Home sweet home

I have frequently talked about travel, the places I have been to, the things I have seen. I could set up my own version of trip advisor I have stayed in so many places. In the last few years, I have stayed in so many places, but it’s the sheer range that amuses me. When I first started to travel, whilst I was still at university, it mostly hostels. Sometimes this worked out rather well. I stayed in a hostel for three months in New York, just a few blocks from Colombia University. The real bonus of that was laid back group of people I could mix with. However, it took the blackout across most of the North East of America to bring us together. I was working vampire shifts at the time, so it was hardly conducive to meeting people, other than at night clubs. Obviously without a functioning subway; there was little chance of going anywhere. Most of the residential buildings near Riverside Park are six stories high, and without street lights, it was almost impossible to climb the stairs, everyone spilled out onto the streets that balmy night. Most of the people staying at the hostel were seeking their first big adventure or career push and were hoping to make it there; it was up to New York, New York, New York. That night was a welcome break, a chance to discover the dusk without the Neon Blue lights and bees’ nest of downtown. Many places that people stay on holiday, it is the building, the room the facilities that count, a chocolate mint on the pillow. In some ways, I never lost my love of hostels, even if I can afford far better places, the human possibilities for contact reaching from new friends to chats with new acquaintances, as opposed to an employee’s welcome. I met two Swedish brothers up to tricks, who were very comfortable with a distinct lack of clothing. They would often answer the door in nothing at all, and I would stand there in the hallway whilst everyone could see them; I maintained ‘British’ eye contact. I think they were encouraged by the American girls. Often a night out would end up with one of the brothers kicking the other one out because of local success. I got to hang out with boys in a platonic way, I took the place of active observer and it was a great lesson in male behaviour which helped me when I became single. I also had a secret, that is, it was a secret I kept from him. It was an early twenties giggle, a secret in the playground, with only one person playing tag. I privately swooned over this modern Robinson Crusoe. He was probably the scruffiest man I have ever been attracted to, and probably the answer to why I don’t mind beards, not that I was ever that close to test out my theories. Thankfully, on some occasions; I conversed with him at a level beyond bimbo. We would talk and watch the rats run from one pile of trash bags to the next. We established that the rats in New York have a healthy lunch. At other times, there was a guy from Seattle and he would play his guitar and we would all sings songs on the steps of the hostel, bottles of wine getting warmer in their brown paper jackets on the frequently airless nights. On one occasion, we had to perform dares and I managed to get him to wear one of my bras, even if he did spoil it by wearing the bra over his top, it was hysterical. I don’t think that the luxury of having now stayed at several fantastic five star hotels will ever wear off, but essentially, a building is a building, with concrete, bricks and glass, much the same as the next. In my professional career, I have been placed in villages, town and cities all over world, the quirky nature of which would surprise even Lady Gaga. I stayed in a small villa with a family in Sri Lanka for a research trip for my master’s degree. It was the first time I had witnessed third world poverty. It was easy to be fooled by the exotic location at first, but you soon come to notice things, and then forget them. Every day I would wake to the sound of competitive chants of the Islamic call for prayer and Christian calls for payer. I would be driven by the family to work shortly after a cold shower, at about 6am. The only part of their morning routine I could not manage was eating curry for breakfast. The mother would roll little parcels of curry and rice into newspaper for each family of the family. She always ate her breakfast upon arrival at work and I would buy little curried egg rolls. Every day before entering work, our bags would be checked for bombs, there was always the chance that someone else would plant bombs into our bags. We would travel home on the bus together; I always knew when we were nearly home. I could smell the rubbish tip just outside where we changed buses in a dusty shopping village near by the family’s house. The bulls and cows roamed freely over the peak of the tip and grazed on whatever was not plastic or tin. In the village, we would pass an old man, he was black like a currant; he sat like a question mark in the passage way to the next bus stop. I had thought to give him money, but I was told he was most likely just a begging slave. I always noticed a lot of stares as we travelled on our way home, it was quite a site for the people in the village to see a white woman following a Sri Lankan woman. It was even more of a spectacle when I managed that journey with some set phrases by myself, just because I knew exactly where I was going. I was very proud of myself when I made that journey home from Kandy and I didn’t even call the family to ask for help. Even to this day, I love trying to use local transport, as opposed to swanning around in taxis and tuk tuks. There were also evening rituals I came to love. Every day, it was job to scrap out a coconut to make milk for the curry, and in return, the mother would cut down a papaya fruit from the tree to make some juice for me. Out of respect for the family, I kept to the same spending habits, with the exception of one occasion when I had a foot massage. I begged the daughter not to say anything, but she did anyway. I felt so gulity that I felt obliged to give the mother one, I now understand why everyone makes such a big deal of the fact Jesus washed his disciples feet. Out of silent gratitude to the family, I tried to do everything they way they lived; it was only at the end of my stay when I found out that there was a hot shower in the master bedroom. When I first arrived in Russia, I took a training course and was placed in a typical Soviet era flat at the last stop of the metro, some forty minutes away from Tverskaya. It was my first visit to Russia and I landed at 4am in the morning and I was taken to a flat with contrasting patterns of jaded orange and brown. After the fuzziness of travelling, temporary shelter in any colour scheme is well received. I awoke the next day to find my roommate and I were locked in by an unsurpassable iron door. Later that day, I went for a run and realised I had no idea which building was mine and I could not speak Russian; it took an hour to find my apartment. It was easier when I lived in the countryside; I lived in a gated community which was surrounded by little Russian, wooden cottages and a number of stray dogs baying for my flesh. I know what would have happened should I have ever been caught in the snow. For one week in Austria, I was sent to work in a very small village where there is a major rail interchange. I had thought it would be a bustling town before arrival, but soon realised when all my colleagues were collected by local residents and not by taxi, that this was not the case. For one week, I lived in a convent, which could only be reached via a road, up a hill, through the woods which inclined so steeply, even a champion cyclist would have climbed down to walk. We were at the mercy of the punctual, routine of the nuns to provide for us. Every meal was served with a smile and attempts at German to show my gratitude and to provide entertainment. There were only two buses a day which passed the convent and after 7pm at night, the taxis in the village would not take passengers. It was an area of lonely magnificence, but when the light faded in the evening, I did not stay in the village centre long enough to become wolf food. The men and women were segregated in different wings of the building. I work in a male dominated industry and found myself all alone in the wing. My room was very pretty, with the old dusk of yellow on the walls and a patch work quilt; however it was stony quiet until morning bird song. At night time, I don’t think any number of crosses over my bed would have stopped my active imagination from believing that ghosts and Dracula were present in the dimly hallway to visit the bathroom. I would look back at every angle behind me, once was I spooked by one of the nuns, gliding in her long, white, night dress. More recently, I found myself accommodated in a fort, and for the time being, it has cured my internet addiction, the walls were about a metre thick and telephone signal was impossible. My friends took some convincing that they didn’t need further details of my address, other than X fort and, “look up the hill, you can’t miss it”. There was a warren of dangerous tunnels, some of which could have led to my untimely death into a moat. Although perhaps no place was more aptly named than my residence in Ethiopia, Akaki. I had my own small apartment there and on my days off, I managed to take the taxi buses to the Addis Ababa, which was essential, there was nothing in Akaki. In comparison to the world outside our gate, I knew I lived in luxury, with an on- site generator, water and the odd shower. Every day, on the coach to work, I would see cardboard communities peer out of their boxes and plastic sheets, out popped people dressed respectably, fit enough to be a butler. At the weekend, I would watch the community come down to the river and clean their clothes and hang them by the riverbank. Even if the occasional wash in a water butt is not everyone’s idea of luxury or glamour, there was little to complain about, especially once an outbreak of diphtheria was reported nearby. There is probably only one more place that would be unusual to stay at, but I would have to be a very bad girl to have the Queen as my host and guardian.

Age ain’t nothing but a number.

For the lucky few at least who never seem to look their age. At the moment, I’m placing myself in that category, although it may just come back to haunt me at some point. When I’m a suitable cadidate for ‘Ten years younger’, then you can all laugh at me. I can justify it without the use of male flattery, which I enjoy, but don’t take too deeply on board. At 23, I went to buy a lottery ticket and was refused. Last year at 29 years of age, I went to a family planning clinic and was told I could come for appointments in the teenager’s clinic. Some teenagers I’ve seen look very old. At least on the surface I appear young, but I rely upon regular hair dying for my grey hairs, and a little of bit of concealer for my 4 eye wrinkles. In order to conserve this look, I should follow the ‘Nicole Kidman School of Smiling’, which is not smiling very much at all. I don’t think I could deny myself the pleasure. There is also the question of my dodgy left knee.

I know for certain that I’m getting older when I hear everyone else complain about getting older. Plus, I can’t ignore the fact when most of my friends are now a two-for-one package. That is, a visit to see them often includes their husbands. This might be OK in another world I’ve mingled in. In fact, as all my female friends’ bellies have swelled, visiting friends is a 3-4-1 package these days. I have to recall my duties as big sister and try not to get freaked out by baby spew on my dry-clean-only clothes, and large baby’s heads. Soon enough they’ll be teenagers, and then I’ll be certain I’m old. I had rather thought I would have been married to Morten Harket by now. I don’t remember if my childhood plans included babies, but then I was innocent and I just wanted to sing A-ha songs. This was perhaps my only example of good taste as a child, and thankfully it’s still true now. Bros and Michael J. Fox were also on my childhood dream list; my only excuse is that it was the 80’s. I even had dungarees and a perm at one stage, for that I can partially blame my mother.

It’s not very rock ‘n’ roll, but I actually want to be old before kicking the bucket. I don’t want any more than a casual cool glance from the undertaker. There’s nothing more pointless than a pretty corpse, little good will come of “such a shame”. I’d rather, “well she’s had a few knocks”, then my spirit would be able to chuckle with “and then some more!” Of course, who doesn’t want to age like Brad Pitt, or Elizabeth Hurley? Susan Sarandon and Sigourney Weaver aren’t doing so badly either, but that’s Hollywood, and even the ladies without enhancements haven’t had a tough life. I have much better examples from real life to follow.

So far, I’ve learnt’ that most Italians tell you what they like in reverse order starting with what they don’t like. I’ve met two upstanding ladies in the last few months that are a breath of fresh air. One is 62 and goes sailing and takes a number of classes. The other has just turned 40 and is only just beginning her voyages. She has so much energy she reminds me of a pinball. She’s always laughing and smiling about something when you see her. In Russia, I knew a lady of 65, she took two steps at a time on the stairs and had boyfriends twenty years her junior. She used to take me to the best restaurants and we’d get drunk together in Keivskaya shopping centre at 2pm. She also had the brave habit of pretending to be an ignorant tourist to distract police men from bullying Kazakstanis. I’d settle for any portion of their attitude to life. This is the key; age is an attitude not a number. If you’re the kind of person who complains all the time, negativity attracts the addition of years and becomes moulded onto your appearance. When you meet me, I’m very rarely frowning; I guess most teenagers have such facial expressions permanently etched. I’ve not given up on doing things for the first time and I hope that I never will. I don’t have the opinion that everything about me is fully formed. I wouldn’t like to be eighteen again, but I’m still dancing in the street from time to time, so at least I feel eighteen.

Final call

After one of the best weeks in the UK, I wasn’t looking forward to the return, especially via Stansted airport with Ryanair. Long gone is the idea of travelling in style. The pretty pictures of the late Elizabeth Taylor in a white dress on board a plane, are a thing of the past. Although a frequent traveller, I’ve been grounded lately. I completed related to George Clooney’s character in ‘Up in the Air’ when I watched the montage of the airport security area. I’m always prepared, no high heels, unless they slip off, no jewellery, belts etc. Therefore, why was I running to the gate when they gave the final call? I dodged fellow travellers in the same way a motorbike curves round stationary traffic. I should have known better, for any decent airline, you should run, but not for Ryanair. Besides, why was I such a hurry to leave the UK to return to Italy? Only to discover there was still a mass of people, like flies locked in, butting the window desperate to be free. It’s only been 13 weeks and I’ve forgotten ‘Europe budget airlines’ favourite trick. I could have kicked myself.

I might have given the impression that I don’t enjoy the UK; it’s become the place I like to go back to, it’s almost becoming a holiday destination. I’m originally a small town hick, or rather village hick. I’ve experienced a number of town/village sizes, I once lived in a place so small, the school bus was the only way in – and out. If I missed that, I had to walk 3 miles to school; hence, I don’t understand the Italian aversion to walking. I learnt the non-human facts of life via the numerous dairy farms I was surrounded by. I recall having to explain the cow and bull’s activity to my four-year brother, and I wrote stupid poems. A friend of mine, her parents rented out terraced cottages to foreigners in the summer. It was really difficult to think of things to do in the nearest town three miles away. When some Germans asked me what there was to do, and I replied, “the war museum”; I innocently couldn’t understand the nature of their stern reply “no, we would not like to visit the war museum”, for a couple of years. I haven’t seen that friend in years. The last thing I heard was that she makes pasties, but that’s what happens in small towns if you grow up and stay there.

The other issue, for good and bad, is that everyone knows you. I could never find the means to get into trouble, even if I’d felt like rebelling. I’m currently in what I would class as a medium sized town. It has elements of modern day life, the shops and some venues for entertainment, bound with the watchful small town mentality. I can’t go anywhere without greeting someone I know, which is wonderful, except first thing in the morning. I’m not so full of “buon giorno” until after I’ve been for a swim. If I ever wanted to date someone, better be sure about it, and a night out will not be without reports the next day. I’ve come to love the flexibility and anonymity big cities afford, even if it this often equates to higher crimes rates. Though I didn’t find this a problem in Tokyo, I walked through the park in Kichijoji at 3am without any fear.

I knew once I landed in London, I felt much more at ease, even whilst boarding the tube with two cases. Even on Easter Sunday, London has something to offer. I spent the last day sauntering through Oxford Street with a friend, followed by a visit to the Globe and exhibition at the Tate. The area by St Pauls has always been my favourite place to walk around. The first time I visited London, I was 17 visiting with some older friends the Notting hill carnival. For the large part, we walked around and as we were all teetotal(!), drank lemonade in Tiger Tiger. Though I was impressed to have been allowed entrance, I’ve never looked my age. It’s funny to reflect, I thought I was really mature during my first weekend in London; in reality I was still a pipsqueak. A few years later, when I worked there, I became accustomed to city life, with every opportunity available fully grasped. Considering my usual lack spatial awareness, I can’t differentiate my left from my right; tube/metro maps have never fazed me. They are just a system of codes and colours in my mind. Even though I eventually begin to take city life for granted, after spending some time back in Hicksville, I’m certain, I’m a city girl.