Slim was wrong

Slim Dusty once sang that there was "nothing so lonesome, so morbid or drear, than to stand in the bar of the pub with no beer". Well, it seems I've found a more morbid and drear place. In fact, I've found several. I'm in one of them right now. It's called an office on Friday afternoon, when you would rather be curled up at home in bed dealing with the cold you know is coming.

Another one is London in winter. Don't get me wrong. London is a great city to live in for the lifestyle. There's always something going on, a place to be, people to meet. It's always interesting, even if it's just in observing the nightly fights on the late night tubes, or the way cricket disappeared almost completely from the newspapers once it became clear that the Australians were going to wipe the floor with the English (5-0; it doesn't get any sweeter than that). But London is, for the most part, not a healthy city to live in. It's filthy for a start. Being the victim of a cold, my flatmate has taken to inspecting the products of blowing her nose lately and informing me of the exact shade of green. From my own certain knowledge, there is no way any of what she tells me can be entirely true, because nothing comes out of anybody's nose over here without it being tinged with black thanks to the disgusting air quality. It's a brave soul indeed who drinks water straight from a London tap, as well. Personally, I won't even cook with it, because of the scummy residue I've found in saucepans that were filled with boiling tap water. And what it does to wash your hair in it is not to be thought of. So London is still the dirty, filthy metropolis it was in Dickens' time - well, OK, maybe not quite so pungent, but certainly not what I'm used to coming from the lovely environs of Melbourne.

And then there's the London weather. Anyone with half an eye on global events in the run up to Christmas would be aware of the London fog that had British Airways cancelling over 800 flights. It was labelled as a freezing fog. I never understood what that expression meant until about December 20th. Everything does freeze over, and you simply can't see. Anything. Ferries were cancelled, flights cancelled, trains delayed, traffic jammed, and footpaths icy. Actually, I have a theory on this last point. I firmly believe that the current trend for ballet slipper style shoes originated in London, after women rebelled against the damage inflicted by walking down the at best uneven, at worst downright hazardous London pavements in high heels. They simply grew sick of the sprains (not to mention the heel replacements) and decided that, in the face of the impossibility of resurfacing every London footpath with a level, even paving, they would have to take matters into their own hands and begin wearing sensible shoes. Mind you, I believe it was my sensible shoes I was wearing a couple of weeks back when I rolled my ankle on an uneven lip between pavers. And that was without factoring ice. Perhaps the unevenness does have its advantages though. It certainly stops the slip of your foot as ice threatens to take it from under you. And it helps your ice skating technique no end. I'm not so certain on the upside of the dog poo scattered across the pavements of Europe in abundance, however.

So there you have it, the sad truth about London. It's a dirty decrepit town, kind of like the family member you keep secret because, well, their personal hygiene doesn't quite meet the usual standards. But at the same time, you grin and bear it when you visit them, especially when you're young. Why? Why does that old, disgusting uncle hold such allure? Because it's jsut so bloody fascinating to hear what they have to say, to see what the life that you dare not lead yourself is like. And, in most respects, London holds a similar interest. The dignified skirts of old Melbourne have nothing on the brash, baudy tales hidden in London. The vile weather - actually, this is probably the same in Melbourne - has lead to the development of an interior life, richer culture. Alright, that might not be true. But there is a pub culture to die for over here, and surprisingly friendly and tolerant locals. And it's so close to so many other places, that most Australians will put up with the conditions for a while, just for that chance to see Europe without flying for 24 hours. And there you have the allure of London to the Aussie traveller. Combine that with a chance to reinvent yourself as something, someone completely new (because, after all, who really know you over here?), and its irresistible for most. Although i do wonder what it would look like without the rain to wash it clean so often. England with an Australian climate? Unthinkable...

What a difference a day makes

The difference between Monday and Tuesday, and it's not what it usually is. Yesterday morning, I woke up in Lyon, France. It was, admittedly, a filthy disgusting hole of a place (I have the mozzie bites up my arms to prove it), but it was holiday, it was away, and it was New Years Day - public holiday! I'd been travelling since the 23rd, seeing exotic locations I'd never been to before. I had cramps in my calf muscles from all the climbing. For anyone unfamilliar with Lyon - hich will probably be most people, I admit - most of the city is beautifully flat, stretching between the Rhone and the Saone rivers. This was not the part that our hostel was in. Behind the heart of the old town, a steep slope climbs its way up towards an eleborate church. Halfway up this slope, there are roman ruins. There are great views over the whole of the city from the top, assuming pedestrians survive the climb to the top which leaves fit healthy teenagers (who had the nerve to laugh at their red faced elders) panting for breath half way up when said red faced elders went past them at a steady pace. And shortly after that half way point was the entrance to the mankiest hostel in France. The home of the cold shower in a cupboard, of rooms with no sound proofing whatsoever, of breakfast served without any reference to such luxuries as plates. There's no other reason for me to complain about Lyon though. And even the hostel had its good points. Their names were Rick and Martin, and they were from New Zealand. Nice boys, and their friend Josie, who told us about a park that kept us busy for a few hours. Who would have thought 2 adults could have so much fun on a little kids train? One of them also provided the inspiration for our hours of trekking around Lyon, waiting for a crowd to gather near the ferris wheel for the countdown to midnight. It doesn't matter that there was no official countdown. We had fun. And so did the french men who kept trying to talk to us until our preoccupation with (and squeals of delight over) fireworks proved too much for our limited french to overcome.

And then there was today. After a Christmas in Paris, climbing a fog-shrouded Eiffel Tower, a couple of days seeing the beautiful sights of Geneva, and a luxurious couple of days by the Mediterranean in Toulon, it was an understandable shock to the system to find myself back at work this morning. I wasn't the only one though. Apparently, it was the biggest sick day on record in London. I'm sure they were all at home clinging blindly to the memory of the sun they saw on thier break. I know I was having vivid flashbacks to Toulon, and the luxury of going without not only thermals, but scarf, gloves and hat as well.

Mind you, I was also incredibly glad when I woke this morning to find that I had my own room to myself again. After the succession of increasingly batty room mates between Paris and Geneva, the solitude was almost divine, in a way that none of the tourist infested churches I visited in my travels could manage. From the Australian whose voice had an uncanny similarity to tha of Kath Day-Knight, of Kath and Kim fame, to the Turkish woman who had found her way to Switzerland, ostensibly for medical treatment, and carried her worldy goods to the toilet with her every fifteen minutes or so, or even the lovely American girls who checked into our hostel room at the sensible time of 4am on New Years Day, we've had it all. Lucky for us, the sights were so beautiful, and the people we met away from our rooms so lovely to us, that the trip was a dream.

But for all that, it felt like it never happened within about 2 minutes of stepping out the front door this morning. My empty bag might reproach me from it's resting place in front of my wardrobe, my photos might scream at me from the camera to be uploaded onto my computer, but the holiday already seems so long ago that I can barely muster the energy. And so the countdown to the next trip begins. A day ago? A lifetime more like.