Boris Bikes...will Kelly bike?

There's a bit of a cult following in London at the moment.


They're called Boris's bikes, named after London's mayor, whose full name I really cannot recall right now. (I think it might be Johnson. I really should have just said Boris Johnson in the first place, none of you would know the difference.) Anyway. He's a cycling fanatic, so in an effort to cut down on congestion and be more environmentally friendly, Boris concocted a "crazy" scheme for London's would-be bikers. (Actually it's all very ironic as I have it on good authority that Boris nearly caused a bus accident once on his bike.)


So. There are 'biking docks' stationed all over the city. They hold about twenty bikes per station. You pay as you go (40 pounds for a year's membership), and if your journey is under 30 minutes it's free. The scheme has had some teething problems, but they're becoming rather popular. Aside from the fact that the bikes are embarassingly new (squeaky clean and shiny, much like new white shoes) they really do seem rather convienent. They're cheap, or free, depending on your journey. They're faster than the bus, tube or taxi, plus you get some exercise and a good strong dose of fresh air.





Actually, cycling the city streets in London is already Big. Cyclists are as prevalant on the roads as buses and taxis. I've really come to admire those that don't mind flipping death in the face, and riding out where the double-deckers are. I particularly enjoy watching the businessmen with their briefcases and suits, or the women in their sweet pencil skirts and trainers.


I'd dismissed the idea of cycling to work as soon as I'd considered it. Too dangerous, I figured. But then my new flatmate kindly pointed out to me that Camden Council do cycling lessons for those wanting to brave the streets.


Well, I wouldn't be able to afford lessons, even if I wanted to, I flatly decided.


Turns out they're free.


Well even so, I thought, I haven't even seen any bike docking stations near West Hampstead, let alone in West Hampstead. (Some boroughs are so snooty their councils haven't adopted the scheme because they don't want to ruin the beautiful streets with ugly blue bikes.) And I haven't seen any at my end route in Marylebone either.


So there must be none at either end, I decided.


But as it turns out Boris has made it Super Easy for noobs like me and has created online cycling routes for us neophites.


Apparantely this is my route:



http://cyclejourneyplanner.tfl.gov.uk/cycleXSLT_TRIP_REQUEST2



Looks fairly complicated. I'm quite sure I will die...


But I might go for a trial run this weekend.

What do we think? And if it all blows up in my face i.e if I get hit by a double-decker...well, I'll just take the tube from then on. Much warmer in winter anyway.

Now what?

Things have been so hectic I nearly forgot I had a blog. Nearly.



In one week I've managed to score myself a job and a flat.



Did you ever watch those Western films and the guys are running along beside the train which is steaming past them on the tracks, and they're running and running to try and get a leg up on one of the trailers? And then there's a sense of relief once they manage to run fast enough and hoist themselves up?



That's the closest I can get to describing my relief at finding my feet in a completely different world. I feel like I'm a proper contributing member of society now. And hey, maybe I actually am. My job entails finding people work (yes, the irony is impeccable).



But I have to admit, a quick sense of elation was also met with an impending sense of doom. So...now I have a job and a house I can say I've done 'it', right? I've came to see if I could do it, and I can, so lets go home?



A weekend of being in a strange home without Internet access nearly did my head in. I've realised how much I've come to rely on the Internet. Which is kind of sad, in a way. Back in the olden days when people did their OE they had to rely on snailmail. How privileged am I to be able to send photos to my parents? To show them my new room? To tell them how my day went? To keep up with my friend's social antics?



So I've decided the hard part isn't actually over. Oh contraire.



In fact, the hard part is just beginning. How to maintain a life in London?



I've got the basics down. A roof over my head, a job, a few friends here and there. But what else is there? Hobbies? Classes? A social circle? Dates? Events? More travel?



Do watch this space.



And to finish off this post which wasn't about anything other than reminding you that I'm still
alive...here is one of my favorite spots in London, which reminds me that I am...in London.

Nice work, if you can get it

"Yeah, I was punched in the stomach once in Brixton, and another girl got spat at," Mikayla says casually when I enquire if people ever get nasty towards fundraisers.

There are three of us around a watercooler "talking shop".

"Not to me, maybe 'cause I'm a guy," says Rory.

A twenty-something, red-headed Irish guy, Rory is an old-hand as a clipboard-wielding fundraiser. You know, one of those people who stand on the street and ask for 'one minute- just one minute!'
He used to work full-time for another fundraising company but they wouldn't let him have Saturdays off to play Gaelic football, so here he is with me, trialing for another company.

We've just completed a half-hour stint on the street. We had to stop and ask people for their top five favorite films. Apparantely we're not being tested on how many people we get to stop, but how we get them to stop- how we 'engage them'.

"The trick is not to ramble on about the charity. You've got to gain their trust, befriend them, get them to trust you. The longer you get them to stay, the more likely you are to get them to sign up," Rory tells me.

See what I mean about an old-hand.

Mikayla swore she wouldn't get back into fundraising after losing her old job. But the money is too good and the hours too flexible.

"I would ring up and tell them I was hungover and they'd give me the day off- and they'd pay for it too," she says.

The company we're trialing for today is offering 350 pounds for a 40 hour week, which will increase to about 500 pounds after we've been with them for 12 weeks. That's about $1000 a week. Definitely enough money to minimalise the pain of being in one of the world's most hated professions.

You have to meet quotas though, surely?

Apparantely not, Gerald, the company's recruitment officer tells me.

He says if you focus on trying to get numbers then you tend to rush people through the process of donating and it's more likely they'll change their mind. Or complain.

There are lots of complaints.

"I nearly got fired because there had been some complaints about a guy named Byron, and they assumed since the names were similar, that it was me," says Rory.

Mikayla agrees, "I signed someone up to two different donation programs so they thought I was pulling a scam and I got suspended."

By the end of our chat Mikayla and Rory were both gainfully employed. I however, was not.

Something about seeing a crowd of people and looking petrified.

Well, it's not for everyone. But it's a fascinating job. Nice work, if you can get it.

Welcome to London

Something highly frightening happened to me last night. I was mid KFC gorging when I realised the emergency exit sign read, 'In an emergency dial 999'.

It dawned on me then that up until that point I had had no idea what Britain's emergency number was. Surely the most basic thing you should know about a country is what number you should dial in dire circumstances. And then I realised, I'd been spending so much time wrapped up in my own mini dramas that I wasn't really noticing London. All my blogs have been about me, me, me and I have yet to even introduce London to y'all, despite the fact that London features more prominently in this blog title then Kelly does.

So, London this is everybody, and everybody this is London....

This is Speaker's Corner at Hyde Park, just off Oxford Street. The idea is that anybody can come here and say whatever they like (embracing free speech).

And this is Hyde Park, pretty much my favorite place to go in the city because it's so big and green!

Second to Hyde Park would be Regent's Park which has an amazing outdoor theatre that I must visit one day...

This is Portobello Road...

This is the amazing red velvet cupcake I got from Hummingbird Bakery on Portobello Road....

And these are the houses on Portobello Road...

This is my favorite street- Great Portland Street- off Oxford Street. On the left is my tailors. One the right is Toni and Guy.

And if you face this way, Urban Outfitters is on the left corner and Topshop and Miss Selfridges is on the right corner.

After I'm done drooling over clothes, spending money or going for an interview, this is where I have my toasted avocado and turkey sandwich and coffee. They have free papers and the most delicious looking pastries.

This is the Globe theatre where Shakespeare used to put on his plays. (Actually it's a replica.) We had the cheap seats. Obviously.

This is the pub in Swiss Cottage. The food is as good as my mums.

This is Swiss Cottage

Stay tuned...

The trouble with fate

I've never been the religious type. I don't really know anybody who is. But I do have a very handy knack for explaining away the (good and bad) things that occur in my life. "It was meant to be." Or alternatively, it wasn't meant to be. This is commonly known as fate and closely entertwined with destiny. Fate dictates that you have a designated life path and despite what you may do to veer off it, everything that is supposed to happen, will. Eventually.

I pulled this little story off Wiki which sums it up nicely:

"Death speaks: There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, 'Master, just now when I was in the market place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw that it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.' The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, 'Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?' 'That was not a threatening gesture,' I said, 'It was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.' "

So there we go. We use this convienent theory to explain away life's mistakes, life's lessons, life's more unsual paths, it's failings. Personally, I've used this phrase alot over the past few weeks. When homes I find are given to somebody else, I tell myself it's because there's a better one out there for me. When I don't hear back from countless job applications I tell myself it's to increase my motivation. When I don't get the job, it's because it wasn't meant to be.

But now I'm starting to wonder. How many times can we use this excuse? If it really wasn't meant to be then why didn't something stop me for applying for the job? If there really is a specific path that I am supposed to be taking then why does there seem to be endless detours? In practical terms, perhaps I should just kick back and take it easy. Stop applying for jobs, stop looking for homes. The right one will find me surely, if it's meant to be.

Wouldn't that be an interesting experiment.

A tale of two topshops

They say the most beautiful women in the world come from New York, Paris and Milan. I'm going to put my two pence in and say the most beautifully dressed women in the world are in London. Everybody except me that is.

One of the first things I noticed about Londoners, the women in particular, are how well-coiffed they are. Dressed to the nines. Extremely well accesorised. Not necessarily trendy or cutting-edge. Just very well styled. I feel positively frumpy around them.

But that is about to change. After an estimated nine months of starvation- and by starvation I mean shopping starvation- I have decided I am going to binge. And by binge I mean absolutely purge everything I own and start again. No holes, no stains, no fraying and definitely no weird suitcase smell. Everything must be new.

I'm so excited by this decision that I've visited Topshop twice in two days. I'm like an addict, hovering on the brink of a relapse. I walk past the entrance and think, 'Oh no, I'll wait until I have some more money and then I can spend a whole afternoon here.'

Then I double back. And I look through the doors. It's just purses on display. I can look at purses, can't I? And then purses turn into accesories and then accesories into shoes, and then shoes into underwear and then before I know it I've careerned my way through the store like a wide-eyed maniac and located the holy grail of all things beautiful and chic. My god, this afternoon I went so far as to cart five different items into the changing rooms. Thank god that I'd eaten so much pasta and gelato in Italy that I've become fat and couldn't fit into any of it.

It did make my resolve stronger though and now I have it all planned. Topshop have personal shoppers that will style your autumn wardrobe for free. (How ironic that I'm planning the splurge of a lifetime, yet I'm excited that the shopper will be a bargain.) I've decided that I simply must have a personal shopper. Sure, I could do it myself and keep the humiliation of not being able to fit into anything to a minimum. But I need a person. One of those weird fashion types that just looks at you and knows exactly what you need. The kind who throw really ugly items at you that somehow wind up looking amazing once you've got them on.

Whoever they are will need some serious stamina. Because when I mean wardrobe overhaul I mean serious overhaul. I need belts, and purses, and coats, and jackets, and scarves, and dresses, and jeans, and casual clothes, and going out clothes, and going to work clothes, and apartment pants. I'm shaking just thinking about it.

And when will this splendid event occur? Just as soon as I have a job. Employment. (Rolls eyes.) Some bloody money, in other words. It shall be a reward for months, years even, of positively grooming myself not to spend a dime. A pivotal step in the whole life make-over one might say. After that, all I'll need is a bicycle and a Portobello Road home filled with antiques and my transition will be complete.

Slavery in journalism?

Lets move to London and pursue a career in journalism. Or better yet, freelance writing. Travel blogging, food and wine reviews, investigative reporting, feature writing. Maybe even write a memoir. All the good stuff. The city is so inspiring and you are obviously such a talented, dedicated young thing. Yes, lets do it. Smoke cigarettes and drink copious amounts of coffee, while you positively absorb the city.



So whimsical. Wikipedia describes whimsical as 'lightly fanciful'. Which is a really nice way to put it. I would describe the above fantasy as, just that, a fantasy. Naivety at it's best. Which is why I never really decided to come to London to "be a writer." (The real sordid reason is another story...) And thank god for that. It's true the city is inspiring. It's about the most perfect city you could possibly hope to be a writer in. So much going on, so many lovely places to inspire, so many places to work. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't applied for any journalism positions.



However, there is some major furor in the UK at the moment, both to do with the graduate job market, and the media job market. And now I'm glad I haven't put any pressure on myself, or had any preconcieved notions about what I would be doing during my time here. (Me: Ummmm maybe something 9-5ish, so I can travel on the weekends. Maybe an office job so I can wear pencil skirts. Oooh, and wear, like, glasses.)



Currently, everybody in the UK has a degree. Much like the rest of the globalised world, a degree seemingly guarantees you a good, high-paying job at the end of your studies. A secure future. Maybe even some little letters by your name. And much like the rest of the globalised world, the more graduates there are, the more competitive the job market becomes as we all have exactly the same education and skills. And now the only thing setting us apart is our ability to be employable. In other words, our work experience. But how do you get work experience if nobody will hire you?



Two words. Unpaid internships. Internships aren't big in New Zealand. I never really saw any advertised. They were more like word-of-mouth, lucky if you landed one, 'I worked in my friend's uncle's fish n chip shop for a week so I could learn how to be a chef'. In the UK though, they are Big. There is an internship for everything. Everything. There are data entry and administration internships. There are internships at recruitment agencies for godsake.



And the problem is that they have become so popular that they are The Norm. Nobody just walks into a job after graduating anymore, they do a stint as an Intern, and then, suddenly, they are employable. And so as the unpaid internship becomes more desirable, the companies that offer them become more powerful, and the jobs become less work-experience and more, like, well, slavery.



Well according to this website anyway. GraduateFog (Google is your friend) is a staunch advocate for being kind to your interns. Paying them. And they have a point. According to one of their articles, Tesco's has offered unpaid internships for the grocery giant's magazine. Tescos. As in, billions of billions of profit a year Tescos. And they can't afford to pay their employees? Sad.



And why do I care? I have a point. I promise. For journalists work experience and internships are a rite of passage. Once upon a time it was your street smarts working for a small paper that got you the best jobs. Not the fancy degree. All talk and no walk. And since I've arrived in London and discovered that it is a Very Competitive Job Market, I have fancied the thought of doing an unpaid stint at a newpaper or magazine, and doing the pub thing at night.



I've discovered though, that the internship/ work experience thing is just as hard to get into as the whole job market thing. Figures. Can't catch a break, can I? Me, I can shrug it off and keep applying for other roles. But it made me think, when reading about these Poor, Exploited Graduates, how lucky are you really?



Pretty lucky, I should imagine. Some of us just want to write. Or photograph. Or film. Or watch others write. Or photograph. Or film. If somebody came up to me tomorrow and offered me an unpaid position at a magazine or newspaper or website, I would jump at the chance. What's the difference between being a full-time uni student and working nights and weekends to keep yourself afloat, or being a full-time un-paid intern and working nights and weekends to keep yourself afloat?



So long as your not this poor chap http://internsanonymous.co.uk/2010/01/20/sick-of-the-sunday-times/ then why not suffer for a week, a month, six months. And you know what they say. If you find something you love to do, then it won't feel like work. And of course, who gets paid to have fun anyway?

So there it is. My two cents. Back to the job hunt now though. Wish me luck. I really do want to wear a pencil skirt.

What do you want to do now?

One of the many things I love about London is it's infinite possibilites. It's impossible to ride the tube, read a paper or cross a street corner without being presented with various sights, activities, life-style changes and eatery options. Hire a Barclay's bike for an hour? Could do. Catch a show at the Globe Theatre for five pounds? Absolutely. Yoga classes, cooking classes, weekends in Ireland, visit the Science Museum for free, admire a new art exhibition at the Tate, read a book in Hyde Park, go vintage shopping on Portobello Road, have a pint in a pub, go for a run over Tower Bridge, scream at Angelina Jolie from the sidelines of a movie premier...

I'm currently reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert and there is a pivotal scene near the beginning of the book where she realises, now divorced and therefore independant, that she can do whatever she wants. She actually asks herself, "What do you want to do?" She decides she wants to take up yoga, eat Italian food in Italy, meditate in India, buy some pencils. Cook.

This kind of resonated with me, because as I'm currently starting from scratch in this new city, I'm constantly thinking about what I want to do once I'm on my feet. Good motivational tool.
Here goes.

1. I want to go to the theatre. Regularly.
2. I want to take Yoga again.
3. I want a new hair colour.
4. I want to take long walks in all the parks.
5. I want to join a library and read lots of new things. I want to join a book club.
6. I want to cook everyday.
7. I want to eat yoghurt, fruit and honey for dessert like I did in Greece.
8. I want a bedroom with a big window, and a desk, with lots of perfume bottles and books and magazines and fresh flowers and clean linen.
9. I want to visit Scotland and Ireland and the Netherlands.
10. I want brand new clothes, shoes, accesories and underwear.

And maybe, just maybe, after reading this blog

www.guardian.co.uk/environment/series/bike-blog

I might want to buy a bike. If for nothing else than for the blogging material.

What do you want to do?

A weekend in London

"Approach finding a job, like a job."



Wise words from my visa program advisor. And with that in mind, I promptly took the weekend off, like eight million other Londoners. (Not that I consider myself a Londoner quite yet. Probably never).



The thing about weekends in London is that the public transport servicing the city pretty much takes two days off too. And as it turned out the two main tube lines servicing my current location in Swiss Cottage were down. Bugger. Walk? Too far. Catch a cab? Too expensive. Take....the bus?



Interesting fact about me: I don't take buses. Ever. Not even in New Zealand. I find they are always late, their routes and timetables are far too complicated and they always divert down little streets so you never quite know where you are going or where your stop is. Buses are for people who don't mind not knowing where they are going. I prefer the tube. I like to think of the tube as public transport for public transport neophites. The tube map is in bright, clearly marked colours. There are signs everywhere to hold your hand as you wind your way through the maze that is the Underground. You travel in darkness for several minutes and then - poof- you come at the exact location you wanted some minutes later. No random unscheduled stops. No traffic. And there are always free newspapers to read.



Buses? No.



"If you always take the tube you will Never Ever Really see London."



More wise words from said advisor.



Really? Never? Well I guess I'll take the bus when, you know, I know the city a bit better. When I have a leisurely few hours to reach my destination. When the buses introduce free reading material. When the buses have pretty, colourful maps. When pigs fly.



Fast-forward to the moment when I realise the line servicing Swiss Cottage is C-L-O-S-E-D.



Craaaaap. Okay, you know what? I didn't really need to go out. I can just wait until Monday to get all my errands done. It's cold anyway. Hey- what's that crowd of people over there? Hmmm. They're waiting for something. A bus? Might go have a look. Just a look? Just a look. Okay, four different buses. One is going to Oxford Circus. That's where I want to go. So I just get on the bus? And it will take me to Oxford Circus? Really? Seems too easy. Well, just get on and see where you end up. How hard can it be?



Ridiculously easy actually. Turns out every bus route has a number. Memorise the number, look up the number at any bus station and it will tell you where your stop is. And the fun part is you get to sit on the top of one of those bright red double decker buses and watch London go by. It's like a really cheap tour of the city.



Contemplate sitting on the bus all day long to see the sights. Decide this is childish. Do it anyway.

What they don't tell you

So it turns out I'm a lazy travel writer. I got all greedy with the amazing food and culture and sightseeing and decided my readers (if I had any) would be far more appreciative of travel pieces that had time and effort put into them. Not brief, mangled posts written at bus-stops and train stations and hotel lobbies at ungodly hours.



And this is what they don't tell you. That six weeks of travelling will undoubtedly be made up of the most mundane, impatient, long, gruelling, over-heated, sickness-inducing micro moments rather than 24 hours of amazingness a day.



They don't tell you that you will in fact get sick from bushing your teeth in crappy water in crappy hotels in barren locations. They don't tell you that you will wait an hour for the one bus that services an entire island. Or that 40 degree heat will make you want to do nothing but lie in an air-conditioned hotel room, even if the collesseum is mere metres away. That there are thousands of other people just like you at Every Single famous building, monument, painting or view. That you will queue for over an hour to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Or even that after awhile you will become completely desensitised to the pure fantastic-ness of your location. That after awhile all the little islands will look the same.



What they also don't tell you is that between every line of shoving tourists, after you've lost your last US$20, before the fiftieth Italian taxi driver rips you off and during the fourth stomach-churning ferry ride, something will happen. A moment of contentment. Goosebumps.



It's when your standing outside the Bellagio hotel in Vegas. It's midnight and you've left everybody else at the club just to watch the water show. It's writing postcards on a bus while your chugging down Route 66. Seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. Biking through the cobbled streets of Paris, in the rain, in a gaudy plastic poncho, trying not to get hit by traffic. The deliciousness of your first baguette by the Seine. Making like the Romans and having a siesta during the day and venturing out through the back alleyways at night, finding a piazza and devouring spaghetti, red wine, crusty bread, tiramisu. Black coffee. More red wine. Italian waiters whispering in your ear that they love you. The most amazing sunset you have ever seen in the most unusual spot. Deciding to head to bed straight after dinner in Ios but instead stumbling across a Greek band playing in the square, families dancing. Hours wasted.



It's looking back and realising that really, in fact, everything was just as it should have been.

I left my heart in San Francisco

Jimi Hendrix's 'All Along the Watchtower' rang in my ears all day yesterday as I explored the birthplace of free love, free sex, free drugs and, well, freedom. In the 1960s and 1970s San Fran was the hub of all things hippie including the 1967 Summer of Love where hippies congregated at Haight-Ashbury Streets and Golden Gate Park to smoke drugs, preach free love and have al fresco sex. This was closely followed by the emergence of the gay right's movement (San Fran is now dubbed the gay capital of the world).

Today hints of San Fran's history are plain to see. Many of the famous Victorian houses that line San Fran's streets are painted in 'psychadelic' bright colours. Haight-Ashbury is still a popular spot for musicians and artists. The long street is jam-packed full of vintage stores, tattoo parlours, drug paraphenelia outlets and music stores. Likewise Golden Gate Park is a popular place to sit and play music, read a book or contemplate the beauty of mother nature.

What I loved about San Francisco is its variety and size. Many of its famous locations are within walking distance from one another, or are easily serviced by buses and cable cars. Thus, one doesn't have to travel far to see all the wonders San Fran has to offer. And there are many wonders. No two block corners are the same.

From shopping mecca Union Square I managed to leisurely stroll through Chinatowown and the Italian district where I stopped for lunch at a delicious Italian cafe and watched the sun-worshippers in nearby Washington Square Park. From there I ambled up what felt like The Steepest Street In The World to the Crookedest Street In The World. A quick cable-car ride later (where I literally hung onto the side like in the movies) and I was in Alamo Square where the famous 'Painted Ladies' reside in all their beauty. A relaxing stroll through Golden Gate's Shakespeare Garden later and I feel like a local.

Something tells me I'll be back.

Vegas Baby

Possibly the most uttered phrase in America- Vegas baby. Now I know why. Despite the fact that Vegas wasn't high on my 'must see' list, I completely and utterly succumbed to Vegas' wiley charms . There's something about the bright lights, gaudy billboards, beautiful people and obvious over-the-top extravagance that is very seductive. The best way to describe Vegas is that it's like Disneyland. With alcohol. Lots of alcohol.

Though I neither drank nor gambled I still felt like a rock-star in Vegas. Take our first night for example. It turns out Ryan's good buddy is the biggest club promoter in Vegas so we were granted free front of line privileges at Cat Club. Women also recieved free champagne all night. Chris had a private booth with free juice and Skyy Vodka. A fat bald man dressed in a suave black suit, he lapped up the attention from the Contiki girls and boasted about how he partied at the Playboy mansion.

The next day I shopped to my heart's content, took a perverse walk through the Bellagio's beautiful lobby (as seen in Ocean's 11) and then spent the ensuing afternoon in the hotel pool with a group of friends. The alcohol flowed, the sun was hot and the music was loud. That night we took in a variety show at Planet Hollywood then stretch-hummered it to the Little White Chapel where our group happily took part in the renewal of Shaun and Paige's wedding vows.

A hummer, a wedding, a club and a pool. That's Vegas Baby.

Goosebumps

You know that feeling when something really great is happening to you but there's also a feeling of sadness because you know it can't last forever? Well that pretty much sums up the past two days. Starting with a hot air balloon ride over the Pheonix desert at sunrise, to watching the sun set over the Grand Canyon. Can life get much better?

There's something quite surreal about floating over the desert in a giant balloon. Being in the desert itself is quite odd. It really does look like the movies complete with cactuses and miles and miles of barren land. While no tumbleweeds blew past, I was waiting...Coming from New Zealand with its lush green pastures and its beautiful beaches, I found it hard to believe a desert could be beautiful, but floating above one, well, its certainly peaceful.

Two hours floating in the air was followed by a champagne breakfast at what was described to us as 'Pheonix's top restaurant'. In reality we ate at a picnic table next to some cactuses after landing (more like crash landing and tipping) quite literally in no-man's land. Champagne has never gone down so good.

After a brief stop in gorgeous Sedona (this was the exact phrase Ryan used and I can quite happily confirm Sedona's gorgeousness) I slept the two-hour drive to the Grand Canyon. After only a four-hour sleep the night before, coupled with the 40 degree heat, I was feeling tired and grumpy. I just wanted to get to the nearest shower and bed.

Ryan had other ideas. Two minutes away from our lodge at the Grand Canyon we stopped in a car-park and walked to what he only described as a look-out point.

I don't think anything has ever overwhelmed me as much as the sight of the Grand Canyon did.

Spine tingling stuff. Exhaustion was immediately forgotten. And the following day was spent exploring as much as possible. Within reason. Every year there is always one person who goes into the canyon and doesn't come back out. Its easy to see why. The Angel Trail we hiked was very deceptive. We trekked forty minutes downhill before realising the walk back uphill wouldn't be as easy (to put it mildly). If I hadn't packed smart the 30 degree heat would certainly have killed me. I went through three litres of water in four hours.

I ended up spending six hours walking in and around the canyon. Savouring every last moment and feeling wistful to only have one day there. The day ended watching a stunning sunset from Hopi Point- a popular point to watch the sun go down. A perfect ending to a perfect day.

Arid zone

This is the english translation of Arizona (Spanish). And arid it certainly is. The mediocre weather we have been having since Saturday has gone from one extreme to the other in the form of 40 degree temperatures.

Our six hour long bus-ride through the desert - six hours to be precise- was rewarded with cold beer on arrival at the Days Inn hotel in Pheonix. Better yet it was served in the pool.

A short time later we participated in the most American activity one could possibly hope to do while in the USA- watch a baseball game. Not only this but we even had hotdogs and beer (yeah okay, I don't normally drink beer but I figured I would get into the spirit of the things), and the largest, most delicious cookie I have ever eaten.

San Diego

San Diego is growing on me. Initially I was disappointed with the coastal city. To me, it looked like another downtown Los Angeles- dirty, littered with homeless people, nothing to really do (unless your interested in the Navy or the Marines, both of which have training grounds in San Diego. Their ships actually dominate San Diego's port).

Today though I practised what Ryan preached- being a traveller, not a tourist.

So I've devoured San Diego's best asset wholeheartedly- the Mexican food. And I'm not just talking nachos. Mexican food largely consists of tacos, burritos, enchiladas, tostadas, fajitas and my new favourite- corn chips with beans, guacamole and spicy sauce. Being on Tijuana's border, hints of Mexico are everywhere, from the cafe's that boast authentic Mexican food and Monday Margerita specials, to the names of it's towns (a la San Miguel).

Likewise, my favorite part of our two days here was this afternoon when we people-watched at Mission Beach (San Diego's answer to LA's renowned Venice Beach) sat on the white sand and, you guessed it, ate Mexican.

And I'll leave you with this.

This margerita was about 700ml and cost me $4.

.

It's not bad, it's just different

This is the motto of our tour guide Ryan. He also challenges us to try and be travellers rather than tourists. Tourists take a zillion photos and complain about everything. Travellers immerse themselves in other cultures and put themselves out there.

To be honest, I'm finding it hard to immerse myself in American culture. Bottomless sodas the size of my head? Not bad, just different. Highways with holes in them? Not bad, just different. Fatty food and seedy Spanish men? Not bad, just different.

On the flipside, with San Diego being right on the Mexican border, I am enjoying vast amounts of authentic Mexican food.

The day before

"But we're never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy..."

Seal




You're on a swing. You've got your momentum going. You're as high as the creaky chains will allow, you don't even need to push your legs anymore. The wind is in your hair and you feel light as a feather. Suddenly you're too high, too fast. Instinctively you put your feet on the ground as if to break but you're travelling too fast and inevitably your legs skid along the bark making a loud scraping noise. For what seems like forever you're in limbo, sliding, unable to fully apply the brakes.

For the past week I have been on the proverbial swing, my final destination approaching rapidly, me powerless to slow down the descent. The last few days have been filled with the odd feeling of un-employment, final farewells, bottomless to-do lists, the dreaded packing process and major 'what ifs' and 'how to's.

Packing has culminated in a frustrating cycle of packing, weighing, un-packing, re-packing, re-weighing and discovering the suitcase weighs more than ever before. And of course the vicious cycle only provokes the more inane thoughts floating at the forefront of my mind. For example, sure it may seem ridiculous now to pack two face-scrubs, three day creams and no less than three billion mini shampoos and conditioners, but my inate thriftiness (or stinginess) has pointed out that the last thing I'll want to be spending my precious pounds on is toiletries after leaving an arsenal of products at home. Practicality will surely intervene anytime soon. Surely.

And despite the fact that my suitcase is practically bursting at the seams, my room still looks the same. Books are still on shelves, DVDs are on top of the TV, Vanity Fair and Vogue are still messily stacked as if the reader will be back at any minute. Favourite photos are still in frames. This pains me. To be unable to transport all my creature comforts at a time when everything will be so unfamiliar is driving a wedge through my heart.

Buy new books, take new photos, collect other magazines my head says. It is supposed to be a new life after all. Suddenly the old life doesn't seem so bad. Suddenly staying at home, in bed, sounds like the proper solution to everything. Flying to the other side of the world to start a new life? Crazy. What was I thinking.


Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I am going to be cheesy and lazy and finish with lyrics from my favourite travel song. Wish me luck.


Maybe Tomorrow- Stereophonics

I've been down and I'm wondering why
these little black clouds keep walking around with me

It wastes time and I'd rather be high
think i'll walk me outside and buy a rainbow smile
but be free
they're all free

So maybe tomorrow I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow I'll find my way home

I look around at a beautiful life
been the upperside of down
been the inside of out
but we breathe
we breathe

I wanna breeze and an open mind
I wanna swim in the ocean
wanna take my time for me
oh me

So maybe tomorrow I'll find my way home...

The perfect companion

We all know about the pain of finding the perfect pair of jeans. They've got to fit properly, be the right length, reflect current fashion trends, go with all your other clothing items and lastly, but most importantly, they must be comfortable.

Little known to most, the pain of finding The Perfect Suitcase is excruciatingly similar.

I was looking forward to the purchase of The Perfect Suitcase. It was my last thing To Do on a long list of To Dos and it's purchase was to signal the commencement of the packing process- something I will only begin once it's very, very close to departure time, so as not to excite myself too much. (And obviously because packing one's clothes away too far ahead is highly impractical).

Not only this, but this is my first suitcase. My very own. Prior trips I've bagged, borrowed and stealed luggage. Due to the fact that my ticket was a one-way, it was time to be independant and purchase my own. Much like one invests in a good pair of jeans in the hopes that they will last a long time, through good times and bad, through wear and tear, I had the same high hopes of my suitcase.

Firstly, it had to look good and it had to stand out. It was important for me not to be searching for yet another black suitcase in a carousel full of one million other black suitcases, yet I didn't want to embarass myself by rolling up in chic Paris with a gaudy one-tone pink, blue or red.

It had a size and weight limit. Allowance for the Air New Zealand flight: 20 kilos. Size requirements for the Contiki tour: A paltry 75cm x 50cm x 25cm. However, it had to be big enough to quite literally compartmentalise my life into.

And lastly, yet most importantly, it had to be comfortable. Easy to roll around airports and subway stations, not too heavy to be lifting off carousels and out of taxis.

Six hours, two girlfriends and one caffeine hit later, The Perfect Suitcase was located, purchased and stowed away in the wee boot of my car. And just like how the non-designer denim we find doesn't look the same way a pair of Louis Vuitton's would, my suitcase wasn't the beautiful one I had pictured (adorned with a glowing halo)but it still had it all. Colour, flair, size and comfort.

I lugged it off the shelf as I would a carousel. I wheeled it down the aisles with the steely determination of those who vie to be the first through customs. I zipped and unzipped, mentally decided where the shoes and dirty laundry would go. I pretended to rifle through layers of clothing to find the perfect outfit for the Moulin Rouge.

And the most ironic thing? The equivalent to the perfect pair of (non-Louis) jeans was found at none other than The Warehouse. For a bottom-of-the-barrel price. (I can feel fashionistas the world-over recoiling). And so, with the Perfect Suitcase now sitting in the corner of my room, upright and beaming, it dawns on me that now is the time to start filling it.

Something tells me this is going to be a far harder task than finding the vessel was.

That niggling feeling

You know the one I mean. When you're pretending that something is what it isn't. Like your conscience when you call in sick, or your gut when you know someone is lying to you. That little voice in your head that goes, "hmmmm", a bit like a disapproving mother. That foreboding feeling when all is not well.

Well that niggling feeling has been, well, niggling, for a few weeks now. It happened again at dinner tonight. My amazing birthday dinner with my nearest and dearest, closest, loves-of-my-life friends. And then the niggling feeling. Will I make any friends in London? And more importantly, will they be as good as the ones I have now? And then that gut instinct. Yes, you will make friends and no, they won't be as amazing as the ones you have now.

And here come the questions. Whose going to look after me when I'm sick? Will I need to start cooking for myself again? What if I have to, gasp, have an injection while I'm away and there's nobody there to hold my hand? What if i get hit by a car and get ammnesia? (Jane Doe is such a tacky name). What if somebody kidnaps me and nobody ever notices?

Okay, so maybe the niggling feelings are what we call irrational feelings. Irrational, yet highly practical questions. I mean, I haven't cooked in six months, chances are I will reingnite the fire that blazed through London in the dark ages and wiped out ninety five percent of the city. As a matter of fact I think I clearly remember my Lonely Planet guide stating categorically that that fire was in fact started by a young lady on her first venture into the Rest of the World. Crap. What have I got myself into?

The urge to splurge

The first question people inevitably ask when they hear I’m going travelling is where I’ll be visiting. And then, somewhere between the ten day road trip around California, the layover in London and Paris, the train ride to Capri and the boat-ride around the Greek Islands, their eyes start to glaze over and so follows: Geez, how much is that all going to cost?

Personally, I think the cost of travel is negligible. It’s like renewing your vehicle registration, or buying groceries, or paying for medical care. Sometimes you just don’t have a choice.

Picture sun-tanning off the Amalfi Coast in Italy- no job (or more importantly, no more 12-hour shifts), no relationship troubles, no responsibilities. Throw in a glass of red wine and some authentic Italian food and I'll bet you're not worried about the cost now are you? Well, I’m not anyway. As you’re not the one going to be sun-tanning, you probably still care.

It’s true however, that as my departure becomes increasingly closer my budget has become whittled down to a fine toothpick. Not just for tripping around sun-drenched spots, but for my New Life in London. Or my attempt at a New Life in London. If my money runs out it will be re-labeled a Brief Flirtation with London which ended with an Embarrassing Plane-ride Home.

According to my trusted 1000-page Lonely Planet guide, London is the most expensive city in the world. Sure, rent is high ($300 New Zealand dollars a week for a shared flat), but after perusing a list of basic British living expenses I’ve decided Londoners must either be a pack of whingers or really bad with money. One pound for a newspaper? Cheap. 10 pounds for a pub meal? Reasonable. 100 pounds to catch the Eurostar to Paris? Fricken bargain.

Which brings me to the reason why I’m starving myself of material goods. Not because I’m afraid London might really bleed my bank account dry. But because I’m worried that London might bleed my bank account so dry that I won’t even be able to afford a Paris guide book, let alone a romantic jaunt to Paris for the weekend. And there are other jaunts planned too. Ireland, Amsterdam, Florence, Provence and even New York City are all on the itinerary.

So you see we mustn’t dwell on the cost. We mustn’t dwell on the fact that my shoes have holes in them, or that I haven’t had a hair-cut in six months, or even that I’ve taken to borrowing travel guides from the local library rather then buying my own. Because if all of that saves me $100, then that’s 100 euro (oh alright, 50 euro), that will be spent on prosciutto and camembert baguettes by the Seine, the glass of red in Italy (oh okay, bottle), and maybe even bangers and mash in London.

Home for three weeks

How exactly do you find a comfortable, safe, clean new home, albeit temporary, when your choosing from grainy images half-way across the world?



Luckily I have a system. And perservance. And high standards.



The mission: To find a hostel to reside in upon touching down in London. Somewhere to stay for a minimum of weeks, maximum of months. A cosy nest that I can return to after pounding the streets of London and weathering the storm of rejection. Somewhere with windows. And white sheets. And not necessarily filled with other travellers whose own homelessness has left them in a state of , shell we say, neglect?



Fortunately for me, I have found such a place. Well, I suppose that actually remains to be seen since I have yet to be there. But my system of googling, visiting webpages and then cross-checking against TripAdvisor reviews has lead me to London's Best Budget Hotel (literally, awarded in 2008), Palmer's Lodge.

It has everything. Shiny timber bunks, clean linen, free breakfast, free internet, cosy lounges with fires, and a beautiful Victorian facade, in a nice village to boot.

Sure, it's not home. But I can pretend for awhile.

Five weeks to go

That's me. The one on the left. I'm cold, the freaks on the subway have scared the shit out of me and I've been awake for 15 hours and counting. But I'm at Times Square.

It always bewilders me when people are perfectly happy staying put. Or not even necessarily staying put, but not accelerating their lives in any real way. A bit about me- I have itchy feet. I get bored. Easily. I change radio stations before a song hits it's chorus. I have no idea what my real hair colour is. I idle between neurotically clean and scarily lazy. I work in hospitality despite having a degree in journalism and even though people really bug me. Some days I subsist on coffee, sex and cigarettes, the next I preach total love for my body, drink tea, do yoga and read The Secret.

The point is. After approximately 15 years in school, six months in full-time employment, 22 years of living in the same town shortly followed by a five-year relationship implosion, London is Calling.

Rewind two months to scene where I sign up for a working visa online.

Mum: Are you sure this isn't just a knee-jerk reaction to the break-up?
Me: Yes. So.
Mum: What if he wants you back?
Me: He'll have to come to London.
Mum: But what will you do over there?
Me: I guess we'll find out.

And so we wait.