Turning into my Mother

We all do it. We hear our mothers whining that they're turning into their mothers, and the fact is we're destined for exactly the same fate.

Every single morning...

This morning I decided that cleaning a backpackers' hostel is no longer good for the soul. For almost a month I've been without a companion to help me - instead of a fun and practical way to start the day it's been a solitary slog from kitchen to bathroom to kitchen to bathroom (in total there are 6 kitchens and 10 bathrooms), picking up strangers' pubes from toilet seats and hefting industrial vacuum cleaners up and down the stairs.

Yesterday I came to the very last kitchen only to be confronted with a pile of breakfast dishes that some lazy sods had decided to just dump on the draining board, right next to the clearly written and laminated sign instructing them to avoid doing exactly that.

"Please take other guests into consideration and wash, dry and put away all the items you use in the kitchen."

I finished my morning chores suppressing a curse and returning to the tranquil, unaffected state that I've learned to live in through meditation.

...every single morning...

When, however, I this morning went to back to the kitchen and found the same pile of used dishes, I exploded. "WHOSE ARE THESE?" I belowed across the hallway to the nearby dormitories. One poor girl was caught in the stream of my wrath: "Um, I think everybody's just been leaving them".
"WELL I'VE HAD IT! EVERY BLOODY MORNING, I'M NOT DOING IT ANY MORE - YOU CAN DAMN WELL CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES!". I stormed down the stairs with a sweep and a stomp.

I spent much of the rest of the morning muttering to myself, things like "look at the state of this bath tub, this was spotless yesterday, how on earth have they got it like this?", and "Oh for goodness sake, surely they could have put their own curry boxes in the bin, not left them on the floor".

And that was when I heard it: 'when will you children learn to clear up after yourselves? I'm fed up of tidying up after you all the time. And you're just as bad - what's this? Why are these here? Put it away!'. It had happened. Without even procreating, I had become my poor mother exasperated with her inconsiderate family.

Can you enter 'big kids'?

Run away!

Once the cleaning was finished I took my laptop to the library and booked a flight to Sydney. I will carry on working here but only until Saturday - then I'm packing my bags and heading back to the big city. I've made appointments to view some lovely apartments near the harbour (and, more importantly, near ALDI), and will resume my job hunting in person there. I'm sorry to break my contract with the hostel but I think they've had the benefit of me!

Life as a Buddhist Monk

OK, I'm not technically Buddhist. Or a monk. In fact I probably wouldn't get the job if I applied for it. But I have this week moved to another part of Australia and found myself in quite a different situation.

A few steps outside the door...

For one thing, I'm staying here. And I mean staying for about three months. Which sounds unbelievable - I've been known to get bored with a place before arriving at it - but actually there's something very calming about taking a break from travelling and settling into some sort of routine for a while. So here it is:

AM

06:00 - wake up, get up and pull on some trousers

06:15 - march down to the beach for a spot of jogging and stretches (okay so I haven't done this yet but there's clear intention!)

07:30 - breakfast at home, check emails

09:30 - start work (as a cleaner)

11:30 - finish work, have a shower and change into clean clothes

12:15 - cook a proper (vegetarian) lunch, wash up

Today's baking effort: egg custard tart

PM

13:00 - get the paints out OR
          - head to the beach for some swimming / surfing OR
          - take a hike around one of the natural beauty spots in the area OR
          - sneak off somewhere quiet and meditate

18:30 - prepare some (vegetarian) supper

19:30 - contemplate, jot in my diary or write a little update on here

21:00 - watch a film in bed, fall asleep (not necessarily chronologically)

It's certainly a departure from life in the campervan... and is it very different from the lifestyle of a Buddhist monk? I live in a hostel and share a room with a fellow backpacker. The accommodation is provided in return for cleaning work - the proprieter doesn't pay me and I don't pay him. The majority of the day is set aside for peaceful persuits in a beautiful setting, and do you know what? I really enjoy the meditation as a way to calm the world down - if you haven't already, try it and see!

A Town in Three Countries

My final weekend of the European tour was spent in the City of Basel, Switzerland. With a little time spent in Basel, Germany. All with a fine view of Basel, France.

I was here to meet Jenny, an old school friend who now lives here with her German fiance Bjoern. With SatNav's help I negotiated the one way system but we still had the challenge of parking Cecil. Jenny and Bjoern hopped in outside their flat and we drove around the quarter on the lookout for any empty space marked in white (not blue) that was large enough to parallel park in. After around fifteen minutes we found an end-of-the-row. To my surprise there was a cream Late Bay with its hazard lights on across the road! But there was no time to take any pictures - we found our way neatly into the space and switched off the engine with relief.

The first evening consisted of dinner, fine wine, gossip and an early night since we'd all had long and tiring weeks to recover from.

Lots of Friends

It was difficult to miss the concentration of VW buses in this place. Having not seen another T2 in all my time in France, I saw 5 within a day here in Switzerland - four late bays and one early bay - plus countless T3s and T4s. I don't know why. But Cecil felt quite at home.

Just one of our new friends

Wave at the Animals

On yet another hot, sunny day, we took a long walk across the city (and across a country border) to a public animal park. Many of the animals, particularly those of a cat persuasion, were sensibly hidden in the shade but there were plenty of large birds including herons and storks perched on distinctive high up nests. Peacocks and peahens skipped away from small children on the paths and occasionally peered into the monkey enclosure looking charactistically grumpy.

Baby storks, not yet strong enough to leave the nest

Drowning in the Rhine

Jenny confided in me that 'Rhine swimming' was her very favourite thing to do, and that we should partake that afternoon to cool down from our sweaty hike. I agreed, imaging splashing about on a little stoney beach somewhere, and we changed into our swimming costumes.

It wasn't until I was chest deep in the river water that I understood what we were actually doing. 'Rhine swimming' consists of packing your gear into a waterproof bag, swimming out to the middle of the Rhine, and then trying to stay safely a float while the undefeatably strong current thrusts you downstream at a rate of several knots. It's important to avoid being flung into any obstacles along the way, such as moored boats or marker bouys. Then, approximately 2km later, you paddle desperately back to the side and grab a ladder in the wall with which to make an exit.

An exciting and frugal way to see the city

I took my waterproof camera again - there are still more photos to take before I can develop the film though!

Switzerland falls down

Once we'd showered, changed and eaten Jenny's fabulous home cooking, we wandered into the City centre for a tour of its sights and a beer on a busy high street that buzzed with every variety of human being. We ambled home and reentered the flat within seconds of a mighty hail and thunder storm, which we then enjoyed from the covered balcony with a cup of hot tea.

It's Art

The rain continued throughout Sunday so we hopped on a bus to the Tanguely museum to enjoy its range of 'machine art'. This local artist focused on putting together bizarre combinations of objects and then making them move in interesting ways. One particular piece included musical instruments to add an eerie sound dimension and another was large enough to enter and walk around. Frustratingly for us visitors, the machines were only allowed to be turned on infrequently so that they wouldn't wear out... there seemed to be a group of excitable children constantly ahead of us turning the sculptures on so that they were immobile by the time we arrived.

Exploring the art

The afternoon was spent back at the flat playing Carcassonne, a highly addictive board game, with a fourth friend of Bjoern's and enjoying a traditional Swiss fondue with some surprisingly drinkable English white wine.

A healthy meal

The end of the Adventure

... Or this leg of the adventure, anyway. I said a sad farewell on Monday and drove back South into France. Cecil was cleaned and aired and left in a sunny airport while I flew back to the grey and drizzly UK for work. Now my task is to get through my contract as quickly and efficiently as possible so that I can return and squeeze just a little more Europe in...

Voila, The Mediterranean!

On Saturday I drove to a vineyard outside Toulon, to meet a wine maker that I met in Japan. The farm is part of a national scheme of free campervan sites where you can buy local produce or artworks and stay overnight. It looks like a good way to see the country - if anyone's interested they can buy the guide book and pass from France Passion for €29 and get information on 7,000 such sites.

Seeing the Sea

After eating, drinking and catching up on Saturday night, we needed a spot of excercise. We packed bags and took a hike on cliff tops that would give an eagle vertigo, staring down into a clear navy blue sea. The sky was cloudless and the water's surface like glass so we were glad to eventually find a way down and to dive into a cove where the pool was deep and cool.

Not the English Channel

We ate an extremely fine picnic on the warm rocks and took out my waterproof camera... I had no goggles but nonetheless floated around trying to snap little silver fishes and the sea bed. I promise to share the results when the film is developed!

The climb back up was a little more difficult but we were soon sat in Thomas's car listening to Led Zeppelin as we rolled home. It was on this journey that I learned about the rule on speed bumps in South France. Apparently these sleeping policemen are always installed outside the homes of the people who requested them and it's therefore obligatory to make as much noise as possible when crossing them, both by honking the horn and by lowering gear and revving the engine.

Hungry cats vocally educating seafood diners in sharing

We finished the day by dressing up and heading to a secluded restaurant on the seafront where we provided fine dining to the local mosquitoes. The chef's special that night was my arse, served through a nylon skirt between narrow slats of a wooden chair.

Ouch!

Cecil has had a brand new battery and has had his gas cannisters filled and we've moved onto Cannes for a couple of days. From there, who knows? Maybe Italy, Switzerland... I'll be back.

A Week in Provence

With Cecil finally back on the road and in ship shape, I thought it wise this time to be a little more cautious about leaving. Abandoning my plans for Espagne we instead took a short trip to Narbonne where we kipped in an industrial zone, frequently checking for any problems of a mechanical or electrical nature.

There were none.

An old friend from England called and we arranged for him to fly into Avignon where I would collect him and we would take a three-day tour of the region, after which I would continue alone in my usual style.

Sur le Pont

We checked into a very plush campsite a short walk from the city centre.My friend entered the Palais des Papes (Popes' Palace), where Catholic popes and anti-popes resided in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries... I've done my fill of museums and abbeys and the like by now and couldn't justify the entrance fee, so I settled for a driving tour of the city.

The famous bridge of Avignon

The Sea is pink and it's snowing


This wasn't the effect of LSD but rather the effect of the natural salt marshes in the national park 'The Camargue'. As we drove into the area, we first noticed the bizarre stretch of bright pink waters. Apparently this is caused by algae who are compelled to live in very salty waters and who contain high levels of carotene. Of course its these algae who are eaten by shrimp, making them pink, and in turn eaten by flamingoes.

I was even more surprised, however, to see banks of snow along the side of the road. It was somewhere around thirty degrees celcius! The wind blew across the plains and the 'snow' flakes were thrust across our path. It was then that we realised they were salt flakes that had been blown from the surface of the sea and gathered naturally. So cool!

The salt gathers up on the rocks. The medieval city of Aigues-Mortes in the background.

I took a boat trip through the canals and saw a demonstration of 'gardians', who herd black bulls from their position atop white horses. Unfortunately there was also a gaggle of teenagers on the trip who'd clearly been forced to attend on a school trip, so I couldn't hear much of what the French cowboys had to say.

Chasing Bulls

The area is also famous for its 'Flamant Rose' (pink flamingoes) but, although I saw many from my position on the boat, they were all too distant to really photograph. Still, they were amusing to watch with their long skinny legs and stark pink wings.


Nothing like family

After dropping my friend off, I drove straight to my Aunt's house for a visit. We took a ride in her convertible to the Coustellet market and joined some friends of hers in the Poisonnerie there for oysters and wine. I'd never tried an oyster before so I had to be trained in the technique. It tasted rather like I'd imagine that pink sea tasting if you stuck your tongue into it.

My grandmother very kindly put me up at her house down the road and I went for an afternoon to visit one of my cousins and meet her baby boy for the first time. I also met her new boyfriend who was something of a VW enthusiast and a collector of spare parts. He turned up with a brand new pair of eyelids for Cecil and fitted them on the spot! You can see from his face how much he likes them.

A cheeky look for Cecil

Finally we all gathered at a fabulous outdoor venue in Gordes to watch my other cousin play guitar in his band... this was his final performance with the guys before he moves to Marseille for university so there was quite an emotional atmosphere... and a doting mother recording every second of it on her iPhone.

An astonishingly talented guy - I'm so proud of my cousin!

It's not quite over yet

Although I've taken this opportunity to update you, there's one more chapter left in Provence. Today I'm driving East to visit a winemaker who I met in Japan back in March. And then who knows? That's the beauty of being free!

Is the secret in the diet?

There's a long-standing theory in my family that one's mood is directly related to the food one consumes. In other words, a healthy well-balanced diet will lead to a happy, intelligent and reasonable person in a jolly old mood.

So is that were the Belgians went wrong?

It's not long since I got back from Japan, where I felt that I was surrounded by the most polite, curious, hard-working and considerate people at all times. And of course the Japanese diet is widely considered to be the most healthy in the world with its fish, tofu, rice and often nine portions of fruit and vegetables per day.

So how can the poor Belgians possibly be expected to keep up on their waffles, chocolate, chips and beer? The poor devils have no choice but to be ignorant, selfish, beaurocratic and unhelpful. They just have to scowl and bear it.

A Belgian diet?

Hints at Groezrock


Some of this culture had managed to leak into the weekend's festival, although of course it was impossible to realise it at the time - my natural assumption was that these things were symptomatic of a less-than-perfect festival organiser:

1. Signposting. On arrival, we approached the gate only to be told that we would first need to exchange our tickets for wristbands at a different location. Where was this location? Back where we had come from, at a small unmarked kiosk. Everybody at the entire festival must have followed our same exact steps. And at the unmarked kiosk, oh no, no, you're too early for the festival wristband. You'll have to take a camping wristband but retain your secondary ticket and come back in the morning.

2. Queuing - you had to queue for the cash machine, then queue to purchase drinks vouchers, then queue separately for food vouchers. Only then could you join the queue for food or drink.

3. Just 'avin' a larf - on the first day, I approached a food counter, waved my vouchers and stared at the staff on the other side for a full 8 minutes before they confessed they weren't open. And later I approached a food counter with no queue, under a sign with a picture of felafels and asked for, uh, felafels. The woman told me I had to join the half-hour queue next door and buy them from her colleague. While she stood there failing to sell any paninis.

In Brussels


Brussels seemed like a nice city, with an Art Mountain a pretty square lined with traditional buildings. We had a beer in a cafe that employed a freakishly talented waiter, able to mentally record and relay 20+ food and drink orders with perfect accuracy.

After I said goodbye to my companions, I marched off in search of a youth hostel. My plans were 1. Stumble across one (there were plenty of hotels so why not?), 2. Find a tourist information spot or similar and ask for directions, 3. Charge my phone somewhere and look them up.

Well plan 1 wasn't going so well - I marched up and down a number of streets with my rucksack and started to tire of it. Equally there had been no luck finding tourist info so I moved quickly onto Plan 3.

Walking through the gay hub, an exuberant young man tried to call me into a dingy corner bar. I stopped and peered insight for electrical sockets. The man asked if I'd like a drink and I replied "I'd love one, if I can plug my mobile phone in!". The man, named Kim, passed my request on to the surly landlady who simply shook her head without looking up from the beer glass she was polishing. I sighed and explained my quest. Kim immediately lit up and told me he knew of a great Auberge round the corner and that he would walk me there.

We chatted as we walked and Kim was immediately apologetic about "his people". He had a strong belief that his countrymen were cold and without humour, and confided that he was desperate to escape to Barcelona. I was incredibly grateful for his kindness in taking me to the hostel and tried to buy him a drink but he was gone as quickly as he'd appeared.

That evening I walked into the city centre and took some photographs. I seemed to be surrounded by grumpy faces and stubborn elbows, and had to push my way through a crowd of people who took no notice of me "excuse-moi"-ing my way through. I found a supermarket with the longest queues I've ever seen - in fact before long I'd learned that the technique was to enter the store and join the queue immediately. This way you could pick up items for your basket as you followed the line up and down aisles. Certainly no-one would allow you to browse the items alongside their bit of the queue. I witnessed several people, mostly mothers with buggies, smuggling items out rather than queuing to pay... and many, many more just leaving with nothing, choosing their freedom over nutrition.

In Bruges


I resolved to move on the next day. Capital cities are often unrepresentative and anyway, Colin Farrel had filmed an amusing film in this medieval city near the coast. So I packed my rucksack and caught a train.
On arrival in Bruges I was once again baffled by the system. The train station is out of town so buses run to the centre. But there were queues, ticket machines, bus stops and LCD screens, none of which seemed to relate to one another. Eventually I just pushed my way onto a bus, a technique employed by the locals. It worked.

A pretty van selling waffles in Bruges

At the hostel I was cut off halfway through saying "I have a reservation -" by the emotionless request "passport". This turned out to be fairly typical customer service. When I asked for a launderette I was told "over the bridge", a direction so vague in a city with at least 9 bridges that it took me an hour to travel the 1.5 miles to it. On arrival, I discovered a machine that exchanged €1 coins for tokens. I abandoned my laundry and bustled into a nearby bar who explained curtly that I would have to buy something to get change, so I swallowed an overpriced orange juice. I poured my money into the machine and got the tokens but guess what? No laundry detergent. None in the machines, none for sale, none without walking 2 miles to the supermarket and buying a whole box. My clothes had to rely on whatever suds had stuck in the machine's tray.

The final straw


Two days later I packed up again to move to the Netherlands. I queued up to buy a ticket at the train station but the man in front of me was clearly having some sort of trouble, so I approached the counter next door when it became available. "Oh no, no, that's an international ticket - you have to see my colleague next door". While he sat back in his swing chair, his fingers interlaced across his ample chocolate-and-beer-filled belly, watching the clock tick.

Perhaps it really is the perfect base for the EU.

Reunited at last

On Monday I emailed my contact to find out where my new fuel gauge has gotten to and she promptly replied that "it is still with the main supplier and we're hoping for delivery next week". Given that I'd been waiting three weeks already, I wasn't keen to sit back and see how much longer my journey would be delayed.

So I made a quick call to the RAC and asked to collect my campervan as it was. They agreed and put me on a train the very next day.

I arrived at the garage and reluctantly handed over a hard-earned £800 in exchange for the keys. I was promised that the bus was now in full working order besides the fuel gauge so drove it away. Their declaration appeared to be honest, although I couldn't help but get grumpy over the little details that hadn't been attended to - it was dirty, there were wires hanging out of the bottom of the dashboard and the stereo trim had been separated from the stereo and left in the footwell. I tried to set this grumpiness aside as I settled in for the night in a free camping spot by a river in a small village off the A20.

On Wednesday I resumed my journey, filling up the petrol regularly of course, and made my way back down South. The Sat Nav was in a sightseeing mood so we tore up and down narrow mountain roads with hairpin bends, even reaching enough altitude to see snow, before arriving back at base in Herault.

This gives me only a few more days to indulge in luxury before we're off again...

Where next?

Well next weekend I have tickets to a rock festival in Belgium and the weekend after that I'm due to meet my old colleagues and friends from London in Amsterdam. Updates to follow!

Tokyo Encapsulated

There's one facility unique to Japan that I've wanted to experience ever since seeing a television news item as a teenager: Capsule Hotels.

The capsule hotel concept was created as a solution for businessmen who were working late in the office or, ahem, 'working late' in the city bars, and had missed their last train home. The theory was that they could check in to a facility whereby they had a safe and warm place to sleep, the ability to clean their clothes and wash themselves, and could head back out to work bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning.

As a result, many are only available to men. I had to go out of my way to find one with a women's floor in Asakusa.

My Experience

This was a lesson in efficiency. Rather than the small, separate bathrooms provided in a conventional hotel, one female bathroom on the 4th floor (accessed by a door code) housed 8 showering stations and one huge hot bath, all available for use as late as 3am. Nudity was compulsary in the bath, as is standard in Japanese 'onsen'.

My sleeping capsule was on the 6th floor and was one of many along the bottom row - I lost count of just how many were in this 'room' but mine was number 32. There were short wall ladders to enable customers to reach the higher row.

Each of the hatches is another sleeping capsule

On opening the hatch, I found that my capsule was roughly the length and width of a standard single bed, with enough height to sit up headache-free. Neatly piled at one end were two towels, a dressing gown, a pillow and a thin duvet. A bed roll was already laid out for sleeping on. There was also a small coin-operated TV, an electric socket and a narrow locker for which I wore a key on my wrist (there is no lock on the capsule's hatch).

My private space

Outside in the corridor were coin-operated laundry machines and vending machines for drinks/snacks and toiletries. Even the rooms themselves were paid for my vending machine - press 'male' or 'female', pay the ¥2,200 (about £19) and receive a ticket for checking in.

There were no windows visible from any part of the hotel that I visited. Despite rows of vents on the walls, the sleeping area was painfully hot so I spent much of the night kicking off the covers and rolling around looking for a non-existant cool spot.

So really there was nothing lacking except soul. It's roughly the same price as a youth hostel but with none of the opportunities for meeting people or making yourself at home. In short, use these as they were intended: as an emergency place to sleep.