There’s something comforting about a good winter coat. They’re warm, protective and personally, I think everyone looks good in one.
When I touched down in London, I was without mine. Three weeks of warm weather and sunshine had rendered me blissfully ignorant to the fact that somewhere in the world – somewhere I would be returning soon – was a place in the midst of one of the coldest winters ever (or so the British keep telling me). My body, which had conveniently forgotten about low single-digit temperatures, quickly lost it and even though a full week has now past, we’re still not really talking to one another.
In turns out London is that cold. Arriving here last summer meant that I barely noticed the seasons turning from lukewarm, to cool, to Icelandic. I think that slow transition may have given me somewhat of an immunity to the true penetration of the cold. It’s kind of like that old corporate analogy – put a frog in a pot of water and turn on the hotplates and it will happily laze around in the Jacuzzi-like conditions, unaware that its insides are slowly turning to soup. However, drop that frog in a pot already boiling and the intensity will make it instantly leap out. Last Saturday, I was that frog. Except the water wasn’t so much boiling as freezing. And I was trying to leap straight back onto the plane, but apparently such rash moves don’t go down well with airport security.
In fairness to London, I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t want to carry a suitcase full of heavy sweaters and coats across the world so I’d packed a light jumper and jacket to wear on my return. What a fool! I convulsed the whole way home, thinking I’d rather be anywhere else than here.
Returning to work only reinforced that train of thought. I spent my first morning questioning why I hadn’t been born into significant wealth, so I could spend my days sailing the Mediterranean and frequenting celebrity hotspots. But I suppose returning to work after a holiday is depressing for everyone. I’ve never met anyone who’s said, ‘thank god that holiday is over. I can’t wait to catch up on emails’. (If you are that person then I don’t think we can be friends anymore.)
My first week back was made more arduous than perhaps necessary due to my required presence at an all-day workshop. One of the presenters started by nonchalantly informing us “I know there’s too much information on this slide, and the text is too small, and you won’t read it, but it’s worth putting up anyway.”
No, it’s not.
There is too much information and the text is too small. And NO! I’m not going to read it. It hurts! It makes me want to scour my eyeballs with the complimentary stationary and move to the mountains where I can raise goats and be far, far away from your masochistic abuse of technology!
My death stares did little to dissuade her from going through each bullet point in detail, proving that there was, in fact, no worth to the slide after all. Perhaps I’m being a little harsh. But I’d just returned from an amazing trip and frankly, this was not the snap to reality I needed.
I’ve been reminding myself that I’ve had the same feelings in the past when I’ve returned to Australia. Over the years I’ve ventured north many times, visiting exciting places and experiencing warmer climates. And every time I returned to Melbourne, I was struck by how cold it was and how Europeans have it so much better. I also harboured significant ill will over the requirement to return to work.
So I think what I have is just a touch of the post-holiday blues rather than anything more sinister. It’s funny, I’ve eagerly anticipated trips to London so many times in the past. But as soon as London becomes home, and I have responsibilities, it all becomes a bit of a drag. I suppose life can’t always be a holiday.
Or can it? I’m in New York in just over a month. I’m going to Spain and Venice as well. I’m turning 30 (I’m totally at peace with it), which of course means parties. And London life is quickly reminding me that there are things to be done here that simply aren’t possible down south.
There’s plenty to distract me from the realities of work, and the cold, until the summer frivolity rolls around. And in the meantime, I’ve got a good winter coat.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Friday, 12 February 2010
Manic Mumbai (a.k.a. longest blog ever)
India has never been a place that held much appeal for me. I thought one day I’d like to see the Taj Mahal, but that’s about it. The rest of India seemed dirty, smelly and dangerous.
So I wasn’t sure how I’d go with a three-day stopover in Mumbai for an Indian wedding. We’d be staying at the Taj Mahal Hotel, but that was some 250 kilometres from the wondrous Palace itself. And I really hadn’t done any research on Mumbai, so I didn’t know anything about the city and the only landmarks that sprung to mind were the shanty towns from Slumdog Millionaire.
When I arrived in Mumbai I was expecting chaos. India’s propensity for colour and bedlam is widely known. So I was not at all surprised to see crates and airport staff sitting scattered along the tarmac at Mumbai airport. In fact, after everything I’d heard it seemed mildly organised. The crates were out of the plane’s path after all.
However, when I entered the terminal it became clear that any organisation was hanging by a thin thread. For example, baggage collection was no straightforward task:
“Passengers on Flight QF 51, you’re baggage can be collected from Carousel Number 1.”
“Passengers on Flights QF 51, you’re baggage can now be collected from Carousel Number 3.”
“Passengers on Flight QF 51, you’re baggage is now on Carousel Number 1.”
As we trudged back to Carousel 1, we overheard a disagreement between two airport staff that tipped us off to the fact that the correct carousel was in fact, Number 3. When we left with our luggage, the correct announcement still hadn’t been made, leaving an airplane full of exhausted passengers getting increasingly irate.
If the taxi ride from the airport hadn’t been so life threatening, it would have made an awesome ride at Disneyland. Crammed into a tiny car, we hurtled through the outskirts of Mumbai. Traffic lights were little more than street art, and I found it quaint that cars with ‘right of way’ would slow at intersections to allow our taxi to fit through the gap in the traffic flow.
Driving through the streets I was confronted with stark scenes of poverty. Scores of people slept on the bare footpath, beggars knocked on the windows when the car was stationary. And the slums were a hotchpotch of hastily thrown together habitats, piled on top of one another (dishearteningly, those I saw were luxurious compared to the larger slums deep in the city). Ramshackle shops bordered the edges of the slums, plastered with Virgin, Vodafone and Pepsi signs. A massive billboard towered above run-down buildings with Ingrid Bergman urging passersby to purchase Mont Blanc products. It all spoke to the duplicity of the city – a metropolis with the extremes of poverty and wealth, but with little more separating the two than police officers brandishing large sticks.
After an hour’s drive, we arrived at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. It was breathtaking, but while I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the lavish beauty of the place, it was somewhat disconcerting to know that I’d be enjoying its comforts when so much of the city slept in considerably less fortunate circumstances. After the attacks on the Hotel little more than a year ago, the establishment was well prepared. Armed guards bordered the entrance and guests underwent airport-like security – but without the attitude. And while it appeared slightly uninviting and excessive, I did sleep easy knowing that a repeat of those terrible events was extremely unlikely.
The touristy bits
While the trip was brief, I was able to experience some of Mumbai. The streets were chaotic – but in a way that became totally energising. Life here is so different that it makes the concept of people watching a more worthwhile exercise.
We took a trip to Elephanta Island, which is an hour boat ride from Mumbai – which says more about the quality of the boats than the actual distance (the ‘captain’ got the engine started by pulling a rope, which signalled the people below to fire things up). The caves were amazing, with massive statues of deities carved into the stone walls. We were lucky enough to go on a festival day, which meant not only was entry free, there were hundreds of people making offerings at the rock alters and idols throughout the caves. Again, it was manic. People crowded in front of Shiva’s giants heads, offering flowers, food and even money to their deities.
There were also monkeys on the island, which I found both adorable and feral. They’d also steal your bag if given half the chance, making them the most pressing threat I experienced in Mumbai. They fascinated me, until I realised their remarkable similarity to humans, particularly in the genital regions - at which point I felt kind of creepy.
I have to also mention that we were a point of fascination for many of the local children and teenagers. I’m guessing it’s because many in villages wouldn’t come across too many Caucasians. They would shake our hands and ask to have photos taking with us. Of course, this totally tapped into every celebrity fantasy I’ve ever had, so I would have been quite content to stay there all day lapping up the attention, however my comrades thought it was best we move on. I’m now investigating real estate on the island.
I suppose I should mention food, which is a concern for every inexperienced traveller to India. I’m not really a fan of curries, or vegetables for that matter, so I did struggle with the food. Don’t get me wrong, what I had was tasty and good quality – and I didn’t need to visit the bathroom more than necessary – it’s just that after a lifetime of meat and three veg, it’s just not my thing. Thankfully, the Hotel’s room service had every type of meat available, 24 hours, and I would regularly make my offering of Rupees to my In-Room Dining idol.
The wedding
Nothing I could write can convey the colour, music and joy of an Indian wedding.
Having missed the village ceremonies, I joined proceedings three days into the event. The day began with a loud street procession to the Taj Mahal Hotel, representing the groom’s traditional journey to the bride’s village. The guests, dressed in ornate Saris and Kurtas, danced through the street in absolute celebration, while tourists stood on the side taking photos. Having been one of those tourists many times before, it was nice to feel part of it this time around.
The ceremony consisted of 16 rituals, starting with the procession and ending with the newly weds departure. Every ritual seemed bizarre and elaborate to me – but then, my only comparison is a western wedding, where the ceremony is really just the bit you have to sit through before you can get pissed. It made me think that the Indians really get it. A wedding is a celebration. And every ritual, and every guest, has a role in adding to the spectacle of it all.
In short, it was one of the best things I’ve ever seen.
A fond farewell
On my last day I decided to have a private yoga session, which was part relaxation, part tribute to my grandmother who had made eight pilgrimages to India to study yoga. It loved it, although the instructor – before we started and after taking just one look at me – told me I needed to tone my lower abdomen. I begrudgingly agreed and let me mind wander briefly to Elephanta Island, my new happy place.
Perhaps a little more wisely, he also said that during the session we ask the universe to make the room a womb, and in that womb we become childlike again and grow and learn so that at the end of the hour, we return to the world a better person. I found this a very powerful analogy, and much like my trip to Mumbai. Three days of wonder, excitement and adjustment. I was a child again, discovering something entirely new about the world, and at times vulnerable and dependent on others. And as I leave Mumbai now, I know I am so much better for the experience.
It has all left me with a craving to return to India. There is so much more I want to see and learn. And the real Taj Mahal doesn’t make the top three.
So I will be back. But I might bring a packed lunch.
So I wasn’t sure how I’d go with a three-day stopover in Mumbai for an Indian wedding. We’d be staying at the Taj Mahal Hotel, but that was some 250 kilometres from the wondrous Palace itself. And I really hadn’t done any research on Mumbai, so I didn’t know anything about the city and the only landmarks that sprung to mind were the shanty towns from Slumdog Millionaire.
When I arrived in Mumbai I was expecting chaos. India’s propensity for colour and bedlam is widely known. So I was not at all surprised to see crates and airport staff sitting scattered along the tarmac at Mumbai airport. In fact, after everything I’d heard it seemed mildly organised. The crates were out of the plane’s path after all.
However, when I entered the terminal it became clear that any organisation was hanging by a thin thread. For example, baggage collection was no straightforward task:
“Passengers on Flight QF 51, you’re baggage can be collected from Carousel Number 1.”
“Passengers on Flights QF 51, you’re baggage can now be collected from Carousel Number 3.”
“Passengers on Flight QF 51, you’re baggage is now on Carousel Number 1.”
As we trudged back to Carousel 1, we overheard a disagreement between two airport staff that tipped us off to the fact that the correct carousel was in fact, Number 3. When we left with our luggage, the correct announcement still hadn’t been made, leaving an airplane full of exhausted passengers getting increasingly irate.
If the taxi ride from the airport hadn’t been so life threatening, it would have made an awesome ride at Disneyland. Crammed into a tiny car, we hurtled through the outskirts of Mumbai. Traffic lights were little more than street art, and I found it quaint that cars with ‘right of way’ would slow at intersections to allow our taxi to fit through the gap in the traffic flow.
Driving through the streets I was confronted with stark scenes of poverty. Scores of people slept on the bare footpath, beggars knocked on the windows when the car was stationary. And the slums were a hotchpotch of hastily thrown together habitats, piled on top of one another (dishearteningly, those I saw were luxurious compared to the larger slums deep in the city). Ramshackle shops bordered the edges of the slums, plastered with Virgin, Vodafone and Pepsi signs. A massive billboard towered above run-down buildings with Ingrid Bergman urging passersby to purchase Mont Blanc products. It all spoke to the duplicity of the city – a metropolis with the extremes of poverty and wealth, but with little more separating the two than police officers brandishing large sticks.
After an hour’s drive, we arrived at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. It was breathtaking, but while I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the lavish beauty of the place, it was somewhat disconcerting to know that I’d be enjoying its comforts when so much of the city slept in considerably less fortunate circumstances. After the attacks on the Hotel little more than a year ago, the establishment was well prepared. Armed guards bordered the entrance and guests underwent airport-like security – but without the attitude. And while it appeared slightly uninviting and excessive, I did sleep easy knowing that a repeat of those terrible events was extremely unlikely.
The touristy bits
While the trip was brief, I was able to experience some of Mumbai. The streets were chaotic – but in a way that became totally energising. Life here is so different that it makes the concept of people watching a more worthwhile exercise.
We took a trip to Elephanta Island, which is an hour boat ride from Mumbai – which says more about the quality of the boats than the actual distance (the ‘captain’ got the engine started by pulling a rope, which signalled the people below to fire things up). The caves were amazing, with massive statues of deities carved into the stone walls. We were lucky enough to go on a festival day, which meant not only was entry free, there were hundreds of people making offerings at the rock alters and idols throughout the caves. Again, it was manic. People crowded in front of Shiva’s giants heads, offering flowers, food and even money to their deities.
There were also monkeys on the island, which I found both adorable and feral. They’d also steal your bag if given half the chance, making them the most pressing threat I experienced in Mumbai. They fascinated me, until I realised their remarkable similarity to humans, particularly in the genital regions - at which point I felt kind of creepy.
I have to also mention that we were a point of fascination for many of the local children and teenagers. I’m guessing it’s because many in villages wouldn’t come across too many Caucasians. They would shake our hands and ask to have photos taking with us. Of course, this totally tapped into every celebrity fantasy I’ve ever had, so I would have been quite content to stay there all day lapping up the attention, however my comrades thought it was best we move on. I’m now investigating real estate on the island.
I suppose I should mention food, which is a concern for every inexperienced traveller to India. I’m not really a fan of curries, or vegetables for that matter, so I did struggle with the food. Don’t get me wrong, what I had was tasty and good quality – and I didn’t need to visit the bathroom more than necessary – it’s just that after a lifetime of meat and three veg, it’s just not my thing. Thankfully, the Hotel’s room service had every type of meat available, 24 hours, and I would regularly make my offering of Rupees to my In-Room Dining idol.
The wedding
Nothing I could write can convey the colour, music and joy of an Indian wedding.
Having missed the village ceremonies, I joined proceedings three days into the event. The day began with a loud street procession to the Taj Mahal Hotel, representing the groom’s traditional journey to the bride’s village. The guests, dressed in ornate Saris and Kurtas, danced through the street in absolute celebration, while tourists stood on the side taking photos. Having been one of those tourists many times before, it was nice to feel part of it this time around.
The ceremony consisted of 16 rituals, starting with the procession and ending with the newly weds departure. Every ritual seemed bizarre and elaborate to me – but then, my only comparison is a western wedding, where the ceremony is really just the bit you have to sit through before you can get pissed. It made me think that the Indians really get it. A wedding is a celebration. And every ritual, and every guest, has a role in adding to the spectacle of it all.
In short, it was one of the best things I’ve ever seen.
A fond farewell
On my last day I decided to have a private yoga session, which was part relaxation, part tribute to my grandmother who had made eight pilgrimages to India to study yoga. It loved it, although the instructor – before we started and after taking just one look at me – told me I needed to tone my lower abdomen. I begrudgingly agreed and let me mind wander briefly to Elephanta Island, my new happy place.
Perhaps a little more wisely, he also said that during the session we ask the universe to make the room a womb, and in that womb we become childlike again and grow and learn so that at the end of the hour, we return to the world a better person. I found this a very powerful analogy, and much like my trip to Mumbai. Three days of wonder, excitement and adjustment. I was a child again, discovering something entirely new about the world, and at times vulnerable and dependent on others. And as I leave Mumbai now, I know I am so much better for the experience.
It has all left me with a craving to return to India. There is so much more I want to see and learn. And the real Taj Mahal doesn’t make the top three.
So I will be back. But I might bring a packed lunch.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
Transition
So I may have been a little eager to shout out how keen I was to get back to London.
I mean, I am. Of course.
But damn, this whole leaving thing can be really hard.
Over the years I’ve had many friends venture overseas and they’ve always handled the life change with pizzazz. For them it’s just like slipping on a new outfit, designer of course. For me however, it’s starting to feel more like an old pair of comfy track pants I’m reluctant to take off.
Now that I’ve gone through this twice, the whole experience reminds me of those last ten minutes in ‘Six Feet Under’. For those who find ‘Six Feet Under’ too obscure a reference, firstly, what are you doing? See it. Now. Secondly, the last ten minutes (without spoiling anything) is both amazing and devastating. In equal amounts.
That’s how leaving, both times, has felt. Amazing in terms of a new life for the taking. Devastating that indeed, everything does end. When I’m in Melbourne, or London, neither extreme is immediately apparent. It’s only in the transition that what I stand to gain, and lose, bludgeons me over the head.
It’s been good to remember that Melbourne really does rock. Despite my initial hesitations, the weather, the coffee, the people (and the bacon) eventually (cruelly) reminded me that I have left a lot behind by moving overseas.
It reminded me too that I very much have a past. I can pretend that past vanished when I traded my thongs (who calls them ‘flip flops’, really?) for several layers of heavy fleece, but it’s still there. It also reminded me that that is a good thing.
A surprising high point. I went into “work” for a visit – that being my non-UK work (I’m on a career break) and I was treated like a bit of a rock star (which I handled with all the grace of Mariah Carey at an awards ceremony). People warmly encouraged me to come back, soon, (which I suspect could have more to do with their workloads than any compelling desire to see my face every day). Outside of work, friends told me they missed me. Even my sisters were nice to me.
In short, I felt appreciated. Which is all anyone really wants in life, right? So why am I giving it all up? Again.
It’s led me to think about 2010 – my Year of Taking Chances. I’ve decided that this is the year it’s going to happen. I’ve had to make some sacrifices, and now it’s time for the pay off. It’s like the universe is saying, ‘really, we want you to stay. You should stay. But if you can convince us this whole London thing will do you good, then you go and prove it to us.’
Get ready to have your arse kicked 2010.
I mean, I am. Of course.
But damn, this whole leaving thing can be really hard.
Over the years I’ve had many friends venture overseas and they’ve always handled the life change with pizzazz. For them it’s just like slipping on a new outfit, designer of course. For me however, it’s starting to feel more like an old pair of comfy track pants I’m reluctant to take off.
Now that I’ve gone through this twice, the whole experience reminds me of those last ten minutes in ‘Six Feet Under’. For those who find ‘Six Feet Under’ too obscure a reference, firstly, what are you doing? See it. Now. Secondly, the last ten minutes (without spoiling anything) is both amazing and devastating. In equal amounts.
That’s how leaving, both times, has felt. Amazing in terms of a new life for the taking. Devastating that indeed, everything does end. When I’m in Melbourne, or London, neither extreme is immediately apparent. It’s only in the transition that what I stand to gain, and lose, bludgeons me over the head.
It’s been good to remember that Melbourne really does rock. Despite my initial hesitations, the weather, the coffee, the people (and the bacon) eventually (cruelly) reminded me that I have left a lot behind by moving overseas.
It reminded me too that I very much have a past. I can pretend that past vanished when I traded my thongs (who calls them ‘flip flops’, really?) for several layers of heavy fleece, but it’s still there. It also reminded me that that is a good thing.
A surprising high point. I went into “work” for a visit – that being my non-UK work (I’m on a career break) and I was treated like a bit of a rock star (which I handled with all the grace of Mariah Carey at an awards ceremony). People warmly encouraged me to come back, soon, (which I suspect could have more to do with their workloads than any compelling desire to see my face every day). Outside of work, friends told me they missed me. Even my sisters were nice to me.
In short, I felt appreciated. Which is all anyone really wants in life, right? So why am I giving it all up? Again.
It’s led me to think about 2010 – my Year of Taking Chances. I’ve decided that this is the year it’s going to happen. I’ve had to make some sacrifices, and now it’s time for the pay off. It’s like the universe is saying, ‘really, we want you to stay. You should stay. But if you can convince us this whole London thing will do you good, then you go and prove it to us.’
Get ready to have your arse kicked 2010.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Return to Oz
I’m totally aware of the irony in writing my next entry about the transition to London from a beach in Australia.
It reminds me just how different Australia is to the UK, despite our convict connections. I’m yet to even see a beach in England. I’ve heard they exist, but then again, some people think there’s a monster in the Loch Ness too.
But anyway, my return Down Under. After a day or two of weird, I’m back in the Melbourne swing of things.
My first day back I did feel like an imposter, no longer part of the tribe. Bronzed waifs danced the streets in front of me, attired in short shorts and sporting bras. The women weren’t wearing much either. I, on the other hand, was a pastey shade of pale and the only thing waif about me was the fact I’d skipped that fourth breakfast offered on the ludicrously long-haul flight.
At first, I was struck by how the familiar had become unfamiliar. I can’t put my finger on exactly what had changed. I think it was more that living in another place had given me a warped perspective of my old town. The buildings that had fit so perfectly together before now appeared slightly mismatched. I found myself thinking “I’m not sure that really works” more often than I care to admit. It also didn’t help that the city was full of tourists and undesirables, buzzing around in a drunken Australian Open frenzy. I was left with a devastating impression that Melbourne had lost its class.
But day-by-day, the great about Melbourne revealed itself and I remembered the mise en scène is inconsequential to Melbourne. It’s about the people. And the food.
It’s been so great catching up with friends. Each conversation is a happy overload – six months of good times and anecdotes to cram into a few minutes of conversation. Nothing is boring. Except perhaps me and my repetitive take on life in London and how really, it’s not that cold.
The sun is behaving too. Admittedly, a few extra degrees wouldn’t go astray, but by and large it’s warm and sunny, as evidenced by the random burn marks on my feet. And I can’t wash my hair without a burning sensation. I really don’t know how the entire Slip, Slop, Slap campaign passed me by.
I’m getting to do some of my favourite things. Most involve putting on kilos and destroying my liver, but damn, if you’re going to do it, Melbourne is the place. I was also able to go to the Quarter Finals of the Australian Open which filled me with an extra sense of national pride, not because any Australians were playing but because I knew I’d have more chance becoming a member of the tennis sporting elite than I would have getting a ground pass to Wimbledon. I think I’ve said it before; Australia is easy.
Which all leads to the million dollar question – is it making me want to stay?
Not bloody likely. I still have a week to go but at the halfway mark, I can say I’m looking forward to going back. Mum will be devastated with the news, but the experience has been a nice reminder that Australia will always be here for me when I need her. Which is not right now.
David asked me, what exactly is it that you are looking forward to going back to in London. My mind went blank at first. But then, slowly, it came to me.
“I’m looking forward to getting back to the journey,” I said. “In London, I don’t have a past.”
I can’t wait to get back there and start creating one.
It reminds me just how different Australia is to the UK, despite our convict connections. I’m yet to even see a beach in England. I’ve heard they exist, but then again, some people think there’s a monster in the Loch Ness too.
But anyway, my return Down Under. After a day or two of weird, I’m back in the Melbourne swing of things.
My first day back I did feel like an imposter, no longer part of the tribe. Bronzed waifs danced the streets in front of me, attired in short shorts and sporting bras. The women weren’t wearing much either. I, on the other hand, was a pastey shade of pale and the only thing waif about me was the fact I’d skipped that fourth breakfast offered on the ludicrously long-haul flight.
At first, I was struck by how the familiar had become unfamiliar. I can’t put my finger on exactly what had changed. I think it was more that living in another place had given me a warped perspective of my old town. The buildings that had fit so perfectly together before now appeared slightly mismatched. I found myself thinking “I’m not sure that really works” more often than I care to admit. It also didn’t help that the city was full of tourists and undesirables, buzzing around in a drunken Australian Open frenzy. I was left with a devastating impression that Melbourne had lost its class.
But day-by-day, the great about Melbourne revealed itself and I remembered the mise en scène is inconsequential to Melbourne. It’s about the people. And the food.
It’s been so great catching up with friends. Each conversation is a happy overload – six months of good times and anecdotes to cram into a few minutes of conversation. Nothing is boring. Except perhaps me and my repetitive take on life in London and how really, it’s not that cold.
The sun is behaving too. Admittedly, a few extra degrees wouldn’t go astray, but by and large it’s warm and sunny, as evidenced by the random burn marks on my feet. And I can’t wash my hair without a burning sensation. I really don’t know how the entire Slip, Slop, Slap campaign passed me by.
I’m getting to do some of my favourite things. Most involve putting on kilos and destroying my liver, but damn, if you’re going to do it, Melbourne is the place. I was also able to go to the Quarter Finals of the Australian Open which filled me with an extra sense of national pride, not because any Australians were playing but because I knew I’d have more chance becoming a member of the tennis sporting elite than I would have getting a ground pass to Wimbledon. I think I’ve said it before; Australia is easy.
Which all leads to the million dollar question – is it making me want to stay?
Not bloody likely. I still have a week to go but at the halfway mark, I can say I’m looking forward to going back. Mum will be devastated with the news, but the experience has been a nice reminder that Australia will always be here for me when I need her. Which is not right now.
David asked me, what exactly is it that you are looking forward to going back to in London. My mind went blank at first. But then, slowly, it came to me.
“I’m looking forward to getting back to the journey,” I said. “In London, I don’t have a past.”
I can’t wait to get back there and start creating one.
Friday, 22 January 2010
Return ticket
I’ve made this trip many times before. However, this is my first time leaving London holding a return ticket.
It’s a bizarre feeling. The thought of going home for an overseas holiday is a little hard to compute. It’s home! Australia isn’t overseas!
It’s caught me a bit off guard. Compared with trips in my early 20’s, the anticipation hasn’t been quite as strong. After all, I know what’s coming. There’s no need for guidebooks, I know my way around. And there’s really no need to plan what to pack. I know where to go if I need something.
I know I’m ok in Australia. It’s easy.
That sense of security caught me off guard late last night, when it finally sank in that I was about to take the long haul flight and I wasn’t at all prepared. I was up until the early hours chaotically throwing whatever was on the floor into a suitcase. Normally a meticulous ‘roller’, I could only manage to scrunch clothes into a ball and toss them onto the pile. Before I knew it, I was a few hours away from my flight with no clear strategy on how I’d even get to the airport. Evidently, peak hour plus luggage makes me the most unpopular boy on the Tube.
Now that I’ve had a chance to catch my breath here at the airport, I’m thinking, wow. Wow, I’m going home. But wow, home’s not really home. Wow, it turns out I really don’t know what to expect after all. It’s kind of freaking me out! (The complimentary vodkas may be a contributing factor.)
When I booked my ticket back to Australia all those months ago, I was so excited. London was hard. I was navigating so many things; new job, different culture, no friends, new friends. It was exhausting! And while I was determined to see it through, the idea of a little reprieve was very appealing.
And then London crept up on me. I began to get some rhythm. I learnt how to weave through the hoards during the peak hour crush (I hardly knock anyone over anymore). I taught myself tricks on how to beat the cold (mostly beer and central heating – I still haven’t come to grips with thermals). And I found some great people in this city, with more arriving every day or so it seems.
Now that I’ve found that rhythm, I want to stand still a while and let it flow. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally looking forward to catching up with the people I’ve missed. The sunshine and I have so much catching up to do. And I do love Melbourne. But part of me feels a couple more months in London before returning wouldn’t have gone astray.
I suppose I’m just a touch afraid that I’ll return to London and be offbeat again. That the lure of old friends, warm weather and yes, decent coffee, might mean having to go through the adjusting one more time.
But then I suppose there are worse positions to be in. Woe is me! I have to return to a sun-soaked country for an awesome time before resuming my trip of a lifetime. How terrible!
And I get to go back with a fabulous tan.
It’s a bizarre feeling. The thought of going home for an overseas holiday is a little hard to compute. It’s home! Australia isn’t overseas!
It’s caught me a bit off guard. Compared with trips in my early 20’s, the anticipation hasn’t been quite as strong. After all, I know what’s coming. There’s no need for guidebooks, I know my way around. And there’s really no need to plan what to pack. I know where to go if I need something.
I know I’m ok in Australia. It’s easy.
That sense of security caught me off guard late last night, when it finally sank in that I was about to take the long haul flight and I wasn’t at all prepared. I was up until the early hours chaotically throwing whatever was on the floor into a suitcase. Normally a meticulous ‘roller’, I could only manage to scrunch clothes into a ball and toss them onto the pile. Before I knew it, I was a few hours away from my flight with no clear strategy on how I’d even get to the airport. Evidently, peak hour plus luggage makes me the most unpopular boy on the Tube.
Now that I’ve had a chance to catch my breath here at the airport, I’m thinking, wow. Wow, I’m going home. But wow, home’s not really home. Wow, it turns out I really don’t know what to expect after all. It’s kind of freaking me out! (The complimentary vodkas may be a contributing factor.)
When I booked my ticket back to Australia all those months ago, I was so excited. London was hard. I was navigating so many things; new job, different culture, no friends, new friends. It was exhausting! And while I was determined to see it through, the idea of a little reprieve was very appealing.
And then London crept up on me. I began to get some rhythm. I learnt how to weave through the hoards during the peak hour crush (I hardly knock anyone over anymore). I taught myself tricks on how to beat the cold (mostly beer and central heating – I still haven’t come to grips with thermals). And I found some great people in this city, with more arriving every day or so it seems.
Now that I’ve found that rhythm, I want to stand still a while and let it flow. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally looking forward to catching up with the people I’ve missed. The sunshine and I have so much catching up to do. And I do love Melbourne. But part of me feels a couple more months in London before returning wouldn’t have gone astray.
I suppose I’m just a touch afraid that I’ll return to London and be offbeat again. That the lure of old friends, warm weather and yes, decent coffee, might mean having to go through the adjusting one more time.
But then I suppose there are worse positions to be in. Woe is me! I have to return to a sun-soaked country for an awesome time before resuming my trip of a lifetime. How terrible!
And I get to go back with a fabulous tan.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Turning Point
When I left Australia I told myself that if I hadn’t made it in London within six months, I’d turn around and come home with my tail between my legs.
Low and behold, I’ve just looked up and realised six months is up. Half a year ago to the day I stepped off the plane and cruised through passport control, ready to own London. I felt confident, excited and secure knowing that London and I were going to get on like a house on fire. It took me 20 minutes to realise I was waiting at the wrong baggage carousel.
Not a great start. Since then I’ve had regular reminders that in order to survive London, or any unfamiliar place I suppose, you have to learn you’re the master of nothing.
Case in point, one of my first job interviews went ridiculously well. We got to chatting, had a few laughs and the whole affair went 20 minutes longer than scheduled - evidence of the great time we were clearly having. I was so happy with how it went that I rang my recruitment agent immediately to let her know what a star candidate she had on her books. A couple of hours later she rang me back to let me know I had failed to make the second round.
So evidently it’s best not to get cocky about anything.
(Although interestingly in the next interview I had, the dragon lady interrogating me had me contemplating tears. Blubbering mess. Yet somehow, the feedback I received there was ‘He’s good. He’d do well here”.)
I’m sure it’s really just a fact of life, something we all need to be in-tune with rather than a location-specific phenomenon. The point is, when you’re out of your comfort zone, you become acutely aware of each misstep and every little thing that doesn’t go quite right. Even inadvertently heading North instead of South when emerging from the Tube has the potential to send you into a round of ‘what am I doing here? I mean really doing here?’
But I suppose it’s made the six months feel more worthwhile in a way. The feelings of uselessness are nothing compared to the sensation of accomplishment when you overcome a new problem. The sense of personal triumph I had when I finally figured out how to top-up my Oyster Card without patrons behind me swearing furiously was one of the best highs I’ve had.
But enough nazel gazing! To commemorate my six months in London, I made a list. Everybody loves a list!
Things I love about London
1. Europe, just over there
2. Public transport (the Tube really is impressive. Even the signage is impressive. I’ve never been so impressed by signage before)
3. Earning Pounds (so much better than not earning pounds)
4. Pints
5. Snow
6. The West End
7. History, everywhere
8. Parties wherever, whenever
9. Christmas lights
10. Coffee houses run by Australians (reluctantly I admit the New Zealanders also make a decent coffee).
And no list of favourite things would be complete without a list of not-so-favourite things:
Things I don’t love so much about London
1. Ryanair (this should really be Number One on my ‘Things I hate about life’ list)
2. Public transport (overcrowding and ludicrously restricted operating hours for a city of many, many millions)
3. Employment (for a smorgasbord of reasons, which I shan’t share due to the fact I’d like to keep earning pounds)
4. Beer belly
5. The weather
6. Crowds
7. Tourists (how quickly I forget)
8. Whole days lost to recovering
9. Darkness
10. London ‘coffee’.
Yes, the two lists are linked. That actually happened by accident (by and large), and it was a nice realisation to see the things that frustrate me often mean good times ahead. Except for London coffee. No good times there.
Anyway, happy anniversary to me. As it turns out I am going home next week. But just for a holiday. And very much with my tail in the air.
By the way, a few people have been asking me what I ended up doing for the New Year’s weekend (you read my blog, YAY!). I won’t bore you with the details, (my Mum reads this after all) but it involves a whole lot of Number 8. From both lists.
Low and behold, I’ve just looked up and realised six months is up. Half a year ago to the day I stepped off the plane and cruised through passport control, ready to own London. I felt confident, excited and secure knowing that London and I were going to get on like a house on fire. It took me 20 minutes to realise I was waiting at the wrong baggage carousel.
Not a great start. Since then I’ve had regular reminders that in order to survive London, or any unfamiliar place I suppose, you have to learn you’re the master of nothing.
Case in point, one of my first job interviews went ridiculously well. We got to chatting, had a few laughs and the whole affair went 20 minutes longer than scheduled - evidence of the great time we were clearly having. I was so happy with how it went that I rang my recruitment agent immediately to let her know what a star candidate she had on her books. A couple of hours later she rang me back to let me know I had failed to make the second round.
So evidently it’s best not to get cocky about anything.
(Although interestingly in the next interview I had, the dragon lady interrogating me had me contemplating tears. Blubbering mess. Yet somehow, the feedback I received there was ‘He’s good. He’d do well here”.)
I’m sure it’s really just a fact of life, something we all need to be in-tune with rather than a location-specific phenomenon. The point is, when you’re out of your comfort zone, you become acutely aware of each misstep and every little thing that doesn’t go quite right. Even inadvertently heading North instead of South when emerging from the Tube has the potential to send you into a round of ‘what am I doing here? I mean really doing here?’
But I suppose it’s made the six months feel more worthwhile in a way. The feelings of uselessness are nothing compared to the sensation of accomplishment when you overcome a new problem. The sense of personal triumph I had when I finally figured out how to top-up my Oyster Card without patrons behind me swearing furiously was one of the best highs I’ve had.
But enough nazel gazing! To commemorate my six months in London, I made a list. Everybody loves a list!
Things I love about London
1. Europe, just over there
2. Public transport (the Tube really is impressive. Even the signage is impressive. I’ve never been so impressed by signage before)
3. Earning Pounds (so much better than not earning pounds)
4. Pints
5. Snow
6. The West End
7. History, everywhere
8. Parties wherever, whenever
9. Christmas lights
10. Coffee houses run by Australians (reluctantly I admit the New Zealanders also make a decent coffee).
And no list of favourite things would be complete without a list of not-so-favourite things:
Things I don’t love so much about London
1. Ryanair (this should really be Number One on my ‘Things I hate about life’ list)
2. Public transport (overcrowding and ludicrously restricted operating hours for a city of many, many millions)
3. Employment (for a smorgasbord of reasons, which I shan’t share due to the fact I’d like to keep earning pounds)
4. Beer belly
5. The weather
6. Crowds
7. Tourists (how quickly I forget)
8. Whole days lost to recovering
9. Darkness
10. London ‘coffee’.
Yes, the two lists are linked. That actually happened by accident (by and large), and it was a nice realisation to see the things that frustrate me often mean good times ahead. Except for London coffee. No good times there.
Anyway, happy anniversary to me. As it turns out I am going home next week. But just for a holiday. And very much with my tail in the air.
By the way, a few people have been asking me what I ended up doing for the New Year’s weekend (you read my blog, YAY!). I won’t bore you with the details, (my Mum reads this after all) but it involves a whole lot of Number 8. From both lists.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
50% chance of rain
So, London weather.
It’s an apt topic because right now I’m sitting before quite possibly the largest snowflakes in the history of time. If not, they’re at least the biggest damned snowflakes I’ve ever seen. But more about snow later.
When I made the decision to move to this part of the world, I was generally greeted with one of two reactions: “That is so fantastic, you’re going to have an amazing time”. Or, perhaps more commonly: “You’re insane. You know it’s cold right?” There was also a third reaction: “Are you sure that’s wise? We are in a global financial crisis.” But that one was mostly thrown at me by my mother and grandfather, who both had a vested interest in scaring the hell out of me. (To this day I still receive articles from my mother regarding the derelict state of the UK.)
Honestly, the job stuff didn’t bother me. Too much. The weather? I was having a harder time warming to the notorious weather.
The week I arrived in London was horrible. The skyline was a constant ominous grey. My flimsy Australian jumpers were clearly going to do diddlysquat. And the skies opened regularly, ridiculing me for daring to challenge them without an umbrella.
It was the middle of summer.
The sting of it was made that much sharper due to the fact I had arrived via New York, where, with the exception of a torrential downpour here and there, the air was hot and the sunshine plentiful. If summer had a Facebook page, I’d be its Number One fan (oh look, it does!) and I was relishing the chance to lap it up in shorts during the month of July (until I suffered a vicious attack by what could only have been a large nation of sandflies). However, after two days in London it was clear that I was faced with the daunting prospect that I may never wear shorts again.
But as I became quickly accustomed to my new life, and I stopped looking for reasons why I would fail at it, the weather stopped bothering me as much. London even eventually laid out her finest for me. August was beautiful. It was warm, and the previously drab buildings positively shone. I spent many an unemployed day lazing in parks, sampling crisps and reading the Twilight series. (It still hurts to think I wasted possibly the most free time I’ll ever have in my life with that drivel, but that’s for another entry.)
After I saw what London could be, I figured I could handle its worst. What’s more, the biting cold that people had taken such enjoyment in warning me about didn’t eventuate through September, or October, or November. And then December hit.
Now for the record, the cold and the darkness are, by and large, manageable. There have been a couple of days where I was in serious danger of losing an appendage, but those times simply served as a reminder that layers are a wise investment. And there is snow. SNOW! The first day I saw snow falling from the office windows, I was straight outside in my suit cavorting merrily, stirring my colleagues to dryly remark, “oh that’s right, you’re Australian.”
What does annoy me about the weather, is not really the weather at all. It’s not the snow, nor the rain, nor the cold. It’s London’s inability to cope with any of these factors. London shuts down. Transport stops. People leave work early with fear in their eyes. There are times when I feel I need to give London a good bitchslap and remind her she’s a major international city. She can’t keep hiding under the covers every time she feels a little frostbite coming on.
A quick example from just two weeks ago. The snow which had fallen was now ice, putting an abrupt end to that love affair, and London succumbed to chaos.
It took me over two hours to get home that day – a journey normally taking no more than 45 minutes. Any form of transport that wasn’t a mile underground simply wasn’t operating and hundreds of people were locked out of major train stations and kept at bay by police officers with dogs. Passengers who were lucky enough to catch a passing bus were soon offloaded and told to walk.
I was lucky, I only had to walk some three kilometres through the sludge and ice. My shoes were soon full of water and it was difficult to keep my footing – making it a very slow, arduous journey. Street lights bled through the mist and the ice rendered everything bleak. It was apocalyptic. Hundreds of weary people shuffled through the streets, hunched over and often ending on their backsides. Cars were banked up, incapable of moving except to slide across the ice. It really was easy to imagine that this could be the end of the world. Or at least, a movie about the end of the world.
Ok, so I suppose it was kind of cool. Although my shoes were ruined. That really did annoy me.
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