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.