Food, Fiction & Fabulousness

Making it to the mountains

2007-07-04T18:50:00.000+01:00

One of my little childhood fantasies was to travel in a countryside where I could imagine fairytales being set... towering mountains, stunning lakes, inviting woods with magical elements in them, quaint houses.... and the Bavarian countryside I always knew would fulfill that fantasy, so one of the things I definitely wanted to do when in Munich was get out of Munich and explore this area.

My Lonely Planet suggested an area called Berchtesgarten would be ideal for this. Apparently it is the mythical heart of Bavaria, where they have centuries old traditions involving fairies and monsters... they have forests supposedly full of magical creatures (a forest actually called Magical Forest!), and some of the most breathtaking scenery in Europe. I had to go there.

However, it was situation in a tiny pocket of land in the very south-west corner of Germany, almost entirely surrounded by Austrian Alps. It was far from Munich, with poor public transport. Turns out (unsurprisingly considering) that Nicola was born in Berchtesgarten and knew it well, so could give me suggestions on what to see. It made me even more determined to go there. I thought I could catch a train down and use a cab to get around, but Nicola said that wasn't really an option, and hitch-hiking was not even worth considering. So I thought I would hire a car for a day.

I awoke early that second day, and caught the train out to East Munich which is close to the main autobahn (so I could avoid driving through Munich city traffic). Unfortunately, the car dealership had no available cars when I turned up (perhaps I should have checked first). I was bitterly disappointed, and walked dejectedly back to the station, where I found a travel agent.

I went into the travel agent, and they said they could help. They called around for a while, and eventually found a place that had an automatic car available (that was the problem, damn why didn't I ever learn to drive a manual!), but it was a top of the line BMW for a daily rate that made me do a double-take. I just couldn't justify that much, so I thought instead I would catch a train and pay for cabs.

I went to buy a ticket to Berchtesgarten, and was equally aghast when I was told the return fare was not much less than the daily rate for the car... and when I thought about it, a car gave me more freedom and independence... so I got a refund for the ticket and went back to the travel agent (yes, these dizzying circles are indeed my life). I booked the car, and when told how much the excess was, and that for an extra EUR 10 I could reduce it by half, I thought that seemed a worthwhile investment, particularly as I had never driven on the right hand side of the road before.

I went to the car dealership, and was given a very large and expensive looking BMW. Quite daunted, I sat inside, and stared in confusion at all the buttons for about 20 minutes, freaking out completely. What on earth was I doing??! How on earth was I going to manage this vehicle on such crazy mountain terrain? What was I doing spending that much money?! Why can't I even work out how to turn on this car!! With incredible embarrassment, I walked back into the dealership and asked them to help me work out how to use the car. Turns out to my relief it really wasn't that intuitive, so my embarrassment was a little subdued.

To my immense relief, the one benefit of splashing out so outrageously on this BMW was it had satellite navigation system that projected instructions subtely onto the windscreen. So despite the confusing terrain and country roads I was to traverse, I never got lost, and felt totally comfortable wherever I was.

So the journey began. I was imagining getting out to the mountains and spending a gleeful day swanning around alpine hills and sunbathing by soothing ponds. Unfortunately, it was not to be. The skies opened up, and it began to torrentially rain. Can I even begin to say how freaky it is to drive a new car on foreign roads on the right hand side of the road while you can't see more than a few metres ahead of you for 2 hours of driving at 120 km/h. Freaky. I spent the entire time praying it would clear by the time I got there, so that my vision could be fulfilled. But it was not to be. I arrived at Eagles Nest, the holiday house the Nazis built as a present for Hitler on his 50th birthday, which is meant to have the most spectacular view of everything, and all I could see was grey clouds and pelting down rain. I went to the museum there to kill the time, ardently praying for a miracle. But besides about 5 minutes when the clouds did part and I got a glimpse of a stunning valley below, the day was lost in a haze of rain.

I was on my way down from Eagles Nest, on a curvey narrow road, and I was feelingn so confident at how well I was coping with this car... when CRASH!!!! I misjudged how close the railings on the side of the road were, and scraped the beautiful big BMW violently against the railing! My heart stopped beating for a while. I kept driving, and next opportunity I had to stop I inspected the damage. To my utter dismay, a massive scrape had been taken from the whole right-hand panel of the car. Shit. I tried to counsel myself: its ok, you have travel insurance that will cover the excess, and thank GOD you paid to lower the excess... its ok... but of course, seeing a beautiful car so damaged was enough to make you want to weep. Oh well, I soldiered on.

By this time it was 3pm. I had to make a decision. I could drive back and drop the car off in despair at the money I wasted to see absolutely nothing... or, I could keep the car for another day and hope passionately that tomorrow was clearer. Staying another day would mean firstly, paying another exhorbitant day rate for the car, it would mean paying for accommodation out here when I had already paid for my bed in Munich that night, it would mean being really uncomfortable the next day because I didn't come prepared with a change of clothes, toiletries, nothing.

Normal people would no doubt have given up and gone back to Munich. But I just couldn't. I had come this far, I felt destined to see those mountains and lakes, so even when I checked the weather to find it was due to rain the next day too, I decided to be brave and stay the night. The tourist office helped me find a cheap room in a private house, and the car hire place let me have the car for another day. I was set.

The one thing to do in the area on a rainy day was see the Berchtesgarten salt mines. So I decided even if I could do nothing else, I could do that. The tourist office said their last tour started at 5pm, so I rushed to it, parked quickly, and sprinted through the torrential rain to the cash office only to be told it was now 5:05pm and it was closed. I was honestly about to burst into tears, I felt so cursed by bad luck. So I actually begged to be allowed in, I just needed my day not to be a complete waste of time. The woman at the cash office relented and said I could go in if I didn't mind joining the group of rowdy American school kids waiting for a private tour behind me. It is a measure of my desperation that I agreed. I spent the next two hours patiently coping with the overbearing squeals of mid-Western teenagers. Urgh.

By the time I got to my room that evening, I was shattered, and fell asleep early. But I was like a child before Christmas morning, I was so anxious about the next day's weather. Everything depending on it. I awoke almost every hour, and went to the window to see the sky. Imagine my utter jubilation when at 6:30am I saw sun streaming over the stunning mountain scenery! It was going to be a good day! I rushed my breakfast and headed out immediately.

I first went to Koningsee, Europe's highest lake, nestled between towering cliffs. You could get a quiet boat down the lake, past an old church, to the other side. The scenery was so perfect I felt touched by a deity. It was everything I had desperately hoped it would be, and for the first time in 24 hours, I felt peaceful joy. At the other end of the long lake, you could go for a little hike down the valley to another smaller lake. Because it was so early, there was no one else there. Just me, heavenly scenery, warm sun. I was in a state of blissful ecstasy. I explored around the lake, wandering down the inviting trails... and then headed back to the boat where I was the only passenger on the relaxing trip back up to where I started.

I then headed to Hintersee, which was described in Lonely Planet as one of the most idyllic settings imaginable, a lake and mountains, and a nature trail that went through the Magic Forest, where people used to imagine seeing fairy folk and other mystical creatures. It completely lived up to my expectations. I was in such bliss I could hardly operate. I had packed a picnic lunch, and a found a secret trail down to the lake where I sat on a rock and ate happily by the lakeshore. Then I took the walk through the forest, imagining all sorts of knighterrands and magical creatures darting around.

At this stage, what I should have done was finish up and drive back to Munich. It was 3pm. However, I was feeling so blessed and optimistic that I thought "You know what, I'm going to drive to see both Linderhof and Neuschwanstein castles, I have time!". So I set my sat nav appropriately, and drove off.... I drove for 1.5 hours, and in that time it started to torrentially rain again. I should have given up and gone back to Munich, but I was determined to see everything I wanted to see. Even though I knew both castles closed at 6pm, I was sure I would make it ok... so I drove and drove.

I made it to Linderhof, and explored it in the rain. It was a hugely ostentatious castle, more like a theatre set than architecture (not surprising since it was designed by Ludwig II's theatre set designer). It was ok, but it felt quite fake, so I was happy to rush through it. By this time though it was 5:30pm. Neuschwanstein was what I really really wanted to see, it was the castle that Disney based its logo on, and it was one of the reasons I wanted to go to Bavaria. My sat nav said it was 40 minutes away, which means I would get there after it closed. But I was sure I could at least see the castle from the outside even if I couldn't go inside. So off I drove, through the pouring rain...

I made it there finally, and got out to explore. It was raining so hard though I could hardly see. I was drenched, but determined still to get a glimpse. I walked up a hill, and there it was... Note - these images aren't my photos but taken from other sites... the view wasn't as good as this. But I could see it. I wanted to get higher up to see it better, but then I realised I was freezing cold, soaking wet, tired, and just wanted to get back to Munich. So I jumped back in the car and drove off. I was at Neuschwanstein for all of 2 minutes. tee hee. (those of you who have travelled with me will no doubt be nodding knowingly at this point... yes, I set an unrealistically ambitious set of daily objectives for myself while travelling)

It took forever to get back to Munich, and I was so tired and sore and stressed. The rain made driving difficult, it was getting dark, and I was tense and fed up with driving. I made it back to the car hire place at 9:30pm, and had to confess about the damaged car. To my utter humiliation, the man working there was also the man who had to teach me how to use the car on my first day. He took it well though, and after a few forms were filled out, I caught a cab back to the hostel. Even though I was so tired and tense, I needed to go out and destress. Tom offered to take me out for a drink, so I rushed around and got ready. I had to also pack as I had to leave for the airport the next morning at 6:30am, so it wasn't til after 11pm that I met up with Tom. But it was just what I needed: a few glasses of wine, some German noodles, and a fun evening of chatter and German history. We went to a pub that used to be where aspiring artists went, and supposedly Hitler used to attend the meetings, but got thrown out because he talked too much and wasn't very talented!

Because I hadn't really seen that much of Munich and I was leaving the next morning, Tom decided I needed a final tour of the city. He used to drive tourists in a rickshaw, so knew the history of sites well. So there we were at 1am, strolling the streets of Munich. It was such a wonderful way to spend my last night in Munich, really fun and different. I blessed my lucky stars I had met such interesting locals rather than having to spend my time with American frat boys drinking beer and getting sick.

Anyway, that was it. I had 3 hours sleep and had to wake up at 6am to catch my flight to Bucharest. That was yesterday, where I finally got to meet Emi, the owner of the company that developed Skimbit for me, and his team of developers. I'm here now in Romania for 6 days. More later on all this.

But to end this rather long missive... its not often in your life a dream comes true for you. And in that alpine pastoral splendour a life-long vision of fairytale beauty came true for me.

Bavarian bliss

2007-07-04T18:24:00.000+01:00

You will all be pleased to hear - no doubt - that the first few days of my travels have given forth the usual serious of adventures and misadventures. I truly to attract calamity. Or perhaps, its just that I emphasis the calamities in my story-telling... perhaps another person with the same experiences would emphasise the simple pleasures or all the good things that happened, but I think that makes for dull reading. You want to hear how I embarrassed or nearly killed myself, right?! Much more interesting... so here goes...

First stop: Munich. I arrive after a hideously long and dull flight (with a painfully long stop-over in the ever-dull Bangkok airport) in Munich, then struggle past unintelligible ticket vending machines (that even locals couldn't decipher) and a maze-like Central station to finally arrive exhausted and sweaty at my hostel. The person working at reception is a friendly and interesting looking guy called Tom, but I am desperate to get up to my room and have a shower, so I rush along.

Once showered and refreshed, I head down to the hostel's bar, mentally preparing myself for that most gruelling of sole-backpacker tasks: finding a friend. I was intent on having a fun night, and to do that, I needed company. So I strolled up and down the hostel bar a few times, assessing the options. It looked as if everyone was an American frat boy (urgh) or 19 year old silly-looking girls... my options were limited. I noticed a warm and intelligent looking girl at the bar with dreadlocks, and a tall friendly looking guy in a red shirt playing pool.

I eventually settled on a pretty blonde girl sitting by herself at one of the tables. I approached her and asked if she was here by herself. I knew with her response that I would grow to love this girl: "No, I'm here with a large group of friends, I'm actually from Munich. But are you by yourself? Let me introduce you to my friends!". And you know what she did, she led me to the tall guy in the red shirt playing pool and introduced him, and then she led me to the warm girl with dreadlocks and introduced her, and then led me to reception where she introduced me to the guy that worked there, Tom. It crazily crazily crazily turned out that her group of friends there were the exact and entire set of people I had picked out as having a good vibe. Amazing! I just knew then that I as going to have fun.

We hung out that night, and it turned out Nicola and I had so much in common, she was utterly fascinating, having worked and lived in India, Domenica Republic, Brisbane etc. We really clicked. She kindly gave me suggestions for what to do the next day, which involved a walk through the city, culminating in a sunbathe in the English Gardens, a (London) Hyde Park-type garden full of frolicking people. She said everyone sunbathes on either side of the stream, but on the left hand side is for gay nude people and on the right hand side is for bikini-clad folk.

Arriving there the next day, I settled happily on my towel, and looked at the incredible sight around me... I imagined a wide stream so you could hardly see the people on the other side... but the stream was two metres wide, so you could see EVERYTHING and EVERYONE in VIVID detail. What is it about German old men and their desire to be exhibitionists. Fat old men with beer bellies stood up freely and joyfully, bits akimbo, with their arms proudly at their waists. Or they were lolling on their sides with their legs up, offering the folk across the stream direct line sight into nether regions. Umh. It made for very entertaining viewing. What was incongruous was seeing these fat naked men strolling hand in hand with little children (who had clothes on), while Daddy juggled about beside him.

Anyway, as I lay there blissing out in the gorgeous sunshine, I heard a laugh in the stream. People were swimming past allowing themselves to be swept on by the current, and I thought I recognised the laugh as being that of Nicola's. But surely not. Shortly after, I saw them walk past me with an inflatable tube - Nicola, the tall guy (Paul I think his name was) and Tom. I waved at them as they floated down the river past me, and they invited me to join them.

I spent the rest of the day swimming, sunbathing, chatting to these fabulously fun and interesting and beautiful Germans. They popped to the local beer garden and bought some steins back to the stream-side, and there I was drinking a litre of beer (me!!) in the sun surrounded by naked men. Bliss! The gang tied their inflatable tube to a branch over the stream, so we could actually sit on the tube in the flowing stream and drink our steins. What a country!!

I ended up spending the entire evening and night with them all. Beer gardens, pub crawls, long chats on church steps... I really was blessed with meeting locals, and spared the alternate fate of spending time with very dull American frat boys. There were a couple on the pub crawl I went on (that Tom ran and Nicola joined us for), who boasted loudly that they loved bear, hailed from Chelsea in New York, and seemed to believe they were invincible. I had a hearty smirk when shortly later they were so disgustingly drunk they fell asleep at the bar and made utter fools of themselves. Aah. Nicola and I entertained ourselves by asking them questions and giggling at their incoherent responses.

Anyway.... that was my first full day in Munich, and it was delightful. The next day I decided to head out of Munich to the mountains... more on that in my next post.

Daisy chains and wild horse rides

2007-06-03T02:47:00.000+01:00

I think I am living all my childhood fairytales and fantasies at the moment. If I let myself humour that belief, it makes for a delicious way of looking at the world.

A few weeks ago, my best friend Melli and I went away for the weekend to the Central Coast Hinterland. The darling girl knew the degree to which I was moved by my horse-riding experience in Egypt. I wrote about it rather enthusiastically at the time: and here is a photo from that wild crazy ride in the desert.
So for my birthday, she gave me a voucher to go horse-riding at Glenworth Valley, and we decided to make a whole weekend of it. I found us a stunning house on a hill in the midst of stunning countryside.
The house had a long gravelled drive, with overarching trees, making us feel like young heroines at the start of some romantic saga.

The house was so beautifully furnished, with sweeping views over the valley below, and the ocean at the horizon.

The garden around the house had a lilypad-filled pond, glorious broad murmuring trees, and a surprising collection of odd mushrooms! We felt like Alice in Wonderland exploring the grounds, discovering mushrooms, creeping into hidden clearings amidst trees, finding old discarded machinery and making up explanations for what it might once have been... very typically Melli and me adventures... my favourite moment though was the stunning sunny morning when we lazed on the lawn beside the daisy bush, and made daisy chains to crown ourselves with. Delicious girlie fantasy filled fun! The horse-riding was glorious too! I was blessed with a great horse, and he and I galloped wildly along the path, I adore riding so much! Its surprising, I'm normally quite fearful of dangerous sports, but there is something so poetic and natural about riding a horse... I was a sparkling bundle of joy when I finished the ride, but poor Melli had been stuck on a slow horse, so she was understandably petulant.

And I have some glorious fantasy-filled adventures on the horizon! In a month I will be on my long-awaited 'return to Europe' adventure... I go first to Munich where I will go and see Neuschwanstein Castle (that Disney based the Sleeping Beauty's castle on), and I'll get to wander around scenery fairytales were based on: soaring mountain tops, delightful gorges, pristine lakes, seductive forests...

Then onto Bucharest, where besides discussing web 2.0 strategies with my team of awesome developers, I'll explore Transylvania and transport myself into fantasies of vampires and blood-thirsty counts and eternal life and damnation.... aaah... (luckily, I am the first to giggle at my ridiculousness!).

Then to Vienna, which will fulfil musical and architectural fantasies.

Then onto London where I get to reunite with my friends and life of many years.

Then onto Madrid to see my cousins and aunt and uncle and eat too much jamon serrano and manchego and pippis.... yum.

Then onto Ibiza with my friend Sunita for a few days of revellry and mayhem. This is fulfilling one of Sunita's fantasies, as she always felt in her bones that she would visit Ibiza when she turned 30. And I get to return to what is one of my favourite places in the world, full of energy and light and dancing and sunsets...

Finally onto Vancouver where I get to be bridesmaid to Tanya and Mark's wedding. This caps the fantasy theme perfectly, for what could be more dream-come-true-like, than a union of a fated love. I'm so thrilled to be there!

Anyway... isn't it marvellous when so many visions, hopes, and dreams you - and people you care about - have harboured, come true!

Top 10 books

2007-04-28T08:36:00.000+01:00

A little while ago, I was sent a tantalising email. Two of my friends in London had challenged themselves to list their top 10 favourite books of all time. Once they had responded to each other, in their thirst for discovery, they emailed me in Sydney to ask my opinion. I reveled in responding. I took some time and a great deal of pleasure coming up with the list. I enjoyed it so much, I thought I might copy the discussion here for others to read, if they had the inclination and time...
Note - the start of my soliloquey is in response to one of my friends mentioned Jack Kerouac's On the Road, which technically isn't part of my top 10, but I do ramble on about it nonetheless.

"Firstly, I have also read On the Road... I know what you mean Ash, its a little light on plot, but its got the most delicious expressions. I actually marked in the book my favourite lines... I just happen to have it next to me as I type, so here are a few cool lines:
"We all realised we were leaving confusion and nonsense behind and performing our one and noble function of the time, move."
"The car was swaying as Dean and I both swayed to the rhythm and the IT of our final excited joy in talking and living to the blank tranced end of all innumerable riotous angelic particulars that had been lurking in our souls all our lives." [how brilliant is that!!]
"I realised these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered, stabilised-within-the-photo lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, or actual night, the hell of it, the senseless nightmare road."

Brilliant.

Anyway, my top 10 books:

Notes from a Small Island, by Bill Bryson. I was given it as a present before I moved to the UK, and didn't get it when I read it. Then I read it again after I had lived there a little while, and I just gushed, I just love the British!

The Ground Beneath her Feet, by Salman Rushdie. Much easier to read than his other books, and an insanely good story, so rich and clever and the most beautiful prose you can imagine.

The Art of Travel, by Alain de Botton. Actually, I love all his books, I would classify them as popular-philosophy, but this one is amazing because he writes about how different artists and philosophers can teach us ways to view travel and the 'journey' in new ways. He is really easy to read, and his insights are so clever.

Now this is a bit of a cheeky entry... can I say 'anything by Guy Gavriel Kay'? It includes about 10 books, but they all are probably my favourite books. This author worked with Tolkien's son to prepare the post-homously released The Silmarillion, so you get a feel for what he does. His first creation was a trilogy called the Fionavar Tapestry (the first book is called The Summer Tree), in a fantasy genre, but its the most intense emotional ride, and its to this day the book (or set of books) I have read more than any other. I read quotes from it at my sisters wedding. I named my cat after one of the characters. Its a big part of my life. Then his later books are more historical fiction: he takes a real time in history and creates imaginery characters that go through the real events that happened. For instance, my favourite of these ones is called "The Lions of Al-Rassan", which is set in the south of Spain during the time of the Moorish occupation of that region (I think around 1400). There, in Granada, where the Christians and Jews and Muslims lived together in peace and harmony, until the Christians decided to take back the region. So what happens when a female Jewish doctor falls in love with both a Muslim lord and a Christian General. Aah, honestly, it will make you weep and laugh and gape. Incredible. All his books are filled with real people, real foibles, but in incredible settings, and with the most beautiful writing style... aah. My favourite author of all time.

Love in the time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Also A Hundred Years of Solitude. The man is a genius. You literally want to write his words up on a wall and gaze at them, they are so beautiful.

The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy series, by Douglas Adams. Who couldn't like this series... Marvin the Paranoid Android was my favourite. I giggle and giggle to it.

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, by Patrick Suskind. A beautiful book about a man with an incredible sense of smell and a murderous disposition.

The Picture of Dorien Gray, by Oscar Wilde. I love the concept of this book... the painting of the narcissistic boy that reacts to his corruption while the boy stays beautiful.

Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. Its an oldie, but boy is it a goodie. I just looked it up on Amazon, and guess what other people who bought this book also bought? Yep, On the Road. I giggled when I read that. Its about a club-footed orphan who is discontent and travels and tries different professions and women and countries, in search for himself. I read it while travelling. Brilliant.

The Forbidden Knowledge series, by the brilliant Stephen Donaldson. First book is called 'The Real Story'. Its a sci-fi series, which many don't like, but its the best I've ever read. Its so dark and disturbed in parts, its the most insane story, and you can't work out whether to love or hate the characters. I've read it a few times. Awesome.

OK, thats 10 entries, and considering 5 of those entries were for a series of books, I feel very cheeky. But they are a good spread of books: sci-fi, fantasy, classics, non-fiction, comedy, tragedy, magical realism, satire... keep you reading for ages. I would love it if more people read Guy Gavriel Kay's books, he is very little known, but there is no compare to his books, they are works of art."

An orchard and too much food

2007-04-26T13:29:00.000+01:00

My favourite memory from my Easter weekend down at Kangaroo Valley with my boys, was strolling through the orchard at the bottom of the estate, burrowing our noses in rose buds. The chalet we booked for the weekend was spectacular, even making someone as effusive as I normally am stunned into awed silence. It had its own pond, complete with ducks and lilypads. And beyond the pond was its own rose garden, with various mounds with the most lusciously blooming flowers. The boys and I wandered around, inhaling the glorious aromas of the virulently coloured roses, commenting avidly on the slightly different variations in scents from one rose to another. The roses were all dewy and moist, and there was no sound about us but the rustle of trees, the quacking of ducks, and the moans of cows. It was all rather sensual. A gentle glorious assault on the senses.

My other favourite moment was the vast amount of food we cooked, predominantly for breakfast. I ate more bacon than I ever want to admit to, but boy was it good!! The boys decided that the only way I was going to meet a suitable man is if I could cook (that old adage), so they decided I was going to embark on a month long challenge of cooking special ingenious meals every night for the next month, in an attempt to become proficient. Aah, if they knew what lows I have sunk to cooking-wise this month... oh well, they had good intentions.

Anyway, it was a much-needed break, four days out in the midst of bright green pastures, misty mountain peaks, verdant trees, warm fireplaces, red wine.

Life-long ambitions, and music

2007-04-05T15:13:00.000+01:00

Its been a few months since I have last blogged here. There is, alas, competition in the form of my other blog www.birthofastartup.com, which although perhaps less intimate and philosophical, does get more traffic and serves a more obvious purpose than this one. Nonetheless, I quite like the fact that no one probably reads this one anymore (please tell me if you do!), which affords me an ironic fusion of publicly stating something in a very private way.

I have been extraordinarily busy. What with working a full-time job, trying a launch my business (which is very close!), in the midst of starting a second one, trying to stay fit, see family, have a vague concept of a social life... well, sleep is definitely the thing that is suffering, but I figure I can catch up on sleep, and this is one time I really feel I am on the path to finally achieving some of those long-held ambitions.

All I have ever wanted, since I was a little girl, was to be an entrepreneur. And a writer. I have come to the conclusion that my artistic ambitions will be better served once I am sufficiently self-funded, so am dedicating my efforts to the former ambition initially. I thought I would have done it a lot sooner, but its so much harder than one can imagine, particularly if one aspires to achieve this goal in an honest, admirable, worthy pursuit. There are a lot of dodgy entrepreneurs who are filthy rich, but I know I would never be proud of myself unless I did it on my own, my way.

So, its quite exciting to be so close to finally launching my site - an innovative social decision-making tool. Its tremendously exciting. Its a life dream. How often can you say you have achieved a life-long ambition? There can't be too many life-long ambitions out there per person... I've achieved many of mine: to live an intense life in London, to dance in front of many people (next to Carl Cox in my cheerleader outfit at NYE 2000), to meet Christian Slater (long story... I think I described it in an earlier post here on this blog)... but yes, to be a self-made woman in a worthy venture is a big one. As is falling dramatically and wholly in mutual love with an artistic tall man with incredible integrity and wit... still waiting on that one unfortunately, so am focusing all my energies on the former.

I am made of tough fibre. I can bear the endless series of sleepless nights, sore shoulders and back, isolation, financial constraints (my business is self-funded), angst etc... I can bear it even knowing that there is no immediate end in sight. I have been working towards this opportunity my entire adult life, and I have had a life time of training in stubbornness, determination, and hard work, so its all being put to good practise now. Its all culminating in now.

Anyway, I'm blabbering. Exhaustion is seeping through my pores. I am so desperately glad tomorrow is a long weekend, and I am off frolicing with my best friends in a beautiful house in Kangaroo Valley. A whole 4 days of no work, lots of sleep, great company, fresh air. Oh glorious joy!

On another final side-note, I have become a fan of a brilliant Australian band The Basics. I found out about them after seeing a saucy burlesque/cabaret/circus Cirque du Soleil meets Moulin Rouge show called Feasting on Flesh, which I was inordinately moved by, because it so perfectly captured the spirit of what moves me ... that intoxicating blend of sensuality and carnality, food and music and shadows and suggestiveness and hilarity and cheekiness. And the star of the show was the musician who sang, played drums, and composed all the music. He had a stage name of Gotye, and I became immediately fascinated. I found out more about him, and then discovered he was also in a band called The Basics. One day, when I was feeling particularly buoyant, I came across a poster that said that The Basics were playing in a pub close to where I lived that weekend. I was breathless with excitement. And the reality met my expectations, which is rather extraordinary as I tend to have very high expectations. They - and their music - were fun, cheeky, entertaining, and rather dashing. I have become a fan, which is amusing because I am not traditionally a band kinda girl. But if the music and its performance inspire soul-elevation and back-shivers, one needn't pigeon-hole oneself out of such opportunities.

Anyway... to bed. Goodnight.

On the eve of my 30th...

2007-01-24T09:11:00.000Z

In my usual habit of celebrating symbolic dates, I now sit and ponder on the significance of this day. Tomorrow I turn 30, a date as a little girl one fears as an impossibly distance and ancient-sounding age. Now on the verge of reaching this age, I am bemused to find I fear it no longer. I do however, enjoy the momentary wallow in sentimentality in which I am about to indulge.

Exactly a year ago right now, I was resting in my flimsy tent on the final campsite before Mount Kilimanjaro's peak. I had been walking for 4 days already, and little did I know I was about to embark on easily the most difficult endeavour I have ever endured... 22 hours of walking without any sleep, most of it in the dark, with little oxygen, frozen water supply, and limbs that screamed with pain. I saw a man almost die from altitude sickness that I eventually had to nurse to health for the next week. But I guess importantly, I made the summit, on the dawn of my 29th birthday. I remember sitting at Uhuru Peak, 6km above sea-level, so exhausted I didn't have the energy to stand, and thinking to myself: "I wonder what the year ahead holds for me..." Those that know me know it turned out to be a pretty crap year, too many dramas even for my liking, too much unsettledness and heartbreak. But 2007 is all about shaking off the ickiness of last year, and framing it in terms of how instructional last year was, how much fibre it added to my character, and how utterly essential it all will turn out to be for whatever lies ahead.

The interesting thing about turning 30, is that it invites reflection not only on the last year, but on the last decade. I have to say, my 20s have been pretty darn good. If I had envisaged when I was 20 what the following decade would be like, I think I would have described exactly what has eventuated... I always dreamt of travelling the world (I have, many times), I yearned to live overseas (4 years in London), I wanted a wild and crazy fun party life (yep), exciting affairs and relationships (tick), a varied and lucrative career (so far so good). Ok, so I didn't achieve millionaire status as I planned, nor have I published a book... but there is time still for that.

A beautiful friend of mine, Gisela (photo to the right), gave me some words of wisdom over New Years up in Byron Bay. She said one's 30s is about building on the growth achieved in your 20s, and its when it all comes together. You face it with openness and acceptance, with peace in your heart, with a love of oneself. So, that will be my motto for the next year, and the next decade. I will try to let go of my expectations, try to shrug off those controlling worries, and niggling fears. Its about savouring the richness of life: of family, friends, health, music, art, food, and a strong sense of self, coupled with an everpresent cocoon of openness and acceptance. Thats my challenge to myself.

I had been trying to work out what to do tonight... its rather symbolic, the last night of my 20s, surely I should be out there, wildly partying. Instead, I am rather contentedly reflecting, here in my cute little flat. I have had a gorgeous afternoon with my best friend watching an intense flamenco performance at the Opera House, followed by a cosmopolitan and thai noodles at circular quay. You don't really get a better last day of your 20s than that, eh?

Walking on hallowed ground

2006-11-11T22:30:00.000Z

One of the surprises of returning to Sydney - one of the joys that I forgot existed - is the glory that is a jacaranda tree in November. Relax, I'm not about to launch into my usual saga of effusiveness about beauty... I'll keep it short and punchy. All Australians know the surprising soul-soothe that is a bold big jacaranda tree, so startlingly purple that is literally takes your breath away. And non-Australians reading this, well, you just need to ensure you visit during late October to witness the spectacle.

What I am particularly relishing is the walk up to my flat. I live in the most delightful spot - at the end of a road avenued by lush green trees and framed with elegant terraces laced with pretty bouganvillea. Just when you think you are almost at the end of the street, the terraces end, and instead you get a sweeping view of the city skyline, the Harbour Bridge, Opera House, and vibrantly blue Harbour waters. You walk on, and then the road ends, and a pedestrian-way begins. That is where the glory truly culminates for me. The border of my property is full of honeysuckle, and with the warmth in the air, the scents escape and tantalise you. Suddenly rendered intoxicated, you then notice the jacaranda. There are two, actually, but one is literally over the entraceway to the property. And over the last few days, the flowers have started to shed. What this means, is you feel you are some martyred queen of the floral kingdom, and invisible nymphs have scattered jacaranda blossoms for your royal feet to tread upon. It almost feels like hallowed grounds. You arch your head back in wonder, and then see the arching glory of the blossoms above you. You are encased in purple, still slightly drunk from the honeysuckle scents, and you literally feel you have entered another sphere of existence. Its wonderful.

Then I finish the walk into my flat by passing lush tropical palms and ferns... and then of course the beauty stops as I tread upon the distinctly unappealing carpet of my building foyer, but its ok, I'm still in a giddy stupor from the jacarandas... How on earth will I cope when their floral reign ends??

Spring is here!

2006-09-19T10:57:00.000+01:00

Well, its official. Spring has finally arrived, and what a difference it makes to just about everything! There is a bounce to everyone's step. Everyone looks just that little bit more beautiful. There are scents in the air that do strange things to you. The atmosphere is comfortingly warm, but still excitingly brisk. I had forgotten how much I passionately adore the month of September. I remember in my childhood, all my innocent fantasties about dashing otherworly adventures were inspired in September, all my youthful stirrings of feelings were sparked by September... then as an adult, it held the promise of things to come. Its funny isn't it, that the promise of things to come can be better than the realisation of those things... in this case I mean Summer. Summer is festive, but overbearing, and this year is set to be a startler. Nevertheless, the promise of Summer is enough to make loins stir and excitement swirl. Its a glorious time!

Snap Shot City

2006-09-07T13:07:00.000+01:00

Last weekend I entered a photo treasure hunt very last minute. It was a global competition called Snap Shot City, where entrants from all over the world downloaded at the same time a list of 24 random expressions, that had to be photographed in 6 hours.

The aim of the game was to find something clever, ironic, and quintessiantally representative of your city in your composition. The challenge was you had to upload 8 very 2 hours. Which is quite a challenge.

Now as you all know, I love a good challenge, particularly if it is a type of puzzle. Gets my juices flowing. So this was right up my alley. However, I was a teensy bit distraught when I surveyed the list of topics we had to photograph. They were totally random things like "Treasure everywhere", "One too many" and "Fighting chance". And the clock was ticking...

We split up into two teams, so I set off with Damien and Sean, on what was possibly the most beautiful day we had had in Sydney in months. Perfect weather, a black Saab convertible, two of my best friends. And a puzzle. I couldn't have been happier!

Of course, 90 minutes later when we had not found too much of inspirational, and we had 5 minutes to whizz down Oxford Street, restart Damo's computer, and upload 5 photos... we started to panic a little (well, I started to panic a little, Sean had a nap on the sofa, and Damien got himself something to eat, but that just describes us normally).

Anyway, as is normal for any tense technical situation, Damien's laptop chose that moment to decide life was too hard, and it crashed inexplicably. So daunted, we called the other team, confessed we had failed them, and when they didn't sound awfully bothered, we got back in the car, and drove to Bondi Beach. And got ice-cream. And followed cute boys. As you do.

We managed to get more great photos, and then whipped back to my flat to take what may well win the entire competition.

Because you see, despite our nonchalance (yes, I gave up my competitiveness due to the lure of sun, beach, and the fact our other team members were even more competitive than me, so I left them to it), our team did amazingly well! We got the news today that our team was one of the teams with the most photos in the shortlisted photos! We may well win the competition!!

So here now, are the best photos we took, by theme and the caption we gave them (the ones with asterixs are the ones I took - yes, shameless self-promotions):

Theme: Boys*
Caption: "Do you think those
tits are real?"

Theme: Pleasure Palace*

Caption: "If you don't buy me that,
I'll kill myself!"

Theme: Kindness of Strangers

Theme: Red shoes
Caption: In some ways I regret buying them

Theme: Shout it from the rooftops*
Caption: "I love this city!"

Theme: Girls*

Caption: "Goddamn it just help me find my

contact lenses!"

Theme: Treasure everywhere*

Theme: Getting around

Caption: Australians embracing an oil

free future, and don't forget the milk.

6 people in the bush

2006-08-28T13:41:00.000+01:00

What happens when you take 3 gay men, 2 princesses, and a very open-minded guy, out to the bush for the weekend? Well, surprisingly, lots of very sedate fun!

Damien, Sean, Broc, Richard, Sunita and me, went this past weekend to Leura in the Blue Mountains. Here in Australia, because we don't have our Christmas during the cold time of year, we have this amusing semi-event called Christmas-in-July. Its a chance to do Christmasy things at a time when you can light a fire, cook a roast, and feel all festive. As my little group have all lived in the UK for part of our lives, there is something that draws us to these crisp climates and cosy environments. Besides, we wanted a little holiday, and there is nothing better than a weekend in the Mountains.

I found this incredible place to rent in Leura called the Mountain Ark, and we instantly knew we found our surrogate home. Arriving there late on Friday night, we knew we had struck it lucky. The Ark was stunning, originally designed, so cute and cosy, and so remote and quiet. It was heavenly.

The weekend was divine fun. Is there anything better than going on adventures with your best friends? We did everything one does on a weekend away: drank bucket loads of lovely wine, spent hours cooking a lamb roast, snacked on endless amounts of junk food, watched DVDs, read trashy magazines, went on long walks through picturesque Leura, had giggly lunches in cute cafes, raided the Leura lolly shop, and most importantly relaxed with each other. I think I had a permanent grin on my face, and my sides ached from endless laughter. What a privilege to have such funny, adventurous friends!

Funniest moments: realising you should never send me and Richard to shop together, as we have no self-control and end up with more food than an army could eat in a week; debating over who was going to sleep in the outside studio, and then agreeing we all would so no one would be left out; coming home after lunch in Leura only to discover that Sean had locked our keys inside, and we were trapped outside in the cold! (luckily Richard could break in through the window); Richard's gloopy glue-like potato mash (that was a nightmare to wash up!); watching Broc take more photos of himself than some super-models do in a lifetime; oh, so many moments.

My beautiful mother

2006-08-28T12:59:00.000+01:00

I have easily the most incredible mother. Its a big call, as there are no doubt plenty of incredible mothers out there. But I keep being blown away by how generous, loving and accepting she is. And after 5 years of living on the other side of the world to her, its such a gift to now have her in my life again. In fact, the major reason I came home was because it was important to me to spend time with family, and that decision, although difficult for many reasons, has validated itself again and again. Its just so nice to be spoilt now and then. Living in London, without family, one had to develop a hard-skin, a fierce independence, a self-reliance that can be exhausting after a while. So to return and find that I could actually give up a bit of control, and trust that someone else would pick me up if I fell, and do such sweet kind surprising things for me, was just extraordinary. So, it was a wonderful opportunity to give a little back when it was Mum's 60th birthday a few weeks ago. My sister Cath and I organised part of the evening that Mum knew about, and then we organised the first part that she didn't know anything about. The bit she knew about was dinner at a Greek restaurant in Glebe with a few of Mum's friends. The bit she didn't know about was an evening of decadance she had never experienced - to make her feel like the queen she really is. First, we got Dad to get her ready several hours before she expected to. Then, Cath, Demis and I picked her up in a stretch limo, with champagne and a white chocolate cake. We then drove around for an hour, along the Haberfield bay, up to Observatory Hill, across the Harbour Bridge, and then down to Kirribilli point to see the Harbour pre-sunset. It was unspeakably magical. To see my mother come out of our childhood house, agape with awe at seeing this vehicle of luxury in our neighbourhood, and then her almost cry as she saw her kids waiting in surprise in the limo singing happy birthday. And my heart ached with joy to see her and Dad clasping hands, Mum so overcome with emotion and pride and love for her family she could hardly speak. But the fun wasn't over yet. We then drove back over the Harbour Bridge to the Shangri-La Hotel, and took Mum up to the top floor where one of Sydney's best cocktail lounges awaited us. We sat by the window, and watched the sunset over all of Sydney, while we all had cocktails, crab, oysters, and prawns. Hideously expensive, but worth every cent to make Mum feel special. Finally it was time to start the known part of the night, and meet our parent's friends for dinner. By this time I was rather tipsy and so full, but we powered on through more delicious food and wine til we almost ruptured. But it was wonderful fun, and looking at my mother's beautiful face, I was overwhelmed with pride and love for a woman who has taught me the meaning of family, loyalty, and love. I tell you, if I look anywhere near as good as my mother does when I am 60, I will be hugely pleased!

My half year back home

2006-08-24T14:07:00.000+01:00

As discussed a few entries previously, I have a thing about anniversaries. Last week it was a year since I left London. Yesterday was 6 months since I arrived back in Sydney. Two rather signficant events in the space of a week... my over-developed sense of nostalgia is in overdrive.

When I first arrived in London, I really didn't like it. I missed home, family, my boyfriend at the time, warmth, seafood, smiles... I just wasn't sure I made the right decision in going to London, particularly when my father developed the need to have a quadruple heart by-pass, and I couldn't get a job for months. It was a miserable time, and I spent much of it on the phone to friends and boyfriend and family, half-living my life in Sydney.

I had friends in London, and I made acquaintances fairly quickly, and life was very pleasant after a while, but I just didn't feel settled. Things changed 6 months on. I met Debbie in a club. Sean met Damien, and the two of them met me. I met Philippa. Life suddenly became spectacular. Suddenly the fact that I didn't love my job didn't matter. I stopped worrying about my ambitions and life plan and what I wasn't achieving. And I had a brilliant time. I had the time of my life. My 'London experience' became everything my wildly optimistic dreams hoped it would be. We partied and laughed and explored and cried and had dramas and danced and danced and danced. And then something unexpected happened. In the midst of falling in love with my friends, I fell in utter love with London.

That dirty grimey cold super-fast expensive city, became glamorous and exciting and full of promise and varied and beautiful. And you know what, London loved me. It was my home, and although it had its faults, it was my home.

In March of 2002, 9 months after arriving in London, I went to Sydney for a friends wedding. It was a symbolic return (me and my bloody symbolism...) as it was originally going to be my permanent return: I had come to London only expecting to stay for 9 months. But London had sunk her laced claws into me, and I willingly submitted. I had decided to stay a little longer in London, and so return home had became just a trip to Sydney.

And I had a brilliant time. I loved seeing my friends and family, visiting my old haunts, eating as much seafood and fresh thai as I could... I started to waver... maybe I should return to Sydney, why was I in London so far from it all?

But by the end of that visit, I had come to a realisation. I loved Sydney. It held so much for me. But those things wouldn't change. Right now, my destiny and joy lay in London, and so I would return. And I would stop living with my feet in both countries, and firmly and deliberately place both my feet in London, and give it all I had, in the hope it would in return give me all it had.

So the next four years ensued. And there were times I wanted to wring London's neck, when I would gladly have left in a huff, never to return. But then I would leap onto the back of a red double-decker Routemaster, good ol' route 38, and hold on for my dear life, whilst I gazed in never abating wonder at the glorious architecture, and stately homes, the myriad streets and shops and bars and museums that I would never fully finish exploring. And I would smile, and shiver slightly with the thrilling knowledge that I was part of the worlds most exciting city, that I knew her, and loved her despite her faults, or perhaps because of them.

Anyway, the point of this arduous stroll through nostalgia-ville, is that I had been hoping that my return to Sydney would have a similar trajectory: that I would return, feel unsettled for 6 months, and then POW! things would change. Not sure what I was expecting, but as the 6 month mark was yesterday, I keep waiting for that life-altering moment when I feel that same thrill of belonging and of hope.

Well, the hope at least I do feel. The promise of Spring can make hope blossom out of anything, and this will be my first Spring in Sydney in 5 years. And there are enough new and exciting things happening to make me feel hopeful and excited about the near future. So, perhaps its just a matter of time, before the sense of belonging in Sydney returns.

Skiing with the boys

2006-08-20T06:38:00.000+01:00

One of the amusing aspects of working in a team where I am the only women, is that when, like a few weeks ago, your company rewards your team with a weekend away in the snow, I have to spend a weekend with 15 very nice, but geeky, men.

Luckily, my intense training after 5 years of being best friends with a large group of gay men has prepared me for this challenge, and I am quite used to being the only woman in a room. In fact, I'd go so far as to say I quite enjoy it. Oh, I do love my women, of course, but men are just so much fun. Even geeky ones.

It was a very pleasant weekend, not as wild as one might imagine it could be, but very amusing and relaxing. Lots of lovely meals and beer and board games and funny chats. Lovely.

The skiing was another story. I am not the most graceful creature in the universe, as my nearest and dearest will attest. If there is something to bump into, break, trip over or drop, I'll do it. So putting me on skiis hurtling down a mountain would not be the kind of thing you readily do, if you cared for me that is. But surprisingly, I did quite well! Of course, I did fall over quite a few times, and my bruises were large and colourful, but I also traversed quite a bit of the mountain, and managed to look vaguely graceful and adept.

I was in a world of pain though on the Monday after we got back. Every muscle in my body was screeching with anger at what they had endured, and even breathing was uncomfortable. But it was nothing a few days of moaning wouldn't solve. tee hee.

One year anniversary

2006-08-19T02:09:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was my one year anniversary that I left London.

It really stunned me into humble silence when it occurred to me yesterday. It was also the 37th birthday of Christian Slater. You would have had to know me as a very odd 14 year old girl to understand the significance of this... but I'll just say that I tend to form symbolic attachments to things, and at 14 when I was lonely and poetic and full of dreams, I created a quasi-imaginary friend in the shape of an average movie star who happened to move me in a film. 14 years later, outside a London theatre, I stood in front of Christian Slater, who had just performed in 'One flew over the Cuckoo's Nest', and I contemplated telling him the degree to which my minor obsession defined me as a child, but I wisely giggled to myself, stayed silent, got a photo taken with him, and went home to my normal life.

The coincidences of my life, as many a blog entry in my past details, always seemed to suggest I was on the right path. They represented a beacon of assurance, an encouraging clue guiding me further along the winding path. So when my travel agent arranged my London departure and the start of my odyssey, it seemed movingly right that my departure should coincide with the date I actually used to celebrate as a child. It symbolised for me the culmination of all my youthful passion, belief in magic, in purpose and extraordinariness. I transposed all these values onto the imaginary shoulders of my make-believe Christian Slater... I was an odd child. For three years I celebrated this date as a teenager, until I turned 17, and discovered real-life boys.

But even as an adult, the values I celebrated then are still worth celebrating. It seemed so poetically right that my departure from my London home should start that day. I was setting off for unknown adventures, fulfilling a dream I had harboured most of my life: to explore, to discover, to take bold steps into strange worlds. It was horribly difficult to leave London, a step i still am not totally adjusted to, but the vision that drove me was real, and warranted.

My travels were not in the end everything I thought they would be. Oh, they were incredible, I saw glorious things and had wonderful adventures. But I don't think I found what I was looking for. I am not entirely sure what it was I was looking for, but I just thought I would know it when I found it. I cut my travels short in the end, I just couldn't bear roughing it in Africa any longer, I missed family, and friends, and a sense of home. Little did I realise that my homecoming would in many ways be harder than the travels I was enduring.

Its been almost 6 months that I have been back now. And its been exactly one year I began this journey. What is it about anniversaries us as humans treasure so? I guess there is some primal urge in us to pay homage to symbols of meaning. And a year on, I pay homage to the fire that drove me from my comfortable life in London, and set me off by myself into the world, and to a new life on the other side of the planet. I didn't find the Answers I thought I needed, but I did realise one important thing. On that bloody mountain in Africa, I learnt about acceptance, patience, and humility. I may not have perfectly manifested those values yet, but I am at least aware that it is what I need to do. So perhaps, a year on, 14 years on, these can now be the values I celebrate, and aspire to, every August 18th.

Clay pigeons and magical creatures

2006-08-17T14:29:00.000+01:00

What an extraordinary day today has been!

The day began with an 11am beer on a large boat on the harbour. That heralded a fairly interesting start. It swiftly followed with the most surprising activity I have ever partaken in: laser clay pigeon shooting! Imagine proper rifles that have been remodelled on the inside to shoot laser pulses. Then imagine small fluoro disks that were flung out from the boat by a mechanical sling. And then imagine five people at a time shooting this disk with laser rifles from the edge of the boat in the harbour near Taronga Zoo. A scoreboard above us was able to record whether we had each hit the 'pigeon', thereby turning it into a competition. It was extraordinary: one second I'm drinking champagne with strawberries on a boat, the next I look like a redneck roo shooter.

And that wasn't all. After the skeet shooting, we then played a game of golf over the edge of the boat as well. We had to fit a floating flag with a golf ball, while a man in a rubber dingy scooped up the floating balls. Extraordinary! I have to say, I suspected there would be activities on this team day out, but never would I have guessed either activity!

Lunch was a smorgasboard of smoked salmon, prawns and oysters... the wine and champagne flowed... the winter day was hot and idyllic. I could not have asked for a better day.

Except, it was then capped by a perfect night. I went to the Cirque du Soleil show of Varekai, and I am in awe at how they continually manage to exceed expectations. Somehow, those shows always send me off into a reverie of fantasy and painful beauty. I yearn to be a magical creature that can fly and is impossibly wild and lovely. I ache with the glory of the music and the grace and the super-human prowess of it all. Aah, what a night.

And hilariously, I knew half the audience! Well, 6 anyway... turns out Optus was sponsoring the event, and as I do a lot of work with Optus, I recognised loads of people, plus bumped into Tamzin and Vesa (for the second time randomly in a week!). Well, as I always say, coincidences usually are a sign you are on the right path...

So now I stumble into bed, spent after a glorious day. Who would have thought that a day could contain both rifles and trapeze acts? Extraordinary!

Living alone

2006-08-16T14:18:00.000+01:00

Here are my thoughts on living alone, now that I have been doing so for about 3 months:
1. I love walking around naked. It doesn't matter that almost every wall of my flat is made of glass or mirror. Let the large Navy vessels full of seamen see me if they wish. I love walking around naked.
2. I am not a great singer. But goodness its fun trying. I actually make myself giggle with how bad I am. And that is just great fun.
3. TV is your friend. When you are used to partners or friends to chat to when you are home, living alone can be awfully silent if you don't accept the TV as a surrogate friend. I have the added (bad) habit of using the Sleep function on my TV: I set it to turn off in 3o minutes, so I have the lulling noise of late night television to send me to sleep each night.
4. Cooking for one is a pain in the ass. You either have to invite someone over, or cook with the intention of having the left-overs for lunch or dinner the next day. It can make for a not very entertaining palate, which for me, is quite dire. So, I eat out a lot, or have friends over, or try to cook meals I don't mind eating a few times a week.
5. As a continuation of the previous point, I waste a lot of food. I do my occasional supermarket shop, buy a packet of this, a bunch of that, but then find that my one cooked meal at home a week doesn't use up all the ingredients, and by the time I get around to cooking another meal that requires those ingredients, they have gone off. I end up throwing away perfectly good food. It drives me insane.
6. I think I am learning patience and humility, hopefully. Not sure why living alone might aid in this, but it does.
7. I love my home. For the first time ever, my home is my home. I put up whatever photos I want, I arrange the furniture how I want, I can leave my shoes and handbags in the corridor without feeling guilt... I answer to no-one (except my mother, who somehow still can sense if I haven't tidied up, but oh well, that's what mothers do) and I truly am mad about that sense of solidarity and freedom.

My pot of gold at the end of the rainbow

2006-06-18T08:48:00.000+01:00

The degree of luck and joy I feel I have found in my new little flat in Potts Point was reflected beautifully one morning by a rainbox ending just outside my window. A pot of gold indeed it did lead to, but rather than coins, my pot is full of hope and glee.

I feel inordinately lucky to have found my little home: I had always dreamed of living in a place with a view, that would inspire and excite and calm me. But unfortunately, views don't come cheap, and as a single lass, they certainly don't come cheap enough. So after several weeks of flat-hunting through dingy shoe boxes and over-priced niches, I was resigned to live in a more modest abode.

So when a random real estate agent called me back from a phone call I don't remember making, it was with reluctance I agreed to view a property he was managing. It was too much, and I was just getting tired of it all. Nevertheless, I arranged to meet him in my lunch break. After all, I did need to move out of my parents house.

Unsurprisingly, I was late to my appointment, so I was literally sprinting down Victoria Street (past all the backpacker hostels) in my heels and pencil skirt, and finally arrived panting and pink to an unexpectedly beautiful part of Sydney. The gorgeous terraces give way to an uninterrupted view of the city skyline and the Harbour Bridge, and there I found what was to be my home.

I knew as soon as I walked in - light poured in through the omnipresent light. Almost every wall was covered in a window or a mirror, which meant not only was it glowing, but besides light, it was also letting in 'the best of Sydney'. What do I mean by this: from my window I see all the things that make Sydney Sydney: the city skyline with the western sky behind it, and its juxtaposition with St Mary's Cathedral and the Domain's verdant greenness; Woolloomooloo Wharf; Harry's Cafe De Wheels; the Opera House, the Harbour Bridge, Fort Denison, the harbour; and Sydney's Navy Base and massive ships. The flat itself is cute and perfect for one. And there is a roof terrace with a pool and BBQ area, with 360 degree views of everything. It is quite spectacular.

I saw the place and loved it, yet managed to contain my excitement enough to determine if the flat was livable: but a quick investigation proved it was: internal laundry, all appliances built-in, tonnes of storage, security building. I had to negotiate on price a little, but once that was done, I was ready to move in.

And it has been heavenly since. I splurged on my furnishings, and have made the flat a real haven. I literally walk in at nights and call out "I love you, little flat! You make me so happy!". I love to laze around, to sit by the window at nights and gaze at the city lights, to watch the sunset behind the Harbour Bridge with a glass of red wine by the poolside terrace, to have friends over and chat for hours on my dining table where ever seat has water views (courtesy of the mirrors!). And especially at this time in my life when I am struggling with so other new challenges, its deeply reassuring and motivating to have a beautiful base that inspires and nourishes me. It truly is a treasure, a pot of gold even, that rainbows can't help but shower with glory.

Settling

2006-06-12T15:19:00.000+01:00

Its now been over 3 months since I have settled back in Sydney. Its been unsurprisingly a very eventful time. I wonder if my life will ever be ordinary (I sincerely hope not).

I will spare you the details of what has been a horribly difficult time for me, enough to say that moving countries is not an easy thing to do, and some things that you wish were different have stayed stagnant, and other things that you thought were constants in your life show their weaknesses.

But I climbed Kilimanjaro for goodness sake. I can handle a few life upsets, right? So I start every morning with the wonderful Inaya Day song 'Hold your head up high', and as I stride along Wooloomooloo Wharf, with the sun glinting off the harbour, on my way to work. And I have surrounded myself with wonderful people who make my heart well with joy. The newest of these friends is a girl called Sunita.
I met her on Mardi Gras night at Damien and Sean's house. It was one of those meetings that if she were a guy would have been love at first sight. I seem to have that kind of falling-in-love-with-girl-friends phenomenon with all the women that become my best friends, and with Sunita it was sharper than ever. In fact, I have come to realise she was an angel sent to me from the heavens to help me through challenging times. OK, thats rather cheesy. But sometimes people enter your life that in retrospect you realise were fundamental to your life path.

Within weeks we were camping together, going on road trips together, having adventures. We were each others last-person-to-speak-to-before-you-go-to-sleep. We were able to communicate with just a glance. We had random mussel nights and dressed as porn-stars at gay parties. Sunita made my home-coming not only palatable, but thrilling. She was the element that turning 'settling' into 'scintillating'.

So now I face my life here refreshed. I still miss London terribly, particulary at this time of year when the sun sets at 10:30pm and everyone spins in a heady mania of joy. But you know, I have here in Sydney the things that truly matter: my family that I adore and finally really enjoy spending time with, warmth and sunlight and water and seafood, and of course, almost all my closest friends. All that was left was the determination to make my new reality into something extraordinary and thrilling, and I can now state - with the help of people like Sunita - this is finally happening.

My new baby

2006-03-30T11:57:00.000+01:00

The sign of incredible sadness. That I can get so excited by the purchase of an IBM laptop. Yep, call in the undertakers and clowns, I have officially achieved geek status.

Although perhaps not. Interestingly the first thing I did upon its inceptual launch was elect to have a large purple flower on my desktop, and change the colour of the windows title bar to be a pretty teal colour. So there might be hope for me yet!

Geekiness aside, the reason for my laptop purchase is an idealistic one, of the 'if you build it, they will come' school of thought. That is, if I buy a laptop, surely creative and entrepreneurial success will swiftly follow. The plan, of course, was to become a phenomenally famous columnist, novellist and self-made billionairess from my various imagined business ventures, so I figured the first step was buying a computer that would facilitate and inspire such achievements.

Thus, I bought this charming little machine, and therefore, I am now sitting in my room with the shreds of the box it came in scattered around me, typing my inaugural message, a baptism of sorts for my darling laptop.

Will it fall prey to the same obsolescence to which my other vision-inspired purchases have befallen? My top-of-the-range digital camcorder that was supposed to be my vehicle to cinematic heroism before I sold it on ebay a few weeks later for half the cost; my Apple iBook that served more as a DVD player than a laptop after the initial buzz died away; my purchase of several Atkins Diet books to research my revolutionary Atkins Diet based luncheon franchise idea, which were never read; my purchase of several How To Get Published books to achieve the eponymous ends suggested, also never read; my purchase of a gym-oriented MP3 player to inspire my incredible fitness regime, which didn't fit enough songs on it so was never used... the list goes on. I am at risk of having my dreams trigger the same response as Peter's wolf cries.

Notwithstanding this, I continue to have blind faith in myself. I am sure this time I will not fail. Surely all the stars are aligned, my chakras are cleaned, my karma is positive, my feng shui is uncluttered, my mindset is prepared.

And as a worst case, I have a darling new laptop to commiserate me if I fail!

African ambling and killer-Kili

2006-03-23T04:25:00.000Z

My time in Africa, unsurprisingly, was fraught with drama and adventure.

It started calmly enough: I began on a two week safari trip around Kenya and Tanzania, which was incredible. I saw loads of wildlife including lions, elephants, giraffes, hyenas, hippos, rhinos, cheetahs, etc, and developed new-found respect for the beauty and majesty of all these animals. The landscape is every bit as breathtaking as films and books describe - the sky envelops you with its hugeness, the colours are so intense, the vastness of the land awing.

We visited a few Masai villages, went on walking safaris, shopped in markets. All very fun. Not so fun was the day to day logistics - erecting and dismantling a tent every day, in all sorts of weather conditions... eek. Driving for hours and hours on spine-jarring roads... ouch. Approaching pit toilets in the Serengeti where you could be accosted by marauding lions, or worse, people with bowel problems who missed the pit... urgh. Seeing the poverty and lack of opportunity that affects so many people in Africa... mmm. Still, the woes were a welcome balance, and despite the cliche, were hugely instrumental in highlighting once again to me the blessings of my life.

My next adventure after the safari was to head to the base of Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, where I was to attempt a climb over 6 days. If I thought what I'd been through was tough, nothing prepared me for Kili. Well, the first 4 days were amazing: we hiked for hours each day, up to 7 or 8 in a day, but it was through incredible scenery... rainforest, moorlands, semi-desert... And despite my lack of fitness after 6 months of travelling, I managed really well, I went slow and steady, but with a huge grin on my face, it was exhilerating to be climbing the worlds largest free-standing mountain! The only part I didn't cope well with were the evenings: they were cold, misty, and the camp sites were not always nice. The toilets were frightening.... think pit toilets that were too full and so messy. And of course, everyone got bowel problems, so rushing to the toilets in the middle of the freezing night, hoping you don't fall of a precipice and die, or that you step on anything too awful in the toilets... was horrific. But I coped, and was actually overwhelmed with peace, serenity, insights, and joy during the day, which made up for the unpleasantness of the evenings.

I was in a tour group with one other man, a 54 year old American called Bill, and our entourage of 8 porters plus a guide treated us wonderfully. It was actually great to be around Bill, because for the first time in my life, I understood what my friends must feel like around me: Bill was - believe it or not - more clumsy and dithering than I am! I was the epitome of grace and orderliness in comparison. He dropped things, lost things, took forever to get ready each day, forgot things... I was able to be patient with him, because I saw myself in his behaviour, and let me tell you, I think its taught me to improve! During those 6 days I didn't break or lose or forget anything!

The walk was great fun, lots of rock-climbing, some of it a little scary and precarious, making my heart beat madly and a little whimper escape from my mouth... but all in all I made myself proud with the things I attempted and achieved.

Then the final ascent day came. We were to leave at midnight, walk all night, to arrive at the summit for dawn. We set off, Bill powering on ahead as usual, me slow and steady in the rear. About half way up, my guide stopped and responded to a whistle from Bill's guide. The guide went to investigate, and soon came back with a stumbling Bill. Bill says "Alicia, is that you? I'm BLIND!!!". For some reason, he had suddenly lost all his vision. I suggested he return down, but the guides were gabbering in Swahili, and I was getting cold, so I told them to stay with him, take him down, I would join another group. I joined up with a group of Canadian girls, and proceeded up.

It was absolute torture. Nothing could have prepared me for that final ascent. I could do a few steps at a time, and then I'd stop and gasp for air. We were over 5km above sea level, a high altitude even to professional mountaineers, and it was a miracle I didn't have altitude sickness, but it was hard work climbing up, and it took me forever. I'd sworn to myself beforehand that unless I had altitude sickness, I would make it up, so in the end, I had to push through all the pain, all the cold (I had 6 layers of clothing on top and on bottom), all the heart-wrenching fatigue, and keep going.

After over 8 hours, I made the penultimate peak (a scenic point about an hour from the summit), long after sunrise, but there nonetheless. Then amazingly, five minutes later, Bill stumbles up the mountain with both guides in tow. He looked a fright: his face was literally frozen from all the snot that had seeped down his face, his hands were cramping up into weird shapes, his speech was slurred, and he was still blind! The guides and I tried to get him in shape again, but he was in a rough way. Still, he was determined to make the final ascent to the summit, and the guides seemed to think he'd be ok, so we set off.

It took every fibre of my being to make that final hour walk uphill. I could manage one step at a time, breathing deeply, trying to suck as much oxygen from the air as possible. But finally, after over 9 hours of walking without any sleep beforehand and with a 7 hour walk earlier that day, I reached the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. It was the 25th of January, my 29th birthday. I expected I would feel elated and contemplative of the year to come. Instead, I collapsed on the foot of the sign, and stared dumbly at the ground. I couldn't even look around me. Finally when I had the strength to look around, I burst into hysterical tears, which were actually happy tears. I had made it! I had climbed to 5895 metres above sea level, with no training, no experience, no preparation. I was delighted.

We then had the descent to get through. By this stage Bill was totally blind, and could only proceed with assistance from the guides. It took us hours and hours to descend, by this time I was dehydrated, hungry and exhausted, but had no choice but to continue. 12 hours after we had started our ascent, we returned to camp. I couldn't move or think or do anything but lie on a pile, and Bill was in a worse state. He insisted upon being evacuated, and the process began. He was taken down the mountain in what was effectively a large flat trolley, which was torturous for the poor man.

I made it down the next day (walking), and went to check up on him at the hospital. Thankfully, his eyesight had returned (a symptom of acute altitude sickness), but he was severely dehydrated and sick. That was yesterday. Since then he has slowly gotten better, but it still incredibly weak and ill. As he is travelling alone, our tour guide and myself have been taking care of him, and the people here have been so helpful and kind. Its been quite an experience seeing African hospitals, but in all, he is on the mend, although he is heading back to the US as soon as he can.

He is luckier than others - the guys that came down from the mountain today said one of the climbers died yesterday of altitude sickness at the summit. Its a dangerous pastime, I didn't realise how much before I started, and I count my blessings that I am safe and well.

The other thing I wanted to say, is that during those hard uphill hours, it was two things that kept me going. The first was Bikram Yoga... the breathing exercises from this yoga class were what I suspected might make me process the little oxygen in the air more efficiently, and put me into a zen state of meditation which would consume less valuable energy. And I was right - when my muscles literally wouldn't carry me a step further, I breathed in the bikram way, and suddenly I could walk 100m without stopping. Miraculous.

The second was you guys. To keep me amused, I thought of my friends and family, what they might say to me if they could that minute, what they meant to me, what their smiling faces would look like... and it was my salvation. Thank you all for being there for me, without even knowing it. I felt like the luckiest person in the world to have people like you in my life. I miss you all so much, and despite how much I am enjoying these travels, I am very ready to go home now... I have another 5 weeks here in Africa, then HOME!! Some of you won't be there, in Sydney, but as this experience has taught me, you are all with me always anyway.

I'm a cowgirl!

2006-01-04T17:11:00.000Z

I had one of the most exhilerating experiences of my life yesterday! I became a cowgirl!

I have been in Dahab for a week now, chilling out, diving, exploring. But I decided on a whim that I would like to go horse-riding. Dahab is surrounded by craggy red mountains, and juxtaposed with the Red Sea's blueness, it makes for breathtaking scenery. I felt very certain that riding a horse through it all would be splendid. So very spontaneously for me, I walked into a safari shop, booked myself in, and the next day turned up ready to ride.

I was to be the only person on this tour. It was me and Paibers, the half-Turkish, half-Egyptian accountant who teaches horse-riding for fun. He allocated me a seemingly docile white horse called Jasmine, and off we ambled out to the desert. Paibers explained to me the philosophy of horse-riding, that its all about the unspoken relationship I build with the horse, how she cares me for, and will take care of me, and I have to show I care for it, but that I am in control too. He taught me the basics of posture and grip, and I felt relatively confident. I had ridden in the past, but very very sporadically and never particularly elegantly. I was determined to improve. But I was still stuck in the beginners trap of holding onto the saddle with my spare hand, in case I lost balance. Paibers persisted in teaching me to let go, and eventually he succeeded.

Within an hour, I had mastered the basics, and suddenly found my balance. I discovered its like riding a bike - it seems ludicrous that you could stay upright on such a precarious contraption, but once you find that balance, its inbuilt. Well, riding was similar to me. Once I had talked myself into overcoming my fear of falling, and once I had learnt how to hold on tight with my thighs, the balance came naturally. Paibers gave me a stick, not to hit darling Jasmine with, but to dangle in her line of sight when I wanted to go faster. Soon, I was galloping wildly through canyons, with my hands up in the air, grinning madly, feeling adrenaline and excitement pulse through me.

It was without a doubt the highlight of my entire holiday so far. Ever since I was a little girl I loved fantasy novels and movies, with the knights on horse-back, and the rebellious damsel galloping alongside, regally yet passionately. That morning, I lived my fantasy. To be galloping so incredibly fast, with no one else around, no other noise but Jasmine's hooves, towering red cliffs on either side of me, discovering hidden oases and rocky valleys. There were moments when I was fixated on the path before me, full of beauty and natural wildness, feeling so free and unburdened and raw, it was unspeakably moving.

I rode for four hours, some of it inland among mountains, some of it on the beach. At one stage, while we were walking slowly to give the horses a break, a group of quad-bikes zoomed past us. I felt them grinning to themselves at my apparant tame pace, so I suggested to Paibers we show these kids what speed really was... and off we galloped. We overtook them all. It was fabulous.

Anyway, I was very sore after all that riding as you can imagine. So what do normal people do after such strenuous thigh and bum exercise (particularly after not having done it for so long)? Rest, sleep, etc?? What did I do? I booked myself to climb Mount Sinai, which began at 1am that night. With my body aching, I suddenly find myself climbing Africa's third highest mountain, using those very same muscles which were so ripped and torn. It was excruciating. The first 2 hours weren't too bad, it was quite a novelty to climb in pitch blackness with torches. But the last hour consisted of steep rocky stairs, and I laboured. I made it though, and quickly nestled into my sleeping bag for a few hours sleep in time to wake up and watch the sunrise.

I awoke at 6am to a completely overcast sky. Let me put this in perspective: it never rains in Egypt. It rained. So no sunrise, but nevertheless, beautiful scenery. A sweet group of Chinese Christians held a little mass on the summit, and I then remembered the significance of this peak. Did I feel godly though? I have to say, not so much. I was exhausted and sore, and had a descent to tackle on 90 minutes of bad sleep.

I am now waddling like a penguin, because my body cannot do anything else. I am desperately nervous about my plan to climb Kilimanjaro - its 5 times the size of Sinai. But I am stubborn and determined, so I'll do it.

Anyway, this is my last day in Egypt. Tomorrow I fly to Africa, where I suspect internet access not so common. So it may be a while before I correspond again. Wish me luck, particularly on my birthday morning of January 25th, as it will be the day I (hopefully) reach the peak of Kilimanjaro. But I'm now officially a cowgirl - I'll be fine!

Egyptian calamities

2005-12-27T16:58:00.000Z

After my 4th calamity of my Egypt tour, a concerned fellow traveller asked if I was ok. "Oh yes", I assured her, "This is normal for me. My friends in London call me Calamity Jane, and I think you can see why". She looked at me, and nodded understandingly.

First Calamity
I walked into my single hotel room in Aswan, closed the door, and looked around. I needed to have a shower and rest after a long overnight train journey from Cairo, in time to regroup with my tour in an hour. My luggage was being taken to my room by a porter, so I went to reopen the door to see if they were almost there, when the door handle came off in my hand. Mmm... I tried to put it back in and turn the handle, but to no avail. I jostled a bit further, and realised quickly it was going to be a futile exercise to open it from the inside. The porter then arrived with my luggage, and I had to explain through a thick wooden door that I couldn't open my door, could he please try? He finally understood, and went to get someone. Meanwhile I call reception to tell them, and they also arrange to get someone.

Shortly, I had a congregation of Egyptians outside my hotel room, all trying to jostle open the door with a spare key, but to no avail. Occasionally they would drift out of my field of vision from the spy-hole in my door, and I would panic and call out 'Any luck? Pleeease!'. 30 minutes passed with no success.

Finally, one of the troupe called out that they could only open the door by dismantling the mechanism from the inside, so they were going to get someone to climb in through my room window. I ran to open the window and looked out. A sheer drop presented itself, with no ledge other than a very old and dusty air conditioning unit, that looked like it would drop with the weight of a pigeon. I ran back to my door spy-hole, and saw convexically the troupe explaining to my next-door-neighbours that they had to access their window to climb through it to get to my window. I couldn't help but laugh at the insanity of it all. I ran back to my window, and called out to no one in particular "Its madness to try! You'll die!". Eventually I saw the smiling face of an Egyptian porter sticking his head out the neighbouring window. We laughed, looked down, and I said "Don't even try, its not worth the risk!". He disappeared.

I ran back to the door spy-hole and one of the troupe called out that they were going to try accessing my window through the elevator shaft. What?! I ran back to the window, and sure enough, right by my window was the elevator shaft. In a few minutes, my friend the Egyptian porter could be seen suspended from the scaffolding-type structure encasing the elevator shaft. With quasi-acrobatic skill, he leveraged himself across the yawning gap between shaft and window, and propelled himself into my room. Hooray! Within another few minutes, he had unscrewed the door handle mechanism, and I was free! I was kindly moved to another room with working door handles, and rushed to have a shower. Unsurprisingly, I was a little late to my group briefing, but they understood (although were a little shocked) when I told them the reason.

Second Calamity
My tour included a 3-day cruise down the Nile from Aswan to Luxor. It was truly splendid. We stopped off along the way to visit temples and tombs. One morning, we stopped off to visit Komombo temple, by docking against another docked cruiseship, and walking through it to reach the gangway to the shore. The temple was beautiful, and I lost myself gazing at the 4000-year old hieroglyphics and architecture. We had to be back on the cruiseship before 2pm as our boat would sail off at that time, and at 1:55pm, I thought to myself "Oh, one last look around...", so I sprinted round, gathering the ambience one last time, and then headed back to the shore. That was when I realised I had no idea which boat I had to get through to get to my boat. There were dozens docked along the shore, and it was 1:58pm. I started to panic. I ran down the shore to where I thought it was, but realised I had no clue, and was utterly disoriented. I broke out in a cold sweat. I asked a guard where the 'Nile Jewel' was, and he looked confused into the distance. A passing local noticed my panic, and said 'Nile Jewel? Follow me, I know where it is'. So I followed him down the shore, but when I got to where he pointed, I found it wasn't my boat. It was now past 2pm, and things were looking grim. To make matters worse, the little man asked for a baksheesh, the Egyptian equivalent of a tip, but which apparently has no relationship whatsoever to quality or accuracy of service. I refused, and ran the other way up the shore, asking other guards. The little man followed me, saying 'Nile Jewel, its this way', and pointing in entirely the opposite direction to where he initially had taken me. I was getting annoyed. I said 'Look, you don't know where it is, I am not paying you anything, please leave me alone', but undeterred, he kept following me, pointing at random points and saying confidently 'Nile Jewel!'. Eventually, I found a guard who had an idea, and found my boat. The guards kept the little man away from me, and I arrived breathless and relieved in the reception area of my cruiseship, just as it undocked to leave. Phew!

Third Calamity
I began my trip by approaching potentially dodgy food with suspicion. Very quickly that evaporated, as I am hopeless when it comes to self-control and food. Particularly on a cruiseship, with a gorgeous buffet for lunch and dinner. So I gorged myself constantly. It came to haunt me on Christmas morning, as I awoke early to the vibration of my stomach. I knew what that gurgle sensation meant, and ran to the toilet. Oh yes, after a week save from harm, I finally was struck by tummy troubles on Christmas Day of all days. But in typical me-fashion, it wasn't to be normal diarrhoea... no, that would be too convenient. Instead, it was accompanied by what I will describe as child-birth contractions. Searing galling stomach cramps that came in waves, with a pain so acute that I literally was screaming and writhing in pain. Literally. It was horrific. The diarrhoea was nothing, it was treated with a little Imodium. The stomach cramps kept me in unbelievable agony all day. I couldn't even stand up, because if I did and a wave hit me, I would collapse. I was so miserable - I was homesick and lonely sitting in my little cabin all by myself while my fellow tour group members toured Karnak in Luxor. But I experienced true Christmas kindnesses. One of my tour friends came and kept me company for an hour, and read to me from a tour book so I could take my mind off the pain. He kindly looked away or closed his eyes when I moaned in agony, and didn't mind when I ran to the bathroom to throw-up. Eventually I fell asleep, and that seemed to heal the pain a little. One of the other guys on my tour came back from the visit to Karnak with a Christmas present for me, wrapped in National Geographic magazine pages! It was two little papyrus paintings, really sweet and pretty. I was so touched I started to cry. It was my only present that Christmas, and for it to come from a little Taiwanese boy who felt sorry for my agony, was a true Christmas blessing.

Eventually the pain subsided a little, and now, two days later, the waves of cramps come only every 30 minutes or so, and with significantly less intensity than before. Its just a shame I missed Christmas, but words cannot describe how grateful I was to be in my own little sweet cabin, with my own bathroom, and a 24 hour English movie channel on my own TV. Heaven!

Fourth Calamity
After visiting the tomb of Queen Hetshepsut (where terrorists had a killing spree on tourists in 1997), we were walking back to our tour bus, and I was laughing at a fellow tour leader for carrying such heavy bag, when my laugh was cut short by a plank of wood splintering against my head. Turns out by not looking where I was walking - not terribly unusual for me, I agree - I had walked into a plank of wood that was at head height along my path. Other people walk under it, but I had to smash it against my forehead.

So you can see why after so many calamities in the space of a week, my fellow tour members could already see why I was dubbed Calamity Jane. Nevertheless, I am fine, alive and happy. I am heading up to Cairo on the overnight train tonight, and then head to Dahab for a week of diving and beach relaxation. Fingers crossed I don't get the bends!

Key of Life

2005-12-21T13:46:00.000Z

Egypt is officially the most different country I've ever been to. Culturally, geographically, socially, its all very exotic and so different from Western societies.

Firstly, they home deliver KFC. Tee hee... sorry, just noticed a congregation of KFC motorcycle delivery men out the window of this internet cafe. Now that is an interesting concept...

The items of wonder I am referring to are a little more interesting than home-delivered fried chicken. The most awe-inspiring site is that of the pyramids, of course. Its been described a multitude of times, its been shown on TV and movies endlessly, but there is something quite moving about your first view of a pyramid. Particularly the Giza pyramids, as you approach them through a wildly chaotic road, with cars beeping their horns instead of using their indicators to signal lateral movement on the roads, and endless estates of red-brick half-finished apartment blocks (left deliberately unfinished for when the grand kids arrive and they need to expand their block!). Then out of the pollution-stained hazy sky, you see an incongruously tall structure with elegant straight edges. Its seems unreal at first, this juxtaposition of hectic mad city with graceful monuments to eternity. You approach the pyramids, and at first you think to yourself "Gee, I thought they'd be bigger", until you see humans at the base of them, and realise that their size is difficult to gauge without a basis for comparison. And they are huge. Each stone is the height of a human, though from afar, they look like teensy steps. They tower into the sky, for the most part still completely intact, which is staggering considering they are almost 4000 years old. Its humbles you when you think about how long ago that was.

So the pyramids have been great. On other days we happen to casually see them as we drive, and the sight still shocks me... modern day ugliness with ancient beauty in the background. The sphinx as well, very impressive... you are aware you are doing the touristy things, but you cannot help but gasp as the grandeur and legacy of these ancient egyptians.

Modern Egyptians, on the other hand, well, they are a mixed lot. Now, I have travelled in many places where people try very hard to sell to you, and men try to seduce you, but here its been a challenge, particularly as a single woman. The selling I can cope with... its annoying and makes you cynical and unfriendly to any new person you meet, but its not unusual. The 'seduction' is very annoying... I was well-prepared with what to expect, but it still upsets you a bit, when almost every man you meet gives you a full look up and down, asks if you have a husband, proposes to you, or wants to sidle up to you. Eek. I've taken to pretending that a oldish man on the tour is my husband, much easier to pretend!

Culturally, its fascinating. We had a cab driver who had no idea how to find our hotel, even though we asked him several times before we boarded "Do you know where this is? Are you sure?". Of course, he had no idea, and even after he did - and I kid you not - 8 U-turns on a busy highway, he was still insisting he knew where it was. In the end, we recognised a building, and directed him back to our hotel ourselves. Hmmm... Then there is the practise of answering every question with "If you like". So, we ask our tour guide: "Do we need to check out of our hotel before our tour today?", "If you like", was her non-commital answer. "Do we need a sleeping bag on the train tonight?", "If you like". "It is worth going into the pyramid for 100 Egyptian pounds?", "If you like". To be honest, I am not sure if this is an example of egyptian culture, or the complete incompetence of our tour guide. We all are starting to suspect the latter. Last night, after forgetting to book a restaurant we had told her we wanted to go to, she suggested another place, spoke in Arabic to three taxis to take us there, then she got into a fourth. At the destination, we were left on a busy road, the taxi driver pointed vaguely in the direction of about 5 restaurants and drove off. We stood for 40 minutes out in the cold waiting for her. She never arrived. In the end we found a place ourselves, and struggles through the arabic menu. She never turned up. Or even more amusingly, during our orientation meeting, she spent 90 minutes laboriously writing down our insurance and flight details onto a piece of paper, while we all sat awkwardly waiting for some introduction or smile. Nothing. In the end I had to start asking everyones names and getting the conversation going... then the next night, she said her office told her the flight information needed to be written in our handwriting (why??!), so could we all write it down now. So asked her if she had the original sheet so we could copy it from there, rather than finding our flight tickets again in our rooms... oh no, she didn't have it anymore. AAAHHH.... I'm wingeing, I know, our whole tour group has been, she is truly terrible. But its only been two days, maybe it will get better.

Anyway, we are off tonight on a train south to Aswan and Luxor, then a 3 day Nile cruise, where I will be for Xmas. I may not have a chance to be online again til then, so have a wonderful Christmas and New Year! I miss you all.

Oh, and why have a titled this entry the Key of Life? Two reasons. The Key of Life is the symbol that looks like a Christian cross, but with a loop at the top rather than a fourth branch. It was used by ancient egyptians as an offering on death to the gods, as a petition for eternal life. Its also the name of the essential oil perfume I bought today at a perfume factory. Very musky and delicious!

An attempt to summarise

2005-12-12T12:37:00.000Z

Goodness, its been ages since I last updated this blog, I do apologise. In my attempt to get up to date as quickly as possible, I am going to shamefully summarise the last month's key points in one large entry... horror, I know, but necessary.

Getting to know you
After girlie roadtrip, Kath departed and Melli and I headed on to Italy. In Bari, we ended up waiting several hours for a bus that had broken down, but we entertained ourselves with the 'Getting to Know you' game. Its an excellent one - you ask the other person a random question, ie. 'What did you want to be when you grew up?', or 'Describe your happiest moment', or 'What food could you eat every day for eternity', etc. Then you answer the question as well, and then its the other persons go. Its a great game!

Dodgy Naples
We finally got on the bus to Naples. We were very nervous about Naples, as every person and book we had gleaned for info warned about the dodginess and corruption of the city. Over the next few days, we had many occasions to go in and out of Naples train station, and can now attest that it is every bit as dodgy and scary as they say. People with dark circles under their eyes, and an aura of evil and corruption stare at you, encircle you, stand close behind you... Melli and I were constantly on full guard, and were always fine, but my goodness, there were some icky moments.

Pompeii fantasy
Pompeii was a highlight. It wasn't at all what I expected. I've been to loads of ancient ruins, and thought it would be the same, a small area with some random vague ruins. Oh no... Pompeii is truly a full city, with avenues, streets, buildings, markets, baths, etc, all still very much in tact. And its vast, we walked around for hours, and still only saw a fraction of it. And its wonderful fun, especially at this time of year, when there were no crowds but it was still warm, we often had ruined palaces and market stalls entirely to ourselves, so we amused ourselves by role-playing in the deserted ruins: we were wool merchants, sacrifical victims, noblemen's daughters, etc. It was a wonderfully evocative day.

Capri-cious
Another fun diversion was the island of Capri. We went there for two days of peaceful walking and exploration. Its every bit as stunning an island as they say. We also went on a boat trip circumnavigating the island, exploring the caves scattered throughout the coast. It was gloriously beautiful, and perfectly climaxed by a visit to the Blue Grotto: a water cave you have to visit on a tiny dinghy (exorbitantly priced, what scoundrels!), but once inside, the water literally glows with a bright sky blue light. Its undescribably peculiar. Our dinghy driver sang opera as we splashed for all of 3 minutes inside the cave, then he proceeded to request a hearty tip, which after the 20 euro boat trip, and the 8 euro dingy ride, we thought a bit excessive... we gave him a euro, and he gave us the most withering stare you can imagine. We were haughtily indignant.

Sicilian silliness
We had planned to explore the Amalfi Coast, but after seeing Sorrento, which was the umpteenth resort town that was completely dead off-season, we decide to give up on the rest of the coast and head down to Sicily a day earlier. We boarded an overnight ferry, and in the comfort of our own cabin, proceeded to have a dress-up and dance disco with my little ipod speakers. We had a ball! Sicily was lovely. We would have loved to have been there for longer, there was a lot to see and do. We did manage to go for a hike in a beautiful seaside nature reserve with our hostel owner, which included one of the yummiest sandwiches I've ever eaten, but other than that, we just explored Palermo. The main limitation was that I got terribly ill on my last day, and couldn't get out of bed.

Change of plans
My original plans were to go to the south of France after Sicily, whilst Melli was to return to Canada via London for a night. I was heart-broken at the thought she was finally going to spend a night in London, and it wasn't going to be with me. It was just wrong, after 4 years of living there, for us never to have coincided. Then it hit me... I could go back! I didn't HAVE to be anywhere, and frankly, I didn't think I could handle another seaside resort town dead off-season. I was tired of travelling, and wanted a break. And I missed my friends in London, and I missed London. I had lots of administrative things I still needed finalising, and it would have been so much easier to do them in London. So, on a whim, I bought a one-way ticket to London with Melli. It was the BEST thing I have ever done.

Flight horror
My flight back to London was easily the worst flight I have ever had. I had a fever, and I hadn't had time to buy any pain-killers. I boarded the flight, and begged a Ryan Air attendant for some Panadols. The usual ensued... avoidance, ignorance, deference to anyone else so they didn't have to deal with the request. In the end, they said they couldn't give me anything due to blah blah, and they couldn't ask anyone on the plane either because blah blah... I was aghast. The pain in my head escalated, and I became delirious with fever. I writhed and moaned as the agony engulfed me. It was the first time I have endured flight turbulence without fear, because I actually thought to myself "If this plane crashes, at least it will take me out of this misery!". Finally, some kind (and no doubt disturbed) fellow passenger donated some pain killers to me, and in grateful blindness, I consumed it, and began to feel vaguely human again. The horror was not over yet though. As the plane started to descend, my congested head started to hurt, and the pain got worse as we descended more. The pain became like a knife, with the pressure so strong that I felt my head was going to explode. I began to get really worried... I wiggled my ears, my nose, swallowed, blew my nose, but nothing would even vaguely lessen the agony. I started to wimper, yes, indeed, I did. Melli, bless her, grabbed a flight attendant and asked for some chewing gum. The useless brainless child working on the flight said, "Oh, she'll be fine, there's nothing we can do", and Melli retorted with "No, trust me, chewing gum works and she is in pain", but of course, the moronic child of ignorance that Ryan Air uses as staff washed his hands of my distress and walked away. Luckily, again, a fellow passengar had heard my moanings and offered me his gum. So somehow, I managed to survive the flight and the landing, exhausted and in dire pain, but alive!

Night of madness
Once off the plane, Debbie in London called me to confirm whether we were all going out that night... I said that I didn't think I could make it, after being so ill. Debbie asked if I was sure, there were going to be lots of friends there... aaah, she knows me well, that Debs. Suddenly, it was as if all the pain and anguish vanished, and I felt ok again. "Oh, you know, I do feel a lot better, maybe I can make it out afterall". Melli is staring at me in horror, mouthing "Are you mad??!! You cannot go out tonight!". But its amazing what potential fun can do for my immune system... I not only made it out that night, but stayed out til 10:30am... and oh my goodness was it worthwhile. I finally, FINALLY, have my two best friends, Melli and Debs, together for the first time, see them get along, and have a wild and wonderful night of great dancing, finally, after so many disappointing attempts during our holiday, was worth the week of illness I still suffered after that night. Thanks to Broc as well for making it out, and entertaining us girls!

London luxury
My time in London was heavenly. I didn't do that much partying... just a little. But I mainly relaxed, strolled around, caught up with friends, got my yellow fever injection, bought my hiking gear for Africa, arranged more shipping to Sydney, tried to fix my ipod, etc... dull things, but not really. I was able to help Debbie move into the flat she just bought. I was able to have a final special night with Philippa. I got to spend time with a harassed and stressed Kat. I was able to get a massage from two very kind friends. And I could attend Stephen's charity auction, which had a poetic beauty about since I organised the first one, and it was lovely to see how glorious Ste could make the event. All in all, I spent a nurturing and needed two weeks in London, a perfect end to 3 months of very intense travel.

I am now in Spain, again relaxing, this time with family. Lots of food, alcohol, and bowling. Aaah....

OK - I am now up to date!

Finally more photos

2005-11-28T18:16:00.000Z

I have finally uploaded all the photos from my girlie trip to Croatia and Italy, plus many of my photos from the Baltic states and Poland.
Here are the Croatia/Italy ones

And here are some of my Eastern Europe ones

Enjoy!

Girlie roadtrip

2005-11-25T19:34:00.000Z

As promised, here is an update on the rest of my girlie roadtrip, which I promise, will make you giggle, yearn, and feel educated. Not a bad reward for reading all I have to write, eh?!

Croatian ramparts and picnics
I love the word 'ramparts'. Its funnier the more times you say it, plus I love the imagery that it conjures: castles, ancient cities, knights defending their people, etc. So it was with excited expectations that Kath, Melli and I prepared for our rampart walk in Dubrovnik. Apparently it was the most celebrated attraction in Dubrovnik, and we were blessed with a summer-perfect blinding-blue-skied day to traverse the walls. As you can see from these photos, it was a rather spectacular day...

It was an especially special day, for many reasons: firstly, it was Melli's first time in a European city, and it was a joy to see her awe at the stunning harbour, old monuments, and mediterranean ambience. Secondly, for all of us, it was the first time in a very long time we had been in warm weather, and boy, did we relish it! And lastly, it was the first sunny day of our trip, and it was filled with the excitement and anticipation of many more days together.

Two amazing things happened that day. Firstly, we had the perfect picnic: we bought delicious snacks, including capsicum paste and olive tapenade, tuna, crackers, brie, and wine, and sat down to dine on a deserted pebble beach in the late afternoon sun.
Words were not only unnecessary, but incompetent, to describe the glorious sensation of that golden afternoon. Here are some photos which capture some of the magic:

The other amazing thing was that we discovered the best way to cover all we wanted to see wasn't on a bus, but in our own car. In the space of a few hours, we had planned an itinerary, taken our car, and hit the road on the way to Hvar. The drive up was spectacular: coastal scenery, sunset, and filled with songs and games.

Our weekend
We caught a car ferry to Hvar, and found ourselves in the picturesque but very very quiet island town. It did, however, give us one of the best meals on the trip, a seafood platter bursting with freshness.

We then caught another car ferry, this time to Split in the north of Croatia, purely (this is rather sad in retrospect) because we had heard there was excellent clubbing to be had there. It was a Saturday night, and after experiencing the ghost towns that were Dubrovnik and Hvar at night, we were desperate for some excitement and city pulse. We were so ramped up for a big night out, that we spent four hours getting ready... showers, hair, dress-ups, accessorising, pre-party drinks, i-pod dancing in our hotel... it was tremendous fun, and we were in very high spirits for our destined night out.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. Oh yes, there was a pulse and some very busy nightclubs (we went to three), but they all without exception played Croatian polka music. We stood in awe and watched hundreds of beautifully attired Croatians squeal and dance wildly to music that we just didn't get. We tried, but we just couldn't find muster enthusiasum for music that we just didn't get. With dejected sighs, we returned, fruitless, to our hotel and went to bed.

Bosnian surprise
The next day contained one of the hardest yet most rewarding days of driving we had experienced. It was a seven hour drive from Split to Sarajevo, and with the sun setting at this time of year at 5pm, it meant that we drove for several hours in the dark. And despite my usually impeccable map reading skills, I unfortunately managed to get us lost a few times, which added much time (and a little stress) to our journey. But oh my, was it beautiful... Bosnia was a totally unexpected joy. Sweeping mountains, lush valleys, breathtaking lakes, and most moving of all, house after house riddled with recent bullets and shells. We had been warned by our guidebook not to walk off paved roads, as the threat of landmines is still very real. This combination of beauty and peril seared Bosnia into all our hearts.

Sarajevo was very much worth a seven hour drive to reach. Not only is it a very pretty bustling city, but it oozes history. On this bridge, Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand was shot, which was the event that triggered World War 1. You can visit the Holiday Inn, which was the centre of world journalisn during the recent war, and its particularly scary to visit, as you have to walk down a highway that was dubbed 'Sniper Alley' during the war, due to the number of deaths by Serbian snipers shooting from the nearby hills. Its so eerie to walk down a street that 10 years ago saw so much violence and brutality. We gawked at the number of bullet-ridden buildings, it was actually a shock to see one that wasn't damaged. We became so fascinated by this recent history that we all bought books on the history and politics of the war, and read furiously for days about the psychology, rationale (what little there was), and effect of the war.

In summary - if you are interested (I didn't know any of this beforehand, its so fascinating!): Bosnia has always been a very multicultural country, accommodating Christian Croats, Orthodox Serbs, Muslim Bosnians, plus other national groups like Albanians and Montenegrans. Generally they lived quite harmoniously, operating within the concept of 'merhamet', a muslim term meaning unity, forgiveness, tolerance. However, during World War II, nationalist feelings were stirred, and there were horrific atrocities incurred upon millions by fellow Slavs, ie. Croats killing Bosnians, Serbs killing Croats, etc. Almost everyone lost a family member during this war. Once peace was declared, what should have happened was that the people should have had the space to mourn their loss and deal with the underlying issues that caused the civil violence. However, what actually happened was Communism was declared by President Tito, and for 40 years, no other narrative was permitted to describe history other than what his government permitted, that is, that the War was a partisan victory that created this great Yugoslavia. Anyone that even hinted at believing any other history was executed or imprisoned, in typical Communist crowd-control style. So for 40 years, everything was bottled up, and there was a forced peace amongst the national groups.

This all lasted until Tito died. Then Nationalist groups reformed in an attempt to gain control of Yugoslavia, and in their political machinations, used the unresolved anger and hatred from 40 years ago to stir emotions. This was done particularly well by the Serbian government, who used a platform of paranoia and supremacy to make all Serbians, plus Serbs living in Croatia and Bosnia, feel they should unite and defend themselves against possible attack by other Slavs. Much of this hysteria was kept secret, so that when their (as they saw it) pre-emptive attack on Bosnia began, it was a complete surprise. In the space of a month, everything changed: one day you have a neighbour who invites you to dinner, or a best man at your wedding; in a few weeks, he is now arresting and torturing you. It was literally that swift, and that betraying. I won't go into detail as to the atrocities that were committed, but both Melli and I were repeatedly sickened while reading our books, to discover what humans could inflict not only upon other humans, but most disturbingly, on their former friends, colleagues, neighbours.

The United Nations didn't step in til very late in the war, and then initially all they did was evacuate women and children from the supposed 'UN Safe Zone', leaving 20,000 men to be summarily slaughtered by the Serbs in one day. Sarajevo was a city under seige: surrounded on 3 sides by Serbs, and on one side by the United Nations who were deliberately not getting involved as part of their deal with the Serbs. The only way they could get weapons or food was by a secret tunnet they built under the airport. We actually visited this tunnel, now called the Tunnel Museum, under a non-descript house at the end of a non-descript country alley (it took us AGES to find, as it was all so necessarily non-descript). We talked with the ex-soldier who lives in the house, and to my dying days I'll remember his face when he answered my question of "What was it like living here during the war?" with "You could never understand, and if you could understand, you would never forget." After reading about some of the atrocities committed in the concentration camps, I began to understand, and sure enough, its burnt into my mind forever, making me a little older, a little more jaded.

End of roadtrip
We eventually drove back to Dubrovnik via a little Bosnian village called Mostar, famous for its bridge that was demolished in the war, and recently rebuilt, a sign of rebirth and hope in a torn country. Back in Dubrovnik, we finished off the girlie roadtrip with a bit of a midnight dip in the cold Croatian ocean, with very little on! ;-) Very fun!

So there you go: did I live up to my promise? Have you smiled a little, yearned a little, and educated you a little? Its what we all got out of our adventure!

"Why are you here now?!"

2005-11-13T19:07:00.000Z

Apologies, I am seriously delayed in my blog writing, to the point now where to avoid being scared off the duty of updating everything appropriately, I will have to update some things mediocrely.

Summary
To summarise the last 13 days briefly, I flew on three flights to get from Krakow to Dubrovnik (insane, I know), to meet my best friend Mellissa and her other best friend Kathleen for our long awaited girlie holiday. The plan was to spend 8 days in Croatia, then two weeks in southern Italy. But plans, thankfully, tend to act only as a basis for changing things around, as after two nights in Dubrovnik, we decided to have a bit of a roadtrip.

I love nothing better than a roadtrip. Me, a map, and the winding Slavic roads. There is nothing like it.

We began driving up the coast from Dubrovnik towards a town from which we supposedly could catch a car ferry to an island called Hvar. It was a completely delightful drive up the Dalmatian coast, with a sunset-painted glittering sea and huge jutting islands always to our left. Kathleen proved to be an incredible driver, despite it being her first time driving on the right-hand side of the road. We girls sang songs, played word games, told stories... it was everything you would imagine a girlie roadtrip to be, and it was fabulous.

Our Guardian Angel
Earlier that day I had made a rather strange purchase of, and I kid you not, a Christmas decoration in the shape of an angel made entirely out of different kinds of gold-painted pasta. It seemed quirky and it took my fancy. We christened her Gabrielle, and she became our mascot. We hung her in the position normally commanded by fluffy dice - off the rear view mirror - and we asked for her blessings often. She didn't let us down.

We made it to the town with the car ferry 30 minutes before the last ferry of the night was to leave, Gabrielle clearly helping us out there. As we were waiting in the dodgy tiny port bar, the song 'Needing You' came on the radio, which until that time - and for all the time afterwards - was playing cheesy Croatian classics... Very unexpected, and made all the more spooky by the fact that its Melli's all time favourite dance song, and has incredible memories associated it involving us dancing together when we were younger. We had a bit of a dance in the dodgy bar, I don't think the ancient men sitting in the corner had ever seen such activity in that bar! This got us talking about what song would affect the rest of us equally, and I of course said my song was 'Silence' by Delerium.... hold that thought...

We eventually got onto the car ferry, and onto Hvar. Hvar was described as being beautiful and chilled, so we were looking forward to seeing it. However, once off the ferry, it took us so long to get to the main town. The roads were narrow, windy, and it was dark. We couldn't see what was in the darkness off the edge of every hairpin curve, and perhaps that was a good thing... We all started to get car sick and dizzy with the drive, but eventually, by 10pm, we made it to the main town, and found a nice little B&B to stay in. Exhausted but hungry, we drove into the main square to find food, only to find everything shut by this time, and the town deserted. This was to be a common theme for the rest of our trip: if we were here in summer, it would be heaving, but in the off-season, everything shuts down. Dishearted, we returned to our hostel to eat leftover groceries, watching the TV as we ate. Imagine our shock when the movie we were watching suddenly played 'Silence' by Delerium... in the space of a few hours, both my and Melli's favourite songs ever were played in unexpected surroundings... we took this as a good sign!

Loads more lucky coincidences happened to us... buses that were unusually late meaning we were in time to catch it, the right person passing us at the right time to help us when we were lost, etc. We were constantly thanking Gabrielle for her divine blessings!

Empty or shut!
However, there were many areas we were not so blessed. The main one was our pursuit for a good ol' dance. We kept spending a few hours getting ready, doing our research, hitting the town, only to be thwarted each and every time. It has now become a bit of a joke. In Dubrovnik it was mid-week and off-season so everywhere was closed or empty. In Hvar, it was mid-week and off-season so it was a ghost town. In Split (where we went after Hvar purely to go out) it was a Friday night, but each place we went to (and we went to three) was either empty or playing hard-core Croatian polka music. In Bosnia it was busy but we were so tired after an 8 hour drive we were in bed by 9pm, despite it being a Saturday night. Back in Dubrovnik we found some people to go out with, but the bars were totally empty and they were playing easy-listening favourites to encourage people to leave. In Naples, everything was deserted. In Capri we tried three places as it was a Friday night - all shut for the season. We went back to Naples last night, convinced we would finally be lucky: it was a big city on a Saturday night, SURELY something must be happening!! Well, we did find a happening place: it was full, the music was ok, and excitedly we approached the bar to buy our first celebratory drink. I ordered two tequila shots, and the bargirl said it was 20 Euros. I thought I misheard, and asked again, but yes, she was saying it was 20 Euros... I gasped in disbelief, and told Melli. She gasped and asked me to make sure, so I asked a third time... and it turns out I was wrong, it was 20 Euros for one, that is, it was 40 Euros for two shots of tequila!! We must have had the funniest look of shock on our faces! We made our apologies and left the bar drinkless. Without a drink, the club lost its allure: it was overcrowded and full of rude jostling people, and the music had become folkish. So we left. Every place we tried afterwards was either similarly priced or empty. Finally we found a place that seemed to be playing good house music, and had people inside... so for 30 glorious minutes, we danced, until the club shut.

It was galling and frustrating to continually psyche ourselves up for a fun night, and to be consequently disappointed. Amusingly, the one thing we were constantly asked at each point in our quest by people we asked for help, was "Why are you here?"... They didn't seem to believe we would choose to come to Croatia and Italy in November for a holiday, and we began to understand why.

Anyway, enough rambling for now... still got loads more to cover, but you are probably all drifting to sleep now. Next entry I will describe the life-changing experience that was Sarajevo, the Italian pout, our exploration of Pompeii, and more!

When two princesses travel...

2005-11-08T18:06:00.000Z

In Russia on my tour, I met Tanya. We could very well have been sisters, we were so similar. We kept discovering uncanny similarities between ourselves - we had similar histories, similar personalities, similar penchants. She was a Canadian from Vancouver who came to London for adventure and a new start a few years ago, and despite the many challenges that London threw at her, she persevered and built a fabulous life for herself. She is very much a princess, like me, we both travel with luxury beauty items, put make-up on each morning, like nice things in life, but also like me, we can put up with a few inconveniences for the sake of travelling and adventure. We immediately clicked and became bosom buddies during Russia.

But it was after Russia that our friendship truly blossomed. We discovered we had similar travel plans after Russia, so decided to pair up and explore Eastern Europe together. I could not have asked for a better companion. She organised my accommodation in Estonia, emailed me with 'Tanya's Travel Tips' to help me catch a bus to Tallinn, and taught me how to budget and the importance of living cheaply while backpacking. We had such fun giggling and chatting together, playing games, sorting out accommodation and transportation... she was bubbly and vibrant, with a toughness and inner will that belied her pretty petite exterior. She was so little, but with the most voracious appetite I have ever seen... she HAD to be fed every few hours or her spikes would come out, and she would devour a plate of food before I had swallowed my first bite.

The most amazing thing though was how well she put up with my little travelling idiosyncracies... those who know me know precisely what I am referring to. My dithering, my ditziness in the face of stress, my lack of common sense at times, my clumsiness, my need to walk back and forth between my bag, the bathroom, my bed and back to my bag again about five times before I find everything I am looking for. I drive myself nuts, I don't know how others put up with me, yet Tanya did, with an occasional well-deserved growl in my direction. She kept me on track and in line, and I adored her.

I just wanted to write this piece in thanks for such a great new friend and travel companion. I left Tanya in Krakow after an extremely ditzy unorganised morning, and it was hurried and sweaty, and left me feeling I didn't do our relationship justice by such a swift farewell as I scurried to the airport. I felt a sincere welling of emotion as my taxi pulled away and she waved me goodbye outside our hostel. I fondly remembered our recent adventures:

Squealing as we travelled the cable car up the Zakopane mountain top
Dragging her to four clubs in one night, despite her protests, and eventually taking her to her first gay club!
Training her to appreciate and like red wine
Our extremely decadent last dinner together, at the finest restaurant in Krakow, and being served by men in tuxedos while we wore hiking boots and jeans
Trying to make sense of the Polish rain system together
Our double breakfasts, double lunches, double dinners... generally at the ubiquitous Double Coffee cafe chain

Anyway... we had a ball, so many laughs, a month of adventures to treasure always.

A sombre day

2005-10-30T18:21:00.000Z

I went to Auschwitz today.

You've heard it all before, seen it all before, nothing I will describe here about the experience will be very new to you.

Nevertheless, its necessary to state how powerful the experience is, despite knowing beforehand it would be powerful. How can a human ever fathom how such calculated cruelty could be performed by so many humans to other humans? It boggles the mind.

One of the unexpected themes of these travels for me has been human cruelty justified by political or religious rhetoric. I didn't realise when I set out that I would come across so many instances of insanely violent and coldly calculated genocide and repression. I knew I would find it in Russia, but I have found it in Hungary, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland and Bosnia. In each country I have managed to have fun in bars and cafes, but have also explored the historical remnants of a history too obscenely bloody to comprehend. The juxtaposition of lively town squares and beautiful vistas with images of corpses in concentration camps and smoking ruins is startling, and leaves me silent for hours. Auschwitz did that to me.

The day was beautiful: sunny, bright skied, delightful breeze. I'm wandering around a field surrounded by autumnal trees and brilliant green grass. Yet on this very soil 50 years ago, untold agonies were felt. Its a sobering experience - I don't know whether to revel in the beauty of today, or cry for the pain of yesterday.

This is my theory: as a human today, it is our duty to try to understand as much of our global history as possible, to visit these places, ask questions of the locals, read what material you can. By this attempt, we are both offering our metaphoric shoulders for the long-past dead to weep on, and ensuring we teach our children what is necessary so this never happens again. But more so, we need to absorb all this, have a moment to feel sorrow, and then smile. It is our duty to lift our chins high, and vow we will not be broken as humans, and to go out and celebrate life. So many millions have died and suffered because of who they were and a belief that humans should live freely and with abundance in a beautiful world. I firmly believe it is our duty to make their sacrifices worthwhile, by proudly being who we are, and to live with joy and beauty. And as a laugh merrily, or buy pretty clothes, or plan my next holiday, I will silently give thanks that I am so unbelievably blessed that I can do these things without persecution or concern. I will take advantage of every opportunity I can, because I can, and that is a rare and treasured thing. I will aim for as much as I can out of life, because for now, it is delivering, and its worthwhile that someone can enjoy that.

I will live so that their sacrifices were worthwhile. That is my theory for life based on what I have learnt about the suffering of those before me.

Krakow - Nuns, Vodka, Flowers and Tonsilitis

2005-10-29T19:03:00.000+01:00

Tee hee.... I went to type in a Title into this blog entry, and it was auto-filled with what some other person using this computer typed in before me... so I thought I'd keep it. Makes for an intriguing juxtaposition of images... nuns, vodka, flowers and tonsilitis... what on earth was this person doing?!

My impressions so far are a little different. My string of words would be: "Corpses, cobblestones, castles and computers". Why?

Corpses
One of the attractions of Krakow is the Church of the Reformed Christ (strange name for a church, eh?), which besides being stunning inside, with its vaulted roof painted with stars and clouds, also has a crypt where dead monks were laid in state. What is absolutely fascinating about this is that for some unexplained reason, instead of decomposing, they mummified themselves! The proposed reason is that the crypt has its own microatmosphere which has kept the bodies from rotting. Tanya and I were curious, so went to have a look, but found the crypt locked. Luckily, a small group of Polish people were also waiting and managed to communicate to us that a monk would soon take them personally down into the crypt. So we waited, and aren't we glad we did! We eventually had a small private guided tour by a monk in a brown tunic (yes, that still wear them!) into a dark vaulted underground crypt with piles of coffins, and a few open ones, where yes indeed, lay corpses, out in the open, there for me to touch if I wanted! They still had skin, albeit black and flakey, and teeth, and fully formed hands. It was the most eerie and intriguing thing I've seen! Wandering about seeing corpses out in the open, that are 500 years old... crazy! Once we finished, the crypt was locked and we left - it was pure chance we were able to see this amazing sight!

Cobblestones
Speaks for itself really - Krakow is a beautiful old city and full of darling cobblestones streets and ancient ornate facades. Its just stunning. Everything you have heard about Krakow is true - its spell-binding.

Castles
This is my favourite story about Krakow so far. As legend has it, the Hindu god Shiva cast to earth seven stones of spiritual power, akin to the chakras in our bodies. They landed in seven places in the world, and bestowed these places with spiritual and restorative powers. One of these places is the north-east corner of the courtyard within the Wawel Castle in Krakow! People supposedly come here and rub their backs to the wall, hoping to glean some of its enlivening powers. However, our tour guide this morning said that some workers restoring the castle accidentally found the stone, and unaware of its legendary status, cast it away casually, lost forever...

Computers
I have been in Krakow a little over 24 hours, and have spent over 6 hours in front of a computer. Why? Because I am the worlds biggest faffer. I faff - as anyone waiting for me to get ready will attest. I have been trying to decide on my Africa itinerary, and have researched so exensively I can tell you the itineraries of every tour offered by every carrier, and have not been able to reach a decision. I decided I would make a decision yesterday, but faffed and researched more... after my first 3 hour stint, I left for dinner in a huff with myself, and said I would wait for a sign... should I do the Geckos tour or the African Travel Company tour? At dinner in the hostel, there were people talking, and I overheard one guy say "Oh, Jane is going to Africa for a safari, isn't that cool!", so I interjected and asked Jane (I'm making up her name): "Oh, who are you going with?". She responded: "With Geckos". I burst out laughing! There was my sign - thank you Powers that Be. So I went down to the Internet Cafe and finalised my entire 2 month itinerary in Africa. A lot of computer time, but a huge sense of satisfaction and closure at the end of it!

Now, surely that is more interesting that Nuns, Vodka, Flowers and Tonsilitis??!

Leithy in Lithuania

2005-10-28T22:08:00.000+01:00

Ok - I just had to do an entry taking advantage of the pun potential between my name and the wonderful country of Lithuania. Leithy in Lithuania... how melifluous sounding!

If you had told me anytime before last week that I would not only visit Lithuania, but that I would love it, I would not have believed you. I didn't even know where Lithuania was, nor what was special about it.

But the wonderful thing about travel is that it can be serendipitous, and you end up in places you would never have imagined you'd end up in, and find they were exactly where you needed to be.

I was in Riga with my newfound travel buddies, and Tanya and Jason were keen to go, and I didn't have anywhere better to be, so I decided to tag along with them, and then Adrian decided to tag along too. So our happy little travelling foursome continued a few days more. We bought a bus bound for Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania.

For those who don't know - Lithuania is a little country below Latvia and next to Russia. It is - together with Latvia and Estonia - known as a Baltic State, as its an ex-Soviet state that sits on the Baltic Sea. It has a similar history to the other Baltic States - repression by Communist Soviet party, then by the Nazi German party, then again by the Communist Soviet party... but they have all been recently liberated and are now free sovereign republics. Do you know how they did it - I love this story: two million people from Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania joined hands across 600 miles and sang national songs (that were forbidden by Russia). Its called the Singing Revolution, and it brings tears to my eyes. All three Baltic States have incredible museums dedicated to describing the political, cultural and human impact the repression of the last 50 years has had on their countries. Estonia had videos showing the Singing Revolution; Latvia had the best museum I have been to ever, with so much interesting memoribilia, such clear description of events, and even mock-ups of how the concentration camps were like; and Lithuania had the most disturbing of all, the building of the KGB that was used for imprisonment, torture and executions... I have never felt such a pre-sentient chill as I did when I walked into the Confinement Cell were prisoners were sent before they were to be executed, or when I felt the hole where bullets that had just killed innocent people entered the stone wall. It was eerie, awful, sickening stuff. But so essential - if ever you want to feel humble or put your life's woes into perspective, book a trip to Eastern Europe, and then prepare to be silenced. The terror and inhumanity these countries have seen is more than anything I can imagine. And - I go to Auschwitz and Birkenau tomorrow.

Anyway, notwithstanding the horrific history of these countries, what has impressed me most is the degree of forward-looking going on. Compared to Russia which I found stuck in its horrific past, the Baltic States have shaken off the vomit, taken a few painkillers, and are now well into a recovery. The customer service is superb, the people are happy and positive, they are welcoming tourists and building appropriate infrastructure... its a complete joy to travel around these countries.

And Lithuania - well, it just impressed me. Not so touristy as the others, but very ready for tourists. The best clubs I have been to in Eastern Europe by a long stretch. The most lovely food, cheap and good quality. And I stayed in a wonderfully homey hostel, where we very quickly met everyone, and had a large group of people from all over the world to explore the city and clubs and bars with.
We even did a day trip out to the Hill of Crosses, a surreal spot 3 hours out of Vilnius where people have erected crosses to commerorate their dead. Over the years, millions of crosses stand or hang from other crosses, covering a hill, and creating the most surreal tinkling noise as the breeze moves through the forest of crosses.

During Soviet days, the hill was bull-dozed as the Communists sought to destroy all religious activities (because religion might create a spiritual resistance to their oppression), but each night, unseen people risked their lives and freedom to replant more crosses, in defiance of their oppressors. Its wonderful to stand in a spot where so much emotion and passion has been felt. There is a saying here, that during the oppressive Soviet times, Estonia was the brawn of the resistance, Latvia the brains, but Lithuania was the soul. I loved Lithuania for it.

Russian proverb

2005-10-28T22:06:00.000+01:00

The church is close
But the road is icy.
The bar is far away
But I will walk carefully.

Old Russian proverb.

Something in that for all of us. Courtesy of Jason - the most knowledgeable man in the universe, my new gay travel buddy.

Estonian road trip

2005-10-23T17:34:00.000+01:00

My previous post proposed that coincidences are not the product of pure chance, but a signpost from the powers-that-be. Here again is another tale of happy coincidences and the adventures they accompany.

It all began when I said I am a fag hag.

My Travel Friends
I had met a lovely Canadian girl - Tanya - on my Russian tour, and as we were planning on travelling through Eastern Europe at the same time, we decided to go together. Along the way we met a charming Canadian guy - Adrian - and the three of us spent an enjoyable day and a half in Tallinn, Estonia, which I heartily recommend to anyone. Its a gem of a teensy city, full of cobblestones, beautiful facades, and funky cafes.

It was in one of these funky cafes that I mentioned my numerous gay friends and my affection for their company. Adrian then raised the fact that there was a gay American guy in his dorm room. I expressed interest in meeting him (after all, it had been a good two weeks I hadn't been in the company of a gay man, I was suffering withdrawals!). So, he kindly arranged to invite the gay guy, Jason, to dinner with us the next evening.

Within minutes, I was cackling with side-splitting laughter. What is it about gay men, they just amuse me so.

Adrian, Tanya and I had been planning on travelling to Riga in Latvia the next day, and discovered its cheaper and infinitely more comfortable to hire a car and drive ourselves rather than go via coach or train. So when Adrian invited Jason to join us on our road trip, we had a ready made group made for fun!

Start of the road trip
The next morning, after only 4 hours sleep (Tanya and I HAD to sample Estonian nightlife the evening before! very fun!), we wake up to a wet grey dreary morning. Not so great. Then we see the car that we were to travel in. Yellow. Bright New-York cab-type yellow. Not so great. We piled into the vehicle, and thus began our road trip from Tallinn to Riga via the Lahmea National Park and Tartu.

After several wrong turns (yes, I was directing, but it was the fault of the maps, they were just so unclear!), we finally made it onto the highway, and progressed through the plummeting rain. Jason thankfully kept us in hysterics - imagine a slimmer Jack from 'Will & Grace' with glasses, and you have Jason. He works for British Airways (of course), but is on his way to Azerbaijan (yes, supposedly it is a country!) to volunteer for the United Nations democratic election supervisory committee... and he speaks fluent German. Handy.

Anyway, we get to the Lahmea National Park, which Lonely Planet assures us is pictureque, but unfortunately on this day was just wet and murky. However, we insist on driving into one of the coastal villages, hopefully to find something to see, and a toilet. Instead, we find everything boarded up for the winter, and desolate (and no toilet). However, we do find a walking trail through the woods, and Adrian (our designated driver) proceeds to insist upon driving down it rather quickly... off-roading Estonian style, apparently. It was the epitome of a modern-day hike, a bush-drive if you will.

Arriving into Riga
Anyway, we eventually accept that the rain will not clear, and abandon any hopes of exploring the national park outside of the car. We drive on to Tartu, through many a funny named Estonian town (think of a cross between Finnish and Russian words, and you have Estonian). We stop for food in Tartu (a pretty little university town), and then head for the Estonian-Latvian border crossing. We get a little lost just before the border, and need to stop to ask for directions. We sidle up in the car to what appears to be a policeman, and I whisper to Jason "Don't be too American!". So Jason begins with "Te're" - the Estonian word for "Hello", and to my surprise speaks in a very even neutral accent. We get guided appropriately over the border.

We eventually make it into Riga, Latvia, in the driving rain and murky darkness. We make an attempt to enter the old town to our hostel, only to find they have exceeded London's Congestion Charge fee, and charge a whopping 5Euros per HOUR to enter the old town. We decide, unsurprisingly, not to enter. Instead we come up with the brilliant idea of all driving to the car drop-off point, then collectively catching a cab to the hostel. Brilliant. On the way to where we think the Agency is, Jason gives directions that turn lead us not onto a road, but onto a tram track... a one-way tram track, with us going the wrong way! Adrian appears to consider reversing, but when Jason said in a flummox "Wrong way... but we'll have a longer way to go if we don't go down this route...", Adrian went off-roading for a second time that day, and accelerated along the cobblestones accompanied by the shrieks of the female passengers! We passed a tram full of people gawking at our little vehicle, but before anyone could notice, we were onto a normal road again.

Returning the hire car
Jason then pulls out the car rental agency address, and informs us confidently its on "Ganibudambis"... which was met with hysterical laughter from the vehicle as we were certain he was simply speaking gibberish. To our immense shock, when we read the street sign, we found that "Ganibu Dambis" was indeed a street name, and we spent the next 24 hours repeating the hilarious sounding street name and falling into giggly piles. However, finding the desired street wasn't enough... we then had to find the Agency. We had the street number, but couldn't find any clear signs for it on the busy wet dark road. We drove up and down a few times, to no avail. We then noticed the alley ways off the main road, so thought the Agency might be located down one of them. We drove down, with trepidation as the dark dingy alley reminded us of those horror movie scenes when cars full of sweet normal people disappear forever. Due to the darkness and rain, we had to travel with our windows down if we were to have any chance of reading the signs we slowly drove past. All of a sudden, my heart stopped! We were being attacked by a white monster!! I screamed in horror! Only to find the white monster was a large ferocious Alsation dog about to leap through my window to devour me! I frantically struggled to wind the window back up, waiting for the frantic dog to jump in and kill me... I made it just in time! Of course, the dog was chained up, but my imagination (and that of everyone in the car) went haywire amidst the scary ambience of the alleyway.

We drove past the dog, further into the alleyway, and found a burly looking man standing suspiciously by a dimly lit door. Our hearts were beating, our nerves told us to turn back, but we were utterly lost, tired, and had no idea where to go. So we sidled up to the man, and Adrian called out "You wouldn't by any chance speak English?", which was met with a look of complete noncomprehension. We were about to collapse in despair, when Jason popped out with "вы говорите русского", or "Do you speak Russian?" as we later found out... yes, indeed, our little gay companion apparently studied russian for two years and could speak it fluently. And as Latvia until 13 years ago was a Russian state, almost everyone can speak it, so we were in luck! The dodgy man and Jason spoke in Russian to each other, and lo and behold, we were given directions that helped us find the Agency!

Jason and Adrian leave us girls in the car (nice and dry, very chivalrous) to go into the Agency to find out what we had to do. They were closed so we were told to organise key drop-off with the night guard. Waiting in the car, Tanya and I started to tell each other urban myths about axe murderers jumping up and surprising people in cars in dark Baltic towns, and managed to work ourselves up into a slight hysteria, when we saw the boys bolting back to us across the car park! We were terrified! Of course, the boys were just running to make us panic... it was all ok.

Jason jumped into the car and said breathlessly: "You wouldn't believe what just happened! We went in, found the night-guard, and I asked him if he spoke English. And would you believe it, the man looked blankly at me and said 'Seulement français!'. What on Earth is a frenchman doing in Latvia?!". "So what did you do??" I urgently asked, praying that the drama was soon to be over. "Well," Jason said, "I asked him to order us a cab to take 4 people and luggage...". "What?!", I exclaimed, "you speak French as well??". "A little...", Jason said with a shy grin.

So it seems, throughout the day, Jason could speak whatever language was required to get us out of every tight situation. What a man! Honestly, a gay man is a woman's most essential travel accessory. I can't believe I've contemplated travelling without one!

Coincidences

2005-10-20T09:21:00.000+01:00

I have adopted my own philosophy whilst on this journey. It may sound quite superstitious or even religious, but I propose that its actually an entertaining way to view the world, and on occasion it can be a solace and guide.

My philosophy is as follows: coincidences are the sign-posts of your true path. They are what highlight that you are on the right path, and that good things await. They also serve to guide your decision-making.

The fun of this way of thinking is that it makes you super-aware of the world around you. I am constantly lingering, looking into things further, hyper-sensitive to events and things around me. Which is a wonderful thing when you are travelling! The significance of this way of thinking is that I feel some comfort and almost spiritual accompaniament, which is soothing when travelling far from home and friends and family. I like to believe some divine spirit is watching over me, and communicating to me via coincidences. Its not necessarily what I actually believe, but its soothing to act like I believe it.

So... coincidences... there have been quite a few startling ones. Here are just a few of them: (Note, Ste, this is me taking your advice and adding sub-headings to break my sagas up a bit!)

1. St Nicolas in Myra
I was sitting in my pension called St Nicolas Pension, in the area called Myra (in Turkey). I had just left my 10-day tour and was by myself for the first time, unsure if I'd made the right decision. I was waiting for my breakfast, and leafing through an activities pamphlet on my table, with the heading on the cover 'St Nicolas - Myra'. I closed the pamphlet, picked up my novel 'The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom', and went to the paragraph I was up to. The sentence began 'Have you heard of St Nicolas, who was the bishop of Myra in the 4th Centure AD?'.

I was breathless and stunned. To be sitting in St Nicolas Pension, in Myra, having just read the words 'St Nicolas - Myra', and then to read the same words in the book I was reading right at that point in time... the odds are scary. Coincidence, or divine sign? Well, I took it as a sign that I had made the right decision to leave the tour and head to this place on my own...

2. Amazing mazes
I was on my last full day of my first leg of my journey, in Seville. I had been a bit lonely after Turkey, everything else had paled in comparison, and I hadn't met any people vaguely as interesting as I'd met in Turkey, and I was yearning for some good company. All I had met were young silly Aussies and Americans, more intent on getting drunk on cheap vodka in their rooms than exploring places, or more intent on saving every cent than exploring what a city had to offer. The night before I had gone out with a few people from my hostel, nice but not terribly exciting. The only thing I remember was a story one girl had told me about this couple she had met in Cordoba: they were a married couple but were forced to sleep in separate rooms as the dorms in this hostel were not mixed. They were supposedly an interesting couple as they were researching Spanish food before heading back to Sydney to open a funky Tapas restaurant... I found this interesting for obvious reasons (yes, Damien, you are that reason!)

Anyway, back to the next day. I was lonely and a little sad. I was about to head back to London the next day, and I wanted desperately to have a fun experience with a kindred spirit. Then I found a maze! I had been wandering through the incredible gardens of the Alcazar in Seville, these majestic thrilling gardens created by kalifs and kings. I have a thing about mazes (similar to the thing I have for ruins!), so was rather excited by my find. I ventured into the maze, in awe and in wonderment - it was the most wonderful maze, thick and lush and wild and confusing. I fell into almost a daze, almost dizzy with glee. It was such fun to wander alone, with the smell of orange blossoms and honeysuckle in the air, and the sound of birds chirping... When I finally came out of my trance, the first thing I saw was this couple, running around chasing each other in the maze (the maze reached eye-level, so you could see other people in the maze). They were having so much fun, it reminded me of my friends and what we would have done in such a maze. We ended up falling into conversation, and helped each other out of the maze. They introduced themselves, they were in Spain researching Spanish food as they were going to open a tapas restaurant in Sydney...

... Can you imagine my shock! I did a double-take and said to them "Oh my god, I know you! You were in Cordoba a few days ago, and you are married, and you couldn't sleep in the same room as they weren't mixed dorms!" My look of shock was quickly reflected in their faces! "How do you know that?!" they asked. "Aah, I'm magic" I grinned... then told them how I knew. We fell into conversation, and did not move from that spot outside the maze for an hour as we chatted incessantly about the best jamon we had tried, the best place to try sherry, how the salmorejo in La Coruna was divine... I had found my food kindred spirits!!! After an hour we arranged to meet up that night to go out. We ended up having the most wonderful time together, doing a tapas crawl of Seville, trying everything, moaning about the flavours, discussing our lives... they are a very cool couple! We then found an underground flamenco bar, and watched in awe as wild woman pounded the floor with their heels. What a night! What a find! Coincidence?? Or a sign?

3. Russian Museum encounter
My last night in London was spent at Pip's farewell party. She and her boyfriend were off to travel before heading back home, like me. Anyway, fast forward two weeks, and I'm in the Russian Museum by myself, once again after finishing my tour. I was having a lovely time gazing at art, but then, for some reason, I thought to myself "Why aren't there any beautiful people in Russia?" because indeed, I had found it a particularly unattractive place to people-watch. So at that moment, I turned from the art on the walls and surveyed the large room I was in to see if there were any pretty people around. My eyes went to one guy who had just walked in the room, he was the best looking person in the room... then I noticed who was on his arm... Pip! Yep, Pip had just walked into my room in the Russian Museum just as I was surveying it. Very weird! We tried to arrange to meet up that night, but her phone wasn't receiving or sending messages, so it never happened, but it was a funny coincidence nonetheless. What does it mean? Not sure yet.

So there you go... weird hey? Coincidence or divine messages... not sure, but its more fun to believe its the latter!

A land of palaces and sorrows

2005-10-17T15:43:00.000+01:00

This is my first post from Russia. Its been a whirlwind of activity up until now, as tours tend to be. I was on a 9 day tour that went through Moscow, Pskov, and St Petersburg, which all in all was very informative and a wonderful cushion for then exploring Russia on my own a little. So that is where I am now: alone on my 10th day in Russia, and with the first opportunity to really consolidate my thoughts on this incredible country.

Its a land of staggering contradictions and immense hardship. I still cannot comprehend how so much can happen to one country. One the one hand you have the grand legacy of the tsars, with their gilded palaces, tremendous collections of art, and riches literally beyond your wildest dreams. Tsarinas with 50,000 dresses (yes, that even outstrips me!), 50 gilded carriages, jewels and artefects so ornate they take your breathe away, not only because of their beauty but at how so much wealth can be spend on something that will only ever be (and has only ever been) kept in a museum showcase.

Then you have the poverty of a nation that seems to be present throughout its turbulent history. This is the type of poverty that inspires uprisings, its so prolific and deep. I see images of it in the artwork, we learn about the riots and protests through the centuries as the starvation and deprivation of the masses inspire violence and revolution. Post-war poverty reached new heights, with people supposedly boiling their shoes to soak up whatever nutrients are left in the leather. And even today, I read about it in the excellent English-written St Petersburg Times, a free publication that chronicles the political and economical situation of the country today, which I have been avidly reading. The minimum wage in this country is four times less than the minimum standard of living cost. Teachers and nurses earn in 1600 rubles in a month - to put it in perspective, an average meal here costs about 200-300 roubles. Horrific.

What amazes me is the degree to which the domination of Communist propaganda and a history full of despots has affected the people. Actually, it doesn't surprise me, its very understandable. If you subject people to decades of torture and death and imprisonment when they express any free will or yearn for something greater, then you teach them to not think, to not act outside the square, and to do the least necessary to get by. So is it any wonder that its impossible to get anyone to smile at you, to go a little out of their way for you, to offer a decent level of service. For example, my hotel room has no heating, so is glacially cold. I requested a heater and had to wait two days to receive it. I went to a fascinating Political History museum, and was kicked out unceremoniously at 5:40pm because the museum closed at 6pm. When I protested I was rudely yelled at by an old woman. I tried to explain the irony of being scolded so rudely when surrounded by relics from the Communist era when people where tortured and subjugated, but I think the sentiment was lost on her. Food is served late and cold, taxis scandolously overcharge, public transport is a nightmare to work out... all in all, it can be a hard place to be, and I am often tempted to be furious at the people, when I remember they are a product of their history and environment, and earnestly wish them the best in the future.

Anyway, its been great fun. I went to supposedly St Petersburg's best nightclub and was surrounded by supermodel type woman, very fun. I have had a Russian sauna, which involves sweating in a sauna then being beat by birch twigs then running outside and diving into a freezing pond. Mmmm... I have seen wonderful art and beautiful palaces. I have learnt so much about how Communism seduced then raped the country. All in all, its been tremendous, an adventure, despite the hardships.

Finally fun in Cadiz

2005-10-02T18:11:00.000+01:00

Just a quick update to my previous post - for those wondering if indeed I did end up having the fun I was searching for in Cadiz, you will be pleased to hear that I did.

The hostel I went to this time had been recommended by various people, so I had high hopes. And they were satisfied... although it was disappointing from the perspective that as everyone was a budget-conscious backpacker, no one was interested in hitting the various tapas bars with me... so I bought some delicious chorizo iberico and manchego cheese, plus a lovely bottle of rose, and offered these up for sharing in the common room of Casa Caracol hostel. It was well received, and I began to meet my fellow travellers.

I met a lovely German girl living in London, and a very pretty Swiss girl, and a buxom and beautiful Italian girl. The German girl looked like Zoe Ball so we called her Zoe, the Swiss girl was a younger version of Samantha from Sex & the City so we called her Kim (ie. Catrel), and the Italian girl we named Italy (wasn´t my idea, but it stuck). There were also three German mechanical engineer students with Gallagher brother styled hair-dos. Amusingly I had been bumping into them all over Cadiz again and again, so it was a relief to finally meet them. They were very amusing. So we were a very merry posse, and we planned to hit the bars eventually. Eventually was very slow in coming though, so I assumed my Organiser role (as I tend to do, annoyingly I know at times, but other times a godsend, if I do say so myself!), and asked the locals working at the hostel for recommendations for where to go, and then managed to organise the group (of an extended size of about 2o people) first to the bottle shop to buy some alcohol, then through the maze of streets to a plaza that I was assured would be heaving with students partying in the open square. It was quite a challenge to coordinate such a large group, but I do think I managed it whilst still keeping the energy alive (tee hee!).

On my way to the big square, I started to have minor panic at the realisation that I was leading 20 people to a square purely on my research, and that if it were crap, I would have 20 disgruntled people staring at me. My panic increased as I realised that the recommendation was given to me by a 60 year old man at the hostel... and that may not be the ultimate source for a group of young people... but my worries were relieved as we entered the square to a view of hundreds of chattering students and young people, drinking their bottles of wine and beer, around a fountain in an old beautiful square. It was wonderful fun, and I was congratulated for my organisational skills! tee hee

During my time on the square, ´Zoe´and ´Italy´and I discussed a compelling new business idea... you see, youth hostels are great, not just because they are a cheap way to travel, but they are the best means to allow solo travel as its so easy to meet other interesting people, that you just don´t have the opportunity to meet when staying in hotels and pensiones. And we lamented that they were aimed at youths, when certainly old people would also benefit from such an arrangement... and then it hit us... of course it would!! Divorcees and widow/ers, as well as elderly people, may want to spend a few months travelling, but cannot find anyone else to go with, nor can afford hotels for that length of time. Why shouldn´t they have hostels?! Furthermore, deep down, most divorcees and widow/ers dream of finding new love on holidays, and again, hostels are an optimal way to meet other people in a non-threatening casual environment. The main objective of the holiday of course would be the travel, but if they find romance as well, even better! Sooooo.... we want to start the Mature Youth Hostel Association, dedicated to building quality hostels aimed at middle aged and elderly people, with dorms, common areas, etc. Anyway, we got very excited with our idea...

After a few hours, I gauged it was time to progress to a new venue... I again did some research (chatted to other students in the square) and worked out a bar to move on to. I again, miraculously I think, coordinated the large group through the maze of streets with my trusty map (I´m always map girl!), and got us to the entrance of the bar, only to be told by the bouncer it had a cover charge, and by one of the guys in the group that it was crap and he had been there 4 times in the last week. So I sighed and asked the guy to give an alternative that would not leave my drunken posse lost and down. He rose to the occasion, and led us to a corner of Cadiz that had a row of heaving bars and clubs. Excellent!

We bar hopped a bit, and then progressed to a venue that had particularly good house music coming from it. It was wonderful fun... until I started to notice the men kissing other men all around me. Now, I am of course completely fine with this, it generally means better music, better looking people, and no harrassment from men for me. But the German boys were not so comfortable, so after half an hour, they convinced everyone to leave. But it was a most amusing half hour!

Anyway, that is my tale of fun from Cadiz. Not ground-breaking in its fun levels, but entertaining and satisfying nonetheless. I am so deeply pleased that I came back to Cadiz for that one night, and that it lived up to my expectations. I left for Seville the next day with a wistful smile.

Random roadside flamingos

2005-09-30T21:38:00.000+01:00

Despite the fact that I like to consider myself a decisive person, in actual fact, I am not really. I am driven by all sorts of winds of indecision, and nowhere has that been more evident than in the last few days.

I came to Cadiz because of a story that was told to me 8 years ago. My cousin Carlos told me about the madness that is the Cadiz carnavale... of Romeo & Juliet Venice Beach proportions: costumes, craziness, carnality. It attracted me, and for years I yearned to come to this city by the sea that promised Andalucian antics.

So I came. Admitedly, as with Greece, it suffers from end of season emptiness. I roamed the streets trying to find fiesta, but found empty bars and doldrum restaurants. I was devastated: where was my fabled paradise?

So in exasperation, after having stayed out til 2am trying my hardest to find that little pocket of mayhem, I decided to leave Cadiz. My Lonely Planet book suggested that Tarifa would be enticing due to its bohemian spirit and crumbling Moorish ruins, so I packed up my rucksack and jumped on a bus bound for the windy southern-most Spanish city of Tarifa.

It was a beautiful place. A 10km long beach tuffeted by winds and a breath away from exotic Morocco, and a beautiful old town full of Moorish ruins and fountained plazas. Lovely. But there I was as the evening approached, desperate to have a wild night, and my hostel companions had settled down to a dinner of hostel-cooked pasta and 80c cask wine. Determined not to be stuck inside a dingy hostel, I ventured out solo. I ate alone, which I have no issue with: in fact, it worked out well as there were a group of drunken Spaniards just behind where I was eating, falling over themselves in their stupor, and the waiter was so mortified that he kept giving me free alocohol. I then ventured out to a bar.

Now, the hardest thing I have had to do on this trip is walk into a bar and find people to talk to. Its hard. And very scary. But I braced myself, held my head high, and strode in. And I managed ok. I went to one bar, then went to another where there was dancing. Its was nicely average.

I got back to my hostel late, woke up, and thought to myself: I havent given Cadiz a proper chance yet. I just felt terribly guilty and weak that after yearning for Cadiz for so long, I had given up on it after 2 days. So in classic Me-style, I packed up my bags, and got back on a bus to Cadiz!

I turned up in Cadiz, and I am writing to you now from a rather more social hostel than where I was staying before. Its fabulous here, so I am now drinking cheap rose and trying to convince sufficient people to go out with me for the evening, to give Cadiz a proper farewell. I am off to Seville tomorrow, and I know that will definitely be more social. But for now, I just want to leave Cadiz thinking that it has lived up to the visions of my youth.

As to the allusions of this entrys title: on the way back from Tarifa to Cadiz today, my bus passed a swamp that had a bog full of flamingos. I have never seen flamingos in the wild before, and they struck me as a tantalisingly ridiculous thing to see on a swampy roadside. I loved it! Bring it on, I want more random roadside flamingos in my life! That says it all really.

"Of Human Bondage" in Greece

2005-09-25T16:42:00.000+01:00

As the name of this blog of mine suggests it will occasionally discuss fiction, its about time I actually do.

I am attempting a zen approach to book choice for this holiday: the appropriate book for me at that point in time will make itself known to me. And so far its worked better than expected. The "Von Ingelfeld Trilogy" awarded me my most startling coincidence of my life, thereby validating that I was on the right path. "Madame Proust and the kosher kitchen" was not fabulous, but I believe it was necessary for leading me to the next book I read.

I was at a hostel in Cappadocia and was wading through a box of books that I could swap my "Madame Proust..." book for... when I found a terribly tattered copy of "Of Human Bondage" by W. Somerset Maugham. I recognised the title as an English classic but knew nothing else about it. I flipped it open, and the first words I saw were "...Marcel Proust...". I took this as a sign I was meant to read this book, as my "Madame Proust..." book was all about the French writer Marcel Proust. So, I swiftly made my swap and launched into the 600 page novel written in 1915.

It is one of those books that makes you pause every few pages and shiver with glee. Maugham writes so simply yet with a subtle irony and humour that continually made me smirk and even giggle on occasion. Its supposedly semi-autobiographical, and it makes sense, because only if he was writing about his own experiences could he so accurately convey emotions of lust, betrayal, obsession, passion, despair and my favourite of all, joy when faced with beauty and freedom.

In brief, the book is about Philip Carey, an orphan crippled with a clubfoot raised by his indifferent elderly aunt and uncle. He suffers taunts and loneliness growing up, and retreats into a world of fantasy and intellectual pursuits, and yearns for the day he can be his own master. He travels to Germany to study, and then Paris to revel in the bohemian life of a painter, and finally London to study medicine amongst the poverty stricken slums of the south-east. Through it all he falls in love, loses everything, constructs his own sense of morality and faith, and searches continually for the meaning of life.

Its a beautiful book, and I am grateful for the new perspective on life, travel, art and beauty it offers. It is a sublimely appropriate book to read when travelling oneself, with its gentle humour and soaring philosophies. Its one of those books that I will come back to in a few years, and see so much more within its clever prose.

Unfortunately, because I love it so much, I cannot let myself swap it at a book exchange, so will need to invest in a new book... I wonder what book will make itself known to me now....

Sunsets and donkey ass-hair

2005-09-22T17:13:00.000+01:00

You would be fair in wondering why my sudden fascination in animal genitalia. Rest assured it is not a deliberate trend, but rather a very accidental one. Although as I type a cat is rubbing itself against my leg...

My last full day in Santorini was to be spend on a full day tour of the volcano and thermal springs just off coast of Santorini, followed by watching the sunset at an absurdly picturesque little village called Oia. I was looking forward to it, but the day began very warm, and due to a few last minute chores, I turned up to the meeting spot for the bus sweating profusely. This was to be the trend for the day.

We boarded a boat, along with apparently half the population of America and Australia. It was rammed, and there didn't seem to be enough seats to accommodate the crowds, especially not seating in the shade. So I sat in the sun, fanning myself hysterically, wondering why the boat didn't sail off rather than sit in dock as more and more people were crammed onto the small vessel. Eventually we set off, and landed on the shores of the top of an underwater volcano that can created the island of Santorini and a few other scattered islets.

The caldera (such is the name for these types of volcano tips) was visually stunning close up. Imagine you were Frodo approaching Mordor, with its violently black craggy path and crazy large sharp rocks all around you. The heat was incredible, and we trekked up to the top of the volcano sweating rivers. Worthwhile view though - from the top you could see the western coast of Santorini, impossibly sheer black cliffs capped with white-housed villages that looked like snow-capped mountain tops from a distance.

From there we were taken, sweatily and congestedly, to the 'thermal springs'. I put this in inverted commas as I think a marketeer working out how to pad out the daily tour with interesting sights thought, "Oh yes, tourists would love to swim into tepid orange water that stank of sulpur in the name of fun!". It wasn't great, and just left a rusty stain on our bodies. After our swim, we were all herded back on board, wet, sticky, hot and sweaty, to sit in the sun side by side again for another long and hot boat ride.

From there we were taken to the port of Oia where we disembarked and queued up (in the heat) for a donkey to ascend the torturous road up to the village on the top of the sheer cliff face. The ride up on the donkey was wonderful fun, as the ass cantered up the thin rocky path right on the edge of a sheer drop down to the ocean far below. However, my donkey was a little too enthusiastic, choosing to try and overtake other donkeys, but clumsily only resulting in making my knees rub up against the bottoms of the other donkeys. My sweaty legs proved a welcome sticking pad for many hairs from the donkeys bottom, or, if you will, the ass' ass.

And for some reason, the donkey ride to Oia only took you half way up, so we still had to plod on (in the heat) to the village. Once there, I managed to stub my big toe so badly it began to bleed profusely. I must have looked a state: red, sweaty, smelly, hairy, bloody, and reeking distinctly of eau de donkey. Needless to say, I was not overjoyed at the state of my body.

But of course, the day was not over: I had sunset to watch. The thing to do in Santorini is to watch the sunset at Oia. With its artistically architectured housing, westerly facing aspect, and peaceful ambience, its the perfect place to watch a sunset. But I was torn. I love to watch sunsets, but preferably when I am clean and well-kempt. With forbearance, I sat myself down on an old fort on the tip of Oia, and tried to not breathe in through my nose or look down at my toes while the sun sank slowly into the sea. It was breathtakingly beautiful of course. The golden light bounced off the white paint on the village housing, making the scene glow like some vision of a city in paradise. I managed to forget my earthly woes, and dived into the splendour before me.

Just want to add a special note of thanks to Sian for joining me on my Santorini jaunt. She was the most entertaining, delightful, amusing friend to have on holidays, and it will be a long time before I forget our experiences with evil hoteliers, insane russian gardeners with their chinese burns, the greek definition of 500 metres, and baked feta cheese.

The most awful thing I have ever seen

2005-09-19T17:13:00.000+01:00

I've been in the Greek Islands. Its been lovely. But there is nothing new or exciting to say about it that has not been said or seen by everyone else that has been here. So I won't bore you with the details.

However, I will tell you about a sight I saw last night that utterly appalled and amused me.

There are a lot of stray animals in the Greek Islands. Lots of idle cats and dogs prowling through your legs as you sit in an outdoor cafe; you constantly see dogs sleeping on the beach, cats leaping from balcony windows...

Understandably, none of them are desexed. So when a dog is on heat, it commands a lot of attention from nearby males.

I was standing outside a beach bar in Santorini when my conversation was drowned out by the hysterical barking of many dogs. I surveyed the situation: a pretty little Cocker Spaniel (clearly a female) was being chased by two very eager (male) dogs: a Dalmation (I think) and a Doberman. The male dogs were both violently vying to be the one to stick their nose up the popular Spaniel's bottom, she seemed quite bemused by the attention, and alternately let one and the other have a sniff and lick. She eventually started to give the Doberman preference, to the apparent insult and anger of the Dalmation, who proceeded to bark vehemently at the ass-licking couple. This, of course, is all very normal dog-mating behaviour.

The Doberman proceeded to mount the flattered Cocker Spaniel. Again, all very normal, albeit amusing while drinking a Sex on the Beach cocktail at Happy Hour.

It was when the insanely jealous Dalmation, still yelping and head-butting the enamoured lovers, managed to knock over the Doberman mid-stroke, resulting in the most curious sexual position I have ever seen in dogs (not of course to suggest that I am intimately familiar with sexual positions for dogs): bottom to bottom.

Unfortunately, all the stress of this thwarted threesome resulted in - what I was told by my travel companion, Sian, is a strange but true biological feature of mating dogs - the Doberman's penis ejecting barbs that entrapped it within the clearly confused Spaniel. Supposedly this is a feature that ensures continuance of the species, ie. if you are disturbed during sex, your penis traps you inside to ensure the sperm still reaches its goal; but I couldn't help but think it was a very badly thought out design flaw, and perhaps some practical joke by the Powers that Be.

For there, on the streets of Santorini, two dogs were trapped bottom to bottom, with the indignant Dalmation still barking furiously. The Spaniel and Doberman could not diengage, and waddled around the street, attached at the bottom. Whenever the Doberman attempted to walk, the poor little lady would be dragged by her bottom, backwards. It looked like some nightmarish vision of mutated animals, but no, it was these two dogs that couldn't detach from their interlude.

Various onlookers attempted to help disengage the couple, which despite all attempts to be serious, could only envoke hilarity from onlookers: "Aah, there is Pete attempting to coax a dogs penis down!" It was awful to see, like some car-crash that you were appalled but fascinated by.

For half an hour these two attached dogs walked (awkwardly) back and forth in front of our cafe. I tried to distract myself from the nightmarish vision, but every time I sneaked a look, yep, the dogs were still attached and barking furiously. They waddled awkwardly past a semi-posh restaurant, and it was darkly funny to see everyone inside work out what was happening, and then either burst into laughter or a shocked grimace or both.

What particularly amused me was the expression on the Spaniel's face. Like every patient woman out there, she bore an expression of calm grace, her beautiful face bearing the tribulation with a small trace of a grin.

Eventually the dogs detached to the immense relief of all witnesses. Off went the Spaniel, happy and (possibly) pregnant; off went the Doberman to nurse his no doubt injured manhood. The Dalmation was long gone in a sulking fit.

Apologies for the rather lewd entry - but I am in the very beautiful, tourist friendly, less tout-filled and less stare-filled Greece, but its tameness doesn't satisfy me as much as Turkey's rawness did. So when I see chaotic nature on the streets of Greece, I savour it as a sign the world isn't yet totally tamed or pretty or savoury. There are still sights that can shock and amuse and fascinate, even in the midst of normality and culture and blandness.

To float in the sky

2005-09-15T16:42:00.000+01:00

I did the most wonderful thing. I woke up at 5am to be driven in the darkness to an arid pasture, stepped into a large basket, and got whisked into the sky for 90 minutes.

What I am finding so breathtaking about this trip is the degree to which my expectations are constantly being exceeded. For someone like myself who tends to have high expectations about most things anyway, its a real surprise to find that even these lofty expectations are being exceeded in unexpected arenas.

Hot air ballooning was one very fine example. I thought it would be a scary sensation and not so exciting a view - I mean, how exciting can floating above the ground be? But I was wrong on both counts. It was not a scary sensation at all, in fact, I felt overwhelming peace and joy as I ascended angelically into the pre-dawn morning. Even someone as chronically anxiety ridden like myself couldn't find any room in my awe-filled mind to accommodate fears as we flew. It feels incredibly safe, and as I learn afterwards, I was in the hands of arguably the worlds best hot-air balloonist, a Swedish gentlemen called Lars who was been flying for 29 years.

And the view... well, I am concerned that even my ambitious vocabulary my struggle to explain how glorious it was (but I'll of course try!). The air had a golden translucence that grew brighter as dawn broke. The sunrise light turned the scenery into a Dali-esque vision... you see, I was flying in Cappadocia, an area of central Turkey where the soft rock has been eroded over millenia to create these undulating waves of rock and these surreal pillars delightfully called 'fairy chimneys'. Its the stuff out of happy hallucinations, to be in this otherworldly landscape. So to fly over it, and see the entire landscape in its raw whole, and to skirt down low into the valleys, so close to the ground that I pulled leaves from tree tops, was to see this wild landscape in a perspective that was most revealing and flattering. I leaned from the basket, and just smiled and gazed in awe.

Then there was the physical sensation. It was frightfully cold - I was wearing 3 layers and Lars still had to lend me another anorak to survive the cold. I was wearing plaits to keep my hair under control. So to lean over the basket, and feel my hands and face cold, and then to get a blast of heat from the hot air balloon on the back of my neck was a wonderful sensation. To be chilly then suddenly warm in a very sensitive part of my body was rather exciting!

Lastly, it was the tranquility. When you are in the air 1500 metres high, with no engine or other noise, its like being in a dream. Its almost an out-of-body experience, as if I could see myself down in the valleys, but for now I was floating outside my body, in a state of heightened bliss. It was sad to descend back to earth, to be returned to civilisation and noise and to my feet.

Thank you to everyone at Kapadokya Balloons. Their professionalism and spirit made the experience a truly life-affirming and life-enhancing one.

Photos at last!

2005-09-11T11:28:00.000+01:00

These are photos from my farewell party that my beloved best friend Debbie coordinated for me. She did a STERLING job, w0rking with Phil, Phils, Ste, Broc and Paul, to organise the most special moving evening in my life. To have all my friends in the one room, for them to have written a limerick about me, and to have put together mementos and other titbits of memories into an album, and to have taken a polaroid of everyone on the night... words cannot describe how special that was to me. Thanks!

And here is my darling Ming, possibly one of the most beautiful people in the world! I love this photo because we took it both thinking of how much we loved each other - so you can see the adoration we have for each other in the photo!

Turkey has stolen my heart

2005-09-07T17:34:00.000+01:00

It was bound to happen and finally did. I fell in love with Turkey. I suspected it would, and although I thoroughly enjoyed myself in this beautiful country for the first 10 days, it was after I left my organised tour that I love affair really blossomed.

It started when I went to Patara Beach, which is rated by Lonely Planet as one of the worlds top beaches. I can see why: its quite challenging to get to, the village is down a dirt road that does not often see public transport, and from the village its a 30 minute walk to the beach. This means when you finally reach the 18km long beach after walking through millenia old ruins, you are greeted by almost no-one. The people that are there seem to be very local - lots of muslim families with the women in full garbs prancing and giggling in the water with their children. Its heavenly.

The love affair burgeoned further when I once again alighed onto a gullet (Turkish yacht) for a 4 day cruise from Fethiye to Olympos. I knew I was being a little indulgent: two yacht cruises in one week and all, but I was in the mood for decadence. My fellow passengers were all intelligent fun interesting people, and we leisurely spent the next four days swimming in the warm mediterranean sea, eating, drinking, playing cards, reading etc. We were especially blessed by the crew who were manning our boat: they were a family unit. The dad was the Captain, the mum the chef, and the two eldest sons - 17 and 20 years old - were the general ship hands. However, the mum and dad had to go to a wedding almost immediately, so we were left in the care of the two boys. Sounds precarious, but they were utterly delightful, and we all really felt we were privy to somethnig special. They were so warm and kind and clearly had a strong family bond.

The first impulses of love began when we visited St Nicolas Island, that had the ruins of an old church (said to be of the Santa Clause original). My words simply could not describe how beautiful this island was - from the high vantage point at the top I saw the evening sun paint the sea golden hues, and I saw the distant bays and coves glittering like jewels. We were able to roam all over the ruins and the island, and I shivered with excitement as I ran my hands over the old blocks of stone, wondering what kind of people lived here, pondering on how easy it would be to be holy in a place like this.

My love affair deepened the next night when we pulled into a little fishing port called Kas. It was quaint and cute, and we were only meant to be there for an hour, but the weather turned a little windy so the crew decided to dock there for the night. I was a little suspicious of the real motives - the wind wasn't that bad, and it turned out there was the annual Kas festival that night... but it suited me fine. We were lucky enough to be docked directly by the side of the stage where the Kas festival performance was to be shown that evening. So we spent the afternoon drinking gin and tonics on a terrace overlooking the bay and then spent the evening watching curious turkish opera performance while sprawled on our yacht. It was one of those moments when I step outside my body, look back at myself, and count myself extraordinarily lucky: I was perfectly happy.

When we couldn't deal any longer with the yelping that apparently is turkish opera, we all headed into town for the party that was the Kas festival. The air was warm, the people warmer, music and happiness in the streets everywhere. We spent the evening dancing away. Heavenly.

But the moment that true love hit was the next day. We pulled into a tiny fishing village called Kekova, that had no road access, only sea access. The village sloped sharply up to a high ruined fortress, the foreshore strewn with purple flowers and lush gardens. We all climbed up to the ruins, but whilst everyone else meandered off, I stayed dumbstruck. I sat on the top of the ruined fortress, staring in awe at the beauty around me. All around was sea, bays, mountains, ruins... and I was totally alone. I realised what I loved about Turkey was it was as rich in history and beauty as Greece, Spain or Italy, but was at this point in time still relatively undiscovered. Where else could I sit for 15 minutes on this pricelessly beautiful spot and be completely alone: no tourists, no tour groups, no souvenir shops... Where else could I climb up this rather dangerous old ruin that had no warning signs or gates or chains... It was at that moment that I realised I adored Turkey.

That night I slept on the top deck of the yacht, with nothing over me but a blanket of stars and a gentle warm breeze. I gazed at the Milky Way until I fell asleep, and then I awoke when the dawn sun teased me into a dozy alertness. I sat up, and felt awe. All I could hear was the sea gently lapping the boat, and the flag of the yacht flapping quietly. The dawn light had a tangible quality to it, and made the air shimmer.

So there you have it. Turkey is a country to be loved. It has stolen my heart and filled it with pleasure and joy.

These çrazy keyböardş!

2005-08-30T18:15:00.000+01:00

OK - I feel guılty that I have not actually saıd what I have been up to on my blog, and actually waxıng a bıt lyrıcally on my own ınner phılısophıcal moments. So here ıs - as brıef as I can - a summary of my adventures ın Turkey so far.

I have been on a tour wıth Fez Travel. There was a 10 day and a 15 day tour, that were the same for the 10 days. I sıgned up for the 10 day, and the other 9 people on my tour were on the 15 day one. I alternated durıng the 10 days between thınkıng I would stay on for the 15 days, but ın the end I decıded to stıck to my orıgınal plans, for varıous reasons, predomınantly that I really felt lıke goıng solo. The tour was amazıng, well-organısed, fabulous tour-leader... but ıt was so hectıc and I was cravıng some prıvate tıme wıthout feelıng lıke I was beıng delıberately exclusıve of the others. It was the rıght decısıon - I arrıved yesterday to Patara beach by myself, and ıts heaven on earth: really quıet and chılled, very local (I even pıcked up a lıft from the beach to my pensıone wıth a lovely local famıly and kıds!). Spendıng lots of tıme contemplatıng, sleepıng, dreamıng, wrıtıng etc.

But the tour ıtself was wıld. Its just great fun cavortıng wıth a group of other Aussıes ın theır 20s. Lots of drınkıng, partyıng, revelry etc. But also, lots of explorıng of wonderful ruıns and ancıent cıtıes. For those ınterested - Ephesus ıs dıvıne. Your jaw wıll drop when you see the beauty of the lıbrary (I ımagıned myself as an ancıent scholar approachıng the ıncredıble edıfıce to read a scroll), and the outdoor theatre was tremendous (I ımagıned I was watchıng an ancıent comedy, wıth the afternoon sun warm on my face). My favourıte moment was when our guıde had fınıshed the organısed part of the tour and I went explorıng on my own. I found thıs quıet spot the other tourıst dıdn't bother goıng to, and had a delıcıous moment to myself feelıng the breeze and starıng wıth undısguısed pleasure at the scenery around me.

Gallıpollı was ıncredıble too. I knew I'd be moved but dıdn't expect to be so moved. It was a crazy juxtaposıtıon: breathtakıng coastal scenery surroundıng me, thousands of graves of ınnocent young men before me. I read the ınscrıptıons that were almost palpably drıppıng wıth sorrow, and felt guıltıly grateful that warfare had progressed so much ın western countrıes that mıllıons of conscrıpted men were no longer necessary to engage ın war. I couldn't ımagıne how awful ıt must have been as a woman to see your husband, sons, bothers, father, go off to fıght a poıntless war, and waıt ın terrıble agony for the news they were alıve or dead. More awful was the thought of those young boys, wıth fıerce ambıtıons, courage and a wıll to lıve, blown up or shot or stabbed unceremonıously and ımpersonally. They were just one of mıllıons whose blood soaked ınto war-torn land, and those there knew theır death wouldn't be ın the comfort of theır home wıth loved ones, but ın a vıolent and dırty surroundıng. I thanked those long-dead for theır sacrıfıce, and swore to them I'd try to be a fıne person to lıve up to what they thought they were dyıng for.

Then there was the gullet cruıse. A gullet ıs a Turkısh yacht, although yacht would be a lıttle kınd a word to descrıbe our seacraft. Brıght green pırate shıp mıght be better! Anyway, our tour group embarked and saıled off to unnamed ısland coves, spendıng the day swımmıng ın the warm ocean, readıng, playıng cards, eatıng, etc. Lovely fun. One nıght the Turkısh crew through a party nıght, where I learnt to dance to turkısh musıc (and a lot of Brıtney), got told the old rotten-teeth captaın loved me (he was a sweetıe, bless), jumped on board a stunnıng speedboat owned by a swıss-turkısh banker (I am sure he enjoyed havıng 3 bıkını clad gırls gıgglıng on hıs boat as he sped us around the sea for 15 mınutes!)... but my hıghlıght was dıscoverıng our mobıle bar... we found we could sıt on pool-noodles (polystyrene rods that floated) wıth a beer (or gın and tonıc ın my case) and sıp as the afternoon progressed. We then dıd the same at mıdnıght, and one of the lovely crew members even came out to the water wıth a tray of drınks for us, and took the empty glasses away... a sea-glassıe ıf you wıll! It was hılarıous fun!

And for those who are aware of my fear of certaın adrenalın actıvıtıes... thıs trıp has so far had the motto 'There ıs more vırtue ın beıng brave than fearless. The brave feel fear, but do ıt thıngs anyway'. I have jumped off the hıgh balcony of the gullet ınto the water 5 metres below (whıch was terrıfyıng for me!), and I've gone paraglıdıng from a 2km hıgh mountaın at dawn strapped to a turkısh man playıng 'I feel good'. All very wıld for me!

So thats ıt for now. I'm off to Oludenız agaın tomorrow for a nıght then board another gullet, thıs tıme for 4 days that wıll take me to Olympus. I'm havıng fun, although dear frıends and famıly, not a day passes I don't mıss you all!

Same same but different

2005-08-25T20:53:00.000+01:00

I have now been on my travel adventure for a week now. There ıs a tremendous amount to say about what I've been doıng and what I have seen, but you have probably read ıt all before, and would probably despıse me for tellıng you about the warm beautıful landscape, wıde blue ocean expanses, and more turkısh pıde than you could ever wısh for... so ınstead I am goıng to descrıbe the overrıdıng observatıon I have made about humanıty based on what I have seen.

Same same but dıfferent.

I never thought I'd had enough of seeıng 2000 year old ruıns, but there are an awful lot of them ın Turkey, and we've seen a large number of them so far on thıs trıp. There ıs somethıng about old ruıns... the aır ın them of souls long dead who passed these ways, worryıng about theır own lıves and loves, I am convınced they leave a scent of theır souls behınd, and I love to stroll by myself through the ruıns, caressıng the old stones, tryıng to pıck up on any vestıges of old thoughts and dreams. I enjoy the fantasy of belıevıng I do, and I cannot tell you how much ıt thrılls me.

Anyway, what I have concluded after seeıng these buıldıngs and theır old possessıons found ın the rubble ıs how startlıngly sımılar they were to us. In so may ways humans haven't changed at all - we stıll fall ın love, we stıll seek power and glory, we stıll fear death and the unknown, we stıll yearn for beauty. I see 2000 year old earrıngs and am shocked at how sımılar they look to mıne. I see the ruıns of brothels, ages-old grafıttı, prance around the ruıns of a theatre... how dıfferent are they to us. Its very humblıng to realıse that for all the mıllenıa humans have been around, we stıll essentıally aspıre to the same thıngs, are moved by the same thıngs.

However, there are some areas where humans have changed, or at least have been nurtured ın dıfferent tımes to result ın dıfferences ın belıefs and behavıours whıch startle me. I stıll have trouble understandıng how people could kıll theır sıblıngs or parents for royal ascendency; how they could relısh the splatterıng of blood ın the gladıator rıngs, how they could wıllıngly wage destructıve war ıncessantly, destroyıng lıves and art ın the process. Are we really more cıvılısed? Or are we purely a legacy of our more cıvılısed upbrıngıng: would we be so 'naturally' humane ıf we were brought up ın more ınhumane tımes?? These are my thoughts as I bounce along for hours at a tıme ın my tour bus, or as I sıt on the steps of a 2000 year old outdoor terraced theatre on top of a mountaın lıstenıng to the call to prayer from the local vıllage mınaret. Beguılıng thoughts for so beguılıng a country.

Calamity Jane lıves agaın

2005-08-21T07:14:00.000+01:00

You can always trust me to have a calamıty, but I exceeded even my own expectatıons by havıng one before I even left the country.

I was comfortably on my way to the aırport at 10am wıth Debbıe and Paul, and I went to read my ıtınerary to check what termınal I was departıng Heathrow from on my mıdday flıght to Istanbul vıa Budapest. My heart gave one of those shudderıng thuds as I wılled my eyes to be readıng somethıng dıfferent. But no, ındeed, my flıght to Budapest was at 7:15am, and ıt was my flıght from Budapest to Istanbul that was at mıdday. Oh dear.

The calamıty worsened. I called my Australıan travel agent, who thankfully was stıll there, and found to my dısmay there wasn't another connectıng flıght tıl mıdnıght the next day. After the emotıonal clımax that was my farewell, ıt just would have been too embarrassıng to stay ın London another nıght, so I was determıned to head out. My only optıon was to try to get on afternoon flıght to Budapest (I was on stand-by), stay a nıght, then fly to Istanbul ın early hours of next nıght.

Wıth thıs plan decıded, I settled back ın my taxı to get over my panıc attack. I opened a bottle of water Paul passed me, not realısıng ıt was sparklıng, and managed to drench the entıre cab ın fresh tınglıng water. Ah yes, calamıty.

My remaınıng ıssue was that I had no accommodatıon booked ın Budapest, so I enlısted the help of darlıng Katrına, who recently resıgned was wıllıng to be gıven lıttle research projects, though I daresay she dıdn't expect the request quıte so early ın my journey! Bless her, I gave her the job to fınd me accommodatıon and to text me detaıls, and she spent the next 4 hours on the web and on the phone, to no avaıl as every hostel was booked. I had landed and so went to tourıst desk to ask them to call a few hostels as well, and as they called the fırst one on my lıst, Red Bus Hostel, Katrına texted to say she had convınced a man at the Red Bus Hostel to make a bed up for me as he dıdn't want me stranded! I took that lıttle coıncıdence as a posıtıve omen.

Turns out there had been people comıng to that hostel all day askıng for a bed, and were turned away. I have no ıdea how you dıd ıt Katrına, but thank you. I rock up, and they pull out a bed frame, clean beddıng, and I get my own bed ın a room of 4 dorm beds! I was rather chuffed!

I managed ın the next 24 hours to almost get arrested, but that ıs another story!

I can just ımagıne some of your faces as you read thıs: "Not bloody surprısıng, Calamıty Jane!".

I actually thınk ıt was all meant to be. Budapest turned out to be a perfect ınıtıal cıty to vısıt. Much less ıntımıdatıng than Istanbul, very pleasant and fun, and ıt gave me a valuable lesson ın apprecıatıng thıngs... more on that lesson ın next entry!

(Thank you to Paul and Debbıe for calmıng me down ın that taxı - you guys are the BEST!)

Ziptrekking across Whistler

2005-08-17T04:24:00.000+01:00

If you were an alien attempting to comprehend the English language via eavesdropping and they heard the sentence "I went Ziptrekking across Whistler", I think they would blow an antennae or something! What an amusing combination of nonsensical words, unless of course, you are familiar with Whistler mountain's popular eco-adventure attraction.

So there I was, suspended 150m on a well-constructed - but still unnervingly swaying - tree house above a violent creek. I actually laughed when they described the churning waterway below me as a creek... only in Canada. And there I was, strapping on a harness (never thought I'd be doing THAT up a tree!), and then hooking myself to a pencil-thin steel cable that stretched from where I shakily stood to the other side of a deep ravine.

You let yourself go, and you 'zip' across the space, thus the onomatapaeic name of the activity.
I went with Matt and Melli, who found the activity a little unthrilling compared to their more normal death-defying activities (skiing off jumps, mountain bike riding down vertical paths, etc). However, dull scaredy-cat me found it sufficiently thrilling, I loved it!

What was great about the experience is how the guides coupled somersault training mid-air with entertaining speeches on environmentalism in Whistler. It sounds dull, but I tell you, there is nothing dull about hoary marmots who whistle and million year old lichen! Trust me. I'm sure those aliens would find it even more odd to see humans participating in such odd activities while nodding wisely at stories about bears.

Blackheath boogie

2005-08-15T16:06:00.000+01:00

What wonderful friends I have!

Seanie organised a little Christmas in July cottage hideaway weekend for me and the ex-London gang in the Blue Mountains. Unfortunately I could not get down there til the last few days (which meant I missed out on seeing Bec, sorry Bec!!), but we capitalised on the two nights we did have with style.

We had a little impromptu dance party in the living room of our 'rustic' cottage (by 'rustic', think 'not glamorous enough for Seanie'). There we were, in the middle of a wintery rural mountain area, with our dance tracks and our dancing shoes on a Monday night! If that weren't enough, at 4am, we decided to go for an explore, so we rugged up (as per the photo), and went out into the pitch black blustery night to go on a bush walk (only us, eh?). The expedition was perfectly ended with a recline under a blustery wild tree. As Damien aptly said, the knowledge that in this cold and wind there would absolutely not be any creepie-crawlies to be wary of, made for a surprisingly relaxing midnight moonbathe.

We had a ball! Thanks guys for such a wonderful end to a winter sojourn to Sydney!

Dancing with Celine

2005-08-15T15:45:00.000+01:00

One of my favourite memories of my trip to Sydney for my sisters wedding I shared with my 5-year old niece, Celine.

It was the morning she was departing with her family back to Miami, she was a little sad as she had become quite fond of her Aunt Alicia, and spent all her time trailing behind me asking me to play games with her. She is one of those endearingly cute children that surprise you with their insights and adorableness.

To placate her, I took her out to the back porch with my ipod. I stood her up on a chair so she was closer to my height. I put one earphone in her ear and another in mine. And then I played her my favourite clubbing songs. We had the most special time together dancing in external silence on that warm winter morning to 'Its Raining Men' and 'TechnoCat'.

We giggled to each other, and amazingly enough, shared that moment of camaraderie you experience on a dancefloor with a fellow dancer. It was a precious moment.

A Navarro daughter weds

2005-08-05T12:54:00.000+01:00

My sister Catherine got married the other day.

I tell you, its the most surreal and awing experience to have your own family involved in a wedding. Its one thing to see friends marry, you feel joy and affection for them and its all very grand. But to see the person you have known since they were born, the person you played with, fought with, grew up with, laughed with, confided in, loved, walk down the aisle with your surprisingly handsome and regal father... well, its another thing entirely.

My greatest concern for the entire day was that my clumsiness should shine more than my lip gloss! I am not known for being the most poised or elegant person out there, in fact, some people (Seanie, I am referring to you here!) would call me the clumsiest person in the universe. So the evening before the wedding, as I tried to walk elegantly in my mothers bedroom in the shoes I was to wear the next day, I discovered with a dawning fear that I couldn't walk slowly in high heels without falling over, getting my heel caught in the dress hem, or walking in a drunkenly swagger. To make matters worse, due to the sheerness and body clinginess of my dress, I had to go down the underwearless route.... so can you imagine my fear... walking down the aisle, everyone staring joyfully at me, me smiling beautifically, then oops, Leithy trips, falls unceremoniously, and the congregation get a glimpse of something a little too matrimonial.

Rest assured, all went well. There was a little hem catching, but I dealt with it, and no one was any the wiser! I glided down the aisle in a daze, gazed in wonder at my beautiful sister, and then witnessed this gloriously happy union manifest itself.

The rest of the reception whizzed by too quickly. Being bridesmaid and sister, I had the unspoken responsibility to work the room, make everyone feel special, welcome them, thank them. It was actually fun, and so humbling to be in a room of people that were there exclusively for my family.

Then it was speech time. My sister granted me the immeasurable honour of asking me to do a speech. Us Navarro's aren't sticklers for tradition, so I was quite happy to be a tradition-breaking bridesmaid speechmaker. I prepared and strove and moaned and created... and eventually came up with something I thought would be tender, poetic, and a little witty. I was scheduled to speak last, and I was faring fine during the preliminary speeches, but when the best man started speaking, my heart froze. Turns out this man is a national public speaking champion, a talented lawyer, and one gifted with incredible wit. Within seconds, he had the room in crazy peals of teary side-splitting laughter. Oh dear, how could I possibly go on after him! My speech which I thought would be sweet and sentimental suddenly seemed schmaltzy and weak.

But again, it all went well. Amazing what heart-spoken words can do, eh?!

So thats it. A beautiful day for a wonderful couple. If only life could always work so perfectly, so free of potential disaster, so free of doubt, so full of loving attention!

Glastonbury memories

2005-08-05T12:19:00.000+01:00

After Glastonbury, a few of us compiled our favourite memories of the event, which were the cause of immense amounts of hilarity and mirth. It never fails to surprise me the degree to which retrospection can colour an event brightly, despite it being awful and miserable at the time. Reading through this list, you'd think I had the time of my life! Well, maybe I did...

Paul's list:

Missing our exit and ending up in Wales!

Jimmy and Michelle carrying five tents plus all their stuff on Wed - legends!!

Deb's sense of what's important in life -- gladly carrying the slab of beer for over an hour with her pack on all the way to camp!!

Me, tempting fate with a "you don't get storms like we do back home story" a couple of hours before the rain starts -- firmly put in my place!!!

Leithy, Kelly and Debbie all raving about how nice this guy was that let them each in turn wrap their legs around his neck -- smooth; I wonder if he gives classes?!

The guy who asked to get past just taking my spot at Timo Maas!

Sam walking around for two days in bare feet.

Leithy almost running the whole way to Lost Vagueness on the rumour of Scissor Sisters.

Sue for her little presents to everyone (my rolling stones sweatband and Debs' blue fluffy hairbands)!

Fellow Windian Liam for telling me all about spiders and snakes in Oz for half an hour before he realised that I told him in the first place, classic!!

Primal Scream -- my bad.

The Marty shuffle!

Shower, pizza, bean bag, TV, when I got home!

Kellie's list:

# convincing paul to put mud on his face to join the BNKC

# the sue/debbie/liethy/kel fist dance

# the she/pee

# guy letting me debs and liethy on his shoulders to see the coldplay crowd.

# wondering in the lost vaguenes between 6am and 11am to stumble upon a guy playing a piano in a muddy lane and singing 'always look on the bright side of life' to a rather mixed group of people.

# swapping a can of baked beans for dry socks with a guy who worked in a juice bar

# playing wellington boot frisby with the circus people I met the morning I was late home

# convincing little steve that running through an electrical storm in a red children with leukaemia poncho and board shorts to buy wet weather gear at 7am was a good idea.

# watching him do this.

# dancing in the ballroom with my fan and the scissor sisters.

# getting into the casino with krista and ainsley having dodged the drag queen and the dress up area.

# Liethys tea saving fall in the mud

# taking ten hours to get home and finding out the water main had burst.

Marty's list:

Make Poverty History hands in the air, albeit for only 5 seconds.

The bloke who walked dick-first into the stinging nettles (not me, remember I was just involved in the nettles versus penis moment).

The overwhelming ooglefest of the Dance Lounge on Saturday night.

Little Steve's charge into the wee hours on Sunday night.

The Marty Shuffle.

Tent-shaking 10.30am soundchecks, followed by sets from shit-boring bands.

Garbage - drinks in the setting sun.

White Stripes - ubercool set.

Ana Matronic's cameo appearance.

Debbie's blue bobbles making multiple appearances.

Marty daring to subtly suggest that Little Steve had not in fact seen the Killers because the program doesn't lie.

General level of cheek in the BNKC.

New Order delivering all but Blue Monday.

How many covers of Can't Get You Out Of My Head?

Timo Maas's mullet and his wicked set.

Scissor Sisters' DJ set.

The trashed tent that just managed to stay put in the path of the river.

The mud's transition from soup to glue - the general carnage following our exit from New Order.

The totally trashed state of the Pyramid area Monday 4am.

Stanton Warriors' top set.

Spotting a copy of FHM. In a portaloo. On Monday.

Marty's fall in the mud (sadly few witnesses).

Ainslie's crane versus Marty's disdainful looks - fisticuffs following.

Kelly's 11am homecoming. The best?

Friday night 3am - couple smoking whilst sitting and embracing in mud,
compleeeetely covered in mud.

Debbie's list:

Leithy's very dainty fall into the mud - one hand and one knee only I think - whilst amazingly managing not to spill a single drop from her cup of tea. (Kellie will appreciate this)

Primal Scream - who aren't hard core rock apparently ;-) - being escorted off stage

Joy and Tragedy in 24 hours

2005-07-12T18:51:00.000+01:00

The 24 hour period from 12:49pm on Wednesday 6th July to the same time on Thursday 7th July contained almost laughable dualities. Great joy followed by incredible tragedy in such a confined time frame all in the one city, its almost unbelievable, almost contrived if it weren't so unspeakably awful.

Firstly, London wins the right to host the 2012 Olympic Games. When Sydney won the rights in 1993, it was easily one of the most enjoyable occasions of my young life. I still remember the event vividly. I was 16 years old, still strictly controlled by my well-meaning parents, so I rarely if ever was allowed out at night. As the date of the announcement approached, a few of my friends from school were organising to wake up and midnight and go into the city to witness the announcement broadcast live on massive screens in Circular Quay. Due to the time difference in Australia, the announcement was to be made at 4:49am, and I was certain my parents wouldn't let me go. But luckily, as we were to be chaperoned by the parents of one of my friends, I was allowed, and thus one of the most exuberant evenings of my life began.

It seems like such a minor thing, but its all about the simple pleasures in life. I tell you, to be out with friends in the middle of the night, roaming the city streets that were electric with excitement, teaming with people, raucous with expectancy... We passed the hustling drag queens of Williams Street, got wolf whistled by drunken lads, danced around the music that seemed to come from everywhere. It was an incredible atmostphere, we felt one with the city and its hopeful people.

When the announcement came, the city exploded. I can't describe how joyful it was to be there, surprised and overjoyed that our little city had been chosen by such a prestigious international committee. The cheering and celebration was communal and long-lasting... I remember we walked and walked around the dawn-breaking city, and everywhere we looked there were people screaming 'We won!!!!', cars honking, intersections jammed as people congratulated each other car to car... it was a celebration like nothing else I'd witnessed. I was home at 7am, showered, and went straight to school, my first party all-nighter!

The London event was different. Everyone thought it would be great, but London isn't prone to excitement and excessive emotion. This understated approach was very much the mood of the lead up to the announcement, and a little surprisingly, the aftermath as well. Us Australians who had experienced the euphoria of winning the Olympics ourselves expected a little partying, a little celebration, but disappointingly, there was nothing. No party, no jubilant screaming people, nothing. There was a little hooraying around Trafalgar Square, but it seemed the joy was confined to that tiny pocket of London. Life went on, it seemed. Perhaps, the joy was felt, but in classic English fashion, it wouldn't do to show too much emotion.

24 hours later, everything changed. Terror finally - after much anticipation - hit. It started off as supposedly a power surge stopping a train at Liverpool Street station, but something inside me instantly knew it wasn't anything as innocent as that. Quickly there were more reports, and then the rumour mill and embellishments began, as supposedly 3 buses exploded, 7 stations attacked, the army marching into Covent Garden, suicide bombers killed with snipers... it was agony sitting in an office dependent entirely on the speed and accuracy of online journalists. We sat there Googling news sites, hoping for more information, hoping there wasn't more.

Very quickly we realised no work was going to be done that day, so the population of our company in the office that day, 3 people, went back to my colleague's house which is a 2 minute walk away from the office. There we sat watching BBC News all day, shocked into silence again and again as images of shredded buses and burnt victims plagued our screens. Frantically we tried to contact loved ones in London, and responded to loved ones outside of London checking up on us. Thankfully, all parties were safe and accounted for, but not so great for the unlucky ones.

And Luck seems to be at the crux of this incident. Compared to other terrorist attacks, the London bombing is puny in size and degree of atrocities. Compared even to other London attacks in the past, it was relatively minor in scale and destruction. However, the reason it hit us all so deep was because of how nearly it could have been any of us.

Three of the attacked tube stations are literally minutes from my work place and home. The attacked bus is one I reguarly catch. Where it exploded is somewhere I go by. This applies to most of my friends too. The probability that we could have been involved is higher than for any other incident that has happened globally or in London. That is what shocked so many of us the most.

The other scary factor is imagining how terrifying it must have been. I tend to avoid the tube as it is: I find it cramped, airless, filty, and the knowledge that I am very far down tends to make me claustrophobic. So when I imagine how those trapped must have felt - with no room to move as soot and smoke clouded their carriage, as panic took over making the airlessness and proximity of others even more oppressive, with no knowledge of the cause or extent of the incident... I saw one witness being interviewed saying they all thought a wall of flame was about to come rushing through the carriages at any second. Can you imagine how terrifying that must have been. People were breaking the window glasses with the bare hands in desperation. The terror is unthinkable. I think there are a large number of people that are now avoiding the tube, not because they think it will happen again, but because we don't trust our imaginations to avoid reliving the nightmare of others.

What I found vastly interesting though, is the degree to which Londoners reaction to the Olympic joy parallels with the Terror tragedy. By the next day, life seemed almost back to normal again, and certainly by the end of the first weekend, it was as if nothing had happened. How curious, that Londoners take great joy and great sorrow with such equivocality. I suspect that isn't quite the case, I think Londoners are reacting internally rather than not at all, absorbing the sorrow and fear, and dealing with it without bothering anyone else. Its a strength in a way, because they have been able to charge through the tragedy, accepting the transport delays and increased security without any qualms, and moving on, progressing, living.

As a foreigner that now feels very much a Londoner, I understand this approach, and revel in it for the strength and conviction it gives me, even though this very quality is what kept post-Olympic win celebrations to a minimum. Ah the price we pay to live in London :-)

A very muddy Glastonbury (beware, its a long one!)

2005-06-30T16:16:00.000+01:00

At the start of this year, there were only two things left on my virtual 'List of things to do in the UK before I leave': the first was see a premiership football match, and the second was to go to the Glastonbury festival. I managed to achieve both in the space of a few months.

My vision of what it would be like to watch a football match consisted of standing in the rain, getting wet and muddy and being surrounded by all manner of society. Ironically, in the end it was Glastonbury that fit this image better than football.

There is a happy positive side and a moany negative side to my Glastonbury experience. I'll cover both here now...

Firstly, its bloody expensive! My shopping list consisted of: wellington boots, tent, tent footprint, dry wash, head torch, hanging torch, travel towel, an esky, ice, tonnes of food and alcohol, locks and padlocks, earplugs, picnic blanket, foot pump, waterproof jackets, cutlery, plastic cups, petrol, etc. Half this stuff I'll never use again either!

Then there was the effort of getting there... we bought a tent (plus one for our friends). Then I found a shop in Victoria that stocked a cheaper tent, so I hiked over then to pick up two. Then Paul decided he liked the original one better so I had to hike back to return it. Then we found that one of the original tents had a broken pole, and the only shop that had a replacement was in High Street Kensington, so I hiked all the way there with a tent, replaced it and hiked all the way back. Then I had to get the tents over to a friends house who was going earlier and could reserve a good spot, but this plan became complicated and I had to send it in a cab to the house. Then my friend Debbie's tent which was also going earlier than us, got left behind, so someone else took it, and then didn't show up at Glastonbury til midnight! It took us longer to get organised in London the day we left than it took to drive there. And when we arrived, we had to hike for an hour in the sun to find our camp site... it was a complete logistical nightmare and I was exhausted before I even arrived.

Positively speaking, once we arrived, I was pleased to find out tent already erected, the view from our campsite expansive and beautiful, and all my friends jovially surrounding me, ready for a fun night. We visited the Lost Vagueness, a take on cabaret Los Vegas, and spent a fun evening dancing in the saloon to old-time music. Very entertaining.

That evening, however, a storm of biblical proportions hit Glastonbury. Paul and I lay in our tent cowering with each violent thunder clap, praying fervently that our tent would hold and stay dry. The storm lasted for hours, requiring some highly ingenious urination tactics in the morning (don't ask!). When it ended, people gingerly poked their heads out of their tents, to witness a very different world.

Lightening had hit some of the performance stages wreaking havoc with electricals. One of the stages collapsed. A man was hit by lightening. But the worst was the flood that hit the bottom of Pennards Hill (note - we were at the top of this hill thanks to those friends who carted our tents to the festival a day earlier and erected them for us). Let these photos speak for themselves...

Hundreds of tents were washed away, their belongings disappeared or destroyed. People were awaken by finding their noses rubbing the top of their tents. Entire areas were submerged, and only the efforts of a very large pump and a crane managed to drain the area after many hours. It was a nightmare, and our mood was slightly dampened by the thought of those people who had lost their belongings and tents. Our mood was soon to be further dampened by the most overriding legacy of the storm: the mud.

I have NEVER in all my life seen mud like this. Expanses of it. Acres of it. Within two hours there wasn't a spot of grass anywhere. It seems a hundred thousand tramping wellies very quickly turns damp grass to a knee-deep quagmire. The way I describe it is by asking you to imagine what a Demon Hell would look like... think an expanse of murky sticky mud that threatened to suck you down, that covered you in muck, that made every step into an ordeal. Think of people slowly dramping through, accompanied by the sound of thick goo slurping and sucking you down. It was awful, and many a time throughout the weekend I burst into maniacal laughter and screamed "What on Earth am I doing here?? I PAID to do THIS???"

And not being known as the most coordinated of people, I was further frightened by the everpresent risk of slipping and diving into the viscuous darkness. There were many squeals and desperate grabs at male hands during the four days of tramping.

The muscle strain of walking for hours and hours and hours (it took at hour to walk anywhere) made my knees and thighs weak and achey, and not being able to sit down all day made my lower back creak and groan.

So, these were the many negative aspects of my Glastonbury experience...

But, believe it or not, there were ample glorious moments. The highlight was watching Coldplay with the girls (thanks Debbie and Kelly!), and meeting a lovely man who volunteered to have each of us sit on his shoulders so we revel in the view of multitudes. His view was: he was too tall to ever experience sitting on someones shoulders, so he may as well give someone else the experience. What was strange was he wasn't at all sleazy or after anything else other than being nice to us, he called it 'the Glastonbury spirit', and us girls were overwhelmed by it. Sitting on his shoulders and seeing more people than I have ever seen in my life screaming and cheering was electrically exciting - thanks Nick for the experience!

Other highlights include dancing in the Lost Vagueness Ballroom to the Scissor Sisters DJ, watching the strange and wonderful novelty acts that accompanied the music; observing the wild and crazy people in opulent outrageous outfits as they pranced through the mud, dancing to their own beat; finally getting sun on the last day whilst seeing Van Morrisson perform 'Brown Eyed Girl'... there were many magic moments.

In summary (this is my longest blog entry ever!) - I am very glad I did it, it was such an adventure, such a feast of sight and sound! But I am unlikely to ever do it again, unless I have a backstage VIP pass and a guarantee from the Weather Bureau that it will not rain.

As for football - that was easy in comparison. Clean, fun, simple... but you know, not as much fun!

Caricatures of my friends

2005-06-22T12:15:00.000+01:00

On the weekend I passed a gift shop that had some rather fabulous cards. I popped in and was compelled to buy three of them, because they so perfectly captured a side of three of my friends.

The first one is of my boyfriend Paul: to understand why this card is so funny, you would need to know that one weekend a while ago when I was elsewhere, Paul spent the weekend with some of our lesbian friends. Sounds innocent enough, and I thought nothing of it. However, a few weeks later, one of the girls there during the weekend said to me "Leithy, I have to show you something". And she proceeded to show me a photo on her phone of Paul... dressed as Audrey Hepburn, dress, hair, stance and all. I was shocked! So THIS is what Paul gets up to on the weekends!! tee hee... so when I saw this card, with the man/woman standing almost exactly like Paul stood in his photo... I had to buy it!

Then I saw this one... and knew instantly it was of Phil. For those that know him, well, you're probably giggling hysterically at how precisely it captures his eyes, turn of his head, and petulant expression when he is bored!

And finally, the funniest and most accurate of all the pictures, is this one of our Sue. You might be mistaken for thinking I had these deliberately made up and captioned, but no, these were bought as is from the shop. How perfect does it capture her cheeky side, the naughty pursing of the lips, but most of all, her hand! Sue is known for 'her hand', as it seems to be powered by some eternal battery that never stops pumping as she dances and chats. And there it is in the picture...

My microSTORY entry

2005-06-17T17:17:00.000+01:00

Here is my recent entry into the 4th Annual microSTORY competition, where you have to write a story in 50 words or less:

With trepidation and the giddy pleasure of adventures yet to come, Elisa quit her job. No more sociopathic bosses, no more subjugation of morals. Instead, the unknown, coloured gossamer hues with hope. Instead, a promise, to work for passion rather than duty. "Here I go!" she whispered to herself.

A little autobiographical, I admit!

Fate and udon noodles

2005-06-08T18:57:00.000+01:00

One of my favourite life theories is that you know you are on the right path - you know you have made a right decision - when a series of incredible coincidences pepper your way.

After months of gut-wrenching disgust at the corrupt and manipulative environment in which I worked, I finally popped. I had been lured into this job by promises of bonuses, share options, incredible wealth, being treated as part of a 'family', and I had given up all my travel and home-coming dreams to give this venture a go. I worked hard and passionately, and put up with the jibes, sociopathic tendencies, and erratic behaviour of my CEO. However, when he announced he was bankrupt as a result of being sued for misappropriation of funds by the company he was previously CEO for, my suspension of moral beliefs cracked, and a flood of distaste and ethical repulsion flowed. I wish I was capable of hiding these feelings, it would have saved me much angst, but I can't, and so my relationship with the CEO soured in every way. I think he then made it his goal to make my life miserable, as revenge for the loss of my respect for him, and he pretty much succeeded. I was miserable, lacking motivation, a battered wife.

The final straw though, was being told by our Chairman that the bonuses and share equity that we were promised, should never have been promised, and therefore were not going to be paid. My polite entreaties into this were returned with rude harsh intimidating statements that I should just get on with my job, and if I didn't like it I could leave.

So I did. I resigned. And my goodness do I feel good about it!

Of course, there was still a legacy of doubt - if I had waited another few months, I could have convinced them to pay me some bonus... with new management coming in I wouldn't have to work with the sociopath and it could turn into a better job...

So on the night of my resignation, while talking on the phone, the first coincidence hit me: it happened to be my four year anniversary in London that very day! The day I make a life-altering decision was the day I arrived - hopeful and ambitious - on these shores.

Then on my way to dinner with Rachel (our COO) and our partners, the second coincidence hit me. The last time I went to Cicada for dinner was precisely four years ago tonight! When I arrived from the airport, my friend Pete took me out for a 'Welcome to London' dinner down the road from his place, and this destination was were, unknowingly, I had returned on this fateful day.

Needless to say, my back was a highway of shivers.

It was then that I knew I was on the right path. I have no idea what my future holds. I know I will travel extensively on my way back to Sydney, but beyond that is hazy, pleasantly so. I shed the doubts that have for so long ensnared me in safe conventional roles, and cast my fortune into the wind. It feels right, and I am so very excited about what Fate has in store for me next!

Cicada is a wonderful Aussie-run modern Thai establishment, with a delicious and varied menu (and the best edamame beans I have ever had!). That night though, I was in an udon mood. I have occasions where I yearn for udon noodles - their thick fullness satisfying some internal craving. So when I saw a Salmon and mussel laksa on the menu, my heart thumped hard. The noodles were the thin variety, so I almost wept with joy when the waitress assured me they could use udon instead. It was an inspired request, as the meal for me embodied the richness, fullness, piquancy and sweet creaminess with which I view my immediate future!

A fabulous weekend alternative

2005-06-06T18:56:00.000+01:00

My response to people who tease me for my occasional nerdish ways is very simple. It is (according to my definition) more fabulous to do a lot of different and unexpected things, than to do the same reliably 'cool' thing all the time. So on a recent long weekend, I froliced on both sides of the entertainment spectrum by both parting hard at an awesome Hed Kandi party, and then going on a 20 km walk through the English countryside! I thoroughly enjoyed both, probably helped by the fact that I was accompanied in both pursuits by Debbie, my fabulous friend, who similarly enjoys such varied adventures like dancing in Ibiza and hiking in Bhutan.

To those still in doubt as to the virtues of long country walks, to those who still think my grey hairs surely by now must be showing... well, you just have to try it. I don't do it very often, but when I do, there is something so beautiful, inspiring and settling about not hearing cars buses sirens people air-conditioning dish-washers radios tv.... just rustling leaves, bird calls and our steady plodding, for hours.

The final argument to convince you of how this is a viable weekend alternative, is that our directions were given to us by the TimeOut Country Walks book, aimed for Londoners our age who don't have cars, get lost easily, can't read Ordinance Survey Maps, and don't have hiking supplies. Each walk is graded, is superbly instructed (we didn't get lost once in the 6 hours we walked!), with advice on which train to get, what time to go, what landmarks to look out for. But the best bit - they give recommendations on a pub to go to mid-walk! There is nothing like a good gin and tonic in the middle of a country ramble!

This is what happens when you bring your colleagues to your club

2005-06-06T13:17:00.000+01:00

After a very drunk and disorderly evening out with my colleagues bemoaning the corruption and idiosyncracies of my employers, they decided it would be a good opportunity to try out Playtime, the club night that my friends have run for the last few years. I don't think Playtime has ever seen anything quite as refreshing and amusing as Lee (the VP Sales attractively posing beside me in the photo) trying to do the Running Man dance step in the middle of the dancefloor filled with drag queens and pretty gay boys. It was just fabulous!

Freaky memories

2005-06-05T16:21:00.000+01:00

I refuse to be embarrassed by including this recent remake of the classic mum/daughter body swap tale in my all blog. OK, so its not cinematic genius, its not soul-shaking drama, but Freaky Friday reminded me of being a little girl, and I thoroughly enjoyed the ride.

I remember watching films aimed at pre-teens with innocent pleasure. I had not yet acquired the cynicism that age and too many bad movies has taught me, so I revelled in the cheesy scripts, overtly American accents, and rosily romantic storylines. I dreamed of being the pretty girl who the cute boy had a crush on, for whom a series of lightly challenging yet eventually fulfilling adventures assailed them, leading to a joyful and moving conclusion. Even if my life wasn’t anywhere near as apparently exciting as these pre-teen fantasies clearly were, I could live vicariously, and I do attest that I experienced as much joy living in my little fantasy world as I would have if I had actually experienced those scenes in real life.

So watching modern day stars like Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan star in a tale that had been told in books and film when I was young, I caught myself thinking how pretty Lindsay Lohan was, how sweet it would have been to have a cute boy serenade me, how much fun it would have been to swap bodies with my attractive mum and crowd surf during a TV interview. I felt 12 again, and there was something quite sinfully naughty about revelling in memories of my innocence!

One singular sensation...

2005-06-04T20:10:00.000+01:00

I have a thing about musicals. I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps it is their wild improbability, or their manifestation of my unspoken dream to be able to burst into song to convey a wild emotion… or just their colour and spectacle which appeal to my dramatic side. But I can watch them again and again and never get bored – I’ve seen Grease, The Sound of Music, Annie, and Moulin Rouge more times than you would want to believe, and I still love every second of every one of them.

So on this lazy Saturday at home, when I saw A Chorus Line was to be on television, I instantly decided that was just how I wanted to spend my afternoon. And so I did, and I sang along to every song, I still get a kick from ‘One, singular sensation, every little step she takes, da-da-da daaa da da’ and the crowd-pleaser ‘Tits and Ass’. During the rendition of ‘And then we did it again…’ my friend and colleague Stephen rang. He enquired what that strange warbling in the background was, and I blithely told him, only to be met with a quizzical ‘Eh?’. I, of course, assumed he was joking, I mean, how could anyone not know A Chorus Line?? But once, again, it turns out those 3-4 years of extra age make a huge difference in awareness of cultural references.

What a shame… I cannot imagine a youth without singing A Chorus Line songs on buses during school excursions, or wishing I were a ballet or Broadway dancer, or yearning to own the green leotard the pretty blonde girl owned… It was also one of the first movies in my memory to openly discuss homosexuality and coming out to family members, so I would have thought it featured warmly in the memories of my beloved gay friends. My concern now, as with many of the formative films of my youth, is that their relevance and revelatory qualities will be lost when watched by critical seasoned modern-dayers. So just take it from me then, my young friends, it mattered when I was 11 that you could sing ‘Sheeeee’s theeeeeeee One!’ in a chorus, even if you were to never own that green leotard!

Chinese tapas? A promising combination!

2005-06-03T15:25:00.000+01:00

Last night my Beloved and I decided to go on a date.

Quite a novelty considering we have been together for over 2 years, and have never really 'dated', opting rather to launch into a full blown (and very exciting!) relationship. Nonetheless, I dressed up nicely, my Beloved came home at a reasonable hour, and after some faffing around on my part (sorry darling!), we eventually made it out the door, and strolled like young couples in love through our neighbourhood. Our destination: Oqo on Islington Green - a place I'd seen advertised on a tube tunnel. Despite this salubrious suggestion, the concept of Chinese tapas sparked my gastronomical imagination, and I couldn't wait to try it out.

As we arrived, the sound of a jazzing sax further excited me - ooh, this could be one of those sexy nights out with luscious food and cruisey music... I ventured in with high hopes.

Now - this is (one of many areas) where my Beloved and I disagree. I thought the saxophone enhanced the ambience, the interior was innovative and engaging, the staff incredibly attentive and charming, and the food... ooh, the food, I think I moaned at one stage. The more-ish sirloin steak marinated in Chinese rose liqueur with a garlic dip melted in my mouth, the baby octopus in Szechuan pepper and salt was thrilling with its piquancy, and the king prawn and chive dumplings soft and explosive. Coupled with the cheeky flavours of my apricot puree, pomegranate and basil leaved cocktail, I was in Chinese tapas heaven! It all worked for me.

My more discerning and critical darling saw it differently however: the sax was too loud and intrusive, making it hard to converse; the decor was dull and lifeless, and the food average. However, we did agree that the staff were incredible - and we shared an amused grin when the manager came with our bill, asked us how we enjoyed ourselves, and then said "The sax man was too loud, wasn't he, I'm going to kill him!".

I'm a big fan of fusion cooking, and although 'Chinese tapas' is just glorified dim sum, there is a lot to be said for conjuring images of hot spanish evenings and late night nibbles in thronging plazas, whilst eating damn good chinese food. It made the 'date' into quite a fine affair.

Definition of fabulousness?

2005-06-02T19:23:00.000+01:00

Not so long ago, my darling friend Phil, who has earned the unfortunate and inescapable nickname of 'Ming', decided we should prance around my bathroom in my hat collection. We thought at the time we were pretty special. I think we are, or at least he definitely is (look at those cheeks!), so I propose, in this inaugural blog entry, that self-belief, internal giggling, and the pursuit and appreciation of new experiences, is what defines fabulousness. What do you think?
By the way, Ming, count this as another reminder of 'you know what'. Love ya!