Will I Ever Make It to the Americas?

Sailing, flying or letting go?

Dear Friends of Fictions,

May this find you well, healthy, and safe.

If I owe you a reply, please bear with me—I spent January volunteering and had no access to my phone.

A break, too, from reading fiction, listening to music, consuming news, and even… speaking. Now, emerging from three weeks of near-total silence, I’m slowly trying to figure out what is truly worth saying (in general) and writing (here). I’ll give it a try.

Sometimes, stories follow us. Like that one my grandfather wrote: No Women On Board. Set in the late 19th century, it tells of a teenager who tries to board a fishing ship to earn money and support her family. To do so, she disguises herself as a boy—since women are strictly forbidden at sea. According to superstition, their presence would bring “bad luck”.

As a kid, I was captivated by the cross-dressing element. Born in a female body, I desperately wanted to hang out with the boys. Hearing this story for the first time inspired me to cut my hair short, ask my mum for boy’s trousers, and head to the football field. But neither the boys—nor, in fact, the girls—quite liked it.

Later, another part of the story resonated. There’s a passage where she binds her chest to conceal her growing breasts. I read this section during an ambient set at Room 4 Resistance in 2019—the same year my sister underwent chest surgery to reduce her cancer risk.

Now, the whole story echoes in a new way. The protagonist’s struggle to board a ship reminds me of my ongoing attempt to reach the Americas without flying. Since 2021, I’ve been searching for a sustainable way to cross the Atlantic. I’ve documented my research and the difficulties of finding alternatives to flying in the newsletter—and more thoroughly (in French) here.

This year, some promoters have invited me, again, to play in the US. This time between April and July, and this time … I found a boat!! The only remaining issue is financial: my gigs would cover accommodation over that period and domestic landed travel (which, itself, is a lot). But not the cost of the crossing. I’ve lost count of the hours spent applying for grants—and of the rejections.

Counting, counting, counting … At this point, my commitment to slow travel isn’t just about carbon calculations anymore. It’s about much more. In theory, I could just get on a plane—just this once. Or I could give up the US bookings in my Spring schedule and, as I did in 2024, find a last minute job to fill the sudden gap. Most likely, the next few months will push me in one of these two directions. Whichever it is, may it serve the welfare of all beings.

But for now—just for now—I STILL WANT TO GET ON BOARD.

Part of me fears that worsening weather conditions will soon make transatlantic crossings even harder—and that this year might be my last chance to make my pilgrimage to that side of the world. I’ve never been to the Americas, a land that birthed so many of the musics that saved my life. And with Trump withdrawing from the Paris Agreement, that fear of troubled geographies only grows stronger.

If you have any ideas—grants, support, connections or else—that could help me get there, please reach out.

If 2024 was the year I learned to receive blame with more equanimity, may 2025 be the year I learn to receive generosity. Some subscribers have been pledging support for my work for a while, but I hadn’t activated the payments. I will now accept them—and if more of you join, maybe we’ll make the crossing happen. Maybe this year? Or one day? (Does anyone know how to offer lower pledges than the minimum of 5E/month imposed by Substack??) ((Also, just hitting the little heart button to like this essay is of great support already!))

The newsletter will, however, remain free. Next month, I hope to send an essay reflecting on some of the places I’ve recently visited, as I did in 2023 and 2022.

Strange Brew in Bristol, where I played in June.

What else? Mh, let’s see…

This January, we ate pretty much the same dinner every night—yet somehow, it kept tasting better.
This January, grace arrived in the form of a deer jumping at dusk, and for a moment, I felt free.
This January, the thunderstorms seemed endless—and so did the cycle of sinks to scrub.
This January, at full moon, a leaf trembled under the weight of an insect, and the sheer pleasure of its sound nearly made me throw up.
This January, I bowed a thousand times—or perhaps a million more.
This January, I poured tea for a dying man, and he smiled at me.

How has your month been?

xx

nono