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On the plane from Paris to Barcelona, I closed my eyes and imagined Spain. The sun, sangria, sundresses, brown skin and bare feet. Sweating profusely in my I-Have-To-Wear-5kg-Of-Clothin g-So-My-Luggage-Meets-Restric tions outfit, I envisioned the beach and me on it, and endless mojitos. I had to. There was no air conditioning and I was desperate.
Barcelona was our first Spanish city and, according to the Lonely Planet, the most un-Spanish of them all. A heady fusion of old and new, with a lean towards the new and chic, Barcelona bustles as much as it siestas, it parties as much as it sunbathes, sprawled in the scorching summer sun. Our neighbourhood, Gracia, was a charming riot of boutiques, lolly stores, Middle Eastern restaurants and tapas bars, all jammed together on narrow tree lined streets overlooked by flower pot filled balconies. It was small enough for us to become local, and perfectly positioned for a relatively short stroll into the city.
It really is impossible to spend any time in Spain and not become completely and utterly relaxed about life. Sangria becomes your breakfast juice, but that's ok because you don't wake up before midday anyway (the magic hour. Drinking before midday is just sad.) And you don't wake up before midday because you don't go to sleep until late, because around about 4pm you have a siesta anyway. What else are you supposed to do? Everything closes down, you have nowhere to go but back to sleep, whether it be in bed, on a sunlounger on your balcony (until you are informed it is inappropriate in Spain to sunbathe on balconies) or on the beach. And if you are on the beach, it is so bloody hot and the walk there has resulted in being so parched, it makes absolute sense to have a refreshing glass of sangria, particularly when supermarkets sell it in handily packaged juice-like plastic bottles.
The beaches, whilst definitely the best anecdote to the blistering Summer sun, are city beaches so they are certainly not the most beautiful going around, especially to beach snob Australians. And they are not for the non-nudist-embracing either, as most women tend to eschew the other half of their bathing suits. You can easily separate the Spanish men from the prudish Anglos, if not by their skin tone, then by the simple fact that the Anglos are the ones who actually blink an eyelash ... and/or peel off their clothes to reveal pallid limbs and skip to the water yelling gleefully the now immortal line, 'first pair of knockers out ... spotted!'
Much to Leni's (who we were reunited with after her Paris jaunt ended a few days after ours') disappointment, we didn't eat any Spanish cuisine (save for tapas designed for the western palate in the form of mini hamburgers) but instead frequented a Middle Eastern restaurant, Equinox, where our loyalty won us star treatment and special post dinner treats, invita la casa (I really hope that means 'on the house'). We did sink to an all time culinary low, however, with the decision to patronise an all you can eat for 9.95 salad bar. The four of us transformed into frenzied, plate piling animals who, despite the buffet being completely and uninspiringly limp, pressed on in a ghastly and mortifying display. At some point, the haze of beast-like desperation suddenly cleared, revealing us, with embarrassing clarity, for what we had become. The saddest of the dining world ... all you can eat, Homer Simpson style, scrooges.
To get the full idea of what Barcelona is really about, you simply have to ramble. Whether that be purely along Las Ramblas, past the brilliant shopping, street performers and artists, sidewalk cafes and paella restaurants, all the way down to the port with its imposing Christoper Columbus statue – or through the winding backstreets where can find the best (and often the cheapest) tapas bars, gelato stores and the lesser known boutiques where the annoyingly attractive Spanish girls find their annoyingly chic outfits. Due to the unveiling of a new Frugality plan, unveiled mid-Barcelona, that involved shunning public transport, the four of us did a lot of walking. Including the daily 12km round trip walk to the beach, done in suffocating heat, most often with towels draped over our burning forms, as our spindly legs (made spindly by excessive walking) zigzagged this way and that. If frugality wasn't enough to drive the Spindle Leg Walking Plan, the appearance of the aforementioned annoyingly attractive Spanish girls and their bambi legs was. Whoever said Spanish culture appreciates 'real women' obviously overlooked the period in which the country jumped on the spindle bandwagon and bred out things like thighs and hips. We were ten times more 'real' than any Spanish women I saw and I blame the tapas entirely.
As tradition has come to dictate, our final night in Barcelona was a large one and, due to the benefits of Equinox loyalties, a cheap one at that. Like Pied Pipers, we skipped down the main drag of Gracia, gathering Equinox staff, Antoine the crazy tapas man and anyone else who wanted to join five sunburnt and delirious Australians (the 5th being a new European Jaunting co-star, the perenially glamorous Jeff-Originally-From-Sydney-N ow-Works-In-London) in Sangria and Spanglish.I awoke the next morning, two hours after we went to bed, unable to walk due to a rolled foot, which rolled in a spectacularly uncoordinated manouevre whilst gadding about gathering people. Hungover and hobbling (me), we made it to Barcelona station only to miss our train. Not because we were late (miraculously we were early) but because we were in Spain. No Need To Hurry is the country's motto. Thus it was four sorry girls who boarded a very warm bus for four hours, with only an empty lolly bag between them ... in case of emergencies ...
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Where do you possibly begin with a city that has been (rather successfully) in film, literature and music for about as long as it has been in existence. Do you start with the snooty Parisians who, high on living surrounded by such impossible beauty, rarely deign to mix with Non Parisians, especially if they don't speak French (or are German ... lest we forget Victory over Paris in Berlin's Parisiaplatz). Or do we, continuing along the vein of petty, trivial things, in order to get them out of the way, comment on the weather which made sightseeing (read: skipping along the River Seine in a striped babydoll dress sipping a Cafe au Lait) a needlessly tiresome process. But lets not blame Paris for that, let's blame the human propensity for screwing up the environment. And so now the two things that dampened our days in the City of Love & Baguettes are dealt with, I can proceed on a much higher note.
We arrived in Paris a little worse for wear, the reasons for which have been previously documented. No one likes a hangover and a flight. As we stood in the cab rank, a shouldering a total of 30kg of luggage each (except for Satie who went with the backpack option and so weighs in at a mere 18kg) watching large gleaming Mercedes ferrying weary travellers away and thinking how God really skimped on Sydney in the cab department, a decrepit vehicle that sold well in 1987 came to a halt in front of us. No gleaming Mercedes for the grubby Australians. Some time was spent gesticulating wildly to our cab driver, in order to make our address in Paris known - not because we don't speak French, but because we don't speak Mandarin.
Our residence, off Boulevard Voltaire, in the charming district of Nation (Nass-e-on, Mum, my French pronunciation has come a long way) was on the second floor of a quaint apartment block that belongs in Hollywood's library of French cliches. As did the street on which it was situated. Riddled with similar cute apartment blocks, one covered in ivy and sporting a courtyard perfect for breakfasting on pain au chocolat in, mornings saw the windows flung open and the residences enjoying the balmy weather on their little wrought iron balconies.
Our first official day in Paris (not counting the one in which we ate a kebab and fell asleep at 8pm) it rained. Our sightseeing enthusiasm undeterred, we donned berets and Chanel couture (a girl can dream) and set out for the Eiffel Tower. It is nearby this stunning monument that I embarrassed myself beyond belief. It has happened before and it will happen again - I like to blame my weak ankles and gammy knees. I fell over. Face planted. I absolutely, face first, ass in the air, hair in a puddle, fell over.
Once more, a direct entry from my journal ...
Later ... in cafe drinking $9 cup of hot chocolate. Had to soothe soul and ego following disastrous and mortifying trip. As in fall. Stack. FACE PLANT. Waitress = rude & french.
On a quaint French street ... running through the rain in a carefree manner, wind in my hair, bag clasped to my chest, calling out to Dee and Satie in gay tones. Left ankle gives way, twinging as it cruelly bows out. Buckling from full weight of chinese-bloated body, left knee folds it in, leading to bizarre moment of surfing, arms outstretched, down puddle riddled alley. Eventually fall onto belly, seal style, and continue to surf the puddles for a good two metres, gliding to a halt, facedown in particularly large puddle. Am now drenched, there is a hole in my leggings, a scrape on both my knees and my right elbow.
Strangely, the day then became magical. The rain eased enough to be able to walk through it, and so we made the Arc di Triomphe our next port of call. Why not knock over all the Lonely Planet hotspots in one day. Drenched. And bleeding. From the knees and the ego. We reached Champs Elysee as the rain stopped for good, the sun began to set, and Paris suddenly decided to smile. As did a strange man who kissed me after his friend photographed us together beneath the Champs Elysee sign with his mobile phone. As we walked down Champs Elysee, it was decided that although the day had surfed dizzying heights (sitting beneath the Arc di Triomphe as the sun set) and plundered crushing lows (facedown in a puddle being stepped over by chic Parisians and their Chanel wearing dogs) it was the kind of introduction to a city you never forget.
Rain (and a mini hailstorm) forced us to take cover in romantic archways and Edith Piaf soundtracked cafes the following day. A simple half hour walk down Rue Faubourg, past Bastille and onto Notre Dame, became an extreme sport. However, as it often is with extreme sport, the work was worth it. Notre Dame is exquisite. And although it is somewhat ironic to have to watch one's bag and shield it from pickpockets in God's house (pickpockets are mad for sinning under His nose) it was an architectural and spiritual highlight. We continued on, down the River Seine, to the Musee D'Orsay. A simple flick through the Lonely Planet would have revealed to us what we discovered after a half hour walk, that the D'Orsay was closed ... but combatting blustering winds scudding off the river was well worth the walk. The sun came out that day ... at 9pm.
And to the Catacombs, for an education in the macabre. This 2km stretch of quarry is the home of the skeletal remains of over 7 million Parisians, displayed in, as the guide at the beginning puts it, in a 'decorative manner'. I'm not going to lie to you, it is bizarre. Particularly when the father of an especially heinous father-son duo produces a blue light, holds it underneath the nasal cavity of a skull and encourages his son to take a photo. I mean, really. And, watching various tourists embrace skull photography with great enthusiasm, I was left to wonder, what is the appropriate pose for you, a skull, and a pile of artfully arranged femurs? Do you smile? Are you really that happy to be surrounded by the remains of 7 million people who died in horrendous circumstances? Do you look sombre, so as to befit the occasion? Because, when flipping through your travel album twenty years later, do you really want to see you posing dourly next to a leering skull? Surely not. We elected to skip this photographic dilemma and instead, watched in horror, as people went about making their own rules that at times, as aforementioned, involved props.
Take two with the D'Orsay failed to see us actually enter the building. To the uninitiated eye, it would appear we were casing the museum for a potential break in. This time it was open, but the queue was two hours long and the museum closed in two hours. Tip - for the big stuff in Paris, pre buy tickets. Or cry. We walked home, along the River Seine having walked over 7 million graves, a million spokes piercing the stormy sky.
Third time was a charm with the D'Orsay, which was as confusing as it was wonderful. I got lost and ended up riding escalators for a good half hour admiring the lesser known sculptures they put near the bathroom, for lack of wanting to look like I was actually lost in a museum. Having learnt our lesson, we set out to pre buy tickets to the Louvre and got thoroughly lost. That being said, if you are going to get thoroughly lost anywhere, do it in the winding little laneways of Paris. There is no better place to be. Especially when you sit down to some lemon pie and a cafe au lait, only to have a passing, portly old gentleman pat an imaginary extended belly and point at you through the window. We didn't, however, learn our lesson enough. That evening we attempted to see Harry Potter only to find both french and original versions were sold out. So we pre bought our tickets for the following night, in perhaps the most exciting pre buy to date.
The Louvre and Harry Potter dawned on the same day. Venus de Milo blurred into Voldemort , Mona Lisa into Draco Malfoy. It was a very, very exciting day. I really don't need to say anything about the Louvre, because I really can't say anything that will do it justice. Yes Mona Lisa is tiny, yes I almost cried when I saw Venus de Milo and yes the Greek, Roman and Estruscan collection is heaven, endless rooms of heaven. A personal highlight for me, however, came in the form of an Australian tourist, straight from the Kel Night mould. He managed to situate himself in an empty archway (Venus' room was under construction, so there were plenty of these empty archways) and, adopting some god forsaken imitation pose, boomed to his fellow tourist group 'oi, it's Simon de Milo ...'
Simon de Milo.
There we are, in the Louvre, everyone breathless and starry-eyed, bloated with culture, Asians peacing out madly - and the Australian coins himself Simon de Milo. Not quietly either, but in a loud, suburban twang, in a hall that needed no help with accoustics. I laughed, very hard.
For the record, Harry Potter was superb. Absolutely superb. And book number 7? Breathtaking.
Our last full day in Paris began as it did every morning, with severely sprained necks. Our beds rivalled concrete slabs for comfort. Leni arrived in the morning to continue her European Jaunt. From the word go, it was the most beautiful day in such a city, anyone could have asked for. If the first day was a faceplant in a puddle, the last was a bubble bath in champagne. Crepes and cafe au lait, from a tiny off the beaten track (until the Lonely Planet reviewed it) lined our stomachs for yet another dalliance with the dead. This time the skulls were safely ensconced in the rather beautiful Cimetare Pere which is the resting place of Moliere, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison among thousands and thousands of others. And let it be said, this time, we took pictures and we smiled. What else would Oscar Wilde have wanted?
Sacre Coeur was next, along with a brilliant, sundrenched view of the city in all its glory. And of course, the sun came out for our final 24 hours, so everyone was out lounging on the grass, listening to buskers sing Heal the World (no I did not make that up). And finally, we came full circle and spent the rest of our last evening at the Eiffel Tower. It was the day before Bastille Day, so the city was feeling festive, and by sunset the lawn in front of the tower was packed with picnicking Parisians (and drunken youths a la Milsons Point on NYE). Not to be outdone in the picnic stakes, we rustled up some Camembert, red wine (purchased from the very same cafe we had sought refuge in following the face plant) chocolate and Madeleines and had ourselves a bona fide French picnic, as the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower and the fairylights came on to scatter it with stars.
We left for Barcelona the next morning, having finally fallen in love with Paris.
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Just two days after getting home from Munich, we left for Berlin. At 5am. Christian and Tommy, who were sharing the four hour drive (flight) down the autobahn, predicted traffic and so as the sun rose on Michaelweg, we were peeling out of it, packed tightly in the comfort of fine German vehicular machinary. After a Bathroom and Bad Coffee Stop, and four hours of some serious singing, we arrived in Berlin at 11am, found our hostel and then sought out the most important thing, a kebab. Christian's promise of Berlin having the best kebabs came good.
Leni met us at the hostel, on the same morning, for the first of what has become several European jaunts. Tradition dictates we christen a new city by eating immediately (done) drinking immediately and sussing out the city centre (read: shops) and so, I am embarrassed to say, we spent out first day in the history HOTSPOT that is Berlin, drinking Mojitos and window shopping at Ka De We. We attempted to make up for it the following day, by scheduling a full day of sightseeing, only to be completely waylaid by pouring rain and a gay pride parade, en route to our planned Museum binge. And so it came to be that instead of prancing around an art gallery, I was pranced around by super smooth gay men on leashes. We managed one museum on museum island that day, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Berlin. I was happy as larry, however, because it had everything to do with Greek and Roman history.
A rather large night followed that saw all plans to leave the hostel nixed, and a group of Texans join us in the hostel bar for some raucus fun. So raucus, in fact, that Tommy managed to get shushed by security. He was later heard trumpeting 'I am the German spider man'.
As is becoming custom, our last day in the city was the best. The sun actually shone, so we didnt need to gad about in leftover ponchos from the World Cup with 'Deutschland' emblazoned across the back, and we, finally, did an activity that acknowledges Berlin for the historical HOTSPOT that it is. We did a walking tour that ended with a passionate monologue on the steps of the ault art museum from the guide and welling eyes from us. Berlin is like a foster child that has been passed from dysfunctional family to dysfunctional family, through one of the most volatile periods of history. And yet it retains its beauty and its strength as a city, and you really get a sense of that, walking past and through buildings that have been desecrated and rebuilt, some several times.
We did a bit of our own walking tour afterwards, led by Christian to whom Berlin is what New York is to me. I will not blame his impeccable guide skills on what happened next. The consumption of the worst food in the history of food consumption, most memorably a cheese platter ordered by Satie. Never has Brie resulted in such a stunning, enmasse gag reflex. Buoyed by a goblet of red wine, I may have shrieked 'this is the shit of Satan', as Satie slumped, wordlessly by her platter.
The day after our triumphant return from Berlin, Mama, Papa and Christian took us to a seasonal fair that is held on the lawns of a castle in Munster (as fairs often are). We foolishly downed chips and mayo and a crepe, before enthusiastically hopping on board one of Christian's 'favourite childhood rides' which involved frantic whipping about of capsules at a steadily increasing pace. Satie and I partnered up, narrowly avoided strapping ourselves into an actual capsule of vomit (the man found our horror at this near miss amusing) and then proceeded to yell such gems as 'ARE WE GATHERING PACE?´'I AM GOING TO VOMIT ... WELL IF YOU VOMIT, ANGLE YOUR HEAD THAT WAY SO THE BACKLASH DOESN'T GET ME ...' I didn't vomit, but I did pinch a nerve. How embarrassing. Am I eighty?
A few days after that we did a day trip to Koln (Cologne) and climbed all 500 (alleged, I am going to go out on a limb and say it was 1000) steps to the top of the Koln Cathedral. It was enthralling ... once we got to the top. Which involved snaking around panting poms who took inappropriately timed breathers when the winding steps were at their most narrow. This day trip marked our 15th city and 2 month trip anniversary. We cheersed to it with red wine in the plaza. We also cheersed to the news the boys' apartment was officially (or unofficially, depends on how much furniture makes living quarters official) ready and it was time to leave Michaelweg and our parents and strike out on our own.
Our final hours spent with Mama Rita were spent cycling around the town of Munster. Yes, cycling. There are more bikes than people in Munster, cars actually give way to cyclists on the road (instead of try and run them down, like me) and the majority of Munster's crime is tied up in bike thievery. So you can just imagine the three of us straddling giant hire bikes and taking off around the city, none of us having cycled since the age of 10; one loses their cycling legs after a while. Dee rear ended Rita within five minutes of taking off and Satie, in a stunning display of athletiscism, narrowly averted falling off her bike and into the river. By day´s end, so smug in our capabilities were we, that we cycled home to Michaelweg from Graelstrausse at 1am ... even after a celebratory Liquor 43 or two. If anything, we were celebrating getting Tommy's waterbed up the stairs, as much as we were the apartment being completed.
We officially moved in the following day, and, following our final dinner at Michaelweg, we hosted another round of celebratory drinks, on a larger scale than the previous evening. Leni jetted in for the weekend, we drank champagne, and it all culminated in a wildly interpretative dance to Atomic Kitten in the living room, newly minted as The Girls' Bedroom. It was a headachey foursome who made the trip to the Netherlands the following day, and it was a very calm Saturday night spent watching White Chicks and eating Doppelkeks.
Our final days in Munster sped to a close far, far too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that we will most probably be returning some time in September to recapture the Graelstrausse magic. We spent our days eating pizza (might have had something to do with an attractive pizza maker, not so much the delicious ruccola pizza he made) and ice cream sundaes comprising of 60 scoops, drinking cheap Spanish red wine on the cluttered balcony (and spilling it all over said balcony ... Satie) reading law papers and trying to prep Lennart for his exams (which goes to show how dire his preparation was considering my help was the best option going) shopping, watching Boston Legal (apparently an effective study method for budding lawyers) inhaling the healthy combination of chips & mayo and doppelkeks and extending our three word German vocab to an impressive 15 .
And the final night suddenly rolled around. We had our Last Supper at a lovely restaurant nearby, then returned to Graelstrausse to disturb the neighbours for a couple of hours (and close the door in their face, politely, when they appear for the second time, be-robed and with arms folded). Eventually, we removed ourselves from the building and took ourselves off to the Tracks of Munster. Really. I have said it before, but this was the actual Tracks of Munster. The crew were all there - Tommy, Anke, Basti, Jacob, Nicole - and shots abounded, namely because tequila was the best thing to get with the free drink tab.
I cannot describe the pain of the following day. Our train left for Frankfurt at 6am. We rolled in through the door, bloated with the heady mix of kebabs, pizza and tequila, at 4.45am. I crawled into bed until 4.50am, when Satie whipped the covers off, demanding to know why I had gotten into bed with the alarm due to go off in ten minutes. Half an hour of frenzied packing ensued, what were emotional goodbyes were delivered with drunken nonchalance, and we set off for the station in outfits borne of being on the floor at the time, and not stuffed into suitcases.
And so we made it to Frankfurt and onto our plane to Paris in the exact manner in which we arrived in Frankfurt from New York. Hungover as all hell, grumpy, grubby and in desperate need of sleep. For me, Frankfurt will forever spell headache.
Things always go full circle.
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There are few things sadder than cruising through a McDonalds drive-thru on a Saturday night. By yourself. At midnight. And then ordering a lone Big Mac, and wedging it in as you drive, so as not to let it get cold and thus turn to rubber. I’m not going to lie, I felt vaguely pathetic executing this exact scenario on the Saturday night just passed. I may have even been listening to Love Song Dedications repeats. McDonalds drive-thru at midnight on a Saturday night is all very well if you’re en route home from a you’ve a big night out and are drunkenly leaning out the window shouting ‘extra pickles’ at the microphone as your designated driver friends begs you to be quiet – in fact it’s practically par for the course. I, however, was on the way home from a babysitting job. Yah.
All of this, however, is irrelevant. I want to share with you the internal dilemma I experienced in the lead up to the consumption of this Big Mac. Of course, as it usually does, it began with the initial craving, which occurs twice every six months or so, and this niggling became more and more persistent, as it does and then it reached the state where I could have eaten three in a row at any given moment in time
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Perhaps the best place to start is the flight to Germany. It was nearly as epic as our month long stay in, what my father calls, The Motherland. Epic, not in length (we are Australians, flying internationally is always a long haul) but in frequency of chaos and embarrassing moments. I will type now, directly, from my journal;
Disaster has struck - loose of limb and of tongue, our 3 seats have become a vessel of delirium and embarrassment. Began when flight attendant, identified as gay not only through occupation but through overt mincing down aisles, rolled over Satie´s foot with drink cart. Led to an unfair amount of laughter from me, but couldnt help it. Breakfast soon served and, in peeling back my yoghurt foil, it spurted out, volcano style, splattering over my face and clavicle. Similar occurence with sugar sachets for tea. In moment of jest, said carelessly to girls, 'next I will pour tea on my crotch...' Lo and behold, moments later, backhanded full cup of tea all over Dee and I, soaking the groin area of our travel pants. Once this was sufficiently mopped, turbulence struck and Dee, in a moment of Herculean bravery, hoisted the nearly empty tea cup into the air, to avoid similar type of spill ... only to spill remaining tea on my head. Pants are now drying stiff and blueberry yoghurt spots my new Gap hoodie. Forty minutes to go
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When our cab pulled up in front of number 850 West End Ave, Upper West Side, New York City, we all sat for a little while, silent with disbelief. It was reminiscent of a similar silence, one that occurred exactly six days prior as we surveyed the ghetto over which Irwin presided. I prodded Dee and told her to go in and double check this was actually our hostel, as the umbrella stretching out over the wide, tree lined path, with '850 West End Ave' scrawled elegantly along the side painted a picture far too pretty for our hostel expectations. Not to worry, however, the inside of it was the very image of the lowest of hostel expectations ... our room was so small we nearly ran out of oxygen on several occasions and there were moments when we even missed Irwin's and our indoor rockery.
This blog is going to be, primarily, about food. This is because, somewhere along the way, this trip became less about seeing the world and more about eating it. We may have missed a few major monuments along the way, but give me a city and I will give you the best place to get a hamburger, a bagel, a coffee, a short stack or a sangria. Surely that is all there is to life
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And so we stood before a teased tornado of salt and pepper hair, our luggage pooled at our feet, our cab driver roaring from view. One by one, we began to laugh. Because our clothes were sticking to our bodies, because we hadn't slept in what felt like five years, because we were in the ghetto, having watched all the pretty parts of the island pass us by in a cab driven by a madman who didn't speak English (word of note, not many people in New York do). Because initial disbelief at our surroundings gave way to hysterical, barking laughter at the hair. Irwin ushered us into a basement style bedroom that bore two raised queen sized beds sporting butterfly encrusted doonas, a kitchenette that consisted of a toaster and a microwave balancing precariously on the wall, and a sumptuous indoor rockery arrangement.
We fell asleep that night to the soothing sounds of neighbourhood domestics, backfiring cars and the occasional rustle of indoor rockery
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One of my new year's resolutions was to stop looking at the Sunday morning social pages. Peculiar, yes, but I had no choice but to go cold turkey. This resolution came about as a result of a few things.
A Sunday morning is prime time relaxation time. A time to brew a pot of tea, crack open the trashy papers and read up on articles terrible and trivial. It is calming. My blood, however, slowly begins to boil when I flip to the social pages. Dyed, spray tanned, starving, shivering, posing, primping, preening members of both sexes (oh yes, don't think males are exempt) prancing about in front of the lens of a freelance photographer as if they got out of bed for more than $10,000 that day
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There are two types of Catch Up Coffees. There are those you look forward to and those you dread. Bottom line. Regardless of the reasons, they are the two main categories of this oft held and much valued social custom. Sub-categories exist - eg: The Catch Up You Have Been Putting Off For Months; The Catch Up That Could Possibly Function as a Date; The Coffee Catch Up You Feel Obligated to Partake In ... but for the purpose of today's column, let's keep it simple.
The Catch Up that you dread is a special brand of social torture. Particularly, I find, in this limbo period of life I find myself in; post school (by a good 5 years) post undergrad, post world travel and during postgrad study - because all anyone wants to know is 'what are you doing with your life?' On top of that, usually is because the person one is catching up with
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New York, New York. I have almost been putting off writing about our two week stint in the city famous as famous for its buildings as it is its abusive customer service. Not because I haven't wanted to write endlessly about it, wax lyrical about its unique charm and unparalleled vibe, till you are all begging me to stop ... but because it was a fortnight of so much hilarity, so much shopping, so many weird and wacky interludes one can only experience with people who never stop, in a city that never sleeps.
We flew from Seattle, via Las Vegas, an eight hour flight on the second worst airline in the world, American Airlines. We survived the trip and potential deep vein thrombosis by befriending two flight attendents who allowed us to hang out in their special area, whilst they, eyes agog, pressed us for information on Australia's wild flora and fauna. For perhaps the millionth time in the ten 3 weeks we had been away, we assured wary Americans that crocodiles do not emerge from suburban gardens and steal sleeping children from their cots. Nor do sharks suddenly appear in swimming pools, competing for most dangerous backyard critter alongside plate sized spiders and gloved red kangaroos
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