Never ever in my life have I been inside a beach cottage where there is not a mirror within a frame made of stuck on shells. Just last Saturday I went to the most unimpeachably tasteful beach cottage in the world, with a garden full of irises and a huge kitchen and wraparound veranda with views of the sea and whales. And there was such a mirror. There were also flop-down blinds with crabs on them (main bedroom), and lighthouses (the family room). In another beach house, one belonging to my parents, there is such a mirror. There are also pictures of fish on every other bit of wall and the knobs of each drawer are made of fake shells. The lights are made from bleached driftwood gathered up off the beach, with energy-saving bulbs stuck on them.
In an effort to understand humans who like to organise their world into themes, I, myself, have absolutely tried out compartmentalisation as a method of living. Over the years I have indeed made quite a few shell necklaces and sometimes even cuttlefish and coral mobiles while staying at beach cottages. When it comes to beach house interior decorating, I actually totally get it. Because you might be in the kitchen, say, and you might for a minute or two accidentally think about something horrible. But then you reach out to open the cutlery drawer, place your hand onto a shell knob and yay, you remember: Everything is okay. For I am at the beach.
Themes can be useful in other ways too. Like once we went to the Nieu Bethesda for Christmas. This is the weirdest place on earth and of course there are no shell mirrors here. Here the themes are mostly Owls and Statues Facing East, and fathers being locked in rooms where the walls are made of broken black glass. All the mirrors are reflecting the moon and the sun. And the sun is SO HOT in Nieu Bethesda we had to sit in the drains (leiwaters) all day to keep from getting heatstroke.
So perhaps to distract from all of this, a friend we were with suggested we have a Swedish theme for Christmas lunch. In retrospect a very good idea to be thinking about somewhere cold and not quite so weird, and therefore feeling more comfortable. In other words: Everything is okay. For I am actually in Sweden.
But at the time, I just couldn’t reconcile all the themes. Baby Jesus, Owls, Too many Presents, Hot versus Cold. Sheep everywhere, but no shepherds. So I just came out and said that embarrasingly, for a supposed travel journalist, I know very little about Sweden apart from wishing we had Ikea in South Africa. And Google said at Christmas you fasten candles onto your head during lunch, and I just thought the way in which I would do that particularly, might in fact be very offensive to Sweden.
Then, the other day, after not thinking about this topic for quite a while, Thea and I accidentally went to a Theme Hotel for the weekend. Of course we didn’t mean to. From the internet it looked like just another midlands hotel with houses on stilts in the trees. And it all started off pretty ordinarily. Acceptable, general and semi-enjoyable South African midlands’ themes: wholly wanky baristas; crystals at the crystal shop; cows and pigs, dreamcatchers; mist; green-ness. But it started to unravel.
I’m not saying as we arrived at the actual Theme Hotel it suddenly burst out snowing. Or that I mysteriously pricked my finger on a spindle and then exactly three drops of blood fell out of it. That would be taking the genre of subjective journalist beyond its maximum capacity. It was more subtle. It was more like in the beginning of the movie Gaslight, when the guy just ever so slightly makes the lights flicker.
We were allocated the Fantasy House. It was small and wooden and there was a mirror on the wall. This one was not made of shells, but of dark wood. And in a very German font, were carved the words, Who is the Fairest?
And even though I was now trying my best not to think about Snow White and how frightening it is, or let the theme of Pathological Envy and Women with Narcissistic Personalisty Disorder spoil my weekend get away, it started to become more and more difficult to get away from it. Seven knives, seven forks, seven everything in our cottage. We found a pouch for poison at the museum, and a discarded vanity case. Also no one was eating any apples. Not even the horses. They just would not.
By the time we went into the dining room for supper, the brothers Grimm had truly taken hold. In the corner, sitting on a fancy chair, was a particularly thin-lipped woman. She was absolutely scoffing down what looked to me like very fresh bleeding heart (venison was on the menu). I admit I couldn’t directly look at her because I was too scared, but I just knew in my head, that drool, blood, control, power and jealousy were all sliding down her pointy chin, over the extruded veins of her neck and dripping red splotches onto a snow white napkin. And that she believed she was eating her own step-daughter, while in the kitchen a huntsman was wiping slain deer off his arrows.
And so after this we went home, because we had had enough and we didn’t want to think about Snow White or the horrors of coming of age anymore, while trying to be on holiday. We had gaslighted ourselves so much we had forgotten about going to farmer’s markets and scones with cream, missed out on visits to ceramic studios and meeting the woman who lives nearby and has apparently been abducted by aliens three times. This is the danger of an environment controlled by theme. Just way too prescriptive.
And once we were back at the coast, thankful and safe, I just knew once and for all, that was it, for me and themes. I know I have given them a very good chance. Except for beach cottages with shells around the mirrors and drawer knobs to remind us that everything is actually okay; farewell themes. Even when, on hearing this, Thea told me about a Hamster Hotel in France. For Humans. With a wheel to run on and sawdust to sleep in and all-things hamster, I said no. I said we will never ever go to that hotel.