mr mong and the cave of surprises

When someone promises you a really "great surprise" in a mysterious cave, you go to the cave. Unless you have WI-Fi. Or a stupidly apathetic disposition. We had neither, so the surprise in the cave it was. However, apparently me and the flamboyant high-talking French captain on our Halong Bay cruise vessel and his disturbingly-polite Vietnamese staff have very different ideas of what constitutes a really "great surprise".

By the time me and my best mate Michael arrived in Halong Bay, I'd busted up my foot, contracted a thumb infection and was on the verge of some kind of flemmy barky chest cold thing. So basically I was ready to party. And climb like a gazillion stairs into a crummy cave where possibly the shittest "great surprise" in human history awaited.

Let me put this in perspective. On a scale of finding-a-scorpion-in-your-skirt (which actually happened to me) to that-first-time-you-watched-The-Sixth-Sense-and-were-all-like-holy-sh*t-Bruce-Willis-is-the-dead-guy-noooooo-waaay!!, this was somewhere in the Tony-Abbott-has-been-voted-Prime-Minister? kind of region of surprises.

The cruise turned out to be ludicrously luxurious (try saying that 10 times fast). But luxury doesn't come without a price. I'm not referring to the cost of the cruise, but rather the complete lack of any young people on board. Anywhere. Unless you count that one newborn baby. And that family with the bratty kids who were even more bored than we were because at least we could get wasted and go squid fishing.

The ship was heaving with middle-aged-to-elderly couples who would whinge and moan whenever the head bartender Mr. Mong didn't make their martini dirty enough or their negroni dry enough. I'd travelled enough of South East Asia to deduce that this staggeringly young, nervous-looking Vietnamese man was no cocktail connoisseur; probably too busy supporting a large family on less-than-minimum wage to swill high-end cocktails in his spare time and master the art of mixology. If only I'd applied this stream of logic to the ship's butch-looking masseuse lady, but that's another story...

Cabin fever was taking hold of us, but when Captain Frenchy announced over breakfast that we were in for an amazing cave tour of Hang Sung Sot featuring - you guessed it - a "great surprise," I was still a little cynical. The floating village from the previous day was, quite frankly, a little underwhelming. But Michael was having a freakin' conniption about the lack of WI-Fi on-board, and since we'd both managed to rack up quite the bar tab in two short days, I made the call that he needed some distracting of the non-Mr. Mong variety.

So we followed the staff into boats and were carted off to a nearby island where we climbed the 400 or so stairs to the mouth of the cave. The whole time I limped and panted my way up, I had this picture in my head of dazzling limestone formations and sparkling crystals, à la Jenolan Caves. So when our tour guide pointed to a clump of rocks and proudly revealed that it looked like a giant wonton, I became a little suspicious. Even more so when the guide from the tour group directly behind us pointed to the same clump of rocks and revealed that it looked exactly like a dragon.

Further into the cave, more amazing discoveries were made. Among them; rocks that looked like fish, rocks that looked like Buddhas, and more dragon rocks. Have we passed the surprise yet? I enquired. No, that surprise was just around the corner.

We pushed ahead of the tour group, down a cavey sort of hall way. We emerged in a palatial chamber, and that's when it came into view.

This rock was no wonton. This rock was no Buddha. Make no mistake, up-lit in creepy pink lighting was a rock shaped like a giant penis. A giant creepy pink rock penis.

The tour guide giggled as we tried to make sense of what we were seeing. Was this phallic rock really the amazing cave surprise I'd trekked up hundreds of stairs to catch a glimpse of?

Perhaps our expectations were too high; everyone else seemed quite pleased with their giant rock dildo surprise. I had to admit, it was marginally better than my last cave surprise in Cambodia, which involved crawling through pitch-black tunnels while shielding myself from noisy low-flying bats.

We got out of that cave as quick as my handicapped feet would allow, all the while providing our own running commentary of surrounding phallic formations in our worst possible French accents and laughing like two year olds.

a third-world scorpion encounter and other hurty events abroad

Most accidents happen five minutes from home.

This eerie warning was emailed to me from my mum just before I left Cambodia for Vietnam. Thanks a lot Mum, way to creep me out. In any case, she was right.

On my recent travels abroad, I became increasingly accident prone towards the tail end of my trip.

The reign of pain really began on Koh Rong island. After weeks in stuffy Phnom Penh, I was ready for a proper holiday, so I booked myself a little solo island getaway in the south. On the agenda: cocktails, turquoise water, and some serious chillax time.

 Island life lived up to expectations, mostly. Except replace 'turquoise water' with pools of evil finger-shredding barnacles, and 'chillax time' with getting stung in the ass by pissy scorpions.

Apologies if I sound bitter. The island was mostly gorgeous and amazing. But within the first few days, my enthusiasm for hippy island life and elephant-pants-wearing expats had well and truly run thin. The "happy" cookie incident and subsequent episode of crippling paranoia didn't help. Then I learned the hard way why scuba divers don't apply sunscreen anywhere near their eyes. Ever. And also managed to cut up my hand real good on some boat barnacles (nasty grater-like shells that attach themselves to water-submerged objects, like jettys and boats, and cut the crap out of anyone who brushes past them).

To top things off, on my final day on Koh Rong, I got a house call from one of the island natives; a pissed-off brown scorpion. In. My. SKIRT.

I don't know if you've ever been stung by a scorpion, but it's no paper cut. It like really hurts. It managed to sting me three times (twice just below the butt, and once on the thumb) before I could actually locate the source of the stabbing throbbing pain. It wasn't deadly, which some people have trouble believing (I'm talking to you, random "scorpion expert" dude at Bungalow 8). I just smothered the stings in Tiger Balm and waited for the aching and tingling to subside, which took about a full day.

Anyway, after a week of painful surprises I was pretty excited to leave the island for Siem Reap. But the accidents didn't stop there. Nor did the annoying dreadlocked harem-wearing Euro expats.

Day one on Siem Reap saw me loose my footing and plunge backwards down the stairs of Ta Keo temple. THESE stairs.

Picture me, bunny-hopping backwards eight steps at a time with frightening momentum as horrified tourists watched from below. Luckily, three of the said tourists broke my fall (apologies again for that), but my awkward landing left me with grazes and a solid limp that stuck around for weeks. And yes, thongs are a freakin' stupid idea for temple trekking BTW.

That night, a big group of us headed out to Angkor What?, a nightclub on the popular Pub Street strip. As it turned out, copious amounts of booze and no sleep didn't do any favours for my mounting catalogue of injuries. My barnacle-busted thumb had swollen up to sausage size overnight, probably from the multiple D-floor collisions with space-challenged clubbers. The bum foot that I'd neglected (to the point where I actually woke up with another bloody stubbed toe on the same foot) was barely walkable. I set off in the rain for the nearest medical centre and let the lady doctor wrap me up in bandages, pump me with antibiotics and sell me a bunch of Chinese medicine remedies that I would never use. Later that day, feeling achy and depressed, I sent my mum a whingy email update. She responded with this:

You should take all these little accidents as a sign that you are tired in your head and need to be EXTRA CAREFUL. About you're body and your belongings. You're in super relaxed holiday mode.  Snap out of it!! You've got some time to go. Most car accidents happen within five minutes of home.

I should've paid more heed to her warning. I left that evening for Hanoi to meet up with my Aussie mate MK for my final 10 days in South East Asia.

The first few days were a treat, coasting along Halong Bay in a luxury cruise vessel and devouring three-course meals what seemed like every few hours. But a pesky cough that had been threatening to surface for weeks, finally reared its ugly flemmy face. By the time we returned to Hanoi I was feverish and fluey, and compounded with my bum foot and infected thumb I was potentially the suckiest travel buddy ever.

In FOMO-fueled defiance I booked walking street food tours and early morning bicycle rides (all brilliant ideas for a sick cripple). However, when we arrived in Sapa and discovered that our travel agent had booked us in for a 14km village walking tour, I finally put my (good) foot down and raised the white flag. My fellow travel companion was only too happy to snub our tour group and suggested we explore the village on his moto rental.

 

My sexy driver

 Sapa

The following day, we set off for a ride through the rice fields. While winding our way down through the villages we spotted some of the tour group exploring on foot. My moto compatriot gleefully revved past them, but not before signing off with a smug "Xin chao, moots!" (Vietnamese for "hi, moots" in case that wasn't clear), followed by inappropriate laughing from both of us. And that's when karma decided to serve us our comeuppance.

Further into the village, we approached a wet section in the road where water had been trickling down from the adjacent rock face. Before I could even register something was wrong, our moto had flipped onto its side, and was skidding towards the cliff edge!

Okay, so it stopped well short of the cliff edge... but it still hurt.

We were okay but shaken. Two women, one Vietnamese and one Westerner, witnessed the accident from their moto and helped us to our feet. We both took a much-needed time out on the side of the road to inspect the damage, to ourselves and the muddied moto.

MK's legs were covered in bloody cuts and grazes and I managed to get off with a very bruised tailbone and a slightly aggravated limp. To add insult to injury, a tour bus happened to drive past at this point and, lo and behold, who should be smirking back at us from their street-side perches but the scorned trekking party from earlier. This, MK admitted to me later, was by far the most horrible part of the whole ordeal. I agreed.

 

MK...

  Me...

i know i said i wouldn't but i ate a tarantula

I've heard the average human consumes about eight spiders in a lifetime while they're asleep. Now I don't know about you, but an assertion like this brings a hell of a lot of questions to mind. Such as, how big are these spiders? What kind of suicidal ninja spider antics do they use for them to slink into your mouth hole, undetected? Do these spider-munching stats vary among light-to-heavy sleepers? Are closed-mouth sleepers exempt from an overnight eight-legged invasion?

Despite the fact that this claim has, quite frankly, haunted me since my high school days, last Friday night I consumed possibly my first (and hopefully last) spider. I know this because I was completely awake at the time.

Okay, so it was technically only a tarantula leg, which I realise is not nearly as impressive as the bulging runny mid-section. I even dipped it in a tasty sauce, to mask the spideriness.

Before you hurl in that nearby waste bin, here's a fascinating and concise history of spider eating in Cambodia, minus the really gross bits.

Fried spiders have long been considered a regional delicacy in Cambodia (no, really). Although it is not clear exactly when the spider-eating tradition started, some sources suggest that the practice began out of desperation during the years of the Khmer Rouge rule, while others claim that this particular species of spider (the Thai zebra tarantula) has been considered the "edible spider" for more than a hundred years.

So, what do you think - does it look tasty?

 

This daredevil (below) even went as far as trying the juicy middle spider parts. Eeeek. This picture always makes me laugh. Mind, the verdict was that it was dry, like the legs, which is not what I'd heard or expected. Look at that focus... the determination...

 

This is me, looking as cool as is possible while nibbling on a tarantula leg.

Cambodians be cray...

So at the restaurant Romdeng where said spider eating took place, the waiter was kind enough to introduce us to our furry starters before handing them over to the kitchen team.

There were very mixed reactions from our party of nine, with half brazenly offering up a hand for a spider photo sesh, looking almost regal in their composure. And me? Well... didn't manage to look quite as cool.

i paid to have fish suck my toes

I got f'issues, man.

Plunging your footsies into a tank of skin-sucking carp might not sound like a great way to unwind, but in countries like Cambodia and Vietnam the infamous "doctor fish" foot massages entice many a tourist in for a toe tickle with claims like it's "better than a pedicure" and will leave your feet "as soft as a baby's bottom".

So the little suckers are slimy toothless fish from Turkey called garra rufa, and they suck away at the dead skin on your feet, supposedly promoting circulation, good health and leaving the skin soft and supple.

Has this been proven? No. Is it a cess pool for disease and infection? Yes. Have some nations banned the procedure? Yup. Do experts disapprove of the treatment? Totally.

Did I do it the first chance I got? Well, duh.

Some countries, like Britain, charge a pretty penny for this questionable treatment. However this is Cambodia baby, so we paid $3 for an all-you-can-suck fish fest at a street vendor! Later I was disappointed to find other vendors offering it at just $1 plus a can of Angkor for a 15 minute foot nibble.

When I first dipped my feet into the water, I squirmed and giggled for about 10 minutes as fish nipped at my feet, before surrendering to the strangeness of it all. The less you fidget, the more fish congregate at your feet. It looked like I was wearing fish shoes.

I wouldn't say it's relaxing having slippery sea creatures gnaw at your phalanges for half an hour, but it's certainly therapeutic. I haven't laughed so much in ages.

Were my feet as soft as a baby's bottom afterwards, as promised? Well, they were definitely smoother. And this fish pedicure seems safer than other pedicures I've received in Cambodia – I'm talking to you, clipper-happy lady at Devatara Spa.

My fellow Dr Fish patient agreed her feet were marginally softer after the ordeal, though a day of trawling through the Siem Reap markets and temples in thongs soon fixed that, and our feet were callused and nasty again.

It's a unique experience if you're game enough, though the novelty has worn off for me.

so I ate a cricket... what of it?

And it was still better than that suspect pork soup I had last week (containing God knows what parts of the animal), which I dutifully shoveled down to save face in front of my Cambodians co-workers. When one brownish coloured piece of "pork" dissolved like pate in my mouth, stubborn pride was the only thing that kept me from gagging and choking on said morsel.

What the hell, Cambodia? I didn't sign on for no nose-to-tail dining experience. Do I really need to specify this when I order?

Try as I may to channel Anthony Bourdain's foodie fearlessness (and I really do want to!), I just can't seem to muster the courage to eat a meat dish that comes in more colour shades than a pack of Crayolas. I'm from the West, ergo I have no qualms with wasting perfectly good, nutritious parts of an animal if it means I get to eat the nice bits.

Oh Cambodia, how you continue to stretch my culinary capacity to new - often gag-inducing - levels, whether it's a brekky "pork surprise" noodle soup, or a crispy "wings 'n' all" six-legged snack.

Anyway, back to the cricket... I ate one. It was fried. Mind, it took a fair few Angkor refills before I could be persuaded to bite down on a bug. And a fair few Angkor chasers before I could stop retching.

At the same restaurant I also sampled some fried snake, which I'll admit is not nearly as impressive. They had fried the bejesus out of it, so it had more of an old-leather-handbag ick factor than a spicy-bug ick factor.

Why did I do it, you ask? Well, when in Rome...  However, I draw the line at fried crickets, i.e. fried maggots, fried tarantulas and concealed blocks of blood are right out.

The words 'wing membrane' will forever haunt me. Do you know what it's like for a Westerner to have cricket bits stuck in your teeth? Do you Cambodia???

She does. This is Dee, said persuader, and fellow cricket eater.

Don't get me wrong, I've eaten bugs before. Who hasn't vacuumed up a mozzie on a morning jog, or munched down on something slimy in their bio-dynamic, organic salad? But this eating-creepy-crawlies-deliberately thing is all new to me.

Last week while visiting the Battambang province for a work schindig I had the privilege of spending some quality time with the VOD staff, and so it was nothing but local food for three days straight. Peppery and citrus-y soups and hotpots, pineapple stir-frys, barbequed meats, fried greens with garlic and chilli, whole fish topped with fresh herbs - it was mostly delicious. But to be clear, this blog isn't about delicious Cambodia fare. This is about soups containing beady fish eyes and surprise fish bones, which I also encountered.

Okay, so this next one was another leap of daring for me. While dining with co-workers one night I inquired, what are those strange eggs on skewers I keep seeing everywhere? You know, the ones that look like they've been left out all day and have black stuff oozing out of it? Here, try one for yourself, they say. Great, thanks.

Basically they take an egg, crack it open and empty the contents, then mix it with a peppery powder and funnel the mixture back in. It gets grilled over flames and served three eggs to a skewer, with a side of pepper and sweet-chilli sauce.

I've sampled Khmer street food before, but in this instance I only managed to swallow three quarters of the egg. It has a gross rubbery, spongy texture but is perfectly edible with the sweet chilli sauce. I'll admit, it's just a mental battle. Another barang at the table next to ours was attempting the egg on a stick, while a female friend filmed on camera, but he only managed one bite before calling it a day. Does this make me better than him? Absolutely.

All of this is not to suggest that Cambodia is a cess pit of cringe-worthy delicacies, in fact there's a lot of really amazing food here, which I will mention in a later blog. Stay tuned.

mum, don't read this

Let me begin by stating, I'm okay. I'm safe, healthy, happy and growing older and wiser by the day.

Now... If I may just briefly revisit the events of last Friday night...

It was a typical Friday night in Phnom Penh. That is to say, myself, Emily and Dee were returning from a night out, hating ourselves just a little bit for ending up at Heart of Darkness, again (a seedy nightclub on the late-night main drag, Street 51).

After paying our tuk tuk driver we approached the guesthouse and (gah!) the big green front gates were locked again, for the third night in a row.

The first time Emily and I had found ourselves street-side of the locked gates, we had tried (unsuccessfully) to rouse the figure sleeping in the make-shift bed five feet from the entrance, but no dice. Calling out, gate shaking, feet stomping; nothing worked. Those Cambodians are heavy sleepers. After contemplating climbing over the top and braving the procession of spear heads crowning the gate, I discovered (with great relief) that if you pull the gate out just enough to reach beyond a dip in the curb, you can (albeit ungracefully) maneuver your way in on your backside.

Well! After this discovery we felt a bit invincible. There was no way they could keep us from our rock-hard beds now. So, after half-heartedly trying to wake the unconscious staff member, we went about our routine of pulling out the gate and worming our way underneath. Emily went first, because she's the "expert", having done it three nights in a row. Dee and I rolled up our sleeves and placed our bags down inside the gate, ready for our slithering act. As I crouched down, a ninja-like figure appeared in my peripheral, snatched one of the bags, and bolted off behind us.

Bear in mind, we had just come home from a night out, and were a little sluggish to put it mildly. However, adrenaline is a funny thing. Suddenly Dee and I were sprinting after the bag thief in our sandals, swearing blue murder as he bee-lined for a waiting moto containing two other youths, revving in anticipation of a quick getaway.

Without warning, I slipped and hit the ground. Hard. There was no pain; all I could think about was getting to the thief before he hopped on that moto and sped away. The universe must've took pity on me, because in a wonderful twist of fate, the bag thief also slipped and dropped the stolen booty. In that rare and triumphant moment, Dee snatched the bag back.

"Run away!" she ordered, with the fury of a mother who's reached her limit. He knew she meant business.

The thief scampered away, bagless, to his moto posse. Still running off adrenaline and absolutely livid, I chased after the moto, yelling out things that I don't think I've ever yelled in my life. They looked both frightened and amused, as they sped away.

Emily woke the staff member and made them let us in. Still shaken, we went up to Dee's room and ate her Pringles until we felt content enough to return to our own room.

It was a harsh wake up call, but bag snatching is so common here in Phnom Penh you should really always have your wits about you. Westerners are are majors targets for this type of crime. We just got lucky this time.

And Mum, if you read this, it's completely made up.

phnom penh style: volunteering in cambodia

When my transfer arrived at Phnom Penn Airport in the form of a dusty red tuk tuk, it was with slightly more than a hint of chagrin that I thought, 'Oh fab. This is home for the next two months'. And truth be told, this encounter pretty adequately set the tone for my Cambodia experience.

I remember clutching my backpack with white knuckles and nodding politely as my Star Kampuchea guide pointed out newly-restored pagodas and dirty historic buildings, while interjecting with important questions like "does the guesthouse have a swimming pool?" and "where is the nearest McDonalds?".

Well, the guesthouse didn't have a pool. And there is no McDonalds. I'm not even kidding. In fact, Phnom Penh only just got their first KFC. I know... Those poor, fast-food deprived bastards. But it's okay, they don't know any better. In their sheltered Third-World minds one of those smelly salted fish hanging in the market stalls and a slop of rice porridge is the equivalence of a Big Mac meal. No really, they love it.

But once you cut through all the dirt, and the bag snatching, and the "hey lady, tuk tuk tuk?", and the travellers diarrhea, and the fried tarantulas, and the tuk tuk drivers who pretend they know where you're going, and the stifling humidity, and the dirt... it's really a lovely place. Filled with $2 foot massages, $1.75 cocktails (check out Mekong Bar on the Riverside), bargains-galore market shopping, and mouth-watering local Khmer cuisine. And you never have to do your own laundry. Ever.

After meeting the other volunteers and doing a bit of sightseeing, they finally set us all to work. I am working for a non-government organisation called Radio Voice of Democracy. My first week was a little rocky, as they thought being a 'web producer' meant that I could also be a 'radio producer'. Just to be clear - I don't know squat about radio producing. The closest I come to having anything to do with radio is an awkward Today FM shout out I did about five years ago after feeling sorry for the intern wandering the streets at 8pm at night with a voice recorder.

Anyway, after sorting the 'producer' confusion, things got a little more interesting. By interesting I mean not sitting in a room doing absolutely nothing. I've been writing reports, drafting emails for colleagues, writing recommendations and assisting with the websites. I also got to attend a peace rally recently, headed by a collective of NGOs at Wat Phnom in the centre of town, which was pretty interesting.

The people I work with are absolutely lovely. And they share everything. It's cute. It's rare that a day goes by that I don't get offered handfuls of local fruit, pickled vegetables with firey dipping salts, Asian candy, pippis or something else equally obscurely fascinating. I'll try anything at least once. Except for fried maggots. They can keep that snacky-poo all to themselves, thanks very much.

At lunchtime (did I mention we get two hour lunch breaks here?) many of the staff gather in the tiny kitchen, find a spot on the floor rug and serve out steamed rice and other fragrant home-made or market-bought fare between them. They usually speak in Khmer but I like to sit down there sometimes and pester them with questions about Cambodia.

As far as travel goes, I've only been down south to Sihanoukville. We stayed on Koh Rong for a weekend (about a two-hour ferry from the main island) which I can't recommend enough. It's so nice to escape the city for white sand, azure waters and beach-side bungalows, if only for a day. But this week should be more interesting as I'll be travelling with work colleagues to the Battambang province to assist with some post-election forums they're hosting. Then I'll go straight from there to Siem Reap for a fun-filled long weekend of temples and floating villages. It'll be great.

I'll leave you all with some photos of me doing stuff in Cambodia. I'm the one with the mean suntan.

Me and my fellow peace pilgrims at Wat Phnom

 

 The lotus flower is a symbol of peace and serenity

Hanging with the other volunteers in Koh Rong

These tribal-esque chickies are my faves...

 Getting my culture on and checking out pagodas with the crew

cambodian food for my mouth hole

Don't ever make the mistake of observing out loud, while slurping down your amok, that Khmer food is "quite similar to Thai". Oh no no no... That would be incorrect my friend. And any Cambodian armed with a basic comprehension of English and within a 10 metre earshot of your ignorant verbal discharge will be only too happy to point that out. Because, of course, it is Thai food that is quite similar to Khmer cuisine.

Let me explain.

In Australia we're blessed with a shizz load of Asian food. Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Malaysian, Indonesian, Japanese... the list goes on. But Khmer food? Not so much. So for many people, their first encounter with Khmer food is in Cambodia. And with it's rich curries and barbecued meats, it does bear some resemblance to it's more widely-recognised culinary cousin. But here's the thing...

Thai cuisine actually borrows from Khmer. It's true. A thousand years ago, the Khmer dynasty ruled most of South-East Asia, so many Thai dishes draw on Khmer specialties. Only Khmer cuisine is so old school that it was invented before the use of chilli in cooking, so you'll notice it definitely has a milder spice factor.

Over the weekend I did a Khmer cooking class, so I'm basically an authority on Khmer cuisine now.

Cambodia Cooking Class Phnom Penh offers classes every day of the week. We did the full-day course for $US23, which involved a trip to the market and making four Khmer dishes: spring rolls, banana blossom salad with chicken, amok (steamed coconut fish in banana leaves) and sweet rice (basically sticky rice with caramelised palm sugar and fresh mango).

Despite an unplanned hangover that day, I really enjoyed the class and the dishes. And best of all, any idiot with a mortar and pestle can make this stuff.

Here's some food for your eyeballs.

 

Spring rolls

 

Banana blossom salad with shredded chicken

 

Amok in a banana leaf

 

Sweet rice with mango

europe... meh

 

Eiffel Tower...

Pont des Arts a.k.a. "Lovers' Bridge"...

 

Baguette...

 

St Peter's Basillica...

Cinque Terre...

Vernazza...

Rome...

 

Dubrovnik...

 

 ...

Summer in Amsterdam...

phoneless in Paris

 

So I managed to navigate through my Euro trip without any major hiccups, missed flights or lost property. Until Paris.

On my sister’s last night, I suggested we ditch our local watering holes for a kitschy terrace bar in the 20th arrondissement open for the summer called La Grande Prairie. It was here that I befriended the suave cocktail-mixing Spaniard working in the terrace bar, who somehow wasn't put off by my less-than-perfect French. After clocking off, the Spaniard left with us in search of a good kick-on spot.

I remember him handing us some roadies for the walk. And not much else.

When I woke up, head spinning and too early yet to even be hungover, I discovered that my dear iPhone was gone (notice how iPhone users never call their iPhone their phone? It’s an iPhone user thing that those Android kids would never understand).

I logged into iCloud to access the 'Find My iPhone' application, and (le sigh...) it was on the move. I watched the little dot zip around the map of Paris until it became just too depressing.

I was supposed to meet a good friend that day to go to Versailles, but somehow fudged up her meeting instructions and, without any way to contact her, wound up exploring Marie Antoinette's stomping grounds solo.

Here's an idea: how about not visiting Versailles when you're wretchedly hungover, with queues that snake up and down the entrance for a kilometre in the searing summer heat? Marie, don't get me wrong—your chateau is divine, but a few more chairs and drink vendors would've been lovely.

Later that day the sexy Spaniard, who I’d had the foresight to add on Facebook, asked me out on a date. We’d made plans to meet at the giant statue outside Republique metro station at 10pm sharp; it was all very Sleepless in Seattle. I realised that if I was to pull off this little rendezvous I would actually have to be on time, like people used to be in the olden days before smart phone technology and SMS. This was going to be tough—particularly if my last meeting attempt was anything to go off.

As date hour approached and I scrambled around for my hair dryer, the door started buzzing. It must be a mistake, I thought, I’m not expecting anyone. I ignored it and continued my dryer hunt.  A little while later, my sister Facebooks me in a state: "Where are you?? My flight’s been cancelled, I was buzzing the door before!". Whoops. This wouldn't happen if I had a phone.

When I met her at the door she burst into a teary recount of her shite day at Charles de Gaulle. I was running behind schedule and I could feel the panic rising. I tried to comfort her while I blitzed through my hair and make-up (which I'm sure just oozed sincerity). I felt terrible leaving her like this. I sent the Spaniard a quick Facebook message to warn that I might be a bit late, and rushed out before waiting for a reply.

As I approached the metro, I realised that I'd forgot something and had to sprint back to the apartment. Five flights of stairs and about 100 curse words later, I returned to the subway, sweaty and tired, and caught the two lines to Place de la République, arriving at the fashionably late time of 10.15pm.

When I stepped out, it was pouring rain. I hurried out of the station and headed for the giant monument in the centre of the square, shielding my freshly primped hair (which quickly proved futile). Oh, and no Spaniard to be found.

I circled around the enormous statue to be sure, then retreated to the undercover metro station. Dripping wet and crippled with indecision about my next move, I shivered away a few minutes next to the stairway, hoping that he would have the good sense to look for me in here and wasn’t somewhere getting saturated himself.

Without any better ideas, I found myself heading towards the statue again. As if to mock me, the rain was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. Hair was now a wet mess. Clothes were soaked. I stared up at the Place de la République monument, musing over the prospect of lightning striking the towering bronze figure, just to make my night complete. I did one final loop of the statue. No Spaniard. It was 10.35pm and time to cut my losses; he either didn't show up, or went home before I arrived. I glanced one more time at the statue before plodding back down into the subway.

When I arrived back at Cadet Station, I gave into defeat and ordered a cheeseburger from the McDonalds on the corner. I returned to the apartment, and as I was relaying my date fail to Marg, suddenly noticed the message on my computer screen:

“Where are you hiding ;)”.

And another one from earlier: “Let’s just meet at 10.30pm then”.

Gah! I’d left before he’d sent the update. We'd probably missed each other by minutes. Hate not having a phone.

I actually set out for Republique once again. Can you believe it? Am I insane? Perhaps. This time, however, the elusive Spaniard came good and fun times were had by all.

Now, I'm sure there's a lesson somewhere in this experience. Something about punctuality, persistance or Gen-Y's unhealthy dependance on iThingys? I dunno. But let it be a warning for all to take good care of your belongings, particularly while meandering around the globe.

cinque terre, you could get away with murder!

Vernazza, view of the town from the terrace restaurant

Cinque Terre, don't think I don't know exactly what you're doing. With your stunning cliff-top terraces and nauseatingly perfect sunsets. It's all a big stupidly gorgeous diversion. You think that by bringing out the big guns, i.e. the glistening pebble beaches and quaint, colourful townships, we won't notice that all your ATMs are in Italian, rendering them useless, or that your bottles of water cost three times as much.

We'll just overlook the fact that your world-class pizzas and focaccias come with a side of Italian 'tude, and that there isn't a single elevator in your hilly towns.

Just bat those lashes at us again, CT. You know you have us wrapped around your little steep-as-hell-step-ridden finger. I've lost count of how many times Marg has stacked it down the stairs late at night and I've laughed inappropriately.

Oh what's that Cinque Terre? You have pizza bases shaped like fish? Boom - forgiven.

Was also awesome to catch up with a work friend from Italy, who kindly guided us through a focaccia tasting while visiting Monterosso.

The three B's: Beers, bread and beach

The stock standard focaccia here is different to what we're served in Australia; denser, oily-er and saltier, yum. My favourite - the focaccia de recco (focaccia with cheese) pictured above.

travel provisions

Before skipping off to Europe I was chuffed to received some fancy KiKi K travel gifts from work colleagues (gawwww, you guys know me too well!). Nothing says 'I'm a serious traveller' like brand-spanking-new Swedish designer stationary and luggage tags shaped like cartoon aeroplanes.

Anyway, I'd never successfully kept a travel journal in past trips and was determined to make more effort this time. So far, I have written about three pitiful pages in my journal and lost my luggage tag - however the passport wallet gets used daily. So, yeah...

My excuses for not writing much thus far are as follows...

1. I'm allergic to Europe.

Well, kind of. Every since I landed in beautiful Paris my sinuses have flared up, my eyes are itchy, my nose is blocked and my glands are swollen, and its been like that pretty much up until Italy. It's officially the hay fever from hell. Marg maintains I've been a trooper through it all: clubbing with a tissue-loaded handbag; learning how to ask for meds and tissues in three different languages; participating in dubious hostel pub crawls after getting just a few hours sleep due to coughing fits. I must thank big sis for putting up with my incessant coughing, whinging and nose-blowing. Anyway, so I haven't been the best version of myself on this trip, even though I've been having the best time, so sleep-ins have outranked journaling in importance I'm afraid. Sorry, but that's just how it is.

2. My computer is f*cked!

This brand new Toshiba will be the death of me. I forgot how stupidity precious it is about wifi. Back at home, I actually had to buy a second router for my room to plug directly into this princessy machine, because it couldn't pick up our wifi network. It's pretty much behaved this way in every accommodation we've been in, and I just want to pour sangria over the keyboard and throw it into the lava-gleaming jaws of Mount Versuvius (is it even an active volcano anymore? I have no idea). As romantic as the notion of writing in a journal is, I work in online and I haven't had to psychically put pen to paper since my uni exam days. When I do, my hand cramps up and the fun is over. Oh, you think I'M being precious now? Remember in high school how you used be really good at doing cartwheels, but then like a year ago you polished a couple of ciders at a barbecue and thought you'd rip a couple of 'wheels in front of your mates, then proceed to pull a double hammy, fall on your face, and secretly vow to dedicate the rest of your days to power yoga and slim fast shakes? Well in the same vain, when you're not writing every day for more than a decade (yes, I'm old) then your writing muscles get lazy. And you start to prefer the computer. Right now I'm typing this on my iPhone. Still a much, easier, faster and infinitely more enjoyable option than the journal in my opinion. However, I maintain that if my stupid excuse for a laptop could perform basic computery tasks, like looking up Euro train timetables online and checking emails, then I would be using it far more often and writing more frequently. I should've splurged for the Mac.

3. Partied out

This is what got me on my last couple of adventures. Copius drinking, walking, staying out late, eating bad food takes its toll, but ultimately gives travel its appeal. I always imagine that I will use time in long commutes or lazy mornings to record all my thoughts and travel anecdotes, but instead (perhaps as a survival mechanism) I have become a dedicated sleeper. Sitting upright on a train, in a oven-hot spider-infested tent at midday, or leaning against the communal bathroom wall as my phone charges, I've become something of a semi-professional cat napper in order to endure the exhaustive nature of globe hopping. And believe me, if I'm to get up at 4am tomorrow to nab a good spot for the running of the bulls, you best let me get some beauty shut-eye. Travel tales will just have to wait.

I will write something of substance soon, I promise.

birthdays and farewells

I have the greatest friends in the world. 

Last night I had one last pre-Eurotrip blowout for my 29th and my amazingly talented friend Dimi made me this show-stopping Momofuku Milk Bar cake! Way to make a gal feel special. I was obsessed with the Momofuku restaurants in NYC and I stumbled onto this gorgeous recipe a couple of months back, but no way in hell did I think I'd actually get to see it in person or taste it.

I'll miss you guys while I'm away!