Part 39 – What Have I Become?

Posted on April 1, 2018 by H

The ‘I’ in the title is this blog. A lot has happened since the last post which happened to be about career talk, a conversation I had with myself and the 20 people who read the blog post, or looked at the picture I shared- whatever, who cares. But since May I have planned a wedding, planned to sell a house, helped ready a house for sale, continued to plan a wedding, cleaned a house for sale, got married at a wedding, returned back to work from the wedding, continued to clean the house for sale, kicked out flatmates so the house could sell, and had some offers come in for the house sale.

And now, here we are at Easter Weekend and I’ve just finished a rather powerful book (that has nothing to do with either selling houses or planning weddings), Chapter One and I feel compelled to do something. The challenge is, what. What do I do and why am I writing about it?

I suppose I always think that the grand plans that I have (currently nothing) need to be publicised and shared because it’s in my nature to assume that whatever plans that I (currently don’t) have are brilliant ones that a wide and varied audience (of some twenty people) love to hear about and watch. Also I fell inclined to (over)share because occasionally, in my big-headed manner*, I think the journey that I take to complete this ‘as-of-yet-un-grand’ grand plan is likely to be an hilarious one because my face does weird things and my words are actually just a conglomeration of strange noises when articulated, so perhaps watching / listening / reading something of what I (don’t) do could be a giggle. Could it? *As an aside, I actually have quite a small head, but I suppose I do have a large ego so there you go.

So. I don’t know what to do.

I do know that I had better speak about what I don’t know though.

You see, my dream job has developed into wanting to become a public speaker and it’s been a couple of years since I’ve done anything of the sort (standing in front of a classroom of spotty teenagers doesn’t feel like public speaking – more public-teacher-speaking and I’m afraid that particular audience isn’t always that receptive to your cleverness. Uncultured swine). And then with this wedding malarkey and doing a speech there to the most receptive and loving audience you could ever have as an individual, it’s just reminded me that I blimmin’ love talking to an audience that want to listen to me. So perhaps that’s what I need to do. But how?

It’s all so foreign and so terrifying and where the heck do I start. And, look, I know that fear is something to be overcome and blah blah blah, but that’s all well and good you saying that when you’re not the one facing your fear, so shut up, you. And really, what is my fear anyway? It’s not the speaking. Well, barely – just the appropriate amount you may have that just translates into a rush of adrenaline prior to opening my big-toothed mouth.

I suppose to spell it out, the fear is based around trying something I’ve wanted to do for a long time and not doing it well. When I don’t do things well I have a tendency to never, ever, ever try them again… unless maybe a few years later when the bruises (mentally and emotionally) heal – I refer in this particular instance to my ice-skating career (VERY short-lived) and that it is a perfect analogy for the way I refuse to overcome obstacles. Let me relay this story to you now (it’s brief, like my ice-skating career):

Once, a number of years ago, our heroine attended a youth group jaunt to an ice-skating rink and it ’twas here that she discovered her weak ankles and also how hard ice is if you kiss it with the back of your head. She swiftly removed herself from the ice (not swiftly – it was an arduous journey around the treacherous walls of the rink the the nearest exit).

Years passed and our protagonist grew up. But her skills did not grow with her. She had not again attempted the ice-skating debacle of 1998 until 2006 when she (most unwisely) assumed she had developed the poise and skill to be an Olympic ice-skateress without any training or practise.

DISCLAIMER: This is not Haemia

Dear reader, she failed. This time more miserably than the last. The details are fuzzy due to the injuries she sustained (actually the narrator can’t recall what happened) and she vowed never, ever, ever to take on the rink ever, ever, ever again. And she didn’t.

Now look, I know you may think I’m an adult, and well… yes, I think that’s exactly the issue. I’m so adult in fact that I don’t have a child-like lack of fear any more. I have too much logic (reader guffaws*) which now puts up barriers to me being a successful try-new-thing-er-rer. How debilitating and dull is that. No one ever said success was easy, did they? But that’s all I’ve ever wanted – easy success.

Balls.

I just don’t think that’s how it’s going to work out.

And, to cut a very, very, very long story short- the title of this blog on a very round-about-way pertains to ‘now what’. This used to be a blog about teaching and travelling. Then I threw some career nonsense in there. Then I wanted to bake and do house renovation videos. And now I don’t even know what the debil it’s become.

Maybe it’s now a blog about my attempt to do something more than being scared of doing something and as a result doing nothing.

Try reading that ten times fast.

Also, I don’t know what you think about this post, but for my first attempt to do something it sure does look like a lot of nothing. Oh well.

As a final note, if you’ve made it this far down the blog (I should have put this up the top), I think that you should all proceed to purchase the book I’ve just read, Thankyou, Chapter One: you have the power to change stuff. I’ve thought of a number of people that I’d like to loan it to but then I thought, ‘no Haemia, you daft fool, don’t loan it to them. Buy it for them. Or tell them to buy it.’ You decide how much the book is worth, and all of the profits, 100% of them, go to projects to end world poverty. If you’re not sure about that idea, do your own research, or follow my recommendation blindly. You shan’t be disappointed.

Part 38 – Career Talk

Posted on May 14, 2017 by H

Driving the Desire to Achieve in Your Career

First things first I need you to understand something: I am still at the beginning of my career. I am quite possibly the wrong person to be talking about ‘achieving in your career’. In all honesty what I have to say may be words of little worth and based on little experience, but, well, I’m going to say them anyway. In a big business such as ours you sometimes need to feel like your voice is being heard even if, as in this case, it’s just so you can talk yourself into some action.

Sometimes I say things that surprise me as they come out of my mouth. Actually, that happens quite frequently, as in: ‘yikes, where did that come from?!’ But recently I was talking to a colleague about her massive successes when it comes to her health and fitness. My response to the ease in which she seems to slip into fitness and eating well was to say. ‘I have a great desire to be healthy and fit. I just don’t have the drive.’ A simple enough statement you might think but it’s a thought that has been hovering around since I said it about a month ago.

There are two big reasons I think this idea is hovering around, somewhat like a bad smell.

Number One:
I have managed to easily and practically subconsciously uncover how my failures in life may arise. I have a desire to achieve, but little or no drive to get there.

Number Two:
It’s been about a month since I’ve had this thought and I’ve done little to acknowledge I had it.
So… I have a confession to make.

I can be quite lazy.

Whattttt??? No way? You can’t be!

Yes, reader, I am. My hobbies are sedentary, and I like a life similar to what a cat might live, though without the eating of mice and sparrows and what not. I’m so lazy in fact that I have had this kind of profound thought about myself, and all I’ve done is to continue to think about it. Apart from its first utterance I haven’t even said it allowed. I haven’t even done anything to
acknowledge what this could mean for my life. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did just spend about fifteen minutes searching for a TED talk that might vocalise my issues. When I didn’t find
the exact topic being discussed I’ve finally been kicked into action. You should see my fingers flying across the keyboard! What physicality and raging dexterity!! And here I am now trying to
distract from this rather distressing idea by throwing in some funnies. Get to it already, Haemia!
Right. So now that I’ve uncovered this idea, what can I do about it? First let me think about how to metaphorically tackle this thought and the implications of it in my life and, perhaps more
specifically, my workplace. There’s something here that I need to figure out and maybe you’ll help me do it. I can be so complacent in life but work so, so hard. I have some sort of split
personality that sees me throw myself in the deep end at work, saying yes as much as possible to get as much experience as possible all the while staying in the same ‘space’. Is my laziness in my homelife starting to sneak it’s way into my work life? But… my homelife is so lazy I’m sure it wouldn’t deign to move into my work life.. Would it? Well, I suppose there are home habits that are developed that they begin to make their slimy
way into the workplace. Of course they would. I’m not so dichotomous that I can be a (lazy) Jekyll at home and then an (energizer-bunny) Hyde at work. So how do I deal with a creeping,
insidious laziness instead of a maintaining a needed and desired activeness?
The idea that my desires are quashed by my lack of drive is concerning. And I love driving! Why would I think that the destination to my desires would be so difficult that I’m not prepared to put
the key in the ignition and start the engine? That’s setting myself up for failure when I haven’t even got out of the driveway! I suppose it’s because I have the tendency to forget that my
desires are a long term, end goal sort of thing. I forget that in order to achieve my desires I need to turn the car on before if I am going get miles down the road. I’m letting lazy ol’ Jekyll
mindset into my long-term goals and it’s concerning.
This thought no doubt has potentially massive implications for my experience in the workplace and whether or not I achieve my career desires too. Currently I love my job. I’m doing something that I know I do well and I can see that in my interactions with staff and customers (such modesty, Haemia). But this is also a job in the realm of what I’ve done for the better part of nine years and while I love it, I’m not prepared to have a career in the same role for the rest of my working life. I love it now, but I can see that I’m going to need to change things up before my sedentary home life creeps into my work life and I
just stay put.
In our workplace we create these things called Development Plans. They are the vocalisation, recorded in hard print, of what one of our biggest desires are: our career goal. We create these grand ideas and quite possibly give little thought to how we’re going to achieve them, and most definitely little thought to the timeframe that they’re going to be achieve within. Why? What is the purpose in spending fifteen minutes with your manager establishing these goals if we, on our own, are not putting in the hard work to get to these destinations. How do we develop the drive to achieve our desires?

I honestly don’t know. The only thing I can suggest is that it perhaps coming down to first vocalising your desire, to more than one person, finding people to keep you accountable. Then it’s about backtracking, locating the journey of predecessors, their successes and failures, and learning from them. Then finally it’s about taking that first step on the journey yourself, getting out of the house (metaphorical comfort zone) and getting into the car (the vehicle for getting to where you want to go).
I can’t decide if there’s wisdom in getting this on a page or a rash stupidity that will create me a laughing stock among my peers and colleagues. What I do realise though is that now you know
what my hidden shame is, there’s nothing I can do but take the steps to actually get outside and get in the car. The ignition has been fired in writing this down. Time to buckle up and put my foot on the clutch to initiate the next step.
Haemia
P.S. I don’t regret the car puns in the slightest. VROOM, VROOM!

Part 37- The Exit Stratgey: Rome, Athens, Santorini

Posted on January 14, 2017 by H

Righto. We’ve been home for two months already so I’d say it’s jolly well time I finish my long-ass tale of two people getting to where they need to get to. If I don’t polish these spots off in a jiffy, well then how will I be able to ever write real time blogs that aren’t simply me attempting to sift through muddy and mouldy ol’ memories?

Rome

Massive, hot, crowded, ruins everywhere. Oh, and also we were spotted in the Colosseum by a woman we’d shared the queue with in Florence. What’re the chances?! We ended spending the day with her (she was travelling on her own) and it was blimmin’ lovely! I really liked Rome. Again it was another city where we only really had one day to wander about and see what we could see. It was a hot day, and you do need to be wary of people trying to fleece you. We had one tour guide, of the many walking through the crowd at the Colosseum, tell us that our ‘skip-the-line’ ticket still had us in a three hour long line and that if we went with her for whatever price she spouted, we’d get a self-guided tour and genuinely skip the line. Good thing we ignored her nearly completely and only spent about fifteen minutes in a queue to get in. I would certainly recommend doing some research on the types of passes you can get for the Colosseum complex. there’s heaps to see and we didn’t realise that our pass was for one entrance only so we wandered relatively quickly through one part and were denied entry to it when we tried to get in for a longer look later in the day. Ah well, what else can you do but go and get pizza and gelato?

Athens

Filthy, less ruins than you’d think. To be honest though, GM and I spent barely any time there, and I don’t think either of us felt like we missed out on anything. We spent one day cavorting through ruins (not really because to get into the Acropolis is 20EUR each – ‘STUFF THAT’), and delighting in the air-conditioned hop-on-hop-off bus before we went to Santorini. I have to say, those hop-on-hop-off buses are a great way to spend a day in a city, if that’s all you’ve got. You can tick your tourist boxes, chill out, hop on or off wherever your heart desires (usually only where the bus actually stops), and we always found the staff to be quite good. The best thing Athens had going for it was the cheap souvlaki we discovered on the night we stayed there before flying home. Santorini souvlaki was good, but comparing the 10-12EUR price to Athens’ 2… well, you do the math!

Santorini

No ruins really, beautiful, picturesque images everywhere you go, quad bikes for hire for cheap… and a swimming pool where I practised my diving (belly-flopping). Oh, and a word of caution: get familiar with the processes of Greek strikes. When you’re flying to these islands and your flight is cancelled (and reinstated all too late), you need to be aware of the eight hour ferry journey to get back to Athens. You know, just in case the same happens to you… Santorini is a place I could definitely go back to though. Beyond the photos we took, there’s little more to see, but it’s a place where you can certainly relax. Looking at these pictures again and thinking of that pool while I type in a dripping sweat in Blenheim’s burgeoning summer heat is certainly and enticing thought. I mean, just look at it!

Is that it? Have I caught everyone up now?

No more detail is needed beyond that is it?

Following all of this tomfoolery and gallivanting, GM and I are now home and moving on to a new life-stage: wedding planning and home renovations. Stay tuned… It might be interesting! If nothing else, it certainly is diverting. All of my hours out of work are spent trawling the internet and building mood boards, pinteresting the butts out of everything, and daydreaming of a regular wage again so all of these grand plans can actually come to fruition.

Dum-dee-dum. Maybe we should win lotto so we can go back to some of these spots. Better check our ticket…

Part 36 – The Exit Strategy: Florence

Posted on December 23, 2016 by H

Florence, Florence, delicious, wonderful Florence. Alongside Brugges, Florence was my number one destination to get to while GM and I were away from home. We had to get there, we had to look at everything, and we had to see it all. We didn’t, but only because there was just so much to see and definitely not enough time to see it all in. Ugh, Florence, I could eat you all up, you’re so delicious.

Prior to going off to uni and discovering an extravagant world of Art History, Florence was but a blip on my radar. Studying some of Florence’s artists and architects, Raphael, Ghiberti, and Brunelleschi, opened up a world of opulence, extreme piety and wealth, fed by Renaissance tales of Medici family wealth and dramas.

One of my favourite and greatest book purchases while at uni was Paoletti and Radke’s Art in Renaissance Italy. The colossal text fed a growing hunger to see these beautiful examples of human skill and ingenuity for myself.

And so off to Florence we went.

I remember little of the details of our arrival, or where we were staying, a good sized apartment not far from some of Florence’s most popular sites. Again we only had one full day of seeing sites and because we didn’t get into any galleries or museums whilst in Venice, GM was vehemently told that there was no way we weren’t going to spend money getting in to some of Florence’s prominent spaces. I was so concerned with not missing out that I even planned our day. How unlike me!

Things I refused to miss

-Uffizi Gallery (to see works by Botticelli, Titian, Raphael, Giotto, Da Vinci, Michelangelo, and my most favourite artist, Caravaggio).

– Piazza del Duomo (to see all the buildings that make up the Cathedral of Florence complex and more importantly the world’s most spectacular doors, Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise).

-The Statue of David by Michelangelo at Galleria dell’Accademia

-Santa Croce

-Santa Maria Novella (missed – even though it’s right next to the train station we came in to and left from… oops).

Let me give you some tips now:

Always assume there will be queues. Mentally prepare yourself for them. Our visit to the Uffizi was timed so we’d get there about half an hour before they opened at 8:15am and the queue was already wrapped halfway around the massive complex and it grew incredibly quickly. When we made our way to Piazza del Duomo we were once again greeted by a near hour long wait to get into the tower. No one likes queues – if you do you’re a weirdo and how could you, what’s wrong with you – but in these instances, what you see at the end of the queue, or even while you wait in it, is so, so worth it.
Plan your visits to Florence’s state owned museum’s to be on the first Sunday of every month. You’ll get in for free, which is what we most happily discovered by accident while we were there.
Florence has mozzies. Lot’s of them. Everywhere. Be prepared to be eaten alive, even with insect repellent in hand.

Let me now take you on a tour of our Florentine tour:

The Uffizi Gallery

Right, you’ve been forewarned about the queues. There’s little we can do about them so let us just get straight inside the building and bear with me while a profusion of words dribble out of my fingertips onto the screen in front of your eyes, to be gobbled up by your no doubt hungry, ravenous mind.

Always, always look up. The Renaissance is obsessed with what is above, spiritually, architecturally, and artistically. To look directly in front of you is to miss too much. It is foolish to ignore my instructions in this instance because some of the most elaborate works are above you. Remember that the Renaissance was concerned with all things Heaven and Hell and as a result, their ceilings are exceptionally beautiful. The intention to draw the eye upward is an attempt to remind you of the greatness above you, to encourage the viewer to states of devotion, physically enforcing an upward gaze. It is so worth the inevitable crick in the neck. I warn you, don’t get stuck in the ‘hell’ of the earth on which you stand, but take time to view the ‘heaven’ above. The Uffizi is a shining example of exceptional ceiling frescoes and elaborate architectural domes. If you know you’re not ever going to get there in your life, or you feel like you need some convincing, look it up on Google Maps, go inside and see for yourself with Google Street View, and don’t forget to look at those ceilings!

The Uffizi is Florence’s premier art gallery where all the big name artists have some of their most famous artworks. While the crowds may be a bit much, as with most of the Italian sites we’d got to, you are still able to get up close-ish and personal-ish to the works. GM and I had a good system going where he’d take pictures of the work with the good camera, and I’d follow behind taking a quick snap of the work and it’s blurb on my phone, to be appreciated and researched when time allowed. It is unfortunately not the sort of art gallery where you can always linger by a painting and closely appreciate, because of the crowds, but go into this gallery with patience. Eventually the tide of tourists will subside and you might get twenty seconds alone time with a piece. Patience is key here. One of the strangest and I would say most wasteful ways to go through the gallery is to follow a Japanese woman’s example: taking a picture of every single work on her phone (with the camera sound on loud) and not actually looking at any of them except through the quick view she had via her phone lens. Don’t do that. All right? Please. And don’t forget to look up.

One of the ceiling frescoes.

Piazza del Duomo

It is here that you come to see Florentine architecture at its most elaborate and detailed. Seeing the buildings in photos and books do nothing for their real life majesty. They’re stunningly beautiful. I think the Renaissance period attracts me so much because of the focus on detail. My personal aesthetic is attracted by simplicity and a pervading sense of calm, but it is the devotion to skill advancement in the Renaissance that I love. The Renaissance period embraced new and developing art forms, concerned with uncovering near-photographic painting methods, and miraculous feats of architectural evolution where light and ideas of heaven are central. And I love it so much.

This piazza is a sight to behold. It is dominated by the cathedral (Duomo Santa Maria del Fiore) which we couldn’t get into due to crowds, and also standing alongside it is the Campanile, a tall, narrow, lift-less tower with stunning views of the terracotta roofs and cobblestone streets of the city. At the Western end of the duomo is Battistero di San Giovanni (Baptistery of Saint John to you non-Italian speaking plebs), a small building where again, the ceilings are essential viewing. Waiting in the queue to enter these buildings is not such a chore because of the beauty of their exterior. As long as you have someone holding your place in the queue, you’re quite able to break out and wander and investigate the coloured marble patterns (white and a dark green – similar to the colour of pounamu / greenstone and which appears almost black in photos).

The cathedral’s great dome viewed from the Campanile.CampanileChecking out some doors – I got snapped.

Let’s not fluff about here. It’s time to get into some nitty gritty. Some would say that doors are doors and not worth getting worked up about. Some would say such foolish things, but you and I wouldn’t because we are quite aware that some doors are not just doors. Some doors are the Gates to Paradise and they are exceptional examples of man’s devotion to practicing his skill and seeking an opportunity to thank God for being blessed with such skill (or at the very least to win a competition and show off a bit).

The original plan was for the doors to depict scenes from the Old Testament, and the trial piece was the sacrifice of Isaac, which survives. However, the plan was changed to depict scenes from the New Testament, instead.

To carry out this commission, [Ghiberti] set up a large workshop in which many artists trained, including Donatello, Masolino, Michelozzo, Uccello, and Antonio Pollaiuolo. When his first set of twenty-eight panels was complete, Ghiberti was commissioned to produce a second set for another doorway in the church, this time with scenes from the Old Testament, as originally intended for his first set. Instead of twenty-eight scenes, he produced ten rectangular scenes in a completely different style. They were more naturalistic, with perspective and a greater idealization of the subject. Michelangelo dubbed these scenes the “Gates of Paradise.” “The Gates of Paradise” is a major monument of the age of Renaissance humanism.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lorenzo_Ghiberti#Florence_Baptistery_doors

Baptistery ceiling

Gallaria dell’Accademia

You come here for David. He’s large, he’s naked, he has a little winky, he is beautiful. One thing that I found interesting was the intelligence of the Renaissance artist. Being aware that his works would be viewed from below, and in a time where perspective was being experimented with and your skills as an artist were measured by your ability to realistically portray it, the artists developed an understanding that mathematics was central to showing works as accurate 3D representations. Linear perspective was vital to Brunelleschi’s successes and Michelangelo became aware of its import with his sculptures also. What this meant was that his massive sculptures, viewed from below, appear proportionate and correct. But if you viewed from eye-level they would appear oddly disfigured, forms looking like they have diseases of gigantism perhaps similar the Elephant Man (look closely at the disproportionate size of David’s hands, for example). Consider what it takes to construct those sidewalk chalk illusions: how from one view you could fall into them and from the other they just look odd. The Statue of David was initially meant to sit atop Santa Maria del Fiore but the monolithic construction weighed over 6 tonnes. It was not going to ever make it to the top of a building. Instead it sat in the Piazza della Signora for around 800 years until it was brought in from the weather and displayed in its current setting. So now you know!

The Galleria dell’Accademia is not the major draw-card as the Uffizi is, but it is a great place to explore Renaissance sculpture, even if you’re just viewing halls filled with plaster replicas. And hey, when you get in on the free Sunday, it’s most certainly worth it. Also, very small, fast moving queues.

Santa Croce, Florence’s largest Franciscan church. Thank goodness GM was wearing long shorts and I had a cardigan to cover up my boozies otherwise the strict dress code would have stopped us getting in to the church.

The tombs roped off were so travelled over you can barely see any of the detail anymore, and with marble rubbed so smooth it becomes a bit of a hazard.

Santa Croce is the resting place of some of the most famous Italians of its past; Michelangelo, Galileo and Machiavelli to name a few.

So there we are. That was all done in a day. I believe we walked about 30,000 steps that day. We did very little the next. Florence is one of the places I feel I need to get back to, to find all the little more unknown gems it holds closely. There is just so, so much to see. You must be prepared to walk about three days worth of walking and to exhaust yourself with all there is to see.

Part 35 – The Exit Strategy: Venice

Posted on December 21, 2016 by H

One of my besties is trekking around a few of the places GM and I visited throughout our Exit Strategy. It occurs to me, sitting here in Blenheim, New Zealand in my pyjamas, peanut butter toast breath eeking out my mouth, that I’m wasting precious moments to record my own memories of these places that we saw. I risk these colourful bright memories decaying in time and mind to being shadows of their former selves. Time to write!

It felt so normal to be moving through that part of the world, but on reflection, plenty of people don’t get to see what we saw, don’t get the opportunity to get out there and see what’s happening over there. How lucky were we to be there. Well, maybe not lucky, just well placed to see some pretty cool things.

One of the most prominent memories is of our Air BNB host. A lady with pitch black dyed hair, walking throughout her house in slippers (prescribed to her guests as well), clothed in what I’m fairly certain, was a child’s nightie. She had two inside cats, six outside cats, and a sick father who stayed on the couch in the living room all day as she swept up after the cats. Her English was very thickly accented, frequently incorrect, but always helpful. She was very intent on ensuring that we saw the very best that Venice had to offer. She built us an itinerary for our three nights there and because of her, I think we saw more than we would have without her.

The Air BNB house was out of Venice itself, on the mainland Mestre and a quick and inexpensive bus into Venice took only twenty minutes. Mestre is not particularly pretty but it is busy and we found a wonderful little cafe that served us the best evening meal of our stay – fresh, flavoursome and delicious.

We spent our first day wandering around Venice, fighting against the large bustling crowds with their obnoxious cameras and obnoxious voices and obnoxious tourist-ness, jumping on water taxis to get from one canal to the next, from one tiny island to the next. It was exhausting. You can absolutely see why Venice is a huge tourist destination. Now that it isn’t a major port, it’s the money spent by the tourists that saves it literally sinking into obscurity. The architecture is spectacular, and the novelty of the canals, the singing gondoliers fighting to be heard over the taxis, the rolling waves and the crowds, is certainly something to see. But I just felt that it was being spoilt by all the other people like me: tourists. I couldn’t see past them to get up close and personal to San Marco, its piazza heaving with dirty great swarms of pigeons and people. The piazza is fed by multiple little alleyways, one of which we slipped into in an attempt to make our escape away from the people.

The alleys were my favourite part of Venice, little shining gems of skinny lighted shop windows brimming with luxury and colour, obscene Venetian masks and obscure little cat galleries, that suddenly open up to another surprise piazza and yet another church. It was down one of these alleyways that I played paparazzi to the most fashionably dressed woman I’ve seen in a long time. Her hair was cropped very short and she wore dangling heavy earrings with an ease that makes me confront my own fear of brash, loud jewellery (confront and then hide from). She wore a shin-length dress of light blue lace over a bright orange base, handling a bag of a slightly different shade of blue, and beshoed in perfectly complimentary orange mules. Such perfection.

My leggings and hoodie put me to shame. Shame, shame, shame.

We had one day dedicated to visiting the nearby islands of Murano and Burano, both renowned for quite different reasons. Murano for its glasswork and Burano for it’s gaily painted buildings. The water taxi to Murano was another bulging mass of tourists, out to tick off the box of bringing back a piece of glass from Venice (quite possibly an overpriced Chinese knock-off, apparently it’s a big issue there). Murano was a pleasant escape from the convulsive crowds of the previous day but we struggled to find an operating glass work doing demonstrations and quickly got bored of the shops selling products that looked all very similar to the one next door.

We decided we needed to move on to Burano.

Our host had suggested that Burano was the nicest of the islands, quieter and more interesting to look at because of its buildings. We were quite ready to be impressed. We were.

Burano is a very small area made up of four islands connected by bridges over canals, and a 40 minutes water taxi ride away from Venice itself. The island is entirely identifiable by its brightly painted buildings and is absolutely enchanting in every way. Since the islands development, locals have had to follow a process of application to the government if they wish to paint their houses. They’re then offered a few options, all of which are rich and toy-like options, totally unsuited to anywhere but Burano.

It was while we were at Burano that a call for pizza and limoncello was made, and oh what a wise call that was. We stopped at an oddly decorated little spot, right on the canal, and were treated to an exceptional example of a Margarita pizza, and the most delicious, sweet, sour, tart, limoncello cocktail sundae that man ever invented. I want to go back, if only for that. Has anyone built a reasonably priced teleportation device yet?

We lingered in Burano until the sun began to drop and then went off to the taxi stand where people behaved oddly like animals, feeling unnecessarily threatened with being left behind or god-forbid not getting a seat, as they shoved us both forward onto the taxi, some running in order to get a seat (there were plenty FYI). In our self-righteous ‘thank goodness we’re Kiwi’s’ manner, we lumbered as slowly and calmly as we could onto the taxi, spitefully slowing people down behind us thinking ‘chill the funk out, you crazy ass fools’ to ourselves as we took our seats upstairs.

The trip back to Venice was blimmin’ hilarious as we discovered the people next to us were Aussies on a bus tour around Europe with some Kiwi’s and all of us Southern-Hemispherian’s laughed and made fun of all the silly tourists (naturally ignoring the fact we ourselves were tourists), and made fun of all the silly idiosyncrasies and practices of the Northern-Hemishpherian’s (charging someone for a loo when it turns out all they needed to do was a fart – Thanks Aussie Grant for supplying us with that nugget (or rather not nugget) of a tale).

I suspect you’ve picked up my general thoughts of Venice. You must see it, but plan better than we did and find ways to ditch the incessant crowds. Make sure you get to Murano for a glass works tour, again forward planning important here, and then to Burano for the buildings and a limoncello sundae. Oh, that sundae.

Part 34 – The Exit Strategy: Menaggio (Lake Como)

Posted on October 13, 2016 by H

George Clooney sips his Nescafe from the tiny espresso glass. It’s black and topped with an almost pearlescent, caramel-coloured crema. He lets out a gentle sigh as his gaze casts over WordPress-blue water, smooth when not undulating with the ripples caused by the many passing boats. Everything in the world is right and peaceful. The lake is beautiful. No wonder he bought his palatial home there. The morning is quiet. And then all the rest of the American’s show up. Decibels immediately increase. The moment is gone.

This is how I imagine Clooney spends his mornings, slowly waking himself up in Lake Como where he apparently lives. Lake Como really is blimmin’ delicious. It’s no wonder he’s bought himself something from there. Here’s how it all worked out for GM and I.

It started with me discovering that my itinerary writing is poor and the way I set it up meant that our Como accommodations were booked for three days later. It was the morning before we were to arrive and a frantic call was made from Zurich to see if we could bring our booking forward. We could if we were prepared to pay £5 a night more for a lakeside view room. Ugh, three nights with a lakeside view?! NO THANK YOU… … … gross… we took it, only out of sheer desperation. Only.

This is us on the train: GM with some mad chops and a goatie (so handsome, isn’t he?). And I’ve always had those long, luscious blonde locks.

The journey from Zurich to Como by train takes you through the Swiss Alps – why would you ever consider flying over those if you can train them? Imagine lakes, mountains, cliffs, tunnels, hillsides, super cute alpine villages and you are pretty much on the train with us. Well, almost…

The train journey perfectly sets you up to anticipate the beauty of the area of Como. And then you arrive in Como’s international train station, Como San Giovanni. It’s quite small, quite busy, rough around the edges and deceptively ugly, completely belying the beauty that awaits you when you see the lake. Cheeky entry there, Como, cheeky.

My parents had beaten us to Como about a month or so prior to our visit and recommended we stay in one of Como’s more distant towns, Menaggio, on the Western side of the lake. It’s smaller than Como city and the more popular tourist destination, Bellagio, on the Eastern side of the lake, and that worked quite jolly well for us. The tourists were mostly American and mostly kept to Bellagio where there are more shops and more Americans. When you meet these tourists and actually have a chat to them, they’re a decent bunch (probably won’t vote for Trump), but as a group, as a tribe, they’re blimmin’ loud, sound a bit dense and you immediately assume they probably will vote for Trump… If you’re going to Como, ditch Bellagio as a place to stay… unless you yourself like that pasty, gross giant (Trump, that is). Bellagio is still well worth the visit, I can assure you.

Menaggio itself is smaller feeling, less hectic and was pretty reasonably priced for food and drink, especially following Zurich’s gaspingly astronomical prices. Throughout Como you can buy a day pass for a ferry for 15EUR and trip backward and forwards between Varenna, Menaggio, and Bellagio – adventuring which will certainly take up a day at least.

We stayed there for three nights and I would have loved to have stayed more. Our hotel was worn and old but the family-run accommodations, with their restaurant overlooking a small piazza, was homely and perfectly functional. Also, the food in the restaurant was absolutely delicious. I implore you to consider the benefits of ravioli. Consider a filling of minced beef. Consider the accompanying butter sauce. Butter sauce. How could a meal with butter sauce be anything but astoundingly delicious?! It couldn’t be. It was astoundingly delicious, or as my younger sister would so eloquently say, ‘yumbo-bumbo.’

I’m fairly certain that the wedding proposal that was presented while we were there hasn’t clouded the view of the place and made me think that it is more wonderful than in reality. The only thing that I can suggest is that you form your own opinions of the Lake Como for yourself. It’s the wisest course of action I can advise.

I have suggested to GM that we aim to own a retirement home there. His parents then piped up and suggested we all go in for a place – family holiday home anyone? The in-laws can certainly vouch for the place and I’m certain I’m a trustworthy source. Certain. So go on, off you go. Get there. Try and prove me wrong, I dare you.

Part 33 – The Exit Strategy: Munich

Posted on September 27, 2016 by H

Right, who is ready for information overload? You? Me? Us? Well, it’s only fair. It’s now been one week since we’ve ditched the U.K. and begun our three week journey back home to New Zealand. A lot has happened, a lot has been seen and photographed, and there’s already a lot to get through so hold on tight to the reigns, I’m going to get into some bitties of information starting with Munich, specifcally Oktoberfest.

It all started with an airport, sitting in a German sports bar, waiting for some of GM’s kiwi mates to show up. One of whom was on his way out of Oktoberfest, supplying GM with some pre-worn lederhosen (I’ll go into that further), and the other mate who had been cavorting about Norway and was going to be hanging out with us at the festival. The festival itself all started with a kingish bloke celebrating his wedding and wanting to perhaps ensure he always remembered the anniversary. What better way to do this than to set up an annual festival with horse racing, beer drinking and sausage eating.

It’s vaguely evolved from that into a half-month-long period heading up to the first of October where the horses have been ditched but the beer drinking and sausage eating definitely hasn’t. By all accounts, it’s become a festival so well known that there are more people that celebrate it (6 million average per year) than there are number of people living in New Zealand (4.5 million). Perhaps what we learn from this is that beer really is a community builder.

I stupidly was ill-prepared for Oktoberfest. As is my habit, I like to start a holiday getaway with being sick (I can always blame the children), so battling a serious case of the snots, stifling headaches and a severe lack of a dirndl, my Oktoberfest experience was good, but nothing legendary I’m afraid. Thank goodness for pretzels though. I blimmin’ love a good, massive, crunchy, doughy, salty pretzel (brezen). GET IN MA MOUTH!

And Oktoberfest doesn’t just have that. Germans seem to love a good saussie, a good snarler (weißwurst), with sweet mustard sauce, skin removed, herby as all get-out. That and their chickens (hendi) became staples for feeding the puku’s when the beer needs to be soaked up. Mouth-wateringly delicious food that is apparently too rich occasionally, for our poor little Britty/Kiwi tums.

The festival nature of Oktoberfest is chaotic and sometimes messy, but also equal parts amorous (sometimes grossly so) and joyful. You’d walk past some of the beer tents (semi-permanent structures built two months prior) overhearing uproarious chanting and singing, countdowns to a beer chug, and people standing on their benches hugging and swaying. It’s the ultimate pub night multiplied by about 5.999 million people.

After a six hour effort from me, and a twelve hour hard slog by GM and his mate, the next day didn’t dare repeat the first. We reentered Oktoberfest as sober, sunglasses wearing, head-clutching tourists, not a beer in hand or a sausage in mouth. GM got on the photo-taking band wagon while me and his mate tagged along, wandering behind, losing him, finding him again, moving on to the next photo opportunity.

I’ll be honest, Oktoberfest is something that can be thoroughly enjoyed by anyone, but perhaps more so the likes of GM’s mate who he borrowed the lederhosen off. This lad has been travelling Europe for the last four months and it appears that he and the gents and gentesses he’s travelling with have built up a hardy stamina that sees them growing impressive beards (even the ladies… JK, JK), rocking the jandals in all climates, attempting disgraceful acts that make for exceptional stories, all the while being holed up in a series of beacons of New Zealandishness: touring vans decked out with sweet names (Vanimal and Black Betty), living quarters that you’d be ashamed to let your mother see, with proud NZ flags billowing behind them in their wake. What a way to see Europe. The people seeing it this way is who the modern Oktoberfest is made for – people who want to be able to share a good yarn after a hard night of adventurous endeavour, people who give everything to get a smashing story to tell back.

In the meantime, Munich is a pretty cool city with plenty to nosey at. Here, nosey at our noseying.

Part 32 – Daily Writing Challenge 12 and 13

Posted on August 20, 2016 by H

DAY TWELVE AND THIRTEEN, 20.08.2016

12. Two words / phrases that make you laugh

13. Your commute to and from work

One thing you may or may not be aware of is my inability to swear. It’s not that I am so strongly averse to the finer language and that I’m so disgraced by it that I can’t stand the words… it’s more that there’s residual self-control from growing up in a household that was strongly against swearing. Swearing was a no-go. We had alternative words (some that were far more offensive than swearing) and the way my siblings and I used to speak to one another as kids was, upon reflection, pretty atrocious, but if you swore at home you knew you’d gone too far. What occurs now is that if I swear, it just sounds so weird. It feels weird to even type swears. How prudish. I love it!

I remember that when I was Year 8, about 12, I had two best mates that loved a good swear. One day I said ‘shit’ just to see what would happen. The reaction from them was astounding. They were shocked and initially appalled, but then excited. Rebel Haemia had finally arrived. And she was there to stay! For about a month. I took to swearing like a sweet little duckling takes to the tepid rivers; with initial trepidation but eventually she fully embraces the new waves she rides. It became easy to pick it up and just let the new magic words flavour my vocabulary. I felt like I was pushing so many boundaries that my parents would shrivel and pucker if they heard me. Then one day they almost did. I was in some argument with some sibling and I remember getting so angry that I almost swore very, very loudly at them, in front of my mother. I managed to slow down the word vomit threatening to be gagged up and after I had rushed off to my room to boil, I realised I was out of control. I never swore again.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I have sworn again and it’s usually when I’m extremely angry (driving) and it’s my indicator to show that I’m beginning to lose control. The words just genuinely leave a weird taste in my mouth because they’re so unfamiliar. I’m sure with practise I could return to my former Year 8 glory, but being known for saying things like ‘yikes’ and ‘dang’ is not all bad either.

This is a very, very roundabout way for me to get to my point. This swearing thing has become a source of laughter for GM and I. When we were in Scotland, I decided to make a point of dropping word piles of ‘shit’. That would be a swear that I would practise in order to try and make it sound more natural, but only as long as we were on the holiday. As soon as it was time to get back to school, I’d need to reign it back in in case I accidentally formed a ‘shit’ in the classroom. GM kept laughing at how oddly the word sounded when I said it. I used it, over-enunciating the ‘t’ for effect, and it really worked. Eventually, I began to drop the ‘t’, soften the sounds, and I think I’ve got this ‘shit’ nailed!

About a month later, two of my friends from back home came to hang out in Windsor and I had told Dan that I was going to surprise them with a well-timed swear, just for reactions sake. One of my friends seems to delight in telling people I’m not a swearer, to the point that people feel like they have to watch their language around me (please! Don’t!). I knew that she would be the most reactionary and she was! It was great. We were in the middle of lunch when I simply squeezed out a ‘shit’ into the casual conversation and it appeared to plop on the plate followed by a somewhat stunned silence. Immediately followed by an explosion of ‘did you just swear?’ ‘Who are you?’ ‘What’s just happened?’ Mission successful.

‘Shitting’ everywhere, when the occasion calls for it, has become a good ol’ laugh. I enjoy it. I’m easily pleased though, apparently. I bet if you didn’t know this about me, you’d probably think I’m a right fool… a ‘shit-talker’ even!

Speaking of ‘shit’, let’s move on to the next day’s writing challenge: the commute to work (smooth segue, H).

The commute to work is most eloquently explained through a poem I wrote about it a little while ago. Have a read and see what you word images you conjure…

THE DIRTY U.K.

Bulbous dull clouds are tinged smog-gold,
Plastic defecation lines motorway slip roads,
Exhausts belch out their rancid, black breath,
This is the dirty U.K. and it’s ugly beauty.

The commute is one of mixed visual episodes. There is two-thirds sadness at the litter and the lack as I head into work, and one-third peace and pleasure, taking in some of the lesser unspoilt natural beauty with a castle rising up on the horizon as I return home from work back into Windsor.

The commute. It will be interesting to see what the next one is like. Hopefully not ‘shit’.

SHIT’S: 9/865 words (0.01% – pathetic attempt at swearing like a sailor).

Part 31 – Tenerife, Las Galletas

Posted on August 11, 2016 by H

Let’s step aside from this Daily Writing Challenge business. I think it’s time I spoke to you, in detail, about Tenerife and what it was all about… You’re in for a treat.

The first thing I need to do is ask you this very important question.

Have you ever been to Alborada before?

No?

Neither had we.

Let’s backtrack a little. Mario Windsor Pilates Princess Africa Knifehands and I had been planning a wee jaunt together to celebrate us being in the same country, in a country other than home, and being able to go visit another country still. Exploration time with a bestie? Yes, please! All we wanted was somewhere with guaranteed good weather, a pool, and drinks included in the price of the holiday. So we settled on an all-inclusive Tenerife resort holiday. Yahoo!! Bikini time here we come!

So there we were, Tenerife! We had arrived at 11:30pm and were talking to our transfer bus driver at the airport when he asked us the same question I asked you: Have you ever been to Alborada before? Our response, ‘no’, was met with silence and he just walked away.

‘That was weird,’ I pronounced, but shrugged it off and got onto the bus.

After some faffing at the airport, and a half hour drive through Tenerife, we arrived at Alborada. It was nighttime, we were tired and couldn’t really see what we were getting ourselves into…

A family of four, mum (pregnant), dad (sweaty and looking cheesed off), teenage son (from a previous relationship), young daughter (from this relationship) were in front of us talking to the receptionist.

‘So, you’ve heard that LowCost Holidays went bust yesterday?’

‘Yes, what does that mean for us?’ Questions sweaty dad, ready to get angrier.

‘Well, technically the hotel didn’t have to do anything but we’ve held your room for you, but you’ll need to pay for your stay here.’

‘But we’ve paid.’

‘Yes, you did pay LowCost but they have not paid us. You will still only be charged what LowCost charged you, not our usual rate which is much more expensive… otherwise… well, what can we do?’

Mario Windsor P.P.A.K.H etc. (MWPPAKH from now on) and I looked at each other. Sheesh, this sounds bad! I said to her, ‘that name, LowCost sounds familiar. We didn’t book through them, did we?’

‘Nah, we’re good. We went through Last Minute.’ Reassuring tones. Whew.

The family needed to front up with another £900 odd in order to stay. Dad stormed off for a moment while Mum gathered kids and went and sat down. Clearly a big decision had to be made. I felt terrible for them! £900 is a lot to have to pay again, immediately. Ouch!

It was our turn to chat to the receptionist.

Long story short, LastMinute were indeed who we booked our trip through, however, they then booked via LowCost. We, too, had to front up and pay again for our stay. £320. We paid twice for this trip.

As the shock wore off and we did our homework into what the hell had actually occurred, we decided Tenerife needed to be a farce. In order for us to enjoy our holiday, and not let it be spoilt by cash flow issues, we needed to understand that what had occurred was out of our control (insolvency wouldn’t have been covered by the travel insurance we didn’t have anyway), and just laugh it all off. Ahahaha, take our money then Tenerife. Again.

As the days wore on, two sentences became our mantra while we surveyed our surroundings and were constantly surprised by them:

Have you ever been to Alborada before?
We paid twice for this.

Let’s move on to some observations, shall we?

THE GOOD

Alborado Beach Club boasts an impressive pool. It is massive and so big that it’s not overpopulated. It’s also a salt-water pool that is so close to the ocean that when the tide is in, waves crash into one end of it! Spectacular. This pool has to be emptied once a week so that they can get rid of the slimey, icky algae and bits of seaweed that floats about in it. It’s a job that takes about five hours from emptying to cleaning to refilling. Good work, Team Alborada.

Another thing Alborada has going for it are the staff. They’re a nice bunch. They were working their butts off (staffing issues?), and the smiles to the gross, pink (or orange), tipsy tourists barely ever looked fake! Even the receptionist who dealt with us, and all the other bitterly disappointed customers, did an amazing job at staying calm and kind under pressure. She was empathetic but stern, just as she needed to be! I wouldn’t have fancied having her job throughout this saga. Pages and pages of affected customers lay at her fingertips. She was masterful.

THE BAD

Well, it could have been bad, but this is where the catch phrase, ‘we paid twice for this,’ really came in handy. Let’s have a gander at someone’s review of Alborada:

it felt like a prison looked like a prison although i can honestly say i have never been in prison.

Granted it might be hard to pay much attention to someone that doesn’t use capital letters, punctuation, and assumes something looks like something else that they’ve no experience with…(I can honestly say they’ve never been in prison, I don’t think) but if you spend time trawling through the reviews (which I did when we got home), a picture is painted.

The picture is of a multi-storey carpark-esque building that looks like it was built in the 60’s. Well now, that’s fine really, architects did funny things in the 60’s, but what stops me giving the place more than 2 stars is the fact that it also looks like it hasn’t been updated since it was built. The place is clean, but it is rundown. Lights don’t work, sockets come out of the wall when you pull a plug, others spark, sheets are torn, fold out beds don’t fold out… are you seeing what I’m laying down here?

Then you move on to the food. I’ve never had an all inclusive holiday before and I don’t think I would ever again. Maybe the cheap option really isn’t the best option. I am aware that this is a very bold statement. The food that was available was generally bland, dull, and fairly unchanging day-to-day. We were concerned that we would become real tourists and only eat what looked vaguely familiar or enticing to our uneducated pallettes (chip butties), and we did succumb to that mindset a little… our wristbands that tell the world we’re all-inclusive became a shackle of shame really. I would have torn it off my scrawny limb if it weren’t for the bottomless beer it afforded me!

And we paid twice for that.

THE UGLY

The worst thing about the trip was certainly forking out more than once. However, it’s now just the source of a good laugh… and stomach pangs as we can’t afford to eat anything but ice on bread (refer what’s on the menu for tonight’s meal)

What actually caused me the greatest annoyance, out of everything, was having to ask four times for towels to be changed, and it not happening once, the whole time we were there (five nights). The policy was that they would be changed every two days when the rooms were cleaned. Policy-schmolicy apparently. Wouldn’t that rip your nighty, or perhaps your sheet if you’re at Alborada.

I think it’s time we move out of the good, the bad, and the ugly and move on to:

THE BEST

MWPPAKH and I anticipated a certain amount of tackiness on our getaway. In fact, we hoped for it and I anticipated it by buying heart-shaped sunglasses. This adventure is what legends are made of, after all. We had certain expectations of a low cost (theoretically), all-inclusive holiday in Tenerife. One of these expectations was that we would come across a few funny characters that we could sit back and observe throughout our holiday. We were not disappointed. The day we left, MWPPAKH and I constructed a list of all the people we’d observed or interacted with. It’s extensive and I hope you can almost imagine.

Our characters, named by MWPPAKH :

Russian mouth: The prize character. A woman in her late 50’s, early 60’s. I don’t think she was Russian but actually Polish. She was on the leathery side of tanned. Platinum blonde hair, thick waist, elegant hands. Tattooed lip liner (black), never wore lipstick, tattooed beauty spots (two), tattooed eyebrows (thin). She exuded confidence.
Old tits: It’s hard to say which lady we’re actually talking about here. There was a clan of women, 60’s+, who just whipped ’em out, every day. With their blatant disregard for modesty, they encouraged us to follow suit. You decide whether we joined in or not, I’m not saying a word more.
Nip girl and her attractive father: A three-year-old girl with a constant scowl, who didn’t wear a top but ran around with her hands over her nips. Her father was attractive.
Tri bikini: On the last day, a woman slightly younger than us changed her bikini three times. Every time she re-entered the pool she had a different outfit on. It was weird.
King and queen: Northern Brits (one of the many). He had a six pack on his beer belly (how does that work??). On the calf of his left leg sits a crown with the word ‘King’. On the back of her right leg sits a crown with the word, ‘Queen’. #cute #made4eachother
Fookin Jenny’s mum: A middle-aged woman in a hurry to get a quick drink from the juice machine. MWPPAKH astutely observed her edginess and let her in front.

“Thanks love. We need to catch our bus. We are in a rush to catch the bus. Fookin Jenny didn’t tell me she had run out of conditioner. Typical fookin Jenny.”
Stephen, the lady bartender: The best bartender of the bunch. Efficient and stern, but smiley.
Severely burnt face mum and grandma: They were a pair of the most withered family members you’d see. Looking at grandma was looking at mum’s future. I observed them at breakfast one morning and it was just like in the movies: each individual lifted their cup to their lips with their left hand followed by a mirrored gesture of wiping their mouth with the right hand. The only difference was grandma’s slightly more delayed reaction time. It was uncanny.
Spanish rapper: One evening, me and MWPPAKH got locked out of the complex while we were walking on the beach. It was the second night, I think, and the first time we’d been out of the resort (terrible, I know). We trekked our way back around the complex and it was then that we realised we had glimpsed something of the harder life of Tenerife. The walls beyond the main road were covered in graffiti from nearly ten years ago, smashed windows were everywhere, and bags of litter lining the sidewalk. We wandered past a small group of lads that had a ghetto blaster going with a backing track, while one of them rapped. It was brilliant. We felt like gross tourists and hid our shackles of shame (remember, the wristbands).
Tbar g-string staff member: She was very helpful, then she crouched down to pick up something off the floor.
¿pape? ¿Que?: A really loud Spanish lad who said that, constantly, from one side of the pool to the other. I didn’t hear his father respond once.
Max and Charlie: One of the highlights. Two British brothers, Max (7), and Charlie (4), who stalked the pool table on our last evening. Max clearly wanted to play but he was waiting patiently his turn, occasionally offering up suggestions. We finished our game and left him and his dad to it. We returned to the pool tables about an hour later and Max wandered back to watch, no dad this time. I invited him to be on my team. I desperately wanted to beat MWPPAKH, and like a wise sensei, I had seen something in the young padawan (mixing genres, shhhh). Charlie came running over and joined MWPPAKH’s team, which mostly just meant putting his toy handcuff’s in the way of the pool balls, or just picking the balls up and playing with them. My threat to put him in jail with his own handcuff’s was disbelieved. Max will be a future pool shark, mark my words. He’s got the physics down!

Look, all in all, Tenerife was amazing. We lazed by the pool five of our six days (finding a public beach better equipped than our private pool on the other day), we drank beer, ate really average food, and made long lasting memories that are successfully filled to bursting with in-jokes. There’s no-one I’d rather have gone with than MWPPAKH. Anyone else probably wouldn’t have laughed things off the way her and I could. And I never want to do it again.

Have you ever been to Alborada before?

Yes. Never. Again. Unless. As. A. Joke. I’ve already paid twice for that!

Some facts about the LowCost debacle

In 2013 LowCost ditched the UK (and ATOL protection) and moved their offices to Spain – pivotal point.
They went bust 15th July, we travelled on the 16th.
All flights were safe but any accommodations and transfers would have had to have been booked and paid for again. Our hotel was kind enough to hold bookings for people arriving that weekend who may not have yet heard about the company going bust.
27,000 customers were on their holiday, travelling to it, when the company went bust.
140,000 in total were affected.
The insurance company LowCost offered on their website didn’t cover ‘supplier failure due to insolvency’.
Generally successful claims have received a maximum of 1% of what they were charged (for us, we could have got £3 back – we didn’t attempt to make any claims through any source).

Part 30 – Daily Writing Challenge 11

Posted on August 10, 2016 by H

DAY 11, 10.08.2016

Your current relationship status

What a load of bollocks this writing challenge is becoming. Initially, you wanted to know my first love, now we’re moving on to the next in line, relationship status. This is proving to be a rather invasive thing that I’ve decided to do. What a bore. And, hold on a minute. Status. That word has a butt load of connotations to it. The word ‘relationship’ coupled (pun intended) with the word ‘status’ suggests that your status is improved when you’re in a relationship. I could look into this more thoroughly but I’m so turned off this current blog that I’m going to ignore the implications of my current thought line and just move on before I get trapped and never survive the philosophical discussion I might find myself in…

Right, let’s keep this short and sweet. My current relationship status is: blissfully travelling throughout the world with a person that’s my best mate.

I say blissfully but that kind of supposes some ignorance to ‘real life’ and the day to day business of being in a relationship with someone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly happy in my relationship with this fellow – he’s a champion – but relationships reveal a lot about yourself in relationships… if that makes sense, and some of it isn’t all that good.

Here are some things that I’ve discovered about myself since being in a grown up relationship:

I am more negative about silly little things than I thought I would be. Just this morning I think I whined three times about things in the kitchen. I never thought I was a whiner. Ew, gross. Whining.
I’m a touchy feely person. As a kid and teenager, I always thought I was someone that avoided physical situations, hugs, hand holding etc. But as it turns out, I like touching people… in as creepy a method as possible… that’s not true. I’m just a person who likes a bit of contact – a shoulder pat here, a kiss on the cheek there etc.
I can go without GM (within reason, here!). In the last month both of us went off on a week long holiday, each to a different destination, without the other. It was great! He went to Norway to watch cars do skids, I went to Tenerife to sit by a pool and watch people (more on that trip later). Neither of us really wanted to accompany the other and we’ve actually had mixed responses to our separate holidays. As far as I’m concerned, I think it’s quite healthy that we can go without one another (messaging most days, keeping in touch, but not bathing in one another’s company every day), but there’s been a number of people who thought it was quite odd that we didn’t want to accompany each other on these trips. See, my theory is, having different interests to sustain you, having your own mates, allows you to live your own life while also sharing your separate and shared experiences with someone vitally important to you. Consider this: when we get back to NZ, GM will have a garage again. This means that he’ll disappear into it and I will never see him again as he builds his next project (at this stage it’s a jet-propelled go-kart), and what the (s)hell am I supposed to do in the meantime? I’ll be living in a place I don’t know, knowing nobody around, and I’m no homemaker. I won’t be sitting at home doing the washing, cooking or baking up masterpieces to wile away the lonely hours! If I don’t get out and fulfil my own ambitions, I’ll end just sitting in a corner crying in the dark (after I’ve re-read all my books that I’m moving home for). I am being forced into a position where I have to have something of my own, without GM. And for me, that’s where drama and the like comes in! Time to become a famous actress – just like everyone else I suppose. If I didn’t have my own thing, I’d go nuts, genuinely become mentally disturbed. So, naysayers who looked at me with furrowed brows when I talked about my holiday without my man-love, it is for good reason that I celebrate my independent loves.

Mum always said, ‘better two wholes in a relationship than two halves attempting to make one whole,’ or something to that effect.

I’m going to leave this blog here for now. Can you tell I’m not feeling all that passionate about it? This writing challenge is proving to be very introspective and I’m getting a little bored of it. Let’s see what tomorrow brings, hopefully an improvement in my writing mood!

Norway vs. Tenerife