More Englandish things

Clifford's Tower, York

Day 2 of the England tour made me question, again, why I'd joined it. We were heading to Liverpool, where we had an included 'Magical Mystery' tour of the city where The Beatles reigned supreme. I don't even like The Beatles, I thought gloomily.

As it turned out, Liverpool wasn't so bad, and neither was the tour. Our guide jumped onto our Contiki coach and narrated about the city as we wound our way through it, mixing the occasional Beatles fact or reference with plenty of general information about Liverpool as well. Of course we stopped at Penny Lane so everyone could take shots of themselves next to the sign and make comments about it being in their ears and in their eyes, etc etc.

Afterwards there was time for some shopping. Liverpool had a decent shopping mall with chain stores, so I made my first Zara purchase while the others wandered around elsewhere in the rain. Shopping, I was about to find, would become the only thing worth doing in a lot of the locations we'd visit on the tour, so it became my escape from the slightly dull places where we were left for several hours at a time.

It was ironic that the one, unique store I actually wanted to go to towards the end of the day was closed for business. We had wound our way up to York, a small town with elderly buildings that sagged and slanted in the cobblestoned alleyways. York also offered us Clifford's Tower, and York Minster: two buildings that were considerably more impressive despite their age. Shops here were of the cute gift store variety, and included The Cat Gallery, which boasted unique gifts for cat lovers. Of course it was closed. Good one, York.

In the evening we were treated to a full English Sunday roast (on a Saturday) at a pub. The waiters brought out plates piled high with enormous amounts of food: mashed and roasted potatoes, cabbage, carrots, roast pork smothered in gravy, and topped with a Yorkshire pudding (which I discovered was not a dessert pudding as I once thought). I'm not normally a fan of pork, but the meal was delicious.

As we tucked into some chocolate fudge pudding for dessert, the sky fell in. Heads turned nervously towards the windows as rain came suddenly pouring down in buckets, drenching the ground and smashing against the side of the building. We still had a ghost walking tour to go on and the weather was not cooperating. Surely we could wait until it let up a bit?

We could not. Our tour manager led us outside into the torrential downpour and through some streets to meet our ghost walk guide. He apologised for the rain as though it was something within his control, then led us through the streets for an hour and a half, telling us tales of all the sightings and hauntings and strange happenings that occurred all the time in York. The scientist in me couldn't help but be enormously skeptical of course, but the stories were still quite interesting and had a definite creepiness to them.

The weather that night was the coldest I'd experienced so far. Being out on the walking tour chilled me, and the rain found its way inside my boots once again, freezing my feet into blocks of ice I could hardly feel. Even though I was already wearing a coat and fairly warm clothing, I resolved to purchase thick jumpers and gumboots at the next available opportunity. There would only be colder weather to come as we moved further north.

Boulders, baths, and buses in Britain

Stonehenge in the sunlight.

Another incredibly early morning. Another round of hauling my partly-broken suitcase up and down stairs through tube stations. Another Contiki check in and a new busload of people.

My second Contiki tour was populated mostly by Aussie girls around my age. In fact, I'd say we occupied about three-quarters of the bus, with a handful of Canadians, Americans, a couple of Kiwis, and later on two South Africans completing the mix. It was in stark contrast to the more diverse mixture of nationalities, ages and backgrounds from the Europe Contiki - and I kind of missed that diversity, even if being surrounded by familiar accents helped me feel more at home.

Our first stop on the tour was a visit to Stonehenge. When asked what I thought of Stonehenge after the visit, I replied simply with "stony." The weather was cold and windy, resulting in many attempted portrait photographs that showed a smiling face almost completely obscured by hair, with those famous boulders arranged in the background (occasionally the sun would make an appearance, at which point everyone rushed to take photos of Stonehenge in the sunlight).

I also discovered that Cannon make drop-proof digital cameras. As I walked back towards the bus, my precious IXUS 70 slipped from my grasp, clattering across the concrete and sending the battery sliding away across the path. Apprehensively, I picked up the snapshot acquisition device and inspected the damage. There were scratches on one corner, but otherwise everything was intact, and all in perfect working order. It was one of the few things that didn't end up broken as a result of my travels.

After Stonehenge, we visited the small and Romanesque town of Bath. We were given ample free time to explore the town. In fact, it almost felt like a little bit too much free time: Bath was small and apart from the Roman baths, there wasn't much there. I tried to feel interested and impressed by the Roman baths and the town itself. I faked enthusiasm for the baths and the tour so far.

But the truth was I wanted to be in London still. Or even Europe. I began to question why I'd signed up for this tour in the first place. The England and Scotland tour was utterly different from my adventures in Europe, and I already knew it wouldn't measure up to my expectations. I guess my expectations had been a bit too high, or unrealistic. The UK tour was all about charm, and plenty of history, and cute country towns, and quaint little shops. I'm not much of a history enthusiast and could experience quaint country shops and highland scenery in the Southern Highlands near Sydney back at home.

So why was I here? And could I really muster up enough optimism and enthusiasm to enjoy the rest of the tour? It felt almost boring compared to incredible Europe, where we went to a new and strikingly different city every day, combined with unique experiences (Bobsledding! Gondolas! Bike tours! Cable cars! Being able to legally get stoned if one chose to do so in the Netherlands!). Each day looked like it would be fairly similar in character to the day before: castles. Scenery. Small towns with cute shops. Historical things. Pubs.

Even the way the tour was conducted was different. Our tour manager was definitely not Kat, who had excellent music taste and let us do our own thing while on the bus. Our new tour manager was warm and friendly and went the extra mile to make sure we were all OK and enjoying ourselves, but things also began to feel a bit more like a school excursion. We were forced to introduce ourselves while on the bus to the rest of the group (speaking in front of a group like that almost single-handedly brought back all the stupid social anxiety I'd managed to suppress while overseas so far), a DVD was put on for longer bus drives, there was a strange blind dating game we played before we got to Gretna Green on a later day, and the day song quickly became irritating.

An underwhelming start to the tour was capped off by a noisy hens night and lack of elevators at our first hotel (and of course my room wasn't on the ground floor and was situated directly above the hens night where there was a truly awful band playing covers of 80's songs and the singer couldn't stay on key for more than a few seconds). I longed for London, but resolved to try my best to have fun on the rest of the tour, even if it wasn't as good as I'd been hoping for.

Last day in London

Buckingham Palace

By London Day Three, I had only one more precious day to spend in the city, and still so much to tick off my list. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it all.

I did manage to drag myself to Buckingham Palace in time for the changing of the guard, where there was a lot of marching guards and drumming and brass bands playing. The crowds were intense and there were barriers aplenty, making it difficult to get close to the action. Perhaps more excitingly, in the park near the palace (I believe it has ‘James’ somewhere in its name. These are the things I need to check and then edit later) I experienced my second squirrel sighting. This time it came right up to me, almost as though begging for food. I almost had a meltdown on the spot.

It was an astoundingly hot and humid day. By the time I’d walked back from Buckingham Palace to the nearest Underground station through a park – not a long walk, I should point out – I was almost dying from the heat in a T shirt and jeans. I never expected London to be so hot.

I’d decided to set aside most of the day for shopping: something I’d done relatively little of while in London so far. There was no way I was leaving the city without a thorough bout of shopping. Shopping centre chain Westfield has built one centre in London near Shepherd’s Bush, concentrating a lot of shops I wanted to investigate into one easy location. Plus it was probably air conditioned. Bonus.

It was almost comforting to walk into somewhere with a familiar feel, and I happily browsed for most of the afternoon in Topshop, H&M, Zara, Republic, Paperchase, and several other stores, leaving with some clothes and a scrapbook for filling with paper souvenirs from my travels.

I knew a visit to London wasn’t complete without seeing Hyde Park, so on my way back to the B&B I strolled through some of the parklands. They’re absolutely massive and it was great to wander through such an extensive park in the middle of a city. The humidity and my shopping bags made it a slightly less than comfortable walk, but I’m still glad I didn’t go straight back to the B&B.

There were still many things I wanted to do that were on my list: go to the Camden and Portobello Road markets, go inside St Paul’s and climb to the top, spend more time in the Natural History museum, have a picnic (not just a walk) in Hyde Park, visit Harrods, perhaps have a high tea…there simply wasn’t enough time. That evening I was due to meet up with my next Contiki tour group, to meet my fellow travelers and tour manager before departing the next morning.

I arrived at the hotel to meet some of the people I’d be spending my next nine days with. And I was very surprised. The vast majority of the group consisted of girls around my age from Australia. In fact, the next day I was to learn that there were only about seven guys on the tour (out of 49 people), and Aussies outnumbered all other nationalities combined. It was a dramatic change from the Europe tour, where there was more diversity and I met people from all walks of life.

It was great to be around people again after feeling lonely in London, and comforting to get to know a few people over dinner and drinks before the tour had even begun.

Museum! Sherlock! Cookies! Musicals! Homesickness!

The famed cafe from BBC's 'Sherlock'

I wish I had known how long to plan for each sight to see or activity to do in London. I either had too much spare time, or not long enough.

For example, I am not the biggest fan of museums. Especially since a lot of museums aren’t interactive – you read a plaque and stare at something carefully displayed in a glass case in front of you. I actually tend to find them a little dull and can often speed through a museum if nothing really grabs my interest. Being a biology nerd though, I decided I had to at least check out the Natural History museum in London. Entry was free and it sounded interesting. Knowing my speedy museum tendencies, I gave it two hours.

Well. Two hours was nowhere near long enough. I should have set aside the best part of a day. Unlike a lot of other museums, there was plenty of opportunity for interacting with a lot of the exhibits, and the “look but don’t touch” ones were also fascinating. I ended up having to race through only the exhibitions that were at the top of my list of priorities, and really regretted having to leave after only seeing about a third of what the museum had to offer.

My next stop was one I’d been looking forward to ever since I started planning my trip to the UK, and it was time for Nerdy Fan Girl Moment Number 2: travelling to the innocuous North Gower Street to have lunch at Speedy’s Café, otherwise known as the café next door to the home of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson from BBC’s Sherlock.

Just like finding the entrance to Torchwood in Cardiff, I couldn’t help but grin and feel a bit giddy as I rounded the corner and came face to face with one of the more famous locations from one of my favourite shows. The place was packed, and if it weren’t for the fact that it was featured so prominently in Sherlock, it would have been another plain and average street café. I barely got a seat for my marinated chicken salad. The food was good, and inside was a section of wall featuring photos and memorabilia from the show.

With a full stomach and another destination ticked off the list, I travelled to Leicester Square with the intention of securing tickets to a West End musical that night. £35 later I was clutching a ticket for a slightly restricted viewing of Les Miserables. I probably could have found cheaper tickets – there were stacks of places selling discounted and half-price theatre tickets – but there were still a lot of other places I wanted to see.

Such as Covent Garden. There, I was surprised to discover a sizeable and thriving array of cute market stalls nestled amongst regular shops, with street performers busking or doing magic tricks for the crowds. Ben’s Cookies seemed popular, and after a Triple-Chocolate Chunk, I could see why.

Later that night, I parked myself in seat D21 of the upper circle in the Queen’s Theatre for Les Mis. Of course it was fantastic: the performers hit every note and the music swelled impressively to fill the theatre with song. However, I was somehow expecting the show to be more lavish. Perhaps my expectations were a little too high. Sometime during the night, I also managed to lose a gorgeous necklace that I’d bought in Amsterdam.

Despite the excellent entertainment, by the time I got back to my B&B, I wasn’t feeling great. Two days of being entirely on my own in a big city after spending almost every minute with a big group of other Contiki people was getting to me again. London felt incredibly lonely, and people were often surprised to learn that I was there on my own (“Table just for one?”, “Oh. You only want ONE ticket?”). I was quite homesick that night, longing for the family and friends who were so far and so many hours away back home.

London calling

Royal Observatory

When I reached my bed and breakfast accommodation for London the night after driving from France, I was greeted by my hosts with an enthusiastic welcome and a warm hug. Once again it was an amazing relief to reach a bed and a shower after a full day on the coach, plus hauling my luggage up and down stairs in London’s tube stations. My room was quaint and furnished with a nautical theme, and quite comfortable. I decided to make myself at home in my room for the next few days by allowing my belongings to explode across the floor, where they mostly remained for the duration of my stay.

For the first time since flying overseas, I was able to wake up naturally, without setting an alarm. (Thankfully I tend to wake up in the mornings at similar times anyway – no sleeping until the afternoon). I chose to spend that morning heading out to Greenwich to the Royal Observatory and the prime meridian line.

It was an almighty struggle to reach the Royal Observatory. Since it’s situated in the centre of some massive parklands, the idea is to catch the tube there and then walk directly through the park to the Observatory. But of course, London is apparently preparing for some minor sporting event thing called the Olympics, so they’re busily renovating their city, including the parklands. Large parts of the park were blocked off, forcing me to walk for much longer around the park, rather than cutting through it.

And it was hot. I never realised London could get so hot and humid. I cursed my jeans and ankle boots that day as the sun poured down, drenching everyone and everything in an oppressive Sydneyish heat. I hiked around the park until finally, finally reaching the road that led to the observatory.

Naturally I went straight for the prime meridian line, stood with one foot on either side of it, and posed for a photo. I then offered to take a photo of the couple that took my picture for me, and as I leaned back to get the shot, I heard a strange exclamation of ‘whoa!’ behind me. Apparently I’d been crapped on by a bird. It was just my lucky day.

I briefly had a look at some fancy clocks and timepieces while I was there, before heading back for the long walk to the station. And it was while I was walking through an open section of the park that I saw my first squirrel.

I guess Europeans and Americans don’t understand the squirrel fascination held by many Australians. But it was probably the highlight of my day, seeing such a cute mammal with a fluffy tail peering at me from around a tree trunk. I watched it for ages, fascinated and overwhelmed by the cuteness.

When I finally made it back into central London (or thereabouts), I walked past St Paul’s Cathedral and over the Millennium Bridge towards Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. I didn’t go inside either of them – I felt like I didn’t have time – but it was enough just to walk by and see them from the outside.

Although London seemed to be mostly recovering from Jubilee celebrations, there were still more than a few traces of jubilee fever in the city. As part of festivities, upright pianos had been set up in public areas for anyone to play if they wanted to. One such piano was on the Millennium Bridge, and an absolutely beautiful piece was being played by a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and plenty of eyeliner. I stayed to listen until the end, and even went up to ask the name of what she’d just played (which I immediately forgot).

Then I saw the beard stubble. I’d just been listening to a transvestite with a French accent play a gorgeous piano piece on an outdoors piano on a bridge in the middle of London.

Travel. You so crazy.

Since I was staying at a B&B, I needed to stock up for a couple of days with some food and snacks, so I popped into a Tesco store. Tesco is amazing because everything is so cheap, even when you convert prices back from pounds to Australian dollars. I went a bit crazy after finding that I could buy at least two punnets worth of strawberries there for only £2. Normally they’d be $5 a punnet back home. Win.

Dinner consisted of being the only person in a Thai restaurant near the B&B, eating chicken and vegetable stir fry on my own. I felt truly lonely that day, especially after spending almost every hour with a big group of other people on the European tour. It was the first time I’d really, properly started to miss home: my family and friends, the washing machine, and not having to wonder where I’d find my next meal. The food was good, but I’ve never experienced such a quiet and lonely dinner in my life.

Since it was still ridiculously light outside despite being close to 8pm, I chose to walk and see the other buildings on my to do list: the London Eye, houses of parliament, Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey. My feet have never ached so much, and I still had two days’ worth of walking to do.

The end of European Magic

White Cliffs of Dover: marking our exit and later re-entry to England

The next morning at our hotel, I didn’t want to leave. The group splintered and fragmented as a few stayed in Paris, a few caught the bus to the airport, while the rest of us were driven back to London. The coach got stuck in traffic and then faced long queues for the ferry back from Calais to Dover, but eventually, we made it back to the centre of London, where we finally all went our separate ways.

It feels like I’ve woken up from the best dream ever. It’s unfortunate because I kind of want to go back to sleep and keep experiencing it, and not just because I’m so tired I almost fall asleep standing up.

It was nine days of amazing experiences, seeing amazing places, and hanging out with some pretty awesome people. And now I might never go back to some of those places again (which in the case of Amsterdam isn’t a great loss, but others I really enjoyed) and will probably never see any of the people from the tour again. Of course, there’s Facebook, and when we went our separate ways there were promises of friend requests and keeping in touch, but we all live in different parts of the world. I’ll never see them again, I know it. (This is a shame particularly in the case of the more, um, attractive people from the tour.)

I don’t see how touring England and Scotland can top the Europe tour.

The French make delicious food

River Seine

Arc de Triomphe. Champs-Élysées. Notre Dame. The Louvre.

The famous names just seem to roll off the tongue, French accent included. And I was able to visit all of them in a single day. (Well, I didn’t go inside the Louvre, I just stood outside and watched everyone filing in through the glass pyramid entrance.)

Our hotel breakfast that morning was the best from the entire trip. The French certainly know how to cook – and especially how to bake. There was bread, croissants, chocolate croissants, and an assortment of other pastries and delicious food. Many of us smuggled out pieces of bread and cheese, and some croissants, to eat as snacks during the day. It was superb. I may or may not have a small croissant addiction now.

That morning, we took a group photo with the Eiffel tower in the background, before moving on to French perfumery Fragonard. We were given a tour of the place, learnt about the creation of perfumes, and were taken to the Fragonard shop to sample and purchase their perfumes at a discounted rate.

And then, as we left Fragonard to be dropped off at the Arc de Triomphe for our free time in Paris, the rain started.

The weather has been deeply uncooperative for our European summer adventure. Apart from gorgeous weather in Germany, it has either rained or been extremely hot and humid. Of course it’s out of our control and rain doesn’t stop anyone from adventuring around a city, but it makes everything so much more miserable.

I walked down the Champs-Élysées from the Arc, stopping at Laduree’s for some macaroons and at Pomme du Pain for a cheese baguette. Both of these foods were amazing. As I kept walking towards the Louvre, eating my baguette as I walked, a street cleaner nodded at me and called “Bon appétit!”

I guess it’s a bit unexciting to talk about the Louvre from the outside, since all its famous works of art are (obviously) housed inside the building. But the building itself was still impressive, especially since it’s situated at one end of some lovely parklands. It’s strange to see a big modern glass pyramid (the entrance) in the middle of the courtyard of a huge, old stone building, but there you go.

I walked across a bridge covered in padlocks, where couples write their initials on the lock, attach it to the bridge, and throw the key into the River Seine. Naww. There were also a few combination locks, which was quite amusing to see.

Notre Dame was next on the list, and this time I actually went inside. It was Sunday, so a service was in progress, and it felt somehow wrong to have all these tourists wandering through with their cameras, shuffling along and snapping away at anything and everything in the middle of it all. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if it were my church service being invaded by hundreds of curious onlookers who whispered despite the ‘Silence!’ signs and took photos despite signs pleading for no flash photography. There was something disrespectful about it, I thought. Still, the cathedral had stunning stained glass windows and architecture, and I was glad I got to see it.

I boarded the metro again to head towards the final place I wanted to see: the catacombs. Here, the walls of old stone mining tunnels were lined with the bones of poorer Parisians in the 18^th century, and were now open to visitors as a tourist attraction. I boarded the metro very optimistically, and joined a very long queue snaking around near the entrance to the catacombs.

My hopes were soon dashed. Staffers of the catacombs came around and informed us that we had a two hour wait from where we stood, and that they closed at 4pm. It was already past 2:30pm. There was no way I’d make it inside in time.

After a brief chat and commiserations with another hopeful tourist standing in line, I headed back to the hotel room, where I napped. It was a beautiful nap because I had never felt so exhausted. In fact, that whole evening all I wanted to do was sleep. But it was our tour group’s last night, so I felt obligated to hit the town one last time.

Our group split into two: two-thirds went to the famous Moulin Rouge, while the rest of us headed for another restaurant in town for some French cuisine, minus the cabaret show. I’d wanted to go to the Moulin Rouge myself, since it sounded pretty spectacular, but it had a price tag to match: 147 Euros. I wasn’t sure if it would be spectacular enough to justify the price.

I was so glad to be with the smaller group though. After a delicious French dinner (vegetarian lasagna is surprisingly tasty), a few of us walked uphill through cute cobbled Parisian streets towards a lookout area. From there, we were treated to stunning views of Paris by night, free from the Eiffel tower crowds. It was amazing to just share that moment with only a few other people, rather than having a whole tour bus snapping pictures of the same landmark or view.

We then headed back towards the Moulin Rouge to meet up with everyone else after the show at the pub next door, O’ Sullivans. After a few drinks they turned up the music, and all of us danced and sang along when they played our ‘day song’ (the song played every morning on the coach when leaving a destination).

One short taxi ride later, it marked the end of the most fantastic time of my life.

Oui, oui, Paris.

Some random building.

The drive from Lucerne to Paris was our longest, and involved driving virtually all day with a few service stops along the way. It was a relief to finally make it to the City of Light, where we were treated to a tour of the city led by our tour manager on the coach.

I’d been warned about Paris. I’d heard it was a dirty city, that the people were arrogant and would refuse to speak English, that the drivers were crazy, that I would hate the city. Only one of these proved to be true: the drivers ARE crazy.

Normally, a pedestrian crossing – especially one with a green light indicating you can cross – is somewhere you can safely cross the road. Pedestrians have right of way and cars are obliged to stop for you. In Paris, drivers don’t seem to care about pedestrian crossings or pedestrians, and will drive through with determination even when someone is crossing the road. Several times I was nearly run over by a Parisian driver when I had the nerve to step onto the road because the crosswalk light was green. How foolish of me.

However, the city was quite beautiful, with its carefully planned symmetry, tree-lined streets and pale stone buildings with wrought-iron balcony rails and touches of gold. It wasn’t dirty at all and had a definite sense of classiness throughout its streets.

Our tour included a visit to the top deck of the iconic Eiffel Tower in the evening. As a pre-booked tour group, we were able to skip to the front of the queue, which was one of the longest queues I’ve ever seen. We then had to take two elevators to the top, each with its own queue to board and with a lengthy wait attached.

At last I made it to the very top. I spent about five minutes wandering around before I realised I’d need to start lining up to get back down to the bottom of the tower in time for our coach back to the hotel.

A group of us got in line, and we waited. And waited. And waited. We waited for so long that we managed to miss the coach, which left for the hotel with three-quarters of Contiki-ers still somewhere up the Eiffel Tower. None of us had dawdled or taken our time or been lazy, but the place was stuffed with tourists on a Saturday evening and the queues were astronomical.

Those of us who got left behind gathered to formulate plans for getting back to our hotel. I decided to catch the metro back with four others, one of whom already had a ticket and two of whom spoke French. It was a real mission to find the entrance to the station, even armed with a map and after asking multiple locals for directions. At last, an American working in a French gift store was able to give us detailed directions and we found the station.

French trains were a surprise. They move incredibly quickly, so I almost fell over as the train pulled out of our first station. We raced along at slightly alarming speeds, successfully changed trains, and then navigated out of the metro stop closest to our hotel. It then took a fair while to orientate ourselves and find the hotel again, so when we finally staggered through its doors, we felt like cheering. Thankfully everyone made it back and expressed our disappointment that the coach had to leave while most of the group was still in queues up the Eiffel tower.

My goal of an early night had been smashed to smithereens once again. Touring the world is exhausting.

Stunning Switzerland

ALL the views of Switzerland were like this.

My parents were a bit baffled when I mentioned how much I was looking forward to the scenery of Switzerland.

“But Em,” they said. “If we said we were going for a scenic drive, you wouldn’t want to come. You get bored with lookouts and views.”

These are kind of true, but that’s because we never go for a scenic drive through Switzerland. It is devastatingly beautiful with dazzling rich colours that pop out of the landscapes: vivid greens, crystal blue lakes and rivers, blinding white snowcaps on the mountains and exposed rock, warm dark browns of the wooden houses, and an entire Crayola spectrum is visible in some towns with boldly painted apartment buildings lining the streets. It’s a visual feast.

We pulled into Lucerne and almost immediately jumped aboard a cable car to be taken to the top of Mount Pilatus. It cost a small fortune but we’d been promised breathtaking views of the entire city of Lucerne. The whole city, they said. Spectacular, they said. You can’t miss it, they said.

At the top of Mount Pilatus we were treated to spectacular, amazing, breathtaking views of solid fog.

White cloud everywhere you looked. Lost at the top of the clouds. Lucerne was completely obscured by the cloud, and I was sad. It was visible from the cable cars though once they dipped below the cloud, but I wonder if it was worth the admission price.

Our hotel that night was the Lowengraben Jail Hotel, a former prison that has been converted into a hotel, but still gives visitors a touch of the prison experience. Ever since reading atrocious reviews about the place online, I had not been looking forward to staying here at all. They said it was creepy, claustrophobic, and unclean. Hardly the marks of a pleasant hotel experience.

The rooms were pretty uninspiring and were located across the road from a bar, and since it was a Friday night AND the soccer was on, that bar was full of noisy people whose voices carried easily through the windows of the hotel. We’d been given the option of going on a pub crawl through Lucerne that night, and I jumped at the chance to spend as little time as possible in my tiny, creepy, cramped jail cell.

Before the pub crawl was a cruise on Lake Lucerne, where we were treated once again to the stunning Switzerland scenery. No one quite knew where to point their camera lens next as we were treated to rich landscapes drenched in the light of the setting sun. It was windy and the boat operators had eclectic music tastes, but the visuals definitely made up for everything.

I’m sure everyone else on my tour was surprised to see me signed up for the pub crawl. So far, I’d only been seen drinking soft drinks by most, since I don’t drink beer or wine, and spirits are never offered as included drinks. But I downed free shots with everyone else as we headed through three pubs and clubs in Lucerne.

It was an absolutely crazy night, and a lot of fun. Drinks were predictably very, very, VERY expensive, and I only bought one (14.50 Swiss francs for a pineapple Malibu, but the enormous glass they served me was about the equivalent of two drinks back home). The last club was insane: packed with people and had epilepsy-inducing strobe lighting that made everyone appear to move in slow motion. It was the most tiring night of the tour, but also one of the most fun as I got to spend time talking, drinking and dancing with all the new people I’d met.

I only wish I’d got to see more and spend more time in Switzerland. One afternoon and night was not enough.

Venice: a Disneyland labyrinth

Grand Canal, Venice

I’m convinced Venice must be the tourist capital of the world. It is a labyrinthine city of narrow streets and back alleyways, all twisting and turning around colourful buildings with window shutters and flower pots on balcony rails. And on nearly every single street, there is at least one shop selling souvenirs: glittering Venetian carnival masks, figurines and jewellery made from Murano glass, ‘I Love Venice’ shirts, and – curiously – T shirts with rage faces on them.

In fact, the only Venetians in town seemed to be those behind the stalls and the cash registers. Those narrow streets were crawling with tourists everywhere you looked, wandering aimless and confused and ending up facing a canal rather than another street. Our tour guide had told the ladies to look out for well-dressed and handsome Venetian men but we only saw tourists with sunglasses and money belts and baseball caps.

I guess I was one of these tourists too, but still. A fellow Contiki-er said that Venice felt like Disneyland, catering solely to those who flock there for a day or two to buy, buy, buy.

And I certainly did that. Venice offered some really gorgeous souvenirs that were a step above the thimbles and fridge magnets of previous cities. The only thing stopping me from buying a half-face carnival mask festooned with feathers, colourful paints and glitter was the fact that I knew it would be impossible to transport home.

The weather was apparently one of the hottest days Venice has experienced so far this year, and I could believe it. The heat was stunning; a perfect replica of the scorching Australian summer heat and humidity. Naturally we all ended up with a touch of sunburn (some of us ended up with more than just a touch though) and dripping with sweat. It seems Italy got the summer that Sydney never had.

The day kicked off with a walking tour, where a local guide took us around to see some of the key sights of Venice. These were mostly buildings with unique histories, but we also visited the Rialto bridge and the Grand Canal. The tour started and ended in Piazza San Marco (St Mark’s Square), with the beautiful St Mark’s Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and the Campanile bell tower. I would have gone inside St Mark’s but I was wearing a summer dress which showed my knees. Apparently this is a bit too risqué for the church.

A small group of us were also taken to see a glass blowing demonstration, where we watched a vase being crafted out of Murano glass. The glass is heated to extremely high temperatures, moulded with metal tools and blown up like a balloon to its final shape. Murano glass is also very tough, which the shopkeeper demonstrated by grabbing a glass vase and throwing it into the ground. We all jumped, expecting it to shatter into a million pieces, but it stayed impressively intact.

After the glass blowing, we visited a shop that made Venetian lace products and had a very popular vending machine full of bottled water for only €1. Then we were free to explore the city for ourselves. I wandered the streets with a fellow Contiki traveler and got quite lost several times. Thankfully there were always signs pointing the way to various landmarks, so we were usually able to re-orient ourselves soon enough.

Our tour guide had marked my map of Venice with two splotches of pink ballpoint pen: one of these splotches sold excellent gelato, and the other sold cheap takeaway Italian pizza. Since I was determined to sample some of the best food on our trip, our mission was to find these two pink splotches and obtain food from them.

And find them we did. First stop was the gelato shop, with the most amazing gelato I have ever tasted, made all the more sweeter by the shockingly hot weather. (I may or may not have gone back for seconds later in the day.) The pizza place, when we managed to find it, sold the largest slices of pizza I have ever seen in my life. I wonder what Venetians would think if they ordered Australian pizza and saw that an entire small pizza here is about the same size as a single Venetian slice?

The pizza and the gelato were great value, but when we next stopped at a café for much-needed iced coffee and tea, the prices shot up alarmingly. The menu we’d looked at claimed that an iced coffee was €3. When we ordered our two drinks, suddenly we were presented with a bill for €19.21. I had to cough up nearly ten euros for my small glass of iced coffee! Never again.

Of course, no visit to Venice is complete without a gondola ride through the canals. One Contikier in our gondola was mildly disappointed that our gondolier wasn’t going to sing, so I pulled out my phone and played music from my collection for all to hear. Others may have enjoyed a gondola ride through Venice, but ours was the only one playing ‘We Are Young’ as we lazily wound our way through the city.

Following the gondola ride was an authentic Italian four course meal: roasted vegetables first, followed by a plate of pasta with spinach and ricotta cannolini, then tender roasted beef with potatoes and salad (which I didn’t get the official Italian name of unfortunately), and a gelatin-based sweet vanilla custard served with a tart berry sauce for dessert. There was also a cheese plate and crusty bread. You wouldn’t think cheese and honey would go together, but it makes for a surprisingly sweet and tasty combination.

Venice was lovely and had its own unique flavour, but I’m not sure if I’d want to go back again. If I did, it would probably be mainly for pizza and gelato, but it’s a long way to go for tasty food.

Casually just bobsledding in Austria

Bobsledding, mon.

Bobsledding.

The idea of being able to go for a ride down an Olympic bobsled track was almost what had sold me on the entire European Contiki tour. I think there must be something seriously wrong with my survival instinct, since planes landing in turbulent sandstorms and throwing myself down a steep curving track in a bobsled at high speed don’t scare me, but things like crowded parties or hospitals send me into panic mode. Anyway, today was bobsled day, and I was quite excited.

The coach arrived at the official Olympic bobsled track in the Tyrol region of Austria around mid-morning. We were greeted by a pre-recorded "Achtung!" which played over a loudspeaker several seconds before a bright red object clattered and clanked into view along the track in front of us. Five people were inside, and it gently rolled to a stop before they clambered out, waving their arms around and exclaiming loudly about the ride.

"My brain is scrambled eggs now," one guy proclaimed earnestly.

The rickety metal contraption was the "bobsled". It looked nothing like the sleek and much larger bobsled I saw in Cool Runnings, even after accounting for the fact that this one had wheels, not blades. I started to get a little concerned. Had I really just signed a poorly translated waiver that said I agreed to jump inside this tiny metal thing on wheels and go careening down a track at speeds of up to 100km/h?

A truck took us nervous souls up to the top of the hill and the start of the track. I waited around with my fellow team mates and watched another team go barreling away down the slope. We donned balaclavas and sturdy helmets, posed for a few photos, then awkwardly folded ourselves into the bright red bobsled, with almost nothing to hold onto or brace ourselves against.

Suddenly, someone gave our bobsled a hefty shove, and we started rolling down the track.

At first, of course, it was nothing. We hadn’t yet picked up a lot of speed, and the sled gently rolled through the first corner. But then the sled accelerated…and kept accelerating…and accelerating.

It was incredibly fast – and very, very rough. Despite my best efforts to brace myself and remain sitting upright in the sled, my head was bounced sharply from side to side against the sled’s railings at every single corner. If it weren’t for that wonderfully sturdy helmet, I would most likely be dead by now, it was that rough. In fact, it was almost all I could focus on: the fact that my poor head was receiving a battering the likes of which I’d never experienced before in my life.

After what felt like mere seconds (it takes one minute to get down the track), our sled rolled to a stop, and we were freed from our bobsled and our helmets. Of course I had an absolutely cracking headache from the pounding I’d received, and a fresh bruise on my arm was my souvenir from Austria. I’m glad I went on the bobsled run, but once is more than enough. I’ll stick to rollercoasters and toboggan runs from now on.

Our next stop was Innsbruck, a very pretty Austrian town with cute buildings nestled against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. How was it possible to be seeing snow and feeling the bite of the hot sun at the same time? We visited the official Swarovski crystal shop, where all the jewellery and other objects were highly expensive, and ate apple strudel and the best iced coffee (eiscafe) of my life in a nearby café.

Later in the afternoon, our coach crossed the border into northern Italy, and drove past the imposing Dolomite (spelling?) mountain ranges to a humid and sweaty service stop. After that, it was another two-hour journey to our hotel, where we would be staying for two nights, rather than just one.

I was alarmed at my room. Everything was wrong. The toilet was in the shower, there was a bidet which I knew I wouldn’t be using, and most annoyingly of all, the power outlets were wrong. They were different to other European outlets, requiring a different conversion plug, and which also meant I was unable to plug in any electronic devices with a three-pronged plug, such as the power cord for my laptop. Wifi was not free and could only be purchased for ¬ 8.00, so I decided not to bother. Finally, the only power outlet in the room (besides the one in the bathroom) was high on the wall in the corner behind the TV.

Our promised Italian dinner consisted of amazing pasta, followed by a less amazing chicken and potato" dish, which was basically chicken and chips, and tasted almost identical to what we can pick up at the local charcoal chicken shop in good old Panania. While others went out to venture into town (which wasn’t Venice, by the way. Our hotel was positioned away from the actual city), I decided to get an early night. Bobsledding and near-concussion, combined with surprisingly humid summer heat, can really take it out of you.

Lessons in bicycles: Munich

Eisbach River, Englischer Garten, Munich, Germany

The phrase "it’s just like riding a bike" generally means "once you learn how to do something, you will never forget how to do it again". But this phrase is highly misleading – especially when it relates to bicycles. I’ll elaborate on that later.

We had a brief half hour to spend in St Goar in the morning. This was plenty of time because St Goar is miniscule and the main attractions were two shops: a beer stein shop, and a cuckoo clock shop which housed both the largest cuckoo clock in the world, and what must be the smallest Babushka dolls in the world (the smallest was smaller than my smallest fingernail. Very, um, small.)

We arrived in Munich later in the afternoon following a lengthy drive along the highways of Germany (which included our coach being pulled over by the cops to check that the coach driver had the right documentation)(he did). Munich was surprisingly beautiful, and our hotel wonderfully comfortable too. Contiki had included a bike tour of Munich for us, which would wind its way past some of the city’s impressive architecture and through the Englisher Garten, an enormous expanse of parklands with a beer garden in its centre.

Our tour guide for the bike ride was an energetic Canadian who greeted us with "Now, does everyone know how to ride a bicycle?" I hadn’t ridden one since I was about ten, but hey, it’s riding a bicycle, right? Once you learn, you never forget how?

WRONG.

My entire childhood had been spent riding fixed-gear bikes, and the bikes for our tour were proper multi-geared bicycles, not fixies. I decided to leave it in first gear and climbed confidently aboard, pressed my feet to the pedals, and pushed the bike forwards.

I toppled sideways almost immediately. My foot stamped the ground, pushing away as I tried to right myself, and then toppled over in the other direction instead. This went through several repetitions before the bike finally moved in a forwards direction, albeit with a lot of wobbling. And terror. Sheer terror on my part. Because did I mention we had to navigate our way through streets full of cars, pedestrians and other cyclists, all moving in a myriad of different directions?

Suddenly, all my confidence was gone. What was this crazy, unsteady, wobbly contraption and how the hell was it meant to transport me around for three hours? It didn’t stay upright and when I went to brake by instinctively pushing backwards onto the pedals, they spun uselessly and I continued to move crazily forwards.

Thankfully I wasn’t the only one having trouble, but it still felt like a slap in the face. Of course I knew how to ride a bicycle. Just not this particular one. This bicycle, I was convinced, was engineered with the express purpose of killing its rider.

Eventually, those of us who were struggling and swearing our way through the streets of Munich managed to get the hang of it. I even came to enjoy it after a while, but was a little disappointed I didn’t get a chance to take photos of the absolutely amazing parklands we rode through.

I never expected Germany to be so stunning, but the English Gardens were unexpectedly amazing. The parklands were enormous and included a running river (I saw a duck with a family of DUCKLINGS! SO CUTE), a nudist meadow (thankfully not too many naked people were there at the time) and the aforementioned beer garden.

Thanks to the river running through the park, the people of Munich hang out there like they’re at the beach. Everywhere I looked, people in swimwear were lazing around on the grass, tanning themselves in the summer sunshine and swimming in the river. There is even a standing wave at one part of the river, for surfing.

Surfing. In a river. In a park. In the middle of the city of Munich. I almost wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t get to see it for myself.

My wobbly method of bicycle riding started to blend in more with the rest of the group following the visit to the beer garden. I partied hard with an orange juice and pretzel while everyone else guzzled litres of beer served in enormous glasses.

Beer generally seems to be cheaper than orange juice in Germany. I found this out later when we went to Hoffenbrauhaus (hope I got the spelling right there) after the bike tour. It was an enormous restaurant and bar where you sit at long wooden tables on wooden bench seats, eating German food, drinking German beer and listening to a live German band playing traditional tunes. The service was quite poor, perhaps because the place was so crowded and busy, packed full of tourists yelling "PROST!" and smashing their beers together.

The menu was in German, which proved to be a struggle for us. I finally had the chance to pull out my German phrasebook and frantically tried to translate for myself and everyone around me – before the waiter came over and handed us an English menu instead. I ordered dumplings, a German side dish which I’d been told wasn’t bad. Dumplings come in potato or bread varieties and consist of a soft ball of the stuff served in a small bowl of gravy (everything in Germany gets smothered in gravy). They weren’t great – bread dumplings essentially tasted just like stuffing, and not much else.

It was a relief to get out of the noisy, hot Hoffenbrauhaus and get back to our hotel, where I joined a few other Contiki-ers at the hotel bar. Finally, somewhere I could get an alcoholic drink that wasn’t wine or beer! We ordered cocktails, which looked great and tasted even better, and we talked until our eyelids started to droop.

Germany has been the biggest surprise of my tour so far. It’s a really beautiful country and nothing like I expected – and I was even able to remember a fair bit of the German I learnt in high school. I didn’t want to leave Munich, and would have loved to have spent more time there (though perhaps not in the restaurants). Instead, our coach would leave the next morning for Austria…and bobsledding.

From 'Dam to Deutschland (and glorious St Goar)

Rhine Valley, Germany

Amsterdam is a bizarre place. The smell of weed permeates throughout the streets, there are bicycles absolutely everywhere (including in a multi-storey parking area next to Centraal Station which is JUST FOR BICYCLES), and the main train station is much grander and more ornate than the palace where the Queen resides.

It poured with rain for our first morning in Amsterdam, and I spent at least half an hour standing in it while queued up outside the Anne Frank house. As the name suggests, this was the exact house and the very same rooms where Anne Frank and several other Jews hid during World War 2. Now it is a museum, open to the public, who can walk through and see where all these people hid. The rooms were small, the staircases extremely steep and narrow, and the entire experience as a whole was very sobering.

Kat, our Contiki tour guide, had informed us on the coach of the existence of stroopwaffles, and highly recommended that we obtain some. I ventured into a supermarket for this express purpose, since caramel sandwiched between two thin, waferlike waffles sounded like an excellent idea. I successfully found and paid for a packet of stroopwaffles and felt very proud of myself for doing so.

The rest of the morning was spent wandering around Amsterdam on my own. I walked until my legs were sore and my back ached, through flea markets and shops selling very dodgy souvenirs (again, it’s Amsterdam. Of course there are drinking straws and pens shaped like penises.)(I didn’t buy any of these.)

Boarding the coach again after so much walking was a relief. We drove along more anonymous highways towards the small and picturesque town of St Goar, in the Rhine Valley of Germany. It turned out to be a truly gorgeous place, and better yet – the sun was out, and the weather was pleasantly summery. There was a near-palpable buzz of excitement when we all stepped out of the chilly coach into warm temperatures and glorious sunshine.

St Goar is stunning. There are castles dotting the sides of the valley along the Rhine River, which in turn is lined with cute village buildings. The wide open spaces, greenery everywhere you look, and clear skies seemed worlds away from rainy, cramped Amsterdam, and yet we’d been through both in a single day. I’m definitely starting to understand how much of a whirlwind a Contiki tour can be.

Amsterdam, you so crazy.

Amsterdam (obviously)

The Contiki tour was meant to depart at 7:30, with a 6:45 check in, so I had to be up incredibly early. So early, in fact, that I was unable to get any breakfast, since nowhere was open. I boarded the coach with a very sad stomach. Thankfully I’d already started talking with a few fellow passengers before boarding, and thankfully not everyone was interested in partying hard and ignoring the quieter, nerdier types. I was also surprised to discover our tour guide, Kat, had an Australian accent.

After a short drive out of London, we passed the white cliffs of Dover before boarding the ferry from Dover to Calais, France. Here, we were finally able to grab some food and coffee. Calais was quite pretty to arrive in, with nice clear water and sunny skies, so it was unfortunate that we had to climb back onto the coach straight away for the next long drive of the tour.

Highways, like airports, seem to be the same all over the world. Apart from driving on the incorrect side of the road, and signs in a variety of languages, the roads on which we drove looked remarkably similar to those you’d find in Australia. We headed through Belgium, where I was surprised (and a little disappointed) to discover that my experience of Belgium would be entirely viewed from the windows of the coach. And consisting of highways.

We crossed the border into the Netherlands, and our first stop was at a service station – with a McDonalds, of course. Menus were in English as well as Dutch (…Dutch? Flemmish? Not sure. Something foreign, I’m going with Dutch for now), but it took me a while to find the McChicken, as it was listed under ‘Sandwiches’. Seems they don’t have ‘burgers’ in the Netherlands. However, even all the way across the world, a McChicken is still called a McChicken, and still tasted exactly like a McChicken, and even cost a familiar €3.45.

Our tour guide started spruiking the optional activities available for us in Amsterdam. Now, most people know that Amsterdam is notorious for being…well, Amsterdam…but I was still very taken aback when Kat announced the excursions. There was a canal cruise, which I’d already known about, and there was also Casa Rosso: a sex show. Where people have sex. On stage. And other things.

I declined that particular optional excursion.

The canal cruise was nice. (I took about a million near-identical photographs of canals, bridges, and cute Dutch townhouses.) Following that, the group split up, and I went with a few others to The Grasshopper, a combination bar and coffee shop (and by “coffee shop” I mean “place where you can legally buy weed”. Confusing I know.) I also declined any kind of marijuana consumption…but I have to admit, I did consider it for a while. (This will probably shock people who already know me, including my mother. Sorry Mum.)

We then had to catch a tram back to our hotel. Trams are weird: you hop onto the middle carriage of the tram, buy a ticket, which you then scan, wait while the tram winds its way through Amsterdam with stop announcements in Dutch, and then scan your ticket again to get through exit doors to get out of the tram. We were all incredibly relieved when we managed to get out at the correct stop for our hotel.

The rain in Wales falls mainly...very heavily

Caerphilly Castle

“Waterproof”, apparently, is a subjective term that does not always mean what you think it means. This applies particularly to backpacks and to boots. While these items may have served me perfectly well in the past, keeping my belongings and my feet dry through many rainy days, Welsh rain has magical properties that allow it to permeate through waterproof surfaces.

It absolutely poured today, and was also extremely windy. I lost count of how many times my umbrella almost got carried away from me by the strong gusts. But hey, I had an entire day in Cardiff, and a tour to go on. There was no way I was going to let rain stop me from exploring. 

First stop, after a short train ride, was the beautiful Caerphilly Castle. I was expecting to go on some sort of a guided tour of the place, or to discover that I could only wander around the outside. But no, the admission price meant I could actually explore the entire castle, unless an area had been deliberately sealed off for safety reasons (those staircases aren’t built for modern OH&S requirements).

Exploring a great big old castle, by myself, in the pouring rain, was a fairly unforgettable experience. The weather successfully kept away a lot of other visitors, so most of the time I barely saw another human soul as I climbed winding staircases of stone, wandered through ancient rooms and hallways, and stumbled into rooms full of nesting pigeons. Plus there were many, many geese in the moat around the side of the castle, some of them midway between gosling and goose. However, nothing could beat the amazing history that seemed to radiate from every brick and stone.

Back in Cardiff, it took me a while to find the meeting place for my next mini adventure. You see, the main thing that brought me to Cardiff wasn’t the castles, or the fact that it’s the capital of Wales and my surname is very Welsh.

I went to Cardiff to go on the Doctor Who tour of Cardiff filming locations.

The appalling weather did put a bit of a dampener (ha!) on proceedings, but our tour guide was still happy to lead us around as we walked and caught a coach to several locations used for filming the show. Tour guide Matt had been an extra in several episodes and shared many entertaining stories of what it was like to work with the cast and crew of the show, and it was great fun seeing the shop where Rose worked in the first series, the church where her father was hit by a car, the hospital foyer from New Earth, the building that housed the Lazarus experiment…and many, many more. Of course the tour also took us back to the Cardiff rift and the entrance to Torchwood – still fun to see for a second time, especially surrounded by other fans.

Yes, I am a nerd. This much is clear. Shut up.

Once the tour finished up, it was back on the train to London, where I discovered that not all tube stations have lifts or escalators. Instead I got to build my strength hauling my luggage up and down several flights of stairs on my own. Following that, I almost got lost trying to find my hotel, and then trying to find my room within it, which turned out to be not so great. The rooms were pretty outdated, lacking a hairdryer, and the mattress was rock hard, leaving me wondering why I’d paid $147 for it all. Still, it gave me a chance to grab a precious few hours of sleep.

Alas, David Tennant was not inside.

An afternoon in Cardiff

Roald Dahl Plass...Torchwood territory!

After being rudely awoken by my alarm, madly re-packing my suitcase, and partaking in an excellent buffet breakfast involving croissants (plural), I trundled my way over to the hotel’s lift. I managed to strike up a conversation with a fellow traveler with an incredible Scottish accent, who happened to be catching my bus back to Heathrow, and was then kind enough to direct me to the London Underground station there. He even enthusiastically offered me a place to crash in Glasgow if I needed one, as if I hadn’t already booked hotels. He also asked me approximately five times to give him a call when I arrived in Glasgow. And judging by the flavour of conversation, I doubt the offer of a "place to crash" was purely out of the kindness of his heart.

I caught the tube to Paddington station, where I had to rush to make my next train to Cardiff. This is a pretty typical experience for me. For some reason I just don’t do very well with trains, and often tend to miss them, no matter where I am in the world. In fact, it’s the only time I ever run rather than walking. I probably amused many passengers as I ran along the platform to the second carriage of the train (where my pre-booked seat was), suitcase trundling along behind me.

Two hours later I stepped out into Cardiff, Wales. And I have to say, I found Cardiff pretty awesome. Sometimes I get the feeling that Cardiff, to Welsh or British citizens, is like what Canberra is to Aussies: visitors from overseas are fascinated, but locals regard it as pretty boring. But what’s boring about a city that has an actual castle within walking distance of my hotel? And a decent shopping centre?

The weather wasn’t too bad – almost sunny, although it changed approximately every five minutes – so I spent the afternoon happily exploring. My first stop was St David’s shopping mall to purchase a UK sim card and lunch at a coffee place. The guy who brought my sandwich and coffee glanced at me curiously as I thanked him for bringing my food.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Australia,” I answered. “From Sydney.”

He grinned. “I thought so,” he said as he walked away. “Nice accent!”

Little did he know that I had to prevent myself from smiling like a crazy person every time I heard someone else speak. Nice accent? Me? Not at all. Nicer accents were all around me and no one realised.

I decided to walk down to Cardiff Bay and was struck by the pedestrian crossing lights. Unlike Australia, the lights don’t make a noise when changing from ‘don’t walk’ to ‘walk’, which was very disorienting: I’d press the button, then start checking my phone or looking around, and forget to watch for the change from red to green.

I feel the need to explain the significance of my walk to Cardiff Bay. Because, you see, Cardiff Bay is the home of the Torchwood hub and the Cardiff rift, from the Doctor Who universe.

It was time for Nerdy Fangirl Moment Number 1: Discovering that loyal Torchwood fans had built a shrine to Ianto at the entrance to the hub. People had written poems, left (plastic) flowers, created memes, and otherwise transformed the wall into an impressive memorial for the much-loved deceased character. Overkill, perhaps. But still quite cool.

Extended hours of daylight gave me plenty of time to walk back towards the centre of Cardiff, where I headed towards Cardiff Castle. It’s incredibly bizarre to have a piece of medieval history nestled in the middle of a modern city. On one side of the road, an enormous castle stood, complete with flags and preparations for a jousting tournament inside, while directly opposite was a row of shops including Subway and Burger King. The castle is also known for the animal wall built beside it, which is (surprise surprise) a wall with sculptures of animals on it.

I’d walked so much that I’d given myself a headache (don’t ask how walking and headaches are connected; I don’t even know myself), so I headed back to my hotel room for the night. My room was tiny, but comfortable – and surprisingly quiet.

Cardiff, on the whole, had impressed me for the afternoon…and I had more to look forward to the next day.

Nightflight

This is all I got to see of Dubai

Time does not pass properly on planes. And I’m not just alluding to the fact that you cross multiple different time zones – I mean, my 14-hour flight to Dubai took approximately five years. Five years in dim lighting (for some reason, no one wanted the window shades open for the ENTIRE FLIGHT. Woe.) watching mediocre movies and longing for the food trolley to come around again.

I sat next to a friendly and trendy thirtysomething lady who was happy to chat with me several times during the flight, who had a habit of procuring extra snacks, and who was as much of a cat-lover as I am. She was also terrified of air travel and gripped my hand as we came into land at Dubai during a turbulent sandstorm (“Hon, I’m so sorry. Is your hand ok? Oh look, I’ve absolutely crushed it. Thank you. I’m so sorry hon.”) As an anxious type myself, I never would have predicted that one day I would be counseling a nervous flyer through a wobbly landing.

Dubai was shrouded in a haze of sand as we landed. It was apparently 40°C outside, but the airport was so well air-conditioned that I still needed to wear my jacket as I raced through it towards my next flight. Airports are strangely anonymous places – here I was, in Dubai, on the other side of the world, in a totally foreign land, and yet if it weren’t for the Arabic script on every sign, I could have been in any airport anywhere. I felt like I was missing out on something: missing out on the lavish and exotic Dubai culture. But I had another plane to catch.

The second flight, despite a delayed boarding and takeoff, was a much more pleasant experience than the first. I guess it didn’t hurt that it only went for half the length of the first flight – suddenly seven hours sounded like a breeze compared to the fourteen I’d just been through. Once again I immersed myself in movie-watching (Man on a Ledge was surprisingly good), unsuccessful attempts at sleep, and gazing out the window next to me at the sprawling landscapes and cotton-wool clouds below.

At long last, the plane finally touched down at Heathrow airport to typically British weather (rain, cold and light fog). I was anticipating long queues of an hour or two to get through border control, delayed or lost luggage, and mean customs officials who might want to confiscate my contact lenses or my Clexane. This almost paralyzing trepidation was more stressful than hurtling through the air at over 30,000 feet.

With a sense of dread building in my gut and being almost too tired to function, I made my way through the labyrinthine Heathrow terminal 3. The queue at border control was long – about 45 minutes – but nowhere near what I’d been expecting. Another stamp on my passport and it was time to collect my baggage.

I have never been so glad in my entire life. Well, okay, that’s probably an exaggeration. There have been many events more joyful than seeing a black suitcase with a purple luggage strap and a tag in the shape of a bee sliding towards me on the luggage carousel, but the sense of relief puts it up there as one of the Glad Life Moments list. I had to resist the urge to hug my luggage. Instead, I chose to lug it through the airport and out into the cold. No need to go through customs at all. What a breeze.

Less easy, though, was catching the bus to my hotel, where I managed to forget that the zip on my wallet was open. Australian coins rained down as I walked towards my seat, scattering themselves noisily all over the ground and making me seem like the biggest clutz to ever enter London. The bus driver looked at me sympathetically before pointing out that I’d also forgotten to take the ticket I’d just purchased (“It’s okay. You’re tired. Long flight?”)

By the time the bus pulled into the Holiday Inn Express, I looked and felt like an absolute wreck. Despite some noise from other guests and an irritating water-saving showerhead, the hot shower and welcoming mattress were heaven. I slept like a rock.

It begins

Apparently travel teaches you things about yourself. The first lesson I learnt is that I am incapable of sleeping on planes. Before I embarked on this trip, my personal record for longest amount of time spent without any sleep was something like 46 hours. I’m not glad to say that I’ve well and truly broken that record now: 63 hours (or the closest approximation anyway) without any dedicated REM sleep. I tried, and I sort of “napped”, but I wouldn’t call it sleep.

Getting to Sydney airport and moving through it was a bit of an adventure in itself. My father chose to employ his own brand of navigatory technique (ie: ignoring helpful signs and instead peering into the darkness ahead going “But where do we turn??”) in an attempt to find the airport parking area, and we ended up circumnavigating the parking lot several times without actually entering it. This, of course, raised the blood pressure of all involved, especially when Dad tried to drive into the parking area via the pedestrian-only access path.

We finally managed to park without killing any hapless pedestrians and proceeded to bid two very emotional farewells: first, to my luggage at the check-in desk, and the second, to my parents before going through to customs (there were many tears). Going through security, I was preparing for a lengthy interrogation as to why I was carrying a box full of hypodermic needles in my carry-on. Brandishing my doctor’s letter like a shield, I approached the security guard:

“Hi,” I confessed nervously, “I have a box of hypodermic needles to declare?”

He shrugged, bored. “You can have ‘em.”

Seems everyone was lying when they said security was strict about that sort of thing – and absolutely no one cared at Heathrow when I arrived either. I didn’t even need to go through customs at all there. Success!

At last, I was on the plane (and sitting in my upgraded-to-exit-row seat – thank you Emirates!), craning my head to stare out the window at the glittering lights of early morning Sydney. All the stressing and months of planning, and I was finally squeezed into an airplane seat, flying to an entirely different hemisphere for the first time in my life.