Princess Adventures

The Adventures of Lucy the Chicken

princess2802 — Tue, 4 Oct 2011 03:04:00 GMT

I have some lovely real friends, and twitter friends, who write wicked blogs about cooking, or attempting to cook. They work either under dire location circumstances, or under dire lack of success but full of motivation circumstances (lookin’ at you Anna). Whichever way you look at it, food posts are always fun, and I thought it would be a neat follow up to show you exactly what my Omi taught me, from my blog post about returning home to Sydney. When I went to fetch groceries, I grabbed a whole chicken. It was not because I particularly wanted chicken, but because I knew I could force my Omi to teach me how to cook it, and it would be perfect. Thus, Omar the Chicken had his adventures and the whole experience was a success.

Fast forward two months, and we welcome Lucy the Chicken to our home, to share her adventures. Lucy had a lovely oil bath in a particularly lovely glass bowl.

Then it was time for a good smattering of rosemary and a bit more of a massage.

We all know garlic and rosemary are fab friends, so garlic joined the party too. If you want to peel your garlic super-quick, go here, otherwise, just do it the old and slow way. It’s kinda therapeutic. Chopped up into the chunks, the garlic was going on an adventure of its own…

All I could think about in this next step was Andrew’s new favourite term, lady bacon. So, you need to grab Lucy the Chicken at the lady bacon end, and pull the skin away from the flesh, so you can shove your garlic all up in there. Graphic, I know, but now you’ll remember when you’re doing your own garlic-shoving into a chicken’s lady parts. By the end of it, Lucy will look a bit like she’s starting to develop signs of an STI.
Boy, Andrew’s having a bad influence on me these days.

Once you’ve finished assaulting Lucy the Chicken, grab one of these babies.

Throw in a couple of tablespoons of flour (or wheat-free alternative) and a good smattering of “meat spice” for the salt factor. My Omi used chicken stock, but I recently ran out.

Shake your booty for a moment.
Lucy the Chicken loves the entertainment.
Shake the bag too.

Then, gently caress Lucy INTO the bag, where her oily bits become at one with the floury bits of the bag. It looks pretty darn messy really, but trust me, it works. Throw in a handful of onion, to keep her company.

Seal up your baggy, and in the words of @Quirky75, get stabby, punching 5-6 holes in the top to avoid chicken-splosion.

Next, adventure into the dodgy-as Dubai stove at around 170 degrees celcius…

The cat will wait anxiously…

And voila! Lucy the Chicken completes her adventures and Andrew is happy that he married a woman who can cook.

Remember to Validate your Metcard

princess2802 — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 02:55:00 GMT

The recorded message rang out, over and over again, at every stop.

“Remember to validate your Metcard”

Quintessentially Melbourne, it was a reminder of all the messages, bright lights, sounds and seductions I had so desperately missed in my leaving for Dubai. I was sitting on the train from Flinders Street to Middle Brighton, thinking about a post I had recently read at Leo Babuata’s zenhabits on the tragedy of missing out. Starting with a parable of a young boy always searching for bigger fish, he hit home the idea that we are always missing out on something. No matter how hard we strive to fill our lives with everything, no matter how busy we make ourselves, and to what capacity we fill our days, it is human to be missing something.

I had pondered the fact that Andrew and I are often missing out on things, a feeling amplified by living as an expatriate. We miss birthdays, we miss weddings, we miss family gatherings, special moments or just being there to say “it’s ok, you had a bad day.” Even at that time, I was on the train, waiting to get to my old school, thinking about all the things I had missed from their little lives through my leaving.

I fingered through the pages of a rogue MX that somebody had left behind, only to find this for my horoscope: “There’s always something that could be better. There’s always somewhere you could be instead. There’s always someone you perhaps might prefer to talk to. And there’s always the chance that whatever you think you’re missing…you’re not actually missing at all. We put ourselves through far too much unnecessary angst. We judge ourselves too harshly and we compare ourselves to others much too unfairly. The question today is not ‘what’s wrong’? It’s what’s right and have you yet appreciated all that’s good about it?”

Spooky.

On arriving at school, most of the people were still there and the same kind of wonderful that I loved before I left. My students got excited about seeing me in the playground, excitedly racing to their new teacher to tell her all about me. My old colleagues showed me their awesome new facilities, programs and ways of learning. Everything was wonderful. I missed it, and I missed it regularly. I felt that I was missing out on the opportunity to embrace learning through enquiry, to challenge old learning styles and move forward with exceptional new strategies. I wanted it all again. I wanted to make colourful displays, play legos on Fridays and watch their little minds grow. Even when the squeals and the bouncy smiles all got a bit much, I still missed it, and I wanted it all again.

I waved my sad farewell and I got back on the train. I got back to thinking about how much they’d grown, but moved on to thinking about how much I too had grown. I thought about the challenges I’d overcome in my coordinator role, the lessons I’d learned, and the forward thinking strategies I had pioneered that I might not have conquered had I stayed in Melbourne. I thought about how I had brought new, fresh ideas to the old style of teaching common among my Arab colleagues. I had begun to implement negotiated tasks with my own students, encouraging those in my department to do the same. I had challenged students with flexible learning opportunities and found peace in the subsequent relationships I had built through their appreciation. When I thought dismally about lost opportunities from not working in that vibrant, dynamic Year 3 teaching team, I made an effort to think about all the times I’d been challenged, had learned and had grown in my own world in Dubai. I thought about the successes, and for a moment, enjoyed them.

I miss those children, my friends and the wonders of Melbourne so often, but know that my own adventures are helping me to grow and learn more about people and the world. I love the opportunities I have here in Dubai, but I miss their little smiles. I miss working in proactive teaching teams, but I love the chances I have to travel the globe. I miss a lot about Melbourne, but I was delighted to see the excitement in the eyes of everyone I talked to about my stories. It was great to see how our worlds had changed and yet stayed the same, and it was heart-warming to hear that same little “hi Miss Adams” ringing out across the classroom and to hear them remember I’d sent postcards.

I came to my final realisation: one must not miss these things too much or think of what they’re missing out on. One just needs to smile at all those special memories and appreciate how each part of the journey was an awesome little sliver of life, and what adventures still lie ahead. One might say it’s cold comfort when you’re watching your parents walk away from you, clutching at tissues to stifle their tears, but it helps to make the journey that little more golden, as you know that you’re giving more to yourself in the here and now. For them, you’re bringing home a wiser, warmer and wonder-filled child to the doorstep every now and then.

My favourite part of Leo’s post was his second truth:
“if you always worry about what you’re missing out on, you will miss out on what you already have.”

It’s time to live in the now.

Dos and Don'ts of the United Arab Emirates

princess2802 — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 18:28:00 GMT

I seem to have a lot of places I can call my backyard these days. So when World Nomads kicked off their Blog your Backyard project, I saw it as a fantastic way to show off the best bits of the cities that I have called home. I am used to playing 'tour guide' to visitors and friends, sharing my secrets and favourite places, but now I get to share them with the world. Here you are, wonderful travellers, welcome to my Dos and Don’ts of the United Arab Emirates. Get ready to book your flight already!

Living in the Middle East still poses a mystery to many. My grandmother has only recently stopped asking if there are bombings and shootings in the streets, and many other people have stereotyped notions of what it’s like prancing around in the United Arab Emirates. Here’s my chance to break down some of those weird, hazy questions and share what I’ve learned in my two years of residence…

DO: Dress Conservatively

You will not be put in jail for wearing inappropriate clothes in Dubai. However, you will be stared at and you will bring much unwanted attention upon yourself. If you take the time to ensure that your shoulders and knees are covered, you will get more respect, better service and have a better experience. As you travel out of the hot-shot city of Dubai, you will notice that it does not take long to find yourself in even more conservative areas. Simply be aware of your surroundings, what other people are wearing and maintain modesty. I always recommend jeans, a t-shirt and a light scarf for women, with a cardigan for areas outside Dubai, and men are generally expected to wear pants. There are, of course, plenty of tourists and irreverent expats flaunting this notion, but you don’t need to be one of them.

DON’T: Show public drunkenness

This is an offence that can land you in jail and much trouble. Many hotels have licenses to serve alcohol, and it can turn out to be quite the party scene, but this does not mean you should be out on the streets flaunting your lack of sobriety. Get in a taxi and get back to your room without causing any fuss, and you’ll have wonderful memories of a great night out.

DO: Make the most of tourist facilities

The tourist attractions in Dubai and Abu Dhabi are there for a reason! These bustling little cities have grown out of the sand, and their attractions have been built for you to enjoy. Take the lift to the top of the Burj Khalifa, blow your budget in the enormous and extravagant malls, take gold leaf high tea in the Burj Al Arab and slip and slide your way around in the Wild Wadi water park. Don’t forget to stop off for a spot of skiing at Ski Dubai in the Mall of the Emirates and find yourself in a taxi at 120 kph on the 12-lane Sheikh Zayed Road. Take a trip out to the Palm and eat at a top notch restaurant in the Atlantis hotel, book yourself in for a desert safari to tear across the dunes in 4WDs, share shisha and eat mixed grills, or catch a round of golf at one of the many lush courses gracing the land. Seaplane flights, helicopter rides and hot air ballooning is also available for a unique view of this incredibly laid-out city. The cost is high, but it’s worth it just to say you’ve done it. Also, enjoy the lack of queues and crowds; we how a low population density, even in the high season, so you might find the lack of people quite relaxing!

DON’T: Expect polished glamour at every corner

The United Arab Emirates have wonderful high class hotels and beautifully decorated features in much of its architecture. However, the cities of this country are still very much under construction. Sand and dust often climbs into the sky to create a heavy haze, and construction rubbish and empty land clutter the landscape within the city. In the Old Dubai area, the buildings are old, often dirty, and crumbling. It is a land of contrasts and you should be ready to expect both elaborate glamour and semi-constructed mess.

DO: Take time to understand Islam and the culture

Some will say that it’s hard to find the culture in the UAE. Many would say the same of Australia! It’s there, but you need to commit to finding out more about the people who call this place their permanent home. Abu Dhabi’s Grand Mosque is an overwhelming masterpiece, with walking tours of the mosque available regularly. Hire a taxi to take you there, wait while you wander and take you back to your hotel, but prepare yourself that you will be required to cover fully, with women able to borrow abeyas (black gowns) and sheilas (light headscarves) for free. Dubai also has its Jumeirah Mosque open to the public, while the Dubai Museum and Bastakiya area showcase traditional architecture and the history of these old, sleepy fishing and pearling villages. Grab a 1 dirham ride on an abra across the creek, or dine out on an old cargo dhow and enjoy the Old Dubai area.

DON’T: Stress about taking a taxi

Taxis in the United Arab Emirates are actually a part of the public transport system. Driver quality varies depending on which emirate you are in, but the prices are consistently low compared to other parts of the world, and are an affordable way to get around. The train is wonderfully efficient, but it can be quite hard to get to the stations, especially in the height of summer. Your best bet is to just hail a cab and hang on tight!

DO: Sleep in!

These are cities of the night. Built around the heat of the day, the peak times for business and outings are in the evening. Explore the malls of a late morning and the rest of the city in the late afternoon, scouring through the old souq for textiles and spices, enjoying the glittering nightscape and the starless skies. Most attractions and shops are open until 11pm or later, so stay up late, and sleep the morning away as very little is open before 10am.

DO: Explore the quieter regions

If you have the extra time in the United Arab Emirates, hire a car and explore the outer regions of the country. There is much more to be found than just what is contained within the glittering metropolis of Dubai, or the organised and towering Abu Dhabi. Explore Fujeirah for amazing diving, mountainous landscapes and genuinely stunning beach resorts, or Ajman for sleepy Arab hospitality and traditional fare. If you’re really out for some relaxation, make your way to Ras Al Khaimah to share your space with the road goats and hot springs, or the oasis town of Al Ain where the highest local population reside. Take care when driving, as standards vary and it is notoriously dangerous on many of the roads, with drivers coming from many countries around the world and local ancestors recently riding camels as their main transport.

The ‘Blog your Backyard’ Project

Share your local expertise and join the Blog your Backyard project! Become an ambassador for your country (home or adopted) by sharing your experiences and tips with other travelers. Submit your entries starting August 8th on WorldNomads.com for a chance to win one of 20 awesome excursions with Urban Adventures. Plus, if you want to share more of your local expertise or get answers to all of your travel questions, download the FREE ‘Ask A Nomad’ iPad app.

These walls are filled with everything

princess2802 — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 21:52:00 GMT

Dressed in a combination of clothes and accessories that really should have been in the washing machine or didn’t fit into my overloaded suitcase, I boarded the South Line train from Sydney Central station. I wore a Catwoman comic t-shirt I’d donned as pyjamas a couple of nights ago, a heavy Nepali scarf, a cream beanie, a huge bright red bangle and pale jeans I was sure I’d worn for six days straight. I could either be classified as one of those artsy, hipster types, revelling in the ironic; or possibly a well-funded hobo. I was suffering the soreness of the half marathon the day prior, and I was on my way to seeing the woman who never cared how I looked, so long as I was there with her. All that mattered was that I made it before nightfall, or she would worry.

I’d made the journey a number of times before, and knew the sequence well. The airport train to Central, the Southern Line to Liverpool, and then the bus to Moorebank. It still smelled like burned rubber and fuel, no matter how many years in between visits. I always peered around Central station nervously, aware of the fact that I made myself look like a tourist with my giant suitcase and Guess hand luggage. I noticed every person that walked by: the elderly Japanese man with his walking stick and “Australia” cap, the sour-faced Chinese woman who squeezed into the lift, the Indian students lugging heavy textbooks, and the bedraggled mothers with three children in tow. Midday, midweek traffic always made for interesting people watching. I knew the Southern Line was mine; it always had been, not because it was the only way to Liverpool, but mostly because I felt nervous around some of the passengers on the Inner West Line. That feeling has never changed. Lastly, I always screwed up the bus part, using my internal navigation to find the house once I jumped off at some nearby-but-not-quite-right street, always within a kilometre or so. This trip was no exception, and I learned that my shiny new suitcase wheels were built for airport floors, not suburban Sydney streets.

Hot, bothered and half-dragging my semi-busted suitcase up the drive, I pulled off my scarf and coat, and dumped them atop my luggage in the path. They need not be inside straight away, there were more important things ahead. The tiles at the door were still polished to a sheen from forty years, seven children and eighteen grandchildren worth of footsteps, with one tile missing on the top step. A jar of flowers stood in the windowsill, and the pumpkin patch was strangely empty. I went for the door; the screen door handle still sagged low, as did the main door. Nothing was different, yet everything was. This house was missing one person; that chair now always empty. I was worried about what to expect, and when I walked through the door my Omi was there in the kitchen cooking, waiting with her smile, a big hug and her worries about how late in the day I was. Still the same, but different, and not just the fact that she’d shrunk more.

If there was ever a single place that quintessentially felt like home, this was it. My ideas of home and where I belong often get confused by the location of loved ones and my own explorations, but there’s always this place, where you can wear your hobo clothes, watch television all day and inhale German cooking for your three squares. You can listen to stories about the war, of travel, schooling, courting, moving, loss and family in heavily accented English with bonus German words. You can find out how incredibly far our civilisation has progressed across the world in just eighty years, how hard it was to darn socks, what it was like to bear seven children, how to run a dairy farm in Chile and Canada, and what it takes to raise a huge family as hard working Australian immigrants. Every story only solidifies my opinions about multiculturalism, knowing that my own heritage came upon the sandy shores from afar, working hard to join the community and to support themselves and those around them in the land of the free.

This was the place I was born: the halls I’d run up and down for hours, the carpets I’d crawled across, the table I’d eaten countless home-cooked meals at, the photos I’d stared at, and the back room where I’d always slept. I’d drunk coffee from my Omi’s cup ridden on my ‘pony’ that Opi had made me, which lived in the garage forever and probably still does. Small differences come up every now and then which remind me of the past. The dining table is turned around as Opi doesn’t sit at the head any more. When we eat, we serve in the kitchen, rather than navigating the elaborate spread laid out to ensure he ate all he wanted, three times a day. The chess set stays packed away, and there is a new photo by the candle where Mum’s photo stands. He’s not there to pull you close and tell you that he is a robot with his crackling hearing aid and pacemaker. He’s not in his seat with his Reader’s Digest and his glasses case clipped to the top button of his flannelette shirt. Omi doesn’t tell him off for going outside and walking too far. The lemon tree is gone, as are his rabbit cages.

These things are gone, but the warmth is still here. The memories of family still echo through the halls and my Omi still shuffles in and out around the backyard, bringing in firewood to keep us warm all day. She knows the weekly television program rotation and religiously puts on the German news each morning. She tells me about the news of late, to make sure I am up to date, and when I got up on Tuesday, she had Pink and Muse blaring across the lounge. Never in my life did I think that noise would grace these walls. She explains everything on television, just as she always has. She suggests a movie at Liverpool during the week and wears pantyhose to the memorial gardens. The walk to the local shops seems shorter than ever, and I bring home cuts of meat I have no idea of how to cook, just so she can show me. Nobody makes chicken gravy or potato salad like she does. She talks about how it feels to be alone, and inside I cry for her. These walls are filled with everything; with love, with loss, with hope, with warmth, and most of all, with everything we associate with home. For forty-two years, it has been a safe haven of love and care, and for many more, it will continue to be.

5 Must Do Things in Melbourne

princess2802 — Fri, 5 Aug 2011 13:39:00 GMT

I seem to have a lot of places I can call my backyard these days. So when World Nomads kicked off their Blog your Backyard project, I saw it as a fantastic way to show off the best bits of the cities that I have called home. I am used to playing 'tour guide' to visitors and friends, sharing my secrets and favourite places, but now I get to share them with the world. Here you are, wonderful travellers, welcome to my 5 Must Do things in Melbourne. Get ready to book your flight already and don't bother with the guidebook.

1. Shop ‘til you drop

Melbourne is well known for its shopping to all Australians. Window shop along Collins Street, where if you fancy, you can grab your favourite Louis Vuitton clutch, or just head straight to Bourke Street Mall for more affordable, trendy fun. If you want to be the new hip thing, make your way on the tram to Chapel Street for the latest designers and trends, or run around the corner to Bridge Road where Factory Outlets abound. No matter where you go, you’re sure to find something you love, and you’ll be inspired by all the fashionistas wandering the streets in the latest Burberry trench.

Melbournians also love their markets. They’re everywhere and there are websites dedicated to tracking the market fare available every day of the week. Although not a favourite of mine, the Queen Victoria Markets are a must see just for their size, where you can grab a bargain from Asian importers everywhere. Best pick along here is to sneak away to the gourmet produce and deli sections across from the consumerist clag-up for delightful cheeses, olives and fresh, hot donuts. Aside from that I’m madly in love with the South Melbourne Markets, the classy end of the market madness. A whole strip is dedicated to delis, butchers and coffee sellers, while there’s a top notch organic grocer at the very top of the market and plenty of places to eat and enjoy the bustling atmosphere. You can easily burn a few hours here, but don’t forget to grab a FAMED dim sim from the seller along the outside edge of the market. Just look for the queue; you’ll find it. Aside from foodie markets, there’s a fantastic Arts Market at the Arts Complex every Sunday, super creative markets from artists and designers along the St Kilda strip every weekend, and always something happening at Federation Square, whether it’s a book market or International Food Festival. Worth a wander!

2. Get on the water!

I know, I know. You’ve been on a whole bunch of river cruises through all the other cities before. Why should you do it again? Well, this is not your average river cruise. Head down to the Southbank at the Yarra River and nab yourself a spot on a boat to Williamstown. You can catch the train or drive there to get access to this cosy little water-based suburb, but why not go the fun way? Enjoy the sunshine, breeze, bridges and water views for the trip across the water, and once you arrive, wander along the waterfront or lounge around on grassy knolls. When you’ve worked up a sufficient appetite, make your way to Breizoz, the French creperie, off to the left along the restaurant strip for stunning crepes and galletes, and beautiful French apple cider. You will feel a world away from the city as you gawp at ivy climbing old stone houses and watch the world go by at a little table outside. There are a whole range of neat little gift shops and other restaurants too, which pad out the whole day trip beautifully.

3. Soak up the sunshine!

Warning: if you want to soak up Aussie sunshine, you NEED sunscreen. It can be bitter, harsh and brutal but is luxuriously warm and satisfying. Make the most of Melbourne’s wonderful, yet at times crazy, weather and take a long walk along the esplanade of Port Philip Bay. Start off at the Port Melbourne tram line stop and make your way along the waterfront for 6 kilometres to St Kilda. By then, you will have earned your time out at any of the fantastic restaurants and cafés all through the trendy little town, before mustering the energy for quirky and bohemian shopping along Acland Street. Stop off also for an extra piece of cake at any of the incredible cake-shops sporting windows full of buttery, sugary goodness. For the more energetic/active/crazy, do the 6 kilometres by bike and keep on going along the water all the way around to the bay side suburb of Brighton, which is 15 kilometres in total (cycle to work anyone?). Here you will find the beach lined with brightly painted little beach boxes owned by the wealthy residents of the area. I’m quite proud that a student’s family from my little Melbourne school owns the one decorated with the Aussie flag! Quite a sight to behold! Brighton’s also got a wicked range of exclusive people-watching cafés where you can top up the energy levels before riding back to Port Melbourne again. All that said, if you’re feeling really lazy, just pull up on the sand and soak up the salt air that way. It’s not surfing material, but it’s nice to enjoy the seaside.

4. Get behind a team

Aussies love their sport. Regardless of whether you love playing or prefer watching, you must catch a local game of Australian Rules Football at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Grab a supporter scarf on your way in (just pick the prettiest colour) and get behind whoever you can. The atmosphere in the stadium is electric and the Victorians have AFL pumping through their veins. As a non-native Victorian, I don’t have that special blood, but I still love the way that the stadiums light up with cheering, support and a whole lot of laughs! Start up a conversation (or friendly argument) with someone from the opposition and watch the sparks fly for the rest of the game. When it’s all over, you get to head out for more of Melbourne’s fantastic food….

5. Lastly: Eat, drink and be merry

Let’s face it; Melbourne is like a holiday for your mouth. Anything you could possibly want, you can get in Melbourne and the high quality, scrumptious food in divine locations all come together to create an eating experience not just an average part of your day. So, here’s a few of my favourite insider haunts in Melbourne, though I’ll probably get a few virtual stabbings from Victorians for sharing their secrets.

Firstly, Australians love their breakfasts. It’s something I’ve noticed as I left this corner of the globe and have struggled to find a fantastic breakfast or brunch venue for lazy coffees and delicious, heart-warming fare. I am completely divided when it comes to breakfast between New York Tomato, on the corner of New and York Streets in Richmond (where you might spot Nicholas Cage or Geoffrey Rush enjoying a meal), and the tiny little cozy cafés hidden away in Degraves Street. Degraves Street is a neat little find, just a half block down Flinders Street from the famed Flinders Street Station, but be sure to keep walking right to the end of the laneway, rather than just stopping half way. Jungle Juice is definitely the winner of Degraves, mostly because their menus are old children’s Golden Books with the pages taken out. I love that. You can also pick up wicked morning munchies along Chapel Street in St Kilda or at the South Melbourne and Prahran Markets.

I haven’t even mentioned the coffee yet. Melbourne’s lifeblood is coffee and you’ll not find a better brew in Australia. Degraves Street baristas will serve up fantastic coffee with your morning meal, or try out Seven:Am on Bay Street, Port Melbourne, for the best coffee on the café strip! If you’re looking for a lighter start to the day, go no further than Giles the Juice Man on Elizabeth Street, right near the camera and photography ‘zone’. You can’t miss it as his shopfront is covered in ORANGES. This man knows how to squeeze. He’ll tantalise your taste buds, fill you with wonderful stories, make you feel special, and best of all, if you don’t like your juice, he’ll make you a new one. I think I was in love with Giles for a little while, but he’s married.

Then for lunch, load up on giant bowls of beef pho and rice paper rolls at any of the awesome Vietnamese gems lined up along Victoria Street in Richmond. Light on the waistline AND the wallet, it also makes a fantastic night out with bunch of friends before hitting the city for the ‘being merry’ portion of the evening. Melbourne has plenty of superb places to drink and chat, dance and, well…everything. For your classic trendy/trashy bars and clubs, try Fitzroy Street in St Kilda. If you’re looking for good British pub grub and a pint, check out my old watering hole and workplace, The Local on Bay Street in Port Melbourne, where you’ll get great live and local music on a Sunday afternoon. For a plethora of local bands and talent, check out the Espy in St Kilda, and for the cocktail connoisseurs and lounge bar lizards, sidle up to the kings and queens of mixology at 1806, The Red Hummingbird or The Emerald Peacock, all in the CBD, for a classy affair.

Then, last but not least, dance the night away at the Odeon nightclub in the Crown Casino, stopping by to watch the flame display every hour on the hour outside on the Southbank. Or, if you’re not into dancing, just chill out and people watch with a cup of gelato until your head is ready to hit the pillow.

There you have it. I love Melbourne, and although it’s not my backyard any more, there’s not a week that goes by where I don't wish it still was.

The ‘Blog your Backyard’ Project

Share your local expertise and join the Blog your Backyard project! Become an ambassador for your country (home or adopted) by sharing your experiences and tips with other travelers. Submit your entries starting August 8th on WorldNomads.com for a chance to win one of 20 awesome excursions with Urban Adventures. Plus, if you want to share more of your local expertise or get answers to all of your travel questions, download the FREE ‘Ask A Nomad’ iPad app.

Coffee for a Cause

princess2802 — Tue, 2 Aug 2011 19:53:00 GMT

I'm not normally one to advertise, but this is special...

It happened while I was doing the dishes. Usually, like I was told by an incredible mentor, these kinds of things happen while you’re having a shower. You know them, those moments of incredible mental clarity and great ideas. This time, however, it was a little different, as the idea was not my own, but one that I stood, open-mouthed in awe at. It was a community initiative that shows the heart and soul of the Australian persona.

I was off on some usual internal monologue about Australia and its government. I was frustrated by seeing Julia Gillard and her awful accent on television, daydreaming about my romanticised memories of Melbourne, and considering the impact of that day’s research into tax implications of investing in Australia as a foreign resident. One can’t help, at that point, but to drift off into that usual tirade of scorning Australia’s policies to tax its middle class at phenomenally high rates without giving enough reciprocal support. It’s frustrating and I don’t know how I never questioned these taxes before. Usually, my dissent arose from pitiful tax breaks of five dollars a week, where those billions of dollars could have been used to support the crippled education or medical system. Yes, our facilities are pretty good compared to third world countries, but we are a first world nation and we’ve got to keep our priorities straight.

Then, The 7pm Project graced our television screen and, it happened. There was an article about an innovative concept showing off the skills of someone else who had clearly had a shower moment. I can just imagine the guy now, battling his own internal monologue about the difficulties that people with mental illnesses face trying to build their skills in the wider community, and then that great big smile when the light bulb flicks on. This man had developed the idea of the MadCap Cafe and warmed my heart with his brilliant idea. Three cafes, franchised across Victoria, provide barista and sales training and support for people with mental illnesses. They run a wonderful café where people who face challenges in the day-to-day work side by side with supportive and caring café workers to build skills and eventually move on to work in cafes across Australia.

With branches in Westfield Geelong, Fountain Gate and Dandenong Plaza, the MadCap Café are working hard to help their trainees graduate the MadCap program and support their transition into other well-known coffee franchises, including Australia’s own Gloria Jean’s Coffee. Here is an incredible team of people making huge differences to the lives of so many people who need just that little bit of extra help. Not only that, but when MadCap “graduates” are working well in other franchises, the awareness and support in the community from other workers and the public only grows and we see more of that Aussie culture we are well known for.

That said, these cafes need your support. At the moment, they receive government support but they also have to build up their business on their own. Please, if you live in Victoria, and have the time and the means to support this astounding initiative, show your support and take some time out at MadCap café. I can’t think of a better, or more pleasant way to support your community and help build awareness and support for those who need that little bit of extra help, care and consideration.

Monday Moment: Ferry Road Markets

princess2802 — Mon, 1 Aug 2011 21:05:00 GMT

When you are in a familiar land, it is easy to forget that there are new and unexplored corners to be found, no matter how long you have been around. That’s when you depend on the experience of the wonderful friends around you, who have taken that time to find the hidden secrets and wonders of the city that may seem completely exhausted. Step forward, the Ferry Road Markets. They are the Gold Coast’s answer to the quaint, quiet and sophisticated splendour that is the South Melbourne Markets, brimming with deliciously high quality fresh produce and gourmet delights to excite your tastebuds. This Monday Moment is an extended moment, dedicated to the market indulgence experience, a hidden gem of Brisbane’s favourite neighbour, Southport.

The colours are astounding; counters filled with marinated olives, fragrant cheeses and bright vegetables draw you in. The soothing light jazz tinkles in the background while you gawp at the gelato and (for me) the array of “gluten free” signs gracing so many products. Try to avoid getting sucked into the blissful counters of the Flour Bakery and take just a few moments to stare at the decadent windows of the Butcher on your journey to the seafood section at the back. “Hang on,” you ask, “I’m here to eat, not take fish home.” Ahhh, that’s fine, because the seafood department will take less than ten minutes to cook up your favourite fresh, Australian seafood and sushi delights so that you can soak up the calm in the informal dining area that runs the length of the markets. That’s right. It’s that awesome.

I love classy market calm.
I’m not talking about the chaos of Queen Victoria markets on a Saturday afternoon.
I’m talking about laid back, quintessentially Aussie chill.

The beautifully restored, airy, open and luxurious Brickworks Centre is light and refreshing, and the clientele are a people watcher’s delight. You can’t help but feel that you have escaped the nutty chaos of traffic and the stress of the everyday when you tuck yourself away for the afternoon, and you can easily fill three to four hours in this luscious escape. Take a couple of girlfriends; they are precious cargo and perfect company as you move away from your lunch and into either the tea or coffee store opposite the produce. Don’t stress if you’re divided about the location, we had the coffee guy bring an order into the tea shop where we sipped on divine and unique blends, while gasping over velvety macarons and petit fours picked up from the patisserie just beyond.

Try to avoid feeling too full yet.

When you’ve supped your heart out and are ready to walk again, grab a trolley and stroll back through the produce and deli of the markets. The beautiful, high quality vegetables, fruits and everything elses are heart warming when you’ve come from a land of imported foods. This is the kind of food that motivates you to go home and devour a plate of vegetables, finished with heavy greek yoghurt and handmade organic granola. Healthy, decadent bliss abounds and it feels awesome to get excited about carrots again.

Take time to decide on which olives you will take home, and you will take some home. Choose some honey. Browse the pickles, jams, chutneys and jellies while you ponder a time when people made these from scratch. Daydream about some wonderful man coming to the deli, selecting gourmet specialities to treat and romance you with fine cuisine, or just buy it all yourself. Breathe in fresh herbs. Soak up the bliss, and then drop onto a seat once more, completely satisfied, but with creamy, luscious gelato in hand. You can’t leave without the gelato. Don’t try to fight it.

Ferry Road Markets are located about 30 minutes from the southern suburbs of Brisbane, easily accessible from the Gold Coast Highway, at the Southport Exit. If you’re hunting on your GPS or Google Maps, punch in Brickworks at Southport and you will be well on your way. More information at www.ferryrdmarket.com.au or, visit their sister market at James Street Market, Fortitude Valley.

A massive thank you to Deb for sharing her secret today! x

Multiculturalism is not a dirty word

princess2802 — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 23:24:00 GMT

When I left the sandy, sunny shores of Port Melbourne, destined for the Middle East, I knew I would learn a lot about myself and others. I knew that my little world would change and that my perception of people, place and culture would change indefinitely. Australia would no longer be an endless inescapable expanse, but just one continent in my journey to traverse the world and capture every opportunity with zest and excitement. Never did I think that I would come home and cringe at public outcry against the exact thing I was learning so much about.

Multiculturalism.
Why has it become such a dirty word?

I do not claim to be an expert in this area, and I have been out of the loop on many of the developments on Australian shores, but from the outside it appears that the once celebrated multiculturalism of Australia has become even less appreciated than ever. I have come home to a barrage of media onslaught, constantly partitioning Arabs as violent, intolerant and religiously fundamental. I sit in horror as I watch cameramen walk into districts and talk about how they are attacked by African Muslims. I know, it’s media, they’re never going to give the whole truth, but the reportage here around Islam is, quite frankly, disgusting.

How are Australians ever going to appreciate multiculturalism or religious tolerance if they are constantly fed media rubbish about other cultures? How can anyone expect to hold an open mind to the experiences and beliefs of others when they are fed violent extremism as stereotype? I have spent the last eighteen months learning more and more about Islam, from those who are not fundamentalists so that I can be the one to come home and say, “Hey, wait a second,” and yet it’s such a hard prejudice to break, when over the last eighteen months, the media has done such a wonderful job of stratifying the nation; breaking them down and letting cracks appear in a country that once celebrated its cultural diversity.

In particular reference to the Arabs, yes, there are some extremists. There are Islamic fundamentalists all around the world. There are also Christian and Jewish fundamentalists around the world, starting cults and multi-marriage communities, locking women into marriages where they bear twenty to thirty children to a multitude of men in their lifetime. Why is the Australian media so hell-bent on attacking the Muslims? Why are they not looking at the alcohol-fuelled violence that plagues the city’s streets at night or the dole-bludging welfare scum that live off bonuses paid for procreation? Why are they not addressing the unjust taxation system that cripples the middle class, those educated, taxpaying citizens who never get a break or the small businesses who keep the Australian economy afloat? Too hard, right? That would be a national problem we don’t actually know how to solve.

Instead, they take the easy route. Pick on the Muslims. Pick on those who are different, because, God forbid if you are even remotely different from what typical Australia thinks you should be these days. It began with the Cronulla riots, targeting conflict between “locals” and men of “Middle Eastern appearance”. More recently Europe, and most specifically France, has taken its stance on the ‘burkha’, though most regions in the Western world can’t tell their sheila apart from their niqab nor their hijab, yet they’re all out for the burkha. It feels a little like a witch hunt, from my little expat-coming-home window; a witch hunt where they don’t really know who the witch is or how to spot her.

All this shows is a complete fear of the unknown. People don’t know enough about Islam, and so they fear it, and they fear what it might do to a community. Yes, there are parts of Islam’s rulings that I don’t agree with, particularly the one that states that any woman is only worth half that of a man, but that is someone else’s belief and it is not my right to change that. There are parts of Islam that don’t make sense to me, and there are parts of Christianity that don’t make sense to Muslims. Who are we to say what is right and wrong? If I have learned nothing else from travelling and sharing experiences around the world, I have learned that there is no right or wrong; there is just different. I don’t have to agree with different: genital mutilation, childhood marriages, voodoo, domestic violence, child drug abuse and slavery or sweatshops, but I do have to acknowledge that these ways of living exist for someone else, and that there is a reason, developmentally, that things are this way. It is not my right to tell them that they are wrong, and it is not theirs to tell me that I am wrong either.

The majority of racial conflict in Australia seems to occur when people immigrate here and want to continue their usual way of life on Australian shores. They want to experience the freedom and cultural wonder that Australia has to offer, yet they do not want to leave the comfort of everything they know, and they gather together in communities where they can communicate easily with like-minded citizens. This, to Australians, is seen as ignorant and backwards. As an expat, I understand what they are doing. Surrounding yourself with like-minded people, who speak your native language as their own is a phenomenal comfort when you are away from everything you know and grew up with. Shephard’s Bush in London is teeming with Australians; they flock together and share their own cultural values while living on the motherland that once threw them out as convicts. The Pacific Islanders congregate in New Zealand, sharing common values and cultural behaviours. The Kiwis, well, they all seem to be on Dubai radio and even Mr Vintage has noticed. It’s not uncommon to gather with those who are like yourself, to find solace in routine and normality that you grew up with. Is it too much to ask that Australians give some leeway to people who want some familiarity when they are so far from home?

Of course, there are ample contrasting arguments to all this. If they aren’t happy with the lifestyle here, they shouldn’t come here in the first place, or they should go home. Alternatively, and rightly so, if we just arrived in their countries, we wouldn’t get the same welfare or protection. In some parts, I agree with this, but why are we not willing to accept and be open to others, as a portal for learning and development? Why can we not accept that sometimes, people are just different and that this is ok? I, as a Western woman, live in a Muslim state and I dress conservatively. I avoid displays of public affection, and for the most part, avoid public drunkenness. As a foreigner entering another country, there is an expectation that I pertain to their rules, their culture and their laws, but I think it is unreasonable for Australians at home to assume this is all-encompassing. I am not wholly subject to Sharia law; in fact I am able to sign my way out of many a clause that locks in Muslims to relinquish all of their rights and wealth under many circumstances. I dress conservatively and avoid public displays of affection to avoid unwanted attention, more than anything else. It is a sign of respect to the country and it means that I am treated more politely by my hosts. It is not law, in the same way that wearing hijab should not be against the law in Australia.

If an immigrant does not make that same choice of respecting commonly held values while they are here on Aussie turf, should they not only be treated with that same mild disdain? Sure, if a woman is fully covered in a forward-thinking nation with Christian values, she will be stared at, but does she really deserve to be hunted down and harassed for doing so? I would not be hunted down for wearing a short skirt on a hot day – I’d get a few odd looks, but nobody is going to crucify or attack me. I can still do what is natural in my upbringing as an Australian, and I don’t think they should be reprimanded for doing so if they wish to in keeping with their religious values. Sometimes people are just looking for comfort in what is familiar to them. Why are we not reaching out to ask ‘why?’ instead of just screaming “NO!”

Multiculturalism was such a treasured part of my education when I was young. Learning about other countries, their cultures, beliefs and traditions was one of the most fascinating and exciting parts of my experiences growing up. I remember having a young Arab friend named Omar when I was in first grade, and I never thought for one second that that was unusual. My closest friends now, that I have treasured for so long, are Scottish, British and Papua New Guinean – not one of them is an Australian citizen. Do they deserve to be outcast from society because there are things that they might do or say differently? Should they be chastised or banned from singing, dancing or talking in the ways that they do because they might not be typically ‘Australian’ for every waking hour of every day? Who was it that decided on what was ‘Australian’ in the first place? If you ask this little expat, a few people around the country need to remember that the majority of the people here came from somewhere else anyway, be it British convicts, the Scots subject to Highland clearing, or the Islanders looking for somewhere new. We need to remember that we came together from so many places, we can’t just pull down a barrier and say “Sorry, we’re done developing now. No new experiences allowed.”

Break away from that barrier.

Multiculturalism is not a dirty word.

Monday Moment: Brisbane's Southbank

princess2802 — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 16:28:00 GMT

I have been back at ‘home’ in Australia for two weeks now, on holiday. As an expat coming back to the motherland, I’m finding it mighty difficult to write something productive or relevant that doesn’t include “it hasn’t changed much” or “it holds conflicting memories”. Seriously, it’s not that entertaining for a reader – that’s my own internal conversation. Alternatively, I could rabble on about how much the concept of home has changed and what constitutes feeling like one is at home, but that one feels like it needs more discovery before I can really sink my teeth into it. I also find it difficult to come up with much in the way of cultural references as this world seems mostly ‘normal’ once more, if that’s what ‘normal’ is. And yet, that part of me that’s changed, the one that sees this place as largely the same as it was before, knows that this is only ‘normal’ for such a teeny, tiny speck of the world. So, what to write about? I sure as heck don’t know.

My solution? A photo!

Welcome to Monday Moments.

I call them moments because I would always prefer try to capture emotions and fleeting moments than monuments. I’ll leave that to all the other tourists.

So today’s picture to tantalise your senses and make you want to jump in, is the Brisbane River from the water’s edge at Southbank. It’s the very far end, right where the whole of Southbank finishes, and if you’re unfortunate as I, you’ll also endure some young couple snogging their brains out nearby for a solid twenty minutes.

Why this picture to start? Well, I’ll refer back to the home thing for a moment. Although I struggle to say Brisbane is my ‘home’, it is where my parents will always say it is. It is their home, but funnily enough, neither of those lovely people were here at the start either! All of us have origins outside of Queensland and most certainly out of Brisbane, but this is where they call home now. This is also where I lived for the longest time. I studied here, worked here, fell in love here, made mistakes here (again, the conflicts of home reference), danced nights away, walked, ran, played, sunbathed, drove, laughed and dined. This is the bulk of my history, and should technically take the title of home.

I think that’s why it hurt so much when it was ravaged by the floods earlier this year. My family, in true traveller style, were gallivanting around the United States on Christmas and New Year break, and were in no danger. I was recently returned back for the school semester in Dubai, and still recovering from serious food poisoning which left me in a rural Nepali hospital. I was still weak, still tired and emotional, and all of a sudden, the city where I’d grown up was going under. I was locked to the television, internet and expat news feeds. Disaster was hitting my people and I was so far away. I couldn’t do anything, yet if I’d been in Brisbane, I wouldn’t have been able to do much anyway. I felt completely helpless and other staff at school mirrored my thoughts, reflecting on times when their own countries had suffered disasters, terrorist attacks and other misfortunes. It sucked.

This space, where I sat last week, would have been three metres underwater. This beautiful little part of the city was flooded, parts of Southbank were destroyed, and libraries, bridges, and restaurants were washed away. Friends from university lost houses, horses and treasured items. They were stuck at home, unable to work, or driving the streets to help those in need. That’s just the Aussie way; helping out a mate. So this Monday Moment is for the floods. For not being here, but knowing that being here wouldn’t have helped any way. Home or not, despite the fact it’s a sleepy ol’ town, it’s still a bit of alright.

Photos: Urban Adventures of the Aussie Kind

princess2802 — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 11:21:00 GMT

Gold Coast and Brisbane City

What the weather can do

princess2802 — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 21:58:00 GMT

I often tell myself I am unaffected by the weather in Dubai. I spend my evenings running as we head into the 36 degree, 70% humidity, evenings of summer, right up until break, and press on through September until the temps ease off in October. The runs are hard, the amount of sweat produced is actually laughable, but I don’t ever think that I’m really affected by the heat. I drink more water, stop off a couple of times to buy Gatorade, and peel off soggy “technical” gear at the end of a 100-minute stretch. I don’t expect Adidas to ever come up with a product that can cope with distance running in a Middle Eastern summer. It’s not possible. In essence, you just get on with it. You do everything you normally do, and you just cope with the fact that there is searing heat around you.

I’ve had doctors and specialists ask me if the heat is a source of some health problems I’ve been having. “How long have you been here?” they ask, “Have you had a summer here before?” I always respond with the same thing: it was my second summer, and I come from Australia. We know this heat; not for as long as five months, but it’s familiar. I tell everyone that I get on just fine.

But I don’t.
Not really.
It can be hard work.

After living in an air conditioned apartment, racing to the air conditioned car, spending leisure time in air conditioned malls, working in an air conditioned school campus, with intermittent bursts of HOT, you find yourself longing for some sunshine that you can actually sit in for more than 8 minutes. You talk to colleagues and residents, and they do talk about the health problems associated with our hot-cold lifestyle. I found it fascinating. Not only was I longing for real sunshine, but the change in weather really did have an effect on health: heat stress, eating habits and general levels of energy. Wonders never cease.

All that said, it’s not until you get OUT of the country that you realise how desperate you are for fresh air and the ability to be a pedestrian. On arriving back with my family in Brisbane last week, I was whisked off to Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary where I could actually walk on the footpaths, and I did it in a wool coat! Inadvertently, I had forgotten about the searing UV rays on account of the gaping hole in the ozone layer in this corner of the world, and actually found myself a bit red into the evening. I kind of liked being burnt. It felt like normal. It was normal to fry your ass off, you learned throughout childhood, and if you were the stupid idiot in the group that forgot to put sunscreen on, you were well open to being the Aloe Vera slathered laughing stock of the evening. But hey, you got a decent dose of Vitamin D.

The sun was good, being outside was good, walking like a normal human being was good, and ultimately the weather is…nice. It is pleasant, it makes one happy, it makes one want to go outside and warm up in the sun, and it also makes one take SEVEN MINUTES off her 14 kilometre Personal Best. Yes, that’s what the weather does to you; makes you run fast. But it’s not only that. I feel calmer and less like I am constantly trying to escape the inescapable. I feel more motivated the tackle the world outside, even moreso than the steamy streets of Mumbai, and I feel like it’s going to be a pleasant eight weeks of scarf and beanie weather. Hello winter, it’s been a while.

Photos: Where the Wild Things Are

princess2802 — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 15:05:00 GMT

Australian Winter adventures

Photos: Mumbai on Repeat

princess2802 — Thu, 7 Jul 2011 02:00:00 GMT

Mumbai the second time round, for urban adventures and culture soaking.

How my solo travels are different

princess2802 — Wed, 6 Jul 2011 18:00:00 GMT

I've travelled a few times without Andrew now. My first post from this India trip shows you how far I've come in being able to manage the perils and joys of travels as a solo female, and in the meantime, I've made a few observations about my own habits while I am sans fiancee. Some are curious, some are obvious, all are mine.

1. I take fewer photos, but I take better photos
When Andrew is around, I seem to feel more comfortable being a 'tourist' as opposed to appearing a 'traveller'. However, when alone, I want to appear a little less of a tourist. Maybe not one of those long term travel types or a local, but maybe I could pass as an expat. Thus, my camera often stays tucked in my satchel in my efforts to blend in, and my lack of having someone watch my back whilst I am deep in photographic concentration. This forces me to limit my shots to things that really deserve my attention. No, I don't have incredible shots of people lining the streets, but I've got kick-ass shots of architecture in the wee hours, without the hordes distracting the photos, and I have the opportunity to spend more time working on my composition, without boring the brains out of my waiting travel partner.

2. I eat less; a LOT less
Don't get me wrong, I love food. But when I travel alone, I'm on my own clock, and get lost in my own wandering world rather than worrying about 'snacks'. I'd happily go 8-10 hours with nothing more than water and coffee (or juice or lassi if blistering hot) in between a decent breakfast and a light dinner to ponder my writing over. Every now and then I'll cave in to a truffle, nougat or something else decadent if my cafe is entrancing enough, but outside of that, I think I'm one of the few people that regularly comes back from holidays having lost weight, rather than gained.

3. I walk more
On this last trip to Mumbai, I took two taxis: one from the airport, and one back to it. I refused to try and negotiate the mess that is taxis and fares on my own and resolved to only visit places within walking distance. It's another reason why my attempt at getting to Marine Drive failed. In London, I did the same thing, wandering the bridges, laneways and footpaths for hours on end, only using the tube when absolutely necessary. Yes, it often leads to a painful end to the day, but it's a rewarding pain, and nothing a light jog or stretches can't work out of tight calves.

4. I'm back in accommodation an hour after nightfall
I'm not going to say I'm so dedicated that I'm back on residence before the sun sets. There's too much liveliness, action and photographic opportunities for that. However, I do make sure I'm heading back soon after the street lights come on. After that, I start to get nervous about the people around me and am too paranoid for my own good. It may be a quiet and relatively long night, but the netbook is always loaded up with movies, tv episodes and has the capacity for much writing about my days. When Andrew is about however, we wander the streets well into the night, taking in the glittering lights, the frivolities of locals and tourists alike, and often partake in a beverage or two. I do miss the evenings out, but I'm ok with the nights in.

5. I dawdle
I tinker with my phone, smile at strangers, scroll through my photos of the trip repeatedly, stand in front of single paintings for twenty minutes at a time, loaf around in internet cafes and take the better part of an hour to have a coffee or pot of tea. I can spend ninety minutes rifling through pashmina shops and bargaining over bangles and will walk forty minutes just to find a nice place to eat. I get lost in staring at the sky, swinging my legs off railings and I repack my bag each night. I am an avid people-watcher, buy local artworks just because I can and almost always pick up local literature. I read and I absorb my surroundings. I am in no hurry; I even allow myself a sleep in. I am almost a completely different person to teacher-Kristy.

6. I read
I had a conversation with my colleagues on one of my last days of school this year. They looked at me in horror when I told them I didn't read, not really. It's a little shocking, I suppose, being an English teacher and all. It's not that I don't read full stop; I read a lot of blogs, especially those of the travel variety, and read set texts for classes. Aside from that I rarely tackle a book, finding it just another thing I have to fit in to the end of a work day, among marking, cooking, running and catching up on my social networking fix. But, when I travel, especially alone, I usually have a book on me and have actually made my way through two novels so far this year. I am not afraid of being antisocial and losing myself in another world when I'm sitting in the sunshine and enjoying a breeze.

7. I buy more stuff
I'm a girl; I can't help myself. I like to buy pretty things and when there is not a discerning male by my side to discourage me spending my hard-saved travel cash on pretties, I tend to be a little more gun-ho. Heck, it's my bloody holiday, why not make the most of the city I'm in? Andrew is better at buying things for me when he goes away, and I'm a bit slack in return. That said, I'm easy to buy for. Boys are hard to cater to when you're faced with pashminas, jewelry and handbags.

8. I write more
This one's pretty obvious really. Without the opportunity to experience these adventures with my loved one, I want to share it with him all the same. You'll find the often personal narrative nature of my writing is because I'm essentially talking to him and the friends and family back home who may not have the same opportunity to travel as I do. This is a record of my journeys to reflect on when I am old, and to keep in touch with those I have left behind at the bottom corner of the globe. I am not out to earn money from my blog, I am just here to share my adventures and those long hours of the evening and solo trips to cafes give me the opportunity to do so. In contrast, when one is sitting, perched on a hillside after six hours of trekking, waiting in anticipation of noodles, broth and Tibetan bread on a cold Nepali Winter's day, watching a young girl play knuckles and a toddler running around declaring his name is Basut, one does not write so much, but rather spends the time enjoying the moment with that person who is sharing the experience.

So, there you have it. A range of different habits I take up when I'm on my own in a new city. When I am with Andrew, I eat a lot, take transport, take a bazillion photos and regret it when I have to edit them all later, and I don't write about my experiences quite as much. I get lost in the moment with him and focus less on how I'm going to describe it later. I'm not going to say I like one better than the other; there are pros and cons to travelling alone and together, but they are both very different creatures, like comparing apples and oranges I suppose.

Also, in reference to number four, regarding local literature, I have just begun reading "Breathless in Bombay" by Murzban F. Shroff and it is ASTOUNDING. Here is a man who looks at the life and the degradation of Mumbai in the same way I do, although he is a resident. He sees the inherent beauty, but he also sees that it is not being cared for in the way it could be. It is a compilation of personal stories, each a different perspective on life in Bombay, and so far is a fascinating read. I don't recommend books often, because ultimately, I don't read them enough, but THIS is a real gem. Go read it.

The many treasures of India

princess2802 — Tue, 5 Jul 2011 19:28:00 GMT

The National Gallery of Modern Art hangs just off the corner edge of the Colaba Causeway, at the entry point of the Kala Ghoda art district. The traffic outside was chaotic, horns blaring and cars pushing forward while I tried to escape into the bubble of calm that I knew I would find there. Pan pipes were playing on a sound system. If you listened very carefully, or retreated into the outer enclaves, you could hear some semblance of the traffic outside. It is a peaceful sanctuary and the walls are filled with the stories and reflections of India.

The gallery confirms a continuing theme of my time in India. Beautiful works are composed and skilfully developed. Though it is small, there is incredible talent reflected in every piece, showing creativity and expression. Yet, some canvasses and prints are shrewdly mounted in cheap timber frames. Many of the oil paintings are set in their original working mounts, still splattered with paint from their first composition. Photos of block prints sit behind ill-cut mats, evidence of everyday cardboard showing. Cracks are developing in recent works and there is little happening to protect them. It is like India doesn't realise what it has, or doesn't know how to, or want to, take care of it.

And still, this could well be a picture of the streets, the waters and the colonial architecture sprawled across the city. On reading about the redevelopment of the Dharavi slums, currently housing one million of the country's poor, I've come to realise that the increasing bureaucracy in an incredibly rich country is holding back its own protection and development, both of places and people. In trying to minimise conservation and maintenance to cut costs, or because it is just too hard, they are letting their true, inner beauty slip away. This country is stunning, blessed with incredible places, endless richness and remarkable people, but too many are overwhelmed by the sheer volume of work to protect its treasures. India is packed with life, but it is struggling to maintain its health.

The Jehangir Art Gallery initially paints a different picture. It's cafe is deemed a story of bohemian development and artistic passion; a result of people with endless dedication and commitment to their cause. It is not a space where people are just trying to get by, it is advertised as a space of intellect and reflection. Flourescent umbrellas, imitation ivy leaves and small rubber gumboots hang strategically from the open fence at the edge of the cafe, opposite drawings, scrawls and coloured emblems of society intermingled with selected quotes from English literature. It is a melange of colour, language and life; it is a bubble within this city of juxtapositions. Colour, dirt, music, traffic, wealth, poverty, delicacies, malnutrition.

Yet, after absorbing my mango lassi in the cafe, I was dismayed to find that the gallery was closed, completely empty of art. All that remained in the building was a showroom downstairs where the country's artefacts could be bought up for 30,000 rupees and above. Once more, the treasures of India were reserved only for the wealthy elite, and not proudly on display for all to share. I may have my many criticisms of life in Australia, but this is one chip I do not have on my shoulder. We know how to proudly show and share our short, booming history. I wandered back outside, pleased to find a number of local artists having set up shop on the 'pathway gallery' racks outside, and acquired myself a Parsi painting after a brief chat with the vendor. It wasn't a gallery, but it was something.

I reflected then, on my wanderings of the day before, as I had spent most of the day walking from Colaba up to the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, the hub of all rail travel in Mumbai. I stood in awe at the mix of gothic and Islamic architecture, and read that there were Hindu and Victorian aspects in there too. It was beautifully crafted, and a walk around the terminus revealed that it was actually a UNESCO World Heritage site. That's wonderful, because as an outsider, I sure couldn't tell. Garish signs and air conditioning systems marred the magnificent facade. A delicately carved lion stood covered in grime and rubbish, a peacock next to electrical lines. It was beautiful, but jaded.

I began walking back to Colaba, knowing it would take me nearly an hour, and picked up a copy of Lonely Planet India, interested in the cover article advertising "Mumbai's Secrets". These are the kinds of things I love; these are the things that continually draw me back to Melbourne as the place I want to live forever. Incredibly, the first day's itinerary for the walking tour to discover the stunning city's secrets were all the things I had already done that morning, including taking moments to simply stare at the glorious stone carvings at the Parsi Agiary on Mahatma Ghandi road, finding the peacocks and gargoyles at the terminus, and observing the street sellers tucked in underneath Blackie House. All this article asked of the residents of Mumbai was to take a moment to ignore its faults and flaws: imagine the city without the traffic, without the beggars, without the poor planning, and take it in as it was meant to be. To help, it recreated all of the city's aspects with picturesque watercolour impressions, sans annoyances, and it was beautiful.

Even more incredibly, the rest of the day's itinerary were all the places I intended to head to on my way back to the hotel: taking in the green space at Horniman Circle, finding St Thomas' Cathedral tucked away on the other side, and sitting in the splendour of the first Christian church in Mumbai. Damn, this girl knows how to plan her wandering. I continued to reflect on the tone of the article and loved the truth and matter of factness of what it asked. One cannot be disappointed or dismayed by the problems of the city. If you really want to enjoy the glory that Mumbai has to offer, it's people, places and soul, you must be willing to put your grievances aside. Yes, there are the poor, the ill, the touts and the street sellers marketing their 'personal massagers'. Yes, there is grime, rubbish and unrelenting traffic, but when you put those aside and take the time to focus on the veins and arteries of the city, you can feel it's thriving pulse, beating hard with passion, life and beauty.

I know some of my posts have included some hard truths and negativity, but all of that said, I am still in love with India. On my first trip to Mumbai, I was enamoured with the rugged terrain and incredible beauty of hiking in rural, undeveloped regions. I watched children walking barefoot and draped in saris along stretches of open roads and sat among rubble to haggle over village paintings of drugs, booze, sex and parties. I felt the city's heartbeat as I took in the coastline of this little island city, my legs hanging over the edge of rocky barriers, fascinated by the conglomerate of small islands connected by reclaimed land built of dropped palm leaves and dead fish bones. In this trip, I've soaked up the sights, sounds and surrounds of urban life, wandering among streets and laneways, unafraid of getting lost in such an interconnected city.

I've spied people going about their daily routines, seen only few other tourists traipsing about, and become incredibly skilled at crossing difficult roads at any time of day. I have eaten, laughed and basked in architectural beauty. I've been able to relax in a city that is not conducive to relaxation and I've felt recharged and ready to face the Winter cold back home. I will come back to India some day, but it will not be soon, and it will not be this city; there is so much more of these vast plains to explore and more of India's beauty to capture. I look forward to Varanasi, Rajasthan and Jaipur. I want to experience the colour and lifeblood of Delhi and get lost in the experience of the Taj Mahal at Agra. Mumbai and I have finished our business, after my first trip left me without flexibility or freedom, this trip has left me complete. We are done, I am satisfied and you should experience it all too; it is indeed a beautiful place when you take the time to look closely.

Do it again, just one more time

princess2802 — Mon, 4 Jul 2011 23:03:00 GMT

My time here in Mumbai is rapidly coming to a close. I made my way to most of the places I wanted to see today, leaving off the art galleries for tomorrow, so I get home smelling at least a little tolerable, thanks to the wonder of air conditioning. There was only one more place that I hoped to get to before I left, and that was Marine Drive. I'd been there before, but I was so close I wanted to go again while I was here, for nothing else but to take photos. I considered going in the morning, but again would be battling the sleepy city, weather, and lack of access to a shower after noon check out. I had to make my choice, as it was 4pm and if I didn't start heading there, the dark would set in and I would be out walking too late, alone. I'd already been followed by one guy in his fifties at two different points of the day, and I didn't want a repeat of that situation. I left Colaba knowing the way to go and having memorised the street names, so I didn't look like a toolbag with a map, and was on my merry way.

I soon turned back; I had already walked a couple of kilometres and my feet were weary and aching. I had been there before, and seen the promenade as it sparkled in the middle of the night, along with the electric thrill of tearing by on a motorbike through these streets. I had also sat there on the rocky barrier the following morning, early, while the city slept, and listened to the waves crash against the outcrop below, taking in the salty sea air. I didn't need to go again; why risk tainting my experience when rush hour was racing by and I was tired? I love the memories I have of sitting on that promenade, even though I have no photos. It's another of those moments I have to keep locked away, rather than in the safety of a photo album, and I'm ok with that.

It was like the heavens smiled on my decision. The skies suddenly opened up as I was only a hundred metres into turning back, and the rains came tearing down. The air cooled and relieved the city of the humidity. The acrid smell of incense, burned to keep insects away from food, stopped creeping into my nostrils. Harder and stronger than before, market sellers along the causeway desperately tried to cover their wares, and pedestrians built up under awnings and tarpaulins. I, along with a smattering of businessmen, opened up my umbrella and continued to walk, considering a henna tattoo to pass some time. The gutters swelled with the brown waters, and I shook my head at walking through in my hot pink flats. I had no choice, my chappals from my last trip to Bandra, had broken only an hour before, on my way back from Fort and I knew I'd never find another pair like them. The shoes got looser in the rain and I schlepped my feet through the murky water, littered with packets and wrappers, enjoying the fact that I didn't really care if I got wet. I loved it, dirt and all. Good news for me, because it turns out my umbrella leaks.

Melamine, linoleum and steel edged chairs

princess2802 — Mon, 4 Jul 2011 07:35:00 GMT

Masala onion dosa.
Masala onion dosa.
Repeat after me: masala onion dosa.

It was 11.00am, and like a good Mumbaiker, I slept in until ten to wait for the rest of the world to wake up. Even then, I was bleary-eyed after spending all night writing and watching My Name is Khan. Anyone who knows me well knows that I do not function without breakfast. One should not approach me if an hour has passed in my morning without food, and yet I was determined to find somewhere that was not my usual Cafe Mondegar affair.

Contrary to all requests by Andrew, I was also determined to find myself a reasonable looking kurta to join in the Indian celebrations at school. Half the staff are Indian: sometimes I feel left out, especially when I see other Western teachers taking up the casual attire, bragging about how comfortable it is. So, after making my way through a couple of higher-end cottons stores, picking up a kurta and a couple of other tops I'd had my eye on, I made it my mission to find breakfast, and not just a tourist cafe option.

It took a little walking through Kala Ghoda, and a fair bit of looking around, but there, behind the laneway, in a little parallel street it stood: Welcome Restaurant. I dodged the traffic to get across the road, momentarily proud at how adept I'd become at racing through Mumbai's chaos. I glanced inside. Melamine covered tables in rows filled the canteen, with steel edged chairs and faded linoleum flooring. Metal plates were sprawled across the tables of businessmen, and a couple of women were seated inside. Perfect. The alien menu came to me again, but this time I was not afraid. I ordered a masala onion dosa, thinking it was what I had had the night prior, only to find out it was clearly not. Apparently, I'd had uttapam, and I'd truly been missing out.

This beautiful treat of a meal was like a giant rice flour pancake, cooked only on one side and bubbling yet fluffly on the inside, like a good pancake should be. It was filled with the most luscious combination of potatoes, light but heady spices, mild curry, onions and butter, folded into a square and served upside down on my plate. One had to work hard with fork and spoon to initially break into the crispy, fluffy glory, but as soon as it touched my tongue, I was in breakfast heaven. But that's not all; down further on the menu, I saw it, my love. Special masala tea. Heavens to murgatroid, my day had come!

I continued to pull apart my dosa, soaking it in the tomato-based soupy accompaniment and the familiar picklies that go with idli. I had no idea if I was doing it right, but it tasted great and I savoured the bliss that was the sweet, spicy, milky and searingly hot REAL masala chai. I also had no idea if what I was eating was even mildly suitable as a breakfast food. Was I enamoured with the equivalent of beef stroganoff for breakfast? Or was my devouring this curried goodness a sign of being a good traveller, like those who know that a Thai green curry is for breakfast, not dinner?

Quite frankly, I didn't care too much.
So long as I had my fix of masala onion dosa and hot, spicy chai, I was happy.

What I did care about however, was that when I paused from snarfing my meal, I looked down at the shift dress I had donned for the morning and realised I had put it on inside out after trying on kurtas. I reeled in horror at the fact that all the seams were on the outside running down the front of the dress. Thank god for heavy printed fabrics available for 100 rupees at the market, because I don't think anyone else could tell.

Well, I hope so, because I didn't have anywhere to turn it back out and headed out for the day's adventures.

And not an elephant in sight

princess2802 — Sun, 3 Jul 2011 22:46:00 GMT

Warning: This post is not a positive one; it portrays a popular Mumbai tourist attraction in a fairly negative light. If you do not wish to go to Elephanta Island with preconceived notions of what you will find there, stop reading. If you want to hear about monkeys and stupid tourists, read on. It's also extremely long; don't say I didn't warn you. Get a cup of tea first.

Elephanta Caves; the real tourist trap, where everyone wants their share of the white girl's wallet. Every step of the journey finds a foreigner fleeced of a little more cash, only to become increasingly disappointed with the whole experience. Nevertheless, I was unaware of this beforehand and regardless of the shaky weather during monsoon season, I was determined to clamber aboard a trusty old boat and make the 11km journey across the water to the Elephanta Caves, home of religious statues, pillars and deities carved into the landscape and a statue of an elephant. There are no elephants, but you knew that already, didn't you? To get a ticket to Elephanta, you need to dodge the touts and sellers pushing their day tours on you every three steps of the walk across Apollo Blunder. I don't like to be rude; this is their job, but some will simply not take a polite 'no thank you' for an answer and the fiery white westerner comes out every now and then. I am not proud of it. Finally the ticket booth was within my reach and some guy tries to sell me a ticket on the boat from beside me, rather than behind the counter. I avert my attention, explaining that I'm going to ask the gentleman about the trip, only to be directed to buying a ticket from the nondescript man standing next to me. Enabler.

Boarding the boat, a 'helpful' man shows me where to get on, but not before relieving me of 150 rupees for a guidebook 'because everything is in Hindi and the guides there will try to rip you off'. I sigh and hand over the cash, knowing I'm wasting my money and getting ripped off in advance, but I was tired of trying to argue about it. Contrary to popular belief, we don't all have bottomless wallets. I could relax finally, once I was on board the boat, and sat to peacefully people-watch for the journey. The trip was surprisingly calm, and the breeze preciously relieved me from the humidity for just a while.

The green, grassy island was a delight to behold, peppered with vendors selling corn freshly cooked over an open flame and luscious fruit, sliced up and ready to devour. Oh, how I longed to be able to eat the fruit, but instead settled for a bottle of water and milky, sweet coffee that barely tasted of coffee. Still, after two days in Mumbai, I hadn't encountered anyone making masala chai, other than the chaiwallas selling on the streets, and made a mental note to look harder for my sweet chalice of joy. As my coffee returned my sparkle, the heaviest rains I'd seen yet came crashing down around my shelter. Locals worked hard to keep tarpaulins up while the water was unrelenting around them, vendors braced their wares against th assault. The sound was so powerful and I had the urge run out among it and hold my face to the sky. Sweet, cool, life giving and chaotic RAIN.

Cursing my stupidity of not changing my camera battery, I began to climb the 120 stairs to the caves, with the battery light flashing its warning, declining the offer of being carried on a seat mounted upon bamboo 'to help me get up the stairs'. Tarpaulins covered the entire ascent to protect market sellers along the way, but captured every ounce of heat and humidity, so that by the time I reached the top I am sure every pore of my body had melted. Yet, when I got there, it all faded away as I spied a juvenile monkey clinging to its mother and feeding. The tiny little being seemed so perfectly formed and alert, constantly checking its surroundings and watching the world go by. Sadly, my moment was broken by women trying to give me water or take my picture with the monkeys. They don't care which, so long as they get money.

I pressed on and spent a few minutes watching as more young monkeys moved around the area with their mothers. Large male monkeys play watchful guards and I can't help but notice how like us they are. The juveniles move around, looking for opportunities to explore, fingering the ground for worms and seeds in the grass, eyes moving like ours, hands moving like ours. I may as well be watching a toddler. A male sits nearby, genitalia hanging out freely as he watches the goings on of the day and I stifle a giggle as I think of Andrew back home, probably doing the same.

Finally, I make my way to the entrance of the caves, and am relieved of another 250 rupees, for what I am not sure, yet I do know this is the fourth person I have paid to get to the same destination. The caves are indeed impressively huge, and I had taken the time to read up on the statues while traversing the waters. Detailed carvings of deities dancing, frolicking and posing lined the walls. There is much reference to lingam, a giant phallic symbol that I keep finding in explanations of one particular God. To be honest, there are so many phallic symbols in ancient hostorical carvings, I've started to take it as standard practice. Huge columns line the entryways (also phallic) and 'guides' continue to offer their services in negotiating the large room, while I continue to decline. The statues are marred by history, missing large pieces, robbing them of their grandeur and I find myself wandering out of the first and notably largest cave of the seven on the island.

As I walked away, sweating profusely once more, I randomly pondered the fact that I'd never had to use a public toilet since I arrived in Mumbai. Every ounce of fluid was leaving my body through my pores and I decided I should sit for a moment to throw a little more H20 into my system. I casually sauntered along the pathway, looking for a dry and reasonable place to sit, drink and write. I wasn't really paying attention, lost in my own world, when there was a tugging at my side. My water bottle was being pulled from my grip and I turned to brush off the beggar I expected to find. Instead, I was brushing off one very aggressive monkey who very much wanted my water bottle. It hissed, bared its teethed and growled. I wanted to kick it, but read recently of what happened to another lady who tried that, and didn't fancy getting rabies this week. It snatched at the bottle once more, and I bolted for a couple of metres, getting well away from my assailant.

I looked ahead and another monkey was sitting in the middle of the path with a discarded Coke bottle, upturned, pouring the dregs into its mouth. I sighed. We were responsible for this; we were responsible for their atrocious behaviour. This was learned from years of poor human behaviour and nothing else; how did we lead them so awry? I found a dry patch under a tree, on a stone surrounding and scrawled out my thoughts when a middle-aged Indian man approached me. Another guide; here we go.

"Excuse me," he says, without a hint of Indian accent, "do you speak English?"

I nodded cautiously, unsure of where this was going. He seemed relieved.

"Can you tell me what there actually is to see here? I mean, are there even elephants? I don't understand a scrap of Hindi and I've got no idea what's going on here."

Poor guy. I laugh inside and smile, explaining that it's only named Elephanta Island because of a statue found on the the other side of the island, resembling an elephant. I suggested Kerala or Thailand for some pachyderm action and thought about how he got to this point. He looked like an Indian, so the touts ignored him, and no one had really explained anything about the place to him in their attempts to sell anything. They just assumed he was another one of them. Bonus for him, he got in at 1/25th of the price. He smiled gratefully, folded away his camera and wandered towards the exit, not the only disappointed tourist to ever arrive, I am sure.

Once more I paused my writing, snapped my Moleskine shut and turned to give a man, who was getting too close for his own good, a well earned death stare. He finally stopped creeping towards me, returning to his friends and mimicing my action, regularly looking back at me. Bite me buddy; you're on par with the monkeys. Meanwhile, the family sitting beside me, who were on the same boat as I, were using an umbrella to battle with an aggressive monkey in the tree above us while they tried to share their packed lunch. Between the heat, monkeys and off-beat tourism standards, I was nearing the end of my tether and clearly in need of my nanna-nap.

I moved on to check out the last caves before leaving, and spotted a white tourist feeding biscuits to the monkeys in order to hold them long enough for pointless photos. The poor creatures were gorging themselves, not sure of when they would be given their next snack, filling their cheeks with sugary mess and scrabbling for more every minute. I sighed but walked on, but turned when the man let out a cry. A very large male was growling, hissing, climbing his shorts and scratching his arms, attacking him for the biscuits. He pulled a handful of them out of his pocket and threw them at the ground, in an attempt to avoid being bitten. Stupid, stupid tourist. He looked to me for support, saying 'Oh my God,' and all I could muster was 'that's why you shouldn't feed them.' He muttered 'yeah, you're right' before moving five metres ahead and feeding more juveniles alongside wild dogs.

I walked along to the last caves, but they seemed a little undeveloped, unsupervised and generally unsafe for one such as myself. Dark places and young females do not a good situation make. I turned back only to see another monkey having acquired now a half full bottle of coke, beginning to open it while Indian and foreign tourists alike whipped their cameras. It appears none of them thought it would be helpful to stop the situation and I am thankful I don't intend to go to the zoo if this was a sign of the animal culture.

I stopped to think about what I could take away from the experience, other than disappointment. I learned that I didn't have to see every attraction, no matter how popular it may appear to be, that I often turn into a part of the attraction myself, and that humans can have the most absolute capacity for being idiots. I decided I'd much rather be in Colaba, people watching, taking photos in the markets and wandering through art galleries. I stopped at a vendor on my walk back to the dock, argued over the price of a peanut and sesame bar, and boarded the boat heading back to Mumbai. We left the coast, the breeze picked up once more and I rested my head on my arm, thankful that the sweat on my body would start to dry.

Then, the boat broke down.

Not another paneer makhni

princess2802 — Sun, 3 Jul 2011 14:30:00 GMT

Let's get this straight from the outset; Indian cuisine is not my food of choice. I'd much rather take up some South-east Asian delights or Arab food any day. On my last school trip to Mumbai, there was absolutely no choice in what I could eat, and we were regularly plied with buffet-style Indian dishes of the two-star hotel variety, and that's just when we weren't in the middle of the jungle. I was beginning to reel at the sight of another paneer makhni and didn't want anything to do with unidentified curries. It really did put me off altogether, and aside from a meal at the Dubai institution known as Ravi's in Satwa, I haven't eaten anything at all from the entire India-Pakistan region. Cue trip to Mumbai.

It started off easily, as I knew a little joint called Cafe Mondegar on the Colaba Causeway, about a kilometre away from my hotel. Frequented by upmarket locals and tourists alike, I counted on this place for masala and cheese omelettes and basic cups of cardamom tea with buttermilk. Satisfying and reasonably priced at 180 rupees a meal, but not impressive. It simply fuelled the machine that only eats twice a day when touristing about. On an even less adventurous scale, the local place I slipped into for dinner turned out to be an Iranian place, and I found myself having felafel for dinner and going to bed hungry. For all the sights and sounds I loved, I was failing miserably in the food department.

By my second night, I knew I had to take a different tack. When my intentions of finding a particular textile store and doing a workout both fell to pieces, I made the move to be more adventurous in my eating. Why didn't you do that before, you say? Let me know how adventurous you are once you've been hooked up to an IV with salmonella poisoning in Bhaktapur, and get back to me. I wandered into a very local place I'd passed by many times while walking through Colaba.

A "pure-veg" restuarant, akin to a canteen by the mosques in Dubai, heralded a table for myself and gratefully, a fan above me. I was presented with a menu, in English, but shivers ran down my spine all the same. The list was huge: dosas, uttapams, pavs, kulfi, yada, yada, yada. You get the idea. I suddenly felt sorry for all my students who ever had to suffer me giving them a text that was too hard, with too much unfamiliar language. I was completely lost, and although I could read the menu, I didn't know what I could eat. I suddenly wanted Nepali momos, just for the sake of something familiar.

One of the waiters came up to me, and I randomly pointed at something on the menu containing 'masala' and something unfamiliar, nodding questioningly. No, he pointed, finished half hour ago. Crap. I pointed at something else. This seemed ok. Looking at the prices, and them being half the price of anywhere else I'd eaten, I thought I'd point to something that looked like it was in the 'related to bread' section (one ignores wheat intolerance in desperation). A nod. Thank God. I hoped with all my might that I wasn't getting some vegetarian equivalent of steak tartar or broiled brussel sprouts and waited for my order.

Turns out, I'd pretty much ordered two main meals: pricing fail. Incredibly, the 'bread' based dish was based on rice flour, and I devoured it, and it's oniony goodness, to my heart's content, supported by a good portion of the other thing I ordered. Small bowls of pickles, chutneys and other unidentified condiments surrounded me, and I didn't really know how to approach them. What rocked my world was the wonder of spices, chilli and tomatoes. I could taste the coriander, hiding underneath the flavours of red onion and parsley. I love the way one can meld these flavours together into absolutely anything, and then pile it onto something carby. It was not michelin-star food, but it was wholesome, delicious and NOT paneer makhni (ironically, one of the few things on the menu I did recognise). Vegetarianism win.

I obviously couldn't finish what I ordered, and as I looked around I'd clearly ordered for two, but also rather hefty portions for two. I didn't feel so guilty about not finishing then, but I was well full. I busted out a request for a cup of tea, putting all my willpower into hoping that I wouldn't get a teabag and hot water, and lo and behold, a sweet, milky cup of Indian tea appeared in front of me. Bliss. I sucked it down like I always do, and ordered another. I didn't care how much it cost - I hadn't had a fix of great tea to that point, and I wasn't brave enough to take a cup from the guy walking the streets. A busboy came to collect my cup, and had already been by twice to collect my plates and first empty cup of tea. I considered ordering a third, thought better of it, knowing how much sugar they added, and settled up my US$2.60 bill with the determination to continue awesome food adventures the next morning. No more ponsy omelettes for me; this girl knows what she wants now.

While the city sleeps

princess2802 — Sat, 2 Jul 2011 00:59:00 GMT

Flying into Mumbai at 4am is actually quite charming. The flight itself is a nightmare, with its token noisy, intoxicated Westerners, screaming children, and mothers who are louder and more annoying than their children in their attempts to silence them. The decision of whether or not to sleep from the 11.30pm departure is a tricky one, and the time difference doesn't help. Nevertheless it's the reward at the end of the flight that really catches you; it even hugs you a little. As you drive through the streets, across highways and through narrow alleyways, Mumbai shows signs of slowly waking up, stretching its legs in preparation for a bustling day.

The sky envelopes you with its dark; it is not black, but a deep, velvet blue holding a promise that it will soon give you lightness and humanity. The city is not without light and the streets reveal crumbling colonial buildings rising next to towering new apartments, delicate Hindi script on shop fronts lining the streets, and semi-naked people sleeping on the sidewalks, resting before the heat of the day and the sheer volume of the population disrupts them. Autorickshaw drivers doze in the back of their vehicles, dark limbs hanging casually out into the dawn air, while the only hazards the taxis face are young hoons who are still out from the night before. The air is clear of horns, for a change, and you find yourself peering into those few apartments already lit behind grates and window frames; warm and filled with hanging washing and a smattering of kitchenware.

The smell is as you expect from one of the most densely populated cities in the world; stale, musty and tainted with sewage. The heat and humidity fill the car, making one grateful for the breeze coming through the window. It's going to get hotter; much hotter. Suddenly, on the road ahead, there are hundreds of people jostling on the lanes and the sidewalks. Tens of cars and trucks line the street and the smell of coriander fills the taxi. It appears the entire coriander market of India is converging on this one spot, sorting, counting, bundling, trading, and loading in the dim light; readying themselves to distribute the gentle herb to the city. The scent fades as we continure and a truck filled with chickens passes by in astounding silence. The streets become familiar once more as the sky continues to lighten.

Monuments appear in green, grassy enclosures as the streets get smaller and even quieter, nearing Colaba. The Hindi signs have faded into a cacophony of English-named stores and overwhelming colour. Fewer bodies can be seen on the sidewalks, and the streetlights only reveal piles of rubbish and motorbikes lined up in orderly rows. The old cinema rises up on the corner of the roundabout and the taxi winds through to the guesthouse. I wake up the service staff, sleeping across the chairs in the foyer, as the security guard comes racing through, realising he has missed a trespasser. The windows of my room let in some of the growing light that the sky begins to offer as we near 6am. Mumbai is not awake yet; it is still calm and only beginning to move. But it will be, soon, after I collapse onto the hard mattress to catch up on lost sleep.