So much has happened since we last caught up. Where to start? Well, I'm 30. It happened and contrary to the self-induced trauma, it turns out the sky does not cave in and grey strands can be plucked. My 30th itself was, in short, a ridiculous indulgence. I’d dubbed it the Festival of Me and I wasn’t far wrong. Two weeks of dinners, drinks and friends that left my waistline much fatter but unfortunately not my wallet. If you ask me though, it was the hottest ticket in town.
Friends and family had travelled from Australia to celebrate (along with some locals) during what has turned out to be an unseasonably warm Summer (oops, spoke to soon, it’s raining). Following a week of intensive London sightseeing with Mum (which I suspect left her thinking my photo on the mantel is just as good as the real thing) a group of us continued on to Spain for some hardcore villa relaxation.
The villa’s charm was also its downfall. It was remote. Well, inaccessible. In reality, it was probably only a couple of miles out of town, but the winding dirt trail – which was more pothole than road - meant taxi’s flatly refused to go there; a fact we struggled to comprehend at four in the morning after a heavy night. I suspect if there is any cctv footage of that night, it will end up on some manner of reality television program about nightmare tourists. In our defence, the locals did have sympathy with our plight and chimed-in with the abuse of the taxi drivers. Well, one local anyway. But it turned out he fancied one of the girls, so his solidarity probably wasn’t that noble.
But I digress. What the villa lacked in proximity, it more than made up for in stunning beauty. Set atop the hills of the Garruf National Park, there was not another property in sight. Nothing to distract you but the heat of the sun and the opening of another bottle. The villa was set over three levels and had all the mod-cons one expects from an extravagant hideaway: plasma, swimming pool, build in bbq large enough to bake a whole lamb (or so the grounds man proudly informed us). And while I generally only use a kitchen to brush my teeth when others occupy the bathroom, the villa’s gargantuan kitchen with it’s stone basin and oversized rustic table made me want to pull out a whisk and start souffléing something.
The general gist is that the place was magnificent and returning home was far more depressing than turning 30 ever could be.
My 30th also coincided, more or less, with another significant milestone – one year in London. I’d prepared myself for the anniversary to feel like a big deal. It didn’t. In fact, it nearly passed by unnoticed. I suppose so much has been going on that surviving one-year here seemed a little inconsequential. (Note to self: it probably does warrant it’s own blog entry though.)
But such milestones do inevitably shift your focus and it has certainly made me realise that my bank balance is a little starved. I’m (naively) expecting the Pound to return to its former glory and would like to have some money to send home when it does. So I’ve decided I need to calm down a little in Year Two. In direct contradiction, I’ve also decided I need to see more of Europe. Much more. It was one of the main reasons I came over here, however despite my semi-frequent trips across the Channel, I seem to gravitate towards the places I’ve already seen. This must be remedied.
Sadly, I’ve come to the conclusion that this might mean I need to start by getting over New York. As I prepare for my fifth trip back in 14 months, I think I need to break it to her that I’m a little hooked and perhaps we should see a little less of each other. A break, if you will. One where I can see other cities. Just for a little while.
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