Suzey Ingold


New Horizons: One Week in Morocco

My life has very much been centred in the north. My ancestry is entirely northern, I’ve lived in the north, learned of the north through my childhood and beyond. The interest and desire to discover something so utterly different certainly isn’t a new one – I think I have always had a curiosity for tales that extended south, particularly those spanning the belt from Morocco at the most western point across, through Egypt, and into parts of Asia. An entire wealth of different places and peoples and cultures to discover and learn of, likely so very different from what I knew. 

Morocco probably fell quickly to the top of my list because my brother had been there, although I remember little of the stories he told me past the camels, which for whatever reason always stuck in my memory. I went in search of an experience different to any I had found before and what I got in return was that to an extent that I couldn’t even have dreamed of. 

I will likely forget many things in this account and even more likely is that I still won’t quite be able to piece together everything I encountered. I feel like day to day, I’m still processing the time I spent there, the surreality of it all making it seem almost like a dream as I sit in my quiet apartment in Toronto under the pattering of rain from a cloudy sky. 

But, regardless: here is an incomplete account of my time in a truly unique place. And, if you’d like to see a little of what I experienced there, click here to watch a collation of clips I took while I was there. 

Arriving jet-lagged and more than a little dazed to the beautiful blues of the riad that would be our home for the week, I felt as though I’d instantly sunk into an entirely new world. My tired body was taken to the hammam spa which, despite the forewarnings I’d been given on what I was about to encounter, certainly woke me up. A brisk woman led me into a room, my basic French aiding me enough that I could understand her instructions. I was to leave all my clothes in one room before I was taken, naked, to a steam-filled chamber. 

Before I could warm too much, a bucket of water was thrown at me before she began her liberal scrubbing, mumbling things under her breath now and then that I couldn’t make sense of. She gestured to a pot of something slick and black and pointed to her eyes. I blinked at her, baffled. Was I supposed to put it in my eyes? Not put it in my eyes? I decided the latter.

Satisfied, at least for the time being, she gestured to the wooden-slatted bench at floor level. I understood that I was to lie down and did as instructed. Without another word, she left the room. I lay on the hard wooden bench and stared up at the domed, tiled ceiling. She can’t have been gone for more than ten minutes at most but it felt like a lifetime as I lay under a cloud of steam, very aware that I was lying completely naked in a room in a house full of strangers. Relaxing, the experience perhaps wasn’t, but as the process continued on her return, my skin certainly benefited from it.

I was less alarmed the second and third times she left the room, going through the stages at each step. Get up, bucket of water, vigorous scrubbing, lie down. It didn’t do much for my dazed state, perhaps, but I felt as immediately immersed into the ways of the place as I could have ever been.

When I stepped out of the shower after my scrub-down, the sky was almost dark outside the window. But not dark in any kind of way I was used to but thick with something. The closest thing I could think was like a great mist had settled over the landscape. There was a sound, too, almost like falling rain. Was it raining? I peered through the curved ironwork of the window and determined that the ground was most definitely dry. 

The wind picked up over the next hour, the palm trees in the garden nearly pulled horizontal from the force of it. We sat inside and stared out as the storm ravaged. It was only when I rubbed sand from the corner of my eye that I realised what it was – a sand storm. 

As quick as it came, it was over, by which time the darkness of night had fallen. A thin layer of sand coated our windowsill but otherwise, there was no sign of what had just passed. We opened back up the doors onto the patio and the friendly neighbourhood newt scuttled back outside.

What I hadn’t taken into account was the many different landscapes of a country like Morocco, of which I was lucky to see a wide selection of. The coastal city of Essaouira felt far more European in style, the city walls that lined the sea reminding me a lot of Dubrovnik’s Old Town in Croatia. The sea breeze was welcome, and the last of its kind that we would feel for the duration of our hot trip, although it also served to carry the smell of the fish throughout the many winding alleys. Men lined up along the walls, knives in hand and fish before them; others, five or six to the task, pushing sailing boats down to the water’s edge. Market stalls tucked into archways of the walls selling handmade wares, quiet compared to up above, where the waves crashed against the rocky shore. 

Fishing boats in Essaouira

Fishing boats in Essaouira

Our guide took us through the many streets and it was my first glimpse into the way of the people of Morocco. He told us of (and forgive me if this account has any missing details) how one of the mosques there played their call to prayers at slightly different times due to the position of a Jewish household in that part of the town. We would be told many times by different guides and people we met, but I was quickly struck by the warmth and sense of community that seems to exist with Moroccans, that goes above religion. There are still Jewish and Christian communities, as well as Islamic, seemingly cohabiting without religious persecution being such an issue as it has been in many other places in the world.

Essaouira was a calm respite compared to Marrakech, a bustling and chaotic city where I was particularly relieved to have the expertise of the guide with us to help navigate. We did a whistle-stop tour of the sights: the beautiful hues of Jardin Majorelle, followed by the exquisite tiling of Bahia Palace, before we would face the most chaotic part of all. 

Despite my generally quite good sense of direction, the souks are not something I think I would easily learn to navigate (and I did try). The winding market streets seem to loop in circles around one another, every row packed with stalls stacked floor to ceiling with their wares. It was a relief when we finally found our way out into the main market square where the light was fast fading.

The moon glowed above as dusk settled over the city. But nightfall did not by any means bring about any less life or business to the square. We stood by dozens of lanterns being sold, each lit and burning a candle, glowing against the ground. I gazed around at the cafés lining the perimeter, the stalls stacked with everything imaginable. One cart simply had a live peacock sat atop it, for reasons I could not ascertain. 

Bright lights in the market square, even after dark

Bright lights in the market square, even after dark

Different again, would be the journey we began the next day. Out of the city and high up through the Atlas Mountains, beginning our trek towards Sahara Desert. 

“All this time the Sahara has lain patiently beyond the peaks of the Atlas biding its moment, and no one has given a thought to it.” - Peter Mayne, A Year in Marrakech (1953)

But we had thought of it, often. The chaos of Marrakech felt like a distant memory as we saw less and less people, stopping here and there in our journey. On a roadside with a view towards Ait Ben Haddou, a man was selling various trinkets while another sat with a snake at his feet. We reached Ait Ben Haddou itself shortly after our stop and spent a few hours exploring the winding pathways up to the top of the the hill with a view over the landscape.

A panoramic view of Ait Ben Haddou

A panoramic view of Ait Ben Haddou

It was like nothing I’d ever seen before, a place where time seemed irrelevant. It could have been present day or it could have been a hundred years earlier, it would seem as though it would be the same. A man walked his donkey down the pathway of the dried up river, the intensive sun giving no relief even as it began to set. We drank mint tea with a view to the below and I felt almost overwhelmed with it all. And we hadn’t even reached the Sahara yet.

A night in Ourrzazate, a particular delight for me given that it is known as the Hollywood of Morocco, to rest and regain our strength for the next part of the journey to come. We were welcomed into a family’s home for lunch that day, the warmth and hospitality of the Moroccan people shining through again with such intensity.

Nothing could have prepared me for the vast expanse of the Sahara Desert, the destination to our many hours of travel through the country. We switched out of the bus into 4x4s in Merzouga and sped into the dunes, hurtling up and over the sand. The sand itself is so rich in colour, almost a burnt orange, compared to what I am used to knowing as sand. So soft, too, your feet being enveloped into it as you sink on every step. 

The campsite was beautiful, the common area laden with rugs and cushions around a fire pit that would be lit when darkness fell. Our sleeping tents were more than luxurious, although we didn’t have much time to consider that when we first arrived, as we quickly raced to meet our camels for sunset.

That isn’t a sentence I’d ever thought I’d write, incidentally.

Our little camel trains departed west, towards the setting sun. The camel behind me took a particular liking to me, nuzzling at my leg as we rode. It felt, and still does, like a dream: that I watched the sun set in the Sahara Desert from the top of a camel. 



What made it so special, too, was that it wasn’t as though we just visited the desert. We ate dinner in the desert, we danced in the desert, we sat around a fire and listened to traditional drumming in the desert. We slept in the desert. We awoke to watch the sunrise in the desert and ate breakfast on the top of a sand dune, in the desert. I cried in the desert but that might be a story I keep to myself, at least for now.

I sat on top of a sand dune that night and stared out an enormous, glowing crescent moon, with just thousands upon thousands of stars above my head. The world seemed, at that moment, so vast, and myself such a small speck in it. There has been so much world, and so much life, and so it will continue. But this moment here, this was a moment that I experienced and would always have in my memory. 

Sunrise in the Sahara

Sunrise in the Sahara

I spent a lot of the long journey back to Marrakech reflecting on the past couple of days. I was lost in my own thoughts, mostly, turning things around in my mind. Even as we stopped in the town of Rissani, walking through the little market there. A place rich with smells, some more pleasant than others, as the spice stalls gave way to the meat stalls. A row of scrawny cats sat gazing up at the meat stall in an otherwise quiet street. 

As part of the trip I was on, we were given the opportunity to take part in a guided meditation on our last evening in Morocco. We sat together around the fountain in the middle of the riad and shared our thoughts on our experience there and the trip, and I was struck with how I very clearly wasn’t the only one who had been affected by this immersion into a new world. All of us had some myriad of thoughts or feelings that had been with us for the week, or longer even. The coming together of all of our voices after the week spent in such an incredible place felt so poignant and important.

I returned to Toronto feeling reset and refocused. This year has been an odd one: I’ve frequently felt as though I’m on a ship in a storm, being tossed this way and that, scrambling to find my feet on unsteady decks. Pulling myself out of my normal, my everyday, and into something so very different was the time I needed to set myself the right way up, clear my head, and refocus to where I go next in my life. I’m pleased to say I have just recently secured a full-time, permanent job (me! I know!) and I am very much looking forward to the stability that this new chapter of my life will bring.

I have a lot to process still, a lot of residual thoughts and feelings to navigate my way through. But I’ve come away from my time with a feeling of positivity to the future and what comes next. That, for me, is the power of travelling.


The Logistical Bits, for anyone who might be curious

    • I flew Air France from Toronto to Marrakech via Paris.

    • I travelled with a women’s tour company called The Girls Trip.

    • I stayed one week in Morocco – five of those nights in a traditional riad in Palmeraie, outside of the centre of Marrakech, one in a hotel in Ourrzazate, and one in the Sahara camp. All of this was arranged and covered by the tour.

    • I visited Essaouira as a day trip only.

    • I visited over the first week of October; temperatures ranged from roughly a low of 25C to a high of 42C.

    • If anyone has any other specific questions, do reach out and I’ll do my best to answer!

Suzey IngoldComment
Lessons from My Father

In my parents’ house, my mother keeps a shelf of photos of her relatives. These formal portraits, each housing a stern-faced aunt or grandmother or the like stared down at me as a child. Even without having ever having met most of them, I have long felt as though they have a presence in my life. The strong influence of the women in my family, on both sides, has never left me, and into my work, it’s an influence that has carried on. I’ve been fortunate, particularly in my line of work, to be frequently managed by or working alongside a whole cohort of wonderful women. 

From my working life to my home life, surrounded by aunts and sister-in-laws and, later, a niece, too, I have felt myself learn and grow from all of them and their vast array of experience and knowledge. It was something I would frequently acknowledge and be grateful for but with three older brothers besides, I certainly had some male influence, too. My relationship with each of my brothers is something I’ve long been confident in, in what role each of them plays in my life, in who is the best source of support in any particular situation.

But my relationship with my father is something that has only really solidified itself over the past couple of years. The block of conflict I have chunked out in my mind as being such a large part of my relationship with him during my teenage years often causes me to overlook all the many things I have learned from him throughout my life.

It was a realisation I came to perhaps most prominently this summer. It was a chilly evening in the Finnish countryside, the sun on the verge of setting as I steered the rowboat back towards the jetty. My father sat on the end of the jetty, awaiting my return.

“Your mother sent me,” he called out. I could have as well guessed.

I rolled my eyes. “I know how to row,” I protested, always a tad more petulant in the company of my parents than I am otherwise, as I suspect most of us are.

“I know you do.” 

I hopped out and splashed barefoot into the cool lake water as he walked round to help me to pull the boat up onto shore. 

Of course he knew I could row because he was the one who taught me. The one who quietly bore the weight when I would triumphantly declare I was rowing far before I had the strength to tug the whole weight of the wooden oars through the water. 

A familiar scene.

A familiar scene.

Many of the lessons were ones learned in this same place, the yard of our cottage my training ground into the lay of the land. When faced with a wood-burning sauna last year, having ventured out to a different summer cottage with my brother and his family, I took charge of lighting the fires. A careful construction of logs and the secret ingredient, birch bark, quickly taking up a roaring heat, observed by my niece and nephew who crouched behind me with intent gazes.

“How do you know how to do that?” My niece asked, I think perhaps a little dumb-founded by the countryside version of her aunt who appeared to be a bit more handy than her city-living counterpart.

“From watching my dad – your grandpa.”

All other questions were halted at that point so that no small hands would get scorched by hot things.

There are, however, some things my father tried to teach me that he did not succeed at. There was the first and last time he took me out driving when I didn’t know the difference between the speed dials on his dashboard and nearly took out a cyclist going 50 miles an hour down the beach boulevard. His attempts at teaching me to swim were similarly disastrous to the point of his believed success having me emerging coughing up a lungful of water. 

I suppose you could say my father taught me my hunter and gatherer skills which as an anthropologist, I’m sure he’ll get a chuckle out of even if no one else does. I can navigate a forest and row a boat because of my father. I can start a fire and toast sausages because of my father. I can shoot a bow and arrow and even make the bow myself because of my father. 

But some of it is less grit and mortar as all that. I can pick myself up and dust myself off after a rough time and try again because of my father. I can hold my own in any argument, philosophical or otherwise, because of my father. I can quote scores of children’s books and have an extensive knowledge of Elvis Presley’s Greatest Hits because of my father.


I am a sum of my parts and one of those parts is the lessons I have learned from my father, even in my most stubborn moments. We are, in many ways, far more similar people than I often acknowledge. We both work too hard, and care too much, and have a synchronised response of “let me just finish this sentence!” when called to a mealtime. I’ll continue to learn from him in the years to come and I wonder, maybe, if he’ll learn a thing or two from me in return.

Suzey IngoldComment
Reconciling Parts of Oneself

Someone once told me something that stuck deep: you can never go back. At the time, we were talking about returning to places that might have once felt like home, and how quickly that can shift. As you move, place to place or project to project, you change. And returning to a place you once were means trying to fit the version of you that you are now – the newer, fresher version – into a landscape that once housed the older model.

I had never felt this quite so strongly as when I returned to Edinburgh at the start of the summer. A city I’d lived in for six years, to work with a film festival I’d been at for nearly as many rounds, in a role I’d done before. It should have been like seamlessly slipping back into a role I’d played a hundred times over but I very quickly became aware of how out of step I felt. I retraced old routes of the beautiful winding city that is Edinburgh and felt like a stranger to the rhythms of the cobblestones. The only thing that felt in some way normal was the friends I saw in the time I was there, maybe because they were already expecting the slightly different version of Suzey. They were prepared and welcoming of any change – but the city was not so forgiving.

However Edinburgh may feel to me now… They do a real special sunset

However Edinburgh may feel to me now… They do a real special sunset

It felt strange, too, to feel so out of sync with a city that, in a sense, made me who I am. It was in Edinburgh that I became a writer. It was in Edinburgh that I made many of my lifelong friends. It was in Edinburgh that I grew into someone that would be capable of moving by themselves to a completely different continent. 

It was also in Edinburgh that I took my first steps into what would become my career. It was in Edinburgh, and through the incredible guidance and mentorship of some of the people that I’ve had the pleasure to work with over the years, that I turned “well, I quite like films, I guess”, in 2014, into working nearly full-time in the industry, by 2019.

This disconnect from a city that was such an important part of my development also further confused my sense of self. If I took out the Edinburgh, having never felt quite at home in Aberdeen, where did that leave me? Never sure whether to describe myself as English, or Scottish, or British to start with, everything seemed that much more convoluted. 

From Edinburgh, I again flew east, towards Finland. And there came the whole other part to the puzzle. Unlike my brothers, for one reason or another, I have always strongly identified with my Finnish side. When asked, I will pretty consistently describe myself as being half English/Scottish/British (chosen term typically depending on my mood, or the politics, on the day in question) and half Finnish. I have never lived there, never spending more than a few weeks out of the year in the country but I hold to my citizenship dearly and speak the language just as best as I can. Certainly, when people learn of my Finnish heritage, a look of understanding crosses their face.

Ah,” they say. “That’s it.”

My accent may be hard to place, shifting and assimilating so much that I have gone from such extremes as being mistaken as being from the Highlands one month to the U.S. the next, but I do look incredibly Nordic. (This comes both from my English/Scottish/British side as it does my Finnish but that’s a story for another day).

Perhaps it is my relationship with my mother that roots me so deeply into my Finnish side. Being as close to her as I am, maybe that’s what makes it so important to me that I do not lose that. I said as much to her this summer, after attending my cousin’s wedding, the first Finnish family event I’ve been to in living memory. I was determined not to lose this link: not my language, not my citizenship, and, fundamentally, not the relationship with what relatives I have there. 

Home from home from home from home – out in the Finnish countryside

Home from home from home from home – out in the Finnish countryside

I danced with my cousin at her wedding and a look crossed upon both of our faces at how surreal it was. We had not spent time together as adults, ever. The last time I’d seen her, I’d been an awkward pre-teen with a penchant for bright red skinny jeans. (God, I wish I could go back in time and burn those things, I really do). 

There are parts of ourselves that we carry with us that are always present and there are parts that once were, and no longer are. At one time, Edinburgh was home, but now it is not. I once lived in Aberdeen but it was never really home. I am Finnish but I am also English/Scottish/British, or some combination of the lot.

We are all many things. I am a writer, and a film industry professional, and a very amateur tap dancer. I am a daughter, and a sister, and an aunt, and a friend. I am more than I was yesterday and less than I will be tomorrow, or next week, or next year. 

We can’t go back. But would we really want to?

Suzey IngoldComment
17 Hours in Iceland

“It’s surreal,” I commented as I sat eating ice-cream with my parents in Helsinki’s Esplanadi, “To think that I’ll be home tonight.” 

As it turned out, I wouldn’t be home that night but I wouldn’t know that for another hour. Having spent two months back in Europe, in places that feel as much home as anywhere, the idea of finally returning to Toronto was a strange one. I was looking forward to it, I knew that much – I’d quickly found myself missing my latest home while I was gone, and two months of constant moving and living out of a suitcase didn’t much help in trying to feel settled in whatever temporary location I was in that night.

It had been a bizarre two months. Two months of feeling at odds with my daily routine, of feeling displaced as I walked the streets of a city that I once lived in but no longer felt like it had a place for me. Two months of frequently finding myself with my head in Toronto but my body not, often out of necessity rather than will as I started making plans for what I would do when I returned.

It was with all this still playing heavily on my mind that I found myself looking forward to getting back, to being able to settle into one place again and hopefully feel less like I was living with parts of myself scattered across the globe.

A one hour delay quickly became two which became three and my hopes of getting home that night faded into a distant memory. I boarded a plane to Reykjavik, the first leg of my journey, with no idea as to where I was going to be spending the night or when I would reach my final destination. 

It was easy to slouch through the whole situation with a frown, an additional weight on top of existing stress and exhaustion. Arriving into a deserted Keflavik airport late on Sunday night, I wandered this way and that trying to find someone who might be able to give me some direction. A bored-looking service representative eased my earlier concerns with a new plane ticket for the next day, as well as vouchers for a night’s stay.

Clutching my slips of paper, I dragged my bags out to a bus. The sulphuric smell outside of the airport brought back memories from long back – my only trip to Iceland, aged thirteen, most of which was spent in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by hot springs. Days spent waking up to that exact smell and a landscape that stretched out for miles on all sides.

Only once on the bus did I realise that I still had very little idea as to where I was going. I relied on being told where I was supposed to get off as we rolled off in the direction of Reykjavik. To one side, piles of volcanic rock and, in the distance, the rising steam of a hot spring. To the other, the sun was setting a magnificent, blazing orange over the water. 

With a moment to breathe, now that I had some sense of security for the coming hours and the passage home, I allowed the day’s events to reform in my mind. Easy as it was to complain or to see the negative, I was chugging on through the Icelandic countryside for a free mini break in a city I’d never been to. I have been saying for a long time that I’d like to visit Iceland again and although this wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind, I could surely make the most of it.

The burst of colours from the sunset that spilled across the skies, the purples and oranges and pinks, refreshed me and I begun thinking, rather than of getting home, but of what I could do with 17 hours in Reykjavik. I sat in my eighth floor hotel room with a paper map laid out in front of me, marking out places that I might like to go. 

Fortunately for me, Reykjavik itself is a straight-forward city to navigate with a centre that is small enough that you can cover a lot of ground in the course of a morning’s self-guided walking tour. Fuelled up and checked out, I left my bags for the morning, and headed west on Laugavegur.

While known as the main shopping street of the city, it was quiet still as I strolled down, slipping a side street as the peak of the Hallgrimskirkja came into view. I meandered my way around to the cathedral, the imposing architectural design quite a contrast to the more traditional statue of Leif Erikson in front. I took the short trip up to the top of the cathedral as much to take in the view as to get my bearings. From up here, I could see the streets spilling out, dotted with the colourful buildings that Reykjavik is known for, and chart a vague course towards the water’s edge.

Turning up Frakkastígur, I found my first taste of the colourful buildings that Reykjavik is known for.

Turning up Frakkastígur, I found my first taste of the colourful buildings that Reykjavik is known for.

I took the long way around, in the end. I passed a pond and city hall, another cathedral far more traditional in design, before finding the harbour. It was near the concert hall that I found the most impressive views out towards the islands and land beyond. The shore was rocky but not in the usual sense – stones piled up into pillars dotted along the edge of the water. I found no clue as to who had put the stones there, be it natural or otherwise. 

(Only later would I look it up to find articles suggesting that these have been built by tourists, in some kind of modern-day take on the historic use as markers – cairns – as from Gaelic tradition. The recent uptake, though, appears to be a custom that is much hated by locals. So, maybe the lesson here is sometimes it’s better just not to know – I had a far better time sitting and observing them and floating the idea that there might be some interesting historic symbolism to the present ritual.)

I still quite like the rocks.

I still quite like the rocks.

It had been a cloudy but bright morning, not quite sunny but not quite not, either. But the deep blues that spilled out across the water and into the distance from that sky were like nothing I’d ever seen. Behind me were a mix of hyper-modern high-rises and older, more traditional buildings, but ahead of me was this landscape that is at once old and new, ever-present but ever-changing.

Shades of blue.

Shades of blue.

Last year, when I left Finland for the summer, I stopped past Stockholm on my way home. I hadn’t been since I was a child and had been learning some Swedish that I was keen to try out. I had a lovely, planned, few days in Stockholm, walking from the new to older parts of the city, kayaking across the lake under an intermittent thunderstorm, and successfully ordering coffees in Swedish everywhere I went.

This year’s Nordic stopover wasn’t planned but it ended up being possibly the nicest morning of my summer so far; a quiet, contemplative walk around a unique European city that served to help me find a little headspace after an unsettled couple of months and an altogether hectic year.

The roads travelled… And those to come.

The roads travelled… And those to come.

I did make it home, to a rainy and humid Toronto much like the one that I’d first arrived to nearly a year ago now. Life doesn’t necessarily always take us to the places we plan to go but maybe it brings us to the roads that we should take. Here’s to finding that next road.


Suzey IngoldComment
Inside the Walls

My sincerest apologies for pulling the same trick twice in a row but, when this posts, I will be sitting tucked up under the shade of a pine tree in the Finnish countryside, likely writing about pirates, or pilots, or princes – I’m not sure which yet. This is a little piece I wrote for a travel writing competition about a city I visited once and fell in love with instantly.

Regular, original, posting will resume… Eventually.

From up on above.

From up on above.

Over the past few years, Dubrovnik has become one of the biggest tourist destinations in Europe with reports of overcrowding in the summer months as a steady flow of cruise ships deposit people at its gates. Best known today, perhaps, for its iconic walled Old Town and for providing the stage for King’s Landing in television’s popular Game of Thrones, an accolade that local vendors tout left and right.

But step away from the Jesuit Stairs and the marbled streets outside the clock tower and you’ll find the corners of what was once a sleepy town plagued by a war-ridden past. Although fortunate to have avoided the worst of the crowds by visiting in late September, I found myself seeking out the quieter alleyways not in search of peace, but in search of shade.

Turn a corner, and find…

Turn a corner, and find…

The architecture is no less exquisite here, swathes of sunlight followed by the cool darkness of the arches. Tucked beneath one such arch in the south-east corner of the Old Town sits a surprisingly modern coffee shop for a town that upon entry feels like a step back centuries through time. I take my cold brew to go and continue down the path.

In the shade of the city walls sits a minuscule garden. It is lush with flowering plants and cacti, bright and beautiful but by no means overgrown or untamed. The cats of the city – of which there are many – congregate here, basking in patches of sunshine. I sit on the bench and a jet black cat cracks open one eye. He stares at me for several moments and then returns to his slumber.

I hear voices nearby but there is no one to be seen. The voices come from above – those walking the city walls pass by overhead but with the angle, I cannot see them, and I hazard a guess that they cannot see me, either.

I sit for a while until I observe the visitor book. So, I am not the only one to have found this secret spot. There are greetings from all over the world, dozens of different scripts and languages contained in the pages. I flip through the pages and am overwhelmed by the gratitude of these strangers. Gratitude for this place and its invisible caretaker. 

Later, I will walk the walls and try to spy the spot where I sat myself. I cannot see so far over the sides but beyond where I believe I may have sat are tumbled ruins left from the siege of 1991. Children and cats alike dash through the crumbled landscape, their voices echoing up to the sky. A mother emerges from an apartment stacked up high on a block, a typical architectural feature of housing here in the Old Town, and calls down to her children. The youngest gets waylaid, crouching down beside an amber cat and her litter.

The mother shouts again and the little boy shouts something back. He skips over the ruins with a practised ease and runs the several dozen steps up to his front door. It is a town stacked up on itself – you never know what you might find a few feet below.

35mm, colour.

35mm, colour.

Dubrovnik’s Old Town is known for its present: for the enormous budgets that overrun the narrow streets to capture and utilise its beauty. But where past and present intersect at the quiet corners inside the walls, there is something different to be found. Something more rooted in the history of this place and its people than what can be gleaned from the rising statistics or travel brochures. 

I suspect that the cats know – but good luck getting them to tell you the secrets of this town.

Suzey IngoldComment
One night at the McKittrick Hotel

I’m taking a slight detour this week and pulling from the archives with the following, something between a theatre review and a piece of reflective writing. This is a nifty trick I’d like to call I’m once again deeply-entrenched in a film festival with no time to write but oh, wait! I’m sure I have things drifting around that have never made it much past emails to my mother.

I should also note that this contains massive spoilers for Punchdrunk’s Sleep No More so I suggest you turn back now if you plan on attending and want to do so without such knowledge.

An evening’s spoils.

An evening’s spoils.

By a set of large, nondescript doors, a line starts to form. Our hands are stamped and we are led inside to be relieved of our belongings. Onwards, then, to where we are checked in.

“Welcome to the McKittrick Hotel.” A polite smile as she takes my name. “Is this your first stay with us?”

I am handed a playing card, an ace, and told it is my room key. I’m ushered on. Another attendant clips the corner of my card and hands it back to me. She gestures me up a short flight of stairs and into a dark corridor. My eyes struggle to adjust as I fall into pitch darkness. I reach out blindly and feel a felt-clad wall on either side of me. The ominous music envelops me as I continue through the winding corridor, feeling my way as I go, before all but stumbling into the Manderley Bar.

The deep red interiors feel akin to a speakeasy and I’m instantly set at ease. I have passed the first test – for if I could not make it through a pitch-black tunnel, I would surely not survive the night. It is still largely empty, a handful of people scattered across the tables surrounding an empty stage. Later, the bar will be full and a jazz ensemble will take to the stage, but the festivities have not yet begun.

For something to do with myself, and to calm my nerves, I order a champagne cocktail and perch on a high-top table off to the side to observe those coming in. There is an obvious mix of first-timers, like myself, and those who have more of an idea of what is to come. I watch as a family, a mother, a father and their grown-up daughter, are offered a shot of absinthe. Their looks of alarm make me chuckle – I can see myself and my parents in their shoes, were we here together. Although I suspect my parents would not cope in such a place.

Time seems to become an illusion, a feeling that will remain throughout the course of the night. I have nothing in my possession anymore, save for my credit card and the ace tucked in my fist.

I don’t notice them at first: the tall gentleman in the tuxedo and the elegantly-dressed woman who weave their way through the forming crowds. The gentleman gives me a nod as he passes and I’m almost inclined to follow him. I catch myself – I’m not inside yet.

The man takes to the stage and in a silky voice invites welcomes us to the Manderley Bar at the McKittrick Hotel. He calls upon the aces and gestures towards the far side of the room. I push through the crowd but am a little too late. The first group goes ahead and the woman I had noticed earlier asks me to wait. She holds my gaze just a moment too long and I feel I should say something.

“I love your dress,” I tell her honestly, as her 1920s-style flapper dress catches in the light.

“Thank you,” she gushes and offers me a hand. “What’s your name?”

The next group is called in. I am handed a white mask with large holes cut out around the eyes and a beak-like raised section over the mouth. I don’t need to be told what to do with it and I slide it over my face. I take a deep breath in.

We are given rules. Masks are to remain on. There will be no phones and no cameras. There will be no talking.

“Fortune favours the bold,” we are reminded, more than once, as we are led into an elevator.

I cannot even begin to tell whether we are going up or down. We stop at a floor and someone is let off. The group is held back. The doors slide shut and she is left alone as we descend – or ascend? – onwards. I am near the back of the elevator and form part of what I think is the last group.

“You look like you will be fortunate tonight,” our guide tells us as he looks us over. His gaze stops on one woman. “You, not so much.”

The doors slide open and I step forward. The people around me seem at a loss as to which way to go. I don’t hesitate and take off through the first door I see. I’m hyper-aware of the sound of my own breathing.

I step into a graveyard. Lights beam up from the floor and my own shadow is cast across the room. I walk through the room, glancing behind me every so often, sure that someone is following me. There is no one there. I step through a curtain where a visibly pregnant woman in a green dress takes a seat on the sofa.

There are a few others standing around the outskirts of the room – they have followed her from somewhere but from where I do not know. I find myself uninterested in the other masked figures standing around me and focus on her.

She looks around the group and then fixes her gaze on me. She reaches out a hand. I don’t let the opportunity pass me by, stepping forward and taking it. She leads me into a locked cupboard at the side of the room and closes the door behind her.

“Let me see your face,” she murmurs and removes me mask.

I blink. I had only been under there for mere minutes but I feel strangely exposed without it.

She touches my face and then guides me to kneel by an open bible. “When you were a child,” she begins, dipping her fingers into a pot and then touching them behind my ear. “I used to put salt behind your ear for protection.” I can smell the salt, feel the grains trickling down the side of my neck.

She guides me to stand again. She tears a page from the bible and folds it into a pouch which she hands to me. She proceeds to pour the contents of a salt shaker into the pouch, folding it closed and wrapping my hands around it, and hers around mine.

She closes her eyes and mumbles some kind of prayer, or incantation, and I find myself instinctively closing mine and bowing my head, though I am not even religious. For a moment, she stares at me and then she slides my mask back on and unlocks the door.

Most of the previous onlookers from the room have moved on but a few more are passing through and they start when we emerge from the cupboard. She takes off into a bedroom and I trail behind helplessly, still clutching the pouch of salt. As she packs a suitcase, I tuck the salt into my pocket, and then she is off out of the door.

I linger in the room, looking at the papers on the desk. One wall is glass and looks into an almost identical bedroom but with a blood-soaked bed. I decide to move on.

In the hallway, I catch sight of my own masked reflection for the first time and I startle, scarcely recognising myself. I look away and hurry down the hallway. There are several other bedrooms, some I can enter, some I can’t. One is clearly a child’s. They are empty and I keep going.

I reach a staircase but I don’t know whether to go up or down, don’t even know which floor I’m on. I start going up when a man tears past me downstairs. I turn and follow, which is no easy task when he is sprinting a known route and I have no way of knowing where I’m going. We go down the stairs, through a hallway, up a steep staircase to where a makeshift tent sits. Inside, an older man lies on the cushions. I understand him to be dead before the young man I’d been following and another lift him and carry him into a room with a coffin and place him inside.

A little later, I will see the older man dancing with an older woman in the deserted ballroom before he returns to his coffin. The ballroom is lined with spruce trees, whether for the season or a permanent fixture, I’m not sure but the smell is overpowering and serves to calm any residual nerves.

If memory serves, I find myself next in the lobby of the hotel. Off to one side is a restaurant in which the older woman who danced appears to be trying to poison the pregnant woman with a glass of milk. Their dance is elaborate in a small space and the onlookers scatter this way and that as they tussle.

I wander out of the scene to watch the bellhop, instead. He darts in and out of three telephone booths, drawing curtains seemingly at random. The bellhop, the older woman, and the pregnant woman dart in and out of this area. At some point, Lady Macbeth and, I believe, Macbeth himself appear, in the throes of passion, and bring with them a hefty amount of the audience. I stand back out of the way and wait for the space to clear out.

When it does, and there is only one other masked member lurking nearby, I dart into a telephone booth and draw the curtain. It is an old-fashioned phone, the kind you turn for every number. I lift the receiver and pause. I have not seen any numbers anywhere to call. I return the receiver and slip out of the booth.

I slip into the next one and am braver this time. I dial the operator and wait. Somewhere, I hear a phone ringing. I hold my breath.

“McKittrick Hotel?”

I hang up, my hand shaking.

I try the third booth and the same thing happens. I hang up when I hear the ringing begin and slip out.

I take a little time around the lobby, ducking behind the reception desk to flick through the guest log and look at the keys. If any of them lead anywhere, I wouldn’t know where to start. I continue on.

This is where things begin to blur a little. I believe this was around the time I found myself in the town of Gallow Green. I believe I found myself there by following a man in a waistcoat who rushed past me with a briefcase, locking himself briefly in a room in which he did let me follow. Within the town, I found a veritable speakeasy, a detective’s office, a tailor’s, a taxidermist’s. A sweet shop with such a saccharine aroma that I nearly gagged.

It was a never-ending loop of doors and shops. I stepped into what appeared to be a bedroom where one audience member sat on the bed looking a little dumbstruck as to what to do next, and watched as another stepped into a wardrobe. I followed and found myself in the back room of an embalmers. Another door took me into a crowded tailors shop, several people turning to look at me with surprise in their eyes as I appeared through the wall.

Lady Macbeth breezed past at some point in a long red dress. I didn’t see that much of her – at some stage, she was singing in an abandoned, dusty version of the Manderely Bar to a small crowd but I quickly lost her again after that.

More than once, I looped through a ruined garden filled with statues. Frequently, I would reach out to touch them, sure that at any moment they might start moving. I glanced in one the glass-walled room adjacent, with the infamous bathtub, but I only ever saw that scene in snippets, as it was always crowded.

In general, my approach to Sleep No More was largely to explore and I spent very little time following the action, least of all the central characters. Whether this was a mistake, I don’t know, but there was something altogether too tempting about separating from the large group that was always trailing Lady Macbeth and instead seeing where I might end up.

I did, eventually, find my way to the hospital ward. The disinfectant smell was pungent as I walked down a corridor of locked rooms and then round into what I presume was the psychiatric wing. I nearly stepped into the padded room and then turned and briskly walked onwards. More than once, I encountered the nurse in her hut in the forest, and followed her through the maze when she went to write her message onto the wooden pillar.

I passed the ballroom once briefly while couples danced across the floor, but I kept on walking. I had a good idea that it was not yet the final cycle of the performance and that I had more still to go.

By the third cycle, however, I was more aware of repetitions. Passing through the hotel lobby, I frequently seemed to encounter the same things I’d already seen, the continued poisoning now moved to the reception side of the room.

I was sure there was more to be seen in the town of Gallow Green although unsure of where to go. At the point at which I was starting to tire, starting to be entirely unsure of where to go or what to do, I found myself back in the speakeasy.

The gentleman I’d seen before, with the briefcase, appeared and began tidying up, pouring drinks. I decided to wait it out. Soon, three young men would appear and begin to play a seemingly incomprehensible card game that seemed to involve switching seats and nailing playing cards to an already crowded wall. I stepped back against the wall and watched on even as the room filled up.

A murder would occur there, which I realised before the event. I’d been in the speakeasy before, you see, except that when I was, there had been a bloodied brick on the pool table. This was no longer there – or, should I say, not yet there.

The murder passed, and the murderer rushed out. A few audience members went to inspect the dead body but I doubted there would be much to see there. Following out of the room a little aimlessly, I didn’t realise I was leading myself to the finale.

We were all ushered down to the ballroom in such a way as to not feel as though we were being pushed there – as though this was entirely our own volition, a fitting end to the past three hours. A feast was occurring on the raised platform in the ballroom, the light cast reflecting against hundreds of white masks as we watched on.

The finale had us leaving the room with a body swinging, hanged from the neck, above our heads. We shuffled back towards the bar where the silky-voiced gentleman who had instructed us inside greeted us back to the land of the living.

“Welcome back, my darlings,” he said to each of us as we appeared. “It’s so good to see you again.”

I did not linger in the bar long, although the temptation of a live jazz ensemble and another drink were there. But I needed to process, outside of this building. Almost more overwhelming than all was the incredible noise of a hundred voices echoing together as I waited to collect my things in the tight hallway that led outside.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall, mask clutched between my hands, playing card in one pocket, salt in the other. I had not heard a human voice in almost three hours, not since the pregnant woman had spoken to me, and now it was almost too much, to have so many surrounding me.

I am sure to have forgotten things in this account. Even reading it back now, I remember, too, a naked woman walking past me into what I think may have been a botanist’s. I remember passing a naked man curled up in the corner of a shower and then being helped into a robe by an audience member. I watched the taxidermist, incidentally the same man who had taken us on the elevator so long ago, lock something into a desk drawer.

I retraced my steps more than once, and got lost repeatedly. I found passages leading to rooms I’d been to before from an entirely different way, and I read countless letters and notes scattered around.

Whereas in some rooms, I ignored the other masked patrons as nothing but the watchers-on, in others I might catch myself watching them as they sifted through documents in a desk or tinkered with items. As though they knew something I didn’t, that I might learn by watching them.

I never figured out what I ought to have done with the phones. I never found the witches. If there was something sinister within that ruined garden, I never saw that, either.

Fortune favours the bold.

So it does, and I feel I went boldly. I saw many people pass me by, clutching their friend or partner tightly, walking as a fixed unit, and I shook my head. Even if I had come with a friend, I doubt I would have seen them again after the graveyard until we reconvened in the bar. This is an experience best taken with complete autonomy and freedom to follow whatever hunch you might have.

I undoubtedly want to return to the McKittrick and seek out corners and pathways I didn’t fully explore. I want to find that abandoned version of the Manderely again and I’m determined to see these witches. Perhaps I might even follow a character long enough to be able to figure out what on earth was going on, too, but that remains to be seen.

Suzey IngoldComment
The Road Ahead

This time last year, I was stood at the beginning of a road that I couldn’t be entirely sure I knew the route of. A road with a few flagpoles ready and rooted into the ground: stepping into a manager role at a film festival, to start with, and then the looming flagpole ahead of moving to Canada. But between and beyond such flagpoles hung a mist of uncertainty, of not really knowing where, or towards what, I might be headed.

There was a time in my life when such uncertainty would have paralysed me – and there are still times when that is true. There are more difficult days when the anxiety that I have surrounding that which I don’t know or can’t control is too much for me to take that step forward. But it feels as though over the course of the past year, a lot of that anxiety has shifted weight and allowed me to move again.

It might have been as a consequence of making that move to Canada. After moving five thousand miles, stacked up like a pack mule with bags and little else to guide me, maybe it just became the course that the other things seemed that bit easier. Or maybe it was just a consequence of growth and how I’ve changed over the past year.

Maybe 3 year old Suzey had preempted this move a long, long time ago already…

Maybe 3 year old Suzey had preempted this move a long, long time ago already…

But as I think over the past year, on the eve of my 25th birthday, it’s to think on a whole lot of yeses. A whole lot of doing things that I’ve always wanted to do but never have. Sometimes, because I just really hadn’t processed it as a thing I could just do, if I wanted to. Often, though, because the idea of actually doing said things was just too impossible. The anxiety of but what if? a constant plague to progress.

As long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to tap dance. I’d done the requisite four year old girl’s few months of ballet, followed by years and years of Scottish dancing during my later school years. (There were medals. Did you know you can get medals for Scottish dancing? You can get medals for Scottish dancing!) As an adult, I dabbled in a few theatre-style jazz classes on spare evenings. 

This year, I started tap dancing. I bought myself the shoes and I signed up to a class and I now spend my Thursday evenings clickity-clacking away at a top-floor studio downtown and my Sunday mornings tightening the screws on my taps.

I’ve always loved to sing – but singing in front of other people, by myself? Forget it. 

This year, I decided why not? and got up and did karaoke in front of a bar full of strangers.

I’ve been writing for years and never read aloud at any kind of open mic session.

This year, I sat down in front of packed room on the east side and read out a handful of pages from my pirate book.

None of those are particularly big things but none of them are things I would have been able to do a year ago. Moving to Canada was a bigger thing and I did that. So, what was next?

The riskier part of how I’ve lived over the past year has been in my career. It was only last summer that I really began to process the reality that I work in film; that I kind of had been, for far longer than I’d acknowledged from the work I’d been doing. This year has been the learning curve of developing that: of discovering where I want to take that within the industry. It’s been a year of odd-jobs and contract work and freelancing. And, as a result, frequently a year of shuttling money around from my savings and worrying about the next month’s rent and an overall lack of stability.

From film festivals to freelancing – it’s not always stable but consistently rewarding, in more ways than one

From film festivals to freelancing – it’s not always stable but consistently rewarding, in more ways than one

The summer to come is going to follow in the same fashion, if a little more consistently employed thanks to festival season coming into its own around this time of the year. And beyond that, I have to start finding my feet in what I want to do and making decisions that will allow me to build a more stable path into my future.

I still don’t know what’s at the end of the road, or even the flagpoles on the way to it. I don’t know exactly what it is I’m seeking out or hoping to achieve but, as this year has progressed, I’ve felt more and more confident that I’m on the right road for me. 

Tomorrow, I turn 25 years old and I’ve spend a lot of time over the past few weeks mentally berating myself for not being there yet. For not being settled into a full-time job with a boyfriend of two years and a plan for the future. But there are flagpoles and there are milestones that stretch beyond the conventional checkboxes that we search out in the meandering openness of post-graduation adulthood. 

Maybe, a milestone can just be achieving something new, however small. Maybe, a milestone can be taking that class you’ve always wanted to take or being satisfied in having made a good decision in your career. Maybe, a milestone can be in figuring out that, actually, that was a bad date and you don’t need to see them again.

The mist that hangs over the road ahead hasn’t entirely lifted – I don’t suspect it ever will. But there’s something beckoning me along that I am powerless to say no to. So, here’s to 25 and wherever the next year takes me as I continue on.

Suzey IngoldComment
A Little Extra: Top Picks from Hot Docs 19

Push (2019, d. Fredrik Gertten)

The first film I saw this festival and I was knocked sideways from the start. Push looks at the global housing crisis and follows the UN Special Rapporteur on Adequate Housing, Leilani Farha, as she visits cities around the world and investigates why no one can afford to live there anymore. As someone who’s moved from expensive city to expensive city over the past five years, this was an eye-opening look at a problem that is far more widespread than I had realised and with much more complex roots than I could have imagined. 

Midnight Traveler (2019, d. Hassan Fazili)

Midnight Traveler follows director Hassan Fazili and his family as they are forced to seek refuge from Afghanistan after the Taliban places a bounty on his head. Shot entirely on phones by Fazili and his wife, also a filmmaker, this is a brutally honest account of a family on the run, the challenging and often dangerous journey taking them west into Europe. It’s a refugee story but it’s unlike anything else I’ve seen in this vein: the harsh realities of it are no surprise, from the illegal border crossings to the convoluted bureaucracy when they eventually make it to Europe, but the touching family moments bring a uniqueness to this piece. They show a family that is like any other, living through extraordinarily difficult circumstances. The unshakeable optimism of their two young daughters and the harmless bickering of a husband and wife are a beautiful reminder of the universality of family. There is much to take from a film like this in destroying the “us and them” mentality that is often applied to refugees and causes so much harm in its wake.

Cold Case Hammarskjöld (2019, d. Mads Brügger)

It’s hard to know what to say about this film – I’m at as much of a loss for words now as I was when I left the cinema almost two weeks ago. Cold Case Hammarskjöld begins as an investigation of the death of UN Secretary General Dag Hammarskjöld in 1961 but becomes something else entirely. From the start, you know you’re in for a journey, as Brügger himself stands, clad all in white, addressing a secretary tapping dutifully at a typewriter. Through a six year investigation and numerous dead-ends, Brügger and associates uncover a secret military organisation in South Africa, responsible, if claims are to be believed, not just for Hammarskjöld’s assassination but for an array of other crimes of varying degrees of horror. This isn’t just the most insane documentary I’ve ever seen but probably the most insane film I’ve ever seen, full stop. Brügger’s style is quirky and likely not for everyone but this surprisingly funny and often shocking documentary handled its twists and turns with a clear narrative thread that kept me hooked right to the end. 

Hi, AI (2019, d. Isa Willinger)

Robots are invading your homes! yells every apocalyptic warning for the future, ever. But Hi, AI takes a very different approach to looking at how robot technology will, and already is, playing a role in people’s lives, in a very human kind of way. From entirely automated receptionists to childlike companions for the elderly, this is a beautifully shot and thought-provoking look at the future of this technology. One filmmaker recommended this to me, describing it as “close to a masterpiece” – I’d have to agree.

A complete list of films I saw at Hot Docs 19:

  • Push

  • Midnight Traveller

  • Cold Case Hammarskjöld

  • Bellingcat: Truth in a Post-Truth World

  • Assholes: A Theory

  • There Are No Fakes

  • Hi, AI

  • Last Breath

Suzey IngoldComment
Rolling out the Red Carpet: How to Navigate a Film Festival

When I applied to volunteer with the Edinburgh International Film Festival for the first time, it was with little expectation or design. I’d always loved film but, at that point, I’d never started to imagine it as being something that could become a career for myself. That film festival, the first I’d attended and the first I’d worked, would become the thing that kickstarted so much for me in terms of ambitions for my career, and the successes I’ve had. 

It also opened me up to a whole new world of film: the scope of what is out there, beyond the big-budget Hollywood output that makes it to the mainstream. Independent film is more accessible than ever, between streaming services like Netflix that now distribute and exhibit a large amount of indie titles, to indie titles making it into longer distribution deals with increased exposure through awards nominations and the like. 

Having just capped off my first film festival for 2019, I put my mind to thinking about some tips for approaching a festival for the first time, whether going in as a viewer or as a member of staff. It can be an intimidating environment to step into, from opening the fifty-page programme to navigating ticketing procedures or rush lines. Said festival is also why this is a week late, and with that in mind, check out the accompanying post of my recommended titles out of Hot Docs 2019 over here.

Let’s start with the programme. There are a couple of ways to go about this, depending on the amount of films and how much time you have but I’ll run through my standard method for navigating a film festival programme. I’ll start by skimming through the descriptions of the films, marking the ones that appeal to me, not paying too much attention yet as to when they’re playing. Somewhere in the programme, you’ll find a schedule – welcome to your new best friend. I’ll flick through my choices and mark them on the schedule.

The days pass, the scribbles increase…

The days pass, the scribbles increase…

At this point, you’re going to have some marked off that clash with one another or clash with other things in your life. (Wait, a life? During a film festival? What’s that?) Might as well scratch out any that you are not going to be able to make; hopefully, they’ll play elsewhere in the festival and you can pick up a different screening day. When it comes to clashes, I’ll go back to the descriptions for the relevant films and prioritise which I’d rather see, also keeping an eye on if there are some I could see another day, instead.

As much as I plan out, between working hours and scheduled films, I’ll sometimes end up with slots of time I have open. That’s the time I’ll open up the schedule, see what starts within the next hour, and make a snap choice of something to see. Some of the most unexpectedly great things I’ve seen have been by this method, things I might otherwise never have chosen for myself. 

It’s worth keeping an eye out for any offers or promotions festivals offer. Some festivals will offer free screenings for students at certain times, or two for one offers on day-of screenings, and all should have some kind of system for getting free tickets for their staff and volunteers. Festivals can be expensive so make the most of these but – and I cannot stress this enough – if you really want to see something, don’t wait until the day-of in the hopes of maybe securing a discounted ticket. Things do sell out and no, we’re not going to let you sit on the stairs, no matter how much you argue.

Now, a word on titles. Festivals will typically have a mix of well-known names and anticipated titles with up-and-coming talent and smaller titles. It’s easy to get drawn in by the big titles and the flashy names but, the chances are, it will get a general release date, if it hasn’t been scheduled one already. Sure, if you’re a big fan of someone involved in the film, I’d absolutely encourage going, especially if they’ve confirmed to be in attendance. Getting to participate in a Q&A with your favourite director after seeing their new film a couple of weeks before general release is something special but if it’s a casual interest, don’t waste your time – or your money. 

I don’t regret spending about six times a normal movie ticket price to go to the premiere of Destroyer at TIFF last year because it had Sebastian Stan in it but my love for space and Damien Chazelle was not enough to make me drop that much to see First Man just two weeks before it was out in cinemas.

Transporting red carpets is also a glamorous job, in case you were wondering.

Transporting red carpets is also a glamorous job, in case you were wondering.

This is a double-sided coin, too. There are some titles are film festivals that, once the festival is over, you’ll never be able to find again. I still daydream about the Russian sci-fi epic I saw a few years ago at Edinburgh that now only exists on a handful of second-hand DVDs with German subtitles. Take the unique opportunity you have to see such titles – you might be one of just a couple of hundred people that ever do.

So, you’ve made it to the festival. People mill left and right, lines snake here and there, people in headsets scurry past you with haggard expressions on their faces. You’re overwhelmed. Ticket clutched in one hand, you have no idea where to go. What now? Look for the volunteers. Easily identifiable as the people in the brightly-coloured t-shirts, these are your lifelines once you’re inside. These are the people who will get you where you need to go. There are hundreds of them. Use them. They know things, I promise. And if they don’t know, they’ll find someone who does.

On that note, I beg of you, be nice to film festival staff. I shouldn’t need to say this, for any customer-focused industry, but I will, all the same. The ten-to-twelve days of a film festival are an immensely fast-paced and stressful time for every member of staff; they’re long hours, little sleep, a blur of faces and films and trying to remember what day of the week it is. If I’m telling you that the venue’s not open yet because you’ve shown up five hours early for an in-person event (looking at you, True Blood fans) it’s not open yet. If a film’s sold out, arguing with us won’t make more tickets appear. 

It may sound crazy but we do want to get as many of you in that film screening as we possibly can. It’s not just for you – the more people in seats, the better it looks, the better for the filmmaker. Film festivals are trying desperately to please not just the moviegoers but also the filmmakers and guests to the festival, all for the same reason: we want all of you to come back. 

Edinburgh International Film Festival, 2014.

Edinburgh International Film Festival, 2014.

The nicer you are to us, the more you stand to learn, too. We know the ins and outs of the festival, we know what screenings are more likely to sell out than others, and we are in the unique position of often receiving recommendations from industry professionals who pass us. From film critics to filmmakers, I’ve heard their honest opinions on what I should see and what I can pass on and it’s led to some special discoveries. 

Perhaps most importantly, whether you’re attending or working a film festival, look after yourself. Stay hydrated, remember to eat, remember to sleep (note to self). Our CEO at Edinburgh reminds us this every year at staff training and every year, we laugh. But, really. Do it.

And one final note which applies not just to film festival screenings but to all walks of life that may bring you to being involved in a Q&A session. Q&As are possibly the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever encountered. Without fail, someone will stand up to pose a question that’s not a question at all but a five minute long statement on what they think. Sit down, no one cares. Without fail, someone will stand up to pose a question about that-thing-that-actor-is-best-known-for-but-would-love-to-never-have-to-talk-about-again. Sit down, no one cares. Without fail, someone will stand up to pose a question that’s not a question at all but a ten minute long personal anecdote.

You know what’s coming right? Sit down, no one cares. 

And, if you think I’m joking about that last one, I recently sat in on a Q&A where a woman spent ten minutes telling Viggo Mortensen in a round-about way that he’d once driven her home from a party some twenty years ago. In a Q&A that wasn’t even about Viggo Mortensen but about a film that he was presenting for discussion. That he also wasn’t in.

For the guest, the people around you, and your own dignity – just don’t ask stupid questions.

And, on that note, I’m going to take a nap before I have to do it all over again. See you soon, Edinburgh.

Suzey IngoldComment
Three Thousand Five Hundred Miles

Some of my earliest memories live within a sprawling, three-storey house in Manchester. I remember idyllic summer days in the jungle of a garden: stealing raspberries from the bush when I was sent to pick them; sneaking into our neighbour’s garden when my brother knocked a tennis ball over for the hundredth time; or, falling off the rope swing. I remember being routinely swung upside down by my older brother when he returned from school and watching Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure so many times that the videotape wore out. I remember hanging around with my brothers and their friends; I remember playing pool in the hallway with a cue far bigger than I was; and sabotaging my brother’s games of Tomb Raider by sending an unsuspecting Lara stumbling into quicksand.

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K. ©  Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure  (1989). MGM.

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K. © Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure (1989). MGM.

But, then, my memories shift with our move to Scotland and my memories are that of growing up, for all intents and purposes, as an only child. With thirteen, sixteen, and eighteen year age gaps between me and each of my older brothers, my relationships with them developed more as an adult than as a child. A few years ago, I sat watching Pulp Fiction with my eldest brother – I was twenty-one at the time, he was going on forty. We came to the realisation that it seemed to be the first time in my memory that we had ever hung out, just the two of us. 

However removed during my childhood they may have been, family was already important to me – it seemed a fundamental core of who I was, this slightly bizarre group of people to whom I was connected. 

As I’ve grown older, so my family has continued to grow larger. Shortly after my thirteenth birthday, my first nephew was born, and I began to see my eldest brother more regularly than I had at any time in my life. I’d never really been shy of children but I came to the role of Auntie Suzey with some pride and a fairly high level of dedication for a teenager. Holidays and free weekends through my teenage years and into university would frequently be spent at one brother’s house or another, increasingly with a toddler on one hip.

When I faced the prospect of moving to Canada, one of the biggest stumbling blocks I faced was that of being so far from my family. At that time, I would talk to my mum a few times a week and usually see one family member or another in any given month. A few months living in London meant I spent frequent weekends at my youngest brother’s house, along with his own two children. Children to whom I’ve always felt, as with my oldest nephew, almost like a big sister more than an aunt given the age differences. Thirteen years between me and my youngest brother; thirteen between me and my oldest nephew. Eighteen years between me and my eldest brother; nineteen between me and my niece. 

From being the baby of the family to looking after the babies of the family.

From being the baby of the family to looking after the babies of the family.

In the months before I left, I frequently found myself trying to explain my decision to two important people in my life – my mother and my niece. My mother, convinced I would – in her words – “find a man and never come back” is still frequently concerned with when I’m going to move back. My niece, an alarmingly intelligent for her age five year old, struggled to understand why I had to move quite so far away.

“It’s just something I have to do for me,” I told her, one wobbly afternoon, as she cried in my arms. Alright, fine – as we both cried. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“No, I won’t,” she grumbled, just as stubborn as every other member of this family.

While hardly a shocking revelation to me, the full importance of my family to me was something I don’t think I realised until I found myself so many miles away. Over three thousand five hundred miles away, to be precise. While they’re all only a video call away, I frequently feel the presence of the ocean between us, not least when hearing of them spending time together. Christmas passed and I watched over video chat as they sat around a board game, just as I would expect to find them.

As the winter began to tail off, with a sporadic and frustrating work schedule, I was feeling their absence in my life more and more acutely. I priced flights to the U.K. I also priced flights to San Juan in Puerto Rico, but that’s by the by. 

I finally emailed my dad in early March and expressed my desire to visit, suggesting we keep it a surprise from my mum. After sending it, I had a moment of panic: I half-expected him to respond with disappointment or to insist that I would just have to get through it, that it was simply a part of living away from home that I’d have to adapt to.

But his warm heart shone through, as it always does when it is most needed, and he expressed not only his empathetic understanding but also words that stuck with me as I bought return flights to London:

Perhaps the way to think about it positively is to remember that life is ever so much emptier for those who, for whatever reason, have no home to pine for.

This bright spot on the horizon powered me through a few more blisteringly cold Toronto weeks, the promise of seeing my parents, as well as my youngest brother and his children. My mum knew nothing – no small feat for my dad – and neither did my niece or nephew. 

Landing into London felt surreal, and the train from Gatwick to my brother’s house even more so. The landscape was so blindingly familiar and yet so different to the day-to-day life I was now accustomed to. I settled into a pub next to the station, exhausted and a little grotty from a nine hour work shift followed by the overnight flight.

My niece came in first, with my brother. She eyed me as she walked around the table with a high-level of suspicion. My mother walked in next, saw me, and declared: “I knew it!” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes – my mum has an irrefutable need to know everything and I suspected she didn’t know as much as she let on. 

Now that she’d hugged me, thus confirming my identity, I heard my niece whisper to my brother: “is it really Suzey?” The next thing I knew, she was launching herself around the table and into my arms. My nephew, just coming up to three years old, was still slightly too young to understand the concept of a surprise but his beaming smile was welcome enough. 

Although I only spent a few days with my family, it set me at ease. The comfortable warmth of arguing with my mum over my tattoos, or of my niece insisting I read just one more story, or of playing Tomb Raider with my brother. Even walking through the old windy streets felt somehow comforting, particularly with my parents by my side.

Familiarity can be a great comfort – even if it’s just some old buildings.

Familiarity can be a great comfort – even if it’s just some old buildings.

A short visit proved useful in a multitude of ways. The proof that a five day trip was perfectly feasible was useful to have and the vast selection of biscuits I brought home for myself and my Canadian roommate were well-received. It was exactly what I needed.

But, as I walked downtown the day after arriving back to Toronto, with the skyscrapers of the Financial District towering above me, and the cool sun beaming down, I couldn’t help but think to myself how good it felt to be home.

Suzey IngoldComment
Under Pressure: Playing the Comparison Game

Engagements. Promotions. New jobs, new houses, new cars. It’s not a new phenomenon that your mid-to-late 20s are filled with such announcements from friends near and far – I remember my brother at the age I am now telling me when the barrage of wedding invites began, every weekend another event to attend. 

Those of our closest, we get first-hand. For those further afield, further removed from our current social circles, the news comes to us in different ways. Some of this news we still get the old-fashioned way, passed through the grapevine. Have you heard…? But the difference between how most of this information would have been discovered ten, twenty years ago as compared to today, is that we get everything as it happens, online. Your friend’s cousin’s boyfriend who you met once at a party for five minutes? You now know about the all-expenses work trip he was sent on to Dubai, whether you really cared to or not.

We watch in a seemingly constant cycle as our peers take the next steps in their adult lives. And with every announcement, it’s seemingly impossible not to stop and consider it in comparison to your own life. You watch another friend get engaged and consider the awful first date you went on the week before. You finish filling out another job application as your friend gets promoted. You wonder, the thought a relentless echo in your head, whether you shouldn’t be there already. Whether you’re somehow falling behind or failing by not being there yet.

When you add in a move to another country, you also add new levels of pressure on yourself. The first is the happiness pressure. Back in November, I wrote about the expectation to enjoy oneself all the time when living abroad: as though I should be living in some kind of permanent holiday state, as opposed to the day-to-day grind of normal life that includes the popular mundane tasks of paying bills, grocery shopping and cooking dinner. The idea that if I do not appear to be happy or exhilarated or busy at all times – well, then, why did I move in the first place? Couldn’t I just as well have paid bills, grocery shopped and cooked dinner in the U.K.?

Well, yes, I could have. And I would have had good days and bad days, just as I have here. Every day of your life cannot be good – but there can be something good in every day. And sometimes just the act of waiting at a streetcar stop and catching the CN Tower glimmering high on above can be a good point in my day, however mundane it may seem.

Sometimes, a glimpse of the CN Tower is enough to brighten my day – even on the cloudy ones.

Sometimes, a glimpse of the CN Tower is enough to brighten my day – even on the cloudy ones.

On top of that comes the existing pressures described earlier, further multiplied by having moved. Although not the case for everyone, the move had the effect of throwing me back down the ladder to square one in terms of my career. An unfortunate part of the industry I work in is that a large amount of the opportunity afforded to you is related to who you know – this can certainly work in your favour over time but landing in a fresh landscape means getting in at the bottom level and starting the contact list from scratch. I got a small leg-up very early on thanks to a colleague but it could only take me so far.

The feeling of falling behind has been a persistent stress since my university days. Taking a year out to change my degree meant I graduated a year later than many of my friends. By the time I was stepping out of the academic world, friends had already moved away, been in jobs for a year on a steady salary, or met long-term partners. The six months I spent in a dead-end reception job following graduation didn’t help, every day feeling like another year that I wasn’t achieving anything. Let’s think about that for a moment. I was working full-time forty hour weeks and gaining administrative experience that has actually helped me in gaining future work – but I felt like I wasn’t achieving anything

Toronto has been ripe with beneficial experiences for me. I have a growing contact list and the invaluable benefit of having people starting to get to know me: to understand what I have to offer, and why hiring me is A Good Idea. But for every boost, and for the direction this experience has given me, I have spent countless hours making ends meet through a variety of odd jobs. I’ve served cask ale for almost twelve hours straight, I’ve moved more chairs and tables than I ever want to count, I’ve processed dozens of contracts, and I’ve rolled a lot of posters. I mean, a lot. Over the past few weeks alone, having finished up a three-month contract job in my actual industry, I’ve been bouncing between two different jobs and spending whatever time is left with my head buried in freelance work.

I’m nearly 25 years old and I don’t feel like I have a career. People ask me what I do and I say I work in film and that I’m also a writer. Oh, where do you work? I rub a hand over the back of my neck. The explanation isn’t only long and tedious to repeatedly explain – but it also seems like a disappointing admission compared to how the conversation started out. Even to call myself a writer some days feels like a baldfaced lie: I haven’t published anything in almost two years and my last novel might have been read by a hundred people at best. 

But to put those kind of pressures on myself is to discount all the things I have accomplished at a relatively young age. Years of film festival experience and a managerial position I will return to at a major film festival this summer. Three books under my belt, whether published or not, and a fourth on the go. A degree, volunteering experience, and a head for numbers. And, still, I feel like I’m standing on the first square of the board waiting for my turn to roll the die.

The comparison game has no winners as long as you’re still playing. While I look at a friend and envy their stable job and its professional development, they might look at someone else and wish for their lifestyle, and so on. 

Rather than waste time thinking of all the things I don’t have or haven’t done, why not push that focus onto my goals? The only person I should be competing against is the version of myself I was yesterday, and the day before that, and the one before that. To play anything else is to set myself up to lose a game that doesn’t even exist.

I wrote this post and then came back to it the next day and was struck by the tone. For all that I might have bad days, when it comes to my writing, I strive to be more reflective than pessimistic. Having written this post, I spent the rest of the day in a bit of a bad mood, and it didn’t sit well with me that my own writing had left me in that headspace. It encouraged me to think a bit further and brought me to one more thought that felt relevant to share in regards to this topic.

A few years ago, I wrote down a thought and tacked it up to my mirror in my flat in Edinburgh. It read: be kind to yourself today and every day. This little piece of paper came with me to Toronto and is currently tacked to the mirror in my bedroom. Above, I wrote that the only person I should compete against is myself and while striving to be a better version of yourself is something we can all do, I also think that sets yourself up to be even less kind to yourself than we all are already.

Words to remember: be kind to yourself today and every day.

Words to remember: be kind to yourself today and every day.

So, yes, strive for your goals and to become a better version of yourself than you were yesterday. But also, perhaps more importantly, perhaps more so than anything else: be kind to yourselves, and to one another.

Suzey IngoldComment
Five Degrees Colder – A Montreal Travel Log

Craving a change of scenery in the midst of the sludge of winter, I planned a long weekend to Montreal. It’s become my default reaction over the years, that when I feel a little out of step with myself or my head needs clearing, I take a trip somewhere. There’s enough to be said about solo travel that it could fill a post in itself but, even if just for a weekend, it can often be restorative to my mind in a way that little else is.

Around this time last year, I took off on a similar foot, hopping the Channel to a spend a weekend in Brussels. Perhaps that venture came to mind, or perhaps I just needed a sight somewhat more familiar, but the promise of the older European-style architecture in Montreal was enough to have me boarding a five hour train north.

Montreal instantly struck me as being one of the strangest places I’d ever seen. Old European cities tend to be split very much into their older and newer parts: the Old Town/New Town divide of Edinburgh, for example, or Stockholm’s Gamla stan, separated from other parts of the city by bridges. Montreal, while emulating a very European style of architecture in many ways, doesn’t conform to this principle. Instead, new and old are chopped together side by side – you just about get a sense of what it might have looked like before, before the new buildings began to be dropped in between like Monopoly pieces.

Chopped together: Mary, Queen of the World Cathedral (opened 1894) and Atrium Le 1000 (built 1992).

Chopped together: Mary, Queen of the World Cathedral (opened 1894) and Atrium Le 1000 (built 1992).

Montreal is, in many ways, a city of conflicts: between the older and newer architecture, with Mount Royal rising in the midst of it all; between the use of French and English that seems to vary so much street to street that I never quite knew which language to use. To turn a corner could feel as though you were walking from one city into another entirely.

Having arrived late and crashed out in my pretty fancy hotel room (this will become relevant later), I took off in search of the Old Town the next morning. I was blessed with a gloriously sunny weekend that took the edge off the persistent chill. Something in the air there is crisper than it is Toronto, and the cold feels that much more bitter against your skin, if only a five degree difference in actual temperature.

After several wrong turns down endless streets, I turned one more corner and stopped still. The street signs a little more rustic, the streets themselves cobbled. It felt delightfully familiar. I visited Notre-Dame Basilica and marvelled at the breathtaking interiors. I lit a candle, as I do in every church I visit – despite not being religious myself, it’s a custom I’ve picked up from my mother. Most of my earliest travel memories involve exploring beautifully old European towns with her by my side.

Inside Notre-Dame Basilica.

Inside Notre-Dame Basilica.

I ate lunch in a quiet cafe on the square before continuing on to the Museum of Fine Arts. I got lost in the permanent collections for a while and finished up at the Alexander Calder exhibit.

I had planned to have a quick rest at the hotel and then go in the search for food. Another thing I’d had recommended to me constantly in the weeks leading up to my trip – of how great the food in Montreal is. Another thing I will have to return for.

Despite the fact that I ended up getting knocked out by the flu and then, shortly after, a busted up ankle, I did manage to make it further yet that weekend. But evenings were largely spent eating bananas in a pile of pillows in my hotel room. I had dithered between booking a nice hotel for a change or just a bunk in a hostel like I often would when travelling. Clearly, I made the right choice this time around.

Ankle aching and unable to breath through my nose, I set off determinedly up Mount Royal. Under the winter sun, children sledged down hills, and cross-country skiers zipped across the pathways. Some snowshoed through the mounds of snow while others, like me, walked penguin-like across the icy paths and hoped for the best. Having taken in the view, I warmed up with a coffee inside the Chalet and then went on an unnecessarily extensive walking tour from Downtown up to Mile End.

Monday, I had planned ahead: a day at Bota Bota, the spa on the river. The hours I spent floating on the water, between scorching steam rooms and soft thermal waters, staring out over the frozen river and the edgings of the port, were the culmination of a weekend that did exactly what I needed it to do. I came away with a clearer head and a more focused and settled feeling in my body.

At last, Monday evening, I made it further than my bed after five o’clock. I enjoyed a custom cocktail at the Cloakroom, a minute space hidden away beside a tailor’s. I got talking to the incredibly talented bartender who, being from near where I am, picked up on my accent immediately. In desperate need of some food by this point, having sustained on a diet of hotel boiled eggs and bananas for several days, I devoured a steak and some light jazz at the Upstairs Jazz Bar. At the point at which I was getting chatted up by a dairy farmer, it felt time to call it a night.

To think that I might not have made it to at least one speakeasy one my trip… Impossible.

To think that I might not have made it to at least one speakeasy one my trip… Impossible.

Seemingly as ever, the trip I took was not necessarily the one I had planned. Usually, however, my plans are derailed more by the likes of eating waffles with members of the U.S. airforce in town squares late at night than by prolonged illnesses and twisted up ankles that I got diagnosed for me over FaceTime by a friend.

Montreal, let’s try again another time. I’ve got a lot more food to eat and at least one more speakeasy to find.


P.S. Since the turn of the year, my two-week posting streak has gone a bit haywire. In the hopes of getting back into something slightly better than the once-a-month of late, regular posting is now going to be every three weeks. She says, optimistically.

Suzey IngoldComment
A Ten Year Love Affair

The internet has been abuzz with the collective ten-year look back over the first month of the year, an endless parade of frequently entertaining looks at some of 2009’s most awkward styles and trends. Typically made most entertaining by the fact that we all look a lot better now (or, at least by 2019’s standards – give it another ten years and I’m sure we’ll all find new reasons to cringe). 

As it turns out, I seem to have lost most digital copies of photos from 2009 and before in various computer transfers and hard drive malfunctions – what a shame. I can tell you that this was right around the time that I gave up on the red hair I’d been sporting for a couple of years at that time and had my first brush with bleach. The result was a shock of vibrantly orange hair that, if I remember correctly, really did reflect the light with an almighty force. I can’t even curse my rudimentary hair dyeing skills – it did exactly what bleach does. I just didn’t know that yet. 

I don’t think anyone’s missing out on much by not seeing those photos, really. Thinking back on 2009, it’s not that God-awful bleach blonde hair I remember most, it’s the summer I spent in Lapland surrounded by a group of high school students from across Europe. (If asked, some of them might remember the God-awful bleach blonde hair, though. I’d rather not ask).

For a couple of weeks, our thirty-odd person group was all we saw, nestled in a hostel by Lake Inari, only to be visited by the occasional reindeer passing through the yard. Summers in Lapland are something quite special. Within the Arctic Circle, you will be faced with almost endless nights during the winter and, in turn, almost endless days during the height of the summer. Most nights, the sun barely dipped below the horizon, a brief hazy not-quite darkness falling for an hour before the sun began to climb again. 

I don’t recall doing a whole lot of sleeping during that time. Time was an illusion and the nights would roll on: running from the warm sauna to plunge into the freezing cold lake, cooking sausages over a wood fire and swatting away the swarming mosquitos, climbing the slopes to watch where sunset met sunrise. I remember long games of hide and seek across a dozen rooms, muddy games of kubb (a traditional Swedish game that, at its core, involves throwing a bit of wood at other bits of wood and hoping you don’t get hit too hard in the ankles) and one particularly memorable day making hay bales in which I discovered just how bad my allergies are.

Contrary to how it sounds, we weren’t actually just there to mess around in the Lappish countryside for a couple of weeks before being shipped back to our parents, but to participate in an international arts camp.

Now, I’ll level with you. Never in my life – at least up to that point – had I been described as artistic, and certainly not by my mother. My artistic skills were, at best, round blob stick figures and messy sketches, which I would put down both to a lack of skill and a lack of patience. I have slowly, over the years, dabbled in a little drawing and a little more patience definitely produces better results – but I am not an artist, not in the traditional sense.

The primary reason my mother sent me to an arts camp was because arts camp meant not-sports. Teenage Suzey and sports did not mix. Adult Suzey and sports still don’t particularly mix – my hand-eye coordination hasn’t improved much over the years. 

Being at arts camp, I came to realise two things very quickly. Firstly, I was still very much not a traditional artist. Set up with a canvas and some paint brushes in the undergrowth for a while, I produced a landscape painting that might be described as abstract. Secondly, however, and much more importantly, I realised that there was a much broader scope to art than I had necessarily taken the time to consider. 

One day, we were set up in a room with a shoebox, some duct tape, and black paint. 

“Today, we’re going to make our own cameras.” Our instructor for that day would go on to become a mentor to me over several summers – but we’ll get to that.

I stared at the box. Well. Alright, then. Photography was something I knew, really, nothing about. But I’d been taking photos all my life, inspired by my mother and her cupboard stacked high with photo albums going back years and years, and her impressive trust in me that from as early as three years old in Venice when she allowed me to take my very first photo with her camera. At age fifteen, I already had dozens of albums packed with photos, roll after roll of film captured on my clunky little camera. Pictures of family, of friends, of places I’d travelled with my parents. Several dozen, I believe dating back to around 2001, of soft toys arranged in various places in my bedroom. 

Venice, 1997.

Venice, 1997.

Presented with my box, I discovered a love for an art I barely knew existed: the visual arts of photography and film. Me and my box pottered around outside the building. If you’ve ever experienced the joy of having film printed, waiting a week, maybe two, to have what you saw through your viewfinder captured in physical form – it’s nothing compared to having one chance to take a shot, without knowing at all what it will look like until you’re watching it swim into view in a developing tray.

I fell in love with the smell of the darkroom, my eyes adjusting to the low red lights, fingers scrunched up in rubber gloves as I deposited the negative into the next tray. I could have spent all day in there – and, I think I more or less did, using up as many pieces of photo paper that they would spare me, long after everyone else had disappeared off to dinner or other activities. 

I doubt I realised it, then – the significance of that moment in my life going forward. A couple of years’ later, I would attend a second of these camps, and the same instructor would hand me a video camera and gesture to the surroundings of the tiny island we were on.

“Go and make something.”

So, I did. And as I watched it back alongside my campmates, projected on a small screen in that tiny classroom, I fell in love a little more.

Somewhere along the line, I turned what I love into what I do. A ten year love affair sparked in a remote area of Lapland as a teenager somehow became wrapped up in who I am, what I do, and what I aspire to be. 

The joy of having film developed, even if not done myself, is still something I hold dear.  A street in Manhattan, May 2017. 35mm B&W film.

The joy of having film developed, even if not done myself, is still something I hold dear.

A street in Manhattan, May 2017. 35mm B&W film.

I still have that pinhole camera. It’s sitting under the desk in my old, high school bedroom in my parents’ house. If you open it, it still smells faintly of the darkroom chemicals. Amongst the various failed negatives and some other miscellaneous memorabilia from that summer, there’s also the first love letter I ever received, written on an airplane napkin. But that is a story for another day.

Suzey IngoldComment
Dream a Little Dream

Dream big, kid!

If such words haven’t been spoken to you, you’ve surely heard them in a movie. Isn’t that always the thing? To dream big, wild, beyond your imagination. We all have dreams – we all have dreams like that. The kind where you’re a world-class painter who moonlights as an astronaut. Oh, and on Saturdays, you sometimes head-up a Broadway musical.

People grow and dreams change. Dreams might become more realistic or more achievable as you become an adult and become more aware of where you’re going or what you want from life or, even, just what you might actually be able to achieve.

Or is that even the point? Are dreams something to even be caught? Or are dreams too big to be clasped against our chests and claimed as our own? Are they not meant to be reached but just motivators, something to get us out of bed in the morning, something to inspire us to try the next thing, the bigger thing, the more challenging thing.

As a kid, I had a lot of dreams. I dreamt of being a famous author. I dreamt of being married and having a big family and a nice house. I dreamt of going to space. I dreamt of being a fashion designer.

Suzey in Venice c. 1997(?) was probably just dreaming about eating a big bowl of gelato. Yeah, enjoy that while you can, kid.

Suzey in Venice c. 1997(?) was probably just dreaming about eating a big bowl of gelato. Yeah, enjoy that while you can, kid.

I’m not really a kid anymore. And here’s where we’re at. Famous, I definitely am not, but I am an author. As for the husband and the kids and all that… Well, listen. I’ll get there. But I’m only twenty four and also working on not sending my boyfriend running for the hills in terror. Turns out space is pretty big and scary and although I may have signed up for the mailing list for Richard Branson’s Virgin Intergalactic space tourist programme, I am not a billionaire and likely will never be. And, frankly, as much as I love clothes and I love to shop, I couldn’t draw then and I certainly can’t now.

2014, dreaming of working at TIFF…   Flash forward to 2018? Well,  huh.

2014, dreaming of working at TIFF… Flash forward to 2018? Well, huh.

But none of that means I’ve stopped dreaming. Take film. Working in film was a dream that developed as an adult and it’s a dream that I’m lucky enough to now call my job. Not every day is glamorous – in fact, most days are decidedly not – but I love it. 

But if that was my one dream, my only dream, what would I do next? In my mid-twenties, I can’t very well sit down and sat “I’ve done it now!” 

(And I haven’t, I really haven’t, except that I never specified my dream much beyond “working in film”. Apparently, that can also include making people coffee). 

I like the idea of dreams, though. I like how they sound – a little whimsical, a little soft around the edges. This time of the year, everyone likes to talk of goals and resolutions – words that sound harsh and unforgiving. We all know we’ll break our resolutions, that our goals will defeat us.

But what about dreams? 

So, I’m not making resolutions this year, not really. I’m pursuing dreams. I’ve always dreamed of being able to tap dance, so today I took my first tap dance lesson. I dream of eating nice, home-cooked food, so I’m making a conscious effort to get back into cooking. I dream of travelling to see beautiful places in this beautiful world so I’ve booked a trip. I dream of those I love being happy so I want to do everything I can to be open and loving and kind to those around me and to bring them joy. I dream of finishing this book I’ve been writing for almost two years so I’m going to sit down and actually write, as often as I can.

It is too easy to lock a dream in your head and never allow it to blossom. Oh, it’s just a dream. Make it more tangible, make it something that you can take steps to achieving. 

I’m not the protagonist of a Disney movie, so the chances are that all my dreams will not come true. But I will do what I can to make every day count towards those dreams. To make, if you will, every day just a little more… Dreamy.

Suzey IngoldComment
2018: The Year I Jumped

A year ago yesterday, I submitted my paperwork for my Canadian visa. A year ago, I was working as a receptionist out of my old university. My days were largely spent arguing with arrogant badminton players or grumbling about Christmas trees (I wish I was joking). A year ago, I felt like I was stuck. I’d been applying for jobs relentlessly in the six months since I’d graduated, to rarely even be afforded a generic rejection letter, let alone a chance to interview. Christmas rolled around and I spent the holiday at my parents’ house, wondering if this was it. If this was life as an adult. Stuck in a dead-end minimum wage job and desperately hoping for something more.

On New Year’s Eve, or thereabouts, my brother told me 2018 was going to be a good year. That he was sure of it. I shrugged. Maybe. Maybe not.

On January 2nd, I was invited to interview for a job in London. On January 10th, within the space of about an hour, I was offered the job and granted my Canadian visa. And, suddenly, having spent six months tearing my hair out over being stuck at a standstill, life was just, well, going.

Now, I’ll quickly add that 2018 was a really rubbish year in a lot of ways. The world has not had a good year. But, more than ever, I think we have to focus on the good, or none of us will ever get out of bed in the morning. And, for me, 2018 was a good year. 2018 was the year I needed, the year I saw the edge of the horizon with the unknown spilling out beyond it, and I jumped.

Sometimes, the only way is up.

Sometimes, the only way is up.

First, to London, quitting my job and moving 400 miles with as many bags as I could carry on the train. Three months that passed in a heartbeat, as I adjusted to being just another body in an impossible sea of people. I entered a stage of my life that I’ve been privileged to continue where people asked me what I did and I replied by saying I worked in film. Perhaps even more literal a reply than I intended, given that many of my days were spent quite literally tangled in the stuff, juggling reels of 35mm in a hip little office space in North East London. 

London, February 2018.

London, February 2018.

I spent evenings wandering down South Bank with my best friend or nestled in the Picturehouse with a glass of wine. I made pancakes with my flatmate and set the smoke alarm off every single time. I went on a few dates, here and there, although nothing really stuck. I spent a week seriously considering the offer to stay in London and continue my life there beyond the initial three months. I had a good job. I had great friends. I had a city at my fingertips that invited me with the promise of all I could want to ever see or do. I had my family just a train ride away, where I could – and often did – spend my weekends making space puzzles with my nephew or taking my niece out for hot chocolate. 

But I knew that Canada was a now-or-never kind of thing. So, I jumped, again.

Back to Edinburgh, first, and a jump of a different kind – an environment I knew and a festival I’d worked in for many years, but now in a new job. A job I admitted only later to my manager that I’d been worried I wasn’t ready for, that would be too much for me. And there were certainly moments in my eighteen hour days with my phone ringing every thirty seconds that I wondered if I’d get through it. But I did, and I loved it.

I called my brother as the festival was winding down and exclaimed to him about how insane it was that this was my job. That I was getting paid to do this thing that I loved to do, working around such interesting and inspiring people. And he laughed and said it wasn’t insane. He was the one, as he often is, to remind me of just how hard I’d worked to get to that role, and that position in the festival. I hadn’t just stumbled into it. I had earned it. And that was almost most confusing of all.

Eighteen hour days are a lot more manageable when you have incredible people around you all day, every day.

Eighteen hour days are a lot more manageable when you have incredible people around you all day, every day.

A summer to relax and reflect and pack. I spent a few weeks in Finland with my family and then stopped over in Stockholm for a few days and practiced my Swedish, a language I’ve been learning for two years. I came back to Scotland to a frantic mother and a looming countdown to my departure date.

As the days ticked closer, I wondered when it might hit. Back in 2014, I’d come just as close to moving to Italy for a year, as part of my studies. Even closer, really, as far as the airport when I ended up not going. In the weeks leading up to that day, I was a shell of myself. I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I was irate and short with everyone I came into contact with. By the time I made it to the airport that foggy Saturday morning, my anxiety had wound itself up so tight that I looked and felt physically unwell. 

I didn’t go to Italy and it’s the best decision I ever made. The second best decision I ever made was coming to Canada.

This time around, I was excited. There were things playing on mind, stresses about money and work and finding somewhere to live – these were natural. But that sense of panic, of impending doom, wasn’t there. I got to the airport and I cried saying goodbye to my parents, sure, but I made it through to the airport lounge and starting doing job applications for Toronto. As the plane came into land, I listened to Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way (because sometimes I like to pretend my life is a movie, we’ve all been there) and I was grinning ear-to-ear.

And when I think back on the summer of 2014 and the choice I made to not go to Italy, I don’t think of it as sitting back and letting life pass me by. Because the jump I took to not go to Italy landed me in opportunities I would never have had if I had gone, and have had a direct knock-on effect into the work I am able to do now.

Within one week of being in Toronto, I was on a film shoot. The film festival followed shortly after, and then it was a steady stream of job applications and interviews. It’s only really recently that I’ve settled into somewhat of a routine, with a fairly solid path for my work life mapped out from here until October. Three days a week, I work at one of the biggest film-based organisations in the world. Two or three days a week, I move some tables around at a huge tech organisation. Somewhere in between there, depending on the week, I run around a film set for a weekend and work on my novel.

When I think back on 2018, I am frequently alarmed by how fast it has gone by. But, equally, the amount that has happened over the past twelve months and the amount I’ve been able to fit into that space of time is almost impossible for me to comprehend. 

2018 was the year that I needed. 2018 was the year that I jumped, and didn’t look back.

Suzey IngoldComment
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Back in the summer when I was preparing to leave for Canada, it was with the intention to be back for Christmas. It would make for a conveniently placed six-month marker, long enough for me to have settled into my life in Toronto but not so long that I wouldn’t go completely crazy in missing my family. Obviously, plans change, and as the fall colours began to spread across the city, a visit in late October became more logical and feasible. I was desperately in need of my array of winter coats and sweaters that were gathering dust in my parents’ house and would be bulky and expensive to send, not to mention the heinous price of flights to the U.K. during the Christmas period. My dad’s 70th birthday happened to coincide with this time of the year, too, and I acknowledged that being there for that would mean more to me and to my family than being there for Christmas.

Because Christmas is just Christmas, right? I’m in my mid-twenties, the magic has all but worn off, topped off with a selection of gifts that tends to verge on the practical. Sure, the food and the warmth and atmosphere were all things I greatly enjoyed but I wouldn’t be missing all that much to spend the holiday somewhere different for a change. 

Is Christmas even Christmas without my mum’s Christmas tablecloth?

Is Christmas even Christmas without my mum’s Christmas tablecloth?

I’m not sure when that feeling began to change for me. Whether it was the moment I landed back into cold, snowy Toronto and realised how the winter stretched ahead of me, or when I stared up at the towering lit-up Christmas tree in Nathan Phillips Square and was reminded of every over-sized tree my dad had brought home over the years, to my mum’s increasing despair. Maybe I felt it in how unsettled I’ve felt over the past week or so, or maybe it was in the moment that I went to see a festival-favourite, Green Book, again, and burst into tears at the family Christmas scene.

Christmas in Toronto

Christmas in Toronto

Whatever it is, it’s hit me over the past week that this will be the first time I spend Christmas without any of my family at all. There’ll be no dancing to Elvis with my dad as we put up the Christmas tree, no putting the bun dough in the sauna to get it to rise, no roll of the eyes from my mum when I request rice pudding on Christmas Eve morning. No traditional Finnish Christmas Eve meal or arguing with my brother over a game of Solar Trader. No hearing the Queen’s speech from the other room as I stack up plates, nursing a food coma drowned in brandy butter.

I thought I was feeling better about it, and this wasn’t the post I intended to write tonight. But then I rejigged another tradition, one that is entirely my own. For several years now, I’ve always taken an evening, Christmas gifts for my family collected together, and sat down to wrap them with Michael Bublé’s Christmas album on in the background and a few candles burning here and there. This year, I put on his album and did some extensive and complicated online shopping, instead – albeit with a spruce tree candle burning on my shelf to make it feel a little more like home.

And then, the song changed.

I’ll be home for Christmas…

And without even meaning for it to happen, I felt the tears spring to my eyes again. I could almost laugh at myself, if only I weren’t so busy sobbing.

I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.

I won’t be home for Christmas this year. I don’t know what this Christmas will hold. I have several wonderful offers from some of the wonderful people in my life and, what I do know, is I won’t spend it alone. Which, no matter what you believe or what you celebrate this season, is what I think these cold, dark winter months are all about. 

Take care of yourselves this winter, and of those you love. All the best from me, today and every day.

Suzey IngoldComment
November is still November

When I first moved to Canada, my family reacted in a variety of different ways. My mother, an incessant worrier, was persistent in her concerns, her questions, her constant tirade of but what if’s? My father, a little more level-headed, was my ally in diverting her attention or at least pulling her out of the way for a little while so I could get on with moving preparations. My brother, perhaps in part of an effort to calm our mother down, pointed out that all I was really doing at this stage was going on an extended holiday.

And August did feel a little like that. September, too, I guess. I definitely had the same accusation thrown at me a few times in the first few weeks by my parents as they queried why I hadn’t yet found a job, or an apartment, and so on and so forth. 

(Despite the fact that I did, actually, pick up a day’s production work within my first week in Toronto, not to mention the ten days I spent running back and forth between two film festivals. Granted, not one of those three jobs paid, but I wasn’t exactly sitting on a beach all day. Or, not every day).

A rare beach day.

A rare beach day.

It’s a funny thing, living abroad like I am, because when asked what brought me here, part of that answer typically involves explaining that I’m on the IEC visa. The what? They ask, if not another Brit/Aussie/Kiwi on the same programme. Two year temporary work visa. Working holiday visa.

Working holiday. It’s an interesting way to phrase it. The lazy days of August and September that I was lucky enough to spend enjoying the last of the summer’s heat, out at Toronto Island until sunset or taking walking tours of downtown or even just the luxury of spending a large portion of my day sitting in a coffee shop with my friends under the pretence of job hunting.

Sunset at Toronto Island, courtesy of our French boy paparazzi.

Sunset at Toronto Island, courtesy of our French boy paparazzi.

I couldn’t tell you exactly when it stopped feeling like I was on holiday. Maybe, when I moved out of the hostel, although even then I was still hopping from sublet to Airbnb for another six weeks. So, maybe, then when I moved into my apartment and was hit with the sudden reality of grocery shopping and – finally, finally – unpacking. Or, maybe, when I worked two eighteen hour days in a row and then collapsed from my aching legs, reeking of cask beer and wood-fire smoke.

Working hard or hardly working?

Working hard or hardly working?

Or, maybe, it was when I returned from my “holiday”, if I can use the word, back to the U.K. When I first arrived in the country, I woke up the next morning with a profound sense of having absolutely no idea what to do next – I was not afforded this luxury again. Arriving in Canada a couple of weeks ago was coming home, as strange as that feels to say. I was waved through immigration with my visa clutched tightly in hand like a shield, picked up by my boyfriend who drove me home, where I immediately had to unpack and stock up on groceries so that I could make it to the first day of a new job the next morning.

I don’t feel jet-lagged at all! I thought with pride on Wednesday morning as I hopped onto the subway to head downtown. And I didn’t. But that’s because the jet-lag hit a couple of days later, followed by a stressful weekend that didn’t help induce sleep any more. 

And, then, I remembered, as I sat on the subway mid-morning on Monday with a perpetual sense of the grumps. 

Oh. Well. It is November. 

Even in Toronto, even in what feels a life so different from where I was this time last year, November is still November. 

Dark, foggy November nights.

Dark, foggy November nights.

And November is truly the worst month. I know a lot of people have it out for January, or even February, and I can’t say I love them, either. But November is, categorically, The Worst™️. It’s dark. It’s cold. Everyone’s sick. Everyone’s tired. Christmas is still just that little bit too far away even though the promise of December and the lights and the atmosphere is on the horizon. And, worst of all, November comes with the impending sense of disappointment at all you said you were going to achieve this year and didn’t. That’s where January and February prevail. Yes, it’s cold and it’s dark and Christmas has passed and there’s seemingly nothing to look forward to until  the days start to get a little longer, but it’s a new year. There is possibility and planning and the opportunity to do all you want to do.

But in November, it’s just a stark reminder of oh, I still haven’t done that thing I said I’d do this year. And now it’s November, and there’s just no time. I tend to feel this most with my creative projects as November coincides with NaNoWriMo. 

(A brief interlude for those not familiar: NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, is an annual worldwide project in which people attempt to write a 50,000 word novel in a month, which works out to an average of 1,667 words a day. That is a totally manageable daily word target on an average-to-good writing day. However, as soon as you miss one day, because you’re tired/busy/on a plane/sick/attending a wedding/insert event of your choice, suddenly you need to write over 3,000 words in a day to catch up. And that’s when it gets difficult. Also, there’s just the thing of trying to maintain the level of brain power and motivation required to write every single day for a month which is not something I typically achieve at any other time of the year).

This is my fourth time doing NaNoWriMo. I’ve won twice: once, on a book I started from scratch, as you’re supposed to do; once, with a book I’d already started, using NaNoWriMo as a good way of blasting through a large chunk of a project in a short space of time. I’ve failed once, getting around 30,000 words in and then losing the momentum. That book remains, as yet, unfinished. This year, I’m cheating again, and working on existing project. 

And I was doing so well. I was doing so well. Until I got sick. And then had to take an eight hour flight. And then jet lag. And then starting a new job. And so on, and so forth, and now it’s November 24th (because even this I’m writing a day late which tells you all you need to know) and I have exactly seven days to write just under 25,000 words.


If I get through the month, even if I end up with the word count I have now, I will have made a significant leap in a book I’ve been writing for over a year now (for anyone who knows me, this is unusual. I write most books in a six month binge). But I will still get to the end of the month and think, but wasn’t I going to re-edit that project this year? And wasn’t I going to write that short story this year? And wasn’t I going to enter that contest?

And that’s just thinking about my writing.

But, this year, I’m trying not to let the November blues hit any harder than they have to. Because when I think back on this year, in particular, all I can think is just how much I have achieved. 2018 has been one of the busiest, most chaotic, most challenging, and most rewarding years of my entire life. But that is a story for another day.

Suzey IngoldComment
To All the Cities I've Loved Before

“You know, I sometimes think, how is anyone ever gonna come up with a book, or a painting, or a symphony, or a sculpture that can compete with a great city. You can’t.” 

Midnight in Paris (2011)

My love affair with cities began from birth. The quote above is spoken about Paris, a city that – I hesitate to admit – I don’t actually like all that much. But with a few exceptions, it’s rare for me to find a great city that I don’t like (for I won’t argue that Paris isn’t a great city, just that it isn’t the city for me. But that is neither here nor there, really). 

Paris, April 2018. Early morning.

Paris, April 2018. Early morning.

Born into a big city, perhaps it’s in my nature to gravitate to the fast-paced metropolitan buzz of a city, with scores of buildings crammed together and people from every walk of life living side by side against the relentless thrum of city life. It’s true that I remember very little of my early years in Manchester but I have been back enough to know that it is truly a great city.

But it was my first visit to New York City that opened my eyes to what would become the greatest love of my life. That I was already enamoured by the city before I even arrived speaks volumes although with a city like New York, this is not so unusual. New York is the city of cities, the backdrop for countless books, movies, television shows, and of equal importance to any of the physical characters within them. 

My first night in Manhattan, aged thirteen with braces and all, I lay on my stomach by the sloped glass window of our riverside hotel, just across the way from the United Nations building. I gazed at the lit up high rise buildings and I felt the rush of love at first sight. The feeling didn’t lessen in the days to follow – if anything, the opposite, with every honk of a yellow taxicab horn and rush of the subway train passing below. 

I would return to New York several times over the years. A wild four day tour with some girl friends for the sake of a charming young actor and his Broadway debut, my first time in the city without my parents. An entire two weeks spent, alone, undertaking a brief film course and tying in my love of film to my love for the city. Commuting back and forth from my hostel with its ever-changing roommates and pretending, just for a moment, that I was a real New Yorker. And then, again, just last year, with one of my best friends to ring in my twenty-third birthday. 

One night of that most recent trip, me and my friend ended up in Grand Central Station at around one o’clock in the morning on a weekday. Contrary to how most people see the iconic landmark, it was deserted. We walked through the station, our footsteps echoing on the marble, and tears nearly came to my eyes for how special a moment it was. For how I’d always remember it, in this city that I loved.

Grand Central Station, New York, May 2017. Twirling, just because.

Grand Central Station, New York, May 2017. Twirling, just because.

In between these various trips to New York, I moved to Edinburgh for university. A city steeped in its history and grand old architecture. A city that is warm and gentle enough for taking those first steps into adulthood but vibrant enough to feel as though one is truly experiencing life in a city. Festivals came and went, trams were built, and the foundations of my life as it is now grew into place. Of all the cities that I love, Edinburgh is perhaps the one I have the most to be thankful for.

And in all of this, London – ah, London. I had been many times over the course of my childhood and teenage years, before I finally moved there myself. That my brother lived there, too, for some of those visits only warmed me to the city more, as though it didn’t already have enough going for it. For my love of theatre, London was the top dog, not to mention a wealth of shopping the likes of which my bank account resented but my heart adored. 

By the time I finally moved there, a brief three month interlude in what has been an extraordinarily busy year, it felt so familiar as to not incite the typical just-moved panic. I became a Londoner, a Commuter, with a monthly travel card loaded onto my Oyster and a trendy office in Dalston. It came time to say goodbye all too fast but even then, it seemed more of a see you later than a goodbye. I wondered on that when I moved to Toronto but, then, having visited just a few days ago, I am more sure than ever that I will be returning to London one day.

And before Toronto became my home, a quick stopover to my Nordic roots. Helsinki, such a beautiful city that I return to time and time again, that reminds me of summer’s days and eating fresh berries down by the water. Briefly, too, to Stockholm, a city that I had not visited in many years, and a city that I promptly decided I would, too, live in one day – although where I will find all these days, I just don’t know. 

Gamla stan, Stockholm, July 2018. Beautiful architecture of the old town.

Gamla stan, Stockholm, July 2018. Beautiful architecture of the old town.

It is funny, then, to think of what it is that I love. For some of these cities are so very old, like Edinburgh, like Stockholm, and some so very new, like New York, like Toronto. They look so very different but it is the feeling of the city, more than the look, that I seem to fall in love with.

Finally, then, to Toronto, although my love for this particular city I have perhaps gushed already too much. Toronto may well be as close as I get to living in New York but with all the things I love about New York, minus just a little of the overwhelming urgency of the Big Apple. With every day, I find something new to love about Toronto, and so I suspect I will continue to in the months to come.

Some people might be amazed by sculptures or paintings or symphonies. But nothing will ever be as beautiful to me as a really great city.

Suzey IngoldComment
There's no place like home

Home has always been somewhat of a complicated concept for me – at least, it’s never been particularly obvious when I’m talking to someone exactly where I’m referring to when I mention “home”. While I was at university, living in Edinburgh, I might talk about “going home” which meant going to see my parents in Aberdeen but then, in turn, would say to them that I was “going home”, back to Edinburgh, whatever coming day. While working and living in London, I’d frequently visit my niece and nephew, kissing them goodbye at the end of the evening and telling them I couldn’t stay over the night because I had to go home. Every time I visit Finland, I talk about going home, even though I’ve never lived there nor do I have a permanent address there. 

Going back to Finland each year always comes with a welcome sense of familiarity

Going back to Finland each year always comes with a welcome sense of familiarity

And now, it seems to have become all the more convoluted. On Wednesday night, I flew back to the U.K. for the first time since moving out to Canada, for a pre-Christmas family visit to avoid the heinous festive flight prices.

“I’m so excited to go home,” I said to my friend as I drummed my fingers off my laptop, waiting for online check-in to open.

“But this is your home,” she protested with a very characteristically-her pout.

And she’s not wrong. I have an apartment in Toronto now, an apartment that, as of Monday, actually has a bed and a rug and some shelves. I have not one, but two jobs to go back to in the city, not to mention any other projects that might crop up in the coming weeks when I return. I have friends there, a boyfriend, a favourite coffee shop, an annual transit pass, and local supermarket.

I don’t know exactly what it is about a place that makes it a home or not a home. I continue to describe myself as being from Manchester even though I left when I was five years old and I barely know my way around. Aberdeen never really felt like home, in part for having always been the English girl in the Scottish town and in part for the fact that my brothers (more or less) never lived there with me, but the familiarity of my parents’ house is always a welcome warmth. Edinburgh became a home as a mark of the beginning of my adult life but a desire to leave came from it very much being the locale of my student experience and student life. London, I’m not sure quite entrenched itself in me enough to be a home. 

Brb, Googling the definition of “home”… Instead of just looking out at Edinburgh behind me © Janine McMeekin

Brb, Googling the definition of “home”… Instead of just looking out at Edinburgh behind me © Janine McMeekin

And if you bring my accent into it? Well, you’d be hard-pushed to figure out where I’m from, with my bizarre mix-mash Edinburgh lilt with something a little English, that has long been mistaken for Canadian or American – now with a few genuine Canadian-isms slipping into the midst.

Toronto is fast growing on me and the two months I’ve spent there feel far longer than they actually are. But that’s not to say that I haven’t missed my other home (or, one of my other homes, perhaps I should say). Stepping through the doors of Glasgow airport yesterday morning, it was the smell of the Scottish air that hit me first – the fresh, early morning breeze as a flurry of familiar accents passed me by. And for all that being here is lovely, I quickly came to realise that my earlier suspicions were true – it was not the place I was sick for, but the people.

It’s no secret that I’m close with my family and for the first time in my entire life, I was not a handy two hours away from at least one member of my immediate family. I’m lucky to live in an age where communication is easy and accessible and a five hour time difference isn’t impossible to navigate, if sometimes a little challenging. In a lot of ways, as much as I miss them, it’s easier being away from my friends – we’re more used to living scattered across counties and, often, too, continents, and keeping in frequent contact through messages and occasional video chat. 

Living away from home, if I can use the word, quickly becomes a measure of the things you value. I didn’t need to be told of how much I loved my family but the stark reminder of the role they play in my life and the connection I have to them has taken me aback a little. 

I spent some time over the summer with my brother and his family in Finland, a trip that frequently included car trips taken to the Moana soundtrack. More than once, myself, my brother and my sister-in-law ended up in tears, while my nephew promptly fell asleep and my niece sang along wholeheartedly, nothing but bemused as to why the grown-up contingent were having a collective emotional breakdown on the way to the supermarket. For myself, about to leave for Canada, the idea of being torn between what you know and those with whom you’re bonded and the adventurous lure of something different and challenging just beyond the horizon hit close to home (if you’ll pardon the phrase). But, as difficult as it can feel at times, as though you’re being pulled in two different directions, it’s just as my sister-in-law said to me recently: you know your way home.

I don’t know quite where my red sparkly slippers would take me if I clicked my heels together and chanted “there’s no place like home” but I can bet that my family would be there – and there’ll always be there, when I need to come home for a bit.

But with all that said… I’ve been home for about a day and, I’ve got to say – I miss Toronto, too.

Suzey IngoldComment
A brief interlude... Top picks from TIFF18

In a brief tangent from the more personal, and occasionally heavy, blogposts to date, I thought I’d skip back a few weeks to the Toronto International Film Festival and highlight my top picks from TIFF18. Partly, to break things up a bit; partly, because TIFF ended nearly a month ago and I haven’t talked about it at all; and partly, because it’s pretty late on the night I should post this and I’m very aware that I have to be up in six-odd hours to head to set for the day.

Reading that paragraph back, I’m taken by how surreal my life is these days. But, that’s a post for another day.

Despite what it looks like, I did actually make it to bed before 3am  far  more often than I did at EIFF18…

Despite what it looks like, I did actually make it to bed before 3am far more often than I did at EIFF18…

So, in no particular order…

Green Book

Let’s start with the obvious first. If you’re outside of the film circuit, the chances are you haven’t heard of Green Book yet – but, trust me, you’re about to hear about it constantly. Green Book is this year’s Three Billboards, the year before’s Moonlight, a visually stunning recounting of the true story of an Italian-American hired to drive an African American pianist on a tour through the deep south in the 1960s. Striking that perfect balance between comedic and heart-wrenching, with spot-on performances all round, and a soundtrack that’ll have the nostalgic (like myself) within the first ten minutes, Green Book was the unexpected stand-out for TIFF18, winning the People’s Choice Award. It was not a film that was on my radar at all pre-festival and slowly during the festival, I began to hear more and more about it – everyone who saw it seemed to love it, seemed to be unable even to describe it. From the description and what I’d heard, what I actually saw on screen was not what I expected, and I was continuously surprised and delighted throughout the film. No matter your tastes, this is a must-see.

The Hummingbird Project

Another film I’d heard nothing about prior to the festival and one I found entirely by chance, in a what film can I fit in this morning? kind of way. Two cousins working on Wall Street hatch up a plan to build a pipeline from Kansas to New York to transfer stock prices faster than anyone else. It’s The Big Short that tackles the number-side a little better and also holds a human aspect that the predecessor lacked. Jesse Eisenberg is, as usual, Jesse Eisenberg (but he does it so well) while Alexander Skårsgard gives, arguably, the best performance of his career so far.

The Hate U Give

Another obvious choice although this was an eagerly anticipated film adaption of the incredible YA novel by Angie Thomas. With any adaptation, the worry is whether it will live up to the book and The Hate U Give does and more – having read the book before, I think the film is, in fact, even more powerful. Amandla Stenberg gives a breathtaking performance in the lead role that deftly tackles issues such as police brutality in America today and cultural appropriation among teens. This film pulls no punches, nor should it. Forget the YA stamp, this film (and its original book) are a must for all audiences.

I’ll also give an honourable mention to Destroyer which was a highlight of the festival for me, if not entirely for the film, but for the opportunity to listen to one of my absolute favourite actors, Sebastian Stan, talk about the film and a little of his career. (I also walked past him in a hallway and then proceeded to text my friends back home in very inarticulate capital letters but that’s not a story for here).

And, as for those I missed?

  • First Man – wasn’t a priority for me at TIFF, as I knew a wide release was imminent within a month, but Ryan Gosling plus space? It’s already a winner for me.

  • Hotel Mumbai – for various reasons, I saw about twenty minutes from near the start of this film and no more but what I saw was fantastic, and I eagerly anticipate the day I can get around to the other eighty-odd. I had a vague plan to rush line it nearer the end of the festival but then I ended up on a patio on the west side drinking wine, so… That was that.

  • Beautiful Boy – I did attempt to rush line this, but so did a few dozen Timothée Chalamet fans. Go figure.

  • A Million Little Pieces – had every intention to go but woke up at 7am and couldn’t face a film about a drug addict so early in the day

  • Papi Chulo – again, early morning, day after aforementioned wine… Oops.


For reference, a complete list of the films I saw:

  • Kursk

  • Woman at War

  • Greta

  • The Hummingbird Project

  • Destroyer

  • The Hate U Give

  • The Wedding Guest

  • Colette

  • Viper Club

  • Green Book

Suzey IngoldComment