May 2007

Some days are ok, some days are pretty good, and some days you get that "pinch-me-so-I-know-I'm-not-dreaming" sensation. My four days in Paris with the girls - Susie and Tory - were most definitely those of the latter. Leaving Michael back in London, we jumped on the Eurostar and headed for the City of Light for a feast of great weather (we even managed to get sunburnt), beautiful food, amazing hotels and shopping, shopping, shopping. Well, they shopped, I drooled. The French have a great expression, "faire du leche vitrine" which describes window shopping, but literally means "to lick the windows". Now I completely understand why they invented it, and why Paris is the fashion capital of the world. And while the girls flexed the 'mex in Dior, Paul & Joe, Marc Jacobs, Chloe...I just enjoyed strolling around those gorgeous streets, stepping in to those beautiful old buildings and lapping up the culture of the place. We did tres French things like eating steak frites in little bistros at 10pm, nibbling delicate pastries at famous teahouse Laduree, sipping Rose and Kir and Evian, even attending a fashion showing. We also did super-touristy things like taking a bateau mouche up the Seine at sunset, scouring Galleries Lafayette and having our photo taken on Pont des Artes, in Tuilleries gardens, in front of the Louvre, sitting at cafes, basically anywhere we could find someone to ask. And it was all amazing. Paris truly is one of those cities you just have to go to, and after you've been, you just want to return again and again. It's stylish, chic, in-your-face beautiful. And I can't wait to get back there again in August. Ooh la la, la la.
The rooftops of Paris
The famous Laduree Patisserie Tory and me, outshone by Place de la Concorde A Parisian evening

Have you watched "The Secret"? If so, you'll know that you're s'posed to keep a 'Grateful Diary'. That is, at the end of each day, even if it's been, um, trying, shall we say, you write down a whole list of all the things you're thankful for. The premise being, the universe hears you being all warm and fuzzy and positive etc and rewards you in wonderful ways. OK, so maybe you shouldn't take my (crazed and jet lagged) word for it and perhaps you should check it out yourself but call that the abridged version. Well, anyway, here's my list for the day, or is it night, my body can't decide. Enjoy! Love you miss you mean it.

Emily's Grateful Diary, 19/05/2007
1. I am grateful that, despite 80.5 kilos of luggage (and yes, admittedly 5 kgs of toiletries) including a racing bike, we made it to the other side of the world without paying a cent of excess baggage through the powers of negotiation, thinking positively and smiling nicely

2. I am grateful that said bike shall not be making another airline journey with us as husband has promised bike will be sent home unchapperoned, immediately after big, important Triathlon in France to which, and I'm also grateful here, we shall be driving a car with a big boot and will no longer need to be judged under the stony stares of airport check-in desk ladies

3. I am grateful that I woke up at 4am this morning, instead of the predicted 2.30am - the time I thought the jet lag would strike

4. I am grateful that Michael was struck by jet lag at the same time as me, so was available to peel oranges, make tea and generally be nice to jetlagged self

5. I am grateful, and this is perhaps slightly selfish here, that Michael has also been struck by my Hong Kong Fluey, although his is more a London one, so he can now appreciate that all that whingeing I did about how sick I was was actually real, not in any way fabricated or generated merely for sympathy vote

6. I am grateful that, even though I might say selfish things as highlighted above, Michael knows I'm (nearly always) joking

7. Finally I'm greatful that we're in beautiful Purley, in Surrey, where there are girls on ponies, boys playing cricket in bright green fields, box hedges down the roads, birds singing, flowers blooming, and life is generally all happy and picture book-y (even though I was awake at 4am - lets try for 5am tomorrow)

Plastic bowls full of live fish, flipping and splashing. Beef carcasses hanging from hooks, chickens being plucked, mounds of bok choy, bananas and mango. Red paper lanterns, bright parasols, and someone's washing hanging off a piece of string looped across the road. And the smell. It's a humid-hot scent, peppered with over-ripe fruit, spices, car fumes and the sea. I'm standing on Peel Street, Central Hong Kong, one of the last remaining street markets where locals can come to buy their food. The colours, sounds, and scents are almost overpowering, and not a bit like my local Woolies. There are men with no teeth, tiny, frail old ladies carrying loads almost larger than themselves, fruit vendors, butchers, cooks and someone selling weather-weary flowers. Then turn around and a few steps down the road is the Two IFC Tower, a mammoth structure that's 417 metres tall, and resembles, I think, a giant electric razor. That's Hong Kong. It's crazy yet chic, crowded yet friendly, modern yet old-fashioned. A city of contrasts. A new building is under construction, rumoured to be the tallest in the city, which will apparently stand at 437 metres when complete. They're building it with bamboo poles for scaffolding. Of course they are.
We both love it here, even though I've developed a shocking cold-type illness which plagues me the entire stay. Although we only spend two whirlwind days in this amazing city, we see enough to make us want to come back again and again. Oh, and the shopping, ladies, is amazing. A Louis Vuitton on every second corner, Zara, Marks and Spencer, Harvey Nicks, Stella McCartney, Dior, Chanel, names, names, names, sweetie! Unforunately I cannot partake as I am under strict six-months-without-pay shopping restrictions, but I salivate in front on the windows and make plans to jump on a plane when the sales are on here one day.
A real highlight is a sailing trip on a junk on the harbour at dusk, as the sun is setting and all the lights start twinkling on in the city. Sipping wine, chilling out to Cafe del Mar beats, and watching the spectacle unfold is goose bump-enducing. Great Chinese food, trawling through markets and admiring the beautiful trees and parklands (Hong Kong is over 40% parkland) also make the stay special. But the best part? Call me crazy (and yes, Michael did), but as a public transport quality controller from way back, I have to say, the system in this fast and furious metropolis is beyond. Totally in a good way. Especially, and this was the best bit of the best part, the Octopus card. Like a credit card you buy, swipe on anything from trains to trams, busses and ferries, and that's it. Add money when you need to. If you're lucky enough to be heading here sometime soon, get one. It's like, so fun!
Until next time, London calling...

You'll all be pleased to know that we are not still sitting in the departure lounge of Qantas Domestic Airport. Oh no. A mere twelve hours later, we landed in sunny Perth, hopped on the ferry and arrived at Rottnest Island. For those of you uninitiated, it's a sweet little spot about half an hour from Fremantle by fast boat. It's been inhabited by aboriginals, used as a penal colony, played a military role in World Wars One and Two, but now is purely for lucky visitors like us who get to lap up the great weather, beautiful beaches and lack of cars (they're not allowed). It's also the official home of the Quokka - a small, hoppy marsupial a bit like a tiny kangaroo or a possum on springs - which populate the island and aren't at all scary, although one did try to break into our house and my brave husband had to sweep it out with a broom. So manly!
Michael spent the week training for his triathlon in France with frequent and fierce sessions of swimming, cycling and running, with a little sea kayaking for a break. Hah. I, on the other hand, read a trashy book, slept, drank champagne and, when all those girly, glamorous holiday things wore a tad thin, I went fishing. Now, I know this is more than a slight departure from my usual profession of prescribing lipsticks, wrinkle cream and hair gel to devoted marie claire readers, however as the saying goes, "a change is as good as a holiday", and as I was already on holiday, it should have been extra good. And it was. There is something tres caveman-chic about catching one's own dinner - I'd like to think more Racquel Welch in One Million Years BC in that cute little fur bikini than actual neanderthal man, however. Anyway, I was good at it, and most evenings Dad and I could be found covered in fish guts out on the rocks overlooking Geordie Bay. Plus, fish oil is tres anti-ageing so it was a nice beauty tie-in, too.
After a week of living simply in shorts, bikini and bare feet, with fresh fish and lobster for dinner every night, it was hard to get back on the boat to wave farewell to Rottnest (especially since the sea was quite rough that day), but Hong Kong was calling, and who were we to argue with the travel gods. So it was "Seeya Layda" from Rotto and "Jo San" (or Hello in Cantonese) to the fragrant harbour.

In the word of Edina Monsoon, of Absolutely Fabulous fame, "It's hardly a hiccup, sweetie, more like a giant belch with a little bit of sick in it". And that's how Day One of TOL seems to be shaping up.
D1 started well enough: we managed to jam our lives into our three small(ish) bags, wrestle Michael's bike into a really rather giant cardboard box and squeeze into a maxi taxi bound for Sydney airport. First stop, Perth! Wrong...first stop, the check in counter, where I was politely informed that my luggage was "over". While I smiled sweetly and tried to will my suitcase to look light, Mike muttered something about backpacking and how I clearly wasn't cut out for it. Which, I might add, is precisely why I didn't buy a backpack in the first place - much too constricting. After I extracted my toiletry bag (which embarassingly weighed five kilos), and stashed it in one of the sensible packer's sensible sized bags, we were through. But before our sighs of relief were fully exhaled, the plane broke. I've heard these stories on the news and thought, "Poor suckers, glad that wasn't me". Well, now it quite clearly was me, and no amount of complimentary gin and tonic was going to change that. So, as you wait with bated breath for news of travel adventures, amazing scenery and gourmet delights, all I can give you is what the inside of the Qantas Club looks like - beige - what the airport food is like - bland - and what it's like to be perched patiently in Terminal Two, with a minimum four hour wait ahead, the only reward being to board a potentially busted aircraft for a five hour flight - no need for elaboration there.
What's a little hydraulic fluid leaking from the fourth engine between friends anyway?
...until next time, when hopefully we will have at least left the state...