Um, why Cordoba?

Striped Archways
Originally uploaded by nerissa_atkinson.I knew Liorah and Nomes were wondering this, but they had unquestioningly let me book us in for a night there. Sitting midway between Granada and Seville, it broke up the 6 hour journey, and is also the site of the Mesquite, once an 11th century mosque and over the years expanded and finally converted into a Catholic cathedral. This renovation, while impressive, has unfortunately for me taken all of the soul and majesty out of this building, and it feels a little like a giant overdecorated carpark.

Cordoba is another thing entirely. Despite its raison d'etre being the Mesquite, it's a charming small andalusian town, with a fraction of the tourists of Granada. I've got in mind to go back and base myself there to spend a week or two visting the surrouding area. And with the fast train connecting to Seville in a little over half an hour, it's hardly a remote outpost at all.

The Money Shot

Money Shot
Originally uploaded by nerissa_atkinson.

You won't believe how many takes it took for us to finally get a nice shot of us and the Alhambra, with the assistance of an accommodating log. This was the culmination of a long uphill walk on a 30 degree day thanks to the unhappy combination of Naomi and a guidebook. Liorah and I are going to have to stop her buying them from now on...

Granada is most famous for the Alhambra palace, originally a Visigoth fortress on a hilltop overlooking Granada, which was developed and expanded dramatically over 600 years and was the base for the Moorish monarchs when Spain was part of the Islamic Empire.

You can feel this Moorish influence in the city itself as well - a strange but attractive combination with the later Spanish additions, and for the first time we have one eye on the fact that we will be in Morocco in a week's time.

I got up early one morning to get us tickets for the palace - after a 20 minute uphill climb I reached the front gates by 7am and stood in line in the cold for 2 hours - but the palace is completely worth the wait. Its walls are decorated with ornate carving, but the overall feeling is of calm and security, and I was left feeling very satisfied, unlike my visit to the Tokapi palace in Istanbul

There's not a lot else to do in Granada once you have taken in the Alhambra, but it's a nice city to spend a couple of days in, especially as it's about 10 degrees warmer than North Spain. Tomorrow we take the bus west to Cordoba.

I've forgotten what green vegetables look like

Days 3 to 6 of the grand tour were spend in a hot chocolate and tapas induced haze – as the weather was beginning to turn to spring, we were able to picnic in the park and sit out in some of the lovely squares until 10 or 11 eating and drinking, and watching the amazing streetlife. Madrid is far more cosmopolitan that Barcelona, and very elegant, and I felt it was a city that I would find it very comfortable to live in.

The highlight of this part of the trip was a visit to a 3 story salsa club in an old palace. Firstly it was amusing to be getting ready for a night out in the bathrooms of our hostel – as per normal with Liorah and Nomes the glitter flowed freely, much to the shocked fascination of Bobbie Brown-cloned American college students who were preparing to go to a bar at the same time. Later at the club we wandered around the labyrinth of ornately decorated rooms all playing different music and watched the older couples leaving us in their dust as they burned up the dance floor, before finally braving the chance of embarrassment and the clutches of the over-eager short Ecuadorian gentlemen - which was most certainly ‘not OK’. This new catchphrase was inspired by a sign we saw on the subway in Madrid, and was used to describe a number of situations we came across on the rest of the trip!

We also made a trip to a local flamenco club near our hostel to see the show – spectacular dancing, although it was very staged, and left me feeling hungry for something a little more raw and unpolished – hopefully we will see a little more of this in Seville. Next stop Granada, 5 hours south-east by train.

Barcelona, it was the first time that we met...

Casa Batllo
Originally uploaded by nerissa_atkinson.

Not each other ( I am travelling with my sister Liorah, and her best friend Naomi) but our backpacks. Having not really considered what carrying up to 20 extra kilos around on our backs might actually feel like, after a while of negotiating the subterranean sewer (I mean subway) of Barcelona in an attempt to get to our hotel, I was beginning to be challenged with upright walking, and from behind Liorah was beginning to look suspiciously like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Luckily, we emerged into the sunlight and ice creams, and once we found our hotel (complete with resident cat), we were ready to enjoy the good life. This in Barcelona, as in the rest of Spain involves copious amounts of food and alcohol, although a suspicious lack of vegetables, although that may have been because of the chocolaterias and tapas bars we tended to frequent.

Other than the food, the main attraction of Barcelona is probably the Gaudi architechture – which is basically everywhere, fine if you like it, but if you didn’t, like Naomi, you had to be content with people watching. I was expecting Barcelona to be very arty and stylish, but I got the impression that it’s far more a small fishing village made big in terms of the way people dress and look. Nomes promises us far more style when we hit Madrid.

After 3 days in Barcelona we are taking the train 5 hours south-west to Madrid. In order to sustain ourselves on the journey, we each took it in turn to race around the amazing Mercat de la Boqueria in order to buy train scroggin – bread, cheese, pistachios, olives, ripe strawberries, mangoes, chocolate covered glace oranges… We were quite the envy of our train compartment, the other occupants of which had to be content with a dry cheese roll from Renfe.

The clock strikes 12 for Cinderella

Midnight at Big Ben, on one of my last evenings in London, perfect timing as the cab cruised down the Embankment on a lovely mild spring night. I guess that means my time is almost up here, and soon I will turn into a pumpkin (probably due to too much tapas in Spain!)

Packing it all in

Both literally and figuratively - as on Monday Liorah, Naomi and I head off for Spain and Morocco on holiday, and it only occured to me last week that I was basically not coming back! So Easter was spent trying to pack acquired odds and ends tardis-like into a 3cu foot box for shipment to Australia, with hopes that the rest of my belongings will fit back into the suitacase and pack that I came over here with. Luckily my flatmate has agreed to suitcase-sit while I am travelling, so I am officially moving out of the flat on Monday too - I will be homeless! (cue violins and dramatic sighing).

I have been really busy the past few weeks travelling and catching up with people, and I should really have blogged more - I might try to do some about my trips to Wiltshire, Northumbria, Rome and Krakow in Poland, but in the meantime there are photos posted on my flikr site which will give a bit of a flavour of what I have been seeing and doing.

I have been talking to people here about what is left as a must-see that I haven't done; there's the touristy stuff like the London Eye etc, but perhaps I will avoid that for the reasons I have avoided it so far - that's not the real London, and not the bits I have become fond of. Instead, I think I will make one last visit to Borough Market, a trip to Konditor and Cook for amazing cake(with Liorah and Nomes obviously), a run around the Thames Path to burn the cake off and see the rowers, and will spend some time wandering through the grubby charming streets of Soho. There is a rumour that a new Kiwi run cafe called 'Flat White' has opened up near me (you can't get a flat white anywhere in London, or good coffee at all for that matter, other than at Bar Italia - if you want a £4 latte!), and I am looking forward to tracking it down, being told to find a 'pozzie' and that they will be with me in a 'tic'.

Well, so Nomes arrives Saturday evening, Liorah on Sunday morning, and I still haven't begun packing, must get around to this shortly!

Waiter, there's something in my tea

Image008.jpg
Originally uploaded by nerissa_atkinson.

My jasmine tea at Ping Pong, with real flowers!

There's norway like holmen

.

A conversation with a co-worker has made me realise that I will be down to earth with a bump shortly when I arrive in Melbourne. She was asking me what I did with my weekend. "I went skiing - kind of a last minute thing." "In Milton Keynes? " - "Um, no, Norway..."

OK, so it wasn't quite a last minute decision to visit Oslo, as I have been promising myself that I would visit since James my ex-housemate moved there in October last year, but the skiing was a little less planned.

Landing at the airport, I looked out the window and was amazed to see the countryside was covered in snow - I know it was winter, but I just hadn't been expecting to see more than a light covering like in England, and probably embarrassed myself by taking lots of photos of nothing on the train into central Oslo.

James met me at the station and we took the scenic trip to his flat, around the harbour and past the Nobel Centre - lucky we did this, as it was the only view of it I had! After lunch we headed up Holmenkollen, a 60m ski jump which has been on the site since 1892. Looking down the jump from the top kicked my vertigo into high gear, but it gave a lovely view of the city and fjord, covered in ice.

My visit coincided with a party celebrating James's new flat, and late on on Saturday night, he said, "If I can get you ski-gear, do you want to go skiing tomorrow?" "Woop!" said I, and after 4 hours sleep we headed out to catch up with French-led convoy up to Norefjell, a ski resort about 2 hours drive from Oslo, on a tree covered mountain, with a glacial lake at the base - the most stunning scenery. A little shaky on the first couple of runs, but then I hit my stride again, and remembered how much I love skiing. The runs were much longer and wider than I have been used to, and while a little icy nothing like I have been used to, so looks like Whakapapa has been a good training ground!

Dropping sticks at 4.30, we barreled through the darkening countryside in a race to get me to the airport in time for my flight, but thanks to the French driving of Antoine (where 'give way' means only if you feel like it), I had an hour to kill at the airport which allowed me to buy a pair of handknitted mittens which are lovely and warm, although make me inclined to do sock puppets whenever I wear them - not a good look.

I felt many parallels between New Zealanders and Norwegians - small towns in beautiful, unforgiving countryside of course, but also a spontaneity, and a love of the outdoors (many Norwegians ski 3-4 times a week after work in the winter and kayak in the summer). But somehow I got the impression that the remoteness that drives restlessness in many Kiwis instead allows Norwegians to live in contented isolation, although I'm not sure why this would be. Many of the Norwegians I spoke to asked me what I thought of London - with slightly detached curiosity - I got the impression while interested in hearing about somewhere different, most of them had no desire to actually go and live anywhere else themselves. And when I thought there was a chance that I might miss my plane and end up stranded in Olso, that seemed an idea with a great deal of appeal!

The tipping point

Off to get my hair done tomorrow, and before I went, I thought I would check with some of the girls in the office about the conventions of tipping. While aware that tipping is common in the US, I was not sure about the UK. On previous visits to the salon I have given my hairdresser £5 as I left (in addition to the £70 bill), but thought I would make sure this was the done thing before I handed out more cash on top of the already expensive visit.

So, of the 7 people I asked, only 1 didn’t tip. But in a delightful window into the British psyche where no-one wants to cause a scene or do the wrong thing, a) no-one was sure how much they should tip, having never seen anyone else tip, b) having never seen anyone else tip, no-one was really sure that they should tip, but did anyway, just in case, and c) no-one felt they should tip having already paid the hairdresser for the services – but did anyway in order not to be rude. The only caveat to this was that you didn't tip if you didn't think there was a chance you'd go back to that salon again, in which case seeming rude wasn't a big problem. I seemed to have been the only one who had ever asked this question, as they were all fascinated as to everyone else’s responses – but unfortunately, I am really none the wiser, so I guess I will be paying my hairdresser another £5 tomorrow.

Aware that I have a lot of catching up to do on this blog – still have to write about Rome, Prague and my brief visit home! Obviously slacking off, but I am full of good intentions as is want after New Year, so will get onto it.

Ticket to ride

Getting up at 5 to spend 2 hours in a queue in a cold, dark London street? Worth it if you get the magic ticket that gets you in to meet Paul McCartney on Wed morning to have him sign his new kids' book.

Why don't we do it in the road

Cool, this works! This is a photo of my desk in London as I was testing auto blogging - which let's me blog directly from my mobile phone. Now there will be no stopping me! Note the careful positioning of the London Underground map so that I know how to get around, and the absolutely inspiring view out the window.

Stop Europe, I want to get off

In the past week – London, Paris, Rome, Ipswich… (one of these things does not belong, come on, can you tell which one…) And between now and new year when I come home, I still have another trip to Glasgow (where I will attempt to unearth the iconic deep fried mars bar) and Prague to contend with. And quite frankly I’m already exhausted.

The thing that is different about travel as an adult vs. as a kid with parents is the use of public transport – while it’s the best way to get to know the people of a city and it’s cheap, and it’s also not the most obvious or simple way to get around for a first timer.

Hence the 4 pages of instructions (with colour photos!) from Naomi about how get to the metro from Prague airport. Note that these don’t get me to my hostel – or even out of the subway. She says I will need further instructions on how to select the right escalator back up from the trains. I can see myself, years from now, roaming the tunnels of the Prague subway, desperately trying to find the way out, living on nothing but the water crackers and Krispy Kreme donuts I had brought for Naomi who has long since given up any thought of seeing me again. My precious…those hobbitses won't take the glazed donutty preciouses from usss…

Che cosa fai nel tempo libero?

Window detail
Originally uploaded by nerissa_atkinson.

Well, in my spare time, Io viaggio a Roma. This was my reward for diligently attending all my Italian classes, and I also thought that this would be a great way of practicing what I had learnt. This was put to early use when my flight was delayed almost 2 hours on Friday night, arriving too late to catch the train into town, and I managed to tell the taxi driver where I wanted to go, why I was visiting, and agree that it was a shame Fabiano hadn't been able to come too.

Setting out jauntily the next morning I was all ready to immerse myself in la vita bella - but didn't count on being immersed in water as it proceeded to pour with rain the entire day. Taking refuge for a while in St Peters (how apt), I am sure I am dammed to hell for proceeding to send text messages while inside. Finally, at around 3 I was in tears after 6 hours squelching in the rain and hating Rome very very much.

After returning to the hostel and recharging my batteries, I mustered the energy to venture out for dinner - ending up at a restaurant that was apparently one of Fellini's favourites. And after a fantastic meal of melanzana parmigiana (basically aubergine covered in cheese and then more cheese), pollo alla romana and a tirimasu, I had begun to find the good life again.

This continued the next day - the clear blue sky formed the perfect backdrop to the Colusseum and a wander through the markets of the piazza del fiori, so that I was sad to leave that evening although that may be because I never did find the cafe that sold the perfect slice of pizza I remember from my last trip - guess I'll have to go back. Or maybe I don't hate Rome that much after all.

There's no place like Rome

Or at least there won't be when I finally get around to blogging about it. Still have to upload my photos, and when I do this I will tell you about my weekend.

Not a tourist

I explained patiently to Bertil, as we wandered around Paris on Sunday afternoon, “I’m here for work and to visit a friend. I’m officially not a tourist.” And while he smiled with quiet scepticism at me, later in the day as I walked around St Germain, I was asked for directions to the Musee D’Orsay (where I had spent the afternoon) and was able to respond in French. So there!

AXA’s head office in based in the 8th Arrondissement in Paris, and I had gone over for 3 days to learn website content management and search engine optimisation. And while I had joked to Bertil that I was not a tourist, it was indeed a different experience being here for work. The 8th is very upmarket, with many of the large corporates based here, as well as the most expensive clothing and antique stores, which made it a far cry from the Marais of the summer. At any time of year Paris is beautiful, although the Christmas lights were subdued and not readily apparent in most stores. The full commercial Christmas of the US and the traditional Christmas of Germany don’t seem to have taken effect here at all.

Despite a heavy workload, still managed to eat very well, explained perhaps by the difference in French work culture. The office has a subsidised canteen which offers 3 course meals – including daily regional specialties, a grill, and a full selection of desserts and cheeses followed by coffee. I really liked this – it gave work colleagues a chance to sit down together and relax over good food – which made Bev and me feel quite regretful that lunch for us was normally a sandwich at our desks.

And don’t tell anyone, but I had steak and frites for both lunch and dinner on Sunday – first with Bertil at ‘Le boeuf sur le Toit ‘ (The cow on the roof), and secondly with Bev for dinner at ‘Le Relais de l‘Entrecote’ (Steaks r Us) – There are no menus as they only serve one thing here, so you sit down and they ask you how you want your steak done. They bring you a salad, and when this is finished they bring a reasonable sized portion of steak and frites, doused in their special secret sauce. Finishing this off you turn to thoughts of dessert, at which point they bring you the rest of the steak and frites that didn’t fit on your plate to start with. (Oh yes and lemon tart for dessert…)

And so with other visits to Le Pain Quotidien, La Duree, Fauchon and Galeries LaFayette (where I bought myself a classic French beret as a souvenir) it’s a wonder I got any work done at all.

Hibernation

After 2 weeks of weather hovering around the zero degree mark I am beginning to understand why any animal that can, has taken flight and headed south for the winter. The size of London means that it takes about an hour to go anywhere, with something as simple as a food shop taking a round trip of an hour and a half, with a 20 minute walk each way. And despite the days being brilliantly sunny, after a few steps the crystalline air start to splinter your lungs so I have been battening down the hatches and spending a lot of time indoors.

At 20 to 6, it's pitch black outside, and Adrian and I are hanging out in the kitchen having a cook-off - Boeuf Bourguignion vs Spaghetti Bolognaise - while a procession of potential flatmates wanders through the kitchen. We feel a bit like those real estate agents who recommend baking cookies when you are trying to sell. Not that we need to do a lot of selling - the house sells itself - but conversely the visitors have been of varying degrees of suitability, such as the 45 year old holistic healer who came around last night and tried to bond with us by trying to discuss how cool Bjork was. (Yes, in 1994). Ah yes, I may be 30, but I'm still, for a last brief shining moment, one of the cool kids.

In which I get discovered and violated, all in one crazy Dutch weekend

So Amsterdam this weekend, where finally, I was 'discovered' by an international photographer. But more on that later.

Early morning flight on Saturday, and for the 3rd time in 6 months I got selected for a 'random' special screening. I suspect this is because, the authorities are keen to avoid being seen to racial profile, and I am the diametric opposite of a terrorist. But this screening involved a whole body x-ray scan - explained to me, to dispell fear, as "No more radiation than 2 minutes flying, or 5 minutes in the sun". Like a good Antipodean, I immediately began worrying - you can get a serious burn after 10 - so just how much damage would my 45 minute flight be doing me?

But like a cat, I'm curious. The screening basically involved the careful execution of 3 moves - think Saturday Night Fever in terms of arm movements and feet positions. Not too hard, and now I know them, I think next time I will be able to funk it up a little and throw a few improvised moves - make it my own, so to speak.

Yikes! Just looked this up on the internet: "So the image is from the skin contours of the subject, minus the clothing. It thus resembles a nude photo of the subject." Now she didn't tell me that! I feel quite violated now...

But back to Amsterdam - like Paris, it's a beautiful city to walk around, but especially around the Jordaan where Kelly lives, it's much quirkier and less formal. I didn't do very much other than walk, eat and hang out at Kelly and Brian's place and try to cat-whisper Brian's two lovely cats with varying degrees of success. But it was a great relaxing weekend, which is what I was after. And I was lucky with the good weather - my weekend there were the warmest October days in Amsterdam in over 40 years - so I got the benefit of less tourists, the changing leaves, and weather that melted our icecreams as we walked.

Everyone seems to ride bikes there - the few who do drive are awful at it, and there were a few close calls with a canal or two. The locals are normally pretty good at avoiding you, but you really do have to watch out for the tourists, who ride while trying to look up at the rooftops. But I enjoyed just walking around, as each small street and canal combo is more charming than the last.

It was while we were walking to the Van Gogh museum that I was discovered, while my pygmalion was cycling past. In fact, we met a friend of Kelly's who is a Polish photographer who owns a gallery in Amsterdam. As soon as she was introduced to me, she exclaimed that she must photograph me before I left the country. I was mildly flattered until it transpired that she just really liked freckles, and it has to be admitted that I am rather blessed in that capacity. But I thought it might be fun, which it was, and I am looking forward to seeing what the results are - she said she would email a couple of shots to me, and if they are not too bad I will perhaps post one.

Arrived back this morning, and with the express train from Heathrow, was at work by 9.15. Tried to hide my excitement when I heard that I could well be going to Paris for work at the end of the month! Next trip looks like it's sorted...

M - I - C, see you real soon...

I know I haven't written much recently - sometimes I find it hard to think of things to write. Once you get over the thrill of being so close to the action and the ease of travel to Europe, you realise that you're basically living a commuter lifestyle - go to the gym, to work, go home, cook dinner and watch bad TV - not very much that you can't get at home really!

But I did have a busy week last week which was appropriate, as last Friday marked 6 months since I arrived in the UK. Royksopp at the Brixton Academy, Brian Dennehey in Death of a Salesman, Mark Morris Dance Group at Saddlers Wells - oh yes, this is the reason I came here!

I also managed to score a new job last week - interviewed on Monday at 10, had the job by 12 - and started today at AXA (again!) as a Marketing Strategy Manager. The job's going to involve travel to Glasgow fairly regularly, which sounds great, but they are threatening us with one of the harshest winters on record (apparently the squirrels are hoarding a LOT of nuts). Still probably won't be as bad as my flatmate James who has voluntarily chosen to move to Oslo - as winter begins - although he has promised me night skiing to lure me there for a visit. Might have to pick up my ski gear when I come down at new year...

Yes, couldn't quite make it through the year without a visit down, but then again, Bex and Sam managed to create a reason for the visit just a little quicker than we were all expecting! So I will arrive on the 31st Dec, and fingers crossed Kickie will arrive at a similar time. Probably also after 24 hours in a confined space, although at least I get the benefit of the in-flight movies...

I've come over all Malory Towers

In the grand tradition of English boarding schools, I have been sent a tuck box - and as is normally required in these circumstances, (along with heaps of common-sense, a good head for heights, and a brother who sends you new tricks to play on gullible French mistresses on Tuesdays and Saturdays) I shared with the other members of my 'dorm' the goodies sent from home - lashings of raspberry liquorice bullets, schoc chocolate, and mint toffee pops. Very much appreciated Mumsie!

We are heading into autumn here, with the first outing of the winter coat already, and these is a sense of things getting just a little more traditional - it may be the fashionable rise of tweed in the magazines, or a shift towards more hearty food on the menu, but it just feels like things are going to get that little bit more English around here.

Glad you found your toffeepop hunk

Special good wishes to Caroline and Brett on their wedding day - may your long walk have just enough steep bits to keep it interesting, the path in front of you be wide enough to walk side by side, and may you have no problems that cannot be solved over a nice cup of tea. Sorry I can't be there with you.

No wonder Cat Stevens converted

Allah's Apostle said, "A woman was tortured and was put in Hell because of a cat which she had kept locked until it died of hunger." Allah's Apostle further said, "Allah knows better - Allah said to the woman, "You neither fed it nor watered it when you locked it up, nor did you set it free to eat the insects of the earth.""

In the Islamic world, cats are respected and protected. There is a story that Mohammed's cat Muezza once fell asleep on the sleeve of his master's robe - instead of disturbing his beloved cat when he had to leave, Mohammed cut off the sleeve of his robe.

Some of the best experiences I had in Turkey involved cats - they are everywhere, well treated and friendly. Things like helping a shopkeeper round up street kittens for their evening meal; dinners under the stars with furry guests; and a shared smile with a homeless man as he opened his jacket to show me the sleeping cat at his side.

But Miriam, we've only just met

I thought I would visit one of the local hamams for a proper Turkish bath - there are several around the Old City that are more than 300 years old, and I thought it would be an excellent way to 'soak' up some culture (groan).

After signing up for the full wash, polish and turtle wax at Cagaloglu Hamam, Miriam Margolyes gave me a very small towel, instructed me to strip off and escorted me into the giant marble hall fitted out with ancient columns and fountains where she mimed that I should splash myself with water to rinse off, and that she would be right back. Unsure of just what to do, I took a surreptitious look to see what the others were doing, and found they were...basically splashing themselves with water. OK, not that complicated!

30 minutes later, I was still sitting naked and wet in Miriam Margoyles bathroom, and with only the ability to order tea in Turkish, I was acutely aware that my negotiating skills were very much restricted. Luckily she finally returned, took me by the hand, and led me to the large heated marble platform in the centre of the room.

There she proceeded to scrub the top layer of my skin off, then roughly kneaded my flesh, whilst I, all soapy slid over the marble dais like a ouija board pointer. At certain points she grabbed my arm and held it close to her to stop me moving, which left me very much at risk of feeling her up. The indignity not complete, she then sat me at her feet and proceeded to roughly wash my hair like I was 3 years old, with suds pouring down my face.

Oh yes, needless to say, I giggled the whole way through. And emerged very clean indeed.

Lines to the fallen

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end, against odds uncountered:
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We will remember them.

Nothing funny to say today, I think everyone should go to Gallipoli at some point.

It's a small world after all

Istanbul is a city split between 2 continents; the Old and New cities sit on the European side, and Asia begins just across the narrow gap of the Bosphorus river, which leads down from the Black Sea. Perhaps influenced perhaps by too many Agatha Christie novels, I was expecting a city of exotic mysticism and faded fin-de-cicle elegance. Instead I found a very modern, friendly city, of course proud of it's heritage, but very much looking forward to the future.

I met Dad at the airport on Sunday afternoon, before we headed off to find our hotel. I had this fantasy of waking up on my birthday to breakfast looking over the Blue Mosque - and the photo above is taken from the hotel terrace! Just perfect.

The next couple of days were spent wandering the city visiting the various mosques and palaces, dodging carpet sellers in the grand bazzar, cat-spotting and eating a lot of pudding.

Oh, and I'm not the only one seeing the similarity - as we were sitting in front of the Blue Mosque, a van drove past and a person yelled out, "Hey! It's Disneyland!"

So why didn't anyone tell me there was an election on?

A passing comment from Fabiano about postal voting forms made me check the NZ Herald website to be surprised with the news that there is an election on this week. Yes, unbelievable, but I had absolutely no idea at all. It's amazing that something so significant back home can have been so totally ignored in the media here, and for the first time I realised how isolated New Zealand really is, other than when it comes to sport.

I've always felt it was important to exercise my right to vote considering that there are still places in the world where women don't get an equal say, so god bless the Internet (small g, big I, you can see which religion I follow), this morning I was able to check I was registered on the electoral role and download voting papers which have been posted out, and yes, my vote will count this year.

Dogs and Mad Englishmen

Go out in the mid-day sun?

Never bet on it in England. While sunny at 9 when I met Dom at Epsom station before heading out to Blenheim for day 2 of the European Eventing Championships, by the time we had arrived the weather was glowering at us, and my idle thought that I might perhaps pick up some gumboots had turned into a critical mission. But then again, when was it that shoe shopping was ever anything else for me?

Saturday is given over to cross-country, which sees riders following a course around the estate and jumping over um... jumps, some of which involve water. Luckily Dom knew the more technical points of the event, otherwise I think I would have been a little lost!

The event also had a retail village which follows the course, allowing you to take time out from watching the event to purchase anything and everything needed for your horse or hound. Did I mention they had shoes? So a lot of time spent wandering the shops, but luckily, like the tube, there was always the guarantee of another horse in 3 minutes time, so we still got to see a lot of the action.

We are fairly sure we saw Zara Phillips, although by that time we were a little distracted defending our fish and chips against the downpour. We did later see the reigning European champion Nicolas Touzaint falling into the lake. Like motor racing it seems that the crashes are the best bit.

Just about everyone had brought their dogs, who all went totally nuts with excitement when they got out of the cars, then were perfectly behaved, until it began raining, when they all began to stare reproachfully at their owners.

But yay, I had finally bought my new baby blue Hunter gummies and so was nice and dry and had a lot of fun jumping in puddles and squishing mud. Now who was I was calling 'mad' again?

Apocaplyse now: rebugs

London... bugger; I'm still only in London.... Every time I think I'm gonna wake up back in the jungle. When I was home after my first tour, it was worse. I'd wake up and there'd be nothing. When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. I'm here a week now... waiting for a mission.... getting softer; every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Charlie squats in the bush, he gets stronger. Each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter.

So arrived home from work yesterday to find Designer Bug Guy napalming the lounge; having come back to check the bed bug situation, he'd discovered that apparently the invaders have spread to every bedroom in the house - except mine luckily. So the whole house has now been liberally soaked in Agent Orange, and we are all busy scratching imaginary itches brought on by the power of suggestion.

Designer Bug Guy - currently writing the bug section of the Backpacker's Ultimate Guide (or B.U.G. - coincidence?) is in high demand around the better-heeled streets of London. Drawing deeply from a fag, he assembled us in the garden to give us our military-style briefing. In marketing-speak I am a 'early adopter' of bed bugs, a trend which will be sweeping the world over the next 12 months - apparenly soon everyone will want them (gotten rid of).

Something I read recently

After the crash of Pan Am 103, the women of Lockerbie set up a laundry project to wash the 11,000 articles of clothing belonging to the victims that were found in the plane’s wreckage. Once the clothes were washed, the women packed and shipped them to the victims’ families around the world.

I love Paris in the summer, because the French aren't there...

Now I know that sounds bad, so I will explain. In August 50% of Paris escapes to the relative cool of the coast, leaving the city quiet, calm and relatively easy to get a table in. And given the amount of food I ate, that's quite a consideration!

But getting ahead of myself; I left Waterloo on the Saturday of a long weekend and arrived in the early afternoon in Paris, to be met off the train by Bertil (lately of my garden, now relocated to Paris) and my cousin Kelly who lives in Amsterdam. After a short metro journey, we emerged from the underground into the middle of Paris! I love the Eurostar.

Bertil proceeded to spend the next 3 days showing us the whole of Paris, which saw us walking from Sacre Coeur, to the Louvre, to the top of the Arc de Triomphe and all over the Left Bank. In the 29 degree weather this was quite a mission, although we were rewarded with large icecreams at suitable junctures, otherwise I think he would have had another French revolution on his hands!

And yet more food - we ate outside on the streetfront for breakfast, and under the Paris stars in the evenings (I counted them, there were 5), and walked home marvelling at the beauty of the city at night, and how hot it still was. Even at 1am I felt safe walking to my hotel by myself through the Marais - as a female in the predominantly gay district I knew I was pretty safe! Yeah Mum, I was careful...

I definately fell in love with the city, and thanks to Bertil for allowing me to walk around aimlessly while making sure I saw the best of the city. I came back very relaxed, and am already calculating how soon I can get back, if only to learn how to stop myself saying 'si' and 'grazie', when I mean 'oui' and 'merci'!

So back to real life with a bump on Tuesday morning, as I stepped off the Eurostar, walked 5 minutes and arrived at work.

On a side note, congratulations to Gabor and Sarah on the birth of their first son Kaspar, the first of a number of happy events that will be happening over the next few months. Glad to hear everyone is happy and healthy.

Free free free

One of the things I love about London is the amount of free stuff you can get here throughout the day. To illustrate; as I cruise through the gym in the morning I pick up a workout towel and a shower towel, and enjoy the complementary shower gel, shampoo and conditioner (which so far seems to be kind on my '50% off' highlights).

On the way to work with one of several radio podcasts playing on my iPod, I stop to pick up my free Metro paper placed for convenience outside each Tube station, and browse for vouchers on my journey - this morning the latest freebie from Marks & Spencer (a higher class of supermarket) was the freshly squeezed orange juice, which went very well with breakfast. Out for another free paper at lunch - the Evening Standard Lite - to see what free events might be on in the evening. At this rate, I may even come home with a few pounds in my pocket.

Or maybe not - I am off to Paris for the bank holiday weekend on Saturday, and something tells me that I won't be completely unable to resist all the fresh baguettes, unpasturised cheeses, handmade chocolates, diptyque candles and bijou shoe stores that the city will profer up...

Oh, and lest you think I have it too easy here - I calculated the other day that I am paying $17,000 a year in rent. Never convert back!

Don't let the bed bugs bite

Well too late for that. I would have expected this in France, but the realisation that the large ugly welts on my arms were bed bug bites from my new house came as a nasty surprise. So I have been stomping around grumpily for a few days now (between bouts of itching) waiting for the landlord to come home to organise some fumigation - as there is basically nothing you can do yourself at home to get rid of them.

It took me until this afternoon to see the funny side - at the memory of me in the dark last night, carefully peeling back the bedclothes like some 3rd rate CSI investigator with a maglight flashlight between my teeth, and using my lint remover to collect 'evidence' from the mattress. I need to stop watching so much TV.

The great tube decal mystery - an interactive blog

So on the crammed rush hour tube everyone is very careful to avoid any eye contact with their fellow commuters that could be mistaken for an acknowlegement they exist. So with little to look out the windows at, you spend a lot of time staring at the ceiling or the ads. In doing so I have become aware of decals at the bottom of the route maps on the wall of the train that carry codes that I just can't seem to work out. I've googled a couple to no avail, so I thought I would see if anyone else had some good ideas.

All the info I have on these are they seem to be 'official', on more than just one line, and appear in series of 3 individual stickers. I can take a photo of the exhibit if this helps anyone! Leave a comment if you have any ideas.

Example 1: BattlS SC comS
Example 2: BIC SC DIC

Updated - here's a photo:

A Cantwarabyrig Tale

Today a visit to Canterbury, most famous for its Cathedral, where in 1170 Thomas a Becket was famously martyred by 4 knights to please Henry II (that Rough Guide is paying off, huh!) Badly bombed in the war, it was still a pleasant place to wander around for the day with some lovely old buildings from as far back as the 16th Century.

I was quite taken by the epitaph in the cathedral for Major Cairnes who "left this sublunary scene" aged 30 - "Brief but most noble was his career and his end most glorious, bravely asserting the cause of a beloved monarch, he fell on the fields of Waterloo". What fantastic language.

I tried something called an Eccles cake today - I didn't know what it was myself, so for those that are wondering, imagine a Christmas mince pie, but without the fruit. I'm not sure why you would do that, but perhaps that kind of explains the Goon show character?

Canterbury is also the birthplace of the creator of Rupert The Bear, and so I visited the Rupert the Bear museum in search of something to post to my nephew.

The lady behind the counter blinked vacantly at me through thick, cokebottle glasses, and while she didn't ask me not to touch her stapler, she and the other occupant of the shop (inexplicably sitting in the middle of the floor) watched me in anxious silence as I perused the lovely things of the shop.

They seemed quite unable to understand even simple words like 'postcard', 'nephew' and 'I'm leaving now because you're scaring me'. This was definately a local shop for local people in every sense I think, and they seemed very relieved when I left without buying anything.

So, sorry Justin, no postcard from Rupert, perhaps we'll have better luck with Paddington, an altogether better class of bear I believe.