Into the Woods

It's easy to get lost in London. When I'm here I almost forget that this isn't really representative of England as a whole. So it comes as a small shock every time I venture out into the countryside to see just how... English England really is.

Before I came here I watched more than my fair share of BBC dramas, but I always assumed the quaintness of the English country was overstated. It wasn't. All the pubs and cottages and well-dressed elderly people are right there, in villages barely two miles apart with names like Sweetshire and Comfortsford.

In the evening of my first day in the forest, the dog and I went for what was meant to be a casual stroll across the commons, an hour tops and home in time for supper. But the trees lured me in and before I knew it I'd done a Little Red Riding Hood on myself and gotten totally lost, forgetting that just because there are no creatures armed to kill in England doesn't mean wandering off the path into unfamiliar territory is a terribly clever idea. Two and a half hours later I found my way home, and the next day I decided the whole experience was charming (as opposed to just plain tiring) and repeated it in a different stretch of wood. 

On the plus side, the lack of people meant I could play all I liked with my self timer. And I saw a lot of deer. A walk in an English forest is so captivatingly different to walking through the Australian bush. It was almost enough to make me want to move out to the countryside one day. Almost.



Great expectations

Last week was half term for my Boy and Girl. They went sailing for the week, leaving me alone in their grandparent's house with the dog for the better part of the week. Come Thursday, however, I was home free. London beckoned, with her promises of hustle, bustle and the ubiquitous sound of sirens I'd grown accustomed to, and of which there was a conspicuous lack in the middle of an honest to God English forest. But instead of giving in to the siren call (both literal and metaphorical) of my adopted home I decided to jump on a train and see somewhere new. 

Given I was in the south already it made sense to stick below London, so I took the advice of my mothers both biological and host and went to Bath.

There is no denying Bath is a beautiful town. Nestled amongst gently rolling hills and practically drowning in history, it is little wonder this area captured and stimulated the imaginations of such literary notables as Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy. And anyone who knows me will attest to my love of history. So it is little wonder I was equally captivated by my surrounds.

The contrast between ancient and modern was especially profound here, where tourists pour through corridors snapping high resolution digital pictures of buildings and monuments that out date Jesus. While I was in the Roman Baths I found myself feeling simultaneously incredibly close to and removed from the people who lived or travelled here. In some ways I - with my mobile phone, ease of travel and own digital camera - was absolutely different from a people who made month- or year-long pilgrimages to this site to pay their respects to the gods or curse their neighbours for petty theft .

But I find when I'm close to history it is so much easier to remember those people were exactly that - real people. They lived and loved and hoped and feared and finally died. And it's also easy to remember when seeing first hand the comparative level of civilisation, despite their superstitions and brutal rituals, the Romans were a formidable and supremely advanced people.

As I sat, casually dangling my hands into a pool that was once part of the ultimate day spa and listened to commentary by Bill Bryson, I considered the expectations born of my own history. In many ways the trip to Bath was exactly what I had hoped travel would be like. I was alone, so I could make my own decisions about what to do, and when; I was staying in a hostel; when I stepped outside I was somewhere. The sun was shining, the town was beautiful, and there were buskers on every corner. But as I'd gone to sleep on the Thursday night (my first of two) I was concerned. From what I'd been told of my Mum's travels thirty-odd years ago, and my friend Laura's travels thirty-odd months ago, I had expected to walk into a hostel and pretty much walk straight out again into a pub. Despite knowing how stupid it was, I felt like I was doing something wrong.

I spent the next day being a tourist, touring the Baths and Cathedral, taking afternoon tea in the Pump room (where I had fresh clotted cream for the first time - Holy moley, it was something else), scouring the markets and dining, book in hand, by the river. In all an idyllic day. But I was still mildly perturbed. The stories I'd been told made it seem like Mum and Laura barely spent a moment without company.

Happily I went back to my room that night and made friends with two Swiss girls, with whom I went out and had a drink in a proper English pub.

Us

"You'd be great in a hostel."

I wad told this today by someone I consider one of my closest friends. And six months ago I would have agreed with her wholeheartedly and without hesitation. But right now I'm not as sure.

It's not that I've changed drastically. If you'd asked some of my closest friends who and what I was six months ago I expect (or at least hope) you would have got some of the following answers:
Someone who is ridiculous; who cares little for the opinions of the general public; who is willing to wear her pyjamas in everyday life; who is casual; who will day drink with me; who will say yes.
I would like to think the same phrases still apply. It's just I think they apply in new ways.

A person's public identity is a strange and frail thing, because it relies so heavily on other peoples' perceptions. Last week I turned some phrases that in Australia would have warranted little more than a wry smile or a sarcastic return comment, but here made people look twice at me, so seemingly out of character they were. And the reactions of my friends made me think: who exactly am I here?

When I left home I left behind a series of complex and often interrelated friendships that had taken me the better part of 21 years to build. Of course it's unrealistic to expect such a network to be replicated or even challenged in a mere six months. Still, I would like to think at least some of the people who I've met here have made a significant impact on my life, and vice versa. But how can that be when every day I come home exhausted from trying to be someone I think people would rather I be?

I liked myself in Australia. It took a long time, but I did. And I like myself here. But I have much less conviction here, because I'm not sure what my London friends will think of me if I start saying and acting the way I did at home. Will they like me? Will they understand me? It sounds patronising and I hate, it but I miss having friends who speak English as a first language the same way they miss speaking Spanish or Finish or Swedish on a regular basis.

But really the language issue is just a front. What I'm really worried about is that they wont like me. I admit there are a lot of things about myself that may not be to everyone's taste, but for the most part these are the things that define me, that I'm happy about. And I love living in London with the people I've met. Honestly, I have no intention of moving home anytime soon (or anytime at all, if possible). Everyone I speak to back home marvels at how happy and healthy I seem.

The thing is, whatever I use as an excuse - my self image issues, my less-than-ideal self esteem, the language differences between me and my friends - in the end it all boils down to one thing: what if they don't like me? Because I am who I am now. People may not like me, but I'm a lot less likely to change because of somebody else's opinion. And that's the scariest thing I've ever had to face.

Hello, Goodbye

The past month has been a veritable revolving door of people and places, so much so I'm not sure where to start. But if I've learnt nothing else from years of watching Julie Andrews, it's that the very beginning is a reasonable place.

So. Granada. What can I say? It was as if all the positive stereotype I'd every heard about Spain got together and built a city. I was only actually in the city for three days and I still managed to eat enough tapas to feed a small army, and drink my own body weight in God knows what. I honestly don't know why the whole world doesn't live like the Spanish. A bit of work, a long, wine soaked lunch, a socially acceptable nap, and then a couple more hours work before tapas o'clock. Where's the bad?

See how happy they are?

                  

I went to Granada with Isabel, Elena, and Iina, who ended up sharing my after-hours adventure on our final night. Isabel and Elena had gone home post-drinks but pre-Vogue, an Indie club in the middle of the city. The plan was originally for us to stay the night with one of Isabel's friends after we'd finished at the club - a plan that was just slightly altered when we decided to do the sensible thing and go home with a group of strange, primarily Spanish-speaking men instead, to a house where the bathroom was off-limits because it was busy housing a not insignificant crop of hydroponic weed. Naturally (I slay myself). She and I left with a book on "How to grow and use hydroponic cannabis", and the new found knowledge that "come to my bedroom" is one of those phrases that sound the same in every language respectively.

Iina was actually one of the first people I met when I started making friends within the local Au Pair community, despite the fact she lived about as far away from my area as you can get while still being within the London city limits. Luckily for me, being in Granada gave Iina and I a chance to get to know each other better and bond over such things as cheap alcohol, Mystery Jets, Lampimampi kwoffee and still being drunk at 2pm on Easter Sunday.

Unluckily for me, Iina went home to Finland three weeks later.

The Friday before she left she and I went out to dinner in Soho with Isabel and Tinja, before the two of us went to Borderline. Until now I was spending most of my time out on the town in either mainstream clubs or The Worlds End, where they mostly play very loud metal and hard rock music. But now IT'S OK! Because Fridays are indie nights at Borderline! Woohoo! So we took full advantage of the fantastic music and dancedanddancedanddanced until they kicked us out, when we dragged ourselves back to my (incredibly comfortable) bed and died.

You'd think getting home when your employer is getting up would be all kinds of awkward, especially when they're trusting their kids' physical and emotional health to your care five days a week. Turns out, not so much.

Despite London's reputation for being a miserable bitch of a city as far as weather is concerned, it has actually been sunny and stunning thanks to the timely entrance of Spring (there's sun! there's foliage! there's double digit temperatures!)

 

So, to celebrate Ingrid's birthday and the lessened chance of vitamin D deficiency, we did what any good Londoners would do: we picnicked. Albeit dressed to the nines as superheroes in the middle of St James' Park.

Side note: NOBODY knows who Sailor Moon is in Britain. Which could be for the best, given the damage I probably did to her reputation.

I'm not entirely sure what happened between the hours of 2pm and 12am, but I do know we picked up a posse of (non-superhero) new friends, ate a bunch of delicious Tesco food and somehow made it into the club we were headed to, although I'm pretty sure most of us shouldn't have. I also know I went home without telling anyone (old habits die hard) after having an ill-informed d'n'm with two of our newbies (I really have to stop doing that. Especially with people I've furnished with the info they need to find me on facebook). It was a good weekend.

One Day My Prince Will Come

Hola amigos! I'm alive! I'm not entirely sure how that happened, by the way. I was almost certain Europe had finished me off for good (hence the extended radio silence). But apparently not. I'm back in old London town and back to the (admittedly quite relaxed) grindstone.

Unfortunately I'm not going to regal you with my tales of continental debauchery just yet. Instead I'm going to use this opportunity to jump on the latest bandwagon and put in my two cents about the Royal Wedding! Woohoo! Exciting! Infinite exclamation marks! (I'm really tired)

I was um-ing and aah-ing over whether or not I wanted to trek it into town with all the thousands of other hard core royal lovers for the ceremony this morning. On the one hand, a royal wedding is admittedly a fairly important pop culture event that doesn't exactly come around every year. But on the other hand, I'm not sure I'm totally ok with all that time, money and media scrutiny being thrown away on this one-off event. Case in point, did you know that Alabama has recently been flattened by devastating tornadoes? Because I'm fairly confident that at least 90% of Brits are completely ignorant of that fact, so monopolised have television, radio and print news outlets been by wedding coverage.

Nevertheless, I swallowed my inherent cynicism and casually made my way in around 10 o'clock this morning. By that time Green Park was closed, The Mall was closed, Trafalgar Square was closed, and trying to get anywhere near Buckingham Palace was nothing more than a fools errand. I managed to snag a reasonable spot on Marlborough Street, off Pall Mall (of Monopoly Board fame) and directly parallel to The Mall, along which the happy couple would pass after the ceremony. And while I didn't actually get to see anything, per se, I did hear a lot of cheering. Ha.

To be honest I wasn't too concerned with what I did and didn't see, and I was glad to have been part of the crowds and the atmosphere anyway. Although admittedly not glad enough to try to push my way up to Buckingham Palace for the balcony viewing. Instead I went home and caught the royal smooch on TV. Plus my London family had recorded the ceremony for me, so I got to have my (wedding) cake and eat it too.

As I was watching the ceremony, and later while I was talking to my host parents and their street party friends, I couldn't help but think: Being a Princess must be awful. I mean, Kate and Will are clearly very much in love, which is wonderful, and she's exactly what the royal family needs as a brand
9so much for swallowing my cyncism, huh). But at the end of the day, she's married much more than the man of her dreams.

Obviously she knew what she was getting into, and I'm sure this isn't a marriage that was entered into without careful consideration on both sides. I don't know Kate Middleton or what she wants, and I'm not trying to pass any kind of judgement. But whatever her dreams were pre-royalty, she can pretty much kiss all of them goodbye.

I don't know. Maybe it's just me. I'm not even sure I really believe in marriage, so I'm probably not in the best position to give commentary. They did look very happy, and I honestly hope they will continue to be so. I was also very impressed by the way the ceremony seemed so intimate, despite the fact 2 billion-odd people were watching (don't they lead such bizarre lives?). And I'll admit, I got sucked into the wedding fervour over the course of the day despite myself. It was an undeniably beautiful wedding. I just hope that when my Prince comes along, he does it with a little less pomp and/or ceremony.

Although...the horse-drawn carriage? Wouldn't say no to that.

Oh! The Places You'll Go!

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

I'm off to Belgium tomorrow! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee so excited! I've dreamt of travelling pretty much all my life, having been brought up on a steady diet of my mother's travel tales. Living in London is amazing, but so sedentary. But for the next 7 days I'll be living the life...I have a bus ticket, a hostel, and no other plans. Wish me luck!

A few facts about the state of the nation in Belgium (care of Lonely Planet):

• Smoking
  Banned in Belgian restaurants, but not in cafés (pubs/bars)
• National debt Belgium has one of the EU’s highest debt levels – 94% of GDP in 2005
• Minimum gross monthly salary €1210
• GDP US$350 billion
• Unemployment
  Flanders 10%; Wallonia 18%; Brussels 21%
• Chocolate consumption 16kg per head annually
• Area 30, 278 sq km
• Inflation 2.8%
• Population 10.5 million
• Beer consumption 100L per head annually
• Sex 58% of Belgians are satisfied with their sex life, up on the worldwide average of 44%

A Family Affair

This week has been an emotional upheaval for my family, so it was an incredibly happy (for me) (selfishly) happenstance that my Uncle and Aunt were spending a few days in London before embarking on their European adventure.

Ha. So I'd just like to point out that London is no longer included on my list of "places that count" when thinking about Europe/the UK. As I said earlier tonight, London may not yet feel entirely like home, but I definitely feel like I live here.

You know what's a strange phrase? "A Familiar Face". Most of my friends here have faces that are, in actual fact, familiar to me. And yet, I still think of people who I knew before I moved here as "familiar faces".

Anyway, back to the point. My Uncle an Aunt are on the first leg of an amazing tour of the UK and southern Europe, and tonight I was lucky enough to have dinner with them. My family have always been close, and one of the things I've missed most since being here has been seeing my cousins on the regular. So it was incredibly comforting to have family members within touching distance.

Unfortunately their visit has been marred by an untimely and shocking death in the family.

Of course this tragedy is not going to derail such longterm plans as a trip to Europe but it is an untimely reminder, to me at least, of how...precious? short? life is.

I firmly believe that a life lived casually, happily and, above all, ridiculously, is a life well lived. And I'm confident G lived with a healthy appetite for all three of these values. Plus he was one of the few people I've met who had unequivocally met and married their soul mate, something I am endlessly envious of.

Nevertheless his death has made me remember how much I love just being. I've been indulging in self pity recently, and forgetting how lucky I am to be here. I don't want to be complacent. I live in a city I've dreamed of for years, with a smorgasbord of travellers delights at my feet. I'm young, I'm reckless and I have every intention of using these few short years to my absolute advantage. If nothing else good comes of this awful situation, I've at least regained my sense of self. The hell with responsibility. I'll be a real person when I decide, and not before.

So while seeing my family was wonderful (thanks Bob and Ali!) I have no intention of returning to Australia anytime soon. There's too much I need to do first.