The upgrade

An upgrade is both a blessing and a curse. You can never go back. Correction – you will go back, whether you like it or not, but you won’t like it. Not one bit. And your expectations get higher and higher each time. And the disappointment more bitter each time.

'Before'... my view between the lacy curtains
at the Cathedral Gate Hotel

My first taste of an upgrade was during a visit to the historic town of Canterbury in my naive early 20s. I was staying right next to Canterbury Cathedral in a hotel that had been a place of accommodation for 600 years. The corridors sloped alarmingly and the bathroom had a bath and a plastic container to help you throw water over your head. No, it was not the late middle ages, it was the late 1990s. So I shuffled into the tiny front office with my trusty backpack and was told that my single room was not available, did I mind taking a double at no extra cost? Did I mind? I thought I’d won the lottery! I was all a-giggle when I threw my backpack down on to the floral bedspread and gazed out the window and on to a small town square. Utterly content and smug.

Upgrades were few and far between for the next decade. When taking flights, I was told, by people allegedly in the know, that I should dress nicely, ask nicely whether the plane is full and suggest, nicely, that I would be amenable to an upgrade should one become available.

That never worked.

On a flight between Hong Kong and Beijing my friend and I tried to buy our own darn upgrade and failed at that too! The ground staff told us it was really too expensive to consider (um... $250 each) and anyway, there was really only one seat available. This sounded suspiciously vague to us....

The breakthrough came when I travelled with two frequent, Qantas Club members and our flight was delayed. Someone summoned us via loudspeaker to the front desk. There we were solemnly handed our new boarding passes. Lovely blue ones. Business Class. BUSINESS CLASS. All the way to Hong Kong.

That flight was one of the most enjoyable of my life. I still think fondly about the fine asparagus and gruyere soup, of the champagne on arrival, and of the stewardess who kindly enquired whether there was anything else that could possibly be done for me. I played with that adjustable chair for hours, trying every horizontal, vertical and semi-horizontal/vertical position available (truth be told the cushion was a little thin and the mechanics underneath a little lumpy) but I could not sleep for a moment. What? And miss being in Business Class? No way!

Every economy flight after that has been particularly galling and depressing. On the way back from that same Business Class trip, we were upgraded again but only to Premium Economy. I remember the three of us sniffing our noses with slight disappointment. Premium Economy, eh? If we must I suppose.

The best upgrade I’ve ever experienced, however, was on a recent trip to Singapore. I was checking into the Marina Bay Sands resort and unbeknown to me, a friend of mine had spoken to her friend at the Marina Bay and asked if anything special could be arranged for me. I was travelling by myself.

Well. I sauntered up to the front office on my birthday and handed over my voucher for a room I felt sure would be in the basement. ‘Happy birthday’, the receptionist smiled. She tapped and fiddled away and then said, ‘Sorry I’ll just be a minute, I’m printing your Club Privileges letter’.

'After'....the view from my king size bed at the
Marina Bay Sands Resort

Che? ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not the room I booked’, I told her. She glanced at my quizzically and then smiled, ‘Oh, you’ve been upgraded’. I positively beamed.

I was at my bumpkin best when I threw open the door to my 52nd Floor Suite and couldn’t help shouting ‘Oh my God, someone else has to see this!! Oh. My. God’. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Bay. Two lounge rooms. A dressing room. A bathroom bigger than my last hotel room. And a king size bed. All to myself. My friend had also organised flowers, a cake and a bottle of wine. Heavenly. Apart from the fact that I was terrified at the prospect of approaching the window (the dizzying heights!), I was unbearably happy.

I could never stay there again of course – I couldn’t bear staying in the bargain basement room next time round and the chances of my being so spectacularly upgraded again are slim. Hence the blessing and the curse.

Does anyone else have a good upgrade story?

High tea



The Coeliac version of high tea


‘High tea’ is commonly known around the world as a dignified outing where refined people partake of their tea and sandwiches with perky pinkies outstretched. But, in the late 18th century ‘high tea’ was instead a hearty evening hoe down for farmers and working folk who downed meat, cheese and eggs with gusto, and scoffed bread and cake with their pinkies firmly tucked in. ‘Afternoon tea’ was another meal altogether and it’s what we have in mind when we order our English Breakfast with milk. Allegedly, the Duchess of Bedford had a hard time getting through the evening’s entertainment program without having a little something beforehand (it seems lunch didn’t really exist – only breakfast early and dinner rather late). The Duchess started inviting people round for tea and scones before heading off to the theatre and thus afternoon tea was born.

And grateful we are for it! I adore afternoon tea but for such a genteel activity, high tea in my experience has often been hilarious, interesting, fascinating but rarely genteel.

Here are three of my favourites:

The Lobby, Peninsula Hotel, Hong Kong

The Lobby

They actually call it afternoon tea here!

There is an airport bustle feel about such a dignified place. Amongst the lofty pillars and gold leaf, there is laughter, clatter, chairs scraping and cutlery clunking. Everything is run with remarkable efficiency – clockwork precision. Things arrive, flutter and land on the table: tea and then the compulsory three-tier cake stand.

I watch enthralled as a middle-aged fellow sits down at a table alone. He has a big smile on his face which lights up further when his cake stand arrives. Then, he takes out his video camera, holds it in his left hand, and turns it on himself while he scoffs a scone with his right hand. He practically smacks his lips with joy and closes his eyes with pleasure. He then gives a running commentary in a foreign language and I have enormous fun imagining what he has to say.



Tiffin Room



Tiffin Room, Raffles Hotel, Singapore

Tiffin Room

The Raffles Hotel is all those clichés – majestic, regal, palatial. The white columns are solemn and beautiful, and the colonnades are a cool and subtle oasis in the constant humidity. So there’s something particularly galling about having to line up outside the door of the Tiffin Room like riffraff lining up  for a hip nightclub on a Saturday night. Ok, the clientele are decidedly older and more conservatively dressed but otherwise, there’s that same buzz of excitement and boredom, anticipation and annoyance.

This was my first high tea as a Coeliac (no gluten usually = no cake). There was no cake. But there were sweet little jellies, chocolate dipped strawberries and blueberries and cream which were – no other word quite fits – delightful. The sandwiches were sound but the extensive, steaming, delicious looking buffet that called to me like a siren was off limits. Reasoning with myself that I had missed out on scones, I greedily dared to ask the waiter, ‘please sir, can I have some more?’ and was duly rewarded with more sandwiches made with the chef’s ‘secret recipe’ bread – so delicious that at first I thought they weren’t, in fact, gluten free.

The Tea Rooms, Gunner's Barracks, Sydney

The Tea Room

Surely this is one of the only places in the world where you have to guard your plate against swooping kookaburras stealing your smoked salmon sandwich. One swept onto the balcony, quietly but clumsily snagged a morsel, sending crumbs scattering and hands waving, and then took it back to a tree only meters away and smugly ate it.

This was a decidedly hilarious afternoon tea. My friend and I decided that the one (very camp) waiter, who made a (suitably camp) fuss over us, did everything in this restaurant. We decided that he was not only serving the tea and coffee but making it as well, and quickly donning a lace-edged white apron to make the sandwiches. He was out of the room when some smooth crooning suddenly came through the stereo system. We fell about laughing thinking that he’d taken on that role too and was singing into a microphone in between tea top-ups. We cried with laughter. I was actually in danger of throwing up all over my Royal Doulton and it was only the thought of that that subdued me a little.

Information souces include (but not limited to): http://www.thecarrington.com.au/menus.asp?pid=56

http://www.victorialodging.com/attraction/victoria-high-tea

Itinerary: Adelaide to Singapore to London to Madrid to Malaga

Bubion, Sierra Nevada mountains, Spain

I hope you read that title and groaned in horror. It was bad. Primarily because every now and then, whilst travelling in a plane, I suddenly have a freak out and think I’m going to plummet violently towards earth and my death (see flying-high). When I’m not having a freak out I find plane travel incredibly, monumentally, and stupendously tedious.

Following are edited excerpts from the journal I kept during my first solo travel overseas.  

June 25 Adelaide - Singapore

Terrified but happy.

When I checked my luggage in I asked ‘Is this backpack actually going to make it all the way to Malaga?’. The attendant smiled cheerfully but looked doubtful; ‘It should’. She sounded apologetic.

I’m pacing myself. I have 30 hours of travelling in total. I’ve managed to just sit for an hour doing nothing at all. This morning the woman at the shop counter routinely wished me a good day. I grinned back and practically shouted, ‘It certainly is a good day – I’m going to Europe!’. Because it’s not often you get to say that. I could tell though, that she didn’t care.

Still June 25 Singapore Airport

I feel fine! I still have to board another three planes but so far, I’m fine! No freak outs!

I love travelling on my own. You don’t have to worry about any judgements about, say, lying on the floor (like so) or joining other people’s toddlers in a compact game of indoor soccer at Gate 568.

But I like to talk and no one will talk to me. The fellow on my first flight sat with a giant newspaper held up in front of him for about 8 hours.

I live in fear of hearing DING DING DING ‘Passenger Tina, please see an airport attendant at Gate Lounge 42’. Who are these insubordinate passengers? Actually, I know of one whose departure time was changed, who missed hearing her name over the loud speaker and who was frogmarched out of  a duty free store and told the plane was waiting just for her and that she had better run.

In transit. I’m on my way to somewhere else. Malaga apparently. I’m in fine spirits!

Still, I’m afraid, in Singapore Airport. Still June 25.

I’ve not gone far at all – Terminal 2.

It’s almost midnight. It’s been a long day. ‘Day’ here is loosely defined as a set of hours.

London, Heathrow

Small freak out:

Mid-flight, whilst flying over the ocean, someone decided they’d had enough of plane travel (in fact, I distinctly heard her say ‘Right, I’ve had enough’ and I sympathised), marched boldly down the aisle and started rattling the exit door. The lady beside me clutched her husband in terror and whispered ‘We’re going to die’. But the attendants were on it straight away, man handling the lady back down the aisle. Perhaps to be sedated and/or restrained?

How do I get hold of those sedatives? Because I was shaking for some time afterwards.

I’ve only slept four hours. Turns out, camomile tea is not as potent or effective as commercially manufactured sleeping tablets. Especially with rivers of adrenalin coursing through your veins, triggered by the fear of imminent death.

And I’m sure I’ll never see my luggage again.

London, Heathrow. Still. June 26? 25? 27?

I’m constantly being told to ‘wait in the lounge’. I’ve started repeating it out loud which is not a good way to make friends. I’m still ok. I’m just F...ING BORED OUT OF MY GOD DAMNED MIND.

And I still have yet another two flights....

London to Madrid. Late June.

People keep saying ‘good morning’ to me which means very little at this point. I’m seriously starting to lose it now. I don’t know what to eat, when to eat it or even why or how. I’m looking forward to having a significant conversation with Connor, the guide for my walking tour, who’s collecting me at Malaga Airport. Was it the domestic or international terminal? What time was he coming? Oh my God. What if I show up at the domestic and he’s waiting in the international and he waits there for three hours and decides I’ve changed my mind and leaves and I don’t have any hotel or contact numbers or currency or probably my luggage.

I’d like to sleep now. A long long nap.

Why am I going through this mild torture? Ah yes. For a nice relaxing holiday.

Madrid then. Waiting for Malaga flight.

Surely this is my lowest point. The domestic terminal is eerily silent, except for a Spanish rendition of the song ‘Mull of Kintyre’ being piped over the loudspeaker. Which I find so absurd and unlikely, that I start to hum along. Rather loudly. There’s nobody here anyway. As far as I can tell, I’m the only person going somewhere today.

I haven’t eaten for hours now – I could not stomach another fetid, rancid plane meal. My ears are ringing and crackling and whistling. NO MORE PLANES.

Oh go on then, one more.

I’ve put on some lipstick. I feel better.

Malaga airport, waiting for Connor, shit scared.

So the baggage carousel stops going round. It was empty. Everyone had taken their bag and gone. Everyone except me.

So. Looks like my backpack didn’t make it.

I walk towards a large, glassed in, official looking office and wander inside. There’s no one in there but there are a number of suitcases. I decide to check if my bag is here. This is the state I’m in - I’m travelling with a big soft black backpack half my height. However, I proceed to check the luggage tag of every case there: a bright green Benetton case, hard red leather rectangular suitcase, a tapestry carrybag with a zip, and regular black trolley suitcase with easily identified yellow ribbon. I earnestly flipped over every luggage tag looking for my name.

No luck. Crest fallen.

Then the baggage carousel again started up behind me. I wander out again and watch, incredulously, as just my little backpack pops out and dutifully comes around to meet me. I take it, look around, shrug, say ‘thank you!’ quite loudly and wander through the exit.

Do I have anything to declare? Just my sanity.

Bubion, a village in the Sierra Nevada mountain ranges.

Connor walked up to me in the airport and asked if my name was Tina. I looked at him seriously and said, ‘I’m not really sure anymore’.

He steered me into the back seat of a van in which two other tourists were already happily sitting waiting. ‘How far away to the village’, I ask? ‘Oh, only three hours’. Clearly my deeply distressed facial expression indicated I might pass out at this news: ‘Just have a little lie down’, he said. ‘We’ll be there in no time.’

I was asleep before he finished that sentence.

A Coeliac in Singapore





High tea at Raffles



And now the delicate moment: '...and, please, no soy sauce'.



 

The cashier / manager frowned at me. ‘No soy?’.

‘No soy. It makes me sick.’ I put on an anguished face and clutched my stomach but this only made her frown even more. ‘I’m really sorry’. (Why should I be sorry??)

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Oyster sauce?’

‘Mmmm... I’d better not risk it. No.’

‘No oyster sauce?’.

‘No.’ Firmly. Politely but firmly.

She shook her head a little and punched numbers into her till. Then she turned and shouted the order to the chef in a language I couldn’t understand. I’m pretty sure that conversation followed the same lines as our exchange but I suspect it was also laced with a little sarcasm and things like ‘she says it will make her sick’ and probably finished with something like ‘These bloody strange tourists’. I’m pretty sure she rolled her eyes.

I didn’t mind the drama at all – it was worth the delicious plate of fried rice topped with a fried egg, and laced with the mysteriously named chicken ham but sans soy sauce. It was the first decent meal I’d had in Singapore in three days. I was there for the Formula 1 Grand Prix and I wasn’t going to risk being sick and missing it after waiting so long and spending so much money.

For the first three days, while the race was on, I would scurry back to a corner of my tiny hotel room in downtown Little India munching nut bars, cracking open tins, and boiling water for my gluten free noodle cups. It was a little pathetic – tuna flecks on the sheets, rice cracker crumbs on the vanity, washing plastic cutlery in the tiny bathroom sink and hiding it in the back of my suitcase. I felt like a girl with a nasty fetish to hide.

At the Grand Prix I had to ask inane questions at food outlets that generally baffled the person being asked: ‘Do you fry your chips in the same oil as your battered fish?’ (at the recreated English pub), and ‘When you say cheese sauce, is it just melted cheese or is it cheese made into a sauce?’ (getting nachos at the Mexican outlet). I looked enviously over at the noodle bar, sniffed deeply and sighed. I watched kids shovelling hot, spicy, saucy battered morsels into their mouths and licked my lips.

Instead, I ordered another gin and tonic.

Day four,  Grand Prix over and I was ready to be unleashed! To hell with the risk of vomiting in public spaces, I was ready to give it a whirl. For the next few days it was a feeding frenzy. First stop was the cafe I mentioned above where I ordered the fried rice for breakfast (it was 11am!). The cranky fried rice lady was the only one to give me attitude. Everyone else in Singapore was so understanding, accommodating and willing to play. So, next I conquered Chinatown with the most delicious plate of pork chop with honey sauce I’ve ever had the good fortune to consume. I regretfully relapsed into colonialism for a rib eye steak smothered in pepper sauce and a very proper English high tea at Raffles.  But the next night I consumed a seven course Chinese banquet with the desperation and abandon of a rescued survivor. Salt and pepper crab! Taro battered scallops! Sago pudding! I waddled back to the hotel, sated, smug and happy.

Towards the end of my stay, I was taken to dinner by some new friends – Indochine on Clarke Quay. Hip understated waterfront restaurant, moody lighting, humid of course, but a cool breeze off the water. And then imagine my surprise and joy when I was presented with a gluten free menu.

Coeliac nirvana. I’d made it.

 

 

* A Coeliac cannot tolerate anything that contains gluten (including wheat amongst other things). Soy sauce is usually processed with wheat and other sauces sometimes contain wheat flour thickeners.

Things you just have to do when you travel. Or else?

The trouble with things you just have to do / see / eat is that you have exactly the same travel experience as everyone else. Or worse, you don’t have the same marvellous experience everyone told you about.

For example, Venice is a pretty magical city. Anyone who has been there will tell you that you have to go on a gondola ride. Grit your teeth, pay the exorbitant price and lower yourself into that gondola. The thing is, some people do love it – they cry from the joy of drifting on the canals of such an historic city. But others hate it. They forget that Venice is still a functioning (just) modern city with around 60 000 permanent inhabitants. The water does not smell sweet and fresh. The washing on the line hanging outside windows is sometimes colourful, but sometimes grey with giant underpants and drab singlets. The gondolier is a little seedy, his singing forced and off key. ‘Really?’, they cry. ‘This is a gondola ride in Venice? Why did I have to do this?’

Well-trodden holiday destinations can turn a little into ‘checkbox’ travel. Did you have Singapore Sling at the Raffles? Have you seen a flamenco show in Madrid? Did you ‘mind the gap’ on a tube ride in London? Surely you had pizza in Naples, right? (For the record, Neapolitan pizza is very flat and usually pretty plain. If you’re picturing a big fluffy base with five different meats and twelve different vegetables – you may or may not like it. Just saying. The gelato, on the other hand, stands a good chance of being everything you ever dreamed of.)

Sometimes you’re made to feel guilty if you didn’t do ‘the thing’ in a particular city. You’re confronted with little crestfallen faces, full of dismay: ‘You didn’t go to the catacombs in Rome? Oh. I see.’. Silence. ‘No time for the Vatican museums, you say? Oh.’ You’ve failed. You’ve failed them and you’ve certainly failed yourself. Never mind that you met a local and consequently ended up an authentic little restaurant for dinner. Never mind you had a personally guided tour of the Coliseum given by an art history PhD student. Never mind you lit candles at church and ended up participating in the local Saint’s Day celebrations. You’ve disappointed those that cannot go and you’ve been underestimated by those that have been.

You actually do have to see the waterfalls when
you go to Niagara Falls. Difficult to avoid. 

Ok, ok, I now confess that I too have been guilty of starting some sage travel advice with ‘you have to’. And perhaps this blog is actually about how I agree with those that urge you on to do what you’re ‘supposed to’. But I’m going to qualify my agreement by stating that I usually only use this statement for those that have researched the crap out of their holiday destination to the point that they can give you the dimensions of the Corcovado, the species of trees growing on the Sugarloaf, and the preferred waxing salons of Brazilians living in the Ipanema area.

If you (think) you know what you’re going to see, how you’re going to see it and how you’re going to feel about it you could, potentially, actually miss the point. There are some things your 72 inch LED HD television screen is simply not able to convey. I found Uluru spiritual and intense (not everyone does, see for example, my mother’s experience in Disappointments). And I found Port Arthur illuminating – it put me in touch with a sense of colonial Australia and connected me to history. Those are two places beautiful to look at pictures of, interesting to read about – I’ve certainly done both – but being there made me connect and flicked on the switch of understanding.

Travel, to me, is about witnessing. There’s something earnest and genuine about witnessing in person. It means engaging all five senses (six if you’re lucky enough!) and really connecting with a place or people. That’s when magic happens and that’s what I’m encouraging when I say ‘you have to’. That picture you’ve seen of the Amalfi Coast doesn’t do it justice – the picture can’t prepare you for the remarkable sunshine, for the glittery effect it has on the ocean, for the brisk breeze, for the lyrical background chatter, for the contrasting colours, and for the smell of food wafting out of restaurant doors. That’s why you ‘have to’. That’s why, despite all your research and your 3D virtual tour, you won’t know, really know, until you’ve witnessed. 

Quirky Italians and their unique driving habits

I think sometimes Italians are unjustifiably labelled ‘arrogant’.  (Ok, sometimes justifiably.) I prefer to call them quirky. (Perhaps because whilst Australian, I also hold an Italian passport). What might be arrogance could also be called charming, innovative or creative, especially when it comes to driving.

Let me explain.

On the streets of Formia I witnessed an alarming number of ‘quirky’ driving techniques (not to mention crazed, kamikaze, and downright dangerous).  This town’s streets were sometimes so narrow they were one-way and only wide enough for a single car. One sunny afternoon, my cousin was driving us around when she suddenly had to step on the brakes as the car in front of us came to a halt.  What’s this?

Oh, I see – it’s a warm day so the driver had to stop, put the car in neutral, climb out of the car, pull off his jumper, smooth his hair down, get back in the car and then set of on his merry way again.

See? Quirky. Utterly quirky.

Then, while I was catching a bus from town, the driver suddenly stopped (in the middle of the street – no cissy pulling over to the side), wound down his window and called out to a fellow in a car heading the opposite way, in the opposite lane. Yes, effectively both cars held up traffic in both directions. Their important conversation went something like this:

Break time at the Forum.

‘Hey! I’ve been trying to reach you. Where have you been?’

‘Oh I’ve been busy!’

‘Never mind. Listen, are you coming to the BBQ on Saturday?’

‘Sure I am! What do you want me to bring?’

‘Nothing! Just yourself.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, promise. Just yourself.’

‘Ok, no worries, see you then.’

Quirky. Charming.

What I love though, is that nobody on the bus batted an eyelid. People continued to stare out the window, totally unperturbed by the small pause in their bus journey. Sure, there was a half hearted horn toot but nothing abusive. True, it only took a minute, but can you picture that taking place in any other city quite like so?

Not that there isn’t a bit of road rage now and then.

While hanging around in Rome I witnessed a fellow walking towards his car, only to find that someone had double parked next to him and he was trapped. Mm... what was he going to do? Well, I couldn’t hear him from where I was standing but I’m pretty sure there were a few ‘Holy....’, ‘Your mother is a ......’ before he starting beeping his horn, continuously for about ten minutes. Eventually a tall thin man started walking towards him nonchalantly. With his hands he indicated that the first fellow should really calm down. I paraphrase:

‘Hey, what’s your problem?’

‘What the f....k do you mean, “what’s my problem”? Your car is my problem. I can’t bloody get out!’

No actual sorry. Instead: ‘Sure, but there’s no need to get so upset. It was only 10 minutes and here I am. I’ll get out of the way right now. That’s all.’ He smiled kindly, apologetically, calmly – only implying ‘mi scusi’.

Quirky, charming and charismatic.

But it was on the island of Ponza that I witnessed yet another bus driver who illustrated the very essence of quirky Italian driver, employing all the charm, charisma and creativity at his disposal. On a gorgeous summer day, halfway through our journey around the island, at a busstop, the bus door jammed itself halfway open. Its panelled doors were thoroughly wedged. The driver turned to the passengers and asked, ‘Does anyone have any string?’.

It turns out nobody had any string.

(What he was going to do with the string still baffles me.)

He nods his head, in a ‘what-are-you-going-to-do’ style, and starts whistling a happy tune and continues on his way. At the next stop an elderly lady frowns at him through the half open door. He stares her down: ‘What do you want me to do lady? Do you have any string? No? Well then!’. He shrugs apologetically but tells her, ‘breathe in and get on or don’t. It’s up to you’.

She humphs and struggles in sideways. ‘Do I still have to pay’. Affronted he answers, ‘Ha! Certo!’. Certainly!

Humph… grumble, grumble. But she gets on. And she pays.

To pack or not to pack...(or The case of the cheese)

I’m not sure if I’m getting better or worse at packing. Sometimes I’ve gone away for a fortnight with five items of clothing and a pair of sneakers. Sometimes I’ve gone away for a weekend with twelve items of clothing, hairdryer and curling wand, hair mousse, hairspray, books, snacks and three pairs of shoes (flat, high heels, higher high heels). Of course, the key to packing smart is to adapt Chanel’s advice to take one thing off before you leave the house – take one thing out. In fact, take two or three.

But never mind the volume of packing, the content is always more important. Especially if you’re keen on getting through Customs without getting arrested. When we came back from Italy, the Customs officer took one look at me, my mum and dad, narrowed her eyes and said, ‘Have you brought back any salami or sausage?’. I shook my head and glared at her, mortally offended, ‘Of course not! What are we? Peasants?!’. I pursed my lips and carried on. Pft! Stereotyping!

Ok, I confess – although we wouldn’t dream of carrying smallgoods, we were carrying about a kilo of undeclared gold jewellery and an illegal amount of cigarettes.

I later learned my mother also snuck in some of my Aunt’s tomato plant seeds.

But really! Talk about stereotyping!

My uncle is exceedingly fond of Provolone, that lovely Italian cheese, often found on antipasto platters. My uncle lives in Carlisle, Northern UK, and despite his proximity to Italy, Provolone is (allegedly) difficult for him to source. So, when my father and I were preparing to visit for my cousin’s wedding, we smiled knowingly at each other when the subject of gifts came up – what else but a good hunk of cheese. Not as a wedding present mind, just as ‘here we are’ gift.

So we buy 4 kilos of cheese. Not a discrete wedge, not a subtle wodge but a whole 4 kilos. We had it cut in half and vacuum sealed. Done.

Then the doubts set in. Is it ok to carry cheese into the UK? Suddenly, all those episodes of Border Control came flooding back. Perhaps I’d better check. I scribble off an email to UK Customs. I paraphrase our exchange:

‘Good sir/madam, I’d like to carry 4 kilos of cheese into your country. It’s Italian.’

‘Well, you can’t. We don’t accept cheese from Australia. Only Europe.’

‘Oh, but it is European. The Provolone is Italian, exported to  Australia. We’re just returning it to its homeland. It’s going to be quite well travelled, as far as cheese goes.’

‘No. It’s still technically from Australia.’

‘But only technically.’

‘No.’

(I might add, I used a vague email address/name in case I was electronically tagged in some secret customs file.....)

So do we risk it? Is there jail time for illegal cheese? We plot and plan. We’re flying through Zurich – let’s say we bought it at the airport. Really? You think they’ll buy that? We don’t have receipts! Do they sell cheese at the airport?? Should we declare it? A couple of hundred dollars worth of cheese – perhaps they’ll think we’re going to sell it on some epicurean black market. Maybe let’s just bring 2 kilos – it won’t hurt so much if they confiscate it (the pain being caused by a) the idea of this lovely expensive cheese being unceremoniously binned, and b) the idea of it being scoffed by (admittedly unlikely) thieving, stereotyping Customs officers). If we only bring half, what are we going to do with the other 2 kilos of cheese? Let’s not bring any! Let’s bring it all!

On and on. Every day we grew more and more anxious about the blessed cheese.

We make the call – 2 kilos. That should keep my uncle going for a while anyway. We pack it my father’s suitcase (yes, that’s right – if we had to, we were planning to pull the ‘I’m sorry. I’m old and foreign. I didn’t realise you couldn’t bring cheese into the UK. No, my daughter didn’t know I packed it!’ card).

We land at Manchester Airport. We head towards a surprisingly sparse Customs area / exit and ... sail on through. No questions, no alarms, no X-Rays, and no sniffer dogs.

We should have brought the whole 4 kilos.

Was it worth it? Yes. My uncle grinned happily when we presented him with his unlikely gift.

‘Ha!’, he laughed. ‘Provolone! Thanks!’

No problem at all.

Canberra – the little city that could

Canberra is not for me. Now remember, this is my personal opinion and perspective – not a mindless criticism. I’m all about connection and Canberra and I just didn’t connect. We didn’t fall in love. We didn’t even want to go out on a second date.

To me Canberra feels odd and perplexing. It’s as though someone designed a great city, built a great city but forgot to populate it sufficiently to fulfil its potential. The motorways and multi-lane freeways crossings chasms of empty space in such an effectively tiny city just seem like a mockery. I couldn’t fathom why everything was so spread out and far apart. The National Gallery, the Portrait Gallery and the National Library sit alongside each other – with about a kilometre of parking space and lawned area between each. Why? At the very least they could have installed a travelator between them.

War Memorial

There are wonderful things to see and do in Canberra – the War Memorial is sensitive and moving, the Botanic Gardens are charming and beautiful, and the galleries and museums are tremendous. I just couldn’t find the heart of Canberra. I couldn’t find its city heart. I like my city to behave like a city – but how do I define that? Its mall was like every other mall. Its shopping complex was like every other shopping complex. The people that wandered the mall and shopping complex were sophisticated, stylish people. But those qualities [deficiencies?] are not exclusive to Canberra. There’s nothing disparaging to say about Canberrians because they are regular people – some cool, some artistic, some fit and healthy jogging on a Saturday morning, others drunk and out on the town on Friday night.

But in the mall on Sunday two skateboarders zoomed past me…. both at least in their 30s. One was sadly balding, the other had a cap with greasy lank hair poking out, both had oversized t-shirts and baggy pants. No one but me gave them a second look.

While standing at a city pedestrian crossing on a Sunday afternoon, I waited for the only car within miles of sight to pass by and then stepped out against the little red ‘don’t walk’ sign. The guy driving by me in his van looked at me askance, incredulous – as though I were trying to cross a seven lane freeway on roller skates, with a small pig clutched under my arm. He shook his head, I imagine muttering something like, ‘these damn kids of today’.

There’s a laid back country feel to Canberra that is in contrast with its city status. To me, Canberra was perfectly illustrated by the following. Angela, my travelling companion – a highly successful, highly pressured partner in a high profile Sydney law firm ­– almost lost the plot when a McDonald’s cashier took my payment for a bottle of water, diligently printed out a service receipt and laid it down carefully in the appropriate place, ready for the service person to attend to. The fridge was behind the cashier. It wasn’t particularly busy. Angela started tapping her foot and crossing her arms, frowning. I confirmed, politely, that it was just the bottle of water I wanted. ‘Yep,’ the cashier said, ‘won’t be long’. And stared into the middle distance. Angela started muttering under her breath and rolling her eyes. I tried to smile gently at the cashier who was starting to get nervous. Another minute passed and Angela bursts out, spluttering, ‘Oh for fucks sake, it’s right behind you, just get the fucking bottle of water’, just as the service person trundled up to study my little receipt and fetch my bottle of water. Thank you.

But perhaps I’ve missed the point. Perhaps some of those quirky things are Canberra – a city/country hybrid with its own unique charm. It’s a lovely, lovely place to visit. But only if you don’t mind your city on the mild side. 

Hong Kong Karaoke or be damned!

(A slightly fictionalised composite account of a true story....all memory is fiction anyway.)

The taxi driver screwed up his face as he looked at us through his rear view mirror. ‘No idea’, he said. Impossible. Hong Kong has thousands of karaoke bars. My friend Michelle employed the dreadful act of speaking louder to make herself understood, ‘We’d like to go to a KARAOKE bar. Can you take us to one?’, she shouted, ‘you know, singing’. As she cleared her throat, ready to launch into ‘Girls just wanna have fun’, the driver’s face suddenly lit up, ‘Ah yes!’. He nodded enthusiastically as he negotiated traffic like a kart driver. We didn’t realise that he literally meant a bar called Yes. Yes 11th to be exact. An improbable name for a bar in an improbable location – a fifteen story office building. We were in the middle of the Kowloon district, karaoke central, and I was about to confront my greatest fear – singing in public.

In Yes 11th, no one was singing anything yet. The concrete flooring and black décor made it a little foreboding. There were café style tables and wrought iron chairs in the centre, but we chose one of the comfy lounges along the side wall. There were private rooms, like most mainstream karaoke bars, but since we didn’t really know how it worked, we thought we’d make some observations first. Plus, you had to pay for private rooms by the hour, per person. We ordered the first round of drinks and waited to see what would happen. A great pile of steaming meat landed on our table, compliments of the manager. We eyed them warily and decided to call the dish ‘BBQ chicken wings’ even though there was no mention of it on the menu. Indeed, it tasted like chicken. The manager came over, shouting incomprehensibly at us in a menacing way but then broke into jolly laughter and wandered away. We couldn’t tell if he was pleased or cross that there were Westerners in his bar – we discovered later that Westerners normally headed to Neway or Red Box; Hong Kong karaoke institutions.

Neither the manager nor the “chicken” helped calm my nerves. I didn’t yet understand why people would put themselves through this.

A large group of young men and women came in and started fiddling around with the microphone, chatting to the owner and scrolling through song lists. Finally, they started to sing. They were having a great time, singing harmonies and duets. Romantic looking young men crooned love ballads – a performance complete with wringing hands, tortured expressions and dramatic arm waving. A girl with bright blue eye shadow at the next table told me Hong Kong people work so hard and are so reserved in behaviour, but at karaoke, it was their chance to shine, to stand out from the crowd and become famous for a moment. Those who really wanted to live the dream could even enter competitions, hire fantastic themed rooms, and generally pretend they were a rock star.

Eventually, one of the girls in the big group walked over to us smiling and, rather shyly, handed over the mike. This was it. Sing or leave. Michelle took the mike. We scrolled nervously through the list of songs available and settled on a Shakira number. ‘I don’t think I can do this’, I told her. Already my voice was wobbly, my throat dry. There was a little encouraging applause and then the music started. With tiny tiny voices, Michelle and I started to sing together. I saw smiling, encouraging faces. People were nodding quietly, not covering their ears in distress. We got a little louder, started smiling and relaxing instead of focusing intently on the written lyrics, and even finished with a vocal flourish.

The mojitos had done their job. Our last notes sung, we beamed happily when the whole bar, by now half full, erupted into loud cheers and clapping. I could breathe again. And perhaps I discovered that elusive element that made karaoke strangely intoxicating. The smiles were infectious, there was a sense of joyful camaraderie, and shared (sometimes traumatic!) experience. It was the perfect opportunity to step out of ordinary life and be someone else, even if only for three and a half minutes. Certainly there was no other place where strangers would listen patiently while I wrung the life out of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

Five songs later the pretty girl who brought over the mike came back to prise it gently from our hands, smiling and nodding, but firm. 

For copyright purposes, I think I need to let you know that an edited version of this blog first appeared in The Weekend Australian, October 2010 (http://www.theaustralian.com.au/travel/theres-no-stopping-the-karaoke-queens/story-e6frg8rf-1225941028931).

Sunny St Petersburg

Catherine Palace

Perspective is important, especially when it comes to travel. I’m not talking about necessarily positioning myself as a white female Westerner living in an easy materialistic world. I’m bringing it a lot closer than that. I’m talking about what was going on in my head before heading off for a day in St Petersburg. I was homesick. I was travelling alone, on a seniors cruise when I wasn’t a senior (I’m still not). I’d found a lump behind my ear – the ship doctor told me it might be necessary to have an X-ray in Russia. In a Russian hospital, with Russian speaking medical staff. I was fed up, grumpy, out of enthusiasm and anxious for the whole damn thing to be over so I could bloody well go home.

                                                                                                       

Despite all of this, but more likely because of it, St Petersburg was one of the most surreal and affecting places I’ve ever been to.

A tour bus came to collect us from the port to take us to Pushkin Town and Catherine Palace. Industrial ports are never the prettiest places but the bus was quiet as we left the relative safety of the ship. Decomposing buildings, dirty broken glass, but net curtains and shadows moving behind them. So what appeared derelict was somebody’s home. Art deco bars on all lower storey windows. Avenues of stark trees trying to look alive. Perhaps aware of the subdued atmosphere, the local tour guide kept saying ‘Don’t be frightened. We’re just like you’. Which made me afraid.

An American was perhaps trying to break the ice when he asked the guide whether Russians believed in animal rights, since everyone seemed to wear fur. She berated him mercilessly with a hoarse voice and heavy accent. ‘Sir if you lived here in minus 40 degree weather I’d like to see what you wear. What are your shoes made of? Leather? Where do you think that comes from, huh? Huh??’.

Undeterred, the same man tried to generate a discussion on democracy. The guide laughed snidely ‘Americans and democracy. So much freedom! But you can’t even have a drink on the street! What about your censorship laws, huh? Huh??’.

And the bus fell silent again.  

Catherine Palace was predictably spectacular and astonishing. Lavish, rich and sumptuous. I’ll tell you about the Amber Room another time.

Lunch then, was a disappointment. Something grey. With peas.

Long trestle tables – seats enough to accommodate everyone but me. I had to sit at an otherwise empty table (until another tour group arrived half an hour later) and the fact that no one made any effort to keep me company or make a little room to fit me in completely astonished and upset me. Human kindness failing miserably.

I keep touching the back of my ear [remember the suspicious lump]. The lump got bigger and smaller each time. I couldn’t wait to see the ship doctor again because I needed to involve someone else. I didn’t fully comprehend how stressed and anxious I was. A Russian folk group came to play and sing for us during lunch. Two women, two men. Peacock blue satin and crisp white shirts. They shouted out incomprehensible songs that were actually quite musical. They got me up to dance of course. I managed to laugh and shout and whoop but my heart wasn’t in it. I don’t know what had happened to my heart that day. It didn’t seem to be working in conjunction with anything else at that moment. All head, all thoughts.

Catherine Palace detail 

After lunch the Hermitage was a blur of impressions: white Carrera marble staircase, green malachite urns, luscious red velvet walls, Chinese silks, gold peacocks, mosaic floors. A French gardens, cupids and flowers, smiling angels, swans and doves. Granite. Then the Monets, Renoirs and da Vincis. Ceilings so high, so detailed, white domes, impossibly long halls. Bohemia crystal and gilded bronze chandeliers. Rich blue green Flemish tapestries. Mournful portraits.

Our guide told us that the dour looking man in the grey suit following us around the museum was KGB. Um..they don’t actually exist anymore right? But I didn’t know whether to laugh or clutch my officially expired Italian passport a little closer to my chest. Anything seemed possible!  

It hailed on the way back to the ship. Pedestrians caught out looked stoic – no flapping about with objects held over heads. Someone on our bus said (rudely) ‘they don’t bloody smile at you’. And I wondered if they had all that much to smile about.

I can’t claim to know anything about Russia. I met few Russian people. I was a misery guts and viewed the city through pathetically self-indulgent eyes. But if you asked me whether you should go to St Petersburg I would urge you to book your tickets at once because it was a fascinating and unlikely  creature. Never mind my memories.

Encounters with strangers

The point of travel for me is connection – connection to place, history, culture, but above all people. Encounters with strangers are what have made my travel so special. Let me clarify (and perhaps disappoint you?) that when I say ‘encounters’ I don’t mean seedy hotels with pay-by-the-hour rooms! I mean gentle brushes (non sexual!) with random people that may not necessarily become best friends, but for whatever reason, leave an impression.

Sometimes the encounter is just one little random conversation. I had a lovely chat with an elderly gentleman and his daughter, on their way to Australia from the US. He struck up the conversation by trick quizzing me: ‘Do you know what Qantas stands for?’. Er... actually ... no, not completely. ‘Queensland and Northern Territory Aerial Services’. I see. So I asked him how he knew that, what he was doing and where he was going and he told me that he was heading to Queensland to see a dying friend, etc, etc. Pleasant chit chat. And then, after about half an hour of this, he suddenly stopped, leaned on his armrest and said, ‘Anyway, I can’t hear anything you’re saying, I’m deaf!’. And then settled back down into his chair. I actually laughed out loud and left him alone. Later he asked me whether I could help him at customs – he hadn’t declared the two rifles in his suitcase and was anticipating some trouble. Er... what? I can’t hear you......

Some strangers do become lifelong friends. I met Jackie at the Grand Prix track in Sao Paolo, Brazil and only later discovered that, in a city of 11 million people and countless hotels, we were staying at the same place.  Jackie was a mad Formula 1 and Ferrari /Schumacher fan. When I say mad, yes, I mean a little unstable. She had flown all the way from Newcastle, UK just to witness Michael Schumacher’s (first) last race. She sobbed through the last twenty laps. Two years later I was visiting family in the UK and decided to take the train to Newcastle. She was so excited by my visit she met me on the platform with an air horn, a Ferrari flag and red painted face.

Other strangers are just strange. After another utterly predictable strike, my friend and I boarded a train in Rome, bound for Florence. We were scrambling around with our backpacks when a well dressed, middle aged woman came into our compartment, said commandingly ‘hold this’ to my friend and held out her hand. Unthinking, my friend took the object... which happened to be a leash... at the end of which.... was a small dog. And then the lady disappeared. We looked at each other wide eyed, wondering what we were going to do with a small foreign dog. But the lady reappeared after a moment with luggage and a giant carry bag. She first organised the cases and then took the leash again with a small smile and nod. Then she sat down and unpacked her carry bag – basket, blanket, toy, food bowl, water bowl, bottled water. She plonked the little dog on top and settled in to read a magazine. The dog looked dreadfully bored but there he sat for the duration.

Perhaps my favourite stranger is a man named Jody Cinnamon who my cousin and I met at Mt Robson in western Canada. (Let me remind you again, there are no romantic encounters in this blog...) Jody introduced me to both Shrek and Paolo Coelho. He was as serene and smiling as a Buddhist monk but passionate and energised. He told us he’d only been bored once, for 10 minutes. He seemed ashamed by that too – he just couldn’t understand the concept of boredom when there was always something to think about or look at. He played the harmonica while driving with his knees, played the guitar around a bonfire, and taught himself the bagpipes from a manual ordered from Scotland. I read The Alchemist in three days and thought about my destiny. Jody wanted to live for a thousand years because he had so much he wanted to do – learn astronomy, for example, or fly to the moon. He just had a beautiful effect on most people he met. You couldn’t be angry or petty or disgruntled in his company – he was just too darn happy and content.

I still remember the encounter and I still read The Alchemist on a regular basis. 

My Italian village

The sun pressed its face against the glass so I wound the car window down to let it in as we hurtled over a gravelly country road. A smile rubbed across my face. The sunshine was liquid and sitting in the backseat was like falling asleep in a bath of melted chocolate. The sky was a dazzling and perfect shade of summer blue. My father's village, packed into the spaces between hills in southern Italy, was called Pago Veiano but it was known more simply and affectionately as ‘Pago’. 

I'd been waiting to see my father's birthplace for years. He, my mother and I were staying with his cousin. From the balcony window the tiny village had a cinematic air about it; dogs lay yawning at the side of the road and crusty men in worn jackets gathered around wooden tables in doorways playing cards and arguing. Grey stone buildings slanted at alarming angles and streets dipped into impossible slopes. The 'main' road hugged the side of the hill, skirting the village instead of ploughing through it like regular main roads. Which said a lot about the village.

In the street a tiny old lady in the requisite black beckoned me from her doorway a few houses away. She spoke in a toothless southern dialect, 'Simme' paesani', (‘we're related’) and gave me a satisfied smile. Then, 'Anchio sono una Morganella’ (she had the same surname as me). I gave her a friendly look of surprise. I wasn't sure what else I should say as she lapsed contentedly back into silence and looked past me, out over the hills. So I left her sitting outside her low doorway, hands folded in her lap. I turned instead to look at my father standing by the side of the road. His dark face was creased and aged but his expression was full of stern strength, his dark brown eyes focused very successfully on nothing at all. The ever-present cigarette trailed smoke in his callused fingers. His neat little greying moustache covered his very small smile.

My father's face was a well full of rippling water, each time he passed a significant corner or saw someone he recognised. I felt a crumpling, inexplicable sadness each time it happened though; at the thought of time smashing along at speeds which we fail to recognise until it's too late, and at the thought that this was all ‘for the last time’. Each familiar face took my father back to a place he remembered with nostalgic but somewhat bitter fondness. He smiled as he told me how desperately hungry they were when he was a little boy growing up after the war, but he couldn't have smiled then. Pago drew my father away into an era where I couldn't reach him. But it also gave me a sense of 'why' in the present.

Another auntie and uncle were down from the north. They decided to ‘rescue’ me from the ancient grey houses for a while, taking me to visit a friend in the country. Zia Clementina filled the front seat of the car comfortably, her lively brown eyes crinkled kindly as she craned her neck round to look me over again. Her smile spread across her face generously, brown arms straddling her enormous bosom as she clasped her pudgy fingers together. She turned to frown at her husband, Zi' Eufemio, as he sang along to some indecipherable tune from a long tormented cassette. At her look, he sang louder. Zi’Eufemio was the exact opposite to his wife – thin and spindly as a cricket. His silvered hair framed his gaunt but friendly face.

'Ferma la macchina!' Zia ordered the car to be stopped at once. She told us with mock shyness that the tablets she was taking for her blood pressure made her pee all the time and she needed to go right now. She opened the car door and squatted.  She squealled as she picked out the unmistakable noise of traffic before we did. She tumbled hopelessly backwards into the open car pulling her pants up as she fell. Her husband, roaring with laughter started to engage the gears again but she slapped him playfully on the arm and told him to stop again because she hadn't finished.

Eventually we drove on. I thought about Pago, with its small windows, guarded faces at the watch, its binding tradition and stifling air, and realised it was one of my foundation stones too. It was alarming how I felt connected. It was almost disturbing, the sense of familiarity when I took in the rich and sometimes musty smell of earth. My father spoke so little about the place in which he was born and raised. He gave so little of himself generally. Everything I learned about him was deduced over time and patched together from mental notes. He rarely offered anything simply in the spirit of sharing. Last night, he stood brooding in one of the low ceiling houses ready to be demolished and said, 'This is where my auntie lived. This is where we used to play, my cousins and I'. His cigarette smoke framed his memories. That's all.

We turn into a driveway and park in front of a low stone cottage.

Zio beeped the horn and climbed out of the car. An ancient looking man in denim overalls battered by earth and time came forward to greet him. His smile was a drawl, slow and pleasant. He swiped the cap from his head and rubbed his closely cropped silver hair. Zio was enthusiastically shouting at him – a mixture of insults and salutations; something like ‘It’s fantastic to see you, you cranky, stingy old bastard’.

His wife, a tiny gap-toothed woman with brown hardened skin, also came forward grinning and squinting hard against the sun. As she welcomed us she said 'I was just killing a rabbit - the damn thing just didn't want to die. Eventually I had to stand on it and wrench its head off!'. As she spoke I noticed her wiping her slightly bloody hands on her apron. Her gold bracelets and ring winked at me. She offered me the same hand. I took it without cringing. Her eyes crinkled kindly at me and I was inclined to like her a lot.

We all chatted inanely, wandering about in their garden. They crushed leaves for me that smelled like lemons and told me the names of trees and plants. Fields of maize faded away to the left of the house and in front was a patch for themselves. Fat, lazy tomatoes, plump figs, fragrant celery and basil and even flowers ­– perfectly formed miniature roses dwarfed by sunflowers. I sat contentedly, watching bees crash lazily into petals and listening to the hum of conversation. A scrappy dog chased pigeons into the air and a litter of kittens mewed noisily.

I watched Zio disappear into a profusion of trees to the right of the house and emerge a minute later holding a bottle of red wine triumphantly above his head! The old man laughed at zio who said 'It’s so hot and you hadn't offered me a drink so I had to go find it myself!'. His friend gave a short laughed and praised his audacity. When I smiled questioningly at him, he beckoned me to follow him down a short grassy path that led to a small stone well. 'Vieni qui' he said. He pointed down the well, dark and foreboding and full of water, then showed me the string the bottle had been tied to. 'In the old days, this was better than a fridge!' I laughed and followed him back to the others.

My father taught me how to observe. It seems that asking questions wasn't the way to get answers in this village, and it wasn't the way I would come to really understand my father either. Observations counted for a lot, they were lengths of string that you pulled out of wells, with surprises at the end. I had stopped forming questions and started defining answers that afternoon by staying silent. My father deals in silences. I could take silence as a sign he didn’t care. But here I was – silent.  Discovering layers of silence that had nothing to do with not caring. If words are everything to me, they are only well considered to my father.

The afternoon drew to a close and we skipped gingerly over the hot vinyl seats of the car. Everyone was quiet on the way back, tired and lulled by the sun. We rode back into the village and I saw my father sitting in a small circle of men, his dark skin glossy in his trousers and light shirt. One hand casually rested in his pocket, the other held his cigarette. I saw my father jerk his head at us almost imperceptibly as we drew up beside him. I saw my father. And I smiled.