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.