AUSTRALIA II: WORKING FOR DA MAN

I thought that my plan to travel to Australia for Christmas, after having only just visited in March/April, was a bit extravagant. I mean, it's not the cheapest, quickest or most pleasant flight on the planet. In fact, it usually takes me at least a year until the memory of that flight fades enough for me to even contemplate booking another. So when I was told by my employer that I had to attend a meeting in Canberra in September, five months after my most recent flight and just two months before my next, I was less than thrilled. Six trans-global economy class flights in under nine months? Surely that counts as a breach of my human rights?

Grainy kangaroo footage

Once I got over my disappointment that the meeting wasn't taking place somewhere closer and more exotic, like Jamaica or Zambia, I eventually managed to muster a small semblance of enthusiasm for the unexpected return to my homeland. Even so, it was tempered by a strong aversion to cramming myself into an economy class seat for 24 sleepless hours, and a fear that I'd be physically unable to arrange the meetings and run the workshop when I landed at the other end.

Regular readers know that jetlag is not my friend. Despite this, I was surprisingly functional and relatively coherent during those first few days. It must have been the fear of performing badly that pushed me through the mind fug of jetlag-induced sleep deprivation. I also found myself unexpectedly enthusiastic about showing my British, African and Caribbean colleagues the joys of Canberra. I suspect that if I'd been there with a bunch of Aussies, I'd have been unable to think of any joys to show them.

They were lucky I found one!

Once my meetings and workshop were over and the international delegates had departed, I was free to catch up with friends. Whilst I had valiantly held jetlag at bay while I was working, it attacked me with a vengeance as soon as I stopped. Jetlag is evil. My brain imploded, I was completely shattered, and I'm afraid my friends didn't get to see the best of me - but I enjoyed myself nonetheless. Hopefully that's some small consolation to those of you who had to suffer me nodding off during the midde of conversations and my inability to string together a complete sentence. Hopefully?

There was NO WAY that I could handle submitting to the return economy class flight just four days after landing, so I had arranged to spend a week with my sister in Sydney. Hooray!

J was at work every day, so most of our activities were evening (and therefore alcohol)-based. She had moved into her own place since my last visit, and proudly took me to some of her favourite Sydney spots. I also dragged her out to introduce her to some of my friends, so we had quite a busy social schedule that week. My favourite day saw us spend the afternoon at an event celebrating Saudi Arabia National Day (the nibblies inexplicably consisted of pies, sandwiches and spring rolls), eat dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant in Newtown, and then head out to an Oktoberfest-themed Beer and Sausage Fundraiser hosted by Tibetan Buddhists. Carniverous and booze-swilling Tibetan Buddhists, evidently.

Breakfast in Sydney, lunch in Saudi Arabia, dinner in Vietnam, supper in Germany, and partying in Tibet. Sydney, eh? Whatta town.

PARIS

I can't believe it took me so long to travel to Paris. J'adore! J'adore!

Actually I know exactly why it took so long. It was a promise that my 8 year-old self made after the French government's appalling bombing of the Rainbow Warrior in Auckland in 1985. I swore that I would never, ever set foot in that country as long as I lived. I also threw out my beloved Bic four-colour retractable ballpoint pen because it had Made in France written on the side. I was young, but I was principled.

So it was the determination and will of that little girl, carried with me as I aged and she drifted into the past, that gave me the self-control to live four years in the UK without once skipping across the Channel to France. Even now, twenty-six years later, a part of me feels really bad for breaking her vow. But there's only so much of "You've never been to Paris?" "You MUST go to Paris" and "Paris is lovely this time of year, want to come?" that one human being can withstand. And word to the wise, younger me, that religious education stuff they're pouring into your brain right now is all bollocks. You should zone out during lessons and use the time more constructively. Learn how to draw.

Anyway, Paris.

It was just a short weekend trip, and I saw nowhere near enough of that lovely city, but it was enough for me to know that I'll have to go back. I went to the Louvre and the marvellous Musée d'Orsay. I spent a half day on a walking tour of the city, and an evening drinking way too much wine in a little café not too far from the Moulin Rouge. Catching up with an expat English friend, we spent another evening drinking yet more wine and dancing to a live jazz band in an underground cavern bar. 

 
C'est très bien!

C'est magnifique!  

C'est Gérard Depardieu! (Sorry. Must learn more French.) 


Au revoir mon ami....