriate Footwear

They can propel us forward or stop us in our tracks. They can shift our mood, seduce a potential mate or deflate an ego. Words can reshape our entire world. The removal of the word ‘human’ from the category of ‘nature’ has damaged our relationship with all those organisms that we share the earth with. This is further impacted by our inability to understand non-human methods of expression. Would we hunt, imprison and harvest non-human animals so quickly if they could plead their cases in a language we could comprehend? Words are seriously powerful Ju-Ju.

Some of us realise and utilise this power. We pick our words with care, and then use them as creatively as possible. Others seem to believe there is a tax per sentence, a metaphysical cost to each conversation. Even this difference in attitudes towards words is important. A friend recently explained to me that she believes that differing language capabilities might well have impacted on her relationship with her brother, and I know my own relationships are the strongest with the people I can chat to for hours.

Even knowing all this though, I sometimes fail to give words the respect they deserve. Occasionally I’ll drop a sentence with little thought or consideration, and then redden as I watch disappointment well up in someone’s eyes. I once shared a few reunion drinks with an old friend at a dark den of wine-consumption. As we gathered our coats one of our fellow wine tasters told us what a great couple we made. We were both quick to point out that we were just friends, but as we left my words failed me. They didn’t disappear altogether, if only. Instead I managed to use them to undo us. I took her arm, chuckled again and said ‘we could be a hilarious couple’. That sentence was the end of ten years of singing David Grey at the top of our lungs, sharing post-relationship-breakup insights into love, and showing Wellington how not to dance. I’m not sure whether I’m more upset at the poor choice of words, or my once-friend’s reaction to them. But wherever the fault lies (and no doubt it’s somewhere between the two of us) I miss our shared guffaws and occasional tears, and I realise more than ever the power of a sentence to destroy something beautiful.

My words aren’t just important for their ability to communicate information to others though. They also have an effect on the way I see my life, and on the decisions I make for myself. The way I feel about things is revealed in the way I talk about them. If I’m unhappy with a person then the language I use to describe them reflects that. What I’ve also found though is that the reverse of this is also true: The way I talk about things affects the way I feel about them. If I continually refer to myself as a fat and incapable then I reduce the likelihood of my getting up early to go for a bike ride. If I put myself down when someone gives me a compliment, then that compliment is undone, and I may also hurt the person who granted me their uplifting thoughts. The words I use can act as a step up into somewhere brighter, or a step down into somewhere darker.

The words I receive are just as important the ones I give. There are so many sources, from romance novels to WikiLeaks, and each time I pay them attention they have the potential to alter the way I see the world. So I need to be selective in where I draw my information from, and to maintain a degree of skepticism. Over the years I’ve found that it’s important to supplement this library of influences with something far more evocative, far more intimate and thought-provoking. Conversation.

Languages develop in order to exchange information, and it’s this through this trafficking of words that I most readily grow new ideas and transform old ones. I have never learnt as much from university texts, Hemingway’s ‘Old Man of the Sea’, or the Quran, as I have from long talks with fascinating people. I learnt of the ability of a death to transcend even the most carefully prepared defences from an oncological nurse from Tasmania. I had to confront my ideas about gun control in the United States after talking with the people who had lived through violent confrontations and fought back. And I learnt of the ongoing effects of the holocaust as I journeyed to a bunk room in Auschwitz with an Australian girl whose grandfather had survived three years within. She translated as we followed a Jewish school group through the eerie grey work camp, shuddering at the rooms filled with ghost children’s shoes. I could entwine my reactions with hers, and I both grew and shrank a little over that soul disrupting couple of hours. Words. Are. Powerful.

As a writer I aim to put my words in front of as many people as I can. I aim to entertain, inspire and occasionally confront. I understand that there is a degree of responsibility within this, but at least I can edit my responses before they’re published. It’s the words I swap with people every day that I need to ensure that I’m mindful of. If I take care to communicate in ways that lift both me and those I spend time with then I should never have to lose a friendship over a misunderstanding again.

It took me a while to realise that like music, food is a great way to integrate with other people when you’re travelling. I’d always been envious of those talented musicians that can bind a group of strangers through memorising a couple of dozen universally loved songs. My guitar playing though, was woeful. I once hosted a dozen Finnish music students in the hostel in Northern Ireland. The delightful elvish musicians would play traditional folk songs, interspersed with heavy metal classics. I was smitten. I used to join them at gigs, then we’d all head back to the hostel basement and play acoustic versions of Metallica and Skid Row classics. As we passed around a bottle of Bushmill’s after their last gig the drummer put his arm around me. ‘Karhu, (Finnish for bear)’ he said, ‘you are very very bad with the guitar. But we love your enthusiasm.’ Ouch, another rock and roll dream trampled.

A couple of years after my musical defeat I was struggling to find work in Cambridge, England. My girlfriend and I had picked a city to live in based on a half day of lying beneath the trees along Jesus Green, eating cheese and onion sandwiches in the sun. Perhaps checking rent prices or employment opportunities would have made more sense, but I’ve always leaned more towards romance than practicality. I soon found that most job opportunities in the city involved teaching students at the university or tending to patients at the hospital. I decided hospitality work might be a safer option. I’d learnt a few culinary tricks from my father, I liked the idea of free coffee, and I found a cafe that didn’t need me to work evenings.

I’ve never worked so hard in my life. From the minute I put on an apron to the moment I peeled it off, I didn’t stop grafting. But along the way I learnt the formula behind a good dressing, the importance of a sharp knife, and the joy of creating a beautiful dish from obscure ingredients. I spent time with Steph, a gorgeous Costa Rican who introduced us to her grandmother’s tendency to cook almost anything with a bottle of coke. The last I heard, she was working in one of Jamie Oliver’s kitchens, hopefully he’s had a chance to sample her specialities before he found out the principal ingredient. I also got to work alongside Welshmen, Aussies, Canadians, Polish and Mexicans, and we all shared stories and samples of foods we grew up with and missed. So I received not just free lattes, but many new recipes, and an understanding of the degree to which food can eliminate cultural barriers.

I’m now able to draw even more from my travels, by learning from everything I eat. I’m in Holland at the moment, a country that isn’t know for its cuisine. But unknown cuisines are often the most fun, you have no pre-conceptions and there’s something special about unexpected treats. I loved sharing ‘new herring’ and palling (smoked eel) with Francoise’ ruddy cheeked Uncle Han at a mobile fishmonger. As I licked the smokey oils from my fingers I imagined how great the eel would be blended with cream cheese and a little smoked paprika. I got to experience a traditional treat, and I had another inspiration for future dishes.

The Dutch have been all too happy to introduce me to foods ranging from traditional childhood treats, to deep-fried pub grub. I got to sample bitterballen (deep-fried gravy balls) in darkened pubs, and poffertjes (mini pancakes with stewed fruit and cream) at an antique-crammed farmhouse restaurant. The best Dutch meal so far though (in terms of both flavour and sheer effort) was a sweet and sour meaty treat called zuurvlees. Ivo (one of our Maastricht hosts) made us this well known southern dish from his mother’s recipe. Preparation began with marinating beef for 24 hours, and eventually ended with the addition of appelstroop (a sweet apple sauce) and ontbijtkoek (breakfast bread), which are stirred into the thickening stew. The enjoyment was as much about the stories around the dish, as it was about the deep, rich flavours.

Autumn has set in here in Northern Europe. Ripened apples and pears weigh down the branches of the trees we cycle under, as we coast between windmills and canals. My hosts have provided beds, bikes, and entertaining conversations. I can’t pay them for their kindness, but I can cook this fresh seasonal fruit with thyme and honey, and roll fresh sweet pastry over the top. The appreciative sounds that escape between mouthfuls later in the evening don’t need much translation. None of us needs to learn a new language to draw pleasure from sharing a meal. That being said I’m sure at least half my Dutch vocabulary is names for pastries and condiments. Much of the rest is made up of words I can use to communicate my appreciation for each new delicacy. Mooi (nice) isn’t usually enough, I have to stretch to prima (terrific) or even lekker (luscious).

Six years ago I sold my last guitar to help pay for a ticket to England, a trip which saw me end up working in kitchens. I like the idea that my failure to spread joy through music so easily leant itself towards learning a new way to bind people together.