Beep beep, beep beep, yeah!

Pretty - but not so much when stuck in the middle of it busting for the toilet....

There are a few things that frighten me.  Tarantulas crawling on my body and drinking the drool out the corner of my mouth while I'm asleep (apparently spiders do that you know - who hasn't heard the hopefully bullshit story that humans consume about 8 spiders over their lifetime while asleep).
Another fear relates to having my legs bitten off by sharks while trying to get the water out of my snorkel mask (they say it just feels like you snagged your leg on something, but I find it hard to believe that having your favourite limbs reduced to a tangled mash of blood and ripped tendons wouldn't give the sensation that you were being blow-torched and then having lemon juice squeezed all over the open weeping wounds).  A further thing of fright is the homeless lady I saw masturbating openly on a bus once.  Old Ginny still haunts my waking nightmares on occasion, while I haven't ridden a bus since.  A homeless lady's fanny is definitely a sight not worth jotting down on the "Must See"s .  And the final thing that frighten me is driving in Israel.  Mainly Tel Aviv.

Photos never seem to capture the beeping and abuse pouring forth from rolled down windows

For fucks sake.  I haven't seen a bigger mash up since me and my friends took over the dodgem car stand at my tenth birthday.  Seriously it's more touch and go than the time I mended my axle with masking tape.  And I have never seen a worse collection of drivers since Girls Day Out at the Asian driving school for the visually impaired.  And it's not just the car drivers.  Yesterday I spotted an old lady cruising down one of the main streets of Tel Aviv on her granny cart.  She did not give a flying fuck that she was in the fast lane and 20 000 cars were beeping at her.  Not one tiny morsel of doubt that perhaps she shouldn't be doing exactly what she was doing.  I admire her cheek, but not her outfit.  Definitely not her outfit.

Let us now lightly touch on the pedestrians.  They are the Royal Family of I Don't Give a Shit.  They will just march onto the road, anytime, any place.  Some will put out their hand to stop you as they cross a manic intersection - like they think they're a bloody traffic cop or something.  But most will just casually saunter out, like they have all the time in the world.  And perhaps they do.  They will hardly react to the cloud of burning tire haze that results from you having to break your foot trying to slam on the brake as hard as you can.  If at all they notice the beep, then there will be a "What??? Can't you see I'm walking here" kind of look with accompanying gestures.  It is infuriating.  But what can you do?  Kill them for payback??? It is tempting..............

Why worry about others when a falafel beckons.....

There is but another source of my fury and fear.  Mainly fury in this instance......It's the double parkers.  Now, I have been known to indulge in a double park on rare occasions.  But if so, it is the quickest mission known to man - eg. a DVD slot return at Blockbusters in the Woolworths car park.  What it is not, is a casual double park in an actual lane of one of the the busiest roads right through the centre of the city, when the car's occupant is actually sitting down at a a table eating a falafel.  I've also seen cars just pull to a halt mid lane and park there - sometimes they will attempt to mount the footpath, but will of course do a shit job and most of their vehicle will still be blocking off one lane of a two lane central road.  Then, if the beeping starts (which it inevitably does), does the driver realise his unspeakable error and move on?  As if.   Instead, the hazard lights are put on.  This honestly is the land of the driver who lives by the motto "I do not give a fuck, I am doing what I want and nobody can stop me".   Everyday we venture onto the roads it seems to be getting scarier.  It's like we're in a video game, and as we draw near to the end of our time in Israel we move up a level.  Currently we are on level 28 of our game, and I truly fear for level 29 and 30.  We literally nearly killed a man and 2 kids on bikes yesterday, when they walked out across the road hidden from our sight by a bus.  I still feel sick thinking about it.

Nothing like a terrorist check to slow down the flow.....

Another beauty is the "park save".  Fury inducing rather than fear here......This is where people will go and stand in a free parking space and ring their friends on their mobiles to tell them they've found them a space .  Then they will block that area from all other drivers trying to get into that very park.  The first time I saw it I couldn't believe it.  We actually had an all out brawl with the "saver" insisting that there was no way that kind of thing could be done.  We lost.  To a fifteen year old girl.  They breed them tough here.  When we finally found our own park and arrived 40 minutes late to the restaurant, we opened up about our story of hardship and outrage.  It was met with no sympathy. Apparently there is nothing wrong with doing this people.  As neither is there anything wrong with parking your Smart Car, bumper to gutter in a space between two parked cars.  A space so tiny that there is zero way for the properly parked car (i.e. us) to get out.  While we're at it, pulling out in front of people should be done at anytime without indication.  If you are in a lane that's supposed to be going straight ahead and you realise that you fucked up and want to turn into a side street, don't worry!  Just make sure your indicator is not on and cut across in front of the car next to you (again, us) which is going straight ahead and travelling at 60kmph.

Do you think someone from Yafo designed this sign?

Herbert Samuel by night

There is just one thing that makes me know that we are going to get out of here alive, and with no children's blood on our hands (or tires - that stuff is tricky to remove once it congeals), and that is the fact that Yom Kippur started tonight.  This is the solemn day of the year where sins are accounted for, and then prayers are said accordingly.  No issues for me there, as I am perfect.  Instead my favourite part is that there is NO DRIVING anywhere in Israel.  If you drive a car today, you will be fined by any police that spot you, have rocks chucked at you, or at the very least, have dozens of irate sinners put curses on you (Is putting a curse on someone a sin though?  And if so, does it go onto this year or next year's list of naughty acts?)  The once busy streets and highways are empty of cars, and instead filled with kids on bikes, has-beens from the 90s on roller-blades, old people in wheelchairs and scores of people taking a mid-highway stroll.  For reasons relating to purity (I think), nearly everybody is wearing white - like they are going to P. Diddy's Christmas party or something.  And nearly everyone is also very hungry and thirsty due to the 25 hour fast from eating AND drinking. That's a beauty in a place which averages temperatures in the early 30s daily during late September.  No bloody water.  Hmmm challenging.  Last night at midnight, the busy road that runs along the beachfront was still jampacked with street walkers (not the slutty type).  They are an awfully energetic bunch for people in a dehydrated state of partial starvation.

And by day......

All I see here is someone who ate far too much hummus.....

The main thing I couldn't get over was the silence.  You could hear the ocean and it was just so incredibly relaxing with no cars on the road. A completely surreal experience in such a busy city - which has serious traffic issues.  So peaceful.  So quiet around the city.  Some people were out wandering around, or riding pushbikes, but mostly the streets were empty.  There is nothing broadcast on television during the day either.  Some people described it to me beforehand, as like the aftermath of a apocalypse.  I disagree.  Everyone is far too calm.  Spaced-out rather than frantic.  I think it's the hunger.  Although I have fasted before, I have never gone a few hours without water.  To go 25 hours without a drink was something I won't be keen to do again.  Sometimes I only do things because I  previously thought that there's no way I'd ever do such a stupid thing (kind of like running a marathon.  I'm sure people still think I'm mental because of that).  Anyway, as we planned to break the fast with our relatives, we were on the road just after dark, with the pedal to the metal - trying to get there for a god dam drink already.  A few cars were out and about, but not so many that it was all hectic again.  Those who were driving were pretty much fanging it as fast as they could go.  They were also about to drop dead from dehydration.  Anyway, the first drink of water was just as Sunny said it would be.  Absolutely incredible.  As was the cold mango.  As my dehydration headache wore off, I began to feel that doing a fast like that is a fantastic experience.  Funny how experiences in retrospect take on an entirely new appreciation.  So my first impressions of Yom Kippur??? Unbelievable.  I wish it was Yom Yippur everyday.....apart from the thirst and hunger, no shops being open, no TV, and the constant napisan-ing of your whites you'd need to do.....oh and having to repent for running over that pensioner the week before.  Though they were asking for it......honestly.......

Marguerita - A beautiful life lived beautifully

Some people in this world have an immediate impact on you.  Marguerita Hanly was one of these people.  I met her for the first time ten years ago, when she gave me a lift home from a party at the 'Nomads' in Byron Bay's industrial estate.  Perhaps not such a romantic beginning, but never-the-less, a joyful first meeting of a special and wonderful person.

Of course we got to know each other more and more, and I had the pleasure of sharing the wonderful Broken Head property with her, Byron, Hazza, Kijay, Lucy and of course, Poochie.  Such happy, happy memories of fun, laughter and interesting talks.  Marguerita had a very insightful way of seeing the world.  I think she made me understand a lot of things, including myself, a lot better.  She was wise beyond her years, but never a know-it-all.  She was spiritual, but always real.  Her sense of humor was inspirational, and I always felt like she had the perfect thing to say, whatever the circumstances.

She was kind, and so unbelievably loving.  She always made me feel like I was special, and whenever her and I talked, it was like there was nowhere else in the world she wanted to be.  She gave you every bit of her attention, and she really listened.  It's a rare thing.

She had so much life in her.  She was adventurous and she satisfied her curiosity about the world with travel, excitement and fun.  She was so interested in so many things.  She was passionate about her beliefs, and pro-active about them too.

She laughed a lot, and sung with such a sweet voice.  She had many gifts, and we were lucky that she shared them with us.  Her spirit shone so brightly, that it radiated out of her.  She touched everyone she met with it.

When we hugged the last time we saw each other, we both knew that we wouldn't meet again in this lifetime.  Yet she fought on with courage and strength, and showed us time and time again how brave and wonderful she was.  She was loved so much in her lifetime, and will be loved forever more.  A special place in all the hearts of those who knew her.

Beautiful Marguerita Hanly, who lived with love in her heart, and a twinkle in her eye.

Rest in peace.

All's Great - Apart from Apartments

We've rented quite a significant number of other people's pads over the years.  That's all good and well, but you really have to avoid thinking about such things like how dirty the pillows are beneath the cases; what that large pool of yellow sticky stuff is that greets you upon arrival from the bottom of the fridge; and what exactly the carpet stinks of.  Also, a rather special tip here, so pay attention; never fish anything out from the shower drain.  The accidental seizing of that mat of rotting stranger's pubes that becomes entangled around your fingers, will then require a small fortune spent on counselling if you want to live a normal life again.  Or a lot of alcohol.  Or both simultaneously.....

It's all about the crumble

Sometimes you get a delightful surprise, but more often than not, you can certainly find at least 5 things to complain about.  Then come the attempts to try and get some money back, or a free night, or a hamper of treats.....or something.  At the very least, with enough complaining, you can get the owner to send in a cleaning team and suck out 3 litres of rank black water that smells like feet out of the upstairs carpet.  Even if you are not that phased about the general condition, seeing what you can get away with, as far as receiving freebies goes, is an interesting exercise.  Don't accept a heartfelt apology - that is a cop out.

Ride away, ride awaaaaay

You can do a number of things to ensure that the claimed "state of the art" television does not reveal itself, on arrival, to be a 80s model reclaimed from the tip.  Get details about what exactly is in the apartment.  Be sure to find out if there are enough beds/bedding etc.  Make sure that things like WiFi passwords are supplied beforehand.  If they have a folder on all apartment relevant information, be aware that this is usually not in fact relevant after all.  Instead of instructions on how to use the incomprehensible washing machine, there are suggestions such as "Take a funky brunch in the downtown hipster hangout "Flour + Water".  I would suggest going anywhere but  Flour + Water, as it sounds all you'd get there is a room full of wankers and some glue-like paste.  Instead, check to see if they have clauses such as "If you don't wash all dishes and take out your rubbish you will be charged 200 bucks".  Hint: this is usually right at the back in small writing.  I would also ask where you actually put that expensive-to-neglect garbage, especially if you are in an apartment block.  Pray they have one of those shoots on your level - those things rock.

I've said it before - it all looks good from the air

There are other things you should perhaps ask before having your soul crushed by an absolute shithole, parading under the catch phrase "Romantic Hideyhole".  There's nothing romantic about the previous tenant's poo blocking the toilet so badly that you have to plunge it away, and mop up the surrounding water with a face washer.  Although, actually asking the landlord about this heinous possibility prior to arrival could result in you being labelled slightly off.  I would also check to see if your "Private Hilltop Home" in Costa Rica actually has a construction site next door, complete with sleazy workers, who, when not using nail guns and drills that scare away the toucans, stand on the roof overlooking your garden and heckle you while you're trying to sun bake your arse cheeks and read Eat Pray Love without becoming nauseous.

When renting in Israel, I would recommend not getting your hopes up.  Even if you splash out a fortune for a taste of luxury, prepare for a let down.  As I regularly mention, the "crumbling chic" look is in here.  Maybe drop the "chic".  This is the fourth time we have rented a place in Tel Aviv, and lets put it this way - we never go back to the same place twice.  It's hard to keep apartments clean here - the floors always turn your feet black no matter how many times you shuffle around on a towel with a bottle of spray and wipe. A particularly crappy joint we had a couple of years ago, was fitted out so completely on the cheap, that we had to go out and buy new sheets, pillows and towels.  If there's one thing that keeps me awake at night, it's sleeping on a lumpy pillow which is stained brown, while wondering how many scabies are crawling in my ear hole.  Furthermore, there is nothing worse than drying yourself daily on a tiny, faded, child's beach towel with holes in it originating from 1970.  Of course, there is worse (like AIDS and war), but you just aren't as likely to find it hanging on the towel rack in your cheap and nasty (emphasis on the nasty) apartment.  In this particular mansion, there was also a large hole in the bathroom roof with wires hanging out.  Apparently someone was coming to fix it.  It took 2 weeks.

Really puts you off whipping up a batch of cupcakes

Danish design furniture

We can now pick a cheaply furnished joint from a few dodgy photos.  An uncomfortable scratchy couch, a useless bed, passé decorations, old appliances, a lack of parking, insufficient light - all of these unattractive items are either used to negotiate a better deal, or signify a craphole we should keep a wide berth from.  But of course, it all falls apart sometimes, even now, after all these years of experience in such matters.  For example, there's no way to pick an oven that hasn't been cleaned in ten years from a photo (apart from the one above of course).   I would also suggest doing reconnaissance work on the noise situation.  Cities are all bloody noisy, but some parts, e.g  3 stories of intersecting highways outside your bedroom window in Tokyo; or locations next to bars where people like to stand on the street and sing a lot,  are considerably louder in the audio pollution department.  I mentioned the Costa Rican builders - well, always ask if there's any construction going on in the near vicinity.  Currently we are awoken each morning by a drill that starts at 6.45am in the wall next to our bedroom.  There has been a series of early morning irate calls to the manager, but we are yet to see any beneficial results from this.

Our Tokyo bedroom view 

The trouble is, that this is our third move since we got here.  The first apartment was the strangest building I have ever set foot in.  As the elevator doors opened we were instantly in the loungeroom.  No getting out, strolling down a corridor and opening the front door - it was like "BAM" - just make yourself at home.  The second weird thing was the amount of cupboards.  It's like the owner had previously had some kind of cupboard deficiency as a child and instructed the architect as such;
"I want cupboards EVERYWHERE.  I want them covering every available surface there is, I want them made out of wood, glass, plastic, metal.  I want cupboards on cupboards, and cupboards inside cupboards, and then a baby cupboard inside those.  I want a Babushka Doll-like series of cupboards here people......".

It was actually ridiculous.  Almost as ridiculous as the scungy jacuzzi on the roof.  The summer temperature in Tel Aviv is about 40 degrees - the last thing you want to do is sit on an unshaded roof top in a mini pool of scalding water and have yourself a good time.  The water was at near boiling temperature.  But.......let me now tell you about, by far, the most stupid feature.  This was a private elevator located in the kitchen that took you down one level only, to the bedrooms.  So so ridiculous, and annoying as well.  There were no stairs.  None to access the bedrooms below, and none at all in the entire block of silly flats.  And we were stuck here, having already paid for this rubbish.

The lift to our bedroom - the most stupid thing ever

An error made by yours truly, was however, to change our Tel Aviv apartment fate this trip......In Israel, you must turn on the hot water boiler prior to taking a shower unless you are one of those cold shower types.  If the switch is not on a timer, you must also remember to turn it off.  That's the tricky part.  Furthermore, you should avoid going to your partner's niece's wedding for 20 hours and neglecting to press "off". Ooooops.  When I got up the next day the lights had short circuited in the bathroom, and the light switch panel was burning hot.  There was also a strong smell of burning plastic.  An electrician was called and showed us the steam billowing out of the wall amongst all the wires, and the paint bubbling along the skirting boards.   He said that it was lucky that we weren't electrocuted in the shower.  He also said not to tell the manager that he had advised us so (due to fear of job loss) but if he was us, he would run as far away from this building as possible.  We didn't need to be told twice.  We declined to live in an extreme fire hazard that was outfitted in timber and had no stairs.  We packed our bags in 40 minutes.  I'd unpacked completely, therefore it took 35 of those minutes to check every cupboard for our belongings.

View from our current bathroom window - located in the shower - strange, but great for people watching

We were shown another apartment overlooking the beach.  Sounds nice?  It was filthy and old.  Apartments in Tel Aviv don't last well at the best of times.  There was also an ant problem.  So move again we did, and here we are in old Drill Central.  Though, apart from the drilling, we have been really sorted out this time.  The new place is clean(ish), light, and it has an amazing view over Tel Aviv beach. There's no antique boiler switch.  No beach towels masquerading as bath towels to be seen either.  But the best, and unheard of bonus, is the swimming pool located 4 floors down.  It's so hot here that I can't even consider going to the beach after 9 or before 5 - so an icy cold pool is welcome relief.  And perhaps the drillers are doing us a favour(??)  I would never normally wake up before 9 without a life/death type situation, so perhaps our early awakening at the hands of an overly efficient driller, allows us to make the most of our days......Don't mention this to our landlord as we're still going hard for the freebies to compensate for our "suffering"  Wish us luck, and don't dob on me about the boiler switch.....

Off To The Holy Land

Why are you so patchy Old Baldy?

The thing about travelling to Israel, is that you are totally aware of your destination before you even set a toenail in the country.  This is a place that does not muck around when it come to security - and quite rightly so.  At the airport in Paris, the check-in desks for people travelling to the Holy Land are compressed into a small area right at the far end of the departure zone.  There is only one way in, and at that point you are greeted by half a dozen young men and women clad in camouflage and shouldering extremely large machine guns.  You must get past them first to gain entry to the next point of scrutiny.  The army people want to know the airline you are flying on, and to take a gander at your ticket.  It's wise to co-operate - those machines guns don't exactly convey an understanding for any errors in forgetting to print off your e-ticket.

Don't try and take a photo of them either.  I found out how unacceptable it was to take pictures of spunky Israeli soldiers when I tried to do it on the sly once, while pretending I was taking photos of my sister near the Israeli/Jordanian border.  They were all over me faster than I could say "That one was a bit blurry I'm going for it again"....  Anyway, after you get past the airport army bitches, then come the civilian-dressed interrogators.  They comb the lines prior to check-in, and specialise in in-depth questioning about your reasons for going to Israel.  Again, co-operation is best. The guns are still in the near vicinity, and you would not be able to snatch one, no matter how many times you've seen The Bourne Supremacy.   If you can speak Hebrew, now is your chance to show off and try and make the interrogators like you.  I can't, so I hide behind Mark and pretend that I'm catching every word (hint: nod a lot and say "Ken")  If you have friends and family there, make sure you name drop, but also be sure you know where they live, and perhaps even have contact details on hand.

Tanks and Camels - just add a falafel and the image is complete

Although it is (of course) fine to visit Israel as a tourist, just allow enough airport time to have every square inch of your suitcase searched and scanned for explosive materials if they decide you warrant a good searching.  Don't put your dirty undies crotch-up at the top of your suitcase - I also found this out the hard way during my days of extensive searching.   If there's one thing you don't want some hot airport searcher to see, it's your scruds after their third rotation. This incident of course, was prior to having two blonde-haired blue eyed children (Israelis LOVE a blonde child), and now I can do no wrong as the partial creator of two angels.  Plus I do so much of their washing, that my own undies, by association, are generally less likely to be crusty.

It's all about the camels people

Also, be prepared to undergo extensive questioning if you have any stamps in your passport from countries such as Jordon, Turkey, Egypt, Lebanon etc.  If you are actually coming from a Muslim country, then certainly be ready to discuss your activities there.  When my sister and I entered Israel from Jordon, we were asked over and over again, if there was anyway some Jordanians had, unknowingly to us, got us to carry out some kind of activity that could be dangerous to Israel.  It is little wonder these measures are taken though, as when you stray slightly outside Israeli territories the following image is an example of what you can be greeted with (we took this shot in Jericho in the West Bank).  Actually, throughout the Arab regions in this area there is extremely strong anti-Israel sentiment, as of course you would expect if you have watched the news in the last 40 years.  However, to experience it firsthand is something else, and quite un-nerving.  If you plan to travel to Arab nations after visiting Israel at some stage, then ask Israel customs officials to stamp a piece of paper for you, rather than stamp your passport.  Just be sure to ask them for an extra receipt (because the stamped piece of paper is then taken as you exit customs), and without an entry stamp in your passport, it can make it tricky to hire an car, stay in hotels, and get tax exemptions.

Not exactly heartwarming graffiti in the West Bank

Another thing that lets you know you are in Israel before you even get there are the Israelis themselves. Even at the airport, they are already in Israel in their minds, and it's an interesting combination of caring community spirit mixed with a dog-eat-dog grab for your rights.  I love it.  It has taken me several visits now to get in the swing of the Israeli directness, and to stop being a sensitive, over-polite-at-my-own-expense sook, and to harden the fuck up.  I guess it had to happen one day.  New York City is also good for character hardening purposes....but then again, I think that NYC has more Jewish people in it than Israel.  I would describe the attitude as such; good humoured brutal directness.  Israelis say what they want, and when they want it, and without a trace of true aggression.  Somebody will yell at you to get out of the way, and you are in turn expected to yell back that you'll get out of the way in a minute and hey, what's your hurry???  Speak to your fellow Australians the way Israelis speak to each other, and instead of the eventual camaraderie that results after a exchange of semi-abuse, you would actually start a fist fight in the street.  It's like Australians have a mask of politeness that they hold onto determinedly until the fury builds up and up, and finally erupts like a volcano at the unfortunate pensioner who takes your carpark at Woolworths.  Israelis have no mask of politeness.  But they would never explode at poor old Doris, no matter how long they'd been waiting for a car space.

All I want to know is - can't the religious people design themselves a cooler outfit for summer?

When the plane finally touches down in Tel Aviv, cheers break out.  It is the only place where people are over-joyed to come home after a holiday.  On one flight into Israel, my beloved was dared by his three brothers (and with financial incentive) to sing Israel's national anthem when the plane touched down.  He started it off - naturally with a large dose of embarrassment, but the entire plane then joined in and 200 people had themselves a touching sing-a-long.  Try that anywhere else and people would think you were a bit mentally touched if you know what I mean.

Anyway, so here we are - walking around Tel Aviv saying "Shalom" to everyone and eating hummus.  It is hotter than the sun here, and we don't spend much time outside between about 10am and 5pm, but I guess we are in the desert, in the final peak of summer.  As far as things which are intrinsically Israeli, and you initially notice, let me list a few for you;

Hot chicks with guns.  And if they are not hot, they are definitely tough.....and that's hot;

Just doing beach time with your machine gun...as you do

Don't fuck with Limore

Next, people seem happier here than almost anywhere;

Also, there aren't hardly any beggars - especially for a large city;

One thing there is a lot of though, is dog shit....all over the footpath, and now, all over the bottom and sides of my white flip flops - Though there's not so much street shit as 3 years ago (I think they made a law since);

As well as poo, there are always lots of people in the streets too,  at all hours of the day - hanging out, playing cards, chess, soccer, eating, drinking, dancing, yelling at each other;

Random people talk to you a lot more here too - it's just a pity I can't understand them - they could be saying anything e.g "You just trod in dog shit lady".

Another sign that you're back in Tel Aviv, is that the entire city looks like it's about to fall down at any second - it's architectural theme is sort of "crumbling chic". It's all about the exposed wires and the rarely maintained.

Israelis also definitely have their own unique sense of fashion, and like anywhere, the young hot people look, for the most part, good.  But...... the majority of others look like they live at  Flat 1, Grotty Road, Slopsville, as some of their "interesting" choices of outfits make you instantly aware of where in the world you are.  I wish I had a good photo with which to back up my claims - but take it from me, the "Mature Slut" look is a popular choice.....

White jeans aren't for everyone....and especially not for her 

Bad colours, worse style 

This chick should have read my memo on the above image

Those boobs mean business

And lets not forget about the massive boobs nearly every woman is sporting.  I have never seen such a collection of giant knockers since I stumbled into a mannequin factory in Costa Rica.  Those bras are putting in some serious overtime.

But, by far the most obvious thing to me that signifies that I am, in fact, in Israel, is the general liveliness of the place.   Not to mention the appreciation and dedication people devote to having a good time.  Perhaps the fact that they have been through such hard times makes people really squeeze every drop of pleasure out of life.  Peace can be a fleeting thing here, so I guess you don't take it for granted, as many of us do......

It's brilliant country, and it's going to be my home for two years from next September.  Maybe they'll be even less dog shit on the streets by then........

Eating Croissants and Talking Donkeys

 a cliche, yet still pleasing image.....

As I last described, we squeezed onto that Eurostar by the skin of our arseholes.   Travelling between France and the UK is definitely preferable by train.  The space to move, the slightly better food, the less chance of plummeting to your death in the English Channel are all bonuses.  However, I suppose the under-sea tunnel could collapse and the channel could actually plummet on top of you.  This is actually a more terrifying scenario, as it means no chance of escape.  There's always a slim hope you can survive a plane crash into water - the blow up boats, the life jackets with those feeble little whistles that would have zip chance of attracting attention.  Also there's the illuminated strips on the life vests that allow you to watch all the other passengers drown around you......It's when I have thoughts like this that I know I'm turning into my mother.  It happens to all of us eventually.  There's been signs for a while.  For example, when I'm cross at the girls and I say "My word!!!" I realise I have plagiarised her favourite expression of disapproval.  "Goodness gracious me!" also provides shameful realisation.  She still hates the way I dress, so I rest assured that the transformation is not yet complete.

Poshest street in the world - Avenue des Champs-Élysées - not too posh for a gutter vomit outside Prada though

Arriving in Paris always gives a thrill.  The place is jam packed with old shit.  The train station is suitably old looking and has pigeons flying around in it.  Pigeons annoy me though.  However, I would have never said that to my grandfather, as he raised them all him life....alongside the marijuana.  Although the latter was a new hobby he took up in his late 70s.  Not for personal use of course, purely to make some cash.  Whenever I see a pigeon in the street I always fight the desire to get a kick in.  My brother accidentally made contact once in London when a flock went apeshit on the sandwiches he was delivering to offices around the city.   The flying offender, and subsequent victim of bird abuse, squawked in pain as the boot made contact.  It's wing appeared to be all dangly.  My brother said he felt instantly remorseful and went from "Fuck off you flying vermin" to "Oh little fella is your wing ok?", and unsuccessfully tried to craft it a splint out of an icy-pole stick.  Their reflexes must be dulled.  Since when can you succeed in kicking a bird?  Or maybe they are too fat from eating people's sandwiches to get out of the way in a hurry.  Anyway, learning from my brother - a.k.a The Pigeon Murderer - I have resisted my darker side when it comes to pigeons, no matter how much poo they do on my clean washing drying on the balcony.

I don't think this little fella is going to make a comeback any time soon

How can anybody not love Paris.  As far as cities go, it is probably the most beautiful in the world in my opinion.  Of course, like all cities, it is dirty, crowded, and noisy into the bargain.  But it has that certain something, that makes you feel like just being there has somehow rubbed off onto you, and has  made you a more stylish and culturally intellectual version of yourself.  These days we usually skip the cultural pretensions though, and give places like the Louvre a wide berth.  Priceless art and destructive dwarves don't mix.  We have ceased to travel with a stroller these days as well, so long days of wandering the picturesque streets are also interrupted by whining and all out howling.  I'm putting a question out to all the parents of children over three years.  For fucks sake, when do they stop crying more than a hundred times a day???  I'm actually interested - in a desperate sort of only-tell-me-if-it's-good-news kind of way.  This time round, our activities were limited to shopping and eating macarons.  That would be shopping for kids clothes, and them doing the macaron eating as well.  Although I did break a couple of times.  How can a mere human resist a coconut and white chocolate flavoured macaron?

sticky macaron hands (in an old shit Paris tunnel)

Jetlag also played a large role in our daily Parisian activities.  When the whole family is arising at 12pm and going to sleep at 3am consistently, and a certain parent (i.e moi) is making zero effort to change this,  it can be a tricky habit to snap out of spontaneously.  Our apartment was as cheap as chips, and because of this we were expecting it to be a bit on the grotty side.  Plus, it was located on the far outskirts of the area we typically stay in.  This actually turned out be be a bonus.  It was quiet - a rarity - and the apartment itself wasn't the total shithole we were bracing hard for.  All in all a good result.  The entrance of the apartment block was a large wooden door.  Unknown to us, it was also extremely similar to the one next door.  One afternoon I was trapped outside for 25 annoying minutes, failing to understand why the entrance code no longer worked.  This then led to a ring around each name on the door list, until some extremely attractive man buzzed me in.  Actually he could have been a deformed monster - the sound of the accent immediately converts to an out and out sexy fucker in my French speaking loving mind.  Of course it turned out I was outside, and then inside the wrong building after all that.  Although it did take me some extra time to actually realise this.  I just couldn't work out why the centre courtyard had been magically replaced by a large bike rack.

some old shit column in background

Unfortunately my high school French does not get me through a brief Parisian interlude without suffering social embarrassment.  My old French teacher, Madame Von Bibra would have been highly scornful.  She always had a look of extreme distaste when I walked into the room anyway.  Although this could have been her natural look - slightly sour, very snooty.  However, she was the type of person that you still wanted to like you.  Some people are like this.  They are complete bastards, but you still want to be their best buddy.   So desperate was I to join her elite group of pets, that I ground the Grade 7 Alliance Francaise poem into my head, hoping for a place on the school team.  Of course I didn't make the cut, and the result of this unfulfilled effort is that a poem about a little donkey is the only chunk of French I can remember.  I remember ever single last word, even 25 years later.  And that chunk does not leave an inch of brain space for any further French-speaking abilities.  Well, apart from a "Bonjour" and a "Merci, which although useful, definitely have their limitations when it comes to impressing on people your stunning grasp of their native tongue.  It certainly fails to get you by in a busy Parisian cafe with a permanently pissed off waiter.  Reciting the hay eating habits of a tired donkey poetically, and in poorly accented French, is found neither amusing or cute.  Waiters are also rudely (yet somewhat understandably), unwilling to translate a couple of the sketchy meaning sentences into English on your behalf. Just remember that, if a similar urge ever overwhelms you while ordering a cafe au lait in the French capital.   I learn my lessons the hard way......through humiliation and shame......(see above minor reference to street vomit outside Prada 4 years ago).

Le petit âne

Sure, it looks good now

We are thinking to spend a month here in November.  This would be extremely pleasing.  Maybe I can even ditch "L'âne Fatigué" and learn how to tell people to piss off, or something equally as important that you should always learn in the country you happen to find yourself in.....I'll have to go easy on the rich food next time though.  I touched on this briefly last entry, and won't disgust you by going into details with accompanying actual photos. Mere representations should suffice in this instance.  Anyway, after a surprise red-wine-mixed-with-Camembert chunder in the bathroom (a really shocking thing to regurgitate), I've been scarred, and now refuse to even look at these former desirable items.   An inappropriate vomit seems to be consistent with my visits to Paris now I come to think of it.  I vomit a lot.  I think I may have some kind of issue.  But I guess this is best discussed with my doctor rather than shouted out publicly in a ridiculous online web log which caters purely to my desire for attention.  However, luckily for my stomach lining, it's au revoir and merci beaucoup Paris (I searched them on google translate) for now.  It's been a fun and fleeting visit.  But they are often the best kind.....

It looks much less good here

Olympic Hangover

To be honest, I had already planned to write a blog based on the UK Olympic Hangover I was sure I was going to experience.  This was before I even touched down in the country.  I had envisioned photos of dreary grey cityscapes and depressed looking locals combined with a witty caption or two at their expense.  What I got was a city still high on the Olympic glow.  Everybody was so dam happy.  Not to mention how clean the bloody place was.  You could have served lunch up under the bench seats in the train stations.  I actually even rinsed the girls hands clean in some gutter water near a block of public toilets.  Previously this would be a sure fire way to contract The Plague..... or smallpox.   At the very least a persistent fungal condition.   Yet everything was all sparkling and shiny.  The weather was great.  It seriously was not like London at all.  We took the girls past Buckingham palace, as they were more than keen to see where the Queen lived, and went shopping at the Tudor-style Liberty department store.  What shameless tourists.  I must say though, it was pretty incredible to be catapulted out of a tiny island paradise to one of the world's great cities that was undergoing a seriously good moment.

Ye Olde Department Store

The girls were disappointed that we didn't actually see the Queen

However, rather than enjoy the glossy spectacle I was a woman on a mission. Usually an all-nighter on a plane in sweaty clothing, combined with that unmistakable beauty a healthy dose of PMT can inflict on body and soul, would see me laid up in my hotel room as quickly as possible wearing an eye mask that says "Fuck Off" across the outside (yes, I'm jealous of yours Hazza). However, I was engaging in the least likely activity any woman in my heinous condition would ever be tempted to do so. I was shopping for a wedding dress.

"For fuck's sake, why???" I hear the echo go out. "It was my only chance"  I answer you now.  Less than 24 hours in London does not offer up much time for these kind of activities.  I was pretty unmoved by my first experience.  Really unappealing dresses were plentiful (some were dirty and torn).  Plus the insistence - despite my feeble protests - that I wear a veil to "get the look" was also off-putting.  The pressuring from staff to order one of my reluctant short listed items started to get to me.  But the very worst moment, was when I was all dressed up, but forbidden to come out of the changeroom because a girl in "Her Actual Wedding Dress" was taking a stroll around the room and gazing at her reflection from every angle.  Taking my location into account, I guess I would have messed up the butt view (which wouldn't have been a bad thing in my opinion).  But still..... As I sat on a stool, waiting to be allowed out, I found the experience somewhat degrading.  A person trying on the most expensive item they have ever slipped on in their life, should not be made to feel like shit in my opinion.  Unless she rips it, or spills coffee on it.  Which I should have done.  Or perhaps release a dose of Tassie Bitchface Slut on someone's ass......As usual I'm all talk.  Attitude is far more easily accomplished with perspective.

Luckily, my second experience at a less expensive, yet more stylish establishment proved more fruitful. I believe I actually had that moment that your typical bride dreams of when she finds "The One".  Dress of course - not life partner...... Plus, the shop assistant was really nice and let me parade around perving at myself (with no enforced veil) as much as I pleased.  So there.  After a tragic start, my first wedding dress extravaganza day, proved to be a highly satisfying experience.  However, I somewhat suspect that I could have been deluded as to my own fabulousness.  Before I entered the shop, I had demolished the first coffee, not to mention the first sugar concentrated hit (a large red velvet cupcake), that I'd had in ten weeks.  I was sweaty and my voice was shrill with excitement. I definitely laughed more than a so-called sane individual should laugh.  At my own jokes too.   I'm cringing a little right now reminiscing.  This high could have also affected my judgement of my own perceived gloriousness.

Meanwhile, my poor suffering eventual groom to be, had to go back to the airport with two three year olds.  This was to collect the bag we forgot on the carousel before security firebombed it in the suspected bomb disarming unit (there were a very large amount of electrical cables inside).  Add the jetag/lack of sleep factor, and I don't think it was a memorable London moment for the three of them. Chalks in particular.  When finally we all touched down in slumber land that evening, it was like heaven.  How do nice hotels get their sheets so clean, soft, and yet crispy???  This was the first time we stayed in this particular hotel (and we only did because it was part of St Pancras Station (at least I've now stopped accidentally calling it St Pancreas) where we had to catch the Eurostar the next day.  It was absolutely brilliant.  The hotel itself used to be the old train station and it was all historical and that.  Like lots of other old pommy shit.

The old ticket booking office is now the restaurant

French toast in London

Somebody from the hotel even pushed our luggage all the way through the station and loaded it on the train.  We only just made it - by less than a minute.  We were searched upon entry as Chalks was strapping a hunting knife this time.  Well, it was in his suitcase and was last used to cut up pumpkin.  This flimsy excuse didn't stop Eurostar security who confiscated it and then went through that bag with a fine tooth comb.  And as half of it was Valli and Cordi's crap - let me just say that it takes quite some time to examine 100 blocks of Duplo.

mmmmmm

But made it we did, and away we went, bound for good old Gay (as I like to refer to it as such).  Love a bit of Paris.  Now, there's some serious historical shit going on in that fine city.  Not to mention macarons for that super sugar high.  Also, stay tuned to hear me describe how I over-indulged and vomited up red wine and Camembert in the kitchen sink.....The fun never stops at Club Saunders.