A type of hyphen

There have been other departures, but none probably quite like this. There have been other arrivals too, but here, squinting at 8ish in the a.m. alighting directly onto sunbaked tarmac, it was amazing how quickly ridiculous my all black everything seemed.

Sweating, stripping, juggling luggage, my taxi man––holding ‘that’ sign synonymous with celebrity and sophistication (of which I was neither)––says ‘very hot madam’. I am a puddle. It was then out onto the freeway where there was ‘very traffic madam’. And into Colombo proper where the very traffic continued/s; except for a window after around 11pm each night where there’s mass animal anarchy, the dogs (strays), the cows (liberated), haunting the strangely empty streets.

It was some time after this one night, hopping between Colombo nightspots, that our Tuk is pulled over by the police, a torch shone in our faces. The examination––to ascertain whether we’re prostitutes or not. The assessment––so brief I was almost offended.

Other than dinners, cake, coffee, drinks... the usual punctuation of holiday life, it’s been mainly Ari K S, with his big adorable eyes, an exact replica of R’s, and his chubby comestible cheeks. I’ve excelled myself at ‘playpen time’ arranging all the animals (plastic and stuffed) in evolutionary order and upturning everything to create an enviable percussion section, which Amma might well rue later on.

Having first visited Sri Lanka while the civil war dragged on, conversation has been centred on comparisons––political/societal/economic. Fundamentally, the new chaos seems backed by a positive energy and is far more heartening than the tumbleweed and trepidation of six years ago. But corruption and economic disparity are still key issues for the country. ‘What to do?’ needs a work over, and Sirisena––the newly elected President has built optimistic anticipation in the people that he's the person to stamp out the fait accompli in that very rhetorical question. But as we know, politicians have promised less and failed.

This weekend we’re getting away from the Colombo Street Hustle and pushing off early down to Galle on the South Coast. So there’ll no doubt be more reporting from SL before the holiday morphs into the next life chapter in olde London town.

Colombo street hustle

Melbourne, may we meet again

In ‘98, I knew. Then in 2006, I left Sydney behind and made the move South of the border. I was younger, fitter, blonder and my teeth were most definitely whiter.

Nine years later, with a respectable dependence on coffee and red wine, I'm leaving as a true, wintery-city convert. I may miss Maroubra beach and my few absolutely excellent friends, but I never seriously considered moving back to Sydney in all that time. Now, as I prepare to head off on a new adventure, it probably comes as no surprise that it’s London I’ll next call home.

Melbourne has been great. It’s been sad and difficult too. But mainly it’s been great, and I’d live here again in a heartbeat. And, luckily, amazingly, I’ve shared the experience and met and been influenced by some awesome and interesting people along the way who are a big part of this mass of memory I’ll carry with me. We worked together, lived together, danced together, played soccer together, laughed, I’ve probably cried, we’ve talked shit, watched films, and eaten, cheese, lots of cheese. Together.

A pretty privileged kind of life really. So thanks.

First stop, a month in Sri Lanka with RR and baby A, then onto London mid-July to prepare for a Masters of Philosophy which kicks off in October. I’ll be studying at Central Saint Martins in the same building as the famed Fashion MA, so it’s time to leave the house clothes behind and become a lady.

International departures… where only one thing is certain.

Up a ladder, buzzed, with a stanley knife

Think of something you could do or make or sell in Asia, now. Hong Kong is hardly Asia proper, and I'm certainly no analyst, but I know enough to know that this is the future, and if you're prone to surprise––say you were shocked by anything leaked à la Assange and Snowden––or you've an underdeveloped sense for conspiracy, then perhaps you should see it for yourself. We may *just* get away with ignoring it for now, but for those busy populating our own little corner of the world, it may be prescient to get thou sprog to Mandarin lessons asap... because trust me, they're not gonna be happy making our crap, and rubbing our feet forever.

The 'rise of Asia' could go right and it could go wrong. It will go wrong. History tells us that much. But in the meantime, hot damn it's gonna be exciting. Why? Currency. Definition #1. The hyper-now. We've caught up with the future, society is schizophrenic and it's gonna explode. We're living so now and so fast, and we're splitting time into fragments so small and packing them so full that our small brains can't keep up. But we're human, so we adapt, it's what we do and who knows, somewhere in amongst it all we may just revolt. Definition #2. Money. Buckets of the stuff. I don't know where it's coming from, but there's so much it must be spent. And spend they will. On art, on fashion. Proenza Schouler, Prada, Balenciaga, Saint Laurent, Valentino, people are wearing this stuff. Perhaps they'll be the last people alive to afford it and fit into it, because the fat Asian is also on the rise, obesity will no longer be the reserve of the west.

Of course if it were all to go right, then we'd see Asia leading the charge, much to our embarrassment, in the sciences, health, renewables, environmental symbiosis, and measured, mindful living. But after a week in Hong Kong with the gigantic LED screen on the Kowloon harbour front shouting "FOG" from any angle, I dare say an opportunity has been lost. I'm no expert on where fog technically begins and ends, but I think a better descriptor would be "SMOG" if only to serve as a daily reminder to do something about it.

Waaa, what a tough week and what a great experience. There's nothing glamourous about travelling for work or working at one of the 'world's biggest art fairs'. I'm the pack animal, lugging three bags everywhere, packed with power drill, spirit level and other essential install tools, computer, art mags and camera equipment. I'm sure I've put my back out and seen the signs of a new varicose vein. I've talked about and been talked-to about art and 'the market' in both encouraging and depressing terms. At the post-fair champagne nobbery which was pretty darn fabulous but, I thought, strangely scheduled prior to the de-install, Luigi invited Luce and I to kick on, to which we exclaimed we had better stop boozing and go and pack up our stand. ‘But don't you have slaves?’ Luigi asked.

And so it was that we were made well aware of our position in proceedings with a kind of Australian shrug of the shoulders, because frankly I'm in my element up a ladder. Luce and I changed into our sports gear (a change of clothes another thing we carried everywhere), plugged in, and tuned out. There's something satisfying about labour, and though 'tuning out' has previously had negative connotations, I think it's going to be the next vital state.

Flying back to Melbourne today then it's two months 'til I finally pack-up for real. Heading first for Sri Lanka, then to London for an indeterminate amount of time. I'm semi-freaking, semi-figure this is the thing I've been waiting for.

'We are the slaves...'

First ask ‘are you choking?’

There are icebergs floating down the Hudson, the city’s a giant slushy. It’s been snowing in the Tri-state for a record number of weeks and the news out of Jersey is that ‘salt supplies are critically low’. The sanitation department is under armoured guard to prevent people nicking salt to clear their driveways at the expense of safe city streets. But Super Storm Thor must not deter!

There we were, day one, out walking the Highline. The only hint how great this reclaimed space must be come any other season hidden in signs inching just above the snow that said ‘please protect the plants’. Plants? What plants? So we went to Central Park to see sad naked trees and ogle super cute dogs kitted out in matching jackets and booties. Patrons of New York’s art week also rose to the challenge, turning out in droves despite it all - the weather actually proving a great leveller as everyone struggled to pull off a stylish avant-garde-ski-bum look.

Luce and I whipped over to Brooklyn and stepped off the subway in the direction of Crown Heights, a cheery old man calling out to us from across the street, ‘Damn, beautiful! How’d y’all get like that!’ Hallo, what is not to love about this city, and this borough with more church ministries and nail salons per capita than any other place on earth.

Back in Manhattan, Caitlin invites us to a house party, so being good tourists and good guests, we stop by M&M World in Times Square and turn up with a brick of multicoloured baggies. The host is a doctor, but turns out he’s a writer for Dr Oz ‘America’s Doctor’, so it’s more a media party than a medico party and people are talking about social networks like it’s the second coming and Oprah like she’s god. I spend the next two days convinced I have deep vein thrombosis after being out all night squeezed into knee-high boots with thermal leggings and ski socks on.

We take a day trip on the Poughkeepsie train up to DIA Beacon and after a mind-blowing afternoon of some of the best minimalist work I’ve seen in the one space (Richter, LeWitt, Bourgeois, Beuys, Flavin), decide to stay in town, trudging over to Max’s Diner on main street to order red beer and bloody burgers and chat to the locals like how it is on TV…

The rest is pretty much work, and small-talk and art and more art––the Armory show, Scope, VOLTA, the Guggenheim (On Kawara amazing OMG), MOMA, and a treasured trip to the Natural History Museum for a taxidermy fix. And food––Mexican, Japanese, Italian. Highlight buy was button-fly Levi’s. What’s it been––twenty plus years???

Waiting at Newark for our flight and having spent two weeks together already, I’m flicking through US Vogue when I voice the thought ‘maybe I could be a plus-sized model’. Luce says, ‘well, you are great at posing’, but then we devise a plan to do something when we get to Hong Kong about all the orange food we’ve been eating, and though our resolve to work-out in the hotel gym may jeopardise my new career move, I think my heart will thank me. Forget Iran and all the talk on all the many, very bad news channels about Nukes, America will surely die of a coronary complication.

Forgive me, it’s 6am and I’m in a state of mild delusion in a super chic Sheung Wan studio, looking out a window that’s one of many millions, and the insignificance of a single human life boggles... An early morning drive past Hong Kong’s vast port will do that. Though mild in Hong Kong compared to last year’s Art Basel hot and sweaty May-dates, I've shrugged off my puffa, ski-jacket, and thermals and wondered, did that actually happen? Was it only yesterday I fantasised about rubbing baby seal fat all over my face to protect it from the bristling cold? Installing a new show tomorrow, so to save hammering a nail through my finger, I take my leave for this very plush bed.

From Brooklyn to DIA Beacon.

Another trip, c'est fin

Taman Jaya LRT, sweating like crazy, towering over the school kids waiting to be picked up. In zooms Mrs R with a very pregnant RR in the passenger seat of their Proton (Malaysia's car of the masses). I was whisked off to Shah Alam for more courses of food than I could bear saying no to. The baby was engaged, but stubbornly staying put, so RR and I were left to sit under a ceiling fan and play back the seven years since we last saw each other at her wedding(s) which took place in Tamil Nadu, Colombo and KL and were now resulting in a paperwork intensive pregnancy. Husband and father to be, ADSW, flew out from Sri Lanka to take over driving duties and though he complained on occasion of 'death by mall' he kindly ferried us from one banana leaf joint to another, from cake at Alexis to cake at Nutmeg on command.

There was an 'only in Asia' car crash involving Roshnee's Dad – who's fine – and which we inexplicably witnessed, coincidentally travelling a car length behind and one lane to the left of the two colliding cars. As one rotated on a horizontal plane and the other flipped vertically, RR recognised the car. 'That's Papa' she said. Papa probably more confused on seeing us come to his aid than he was by the collision itself. Since, the high-octane gossip and over-active grapevine has had the tale told over and over and over.

Chinatown offered economy rice, various fried, a toast specialist and the puckered faces of toothless men drinking teh tarik. There was more sweating, bad sandals and other forgettable fashions that the humidity necessitates. Not to mention Garfield. In a city of mainly mangy cats, it's good to see Garfield lives on. Back in Melbourne I'm looking forward to winter, black jeans, the World Cup and MIFF. As for now, the travel, c'est FIN.

Coming home to this guy makes it all ok.

Then across the pond to Paris

Weeks seven and eight got weird - kicking off in Paris, winding up in Hong Kong and bidding farewell to the babes in Kensal Rise in between. I still haven’t met a Russian and am no clearer whether lip balm is a cream or a liquid or at what point a cream becomes a liquid or when served scones which should technically be spread first – the jam or the cream – or if it matters.

Arriving in Hong Kong the six senses onslaught almost made me forget anything could have come before. But I was flung back to Paris when our taxi driver shouted “Lady! Lady!” his tugging action on his seatbelt clear he was going nowhere unless we click clack. I remembered that woman in the marche aux puces just off the Paris ring road calling “Pepe! Pepe! C’est combien?” and before he could answer, her shouts of “Marco! Marco! C’est combien le projecteur?” and I remembered I smiled as I was happy and I saw it all before me, my retirement, market-day chit-chat, my feet up, selling bric-a-brac - the cutest fluffiest dog in all of the 14th sitting on my lap. The language faux pas in Paris were many, my worst when I forgot pommes frites, instead requesting “chippy chippy” as if it came close.

Later at Dim Sum on the Kowloon side where Alan and I were the only gweilo in the reception-centre style establishment, the waitress asked “saucy saucy?” And where as that day I managed to navigate chilli oil, vinegar, soy, dumplings, chopsticks the lot, it was day one of Art Basel wearing new expensive crisp white t-shirt as part of ‘sophisticated yet cool’ ensemble that I managed to amass three large pools of basil oil on my front without even realising. Leaving the breakfast I looked at my chest aghast (for I hadn’t even eaten any of the basil oil)... Thankfully while I had a mini meltdown, Nicola and Jemma went into overdrive hunting down a cheap white T in Cotton On, getting me changed and to the fair on time.

There was Art in Paris too. And I got stung by a bee. My shock at which drew the attention of the American. And resulted in an interesting morning of philosophy ping pong at Ten Belles in the 10th. Sat between Alex and the American it kicked off with does a bee have awareness/consciousness, quickly shifting to cows and their capacity to reason, a debate regarding the merits of the squid and/or octopedes and any advantages/disadvantages of a decentralised nervous system. Then they got onto Descartes and the big boys and I stayed quiet and sucked on my pink swelling finger. Ah travel. It’s all been ridiculously good and I’ve been thoroughly spoilt by absolutely everyone. Incredible birthday in Paris, party in London, more dinners and drinks in Hongkers! Crazy, one week to go.

Hirschorn's Palais de Tokyo takeover.

And a dip into Stockholm

Who was that tennis player? Not Bjorn Borg, the other one. The question came to mind on the Arlanda Express and no I couldn't let it go. So our weekend in Stockholm began by exercising the old grey matter... I managed to extract an 'S' but was beaten to it by Al who a day later shouted 'Stefan Edberg!' as we walked down another interesting avenue of Soviet, Italianate and Pagan influenced architecture. It was hard to pick the bits that were typically 'Swedish' and we were rocked on learning the vikings never wore helmets with horns. Pure bull, said a tour guide. And as for the touristic, elevated viewing platform above the town 'It is not so funny. I do not recommend it.' She said.

We found suitable vantage by boat in any case and as we cruised around the archipelago I tried to imagine horrific sex-crimes taking place in the quaint boat-sheds and summer-huts all around. Then I tried to put it out of mind - because the Swedes are so so nice and friendly really - in fact, before it all properly goes to shit, we should find a hilly little bit of the Stockholm archipelago and stake our claim. I like the idea of being frozen in and fending for myself.

We did plenty of sauna. Took advantage of the slim window of the supranaturally insignificant Easter Saturday, browsing Acne, Acne Archive, Filippa K, Tiger, and Marimekko and as many design emporia as possible in 8 hours... Because Sweden is in the details. It is the marble and birch of the spa, the soft white light of the street lights, the sculpted arm rests on the train, the coat racks/hooks/rooms in every establishment, the slim-fit suit of the concierge, the illustration of the menu. OK so I loved it up there. But once you've had herring 'five ways' it can feel a little like you've done it all.

So back to London where I've continued to do the rounds - Jean Paul Gaultier at the Barbican, Chris Maker at the Whitechapel, David Hockney at Dulwich Picture Gallery. Pizza with Fi at Pizza East, waffles at Caravan with Jacqui and Panda, champagne with Al at Claridge's. Yes, it's all been a bit ridiculous. As was my latest greatest celebrity spot - out the front of the same Mayfair hotel - Naomi Campbell in the back seat of an all black Range Rover, window down, smokin'.

A quiet day today of beautification as I prepare for my birthday in Paris. It's already gone sideways with an eyebrow tint that's left me looking like a drag act. Must go soak my face in eye-make-up remover. I should not be left home alone! At this age!

Why, thank-you...

Wax on, wax off

So I've settled in and even developed a fondness for the Kilburn High Street with its scarcity of teeth and its profligacy of third-rate British chains like Poundland, Iceland and Cashino (there is a second Poundland within 200m of the first). AB likes to pretend it doesn't exist, but one can't underestimate how handy a nearby and efficiently communist leg wax.

There's talk around London on the lack of housing and a lack of affordable housing. Developers - after tending to the east around the Olympic effort are now focused on the west with the old Battersea power station redevelopment getting the green light. Housing, yes. Affordable? Unlikely. I've set Jon some pre-lunch-date reading, so he can shed light on the issue for me. He's a bit miffed about getting homework at his age, but as Editor of FTs Money Management, I'm expecting answers. In return I've offered my services as a columnist - title: 'Money Mismanagement', my recent credentials including the purchase of a purple woollen jacket (DKNY), charcoal easy coat (MMM) and a black leather midi skirt.*

But hey, today's thrifty date took me on his magical Tate members card to see the Richard Hamilton exhibition for free where we fell into rhythm with Gwendolyne Christie (the 6ft lady swordstress Brienne of Tarth from GOT) and her date Giles Deacon (British fashion designer). I was very cool about it all. SHE IS AMAZING AND GAME OF THRONES IS SHOCKING AND IT'S ALL VERY EXCITING! EXCITING YEAH!

Now, something about art. The Richard Hamilton exhibition was of the contemporary and conceptual variety. It was also very good. The same cannot be said for most of the other shows I've checked out in that genre. I've been left wondering whether artists' continued efforts to "elevate the banal and mundane" is a sign they're failing. And if so whether they should cease and desist? Just a thought. Feel free to retort. It hasn't all been high-brow. I was yelling at the TV two nights ago 'who's the lump in 21?' Arsenal 3, West Ham 1. A-Z 1, Map apps 0. Stockholm tomorrow. Saunas, little fish and Acne Studio.

*all items were purchased second-hand

From Tate Modern to Battersea power station, the Thames nears retirement as a working river.

London, late March, 2014

After planning, delaying and planning the trip again, I couldn't quite believe I was taking off from Melbourne Airport, then KLIA, then being quizzed at Heathrow at 5am, I fumbled through my explanation of 'self-employed' and 'writer' to border security, out of practice at this exercise in validation. A lone commuter on the Paddington Express, then Bakerloo line, I was ringing AB's buzzer by 6:20am. There I was on the other side of the world, greeted with restorative hugs, strong coffee and peanut butter toast.

I've since been to the top of Primrose Hill where I couldn't get any of the dogs to take an interest in me. Ergo, I am not a dog. I drank an interesting glass of Pinot Noir from Bulgaria (ah Europe) in the 6th floor bar at the Tate Modern... Further on the sophistication of our Northern counterparts, I've dined with dogs on two occasions – one at a painfully chic pizza joint in Shoreditch (locally sourced produce, organic this and that etc), the other a classic Queen's Park pub (fish of unnamed-origin and chips straight from the deep-fry).

AB has taken me shopping on no less than three occasions. AB: 10, to my: one. And art and parks and the tube and the unfortunately named 'Cake Hole' cake shop on Columbia Rd and Zaha Hadid's Sackler gallery extension and a larger than life statue of Sponge Bob at Al's place of work and a disturbing Swiss take on 'social and spiritual petrification'. (Thomas Hirschhorn's Candelabra with Heads)The buzz on the London High Street is H&M's 'conscious clothes' (interesting word choice) and a celebrity 'conscious uncoupling' which I'm guessing is to distinguish it from an 'unconscious uncoupling' which I've heard can happen when men fall asleep in flagrante.

In the backstreets, something has thankfully been done about the coffee problem. Antipodeans have created an alternative to the hegemony Nero and Costa Coffee had over the city's caffeination, by serving good solid flat, flat whites from small, tucked away shop-fronts with a typical aesthetic of recycled wood, occasional danish furniture and cardboard seating. Missing however from previous London trips is broad-accented bar service... Is it that the British need the jobs, or young Australians can now afford to travel Europe on their Aussie dollar? A bit of both maybe. Certainly being Australian prepares you much better these days for the cost of living over here; I have been pleasantly surprised how far my holiday dollar has stretched (which I mention only for its economic interest).

So there has been (fancy) dinner at Dishoom and Saltyard, more-successful shopping in Marylebone (fancy shops), and drinking at Brixton Market and Herne Hill (very hip right now). I've met 'the girlfriends'. Elaine (Fi's) owns a West Ham rubber ducky. And Christina (Jake's) puts up with him and challenges him - which if you know Jake... Seriously, I've been pretty lucky in the friends-with-great-partners-department. I spent a week with Fi in Clapham gluttonising on the EPL, Champion's League and Serie A and am back with AB in Queens Park after making a peanut butter pact to only replenish her stock when I'm leaving the country... Her little yellow Kraft jar of the baddest nut-butter in the game and the ready-made excuse 'oh but I'm on holidays' proved too hard to resist. I've come back fat from London once and I don't mean to compromise my much-loved homies' efforts to get me off the stuff and come back fat again. NO MORE!

Hirschhorn v Harrods, not sure which is more disturbing.

Jamon. No es carne!

Pre-trip trauma, like a fugly passport photo, unhelpful consular staff, incompetent customer service from my bank/superfund/insurer and ludicrous exchange rates had me thinking I might have tired of this. Then, at Frankfurt Airport drinking bland coffee at 7am with seven hours left in transit, I'm questioned by a Latvian: 'what kind of traveller are you?' Crisis? What crisis? Overlooking the fact he was wearing white trousers and drinking beer, and admitting he was right, I put my bourgeoisie behind me and thirty-minutes later, was enjoying solid German Kaffe and mixed smallgoods surrounded by shaggy dogs and smokers. Ah Europe – so civilised.

Onto Spain and setting down in Malaga, I meet Heriberto. A Cuban expat, he spoke a style of Spanish I was more familiar with. The manager of a Queseria – my translation: 'Cheese Palace' – he’s a good person to know. And if you’re vegetarian, good too to know that jamon, no es carne! My Spanish teacher, Carmen - responsible for linguistic and cultural education - was insistent... Vegetales (vegetables and very unfashionable unless fried), carne (meat) and jamon (ham) are three separate food groups, and one must be specific. In Granada, jamon is big business, pig legs hanging from the ceiling of every tapas bar and restaurant.

When I took out first place in the ride-to-work-day draw last year, I thought the new bike lights the pinnacle of my run with luck. But entry in the intermission raffle at a University of Granada laúd (classical string instrument) performance won me two tickets to a Hammam (Arabic Bath). A grubby backpacker, I was oiled, massaged and bathed in luxury til my skin went pink. Not long after, I found a share-house with two students, Maggie and Stephanie. Maggie (Farsi, English, French, German and Spanish speaking) is studying Arabic calligraphy; Stephanie (Greek, German, French and English speaking) is studying advanced Spanish; making me the dummy in the house in intermediate Spanish and beginners Arabic. Nothing like the long holiday I'd hoped, Spanish runs from 9am-1pm Mon-Fri, and Arabic from 8-10pm Tues and Thurs. And as for taking it all seriously, attending the many essential lectures, films, concerts, restaurants, bars and clubs around town, is a time consuming task.

Strange place, Spain...

Incommunicado

'Uff, thank goodness the key has stopped'. Key/rain, llave/lluvia, an easy mistake to make. Thankfully my barista is gracious and patient with my early morning small-talk… Granada intrigues with its eclectic mix of students, weekenders and abnormal quota of uni-cyclists. The city’s hippies have adopted the dread-lock mullet as their hairdo (or don’t) of choice (their dogs also sport the rasta-perro style). Moving in packs with guitars and random wind instruments, these modern gypsies take musical cues from the original Gitanos who brought Flamenco to the South of Spain. I’m not convinced by the dance style, too much like tap – and I don't like tap. Although more basic, I prefer the courting moves of Sevillana. The Abril Feria in Sevilla is one part Sydney Easter Show, one part Melbourne Cup; the rest is pure Spanish madness. I stumbled into a tent where men danced the Sevillana in drag – their camp posturing perfectly suited to the style. Barcelona's MACBA (Contemporary Art Museum) and CCCB (Centre of Contemporary Culture) were excellent, but I was unmoved with the Gaudi architecture for which the city is famed. The Sagrada Familia looks like someone took a blow torch to a mountain of lard, then pegged fruit and ghouls at it to see what sticks. Thirty went down in Portugal on a road trip with some new friends from school. I woke up in a field of wildflowers in South West Portugal near a small beach town called Carrapateira. After packing up the tent we had coffee and Portuguese tarts then swam at the windswept surf beach Bordeira. We drove East past olive groves and small towns of winding lanes and white buildings. At Serpa we stopped for dinner enjoying the local specialty of garbanzo bean and pork soup. The waiter selected three different types of cake (plum, orange and coconut) for desert and sang happy birthday to me. Jason, Chris, Caitlin and I hit the road again, but soon after happened upon a small town starting their Festival of the Cross celebrations. The band was a little ‘school spectacular’ so we made straight for the dodgems. We ate inside-out churros and washed down the deep-fried donut-y-chocolate-y goodness with some cerveja. We crossed the border back into Spain around 2am wondering whether we should move to Lisboa and study Portuguese.

Free camping in Portugal, and finally, an ocean beach...

Movimiento Okupa

Lunch at 4pm is common, dinner at 10pm the norm. Clubs list 3am and 5am DJ sets, so exceptional stamina or siesta is a necessity. But seriously – the whole siesta thing – I did it twice and felt worse for it both times. Who was it that thought, now here’s an idea: you know how much you HATE waking up? Well now, why not do it twice a day? Brilliant. With numerous vacant buildings in its centre, natural cave formations dotted across the surrounding Sierra foothills, and I guess, a lot of garbage, Granada attracts and supports a dedicated freegan community. I appreciate their philosophy in part – there are definitely elements of their anti-consumerist, light-footed lifestyle I can’t help but respect. But it’s not uncommon to find streets strewn with garbage, four or five sets of legs dangling out of big wheelie bins – an eyefull of butt crack demarcating the torsos’ disappearance. I rarely see their scavenging turn up anything particularly worthwhile, and though some attempt is made at returning rubbish to the bins, a lot gets away in the process. Paris – ah Paris where everyone is deliciously gorgeous and outrageously stylish (if I lived there, surely there’d be hope for me), where Thierry Henry lookalikes walk the streets, where the Musee d’Orsay ruins you with room after room of work by Cezanne, Monet, Van Gogh... I flew Vueling, the cheap(ish) Spanish airline, to Paris. A Spanish guy in my Arabic class called Carlos was working their check-in desk. From the rear of the queue, he called me forward 'Australia, Australia!' introducing me to his co-workers, and bringing me behind the counter. He turned to the people at the front of the queue who I’ve no doubt were unamused and says 'un momento’. He starts telling me all about his night out, then points to his computer screen: 'so which seat do you want?'… Now I might’ve invited myself to the Alpujarras with him. I think he asked if I was interested in going when he visits his Aunt, but he could very well have asked if I wanted him to bring back a jar of marmalade. Despite this, I passed intermediate Spanish to start in ‘Avanzado 3a’ which is quite shocking for I still feel out of my depth, though a recent excursion to get a videoclub card went down without a hitch. Little things.

Taking Okupa, the attitude, to Paris.

A por ello

There’s a joke about the Andalusian accent… that the alphabet in Southern Spain has five letters: A, B, TH, D, E, E, E, E… It definitely doesn’t get anywhere near S, and with Euro Cup football fever at full pitch, I lost my voice cheering for ‘Epana a por ello’. With five minutes left in the semi-final, when it was obvious Russia weren’t going to recover from a 3-0 deficit we started singing ‘adio’, then, to the German fans who were scoping the competition for Sunday night’s final, ‘podemo’. I certainly think ‘we can’ and timed my departure from Spain perfectly with an early morning flight to Paris after the scheduled final. After the semi-final victory, Granada was awash in red and gold as people partied in the fountains, and danced through the streets, their wringing wet bodies writhing emphatically to impromptu music, car horns and war cries. Drums, cardboard tubes, tin pots, firecrackers - if it made a noise, and the more the better, it was anything goes. I’m planning on going all out guiri for the grand-final, buying a Sergio Ramos jersey (I also vowed to join in the public bathing should Spain win). The motos, dog shit, narrow streets, cobble stones, incessant calls of ‘guapa’ and ‘rubia’, the tourists, the pig, the plumbing, sounding like a half-wit, the cigarette smoke – are all things I can live without. But the vino tinto, café con leche, tostadas, botellon*, being flanked by the Sierra Nevada to one side, and the Alhambra to the other and of course the people** I’ve met, will all be sorely missed.

*Botellon is one of the strangest things I encountered in Granada. On the town’s outskirts in front of the Hipercor (like a Coles or Woolworths) around 500 people congregate between 11pm-3am with bottled drinks in plastic bags, plastic cups and of course an array of musical instruments. It’s incredibly relaxed and social and friendly and even our professors encouraged attendance (in moderation), as there are probably colloquialisms in circulation at Botellon that they don’t know.

**One of the most interesting people I met at Botellon was the founder of the Spanish Metallica Fan Club. He fit the profile - black t-shirt, long hair, IT employee, phone filled with clips from Electric Weekend in Getafe, and he pulled up his top to reveal an enormous Unforgiven tattoo – Que Guay!. And at my last Botellon, I met someone called Nacho. And I couldn’t leave Spain before meeting someone called Nacho.

Granada up close, and at a distance... 'F*** me, Pakito's getting married!'

Losing my maturity

As Monday brought the year of the dragon into effect I braced myself against the wind and the wilds of New Zealand's North Island to reach the rim of the Red Crater in the Tongariro National Park. At 1900m, I peered into the depths of the Earth, then despite the lashing of dark pumice-like gravel against bare cheeks, I skirted the rim where on the other side I was startled by the serenity of the Blue and Emerald Lakes that lay below. H and I signed to one another – something about crazy, what about this wind, amazing, freezing, let's get out of here – and silently, taking extra care with foot placement started the descent in the hope we'd find shelter from the elements. Two days earlier I'd been lolling around the beaches of the Coromandel region, basking in unexpectedly warm weather, swimming in azure blue water and thinking this trip represented something of a travel 'coming-of-age'. Having previously denounced New Zealand as a retirement project I found myself expressing delight at things like the good roads, clean toilets and wholesome vegetarian fare. I was in awe of my wheelie bag which made life seem so easy, not to mention all those delightfully helpful people who spoke English and stood in queues. You may think this mature turn in events might mean we didn't find place names like Urititi and Waipu hilarious. But you'd be wrong. Similarly, H and I spent hours mimicking the Kiwi accent of radio announcers and making fun of Ruru - the wise owl of road safety. The trip was pretty much perfect. By the time we were taking Boof, the Dutch mongrel, on a walk around Turangi 'Trout Fishing Capital of New Zealand' I'd forgotten all about the humping I received on arrival from a beagle overly excited by a couple of raisins scrunched up in a ball of cling-wrap – remnants of a slice of Christmas pudding I'd taken on the flight. The Kim Dotcom story broke while we there with considerable fanfare. I can't wait to see what the black t-shirts of the world will do. Cripple the internet? Come out from behind their screens and into the streets in mass protest? Or, ignoring the 'cyber crime' aspect, deem he deserves what he gets just for being an a-grade douche.

Everything in New Zealand was pretty ridiculously beautiful, from 'The Mount' (232m) to Tongariro (1978m).

Overseas – or straits

The year kicked off with overseas travel, said sea being more correctly a strait, but what’s the difference anyway? It was a body of water, I was on a plane, and I was going somewhere... Where? Hobart. To work at a festival called MONA FOMA. The Museum of Old and New Art, Festival of Music and Art (or MOFO as it’s known), is associated with MONA, the new 'world class' gallery located in a vineyard at Moorilla (a 30 minute drive from central Hobart), housing the private collection of one of Australia's richest guys – David Walsh. A mathematician who’s made squillions in professional gambling, he's also an anti-establishment egalitarian and atheist who wants to bring challenging, confronting (and often banned or controversial) art to the masses, for free.

MOFO 2011 was a nine day music festival featuring performances from Phillip Glass, Grinderman, KYU, PVT, DJ KENTARO, Health, The Cruel Sea, Speak Percussion and other such diverse sounds, followed by the MONA grand opening (a party for 2500 general punters and 500 VIPs) and an opening weekend of bands, art installations, more VIPs, food, drink and huge queues. Queues with my staff pass I could skip. David's philanthropy extended to inviting us (the front of house staff) for beers (his own 'Moo' not suitable for bogans brand beer), and with the only bottle opener in the house he insisted he crack all the tops himself. It was surreal, after a fortnight of interviews, VIPs, and celebratory press coverage of this completely loaded, socially awkward, but astutely subversive, long-haired man to see him pop the cap off a beer and pass it to me after just having told the last staffer who thanked him to 'be less polite' and 'f*ck off'.

Starting most days after 4pm, I had plenty of time to explore Hobart. My first hot tip was that 'the only coffee' was at Villino's. It was true, and from there, the remainder of tips came from a local who on seeing my map asked 'here for the statistics convention?'. Once 'no' was established, he proceeded to tell me where to go and what to do. Tricycle at Salamanca Place for lunch. Princes Park at Battery Point for views of the Derwent. Bellerieve by water taxi for frolicking dolphins. Soldier's Walk above the Domain for early morning misty runs, North Hobart and the Alley Cat for the cool kids. The air was fresh and the food, delicious and Hobart pretty quickly became my new mini-break destination of choice.

The people. Well the people are interesting. Girls don't have the thick legs of myth. And they dress fashionably with the exception of their footwear, which is ostensibly ugg-based. Men wear Crocs, Oakleys, D&G leather belts and Piaget watches and talk about 'the coalface', vintage wine and cutting edge art. I was told 'we have hipsters here' and that the scene is less insular than Melbourne. The main rivalry is between Launy (Launceston) and Hobart, which means that all of Hobart tends to pull together in support of its artists. 'They're local!' I heard expressed a number of times with immense pride at All Fires the Fire – a band on the bill being likened to New Order.

In an endeavour to save money, I was staying in a dorm at a hostel and as it had been a while, found it a novelty. With half the country under water and after four years of Melbourne water saving-style shower heads, I even enjoyed the discovery that the shower shot water like an untamed garden hose. And I can testify that your raspberries and blueberries are still being picked by young, wide-eyed, blonde Germans. All of whom saw fruit picking as an important part of their great Aussie experience and thankfully left them too tired for snoring.

Hobart's architecture contains a lot in a small space: retro, quaint, colonial, mercantile, it's all there.

Darwin life, Larrakia country

Down south the sun sets on another 12-degree day, so I board a plane chasing it, finding five hours later in Larrakia country, it was here all along. In Darwin it's the fourth of six seasons: Gurrung – when the weather is hot and dry and the temperature and humidity begin to increase and animals crowd ever shrinking billabongs.

Mim meets me at the airport and the dry morning light and wide open space stuns me out of my stupor. Her stilted, louvered house is surrounded by palms and I think back to the naked tree outside my window in Melbourne. We're certainly not in Kansas anymore...

NT – not today, not tomorrow, not Tuesday, not Thursday – so goes the reputation of our Northern most compatriots. Understandable really when confronted with the false paradise in which they live. Kilometres of pristine beach in which you can't swim for the threat of box jellyfish and saltwater crocs; incredible Indigenous Australian contributions to arts, culture and land management set against the daily reminder of endemic dislocation, and the alcoholism and poverty that can come with it; booming industries creating wealth and jobs while stripping the landscape with little regard for the future; a city that essentially feels part of South-East Asia, but remains beholden to policy fed in from chilly, distant Canberra.

The back-drop at the beginning of the week is the London riots. Buses burning. And I can't help but think if the premier league season had already been underway, people wouldn't be so bored, and if they lived in Darwin, well, they'd be too damn hot to bother – busy dealing with things like swollen feet, blisters, sunburn and mozzie bites. There are certainly plenty of Brits in the city – all congregated around Mitchell Street – wearing little, drinking lots. With Mim as cultural guide and a copy of her streetpress, Off the Leash, I know to avoid this strip and set off to explore the many excellent galleries around town. The Harry Chan Contemporary Art Space, 24HR Art, Northern Editions & NTAGM.

I particularly liked the Lorner Fencer Napurrurla exhibit, a sense of humour apparent in the Lover Boy series (Mirtimirti), which features in the genre of Warlpiri art – Love Magic Paintings (Yilpinji). The Lover Boy is associated with the python Aspitides ramsayi, which opportunistically takes over existing burrows and is a metaphor for predatory men who take other men's wives as lovers. Another highlight was a portrait series focussing on the Sistagirls of the Tiwi Islands, which brought to life touching stories of trans’ life in a small, remote community. Three Sistagirls joined Drags Aloud (a comedy drag act from Melbourne) on stage at the Darwin Festival for a totally hilarious show, which elevated the Hues Corporation's Rock the Boat to anthem of the week. The trippy teletubby take on Manamana had us in fits of laughter as did Foxxy Empire's final quip after Hey Big Spender: "I'm always up for a little reconciliation". If only politics was always this funny.

The local markets were amazing. Not least because I ate my first banana of 2011, but also for the myriad tropical fruits, fresh juice, Cambodian rice balls, and fried banana waffles... and paw paw salad and laksa and salt and pepper squid and pad thai (see why I mentioned SE Asia)...

Mindil night markets stocked everything I'd ever need to fit myself out as a bona fide hippy. I resisted, but there may be another NT intervention if Mim and Marz continue down the floaty dresses/fisherman pants path much longer. I got out of town and did the drive to Litchfield National Park, swimming in waterholes and taking in some lively waterfalls. I was reminded what a great country Australia is. Land is important; ownership, understanding and interaction are important. History and culture and the time to listen are important. I kind of forget that living in big bad Melbourne. But what's equally important is friends, and a week with Mim and Marz was the best holiday a girl could hope for.

Darwin life, where bodies of water come with considerable risk...

Blue sky biohazard

Australia: blue skies, big open brown spaces, lots and lots of minerals and one particularly nasty one. 

Chrysotile was once mined to make asbestos – a popular, cheap housing material used in Australia in the 50s, 60s and 70s. It's now widely known that asbestos is highly toxic and leads to nasty lung related diseases, including cancer.

 The mine site was in Wittenoom; a town by the same name servicing the workers of what was a booming industry. But since discovering the hazardous effects of asbestos, Wittenoom has been deserted. Situated in the Pilbara region in northern Western Australia the area still appeals to many travellers – and quite rightly. The gorges and waterfalls of nearby Karijini National Park are naturally spectacular. Iconic 80s Australian rock band, Midnight Oil released the album Blue Sky Mining in 1987, featuring a track, Blue Sky Mine which cut to the core of the mining industry and made Wittenoom infamous. Its lyrics still resonate with miners and their families who've lobbied their incredibly wealthy ex-employers for justice and compensation to cover medical costs and damages.

"So I'm caught at the junction still waiting for medicine
 - The sweat of my brow keeps on feeding the engine
 - Hope the crumbs in my pocket can keep me for another night...

 And the company takes what the company wants
 - And nothing's as precious
 - As a hole in the ground..."

Where as once curiosity may have seen you risk a side trip to Wittenoom it's no longer possible. It doesn't exist. It has been decommissioned, taken off the maps, the electricity – switched off.

 As an interesting aside, if the Labor party (currently in opposition) wins government at the Australian election this weekend, then ex-Oils frontman, Peter Garrett (member for Kingsford Smith) will be the new Minister for the Environment. It will be interesting to see if he stays true to his activist roots.

My relationship to Wittenoom has to do with another hazard entirely. Age 9, on the round-Australia trip in our Toyota Hiace, we stopped at Hamersley Gorge in the Kimberley with hopes of a pleasing swim. Eager, my brother and I set off, in thongs, on a goat track to descend into the gorge - overlooking an official walking track further along the ridge. I took a tumble and sliced open an 8cm wound on my leg. Blood everywhere, I scrambled back to the top where aghast, Mum and Dad strapped up my leg and fanged it the 50 minute drive to the nearest town – then Wittenoom. When we arrived at the medical centre/hospital, it was closed, so we buzzed for nurse who drove in from around an hour away. She used butterfly clips to secure the wound and disinfected it, but it was only arriving in Port Hedland days later I could have it stitched. I hobbled around what was left of the North West of Western Australia, hotter and bothered than ever before.

Hot. Damn hot. And hazardous indeed.

Auspicious? Suspicious.

Auspicious gave us just three weeks for three wedding celebrations in three different countries. So I stocked up on Punjabi suits from the Chennai Silk Palace in Klang, packed the gastrolyte and set out from KL with RR and a small touring party of friends and relatives.

India: we’re mid-way through a four-day pilgrimage from Trichy to Madurai and it’s no day for silk saris or going bare-foot. It’s 42 degrees; this is the South of India in the middle of summer. When I’m served curry at 9:30am it could pass as lunch because we’ve been up since 3:30am – at which time we were wrapped in metres of material and bundled into a bus to travel the two-and-a-half hours to Pillayarpati. A couple of years ago, RR visited its Sri Rarpaga Vinayagar temple and thought – wouldn’t it be nice to be married here – yeah, and ultra convenient too. I was looking at RR thinking strange – she really does look Japanese – when a small boy approached me and asked “are you Japan?” “No” I replied. He walked away. Shy wore a traditional Tamil plaited, floral hair-extension that must have weighed four kilos and carried a heavy sweat moustache. Rueben cried. We all kept sweating. RR led ADSW around the fire twice before the priest could stop her. ADSW looked perplexed and hot throughout. My sari – once royal blue – turned navy. The paparazzi obscured the view, so I missed the tying of the thali, but it’s been immortalised on double DVD, so I can watch it in the comfort of my own home, with m&ms if I so please.

Sri Lanka: uninitiated, I thought we’d be leaving chaos behind in India. Possibly not, ADSW warned. As I learnt – an excel spreadsheet does not ensure order. As token white bridesmaid, ADSW’s Mum turned to me in desperation at the rushed church rehearsal as if to say “please tell me you’re Catholic”. I just shrugged. In the end, Rekha and I winged it – she did a lovely reading from Corinthians handling words like livery and sheol with aplomb, and standing at the front of the church, we belted out a hymn we’d never heard. Part way through the last verse I looked over my shoulder to see the remainder of the congregation sitting and ADSW's Mum giving me a hand signal to say “you can sit down now”. Colombo was crazy. The police escort ensured we made it to the church on time, but the 36 degree weather and unbearable humidity saw the pancake make-up sweated off en-route.The reception was a grand affair for 400 in the ballroom of the Trans Asia. It was a tough gig to MC, but I eventually got a laugh out of the crowd when they saw me dance with Dev who is both a lot shorter and a lot skinnier than me. The newly married couple staged a farewell for the cameras, drove around the block then after another costume change joined us in the Library and danced until 4am.

I had a week before I needed to return to KL for the next party. I made it to Nuwara-Eliya and World’s End, Kandy, Dambulla, Sigiriya and Polonnaruwa – seeing some amazing landscapes and ancient sites, but oddly enough no tourists. It is so incredibly sad that the war (which is non-evident for the most part and entirely nonsensical) is keeping people away and ruining livelihoods. Visit Sri Lanka. You won’t regret it.

Malaysia: RR’s Mum is one of eight and her Dad, one of seven, so when all the Aunties and Uncles (and thank-goodness for these Asian terms of endearment) and cousins get together it makes for one hell of a party. Add to that RR’s Taylor’s pals and the chem eng crew from Sydney and it’s a diabolical mix. There were food stalls in their backyard - hawker style - cooking satay and noodles, and a DJ from a KL club ensured the dance floor stayed hot all night – mixing Bhangra basics with Michael Jackson and Jon Bon Jovi. But the real party started around 1am when Dev produced the Rockland Rum and Rueben produced his guitar. “I’m leaving on a jet-plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again…” we must have sung the John Denver classic five teary times.

The next morning when all anyone was interested in was dealing with their hangovers, RR and ADSW came downstairs sheepishly announcing “we have a problem”. During the night RR had slipped her wedding ring onto her middle finger, her hands had swelled in the humidity (and from the alcohol), and now she couldn’t get it off. After unsuccessfully trying a couple of home remedies and given the finger was turning purple, it was off to hospital where it was removed with a bone-cutter (the ring, not the finger thankfully).

Completely exhausted, I boarded my flight back to Melbourne. I took ill on the way and ended up being taken from the plane to emergency myself, where I spent 8 hours on a drip. Dramatic homecoming – yes, but it goes to show I did the auspicious trip justice!

Sacred site visits from temple in Tamil Nadu to Sigirya in Sri Lanka.