Homesick (A train ride from Rome to Formia and back again)

I was on a train from Rome, heading towards my mother’s home town by the sea – Formia. This wasn’t my first visit. Ten years earlier I was here with my mum and dad. This time I was on my own and it had been three months since I’d seen them.

I was infinitely sad. Without any real reason I wanted to cry quietly for most of the two hour journey. Maybe I was just homesick, I thought at the time, perplexed.

I knew I’d glimpse the Mediterranean in the Gulf of Gaeta when I got closer to Formia. As I looked out the window waiting for it, I thought about how little I knew of my mother’s youth here. Bits and pieces of information gleaned from snippets of conversation, some of them only overhead by chance. It was so little. All that I knew about my mother’s life in Formia I could list in bullet point. Sketchy ideas that didn’t even make sense sometimes – she stayed in a convent during part of World War Two (where?); Mussolini made a speech on the town hall balcony (why?); American tanks rolled down Via Appia which cuts through the middle of Formia, on their way to Rome; her father died in a road accident when she was a child; her single mother was so poor that they had to keep moving every time rent was overdue. Her family later ran a bar and this at least I can confirm is true – I’ve seen the black and white photos of her older brothers in white jackets, circa 1950-something, serving aperitifs on tiny silver trays. I’ve seen pictures of my grandmother working there too, with a cynical smile and her arms folded. They didn’t get along – so many misunderstandings between them, cleared up decades too late.  

The train kept shuffling along. I tried in vain to remember the station names and their order, to judge how far we still were from Formia. Then I thought of my first trip with my parents a decade ago and how much my mother loved just walking along the beach. It had been years since she’d been in the water so one day she just kept wandering out further and further, past her ankles, past her knees and then her thighs so that she ended up waist deep – fully clothed in her sundress and clutching her handbag. Someone from the jetty called out jokingly ‘Hey lady, what have you got in that handbag that you couldn’t leave it behind!’. She just laughed and wandered back to shore, utterly content.

That summer we ate gelati every night at the local lido. Her sister-in-law made tomato salad that we ate with crunchy bread and milky buffalo mozzarella. We promenaded down the esplanade late at night and went for long drives along the coast. Every afternoon the town fell quiet for the siesta that everyone denied still existed. I remember my mother telling me, on one of our beach walks, how glad she was to have me there with her – to show, to tell and to know.

Close to Formia and there it was, the Mediterranean as you would surely know it – sapphire blue, shimmering cool in the contrasting heat. Deep breath and smile. I was met by my cousin at the station and she drove me back to my aunt’s for the very same tomato salad and buffalo mozzarella as a decade ago. I started to feel content.

Three days later I was back at the station. My sister had called to say my mother had an extremely aggressive form of leukaemia and I should hurry back home to Australia. My cousin hugged me and told me to be strong. She didn’t say how? This time I did cry for the whole journey. A middle aged man wrung his hands and begged me to stop crying – he was anguished by my grief. But when I told him my mother was dying – the first time I’d said those words aloud – he nodded sadly and left me alone.

Waving goodbye at the platform felt like I was already saying goodbye to my mother. I was leaving, but she was leaving too. I found it bizarre and ironic to be so close to and so far from her. So close to the heart of her existence but unable to hold her hand and tell her it would be ok. All the same memories I’d had on the earlier journey had a strange intensity about them this time. So many things to ask before she left. And I was alarmed that I knew. This sadness already felt familiar. I already knew on the train journey there that something was terribly wrong and that I should be catching a plane instead. A thread still held me close to home.

The Mediterranean held it’s tongue. But I remember the bright blue flashes between trees, hills, buildings as we turned inland, saying goodbye to Formia.

Which way to the toilet please?

Toilet humour....and so soon. I’ve hardly blogged a year and already I’m going to talk about toilets. This is because, surprisingly, many of my travels have been punctuated with amusing ablution stories. But I’m also prepared to argue that there’s a unique cultural element to the body waste management systems of each nation that’s just as worth noting as, say, eating customs (bad choice of comparisons?).

Travellers can be sooky babies when it comes to the simplest cultural differences. It’s surprising how confronting a squat toilet is to a Westerner who just wants to perform their daily task in peace and quiet. Equally as confronting, I would say, to any Asian who wanted to visit the toilets at my workplace in Australia – there are little pictograms on the inside of every cubicle in the requisite green and red circles, indicating how to and how not to use the toilet. Apparently, it’s an occupational health and safety concern if you try to squat over a regular toilet.... so very Western.

Most of my confronting or culturally baffling bathroom episodes have occurred in Italy.

I travelled to my mother’s town with my parents one year to stay with family I’d never met. It had been a long and tiresome journey – I was emotionally, physically, mentally distraught. Relatives had greeted us at the airport and though it was wonderful, these people were complete strangers to me just then. We drove for more than two hours and finally arrived at my aunt’s house. Great. Bathroom. Needed some repair work. Trouble is, when I tried to leave the bathroom, I couldn’t open the door. It had an old fashioned key to lock it. I turned it once each way and tried the handle. Nope. I turned the key again and discovered it just kept turning. In my delicate, semi-hysterical state I started to panic. The window was too small to crawl out of and was, besides, two stories up. I knocked on the door and shouted to my aunt. ‘What are you doing in there?’, she asked politely. ‘I can’t open the door’. Silence. ‘You just turn the key sweetie’. ‘Yep, I’ve tried that’. Silence. Then I heard my mother say, ‘She’s very jetlagged and tired. Otherwise,  she’s quite an intelligent girl....’. I turned the key furiously and suddenly I was free and the door swung open. Dubious faces smiled kindly at me.

I was told that, for some reason, this little bathroom in a tiny apartment in a small town had a lock that had three degrees of strength, depending on how many times you turned the key. Consequently, to unlock it you potentially needed to turn the key three times. I could not fathom the meaning of this. Was it one key turn if you were just brushing your teeth but three key turns if you planned to gad about naked for a while and really needed some privacy?

On another trip, my cousin and I wandered into a very upmarket shopping gallery and decided this was as good a place as any to use the public facilities. We wandered down a side corridor and found a line-up of four or five people (not, I might add, an unusual occurrence anywhere in the world it seems). We waited patiently but the women just ahead of us looked distressed. She turned to the cleaner and said, ‘Please, can’t I just use the disabled toilet – I’m desperate’. I use the word ‘cleaner’ but this woman had the bearing and authority of a prison warden. This was her toilet block, her domain and she was clearly very proud of its immaculate appearance and fresh aroma. The cleaner looked the other woman up and down and ushered her in without a word. A few minutes later, the clearly grateful and relieved woman came out and politely thanked the cleaner, who nodded in reply.

Then the cleaner started to frown. She sniffed sharply and narrowed her eyes. She opened the door to the disabled cubicle again and poked her head in. ‘Oh my God!’ she shouted alarmed and dismayed. She turned back to the woman who was now fixing her hair in the mirror. The cleaner rounded on her accusingly. ‘What creature did you give birth to in there? That is utterly disgusting. I just cleaned that toilet and you had to go in and do that! That’s disgusting!’. On and on she went. The cleaner was clearly furious and outraged. Admirably, in what I myself would have deemed a mortifying moment, the other woman kept her composure. I can’t remember the exact words she replied with but I remember they were haughty and tossed over her shoulder as she walked out; something along the lines of ‘It’s a toilet. So clean it.’.

Definitely something I could only have experienced in exactly that way in Italy.

If you reflect a moment, I’m sure you’ll remember some interesting bathroom episode on your travels. Like me, have you ever had to shove tissues up your nose just to be able to walk into a public toilet without gagging? Did an aunt wander into the bathroom while you were brushing your teeth and plonk herself down on the toilet with a satisfied sigh? And most bizarrely, have you ever walked into a toilet block and found yourself face-to-face with a life-sized Madonna smiling benignly at you?

Travelling alone


Never travelled on your own? I’m a big fan of solo travel. You find yourself tapping into resources and strengths you didn’t even know you had. It’s challenging, scary and, let’s face it, sometimes deliciously dangerous. I always meet an incredible array of people – probably because my insatiable need for people and chat doesn’t necessarily diminish when I’m on my own, I just need to work harder to get my fix. There are some negatives though – a small problem can turn into a catastrophe when you don’t have someone to share it with, and eating dinner by yourself night after night could make even a reclusive mute feel lonely.

So what are the pros and cons?

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Twin sharing with strangers

CONS

Even people loving folks like me have reservations about sharing hotel rooms with strangers. On a European tour I had to share a room with a girl who sheepishly tried to warn me that she had a slight foot odour problem. ‘Slight odour’ couldn’t begin to describe the rancid, fetid smell emanating from her when she removed her sneakers. It’s hard to maintain a polite facade when you’re dry retching.

PROS

While I didn’t share an actual room, I discovered a fellow Formula 1 fan in a hotel in Sao Paolo and we became firm friends immediately.  Jackie and I met in the hotel lobby for a cocktail and ordered Campari and lemonades. The non-English speaking bartender consulted his manager who confirmed with us that it was indeed lemonade we wanted. Then we watched as he cracked open a cocktail shaker, poured in some spring water, squeezed in half a dozen limes, a big scoop of sugar and ice and suavely mixed our ‘lemonade’. It was such a large scale production for a simple drink that we laughed until tears rolled down our faces. The bartender was confused and a little annoyed. We discovered later that we should have ordered Campari and Sprite!

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Sharing unique experiences

CONS

A shared experience -
drinking out of urinals at Modern Toilet in Hong Kong

When I say experiences, I don’t necessarily mean floating down the Grand Canal on a gondola in Venice. I mean those experiences that are so strange or silly that you and a travelling companion would cry with laughter about it, bringing it up several times over the next few days, forever remaining an ‘in joke’ between you and retold countless times at Sunday pub sessions for the rest of your life.

Sometimes, when you’re travelling on your own, these sorts of experiences don’t really reach their full potential. My sister kindly bought me some silky bright purple satin pyjamas as a going away present. Which was great, thank you. But at 3am, in a hostel in Bath the fire alarm went off. Diligently, I leapt out of bed, grabbed my laptop and handbag and ran down the fire escape. In the foyer I discovered only a small handful of people had bothered to get out of bed. They were fully dressed. And wearing shoes. They looked at my disco pyjamas, the pants way too long and gathered around my ankles, and raised their eyebrows.

This story still makes me laugh now as it did then and I do tell it occasionally. But it’s not the quite the same.... right?

PROS

There are some things you just wouldn’t experience at all if you were travelling with someone. In a small garden piazza in Granada at twilight I was writing in my journal, very happily people watching when an old couple shuffled along. The wife deposited her husband among some other senior citizens and they immediately started a lively debate. She instead came over to sit next to me on my bench. She tried to strike up a conversation but she couldn’t speak English or Italian and I couldn’t speak Spanish. Shame. Or so I thought. This didn’t deter her at all and we chatted comfortably for half an hour. I couldn’t tell you what that conversation was about but she offered me her trail mix and I offered her some of my water and we smiled and nodded happily.

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Loneliness

CONS

There’s no doubt that at some point, even if for only half a day or half an hour, you’ll succumb to this melancholy feeling. I was at a particularly low point while staying at a Bed and Breakfast in the Lake District. Quite frankly, I’d had enough of the whole travelling lark. I’d barely spoken to anyone in couple of days. I’d eaten a sad and dreadful dinner the night before. I slunk down to breakfast and sat at a table set for two. It was an awkward breakfast room with just a few people chatting carefully so as not to disturb the quiet.

Imagine my consternation then, when the waitress came over and looked at the spare seat. She poured me a cup of tea and then said, ‘Will your friend be down shortly?’. What? No, no friends. She was determined to pour a second cup of tea. ‘Where’s your friend?’. ‘No’ I simply said, squirming. Clearly she didn’t think I spoke English, so she raised her voice and asked ‘DO YOU HAVE ANY FRIENDS’. To which, of course, I could only logically answer, ‘NO’. As if the embarrassment could get any worse she then said, ‘Oh, you have to sit at the table with the corresponding room number – that’s your table there’. She pointed to a little corner table for one, the setting and chair facing the wall. She made me get up, slink across the dining room in the now resounding silence and sit at my allotted table, carrying my own cup of tea.

I wasn’t feeling strong, I went meekly. It still shames me.

PROS

On the plus side of loneliness, being stuck with only yourself for company means you can do whatever you like, whenever you like, however you like it. No matter how wonderful and/or compatible a travelling companion might be, there’s bound to be something you want to do that they don’t (and vice versa, of course). This includes sitting in a quiet pub in total silence, reading a book, sipping a gin and tonic. I brought along my flamenco shoes one long holiday and ended up practicing on a cruise ship theatre stage at midnight (the theatre was empty!).

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The level of freedom and self indulgence you experience on any holiday, even a volunteering holiday, is usually unlike anything at home where there are always dear ones to think about, care for and love. A solo holiday is all about me, me, me at my narcissistic best! :-) 

Disappointments

Ok I’m going to risk sounding like an arrogant prat. I’m going to confess that not every place I’ve been fortunate enough to visit has been amazing, wonderful and/or incredible. I blame it entirely on the 21st century. Six hundred years ago travellers were still conquerors, discovering lands for the first time and being amazed by what they saw, simply because it was novel and therefore exotic. (When I say ‘the first time’ yes, I fully acknowledge my white Western colonial bastard perspective.) Nowadays, before you even step foot on a place, you can Google a place, read about it in a magazine or book, watch YouTube videos and, if you’re really diligent, talk to the people of just about any nation on this planet. Possibly even other planets! There’s little ‘new’ left. I’m pretty sure I can run an internet search on a backwater African village, population 42 and ‘discover’ the opening times of their local market.

The point is, these days we run the risk of not only ‘knowing’ our destination before we get there, but consequently being totally underwhelmed by it. I was choking with indignation when, gazing out over the Colosseum, I overheard one person say to another ‘Mmm... it’s not as big as I thought it would be. A bit disappointing’. I was astonished and even a little bit upset. But the truth is, I arrived at the Great Wall of China and thought ‘It is amazing, no doubt, but really..... it’s just a wall. The surrounding scenery is far more spectacular’. Before you choke too, consider that it was minus 8⁰C, I was woefully underdressed, I’d just ridden in a tiny tiny glass gondola that was so frightening it made me cry, there were hundreds of people, I slipped over on the ice and I’d already seen this image a thousand times. It was only later when I found out something about its history – the incredible story behind its creation, it’s woeful underutilisation and its fascinating construction – that I actually appreciated what I’d seen.

Appreciating travel icons actually takes a bit of work and, ridiculous  I know, a little of our own imagination. It’s still about connection, and for me it always will be.

I’ll leave the last word on travel icon saturation to my mother. An Italian senior citizen, sceptical and impatient at the best of times, she was excited about seeing Uluru. She had already heard so much about it. Her tour bus pulled into the carpark with hundreds of other vehicles. She noted people were having silver service dinners, sipping champagne, others were chattering excitedly about the imminent sunset. Everyone was lining up their cameras and videos for that special moment when the sun dips over the horizon. She was all hyped up for it. Well, the moment arrived and although she could hear the ‘ooohs’ and ‘aahhhs’ around her she couldn’t figure out what was going on. Then suddenly everyone was getting back into their cars and driving away. ‘That was it’, she said. ‘We drove all this way to see.... what?’. She was truly perplexed. I’m not sure what she was expecting, but someone explained to her that the novelty was seeing the beautiful colours of the rock shimmer and deepen in the changing light.

In true form she snorted in disgust and muttered the Italian equivalent of ‘Well, f..k me’ as she clambered back on the bus. ‘That was a f...g waste of time’ she said.

It made us laugh for years. :-)

The 'black' in Blackpool

At some point, you realise you’re not in Kansas anymore. That’s what travel is all about. But I didn't expect culture shock in Blackpool, Northern England – after all, this wasn't my first trip to the UK.

The Blue Room pub on Church Street

From my first floor apartment window, I watched the crowd stumble out of the Syndicate nightclub. It was closing time, only 2am, and the entire contents of the 5,000 capacity club spilled out onto the street. The nightclub sat on a corner. Perched at each angle were police cars, an ambulance and private security vans. Just in case.

It was utterly freezing. It was the, allegedly, the start of the English summer. I could still see my own breath. But the girls were wearing bikini tops, hot pants or micro minis with clunky high heels. They were visibly blue and crossing their arms, teeth chattering, fake eyelashes fluttering.  

Outside the pizza and kebab place, a young couple started to argue. It started with wild screaming and hearty finger poking and ended with an all out roadside brawl. As they wrestled each other they fell to the ground. Their friends looked on with some amusement, her skirt hitching higher and higher. Abruptly the couple stopped fighting and got into a cab together, both rather glum.

On the opposite corner, a littler darker, a little more secluded, people were going to the toilet. Not just men (who seem to regard any object or surface tantamount to a toilet) but women too squatting gracelessly, teetering on their heels, still clutching shiny handbags. Opposite this crowd a couple were trying to have sex against the wall of a pub, impervious to the multitudes still thrumming through the streets. Nearby, others were retching violently into bins, doorways and gutters.

All this from my window on my first night. Welcome to Blackpool.

One of the biggest nightclubs in Europe, resting quietly during the day.

I thought about my day so far, meeting some of my co-workers at the pub downstairs. Dressed in my travelling 'uniform' – a t-shirt, jeans and hiking boots, no make-up – I came face-to-face with a safety pin wearing Goth chick who hosted sex toy parties as a sideline, a skinny punk with the requisite dramatic mohawk, and a leery, lecherous, bawdy bloke called Dave who asked me if I had a lock on my door.

Though my instincts said 'gather up your belongings and hightail it to the railway station', I decided to stick around for a few weeks. And I'm so glad I did.

Appearances are almost always deceptive. The Goth chick and I later went on a girly shopping trip to Manchester together. The skinny punk and I sang Massive Attack duets during quiet times at the pub. And Dave and I became great mates. He was always the first to come to my rescue if a customer got too aggressive.

Blackpool actually turned out to be very likeable indeed, filled with friendly, beautiful people. It just took a little recalibration.

If you do find yourself in town, just remember – always wear underpants. You never know when you'll get into a roadside brawl.

Flying high

I'm not a good flyer. I was once. For about an hour. And then it was downhill for the next sixteen years. That first trip interstate, the first leg of a European holiday with my parents,  I spent most of the time with my face pressed up against the window, rapt in joy. Wow, I'm flying. I'll be damned.

Fifteen hours and two stop overs into my journey I was literally crying with frustration. 'I want to get off now', I sobbed to my mother like a baby. I was twenty years old.

What I haven't been able to get my head around is why is it so awful, torturous and vile to sit in a chair for a long time? It shouldn't be that bad right? Ok, the food wouldn't be out of place in a public hospital, and the earphones give me a headache. But, essentially,  I'm sitting in a chair and watching movies. On the day I was due to fly to Brazil – Brazil – I woke up, sighed dramatically and frowned – 'I have to get on a plane today', I thought. That's not right.

It's possible that this frame of mind has attracted a little bad luck. From Vancouver to Toronto I sat next to a morbidly obese fellow who didn't actually fit in his chair. I offered to raise the arm rest so he would be more comfortable. A mistake, in hindsight.

On the way to Santiago I developed a migraine and spent half the journey throwing up in the toilet. There's something especially demoralising about throwing up in an airplane toilet. The attendant kindly offered me some Panadol – like throwing a glass of water at a burning building.

Then there are the interesting strangers you're forced spend a surprising amount of time with. There was the elderly Polish lady who's conversational opening gambit was, 'My husband should be sitting where you are right now. But he died six months ago'. Then the American father and daughter who asked for my help with the Customs declaration – should he declare his firearms or not? One poor young woman totally lost the plot. Behind me I heard, 'right, that's it, I'm getting off right now'. Then she was stomping down the aisle and rattling the exit door while we were somewhere high over the Pacific. She was tackled to the ground and watched like a hawk after that. Scary. But it was hard not to sympathise.

But quite apart from the frustration and irritation of long bouts of chair sitting, there's also my fear of plunging to my death in a horrible high speed collision with the ground.

Every flight makes me jittery and slightly unhinged, but my most harrowing experience was on a 60 seater from New York to Montreal. My nerves were already frayed after a long delay. The wind was howling outside. It felt cyclonic to me. As I boarded and settled into my seat, way in the back of the plane, I could see some serious conversations going on down the front but I couldn't hear what they're saying. Then the attendant called our attention – the plane was overweight. Four people needed to get off before we could leave. There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone seemed to have the same thought – the attendant was the size of at least two and a half adults and posed her own occupational health and safety issues.

I thought to myself, 'If I get off this plane now, I'm pretty sure I'll never get on another one ever again'. I just had to bite down on something hard and sit tight. Besides, I was frozen with fear. It was unlikely I would've been capable of coordinated movement anyway. Four intelligent people eventually did volunteer to take the next flight and the door was shut tight behind them. Then the attendant made another announcement. Without any preamble and with a very serious tone, she told us that, due to windy and unstable conditions, we would undoubtedly experience severe turbulence. She would not be able to provide any service during the short flight because it was too unsafe.

What little blood I had left in my face drained away. The woman next to me said casually to her friend, 'Hey, I just read that most plane crashes are due to being overweight or bad weather'. Her friend raised her eyebrows and nodded, then went back to reading her magazine. I started hyperventilating and, for the first time in a long time, prayed to the Lord.

I checked and rechecked my seatbelt a thousand times as we ambled clumsily down the runway like a newborn giraffe. Not that my belt would've been much help if we did have some sort of lightening induced midair combustion. The sound was incredible, the dips and wobbles stomach churning.  I spent that short flight wound up, clamped to my seat, and muttering under my breath. I couldn't understand why other people were eating snacks and reading the newspaper so casually when imminent death was so close. Even after we came to a screeching halt on the runway in Montreal I was still in the brace position.

Obviously I survived that flight. It took a few days for all the muscles in my body to unclench again but I made it. And clearly I haven't given up travelling, I've just learnt one valuable lesson: always carry sleeping tablets.  

The holiday romance never dies



The Marco Polo. Let the romance begin....

Holidays are perfect for falling in love. You're nice and relaxed, your mind is open, really open, and there's nothing on your agenda but the pursuit of pleasure. I've fallen in love with a surprisingly diverse gaggle of men while on holidays. Let me clarify, for the sake of modesty, that when I say 'fall in love', I mean that I may have done nothing more than make electrifying eye contact with a guitarist as he walked off stage after a gig. But, along with my photos, ticket stubs and hotel key cards, I do also have a lovely collection of holiday dates. There was the charming hostel manager in the Lake District, the Oxford scholar in the Spanish mountains, a handsome but goofy airline employee in Ireland, and a bohemian, bagpipe playing Canadian in the Rockies. They added another dimension to some fantastic travels. There's no other travel experience as authentic as getting to know the locals!

Let's face it, there is a whole travel industry that revolves around the hedonistic, uninhibited notion that holidays equal sex (think Contiki or any package tour to Ibiza). What I didn't appreciate until recently, was that the notion of a holiday peppered with romantic interludes was not exclusively held by the young and carefree. They are also held by a more senior set – the retired cruiser. 

I ended up on a ten-day Scandinavian cruise with 700 other people. I was the youngest person by about a generation. I was travelling on my own. (Yes, there is another story here, for now just accept that, indeed, I was there under my own free will.) Of the 700 folks, many were taking a second, long overdue honeymoon, some were kicking up their heels in retirement, and yet others were celebrating some big mile stone (80th birthday!). 

But there was a hefty proportion of single seniors – men and women – just as crafty, randy and hell bent on getting some action as any 18 year old lad at a stag party. A whole bunch of singles hit the cruise hard, searching for their own holiday romance. The nightclub was always thriving well past 3am and the scene vaguely resembled any downtown nightclub  – bleary eyed, pleasantly intoxicated folks copping sneaky gropes while gyrating on the dance floor. There were quiz nights, dance classes, and extravagant shows each night and at every turn single seniors making the most of these networking opportunities to bag a companion. Romance bloomed, flourished, soured and re-bloomed.

Conveniently (for the women anyway) there were two fellows employed solely for the purpose of offering companionship to any single lady who needed a dance lesson or bridge partner. They could only be described as 'distinguished chaps' in their 50s, dressed to the nines every night and on call for a saucy little rumba or maybe a quiet cocktail on deck. I was told it was expressly forbidden for them to really 'fraternise' with their clientele but upon questioning Ruby, an 80-something woman I could only describe as a party animal, if any 'hanky panky' went on, she snorted contemptuously (perhaps it was my use of the words 'hanky panky'?). Ruby looked at me as if I was a naive child (I suppose I was young enough to be her granddaughter). 'Of course, my dear, every night. And always someone new'. She looked at me knowingly, pointedly, so I could only assume she had firsthand knowledge.

The cruise unfortunately didn't offer me a darn thing by way of liaisons, innocent or otherwise. Not even the bar tender generated any spark and I'm always a sucker for a smooth bar tender. But seeing other people falling in love/lust was sweet to witness (not in a voyeuristic, peeping through the porthole kind of way!) and it gave me heart – the pursuit of holiday romance clearly never dies!

Hong Kong shopping reality check

So you're looking forward to an incredible Hong Kong shopping frenzy. The mythical experience that Getaway and The Great Outdoors are always talking about. Well, definitely bring a spare suitcase but be wary of shopping utopia. There are a few catches.

The shopping novice will actually lick their lips as they stand at the beginning of the deliciously long Nathan Road with its showy boutiques and sale signs in shop windows. It's not a bad place to start but resist spending your entire budget on this strip. The road is full of mainstream global chains at reasonable prices. You can do better. Plus, you have to play heartless tourist by shooing away equally heartless counterfeiters who approach you on the street and would like to take you, madam, to a more private place, yes, down this dark alley madam, where they can show you the 'real' stuff at super cheap prices. You're a grown up, just walk away.

The first time I went to Hong Kong I was lucky enough to be with a seasoned shopper friend. She steered me well away from Nathan Road and introduced me to the side streets and the all important office block. Office blocks in Hong Kong are quite different to office blocks in Adelaide. In Adelaide you step out of the lift and you'll find a good old fashioned office. Step out of the lifts in Hong Kong and you could find cavernous restaurants, bars, massage places, karaoke clubs and a little Portuguese cafe called The Little Flying Elephant. Or 'Dumbo' in your Lonely Planet. 

Most importantly, you could step out and find yourself in a department store. If you find one of these, your shopping itch can be well and truly scratched. The trick is not to draw blood. Here is a shopping girl's dream – brand name shoes, handbags, clothes, perfume, make-up and jewelry ridiculously cheap, especially when bought with a strong Australian dollar. A word of caution, however – take a moment to breathe into a paper bag and really think about what you're shoving into your shopping basket and flinging over your shoulder.  That fluffy green number with the silver feathers? Put it back. Those strappy Prada platform sandals on sale? That's your whole budget, even on sale. Put it back. That enormous, heavy full length bright purple woolen coat? Are you going to carry it on the plane? Put it back. On second thoughts.... it's not that heavy, right?

If, like me, you have a slightly unnatural obsession with pharmacies, you have found your Mecca. It's called Sasa and it's a chain you'll find on almost every street corner. The stores vary in size and product variety but this is the mother lode of cosmetics, hair products, nail products, cheap vitamins, non-prescription drugs, and even prescription drugs.  Here is where you can buy intriguing tonics, lotions and potions. Does it matter if the packaging is not in English? It's only $2. Figure it out later. (Perhaps just don't ingest anything.)

And then, of course, you have to visit one (or all) of Hong Kong's markets. Many are uncannily themed and impractical for tourists – think birds (live), fish (live) and meat (definitely dead). But others, like electronics and jade, are just made for the tourist with an expandable suitcase. The multi-product markets like the Night Markets are incredibly cheap, but this is for a good and practical reason – many things are essentially rubbish. But here's where you can buy that yellow evening handbag you'll only ever carry once, or a dozen pashminas in every colour imaginable, or those tracksuit pants perfectly suited to cold Sunday nights. They have their place. But like every Hong Kong shopping experience, market shopping does have its drawbacks. I played tug of war, not over a shopping item, but over a friend who was being physically pulled into a stall because he showed undue interest in a Mahjong set. We literally had to drag him out and scurry away through the complex labyrinth of shoppers to escape the stall holder's clutches.

Shopping in Hong Kong is a cultural experience in itself and not to be missed. But, a final friendly word of warning to my fellow adults who are not a waif-like 45kg. There are times when you will be disappointed with the clothing – you will be confronted with an extra large that wouldn't fit a small Western child, or a dearth of shoes over size 7. Be patient. Buy a scarf in the mean time. I asked a store attendant if she had a pair of jeans one size bigger than the pair I had squeezed into (a size 12 and for the record I'm only just 5ft tall). She sniggered very politely, smiled and shook her head. 'We don't stock those sizes', she told me. Very well.

As I left that store with my ill fitting purchases under my arm and a subdued expression on my face, I passed a women who was just entering. She was at least 6ft tall, thin but curvaceous and toned. I opened my mouth to warn her and then I closed it again. She would figure it out.

I’m sorry, are we related?

There’s something very special about traveling with your family. I use ‘special’ here to mean, ‘unexpected’, ‘slightly disappointing’ and ‘downright disgusting’. I had a special family moment when I had to share a tiny apartment with my father in Sao Paolo, Brazil. At 4am I realised I had slept an average of three hours a night, over the last week because I couldn’t escape my father’s snoring. Don’t underestimate the word ‘snore’ – it was more of an almighty roar dragged from the depths of hell and released into the night like a cursed soul.

Something had to be done if my father was to stay alive. I moved into the lounge room, a good two meters away from his bed. Nope. I rammed the headphones of my mp3 player right into my ears. Nope. The hawking, heaving, guttural noise coming from my father was still challenging the wake of a fighter jet. It was when I wedged together two kitchen chairs on the one meter square balcony to fashion a makeshift bed in the slightly drizzly night that I had my true epiphany – maybe it wasn’t a good idea traveling with family.  

Don’t get me wrong, family members can be great; even an advantage. My very attractive cousin managed to get us a lot of ‘free’ stuff in Rome. But gorgeous cousins can still be trouble. On one trip to Canada I developed an allergic reaction which turned my face into a nasty, angry red mess. My cousin inspected the damage very carefully and thoughtfully before looking me in the eye and poking me on the cheek with a very sharp pencil. ‘Did that hurt?’ she asked sincerely. YES!

Of course, I’m sure family members equally don’t like traveling with me. Certainly I can think of one particular family in rural Italy that might be glad to never set eyes on me again. They kindly drove me to my next destination, two hours away. The price of petrol was scandalous, their financial status humble. I repaid them by leaving a plastic bag of unwashed clothing in the back of the car that they rarely used, at the height of summer. I dread to think of the scene next time they opened the boot...

Unfortunately for me, I find family members really hard to tell off. I’ve no problem arguing with a friend over the price of a box of tea (we were on a budget!), and I’ve got no objections refusing to karaoke when I don’t feel like shaking my tail feather. But I couldn’t tell my father that he’d have to stop snoring or I’d kill him. (Actually, I did quietly whisper this in his ear while he was still sleeping but it had absolutely no effect). I could not bring myself to tell him off or yell at him, merited or not. He’s my dad! I couldn’t offend him like that! I love him!

Besides, he was paying for the hotel.

Only connect

This epigraph in EM Forster’s Howard’s End implored Edwardian class-conscious society to look past the barriers and try to understand each other. In asking us to ‘only connect’ Forster asks us to find an overlapping point of interest, understanding and meaning, no matter what our background, to acknowledge that the space between us can easily be narrowed.

This idea has always resonated loudly with me. While it’s a credo I try to live my every day life by, it’s especially important to me with regard to travel. Travel is connection.

I know there’s a whole hierarchy of travel. Some define travel, real genuine travel, as only that kind of journey that involves making a twenty-four hour bus ride to a village high in the mountains of a third world country and teaching the local children English. These travellers throw away the Lonely Planet/iPhone, carry just one spare pair of underpants and happily forgo the comforts of a Western bathroom.

There are others who prefer every creature comfort and can’t bear the thought of public transport at all. They prefer coach travel or cruising. For them the journey is about getting away from home and all the related responsibilities and anxieties.

And there’s everything in between – Contiki tours and war travel, party groups and lone backpackers, volunteer stays and family visits. I probably sit in the in between.

I believe that everyone that leaves their home is a traveller, whether they take the road less travelled or the road first set by Thomas Cook. Personally, travel is about collecting stories, about witnessing something for the first time and of course, connecting. So that's what I'm going to write about! Enjoy the armchair travel.