A Road Trip Through the South Island (NZ)

It’s pouring down rain. I’m with some lads I met in Queenstown and we are in Franz Josef wishing for the skies to clear up so we can climb the Glacier. The weather won’t cooperate. We pile into the car deciding to tough it out. After all, if I held my breath waiting for sunny days I would never see or do anything in New Zealand!
We reach a massive dried up river bed of grey stones and rocks. The glacier rises across the valley. It appears close, but takes a long time to trek. We pass waterfalls running off from the cliffs. At the foot we clamber up a steep incline and see the stunning mountains assembled before us, with the glacier the centrepiece.

Red tape runs around the base of the mountain, serves as a warning. There are workers chipping away with ice-picks at the glacier to make new staircases for the tours. We are making our own tour and without equipment we mostly scramble around the outskirts of the glacier over loose rocks that slip under our feet. Turning back the reward is an extraordinary sweeping vista of the canyon below. Eventually, as the tour groups are leaving we see a guide watching and waiting for us. I think our fun has come to an end, and he tells us later that we were walking dangerously close to a potential rock slide. Oops!
In the evening we head to the Blue Ice bar and watch the boxing, enjoying two-for-one house spirits after presenting our hostel key. It’s a very small town, but the whiskey helps!

The next day we drive through Arthurs Pass towards Christchurch. Snow sweeps past the car, horizontally. The enchanting and bold terrain is unique to New Zealand and we often remark on settings reminiscent of the ‘Lord of the Rings’.
Our road trip continues, after dropping ‘Curly Bob’ (as the Irish lads have dubbed Sean) at the airport, we cruise north past the sleepy seaside town of Kaikoura – famous for whale watching and home to vast seal colonies - further up to Nelson , a vibrant, fresh little city with plenty of class, before stopping in Motueka for the night. Our destination is the National Parks of the Able Tasman, our final wonder (or wander) before catching the ferry to Wellington.
After a blissful sleep I wake next morning with excitement and ready to jump out of a plane, literally. A shuttle bus picks me up and takes me to the Sky Dive centre. After getting the gear on and a quick debrief I’m ready.
The ride up has been the longest twenty minutes of my life, and I am all too aware that it will be over in less than five. A short English lad, Chris, is strapped to my back (I hope). I wanted a seven foot Serbian with massive guns and brooding good looks to protect me (think Mills and Boon), but you can’t always get what you want. Instead, I’m a foot taller than my man, and impressively I am not as scared as I am pretending. Chris has been trying to keep my mind clear by playing twenty questions. He reminds me of a dentist. But I want my fear. Isn’t it part of the process?
The door slides back alarmingly, too quickly. I expect a force of wind to suction me out of this light, rickety plane and send me twirling through the cloudless, blue sky plummeting towards my death. It is eerily still and not as cold as you would think at 13 000 feet, probably due to all the adrenaline coursing my blood lines.
The dive knocks the breath out of me. I can feel everything rushing past – all this air, and my stupid collar is slapping my cheeks and it really stings. I’m going fast, like 200 kilometres. Chris taps my arms, signalling me to bring them up in front of me like I’m flying. It’s indescribable, I’m Superwoman! All of a sudden, I’m lurched upwards as he pulls the shoot, it’s jolting but then I just laugh and scream with joy and I know I am alive. Everything becomes deadly silent, and after about ten seconds Chris asks, “Are you alright?”

Spinning the big, red canopy around I’m shown the North Island, which is visible on this clear day, and turning again the mountain ranges to the west and the Able Tasman are in view. The Motueka River snakes across the land meeting with the sea. It’s really peaceful, and actually feels a bit tame after the intensity of the dive. As we sail down to land I lift my legs up high in the air and we slide through the grass on our butts. Ecstatically, I feel like doing it again, like some ride at the show you can’t get enough of. I hug Chris and thank him for not killing me.
The boys are waiting. I am so high and feel like bouncing off the walls, they seem flat by comparison. I’ve already had the aerial view, but we drive to the Able Tasman and spend a glorious afternoon exploring the hills and beaches of this truly exotic paradise. Someone wise told me that when you go to New Zealand don’t expect big cities and night life, it’s all about the scenery.

Sea Kayaking the Milford Sound

It’s early and I am the only person awake at the Lakefront Backpackers in Te Anou. I’m making sandwiches and rushing around packing things I might need for my trip to the Milford Sound. Mental Note: Don’t forget the camera!
Outside it is cold and the lake is still and quiet, not yet awake. A small van pulls over and a kiwi guy jumps out and introduces himself to me as “Will”. He is my tour guide for the day from ‘Fiordland Sea Kayak’ and that is exactly what we will be doing.
The journey into Milford is mountainous through national parkland and the landscape is dramatic and rugged. We stop at a lookout for hot chocolate and biscuits that Will has brought along. I see for the first time the pesky but pretty parrots - Kea birds – known to peck the rubber out of a car window frame and scavenge for crumbs like seagulls.
Along the way we see the aftermath of snow avalanches that occur when too much snow has piled up on the mountains, and their path is one of pure destruction. We see where the road has been cleared in front of the Homer tunnel. It looks like a snow cave, and it is the only access into the Milford. Work on the tunnel began in 1935 and Will tells us that it started with just five men, picks in hand, and one wheelbarrow. Three were killed by avalanches. Sometimes for months on end they went without sunlight. Now that’s hard yakka! The project stopped during the war and then wasn’t finished until 1954.
We pull up at the basin of the sound and Will begins to unload the van. Before we are on the water we have to get dressed in layers and layers of protective clothing. First there are the very attractive thermals, then a rubber vest, a polar fleece jumper, a bright orange rain proof poncho and a strange contraption that looks like an oversized tennis skirt (a spray skirt) used to seal us into the kayak. And of course on top of that is a well coordinated, fashionably purple life jacket. We stand around our kayaks feeling completely ridiculous as Will gives us a briefing on how to paddle and so forth.
Most of the other people doing this sea-kayaking tour are on their honeymoon. I’m paired up with a guy called Paul who is training to be a tour guide. Chuck Norris comes to mind, and he and I are quick to start bantering and bickering as though we have met before. The sky is cloudless and as we paddle out we are joined by a family of dolphins. They glide underneath our kayaks and show off by spinning and leaping through the air. They swim so close to us that they tip onto their sides as they pass so they can peer up at us with one eye, and then empty their blowholes. It’s incredible! And Will agrees that this is quite a rare experience, possibly due to the amazing weather we are having. Oftentimes it is raining, which we are assured is very magical, but I am happier with the dolphins playing and warm sun on my face.
We are directed over to a large waterfall pouring out from one of the cliff faces. The watery mist cools our faces as we paddle ferociously up some small rapids to get as close as possible to the Bowen Falls. Actually, I don’t have to paddle hard at all. Paul (or Chuck) has announced that he likes to be “a very physical person”, so he doesn’t mind as I lazily sit back and take photographs. I think we make a good team, and I know that tomorrow my shoulders won’t be sore!
We discover, after tasting the slightly salty water, that the Milford is not actually a sound but a fiord. Further along the mossy banks we spot a young fur seal yawning sleepily after being disturbed by our loud cries. He poses for awhile, stretching and sighing before clambering down the rocks and slipping into the cool, dark waters.
The seal disappears as the dolphins reappear to host us down towards a rocky beach where we have a glorious view of the ‘Mitre Peak’, the tallest sea cliff in the world at 1692 metres about the sound. It gets its name from its appearance, similar to that of the mitre headwear of Christian bishops. We stop for lunch
sitting on uncomfortable rocks and sipping cups of hot tea while we take in the breathtaking vista. My sandwiches go down a treat after all my hard work.
After lunch there is more kayaking, and Will fills our heads with information about the region, and some of the Maori legends. He points out two prominent mountains called “The Elephant” and “The Lion” and with a little imagination we are supposed to see the forms of the animals. It takes awhile, but everyone eventually begins to see the shapes, everyone but me! The Milford is also used for Cray-fishing. The local fishermen make a mint off the tons of crayfish they catch in one season and sell to the Chinese. Hundreds of thousands of dollars are made very quickly in this industry, from heavy pots that are lying right beneath us – a gold mine.
We arrive back on shore late afternoon and pack the gear up, before heading back to Te Anou. Will gives us all cinema tickets to see a locally made documentary about the history of the fiordlands. I really appreciated the small and thoughtful gestures we received during the tour. It was really personal. I get back to the hostel and drink a little whisky with a friend and sit on the balcony in the freezing cold to watch as the sun melts away over the lake. The weather is changing back. It only lasted a day at the Milford, and it was magic. I can clearly see why Rudyard Kipling described it as the eighth wonder of the world. But now it’s time to get back to reality (as much as possible in this fantasy land they call New Zealand) and tomorrow I must hitch back to Queenstown to find out what’s been going on at the backpackers while I’ve been gone.

Queenstown, My Fareweather Friend!

I pull into Queenstown late in the afternoon and drive straight into town in search of backpacker’s accommodation. I’m getting used to driving the campervan, but navigating through the small and busy streets in Queenstown’s centre is tricky – let’s not get started on reverse parallel parking! Fortunately, I park up on a hill and when I jump out of the van I find a small and cosy looking hostel directly on the corner. I take it as a welcome sign, and it also means I don’t have to cart my luggage far. I head to the reception of ‘Bungi Backpackers’ and after a quick check-in I go to drop the campervan off at the airport. I rented this camper cheap, through a rental relocation site online. It was only five dollars per day because I was returning the vehicle to its original rental place.
The previous night I stopped at Lake Tekapo and slept in the campervan, parked between large pine trees on the sandy bank. I cuddled up with blankets and a cup of tea as snow gently drifted down over the silt-blue lake. I took Route 8 towards Queenstown. It is recommended as an extraordinarily scenic drive. The lone highway intertwines through frosty mountains. Undulating hills are blanketed with golden tussock grass that bows in the wind, and small clusters of bright yellow and red shrubs flourish in the tough soil. This is Lindis Pass. Further on, the countryside alters and I cross wide, stony rivers and pleasant streams run in unison with the road curving through green pastures.

After I drop off the van at the airport, I walk more than six kilometres along the waterfront of Lake Wakitipu. A great glacial lake, it is third largest in New Zealand and mountain cliffs rise triumphantly from the southern embankment. In the distance, Queenstown’s famous snow-teamed peaks, ‘The Remarkables’ loom. By the time I arrive back at the hostel I am exhausted and hungry. I try the soup they give us for dinner. It is watery looking vegetable soup and the only taste is of chilli powder, and you have to get in quick otherwise all the potato and carrots disappear and you are left with murky barley water. It is a good conversation starter. In the lounge room I quickly make friends with James an English backpacker, Sean an Irish-Lebanese from Belgium, and from Florida the strongly confederate Beau. We all end up at the regular backpacker haunts – Winnies and World Bar – indulging in two-for-one drink offers and dancing to pretty bad music, the kind of clubs that repeat the same songs over and over. A few more people from the hostel join us. There are all types of
people in Queenstown - the hub of adventure activities for extreme adrenaline seekers and international travellers. We finish the night off at the compulsory pit-stop ‘Fergburger’. They boast the biggest burgers I have ever seen, with names like the “swineburger” or the “bun laden”, saddled with every kind of filling and generous portions of chips and aioli. It’s a pretty good deal, and after gorging ourselves on late night snacks, huddled outside under the warmth of heaters and listening to them play “The Prodigy” and various drum and bass (better music than the clubs), we climb up the hill to our hostel and “crash out”.
The next morning is a slow start, but its James’s birthday so we celebrate with a bit of adventure, choosing jet-boating. The shuttle bus takes us down into the ‘Shotover River Canyons’. We get suited up with rain coats and life jackets before boarding the ‘Big Red’ jet boat. The ride is for half an hour, and our driver takes us speeding through the canyon, with narrow escapes past the rock face. The emerald green rapids are shallow, but these particular boats have a perfectly flat bottom and apparently only need ten centimetres of water in order to skim the surface. Our man is cheeky and thrashes the engine down-stream, keeping us excited with plenty of full 360 degree spins, while we hold on tight. I’m in the back row, which is a good place to be as I watch the people in the front get sprayed with water, shivering already as the icy wind whips across our faces too.
For dinner, a small group of us from the hostel head to Church Lane to a pub called, ‘Ducks Deluxe’, and have dinner seated on tall stools at the bar tables. The food is good quality, with a selection of steaks, fresh fish dishes, warm salads and appetisers. I try an alcoholic ginger beer, which has a warming effect, much like the venue. By the time we finish our meals, a local band strikes up and they are amazing with experimental sounds, it seems a little prog-rock and I like it. The fire place is roaring and the atmosphere is jovial.
In Queenstown adventure and hedonism is the way of life. Time is spent skiing and snowboarding on the mountains, or extreme activities are available like bungy jumping, canyon swings and white-water rafting to name only a few. Ironically, my dorm room is called the skydiving room, and this is exactly what I choose to do. I booked with N Zone Sky Diving and am taken by bus past the airport to a small centre for skydiving. This day is bleak with plenty of cloud cover and I am told we can’t jump from 12 000 feet as I had wanted, but can only get to 10 000. After finally summoning the courage to embrace my fears of falling and of heights I don’t mind because I’m pumped up with excitement. We have our gear on and are watching the team before us land when we are sadly told that the weather is too bad and the dive is cancelled. It’s disappointing, but I can do this later on my trip. For now, I am in Queenstown and I can do anything I want (except what I really wanted), the only problem is to make the choice – hiking, hang-gliding or the luge? It’s a hard life but I suppose somebody has to do it!

Couchsurfing in Christchurch

I’m searching the arrivals lounge at Christchurch airport, looking for the third row of seats. Yep, there they are, now the tricky part is figuring out which person is Evan. I have only seen one picture of him, and who knows if it was up-to-date. I’m meant to be staying with him at his place in St. Albans. I met him a few weeks ago online. Am I crazy? No, I’m CouchSurfing! And I’m slightly nervous because it’s my first time. In brief, couchsurfing.com is an online networking organisation for travellers and people-loving-people. You simply create a profile, get verified (for security reasons) and start searching locations for people and couches. You may only meet as a travel companion or for coffee if that is what you desire or you might crash on their couch. Alternatively, if not travelling you might put your couch up for grabs. Coincidentally, today Evan has arrived from Wellington and landed at the same time as me, which fortunately means I have a ride to his place too! So far so good, eh?

Evan’s street leads straight into the centre of town and the distance is manageable on foot. His large and rather oddly shaped house - two stories resembling a small cube on the bottom with a rectangular prism stacked on top – is found as most early-twenty-something boys homes often are: messy, dirty dishes, not vacuumed, and plenty of empty pizza boxes stacked as kindling for the fireplace he says he doesn’t use anymore! However, there are three couches so I can’t complain. After an early night’s sleep on the comfiest choice I wake reasonably refreshed and ready to take on the city.

I decide to visit the sites by walking the entire tramline circuit. Why spend money on what Evan damns as the “tourist trap”, when my legs can take me everywhere I need to go for free? I start on New Regent Street, a colourful promenade of pastel Spanish mission style facades nestled together above cafes, jewellers and various boutiques. The word “kitsch” comes to mind, yet despite borderline tacky tourism it works. I stop for a quick lunch and coffee at ‘Stir’, a popular alfresco cafe, and enjoy a perfect cappuccino while admiring the architecture and watching the tram rattling by occasionally.

Along the tracks, I discover the Christchurch Cathedral and Cathedral Square, equipped with a tram restaurant and a selection of cart food vendors - for that special kind of dining experience. Crossing the River Avon - a common occurrence as she weaves her way delicately through this small city centre - I observe groups of teenagers and families spending time leisurely on her green banks having picnics together or lying back in the sweet grass to contemplate the weather or whatever. On Worcester Street (all English names for this most English city) I find the Arts Centre – a series of Victorian Gothic Revival buildings hosting an array of exhibitions, crafts, theatres and cafes. Exploring this hub I find all sorts of exquisite and old-fashioned English elements and the grounds are immaculate. I feel across the world from Australia, not simply across the sea. Chef’s bustle through the courtyards carrying pints of cream or fancy cakes, and students read on the benches beneath the trees, while friends mingle and converse over a bottle of red on the wine bar terrace. At the end of the block I arrive at the Grand Hall where recitals and lectures once took place when the grounds were still used as the University of Canterbury. Passing through the exit gates, I cross the road to visit the Botanic Gardens of Hagley Park, making a detour first to the Canterbury Museum which neighbours the gardens. The first exhibition brings alive the extinct Moa bird, and moving along I work my way through the history of New Zealand’s Maori and Victorian culture and heritage. There is also a special interactive exhibition on entitled ‘Body in Action’ where I test my brain, lungs and muscles (perfect results) and marvel at a bunch of scales that tell me the weight of my skeleton, organs and body fat. It’s just what I have always wanted to know.

Escaping into the gardens, I pass the brightly coloured ‘Peacock Fountain’ (named after John Peacock and not the birds signified) and the flower bed displays of daffodils and bluebells to follow the winding river, as it borders Hagley Park. Ducks chase each other, splashing and plunging into the shallow water to fish out food, while black swans are demure, and the occasional punters make their way gently downstream in long, flat wooden canoes, pushed along by their guide. There is a lot of life on the water, and on the bank couples seeking romance settle in between the wildflowers on a grassy knoll. It is peaceful and friendly and I find a spot to read a book and observe life around me.

Triumphantly I finish my tramline circuit, rewarding myself at the Belgian Beer Cafe. I walk home in the crisp, cool of evening wondering if Evan has cooked me dinner. It’s a fairly tame start to my “OS” adventure, but this city is relaxing, easily navigated, and a good place for beginnings.

Time Travelling with Ash Grunwald @ Bombay Rock

We thought we were going to be so "rock" with our fashionably late entrance to last night's Ash Grunwald concert at Townsville's current music venue Bombay Rock. Doors opened at 7:30 pm. We arrived close to ten, when nothing appeared to be happening yet. I have to say, I really do like what they have done with the ex ‘Playpen’. The building was never put to proper use as just a nightclub with its undesirable location far away from the bustle of the Flinders Street night-life strip. The interior is the same as it was, albeit maybe with a new carpet and cleaner bathrooms, but the decision to use it as a venue for touring musicians mixes up a better flavour. Bombay Rock works as a small theatre for intimate shows and brings a fresh alternative to Townsville night life with its line-up of home-grown Australian talent. It's clean, smells fresh, the staff are fun with plenty of personality, the crowd are friendly too, and the drinks are at a reasonable price. The room is scattered with small groups of people - Townsville's trendy hipsters sporting dreadlocks and check shirts, and a wide variety of tattoos and piercings on exhibition. However, this event should have drawn a larger gathering, but how can you compete with the Full Moon Party on Magnetic Island on a Friday night Mr. Grunwald? You may bring the funk slash jazz n’ blues slash folk (feel free to add more to the list) with the voice of a black man from Mississippi in the 1920's, but all that can be said in your defence is the abbreviation "FMP" followed up by plenty of exclamation points - > !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We mingle by the bar anticipating the main act and hoping for some good support. Eventually a young boy comes on stage with an acoustic guitar tucked under his arm and introduces himself as Jason. Life’s number one lesson to be learned is not to have great expectations, and unfortunately the management at Bombay Rock did not listen to the demo tape first. Well, that’s how I imagined this debacle occured, because while Jason battled it out I was getting the impression that I was eaves-dropping, rather impolitely, on a teenage boy rehearsing in his bedroom and singing songs about his long-lost girlfriend. If a support act does not create atmosphere and warm the crowd up ready to dance and enjoy the main event it does not really achieve its purpose, and primarily this “genre” was out of touch with Ash Grunwald’s style. They were totally incompatible. The audience was taken from a teenage boy crying about losing the girl of his dreams to a smorgasbord of shoe-tapping and hip-swinging – moved directly from one end of the spectrum to the other!

I have to admit that I went to this Ash Grunwald concert primarily out of curiosity, and for the lust to see some quality live music (it has been too long), and for something different to do in Townsville on a Friday night. I previously was not too familiar with this musician, but I had that ‘crazy feeling’ it would all be worth the investigation. I did not recognise or know any of Ash Grunwald’s songs from his new album 'Fish Out of Water'. I could not sing along or claim to know the lyrics word-for-word. However, the audience doesn't need this familiarity in order to devour and delight in the music. As blue lighting washed the stage, Ash took his seat and perched centre-stage armed only with his guitar. Immediately, the crowd belonged to him, taken on a journey of energy,rock, roots and blues - comparable to John Butler live, Ash Grunwald is an artist with the ability to feed energy and positive vibes to the crowded sea of eager faces. The music seemed to enter through my heart and exit through my toes, translating the language of our human souls and the emotions we carry, and it seemed to echo the lives of many dead men housed in Ash’s fantastic, old black man’s voice.It was an extremely cathartic experience. How this voice came from him, with so much feeling and wisdom and depth was my only question. The small intimate crowd danced together and moved together, appreciating the gift of letting go and being absorbed into the music until finally floating away. At one point a few band mates came on stage to accompany Ash with bongos, drums and keyboard to mix it up a bit.

I would have to say that this investigation went very well really. I’m quite pleased. It was definitely worth the twenty-two bucks, and I will be waiting to see many more good things come from Bombay Rock. It is a breath of fresh-air to find a place in Townsville with a little atmosphere and the potential to host a more personal gathering than the Townsville Entertainment Centre. And for the record, I have definitely been converted as a fan of Ash Grunwald, who I thank kindly for bringing me an extra special night in Town to float away on air and to travel back through time.

Snow Falling on Soho for the Year of the Ox!

Living and working in Soho definitely has its perks when free time can be spent playing in this adventurous playground of colourful characters and charming old-school bars. Sundays, for me, are a precious and fleeting day that I anticipate all week long. And what better way is there to spend this particular Sunday, than by celebrating the Chinese New Year festivities in Chinatown. Alda and I share a live-in pub job at the infamous Soho boozer the Berwick Street Blue Posts, and because we live a literal stone’s throw and skip-hop away we decide to brave the fiercely cold weather, despite the forecasts for snow! I was, not so secretly, praying for the mother of all snow days to shower down upon us anyway...

We walk through our neighbourhood to Chinatown, observing as the crowd thickens and finally engulfs us into a human wave, floating slowly past the entrances to all the restaurants with their names written in gold Chinese letters. Small stalls are set up in front of the shops, while their owners sell hot food for us to eat out of carton boxes and sticky sweets like dragon beard candy made right there on the spot with a full demonstration for those who wish to listen. Other stalls display lanterns and children’s toys of all kinds, and hoards of people congregate to watch the ritual of the dancing dragon, as the streets congest with bodies. Children sit happily atop their parent’s shoulders and one small boy proudly shows off his costume of Chinese attire.

We round a corner and come across a stage with Chinese school children performing synchronised dance routines. We stop nearby for lotus-seed pastries, a white bun with fleuro green paste - unfortunately not really my cup of tea, a bit too sickly sweet for my tastes. After purchasing some fortune cookies and checking out a few other market stands we make an escape from the world of China to the Mediterranean to rest up on strong coffees and some much needed lunch away from throng of people. Looking out the large glass windows onto Shaftsbury Avenue I notice snow begin to twirl down in rhythmic circles. It is very pretty, but quickly clears up and is replaced with sunlight beaming down to melt away the tiny sprinkles.

Alda and I missed the parade at Trafalgar Square, but manage to catch some great dances, drumming, and other shows happening. I decide to take a stroll alone down to the royal gates of the Buckingham Palace to enjoy the afternoon air as the day slips away into dusk. The sun is transforming the high gates into glowing bars of gold, as it streams through the royal strip. I meander down the grandiose avenue, becoming excited like a small child as snow starts to billow down. I could see it coming as the dark clouds rolled over from the west, and then a heavy dusting of snow covered the street, and the soft green hills turned a powdered white in the gardens surrounding the Queens estate. I love this walk, moreso for the natural scenery than the everpresent palace waiting at the end of the road.

I meet Alda at the Blue Posts on Rupert Street for some Sunday evening jazz, and we dance and listen to the resident band, ‘The Fallen Heroes’, playing their usual set to the usual crowd that gets up and boogies away, as usual! It's a really fun place and has that feeling of being transported back in time occasionally. We talk a little with the band outside while they smoke cigars and down pints of Guinness. I sip on a couple of halves of cider, before we depart to Leicester Square for the Chinese New Year fireworks!

The fireworks are lit in the garden square. Children have piled into the phone booths, edging the gates of the small park to watch. It is jam-packed on all four sides of the court. The Chinese are known for their aptitude when it comes to fireworks and we are not disappointed. I enjoy watching the reflection of all the colours splattering across the Odeon, and the final big bang echoes after in the silence. Smoke rises from the square like fog on an early morning.

We meet later with our Canadian friend Matt and take him with us to the ‘Cellar Door’ - an unusul jazz bar in Adlwyche that perhaps would be better named "Toilet Door". The gimmick is that this classy little, mirrored lounge once used to be a set of public toilets back in the day. The entrance is barely noticeable with its small sheltered roof covering the stairs that lead you down to a big heavy door. Inside it is warm and all smiles. The bar tenders are friendly, and make fabulous cocktails. All the seats are occupied (pardon the pun) and the venue is as tiny as you could imagine an underground public urinal to be. The Cellar Door boasts some fancy toilets of its own. When you are in the loo doing your business you can see through the door the people waiting outside, although fortunately they cannot see you. It still made me too nervous to go. I had stage-fright!

We arrive in time for the music to begin with Pete Saunders, who insists he is not the resident DJ as suggested in last week’s ‘Time Out’ review. He is clearly a jazz musician playing keyboard and vocals. He introduces the magician-cum-comedian for the night, who entertains us tirelessly, with the support of audience members, in the art of card tricks and illusions! Later in the night, a women (a lady in red) - Emmanuella - who has been standing near us most the time, gets up to sing a few songs. She and her pianist friend leave the Cellar Door with us, in search of some midnight madness.

Outside the snow has been tumbling down. London has never (recently) been whiter. We walk for awhile and then scramble into a black cab, which slips and slides its way back to Soho. Roads have already been blocked so we venture further through the snow on foot to ‘Trisha’s’ on Frith Street - an inconspicuous, underground club Alda had acquainted herself with somehow. The entrance is a closed blue door to a private apartment building. After buzzing in we head downstairs to the basement and open the door to another classic Soho scene - plenty of gays, different assortments of hat-bearers, and gentlemen of all ages socialising in their natural environment. Imagine braces, walking sticks, top-hats and people so drunk they spit their words out in frothy sentences. Typical London conversations filled with anecdotes all landing in the perverse spectrum, like someone elses spittle flung on to your lips.

One such man remembered me from a rainy day in Soho many months passed, when he and a friend had ducked into my pub to escape. He was so miserable that day, down-trodden by the down-pour, and I remembered how I tried to cheer him up in conversation. He said he recalled this because it had changed his day completely. He was so intoxicated at Trishas, he seemed as out of sorts as the occasion I first met him. Matt and I danced stupidly (moreso on my part) and drank whiskies, and later we take a walk through the mounting snow in my "neighbourhood". I remember being dropped in the snow, dragged through the snow, and sleeping in the snow! It was so light and fluffy and cold!

At home very early in the morning I sleep peacefully and easily. I wake many hours later with a big smile on my face and I fling the bathroom window wide open expecting the snow to be just where I left it, only to find out that those damn snow-plough men had been through to destroy all my glory!!!!!! "I don't believe it" as grumpy Arthur Mildrew would say from ‘One Foot in the Grave’. But the forecast is on my side for at least another few days.

A Parisian Fairytale of Sights and Wanders!

Friday October 24th, 2008

Autumn has settled in, and as the leaves change colour and begin to moult from the trees, I take a little journey into the heart of France. I have made my escape from London by Eurostar - a rough morning journey, departing at 5:25 am. The short train ride is gruelling, as I haven’t slept. Arguably, it is much better than travelling to and from airports, waiting in lounges and paying for overpriced coffees to keep me awake. My adventure is for ten days, with three passing by in pure bliss, as a first-timer in Paris.

Once in Paris my mood lifts and I free myself from my suitcase, leaving it in a locker at Gare du Nord station before stepping out onto the wide Parisian streets. The instant impact of my surroundings hits me intensely, as I discover this city is everything I romanticised it to be. Paris exudes an air of sophistication and grandeur; it is set apart immediately from any other city I have visited. It is remarkably and overwhelmingly Paris - not even France - just Paris. And as it has been said a million times before; it has a certain 'je ne sais quoi'...

Walking south towards the city centre and the Seine I find cute market streets lined with fromageries, boulangeries and charcutteries (a literal mouthful!). Every turn finds settings filled with quaint Parisian scenes, as 'fairytale' in real life as in a book. Gorgeous houses with pretty gardens hold mysterious courtyards visible from beyond oversized doorways and the occasional person rides past on a bicycle with a baguette bouncing along in the basket just as it should be. By lunch time I make my way past 'Les Opera' and the Lafayette shopping centre. My girly side takes over, and I lose control finding myself spending a few hours “spending”...We aren't going to talk figures (sizes or pounds, or pounds and pounds), but when in Paris... .

A Boutique owner I have been chatting with is on a lunch break. With good luck on my side I am offered a ride to Le Champs Elysee. No problems! Soon we are driving around the classic L'Arc DeTriumphe roundabout, glorious with its flags sailing through the arches. It is an exciting moment for me, as I remember back to those wasted French classes in high school - knowing back then that one day I would see these places for myself.

After wandering up and down the boulevard, gazing at expensive stores like Dior, Cartier and Louis Vuitton (a whole building respectfully dedicated), and stopping for coffee and sandwiches in a French cafe, I decide I cannot wait a moment longer, I must take a peek at the Eiffel Tower. I search out the top of Le Tour and follow the general direction, walking eagerly along avenues lined with trees and magnificent buildings rich in detail. I admire typical French families strolling with their prams, relaxed and happy in their big city, and I feel the characteristic atmosphere of Paris with its sidewalk cafes and brasseries stretching down onto the pavement with their long canopies.

Arriving at The Eiffel Tower from the opposite bank of the Seine, I cut through a small park that brings me to the bridge. Crossing over, I stop to inspect the different angles and perspectives of this massive, impending structure. Next to the Tour d’Eiffel are some lovely gardens with a bench by the pond where I catch my breath.

As the afternoon wanes and relaxes into evening I catch a train back to Gare Du Nord railway station to pick up my roller case, before heading to my friend’s apartment where we meet for dinner.

Yael chooses the popular Bastille area and we find an Indian restaurant. The food and dining is non-descript, but the restaurant hosts a great Shisha cafe at the front. The wait-staff has held a small table for us and we join plenty of students and young folk relaxing, puffing gently from the giant pipes and observing nightlife on the bustling Bastille pavements. We choose a pomme (apple) flavoured herbal variety. I strike up a conversation with three Greek boys and am amazed to find we share a friend in common, whom I am soon to visit in Belgium. Here is where I plug the colloquial line “the world really is a small place”. My first day in Paris, and I’m hooked!

Saturday October 25th, 2008

A Day in the Life of Paris.
No, it isn’t Ms. Hilton this time. It’s a sleepy Saturday morning and I am contentedly wrapped up in soft blankets in a Parisian apartment in Chatelet... And I’m not dreaming.

Yael wakes me early with croissants and jasmine tea – sign of a fabulous hostess! We eat hurriedly in her cosy little lounge-cum- bedroom in the first arrondissement (administrative district) of Paris. We catch the bus to the Eiffel Tower, passing the Louvre - which can wait on this day - because we are going to climb the famous tower, and meet later with friend and tour guide Sophie, in Montmartre.

The queue is very long for tickets to venture up the Tower, we must queue again to use the lifts, and queue to use the next set of lifts, and then queue twice more to get down. We walk from the first floor to the second - a dizzying up-hill battle - but conquering the Eiffel Tower gives us the determination. It is not the best day for the operation. From ground level we could scarcely see the top of the tower from a dense fog shrouding the view, and at the top Paris is gloomy and dismal, the weather not giving justice to the panorama.

We catch the metro to meet Sophie. While waiting in Pigalle I am amused by a man cooking corn-on-the-cob out of a shopping trolley, and trying to sell it to pedestrians – the ingenuity of the French! It doesn’t seem very hygienic and I do wonder who will actually pay money to eat this food. Sophie leads us straight on to the Moulin Rouge, passing the infamous sex shops of Pigalle. The Moulin Rouge isn't as impressive a structure as I had imagined it to be (thank you Hollywood, for all the delusions), but Yael and I happily play tourists. She is French, but new to Paris. Sophie has been in Paris for a few years and studies Art, some of her classes being held in a building at the Louvre. She is a fantastic tour guide, knowing the city extensively, and gives us information we would otherwise never know. Who ever really reads a guide book?

At the base of Montmartre(the artists headquarters, back in the day) we are welcomed into a fanfare of festival and fun, with hundreds of tourists bustling about, entertained by street musicians. A classical old carousel (that looks like it could be made out of candy) is immersed in all this excitement, and although it stands still it appears to move along with all the joy and life around it, wrapped up in pretty dreams and french music. Suddenly, the clouds part dramatically, the heavens split wide open and beams of sunlight shine down to present us with Le Sacre-Coeur! It stands before us demanding worship and attention with the byzantine-like roof. It seems to float on top of the green hill. Built on the highest point in Paris, steep steps lead us to the foot of the basilica. The afternoon has become warm and radiant, and I take my coat off to feel the sun pressing gently against my skin and enjoy the ambience.

Inside the 19th century cathedral Sophie explains that most of the mosaics and stained-glass windows have been replaced after bombs fell during the war, and the artwork has been redone by modern artists. Le Sacre-Coeur is also known to house the dead bodies of many famous people, and I am sure that as we walk through the quiet basilica I can hear the faint sound of a heart thumping.

Leaving the cathedral we meander through peaceful streets emerging in a friendly, busy spot in Montmartre - Place du Tertre. Filled with stalls and street artists, cafes, restaurants and piano bars, the small cobbled roads are nothing like the rest of Paris, but the architecture and vibe resembles something more like a small French village. We walk further down into less-chaotic streets. Reaching a square, Sophie points out an odd statue of a man that can walk through walls - he is halfway through the brick wall, arms reaching out. This figure is in honour of French writer Marcel Amye; the statue is a character from his short-story "Le Passe-Muraille", and in English translates: "The Walker-Through-Walls".


Montmartre is a charming area, and it is easy to see why many great artists chose to live and work here. It is worth the visit as there is much to see and do. However, my time is short in Paris. We head back towards the centre on the metro. Yael wants to take me to Laduree, for the highly recommended macaroons and pastries, and I just plain-well need coffee! We stop at St. Michaels to see the cathedral and head in the wrong direction from Laduree, instead taking a fortunate detour through Jardin du Luxembourg - a spacious public park, sharing the grounds of the Luxembourg Palace. Gorgeous statues and fountains stand in front of the palace and chairs are placed around for the public to sit and relax. As the sun takes its bow a fiery glow spreads through the park casting pretty reflections over the ponds. I could imagine spending a whole summer day here, with a French picnic, and possibly a French cutie too. He would roll the sleeves up on his sailor shirt – the one that only he can pull-off with fashionable finesse - explain to me quite seriously how my eyes are like the ponds shining with sunlight, and proceed to speak to me only in French. Which I clearly cannot understand, but instead swoon under the spell of his charms, good looks and hypnotising accent. Now, where was I?

We are on the way to Laduree, but we stop to watch an impressive modern dance street performance, you can see how hard these entertainers work to refine their skill. After salivating over the chocolate displays in Laduree we wait to be seated. The walls are painted with a mural depicting paradise, and the tea room is fancy and elegant in decor. Yael orders a chocolate macaroon and tea, while I opt for a delicious pastry-cake layered with jam and vanilla custard, accompanied by a rich cream-filled cappuccino. When in Paris one must have a fine-dining experience - at least for coffee and cakes!

Much later in the evening we meet two of Yael and Sophie’s friends, Raphael and Fabien, in Bastille. A small wine bar on the main street is our venue. It is unassuming and grungy with posters covering the walls and ceiling, a high bar, and a piano to one side. A man is perched in the far dark corner of the bar with a large balloon glass filled with burgundy placed in front of him, and he is sketching little cartoons and caricatures in his diary. After cramming into a table at the back, Raphael and Fabien select the red wine, and we order cheese, meat and salad platters to share. There are a good range of French cheeses: St Marcellin (a soft, runny cheese with a light skin covering), Cancoillotte (a runny, melted cheese served in a small jar), Crottins de Chavignole (a hard goat cheese), Fromage Basque (the region), Bleu de Brebis (a blue cheese made from goats milk) and Camembert (the only one I had previous experience with). You really can’t beat the French at cheese! Delicious!


We head to Republique to a discotheque, where we dance and drink for awhile. It is late and Sophie and Yael keep me walking - all the way home! I fall asleep and then my head hits the pillow.




Sunday October 26th, 2008

A Touch of Paris.

Sophie is leading me through the unusually quiet streets of Paris, on foot. No wonder she is so thin! She lives and studies in Paris. I trust her despite my sore heels and grumbling stomach. We wander past Les Opera, and through Place Vendome – a plaza with expensive designer stores and hotels. In the middle of the square there is a tall, erect pillar - Le Colonne Vendome. A statue of Napoleon stands resolute at the very top and engravings etched into the mast depict the victorious battles. Sophie explains that the monument was built entirely out of recycled cannons from Napoleon’s conquest of Austerlitz - roughly 1200 cannons were used, but this figure is entirely disputable. The column is said to be a tribute to his army and the brass was melted together and constructed into form in 1810. I rather wonder if Napoleon was substituting for some sort of obvious complex?

After a work emergency, our friend Yael meets us in the Musee du Louvre. Over a year has passed since Yael and I lived together in London, but I am glad to reunite in Paris, and share these experiences with someone I know. Immediately, I am stunned by the physical prescence of the estate, with its glass pyramid structure and well-manicured gardens, and grand chateau. The interior itself is furnished exquisitely and features detailed ceiling murals accentuated by natural lighting in each room. We check out the Spanish and Italian paintings on the first floor of the Denon wing, before continuing on to knock out the staples: Mona Lisa, and The Wedding Feast at Cana. Browsing through the French section, we catch a glimpse of art through the Middle-Ages, and then go on to survey Greek antiquities, Egyptian relics and ruins, including a mummified crocodile, and finally take a peek at Napoleon III's boudoir. A very small bed suggests to me that the aforementioned “complex” may run in the family.

A walk over and along the Seine takes us towards the Notre Dame de Paris. Arriving at nightfall (the most atmospheric time to attend), we view the grand, gothic cathedral, protected by its ever-watching gargoyles. They have expressive and cheeky faces, each one individual. I am impressed by the gothic style - the flying buttresses and stained glass. Inside, a massive organ is situated at the back of the cathedral boasting 7800 pipes. We enter into the haunting church promptly before mass. It is 6:30 pm on a Sunday evening, which means that this particular mass held at the main altar is directed specially by the archbishop and broadcasted live on a Catholic television station and on air for Radio Notre Dame. There is a low, spine-chilling music echoing through the passages, capable of raising bodies from their graves. Entranced, I watch as the ceremony commences and we gather to one side as the solemn-faced clergy proceed through the gates, incense swinging. If I were a child attending I think I would be terrified!

The exercise continues as Sophie takes us onwards for another long walk. This trip to Paris was harder than any fitness regime I could ever develop for myself. We explore the islands of the Seine, visit in St Pauls Cathedral and follow through some quiet Parisian streets until we reach the Jewish Quarter. Alive and bustling (the opposite of how Yael and I were feeling - tired and hungry!), the Jewish area is much more colourful, and we have a pit-stop for dinner at the most reputable falafel house in town, L’As du Falafel. Hey, there was even a picture of Lenny Kravitz dining there, on the wall. It had to be good. Trust in Lenny, The Jewish Quarter has some of the best falafel you will experience, whether you are vegetarian or not, made all the better after a hard day’s walk!

Strolling through Paris you will find this city possesses a charm that works its way over you - the very feeling that you have just been to Paris. It makes me want to ride a bike with a baguette bouncing along in the basket, and wear a beret as I window-shop down the Champs-Elysees, and go to church - just to check out the atmosphere! But please, oh please, don't mention the word 'walking' again!