Berlin

It's my birthday and I'm in Berlin.This is my third trip to this gritty and fabulous city. And with the familiarity of it being three, this time I feel like I'm living in today's city, not visiting one filled with ghosts.

It's helped by the fact I stay with my friend Lena, who is the mistress of simple living. You could call Lena's apartment minimalistically furnished, but not in an austere or wankily deliberate way. She just earns less, spends less, accumulates less, and when she acquires, it's considered and textured with natural fibres. No plastics live here.

A little kitchen sits in a nook to the living area and doubles as the bathroom. It's an important place, for Lena's food hospitality is legendary. She's worked in bakeries on and off for some years and she has a knack for making wonderful out of what's available.  Breakfasts, particularly, are a long, creative affair generally involving croissants, at least one kind of jam made by a relative, honey which presents itself in patterned glass jars, pumpernickel bread, Nutella, coffee. Today we had baked eggs served with purple carrots and a delish, steamed pumpkin. Plus a herbal tea brewed from pine cones to heal my chest, which is in its fifth week of being inflicted with a terrible cough. At the moment,  Lena is into making sauerkraut so this she enthusiastically serves up with each meal or snack.

Here is the chocolate cake she whipped up on the midnight of my birthday as I lay sleeping in the same room.

As soon as I arrived here, I felt lighter and more peaceful. This is a lot to do with being with a good friend with whom I can just be.  It's also to do with being in her home full of texture and lightness but not full of STUFF.

It's a good reminder for how I should be, in Sydney.

Change

The last time I spent any decent time in the UK, back in 2007, the atmosphere amongst people in the community was dark, short, rude. I remember a young school kid - no more than 14 - refusing to pick up his bag so an elderly gentleman could sit on the bus beside him. When the elderly man copped an earful of abuse, I was the only one on the packed bus that went to his defence. People kept their eyes down.

On another occasion, I witnessed a well-dressed office worker - morbidly drunk and tripping over his feed as he snaked down the platform - nearly fall onto the tracks at Bond St tube station. Four of us went to his aid.  None of us were English.

My heart was hurt at the time and I was personally in a bad place, but I left England dispirited by the bitterness I had witnessed.

Eight months later when the London riots occurred, I wasn't surprised.  Others have since described the riots as, "an event that had to happen," to relieve the discontent in the city. The cork came off and the pressure relieved.

Fast forward six years and the Olympics have taken place. The overwhelming success of that event echoes now in terms of the optimism of the place.  The immediate and ongoing impression I've had on this trip is of positivity, optimism, friendliness.  A teenage boy smiled at me on the train the other day (and not in a letchy way). I watched a young delivery van driver wait for an old lady to cross the road, with a grin and a wave. I chat to dog owners in the street, all happy, if with that scent of loneliness that dog owners can sometimes exude. British politeness and humility is on show, but also with a easygoing-ness that I don't recall from previous trips.  Perhaps it is the joy of a good summer just spent.

No where is the optimism more evident that in the level of building work underway.  In areas around the Battersea power station, also in East London, score of cranes puncture the skyline.  Property prices are skyrocketing.  The Evening Standard printed a story yesterday about a home in St John's Wood sold to Elizabeth Murdoch for £38.5 million.  It last traded hands in 2007 for £3.26 million.

There are some wonderful new buildings in London, like the Gerkin and the Shard.  And the are some shockers. The St George's Wharf development at Vauxhall, with its gimmicky and ugly bow design feature, is a good example.  Green glass and concrete appear to be the only materials being used in the new buildings popping up like mushrooms. And for this, London is beginning to look Chinese in parts.

Not all of this is necessarily good.

Yesterday I went on a walking tour of East London to see some of the street art of that area. It is quite wonderful and now a drawcard of Brick Lane, just as the curry houses are, or, long before, the silk houses of the Huguenots.

But many of the walls that the street artists paint are being pulled down.  Most artists could not now afford to live in the groovy area.  Massive corporate entities like the Royal Bank of Scotland are encroaching on the leftie artisan, immigrant and small trade vibe that once characterised the area. And with all the glass buildings going up, there won't be any more concrete for the street artists like Roa or Banksie to draw against.

An important political debate about the dirth of affordable housing in the Borough of London is underway.  It is said that some people who have long lived and made up the communities around East London are being forced to move to Manchester or other regional centres. This echoes what is happening around Miller's Point in Sydney, where council-supported residents - who's family association with those homes sometimes go back generations - are being moved against their will to new housing locations.

After what appears to have been lingering economic stagnation post the GFC, it is wonderful to see London as optimistic and flourishing.  But I do hope that the drive for economic prosperity will benefit not only the richest. I hope it will still allow space for those who enrich our society through cultural, as opposed to cash-based pursuits.  I also hope that riches will not harden the wealthy and middle class to the plight of the poor, especially those immigrants seeking a better life for themselves and their families (be gone, UKIP.)  May London continue to provide opportunity for many of differing backgrounds, as it has for centuries. 

The best of Britain

When I arrived at London Heathrow, the pilot jovially informed us that it was, “A clear day in London; 17 degrees.”

I looked out the window to overcast, grey skies. I realised that the English definition of clear, “not raining; no fog,” was more optimistic than the Australian definition of clear, which wouldn’t have allowed for anything other than azure blue skies.

Having left the Australian version of a clear, 24 degree day, I worried that I’d packed too lightly for England.  And my first impression of the weather confirmed a long held internal view that I hadn’t missed this place for good reason.

I posted on Facebook that I’d arrived in the UK to receive a flutter of messages from old friends welcoming me and asking to see me.  I began to reflect on how the English were a constant in my life.  My dad, who I came to see.  My best male friend, who I met only a year ago and who likes to wear tartan out of respect to Vivienne Westwood and the punks (not to the Scots).  Two best girlfriends. Several boyfriends over the years, all of whom hold a deep love of music and a sharp wit. Best of Britain mark #1.

The next day, I dragged my father and his partner into central London.  It was going to be a tussle between the V&A, for its art and design, which would appeal to me, and The Science Museum, which would appeal to my dad.  In the end, we spent most of our time at the pub with a pint and a ploughman’s lunch, which appealed to the both of us.  Best of Britain mark #2.

I didn’t take a picture of The Brittania, the pub we ended up in. But here is one of the pub we originally tried for, which was closed for minor renovations.  It is the wonderfully named Scarsdale Tavern in Edwardes Square.

The Scarsdale Tavern, Edwardes Square

Edwardes Square, a hatch of Georgian era terraces, surrounds one of London’s gorgeous private gardens, made famous by the film Notting Hill.  Best of Britain mark #3.

After the pub, we ended up in lower Hyde Park around the grounds of Kensington Palace, where Diana’s ghost reigns.  At that point, London really began to turn on the charm with weather even I would call “clear.”  It is approaching mid autumn but the afternoon had all the elements of an Indian summer, and it was wonderful to walk by the fading hydrangeas and many annual flowers, the names of which I don’t know.

As a dog owner, I was chuffed to see the many King Charles spaniels and pugs and beagles being led around Kensington Palace, an activity that would hardly be allowed in Sydney’s equivalent of the Domain or the Botanic Gardens.  Best of Britain mark #4.

By this point, it was nearing 4pm, which is the time I come alive but older parents start to fade, so I cast them free and set off on foot around South Kensington.

I came upon the South Kensington Bookstore, which I felt sure must have been the inspiration for the travel bookshop in the forenamed Notting Hill. It was full of Taschen design books and bestsellers on philosophy.  The fact that it seemed solvent in this age of online shopping, which has felled giants as large as Borders, gave me pause to reflect on the intellectual proclivities of the English.  Best of Britain mark #5.

I kept heading south, determined to bump into The Thames.  I ambled along the Kings Road, an old haunt of mine from when I’d worked at The Royal Marsden Hospital in my early 20s. There was browsing at Habitat and Heels, where I reminisced about times when another best friend and I used to drink too much gluwein on the special Heels Christmas sales night.  I hope they still run it.

It was a day of wonderful names: Kensington Gore, Cheyne Walk, Prince’s Consort Road, Tedworth Square, St Leonard’s Terrace. No one uses English as do the English.  Best of Britain mark #6.

I did run into The Thames.  And this was her pineapple, her gift of welcome.  The stunning Chelsea Bridge.  Best of Britain mark #7.

Chelsea Bridge, from Chelsea Embankment

I didn’t come to England for the weather, but for the people (and maybe the pubs).  And she’s reminded me of her rich history, her charming gardens, her diverse architecture, interests and culture; her politeness.

Best of Britain mark #8.

A day in the life of an Arambolian

Well I'm back. 18 months, three continents, four lovers, five jobs, and one mumma of a breakup in between. How do I start to play catch ups with you all?

From this moment.

I am in Arambol, my healing place, in northern Goa. It was here last year I dragged my tattered heart and started to re-piece it. After seven years of planning to come to India, I had absolutely no intention of coming to Goa. But Arambol was my first stop and here I stayed, for two months from December to February 2009.

After five months total in India and another nine months of being back in Australia, I wasn't meant to return to Arambol. But here I am again, and again for two months.

You might long and long for India but eventually she will call you to her bosom when you least expect it and you have no chance but to acquiesce.

And rather than try to explain everything in this post, I'll just give you a snippet of my day. It might explain why I stay.

Today was quiet. The sea was calm from my balcony.

I woke up and went to play my hang at the Sweet Lake beach. Not another soul on the sand, not a dolphin in the sea (they've been notibly absent the last 10 days). It is Sunday. Many Indians like to come to the beach on Sunday. But it was early, so I was on my own. The sun is hot by 9:30 here now. It is March 1.

I went to the place under the stairs for fruit salad breakfast (papaya, strawberry, banana, chicoo and ginger). The power was off, so no juice. But I watched the movie screen of hippies old and young, enfields, cows, beggars, stall holders, go past. I chatted to some Russians about how big my breakfast was - enough for the three of us. Then I played with Chotti, the shop owners three year old daughter. She wanted to swing in a hammock we made from a red napkin.

Then an Swiss lady came. She is travelling with a Swiss Alp Horn. It's about three metres long, made of light wood, with a bulbous end piece that rests on the floor. On top of the end piece is painted the swiss flag with a bouquet of edelweiss. Apparently they used to blow this horn to send messages from alp to alp in Switzerland.

From hot India, this lady calls to her cold home and her ancestors in the mountains. And when she is in between mountains (or continents), she takes her horn apart - into three one metre pieces - and stashes it in her hand luggage to sneak past customs.

In the place under the stairs, she blew to her homeland. Her horn was as long as the shop floor, where we all sit on two benches opposite each other, our backs to the wall. Our knees would be no more than half a metre apart, facing each other. The call of the horn, as lonely as a monk, stopped the traffic outside.

When she finished, Chotti started blowing a horn through her hands.

Swiss Alp Horn in the dark, fruit and juice bar in Goa. I turned to the Aussie man next to me and said, "Imagine trying to explain this to your mates in Western Sydney."

My friends came around to my place with the seaside balcony and we laughed and ate Tibetan momos and Israeli humous. Anouk and I gave Lena a four hands, 20 minute massage. I played my hang some more, and Ed, the dutchman and my hang master (in secret, for he is contrary and wouldn't like it if I called him my teacher) came to say hullo after a few days in Hampi.

Then I put on my catsuit and my white feather earring and went to Double Dutch and ate three desserts, two with ginger compote.

This is a typical day in Arambol.

Thumb twiddling

I'm stuck in Kathmandu, thanks to a severe fu*k up (sorry mum, but it's deserved) on behalf of Thai Airways or Global Adventure Trekking or Flight Consultants or Osho World Travel or the fiddler's dog, who knows. The end result is that instead of being reunited with my boyfriend at the Edinburgh train station in a misty sepia-coloured photograph RIGHT THIS MINUTE, I am here with my daiquari. I'm turning into Ernest Hemingway.

To make pleasanter the 48 hour delay, I've been thinking through the highlights of this trip. Here's the top ten...

(in no order)

(off the top of my head).

1. Mytkyina to Mandalay boat ride, Myanmar
48 hours in the lungs of a ship: inter-mingling with Burmese people, sharing my books and camera and pictures; laughing with the boys running the kitchen that will live and work on the noisy rusty ferry for all their lives. Singing the 'Titanic' song with Heather whilst watching the sun set over palm fronds and water; it could almost have been the Thai islands.

2. Mt Kailash kora, Tibet
Such a beautiful place, a sacred place. One of the few places on the tourist trail that it's still an effort to get to (and not for long - again the Chinese are gonna destroy the thing they so revere by building an airport and a road around it) and an effort to climb... but for such reward.

3. Tibet in general
My first land-bound glipse of theTibetan mountains whilst on the road from the airport into Lhasa will always stay with me, as will first seeing the lovely lady pilgrims with their prayer wheels and patterned aprons walking the Barkhor... Butter tea; yak wax candles, spruice... such a special, special place.

4. Bagan, Myanmar
Having awesome travel companions in Germans, Gerd and Sarah, so I didn't have to think about the schedule for a minute! Watching the sunlight rise over the Bagan temples, thinking how it the pink light of dawn, it looked just like England.

5. Thamel, Kathmandu
There are few places to get over the remoteness - and lack of a good menu - of a trip like that to Kailash than Thamel. There can be too much of a good thing though... I do wish I wasn't still here.

6. Tiger Leaping Gorge, China
Like Bagan, this was a place that I'd longed to see from afar and had planned my trip around. It's such a vast gorge from north to south and unfortunately one that is soon to be diminished by the humans who mistakenly think they can tame the world. See below blog for more on China's plan to dam TLG.

7. Kids of Kathmandu
Many people have flocked to Kathmandu from the countryside over the last five years to escape the Maoist conflict, including many children who've run away or been pushed away from home. I had the good furtune to meet Bruce Moore of the American Himalaya Foundation and go to a shelter for street kids here. The shelter we visited caters for 600 kids, and provides shelter for 200 of them every night. There is a school and a clinic. If not for that place, many of those kids would have no option outside of the glue sniffing and intravenous drug use (that means HIV) that's prevalent in the homeless community. Please check out the Foundation's link(www.himalayan-foundation.org) because they do absolutely fantastic work for the Nepalese, Sherpas and Tibetans that have very little support to get outside the tragic cycle of displacement and poverty.

7. Chinese food
The Chinese make very bad humanitatian and environmental decisions but they cook like angels.

8. Lijang, China
This UNESCO town was like stepping back into the China of two hundred years ago. Imagine swinging lamps, water wheels, willows brushing the water of stone canals... stunning.

9. Missing Richie, everywhere
High vomit factor, I know. I don't think distance could make this heart grow fonder, but it has given me even more perspective on what's important. So I'll see you soon baby!

10. Edinburgh, Scotland
I'm not there yet but it'll be good. :)

xx

Cultivate your garden...

Kathmandu is perhaps one of the most romantic cities I've been too. Maybe it's the fact that I wake up to the patter of gentle rain on most mornings. Or that I'm staying at the Kathmandu Guest House, a historical colonial building and perhaps the most famous of guesthouses in this city. It's seen its fair share of intrepid adventurers.

Or maybe it's the fact that two of my most favourite people got engaged near here.

Or the fact that I can get lost in a rainbow frenzy of pashminas, and can think of Ben and Chris and Mia (because everytime I wear your shawl I feel like you are giving me a cuddle.)

Or that every bookstore has another version of the Karma Sutra - titillation for a girl who's missed her boy for the last two-and-a-bit months... oh la la!

And yet another surprise today: the Garden of Dreams. The Garden of Dreams is like something for Little Lord Faulteroy, a secret garden. It was commissioned more than 80 years ago by Keshar Shumsher Rama, the son of a Prime Minister of Nepal, a lover of art, architecture, history and gardens... many of the good things in life. He was inspired to develop his garden of the seasons after visiting an Edwardian garden in Britian. But it was forgotton after his death and became overgrown and untended. Only in 1996 did the Austrian government fund it's refurbishment and it's back to its former romantic glory.

This beautiful place, hidden by high walls, features six pavilions - one for each of the Nepalese seasons. A pair of irory-coloured elephants guard the entrance to the spring pavilion. A maple tree conceals a pond with lillies. Marigolds play sentinel to a moss pool, on which I wrote "Caz loves Richie" with twigs.

There are lovers seats set amongst long grass, like they have at the palace at Brighton. Plus, plaques around the garden feature inscriptions by poets and writers of times past; including a line by Voltaire... "cultivate your garden"... from Candide.

It was the setting for a wedding.

So, a little message for all of us.... cultivate your garden. Take care of the ones you love... and maybe one day you can show them how much you love them in the romantic city of Kathmandu.

Nepali tea is oh so good! Nepali rain sucks

I'm proud to call myself a quitter today. I failed my first test of Nepalese mountaineering; Everest is nowhere in my sights.


I did what every good backpacker does when they check into Kathmandu. I got myself a room in Thamel, I drank my way through several fabulous daiquaris to shake off the noodle aftertaste of Tibet and I, of course, booked myself into a trek. It was supposed to be just a baby one, four days only, to give myself a taste for the country life in Nepal.


But three-quarters of the way through, the rain got the better of me. Day one was five hours walk uphill, in the mud in the rain. Day two was nine hours walk uphill in the mud in the rain. Today was a sinch - just five hours through the mud but downhill in the rain. My fancy new Chinese made Goretex jacket didn't cut the grade so for the last 60 hours I've been damp. Cos it's wet inside the guesthouses as well, so nothing dries overnight. Oh, and did I mention the leeches?!


So when people tell you to wait out the monsoon in Nepal, believe 'em! Sit back in Thamel with your Nepali tea in the morning, your mango daiquari in the evening. Go to yoga, buy some pashminas.


So, with my mango daiquari and my now-dry, quitters feet, I toast to Thamel and I toast to foolhardy mountaineers who's boots I can't fill.