Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 2

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

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A Tale of Two Worlds: The Divergent Realities of Edwardian England and Australia for Emigrants of the Second and Third Classes in 1913

Abstract: This paper examines the starkly contrasting lived experiences of individuals classified within the second and third classes of Edwardian England in 1913, and how these experiences would have been amplified and transformed for emigrants seeking a new life in Australia. It argues that while social stratification was a defining feature of Edwardian society, the opportunities, challenges, and very definition of “class” itself were reshaped by the colonial context. For those in the second class, emigration to Australia offered a potential upward mobility and access to a less rigid social hierarchy, albeit with the loss of established comforts. Conversely, third-class emigrants faced a more precarious journey and a future in Australia that, while potentially offering escape from absolute poverty, was characterised by strenuous labour and persistent class divisions, albeit with different manifestations than those in England.

Introduction:

The year 1913 stands on the cusp of profound global change. The Edwardian era in Britain, a period of apparent prosperity and burgeoning modernity, was underpinned by a deeply entrenched social hierarchy. While the aristocracy and upper classes enjoyed unparalleled privilege, the majority of the population navigated the complexities of a class system that dictated access to education, employment, housing, and social standing. Simultaneously, the vast Australasian continent, still very much a product of British colonialism, presented itself as a land of opportunity and a potential escape route for those seeking to improve their fortunes. This paper will delve into how the specific realities of the second and third classes in Edwardian England would have translated and transformed for individuals embarking on an emigrant journey to Australia in 1913. We will explore the economic, social, and cultural landscapes that defined these classes in both nations and analyse the differential impact of emigration on their prospects.

Defining “Class” in Edwardian England, 1913:

Understanding the emigrant experience necessitates a clear definition of the social strata under consideration. In Edwardian England, class was a multifaceted construct, encompassing not only wealth but also occupation, education, manners, and inherited status.

  • Second Class: This broad category typically encompassed the upper-middle and lower-upper classes. Members of the second class were often professionals (doctors, lawyers, successful merchants), landed gentry (though not necessarily those with vast estates), and those with inherited but not immense wealth. They likely enjoyed a comfortable standard of living, with access to private education, servants in the household, leisure activities like travel and country pursuits, and a degree of social respectability. Their homes would have been well-appointed, and their social circles largely confined to those of similar standing. While not immune to economic anxieties, they possessed a degree of financial security and a strong sense of social entitlement. Their lives were marked by adherence to social etiquette and a commitment to maintaining appearances.
  • Third Class: This encompassed the working classes and the poorer segments of society. This included manual labourers, factory workers, agricultural labourers, domestic servants (those not in the privileged positions of lady’s maids or housekeepers), and the unemployed or casually employed. Their lives were characterised by hardship, long working hours, meagre wages, and often overcrowded and unsanitary living conditions. Access to education was limited, often confined to elementary schooling. Leisure time was scarce, and their social lives were largely localised within their communities. While a strong sense of camaraderie and mutual support often existed within working-class communities, their opportunities for social advancement were severely restricted by their economic circumstances.

The Pull of Australia: Motivations for Emigration:

The decision to emigrate was rarely taken lightly, especially for those in the lower strata. For individuals in both second and third classes, Australia offered a variety of perceived benefits:

  • Economic Opportunity: This was the primary driver for most emigrants. Australia, with its expanding industries, agricultural potential, and ongoing infrastructure projects, promised jobs and the possibility of acquiring land. For the third class, this offered an escape from the cyclical unemployment and low wages of industrial England. For the second class, while perhaps not driven by immediate destitution, it offered a chance for greater financial independence and a less competitive professional landscape.
  • Land Ownership: The dream of owning land was a powerful allure, particularly for those accustomed to renting or living in cramped urban environments. Australia, with its vast open spaces, seemed to offer a realistic path to achieving this aspiration.
  • Escape from Social Constraints: For some, emigration represented an opportunity to shed the rigid social expectations and limitations of British society. This was particularly true for those who felt stifled by the class system or who sought a fresh start.
  • Adventure and a “New Life”: The romanticised image of the rugged, untamed Australian landscape, coupled with a sense of pioneering spirit, certainly played a role in the decision-making process for some.

Life in Edwardian England (1913) vs. Australia for Second-Class Emigrants:

The experience of a second-class individual emigrating to Australia in 1913 would have been a significant, though not necessarily catastrophic, departure from their English life.

  • Economic Realities:
  • England: Secure, comfortable income derived from professions, investments, or inherited wealth. Possibility of maintaining a household with domestic staff, enjoying leisure pursuits, and accessing quality goods and services.
  • Australia: While opportunities for professionals and those with capital existed, the initial adjustment could involve a reduction in immediate disposable income. The cost of living, particularly for imported goods, might be higher. Professional qualifications might not be recognized immediately, requiring a period of re-establishment. The dream of owning land was attainable, but it required significant upfront investment and considerable physical labour, a stark contrast to the life of a gentleman in England. They might find themselves engaging in more hands-on management of their affairs than they were accustomed to.
  • Social Landscape:
  • England: A well-defined social hierarchy. Access to established social clubs, networks, and prestige based on lineage and profession.
  • Australia: A less rigidly stratified society, particularly in the burgeoning colonial towns and rural areas. Social mobility was theoretically greater, and status was often earned through enterprise and success rather than solely inherited. However, a distinct colonial elite, often mirroring British class structures, still existed. Second-class emigrants might find themselves interacting with a wider range of social groups than they were used to, which could be both liberating and challenging. The absence of established familiar social institutions could lead to a sense of isolation.
  • Daily Life and Opportunities:
  • England: A life of routine, comfort, and established social obligations. Access to cultural amenities, established educational institutions, and a predictable social calendar.
  • Australia: A more rugged and practical existence. Daily life would likely be more focused on establishing a livelihood, whether through professional practice, managing a farm, or investing in nascent industries. Housing might be less grand initially. Access to sophisticated cultural offerings would be limited compared to English cities. However, opportunities for entrepreneurship and innovation were abundant. The “bush” lifestyle, while romantically appealing to some, would demand significant adaptation and resilience.
  • Key Differences: The most significant difference for a second-class emigrant would be the dilution of inherited privilege. While they might retain their education and professional skills, the automatic social deference they received in England would be less pronounced. They would need to prove themselves in a new context. The physical environment and the pace of life would also be a major adjustment, demanding a greater degree of self-reliance.

Life in Edwardian England (1913) vs. Australia for Third-Class Emigrants:

For third-class emigrants, the journey to Australia represented a more drastic transformation, offering the potential for a radical improvement in their material circumstances, but also presenting significant challenges.

  • Economic Realities:
  • England: Barely subsisting on low wages, facing chronic underemployment, and living in poverty. Limited access to nutritious food, adequate housing, and healthcare. The spectre of the workhouse loomed for many.
  • Australia: While wages might not be astronomically high, they were generally higher than in England for similar manual labour. The availability of work was often more consistent, especially in growing industries and agricultural sectors. Opportunities for land settlement, often with government assistance, were a key draw, offering a path towards self-sufficiency and eventual ownership. This was a stark contrast to the perpetual rented accommodation of their English lives.
  • Social Landscape:
  • England: A rigid class structure that severely limited social mobility. Interactions largely confined to their own class, with clear demarcations from those above.
  • Australia: While class distinctions certainly existed in Australia, they were often expressed differently. The shared experience of pioneering and hard work could foster a sense of egalitarianism amongst the working classes, at least in the early stages of settlement. Opportunities to interact with individuals from different backgrounds were more common in a less populated and developing society. However, established colonial society did attempt to replicate British class norms, and social hierarchies based on wealth and occupation would still emerge.
  • Daily Life and Opportunities:
  • England: Gruelling and often unhealthy working conditions, long hours, and limited leisure. Life was a constant struggle for survival.
  • Australia: Demanding physical labour, often in harsh environmental conditions (heat, drought, isolation). However, this labour was often rewarded with better wages and the prospect of owning land or establishing a small business. The concept of “mateship” and mutual support among fellow workers was crucial for survival and social connection. Daily life would be centred around hard work, but with the tangible reward of building a future for oneself and one’s family. Access to education might still be limited, but the opportunities for vocational training and on-the-job learning are present.
  • Key Differences: The most profound difference for third-class emigrants was the potential for tangible self-improvement and a sense of ownership. While the labour was arduous, it offered the promise of a better life, free from the grinding poverty and lack of prospects that defined their existence in England. The concept of “making something of yourself” was a more attainable reality in Australia, even if it required immense sacrifice. The sense of community would shift from the familiar, often insular, working-class neighbourhoods of England to a new reliance on fellow emigrants and settlers.

The Journey Itself:

The emigrant journey also served as a crucible, shaping the experience of class.

  • Second-Class Emigrants: Likely travelled in superior accommodation, with more comfortable berths and better food. The journey might have been perceived more as an extended holiday or a grand adventure, albeit with a purpose.
  • Third-Class Emigrants: Travelled in steerage, facing cramped and often unhygienic conditions for months. This shared hardship, however, could forge strong bonds and a sense of solidarity amongst fellow travellers, laying the groundwork for future community building in Australia. The journey itself was a harsh introduction to the realities of their new life.

Conclusion:

In 1913, the prospect of emigration to Australia for individuals from the second and third classes of Edwardian England offered vastly different trajectories. For the second class, it was a calculated risk, a stepping stone to potentially greater prosperity and a less stratified social existence, albeit at the cost of established comforts and social deference. They were trading one form of privilege for the potential of another, earned through enterprise. For the third class, emigration represented a more desperate gamble, a chance to escape the suffocating grip of poverty and lack of opportunity. While the physical labour would be immense and the challenges significant, Australia offered a concrete possibility of self-sufficiency, land ownership, and a future beyond the daily struggle for survival. The very definition of “class” in Australia, while not devoid of its own hierarchies, was often more fluid and dependent on individual effort and success. Ultimately, emigration to Australia in 1913 was not a uniform experience; for those from the second and third classes of Edwardian England, it was a divergence of pathways, each shaped by existing social structures and transformed by the promise and the reality of a new continent. The emigrant journey, therefore, served not only as a physical relocation but as a profound redefinition of class and opportunity.

Writing about writing a book – Research – 9

Background material used in researching the Vietnam was and various other aspects of that period

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Saigon in the sixties – heaven or hell

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Saigon’s Neon Oasis: Where Soldiers Found Solace Amidst the Vietnam War’s Peak

The Vietnam War was a brutal, relentless conflict, a landscape of jungle, mud, and unimaginable hardship. But for those serving, there were moments, brief and precious, when the war receded, replaced by the artificial glow of city lights, the clink of ice in a glass, and the distant thrum of rock and roll. This was Saigon, the dynamic, often chaotic capital of South Vietnam, a city that, at the peak of the war, became a paradoxical oasis for weary soldiers seeking escape.

Saigon was a city of stark, poignant contrasts. On one hand, it was the administrative and logistical heart of the war effort, a place of military compounds, constant vigilance, and ever-present tension. On the other, it pulsed with a vibrant, albeit often artificial, civilian life, offering a dazzling array of “entertainment” spots where GIs could, for a few hours, pretend they weren’t in a war zone.

Let’s take a stroll through the Saigon of the late 1960s, a city that learned to cater to the needs of soldiers desperate for a moment of normalcy.

The Gritty Glamour of the GI Bars

The most immediate and common escape for soldiers in Saigon was undoubtedly its bustling bar scene. Streets like Tou Do (later Dong Khoi) and Nguyen Hue were lined with establishments ranging from dimly lit dives to multi-level discos, each promising a temporary reprieve.

  • Hostess Bars: These were perhaps the most iconic. Girls, often dressed in traditional ao dai or fashionable Western clothes, would sit with soldiers, chat, dance, and encourage them to buy “Saigon Tea” (often watered-down drinks at inflated prices). The atmosphere was a potent mix of camaraderie, loneliness, longing, and sometimes, genuine connection amidst the transactional nature. Places like “The Caravelle Bar” (not the main hotel bar, but smaller adjacent spots), “The Blue Door,” and countless nameless establishments served as noisy, smoky havens.
  • Live Music Venues: Rock and roll was king. Bands, often local Vietnamese groups with surprisingly good English, belted out hits from the Rolling Stones, Beatles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Jimi Hendrix. These places were a cacophony of sound, laughter, and the clinking of bottles – a direct link to the world they’d left behind.
  • “Relaxation” Spots: Beyond the main drag, smaller, shadier alleys held a myriad of establishments offering various forms of “stress relief,” from massage parlors to more illicit activities. These spots catered to the darker side of desperation and the sheer animal need for comfort or oblivion.

A Taste of Home, A Taste of Elsewhere: Restaurants & Cafes

Food was another critical component of the escape. After weeks or months of C-rations, a proper meal was a luxury.

  • American Eateries: Many restaurants sprang up catering specifically to American tastes, serving steaks, burgers, fries, and milkshakes. These provided a comforting taste of home, a tangible link to a world without war.
  • French Influence: Saigon still bore the indelible mark of its French colonial past, and this was evident in its sophisticated dining scene. Soldiers could find excellent French cuisine, from rich stews to delicate pastries, and enjoy strong, aromatic Vietnamese coffee in elegant cafes.
  • Local Delights: For the more adventurous, the city offered an explosion of local flavors. Pho stalls, bustling street markets selling grilled meats and fresh spring rolls, and family-run restaurants serving traditional Vietnamese dishes were everywhere. While some soldiers stuck to what they knew, many embraced the opportunity to savor authentic local fare.

R&R: A Slice of Luxury and Normalcy

Beyond the quick escapes, many soldiers sought longer periods of Rest & Recuperation (R&R). While some went to destinations like Bangkok or Sydney, Saigon itself offered significant R&R opportunities, particularly for those on shorter breaks.

  • Luxury Hotels: The Hotel Caravelle, the Rex Hotel, and the Continental Palace were beacons of relative luxury. With air conditioning, swimming pools, attentive service, and fine dining, these hotels offered a temporary return to civilian life. Soldiers could shed their uniforms, don civilian clothes (often custom-tailored in Saigon’s famous tailor shops), and enjoy amenities that felt worlds away from their daily realities.
  • Shopping: Saigon was a shopper’s paradise. GIs could get custom-tailored suits or dresses made almost overnight, sending them home as gifts or wearing them during their R&R. There were also markets bustling with vendors selling silks, lacquerware, “gucci bags” (often fake, but still coveted), and trinkets of all kinds.
  • Movies & Bowling: For simpler diversions, Saigon had cinemas showing American films and even bowling alleys, offering familiar pastimes that helped to momentarily erase the war from their minds.

The Ever-Present Shadow

Despite the neon lights, the music, and the fleeting moments of normalcy, the war was an ever-present shadow. The sound of distant artillery, the occasional explosion from a VC attack, the sight of wounded soldiers being transported, and the sheer number of uniformed personnel served as constant reminders. The “entertainment” in Saigon was less about genuine joy and more about coping, about finding a temporary mental refuge from the relentless pressure and trauma of combat.

For soldiers at the peak of the Vietnam War, Saigon was a place of profound duality: a chaotic battlefield and a desperate sanctuary, a city that offered illusions of escape while continuously reminding them of the grim reality just beyond its glittering facade. It was a place where humanity, in all its complexity, struggled to find moments of solace, however brief, in the heart of conflict.

The 2am Rant: There are days when everything annoys you

I wanted to write a bit about how my day was going, and then I got angry.  It was a slow fuse because most of what I was angry about I’d been reading this morning.

And, yes, it’s about political leaders, those in power and those in opposition, and how inept they are in a crisis.

Listening to our opposition leader, briefly before I turned him off to watch a rerun of McHale’s Navy, it annoyed me that he had no answers to offer, only criticism.

Unfortunately, he’s not alone in the world.

Political leaders tended to blame everyone else for problems of their own making, whether it was when they were once in power, which happens a lot, or once they’re in opposition, conveniently forgetting they, too, hoped that by ignoring the problem, it might go away.

Or that the long-suffering public will have forgotten.  That’s why we have pugnacious journalists who remember for us.

The incompetence of the people who are supposedly in charge beggars belief.

Oh, God, I’m back on my soapbox.

Forgive me.

I’ll shut up about it now.

I’m trying to imagine what it’s like in the cold because it’s the height of summer here.  It’s not helping my imagination,  so let’s try…

It’s cold today, about 14 degrees Celsius, when it’s usually 27 degrees Celsius.  The sun is letting us down, and I suppose I should be grateful that we are not suffering from an ice age.

To be honest, I was seriously considering lighting the log fire.  Instead, we have reverse cycle air-conditioning, which is probably, in the long run, cheaper.

Have you seen how much it costs to buy wood?

But…

That could have made it difficult to write.

Not to come up with inspiration, but literally write, because my office is colder than a chiller room.  My beer in storage out here is colder than it is in the fridge.  Well, that sounded better in my head than on paper, but you get what I mean.

So, instead of writing, I sat down and binge-watched Sweet Magnolias, a light-hearted series from Netflix, which is of the same vein as Chesapeake Shores, etc, and more the sort of program I’d expect from Hallmark.

It was good.  It hooked me.

Three sets of lives intertwined in a large town in middle America perhaps.  I heard Charleston mentioned so perhaps it was in South Carolina.

The good thing about it?  Not one mention of political stupidity.

Just good old-fashioned heartache and trials and tribulations of trying to live your life, bumping up against the obstacles life throws up at you.

The town was called Serenity, so there’s a pun in there somewhere.

Maybe I’ll get some writing done tomorrow.

Research for the writing of a thriller – 1

Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle

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The premise

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The Powder Keg Conference: When Irony Meets Incitement in the Republic of Azmar

The world of international politics often serves up a certain dish of absurdity, but occasionally, the ingredients align for a truly catastrophic meal. We are witnessing such a geopolitical culinary disaster right now, brewing in the fictional Republic of Azmar.

Azmar is, by all measures, a textbook example of modern authoritarianism: a military dictatorship, financially and politically shielded by a major superpower, and helmed by President General Kroll, a man whose personal wealth seems to increase inversely to his country’s freedoms. The regime’s human rights abuses—disappearances, rigged judiciary, suppression of dissent—are not simply allegations; they are an open, festering secret among global watchdog organizations.

And yet, this week, Azmar is throwing a party.

The Irony Convention

In a move that strains the very definition of chutzpah, the Kroll regime is hosting the Global Summit for Progressive Human Rights Advancement.

The contrast is dizzying. While political prisoners languish in overcrowded, secret facilities, the capital city has been scrubbed clean. Banners proclaiming “Justice Through Dialogue” hang from lampposts. The state-run media is ecstatic, broadcasting endless interviews about Azmar’s commitment to “international transparency.”

The goal, of course, is not dialogue. It is legitimization. The conference is a Potemkin Village, a meticulously constructed facade designed to convince foreign investors and, more importantly, the regime’s international patrons that Azmar is a stable, reforming nation.

And perhaps the most volatile element of this stagecraft? The roster of attendees.

The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Keynote Speaker

The event has attracted truly renowned figures: Nobel Laureates, celebrated international lawyers, and veteran human rights defenders. These are people whose careers have been defined by fighting the very abuses Azmar exemplifies.

Why are they here? For some, it is the genuine belief that dialogue must occur, even with the devil. For others, it’s the hefty speaking fees and the promise of a global stage. Whatever the motivation, their presence offers the Kroll regime exactly what it craves: a veneer of institutional approval.

When a celebrated author stands at the podium, criticizing abstract concepts of oppression while simultaneously shaking hands with the architect of that oppression, the lines between principle and pragmatism blur dangerously. Their words, intended as a critique, are instead absorbed into the regime’s propaganda machine: “See? Even the world’s greatest thinkers endorse Azmar’s path forward.”

It is a tense, ethically compromised theatre. But the real drama is about to erupt just outside the conference hall.

The Return of the Ghost

For years, the domestic unrest in Azmar has been a low, continuous rumble—a simmering resentment against Kroll’s corruption and brutality. The memory of the previous government, the democratically elected administration deposed in the violent coup fifteen years ago, lingered like a ghost, kept alive only by hushed whispers.

That ghost has just materialized.

Simultaneously with the arrival of the international luminaries, news has swept through the Azmari underground that Elias Mendieta, the long-missing son of the deposed and disappeared president, has returned home.

Elias Mendieta represents everything President Kroll is not: legitimacy, democratic mandate, and the promise of a free Azmar. His return is not just political news; it is a profound symbolic act. It transforms simmering discontent into active incitement.

The Collision Course

The timing is either impossibly unlucky for President Kroll or perfectly calculated by Mendieta’s supporters.

Think about the dynamics now at play:

  1. Maximum Global Focus: The world’s major media outlets and human rights organizations are all focused on Azmar due to the conference.
  2. Maximum Internal Tension: The regime has poured all its resources into maintaining a facade of tranquility, meaning security forces are stretched and focused on keeping the peace in the capital’s diplomatic quarters.
  3. Maximum Ideological Threat: Elias Mendieta, the embodiment of popular resistance and democratic history, is now mobilizing supporters in the streets.

This is not a political confrontation that will play out in press releases. This is a dramatic, high-stakes collision.

If Mendieta attempts to make a dramatic public appearance, the regime faces an impossible choice:

  • Option A: Allow him to speak. This instantly delegitimizes the conference and risks igniting mass protests that could turn revolutionary.
  • Option B: Arrest or silence him violently. Doing so while Nobel Laureates are debating “the future of free expression” literally blocks away would shatter the carefully constructed facade and invite global condemnation, potentially forcing the major power propping up Kroll to finally step back.

The Republic of Azmar has prepared a gilded stage for a dialogue on human rights, but what is truly about to commence is a revolution.

What could possibly go wrong? Everything. And we are all watching the fuse burn down.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Lisbon

Lisbon Beyond the Postcard: 5 Things to Do When You’ve Already Mastered the Classics

You’ve done the pilgrimage. You’ve braved the crowds on Tram 28, queued for pastéis de nata in Belém, and navigated the steep, melancholic streets of Alfama. You’ve seen the sunset from a crowded miradouro, and you’ve felt the history radiating from the Jerónimos Monastery.

Congratulations. You’ve seen Lisbon.

But the true magic of the Portuguese capital doesn’t lie on the postcard; it thrives in the quiet corners, the industrial chic neighborhoods, and the views reserved only for those willing to wander a little further.

If you’re ready to move past the tourist checklist and dive into the real Lisboa, here are the next top five, road-less-travelled experiences waiting for you.

1. Get Lost in the Green Lungs: Parque Florestal de Monsanto

What it is: Lisbon’s massive, sprawling answer to Central Park, covering over 10 square kilometers of forest, trails, and panoramic views.

The moment tourists step off the plane, they head east toward the castle or south toward the river. They forget that the city is hugged by a surprisingly wild, untamed forest park to the west. Monsanto is where locals go to truly escape the urban bustle.

Forget the crowded views from São Jorge; Monsanto offers dozens of quiet, breathtaking overlooks. The ultimate gem here is the abandoned Panorâmico de Monsanto. Once a glamorous restaurant and viewing deck built in the 1960s, it now stands as a vast, graffiti-covered ruin.

While officially decommissioned, the views from this concrete shell are genuinely jaw-dropping, offering a 360-degree perspective of the entire city, the Tagus River, and the Atlantic beyond. It requires a bus or short taxi ride to reach, making it inconvenient enough to keep the crowds away.

  • Why it’s “Less Travelled”: It’s outside the central walking zone, requiring dedicated transport.
  • The Insider Tip: Go for sunrise or sunset. Bring good walking shoes and a tripod for unforgettable photos from the Panorâmico.

2. Sail Across the Tagus for Seafood Bliss at Cacilhas

What it is: A quick, inexpensive ferry ride across the Tagus River to the industrial-chic municipality of Almada, offering arguably the best views of the Lisbon skyline.

While the famous Vasco da Gama Bridge and the 25 de Abril Bridge dominate the skyline, taking a short trip on the iconic orange Cacilheiros ferry from Cais do Sodré is a true local experience. The destination, Cacilhas, feels a world away from the busy, boutique-lined streets of Chiado.

Instead of monuments, you find authentic, old-school Portugal. Head straight for Rua Cândido dos Reis, a street lined with incredible, reasonably priced seafood restaurants (marisqueiras). Dining here means indulging in freshly caught fish, grilled to perfection, and avoiding the tourist mark-up found in the city center.

Don’t miss the chance to walk a little further to the 110-meter-tall Cristo Rei statue. While Belem Tower is beautiful, viewing the city skyline with the entire Lisbon waterfront framed across the water is a perspective few tourists ever seek out.

  • Why it’s “Less Travelled”: Tourists rarely leave the Lisbon side of the river unless heading to the main beaches.
  • The Insider Tip: Try the restaurant Ponto Final for stunning riverside dining right on the water (reservations essential) or Solar dos Nunes for a cozier, highly authentic experience.

3. Explore Tile-Soaked History at the Museu Nacional do Azulejo

What it is: The National Tile Museum, housed in the magnificent former Convent of Madre de Deus, dedicated entirely to the history and artistry of Portugal’s defining cultural expression: the azulejo (painted ceramic tile).

While every street corner in Lisbon is adorned with beautiful tiles, few visitors dedicate the time to understand the profound history behind this art form. The Azulejo Museum may not sound as instantly thrilling as a castle, but it is essential to understanding the city’s identity.

Located slightly off the beaten track in the eastern suburbs (near Santa Apolónia), the museum showcases five centuries of ceramic evolution, from Moorish influence to Baroque grandeur. The real highlight is the stunning Great View of Lisbon—a 23-meter-long panel of tiles dating from 1738, depicting the city’s skyline before the devastating earthquake of 1755.

Walking through the ornate church and the quiet cloisters of the convent offers a peaceful, meditative experience far removed from the crush of the central museums.

  • Why it’s “Less Travelled”: Its location is slightly inconvenient, requiring a short taxi or specific bus route.
  • The Insider Tip: Take time to admire the stunning, gold-leaf-laden chapel inside the former convent—it rivals those in Belém.

4. Discover the Industrial Grit of Marvila (Lisbon’s Brooklyn)

What it is: A rapidly gentrifying, formerly industrial neighborhood east of the Parque das Nações, now home to warehouses converted into craft breweries, contemporary art spaces, and cutting-edge gastronomy.

If you’re looking for Lisbon’s hip, creative heartbeat—the neighborhood where young artists and entrepreneurs are truly setting up shop—it’s Marvila. It lacks the historic charm of Alfama but makes up for it with raw, industrial energy.

This is the perfect spot for the craft beer enthusiast. Marvila boasts a strip of excellent breweries operating out of converted warehouses, including Musa and Dois Corvos. Unlike the tourist taverns, these spots offer excellent local brews, complex menus, and a true sense of community.

Beyond the beer, Marvila is home to massive art galleries and unique cultural hubs that are constantly changing, reflecting a contemporary Lisbon that is dynamic and forward-looking.

  • Why it’s “Less Travelled”: It’s still transitioning and is primarily a local destination, far from the central tourist loop.
  • The Insider Tip: Visit on a weekend afternoon to enjoy the buzzing atmosphere at the breweries when they often have food trucks or live music.

5. Trade Sintra’s Fairytale Crowds for the Coastal Calm of Ericeira

What it is: A traditional fishing town located about 45 minutes north of Lisbon, designated as Europe’s only World Surfing Reserve.

Sintra is spectacular, but during peak season, it can feel more like an amusement park than a historical site. For a coastal day trip that delivers beauty, tradition, and relaxation, head to Ericeira.

While it’s internationally famous among surfers for its diverse reef and beach breaks, the town itself maintains an incredible, whitewashed village charm. Here, you’ll find narrow, winding streets, blue-and-white houses, and excellent local bakeries selling regional specialties (ouriços and tâmaras).

The atmosphere is noticeably slower and more authentic than that of the tourist hub of Cascais. Spend the day watching the surfers at Ribeira d’Ilhas, wander through the historic center, and enjoy a spectacular ocean-view meal featuring the freshest catch of the day.

  • Why it’s “Less Travelled”: It requires a dedicated bus journey (or car hire) and is often overlooked in favor of the more marketed Sintra or Cascais.
  • The Insider Tip: Have lunch at a traditional marisqueira near the fishing port to ensure the fish was caught that morning.

The Next Chapter of Your Lisbon Story

Lisbon is a city of layers. Once you peel back the vibrant, initial layer of historic landmarks and Fado-filled taverns, you discover a deeper, more rewarding experience.

These five spots are not just alternatives; they are invitations. They invite you to slow down, cross the river, explore the urban edge, and understand the real, living pulse of one of Europe’s most exciting capitals.

Have you explored any of these hidden Lisbon gems? Share your favourite road less travelled experience in the comments below!

What I learned about writing – History is what you make of it

What happened yesterday is history, but that’s not necessarily how we view what is history and what isn’t.

Similarly what is and what isn’t history is usually decided on by academics, because history texts that are used in schools are not written by ‘the man in the street’ authors. They’re usually university types who specialise in a particular field, or specialise section of history.

Even then one doubts that what is written is not a consensus of a panel.

So, when we talk about re-writing history, that takes a very brave bunch of people who want to buck the norm.

Our history, that which was taught when I went to school,. about our own country, Australia, started in 1770. Some brave soul tried to say it began earlier than that, before Captain Cook and the British arrived, out up a flag pole, and declared it belonged to Britain, like in 1606 when the Dutch explorer Willem Janszoon landed on the Cape York peninsula, only it wasn’t called that then.

And he might have been as surprised as Captain Cook that there were people here to observe their arrival. Yes, people had been living in this country for tens of thousands of years before the Europeans arrived.

But that was not what we were taught. No, Captain Cook, 1770, the a fleet of ships in 1788, and off we run as a new country, and a dumping ground for Britain’s convicts. Our history starts there, and then meanders through time, dividing the country up into states, having famous explorers like Burke and Wills, and Blaxland, Wentworth, and Lawson, Hume and Hovell.

And we commemorate all these people and those who were in charge over the years, with names of states, cities, rivers, mountains, everything under the sun. You’ve only got to glance at the list of hundreds of these forefathers and explorers to see just how many places in this country were named after them.

No heed was taken of what they may have been called before because no one really understood the languages of the first people who lived here. And they never seem to rate as a matter of study for us children back then.

Now, as people have begun to realise our history goes way, way back, and that there should be a nod to those inhabitants, they are considering re-writing some of our history to incorporate these people. And change the names of places to their original. A famous instance of recent renaming is of Ayers Rock, now called Uluru.

Even then, Australian History didn’t rate very highly, and I have to say, as a child at school 50 odd years ago, I learned more about the British Empire/Commonwealth, and about the English kings and queens, than we did about our own Governor Generals, Prime Ministers and State Premiers.

Could I tell you the name of our first Prime Minister? No. I can say when Australia became Australia, yes. 1901. Can I tell you the first King of England? Yes, William the Conqueror in 1066. There were kings before that but they only ruled of parts of England.

But over the years since I have read the odd book of Australian History but for some reason it never quite seems as colourful or as interesting as that of England or Scotland, or even some of the European countries.

Now, since I’ve been reading about what’s happening in the United States I have begin to take an interest in American history, and it, too, seems to suffer the same problems we have with ours, a bunch of academics decided what it was, and what it would not include, and then there is this thing called the 1619 project.

Wow, that seems to have stirred up a hornet’s nest.

Can’t wait to see what happens next.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Athens

Athens: The Road Less Travelled – Your Next Five Unforgettable Discoveries

Athens. The very name conjures images of ancient wonders: the majestic Acropolis, the bustling Plaka, the grandeur of the Parthenon. And rightly so – these iconic sites are breathtaking and essential to any first-time visit. But what if you’ve already stood in awe of the Caryatids, navigated the labyrinthine streets of Plaka, or found yourself yearning for something beyond the well-trodden tourist path?

Athens is a city of layers, a vibrant tapestry where ancient history brushes shoulders with modern grit, bohemian charm, and serene coastal beauty. For the curious traveller eager to dig a little deeper, to uncover the authentic soul of this magnificent metropolis, a wealth of hidden gems awaits.

So, if you’re ready to venture beyond the postcards, here are the next top five things to do or see in Athens, proving that the road less travelled truly leads to unforgettable discoveries:

1. Lose Yourself in Anafiotika: An Island Village in the City

Nestled directly under the shadow of the Acropolis, yet often overlooked, lies Anafiotika. This tiny, picturesque neighbourhood feels like a Cycladic island village magically transplanted to the heart of Athens. Built by craftsmen from the island of Anafi who came to Athens in the 19th century to work on King Otto’s palace, they created homes reminiscent of their homeland.

Why it’s unique: Whitewashed cubic houses, impossibly narrow alleys, vibrant bougainvillea, and sleepy cats create an atmosphere of serene timelessness. It’s an oasis of calm that feels a world away from the city’s hustle and bustle, despite being just steps from the tourist throng.

What to do: Wander aimlessly. Get wonderfully lost. Discover hidden churches, admire the unique architecture, and soak in the tranquil ambience. It’s a photographer’s dream and a perfect spot for quiet contemplation.

Pro Tip: Go early in the morning or late in the afternoon to avoid the crowds and catch the best light. Allow yourself to simply be rather than rushing through.

2. Embrace the Bohemian Heart of Exarchia

For a taste of Athens’ alternative, intellectual, and slightly rebellious spirit, head to Exarchia. This neighbourhood is a vibrant hub of students, artists, and activists, known for its lively squares, independent bookstores, vintage shops, and some of the city’s most striking street art.

Why it’s unique: Exarchia offers a raw, unfiltered view of contemporary Athenian life. It’s a place of passionate debate, political murals, and a strong sense of community. It’s not sanitised for tourists; it’s authentic, edgy, and exhilarating.

What to do: Explore the captivating street art, grab a coffee at one of the bustling cafes on Exarchia Square, browse the unique bookstores (many with English sections), or catch a live music performance in a local bar. The open-air cinema, Cine Vox, is also a summer highlight.

Pro Tip: While generally safe during the day, be aware of your surroundings, especially at night. It’s a place to observe and soak in the atmosphere respectfully, rather than overtly act like a tourist.

3. Savour the Culinary & Cultural Delights of Pangrati

Just a stone’s throw from the Panathenaic Stadium (the site of the first modern Olympic Games), but much less explored by visitors, lies Pangrati. This charming, upscale residential neighbourhood is a true Athenian gem, celebrated for its fantastic food scene, stylish boutiques, and relaxed, local vibe.

Why it’s unique: Pangrati is where Athenians go to eat, drink, and socialise. You’ll find traditional tavernas serving authentic Greek dishes alongside trendy cafes, wine bars, and gourmet restaurants. It’s less about ancient ruins and more about experiencing daily Athenian life.

What to do: Embark on a self-guided food tour, hopping from ouzeri (meze bar) to taverna for delicious local specialities. Visit the Goulandris Museum of Contemporary Art for a dose of modern culture, or simply enjoy a leisurely coffee and watch the world go by in one of its leafy squares.

Pro Tip: Don’t miss the chance to try a koulouri (sesame bread ring) from a street vendor or indulge in a traditional bougatsa (custard-filled pastry) for breakfast.

4. Unwind by the Athenian Riviera & Lake Vouliagmeni

Who knew Athens had a stunning coastline easily accessible from the city centre? Escape the urban heat and discover the Athenian Riviera, a beautiful stretch of coastline dotted with beaches, marinas, and charming seaside towns. A particular highlight is Lake Vouliagmeni.

Why it’s unique: This natural thermal lake, nestled in a breathtaking setting, is a hidden wellness oasis. Its brackish waters are constantly refreshed by both the sea and underground thermal springs, maintaining a year-round temperature of 22-29°C (71-84°F). It’s home to natural fish spa therapies and is rich in minerals.

What to do: Swim in the therapeutic waters of Lake Vouliagmeni, relax on the sunbeds, or enjoy a coffee with a view. Further along the Riviera, explore the chic beaches of Glyfada or enjoy fresh seafood at a coastal taverna.

Pro Tip: Take the tram (T6 from Syntagma Square), which runs along the coast, offering scenic views and easy access to various spots along the Riviera. It’s a fantastic half or full-day escape.

5. Embark on a Street Art Safari in Metaxourgeio & Kerameikos

While Exarchia offers a glimpse, the neighbourhoods of Metaxourgeio and Kerameikos are increasingly becoming an open-air gallery showcasing some of Athens’ most powerful and poignant street art. These areas, once neglected, are undergoing a renaissance, with art playing a significant role in their transformation.

Why it’s unique: Beyond mere graffiti, you’ll discover huge, intricate murals by renowned Greek and international artists that tell stories, provoke thought, and add vibrant colour to the urban landscape. It’s a dynamic, ever-changing exhibition that reflects the pulse of the city.

What to do: Take a guided street art tour (many local companies offer them) to understand the history and meaning behind the pieces, or simply wander with an open mind and a camera. You’ll find works ranging from political commentary to whimsical fantasies. Afterwards, enjoy a drink in one of Metaxourgeio’s trendy bars.

Pro Tip: Don’t just look at the big pieces; pay attention to smaller, intricate stencils and tags that reveal hidden gems around every corner. Keep an eye out for commissioned works as well as more anarchic expressions.

Athens is a city that rewards the curious, the adventurous, and those willing to step a little off the beaten path. While the ancient marvels will always be its cornerstone, these five “next steps” offer a richer, more diverse, and deeply authentic immersion into the heart and soul of this incredible European capital. So, pack your bags, lace up your comfortable shoes, and prepare to discover the Athens you never knew existed!

What hidden gems have you discovered in Athens? Share your favourite “road less travelled” spots in the comments below!

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where, are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence.  And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way, down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised, I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Others, people I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed, and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe, if he were, that he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

Research for the writing of a thriller – 1

Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle

…

The premise

…

The Powder Keg Conference: When Irony Meets Incitement in the Republic of Azmar

The world of international politics often serves up a certain dish of absurdity, but occasionally, the ingredients align for a truly catastrophic meal. We are witnessing such a geopolitical culinary disaster right now, brewing in the fictional Republic of Azmar.

Azmar is, by all measures, a textbook example of modern authoritarianism: a military dictatorship, financially and politically shielded by a major superpower, and helmed by President General Kroll, a man whose personal wealth seems to increase inversely to his country’s freedoms. The regime’s human rights abuses—disappearances, rigged judiciary, suppression of dissent—are not simply allegations; they are an open, festering secret among global watchdog organizations.

And yet, this week, Azmar is throwing a party.

The Irony Convention

In a move that strains the very definition of chutzpah, the Kroll regime is hosting the Global Summit for Progressive Human Rights Advancement.

The contrast is dizzying. While political prisoners languish in overcrowded, secret facilities, the capital city has been scrubbed clean. Banners proclaiming “Justice Through Dialogue” hang from lampposts. The state-run media is ecstatic, broadcasting endless interviews about Azmar’s commitment to “international transparency.”

The goal, of course, is not dialogue. It is legitimization. The conference is a Potemkin Village, a meticulously constructed facade designed to convince foreign investors and, more importantly, the regime’s international patrons that Azmar is a stable, reforming nation.

And perhaps the most volatile element of this stagecraft? The roster of attendees.

The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Keynote Speaker

The event has attracted truly renowned figures: Nobel Laureates, celebrated international lawyers, and veteran human rights defenders. These are people whose careers have been defined by fighting the very abuses Azmar exemplifies.

Why are they here? For some, it is the genuine belief that dialogue must occur, even with the devil. For others, it’s the hefty speaking fees and the promise of a global stage. Whatever the motivation, their presence offers the Kroll regime exactly what it craves: a veneer of institutional approval.

When a celebrated author stands at the podium, criticizing abstract concepts of oppression while simultaneously shaking hands with the architect of that oppression, the lines between principle and pragmatism blur dangerously. Their words, intended as a critique, are instead absorbed into the regime’s propaganda machine: “See? Even the world’s greatest thinkers endorse Azmar’s path forward.”

It is a tense, ethically compromised theatre. But the real drama is about to erupt just outside the conference hall.

The Return of the Ghost

For years, the domestic unrest in Azmar has been a low, continuous rumble—a simmering resentment against Kroll’s corruption and brutality. The memory of the previous government, the democratically elected administration deposed in the violent coup fifteen years ago, lingered like a ghost, kept alive only by hushed whispers.

That ghost has just materialized.

Simultaneously with the arrival of the international luminaries, news has swept through the Azmari underground that Elias Mendieta, the long-missing son of the deposed and disappeared president, has returned home.

Elias Mendieta represents everything President Kroll is not: legitimacy, democratic mandate, and the promise of a free Azmar. His return is not just political news; it is a profound symbolic act. It transforms simmering discontent into active incitement.

The Collision Course

The timing is either impossibly unlucky for President Kroll or perfectly calculated by Mendieta’s supporters.

Think about the dynamics now at play:

  1. Maximum Global Focus: The world’s major media outlets and human rights organizations are all focused on Azmar due to the conference.
  2. Maximum Internal Tension: The regime has poured all its resources into maintaining a facade of tranquility, meaning security forces are stretched and focused on keeping the peace in the capital’s diplomatic quarters.
  3. Maximum Ideological Threat: Elias Mendieta, the embodiment of popular resistance and democratic history, is now mobilizing supporters in the streets.

This is not a political confrontation that will play out in press releases. This is a dramatic, high-stakes collision.

If Mendieta attempts to make a dramatic public appearance, the regime faces an impossible choice:

  • Option A: Allow him to speak. This instantly delegitimizes the conference and risks igniting mass protests that could turn revolutionary.
  • Option B: Arrest or silence him violently. Doing so while Nobel Laureates are debating “the future of free expression” literally blocks away would shatter the carefully constructed facade and invite global condemnation, potentially forcing the major power propping up Kroll to finally step back.

The Republic of Azmar has prepared a gilded stage for a dialogue on human rights, but what is truly about to commence is a revolution.

What could possibly go wrong? Everything. And we are all watching the fuse burn down.