Arriving

"Everything looks like Coronation Street."

The tall brick houses reminded me of everything I should expect from England and I felt safe in the knowledge that I had finally travelled sufficiently far enough away from home to finally breathe a sigh of relief.

I stayed in a backpacker's that night, courtesy of Bunac.  For some reason I cannot place that hostel now, lost in a sea of varying recollections. The streets were small but crowded and I felt claustrophobic. I slept with my belongings tucked closely to my body as I slept in a dorm housing men of various nationalities.

The next morning I went downstairs and enquired as to why I wasn't in a mixed dorm. The young guy looked at me blankly and said, "You were."

I didn't leave the hostel after breakfast of tea and toast. I calmly did my laundry, leaning up against the tumble dryer for hours as I read a magazine, the closest thing to normality I'd had in six weeks. I took strange pleasure in folding my hot laundry just the way I figured any independent adult would and packing it neatly away in my suitcase, pretending it was a set of drawers that didn't smell of airport. I reorganised the few belongings in my suitcase, the way one feng shuis their bedroom and I made a to do list.

I was tired and it was busy outside. London was busy. I lived in a city now and I knew that once I left the doors of the hostel I would have to deal with what was out there. I finished my magazine. Inhaled the smell of my my newly laundered clothes. And then set off for Swiss Cottage in north west London.

The one with Alice Ayers

Have you lived somewhere too long when you know the streets like the back of your hand? When you are able to identify locations you've already been, watching the play unfold two years later from the exact same spot?

  

Russia

Church of the Spilt Blood, St Petersburg

Ten minutes after leaving St Petersburg's airport I knew. Five burly Russian men surrounded Kate and I insisting we needed a taxi. We quickly relented once we realised that minus 18 degrees wasn't ideal dithering weather. We were assured the fare would be metered but it transpired when dropped off in front of a bunch of old warehouses that we would be charged more than the price of five night's accommodation for two people, for a twenty minute drive. It took us about 45 minutes to find our hostel which was signposted with crayon written on a piece of scaffolding in front of a precarious set of stairs that lead to a heavy duty door of an old warehouse, one of about 15 in an otherwise vacant lot. Two single sheets to cover a queen-sized bed and one flannel later we lay in bed, wondering what could possibly happen next.

The next morning we met the occupants of the other rooms. Everybody was living there. The manager was a curiously tall Rusky who wore short denim cut offs with thermals and two fluero hoodies at a time; one pink, one green. He spoke good English and chatted thoughtfully and eloquently, often scratching his beard for emphasis. The others were young. Another Russian with a red mohawk and large headphones who sat on his computer all day and never changed his clothes. The only thing I ever heard him say was, "Money is the source of all the world's problems." I wondered if his parents knew where he was. I wondered if any of their parents knew where any of them were. A very, very thin Korean man with excellent Russian and English who claimed his computer had been stolen from his room the month before. He came to Russia to study the language. He helped us with directions and booking tickets and eventually we would bump into him at the supermarket in the evening while we all shopped for our evening meals. Two 18 year old Turkish lads who drank all of Kate's vodka and then proceeded to pester the guy with the mohawk for weed. They talked about the world's problems and admitted sheepishly that they were virgins. A 19 year old girl with the face of a 12 year old who answered the door. Two boys the same age as us who claimed to be realtors but didn't work a day we were there. They took us sightseeing that day but soon became exasperated with us. We didn't speak Russian and they didn't speak English except to repeatedly ask, 'How are you?' Later, after a bottle of wine, they mustered an 'I love you- will you marry me?'

We cooked in the kitchen every night and had McDonalds for lunch everyday. One particular McDonalds employee on Nevsky Prospekt loved us. She told us how much to pay for cheeseburgers. She made others give up their table so we could sit down and she could practise her English. Understand? Understand? She would ask.

I don't remember any of the museums, or the churches. Just these people. Coming home every night to cook in their crappy kitchen, sharing their booze and listening to dated western music until 5am.

The truth about itchy feet

Everybody is on the hunt to find me a husband. We talk about the amount of time I "have left" in hushed tones and everybody gives me pitying glances when I mention being kicked out of the country.

The truth is, I have roughly six months left in London and I am very aware of the fact that a marriage of conveinence is anything but, so yes, there is nothing I can put in place to stop this descent. No spousal visa, no ancestry visa, no British passport, no job, no sponsorship. It will be over. O-V-E-R.

It seems my friends and work colleagues are sadder about this than I am. The truth about itchy feet is that once you give them a scratch they just become .... itchier.

I have a friend who planned an eight week Contiki trip around Europe (visiting something like 101 countries) just to, in her own words, "get it out of her system." Now, she's talking about Russia, Africa and volunteering trips teaching kids English in third world countries.

I am the same. I have learnt that we don't need to be sad about the journeys that are finished, we can become excited about the ones that are about to start.

This is just the beginning.

You know you live in a big city when...

1. You're constantly on the offensive. Strangers will irritate you, everybody is incompetent and nothing is working as efficiently as it should. You start getting your fighting elbows ready even before you tap in on your Oyster card.

2. You're constantly late. Time speeds up, everything and everybody else is running late too. Punctuality is a quaint notion.

3. You're constantly busy. Staying home is incomprehensible. Home is for showering and sleeping. You look forward to a quiet night in which terminates at approximately 11pm when the boredom sets in.

4. You're constantly broke. See number 3.

5. You're constantly cooing at any patch of grass bigger than your bedroom. "Ooh look at the park it's so pretty and GREEN." Whatever happened to green?

6. You're no longer shockable. Everything is the norm, nothing is scary or superlative. The girl with the blue hair isn't crazy or cutting edge, she's a smurf riding the tube. The guy with the pick-axes tattooed on his cheeks isn't scary, he's hilarious. And probably a bit emo.

7. The possibility of doing anything you want at any time of the day is no longer thrilling, it's life.

8. You get carsick anytime you catch a cab and no longer miss driving down motorways.

9. You buy self-sufficient potted plants - for the windowsill, and are constantly scouting for more.

10. You're no longer afraid of getting lost.

11. You start referring to the city as your home and look forward to seeing it after every weekend away.

Paris

Believe it or not, this is Paris. My dad visited me in London in April and so for his birthday I got us tickets on the Eurostar to Paris for three nights.

I have to say, April was a perfect time to visit, it wasn't too hot and spring was approaching so the parks were absolutely brimming with beautiful flowers.

Dad, as you can see, was enarmoured with France's vehicles.

Despite being afraid of heights Dad braved it up the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower (my second time up the tower which is really bordering on greedy for me) .We also visited the Sacre Couer, Moulin Rouge, Champs de Elysee, the Louvre and Notre Dame.

In Montmartre one of the French buskers began playing a Finn brother's song which was rather hilarious and appropriate at the same time.

Paris is one of the few cities in the world that I could return to again, and again, and again.

Barcelona

This is what I love about alleyways. You find cute boutiques (L) and you find the soul of a city (R).

Mel and I were very, very hungover on this day (we had spent the previous night in Ibiza). We spent several hours sleeping in our air conditioned room after getting off our flight and then set out for a long, long walk around Barcelona's streets.

After this photo was taken, a few paces away, a guy on a bike sped past an elderly woman and ripped the necklace off her neck.

Later, Mel and I went and got a sandwich from a local bakery and sat in a small square and people watched.