Goodbye Taouey

About a year ago my mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday. As per usual, when asked this question the long list of things that I wanted suddenly disappeared and my mind was left completely blank. So I told her I would think about it and let her know.

This sparked a discussion and between the two of us we decided that it shouldn’t be a material possession but rather something that I could do; a cooking class or a course or even a night at the theatre. We were soon sitting at the computer on Google trying to find various things that interested me.

There were lots of ideas and I couldn’t settle on any so eventually we decided to give it time and think it through.

I thought about it long and hard and eventually asked my mom if she would be willing to pay for the various courses required to join the yachting industry. She said yes, and I immediately thanked her, but if I had known then what I know now, I would have thanked her a million times more.

Getting into the yachting industry was hard work, and cost a lot of money, but I doubt that I have ever been happier, or in an environment which suited me more. And it was all thanks to a birthday present from my mom.

The courses involved quite a few sections and were completed over a two week period. I did everything from fighting a real fire in a burning house simulator at 300 degrees Celsius to leopard crawling through a tunnel filled with foam, and the worst part was sitting in a lecture hall for an entire day listening to a man tell me things I already knew whilst continuously misusing the word ‘though’. I redid my first aid for the 10^th time and had to go for a medical exam which involves standing naked in front of a crazy French lady whilst she inspects your body for varicose veins.

I did it all, and although some of it was hard work, I loved every second of it (okay, maybe not the crazy French lady part), and managed to make some friends along the way. By the time I had done all of this I was already grateful to my mom, but nothing could have prepared me for what lay ahead.

After spending more money for flights to Europe and three weeks of walking the docks in ever increasing despair, I finally landed a job on S/Y Taouey. This yacht is a 58 metre, private sailing yacht based in Monaco and is absolutely gorgeous when it is up and ready to go. However, at the time when I landed the job, it resembled a floating building site as opposed to luxury accommodation and although I was thrilled to finally have a job, I was concerned about what was to come.

S/Y Taouey

We had just less than two months to get the vessel ship shape and it looked to me as if there was a year’s work in front of us, and to make matters worse, I had no clue where to start. This was when I met Eva, my chief stew. She is a Romanian with Hungarian parents, who happens to speak English, French and a little Italian as well and after hearing her accent, I was delighted to realise that her English was actually very good.

Eva was also to be my hero, guide, teacher and friend whilst on board and I was very lucky to have her as my chief stew. She took me through everything slowly and patiently and often had to explain things to me more than once, but slowly I began to pick things up and after two weeks I was finally getting the hang of things. My ironing had gone from ‘horrific’ to ‘not bad’ and I now only needed one attempt to make a bed. And just as I was starting to get comfortable, Eva left on holiday for two weeks.

Suddenly I was the only stewardess on board and I was in charge of ensuring that nothing fell apart whilst Eva was away. She wrote me a “To Do” list, taught me how to pronounce the yacht’s name in case the phone rang and showed me how to clean the dishwasher and then off she went, back to Romania. I was terrified.

Two weeks later when Eva returned I think we were both a little shocked that I had managed to keep the boat together but there was no time to waste as the return of Eva also indicated the arrival of our other stewardess (but more on that later).

I look back now, after three months on board and I must say that although there were a lot of ups and downs, I thoroughly enjoyed working on this yacht. Yes, the people were nice, and the owner didn’t want to snort cocaine off my boobs, so I was lucky, but I actually enjoyed the work that I was doing. Not to mention the wonderful opportunities that it opened up for me.

But my time on Taouey has now come to an end and I certainly hope that my mom knows just how grateful I am to her for starting me off in the right direction so that I could follow my dreams and not only did she get me through my courses but for Christmas, I got a brand new camera to make sure that the memories I made were unforgettable.

For as long as I can remember she has told me to find something that I love and stick to it and there can surely be no greater birthday present than this. Which is why, when my mom asks me what I want for my birthday this year, I will once again be faced with a blank, empty brain and absolutely no clue as to what I want.

Step Two: Make Friends

I woke up early on my first Saturday in Antibes. I was excited, slightly hungover and utterly desperate to finally get out and do some dockwalking in the hopes of finding a job. It had been months since I had done all of my courses and I had heard every piece of advice under the sun.

The yachting industry consists of a whole bunch of young, good looking South Africans, Ausies, Brits and Kiwis all desperate to find a job on one of the amazing superyachts that line the docks along the Mediterranean. It is competitive, cut throat and there are more people than there are jobs and to make matters worse, the jobs that are available usually go to people with experience.

This means that the newbie yachtie is the absolute runt in the system and has to struggle to find that first job that will allow you to break the No Experience, No Work cycle. And because this is such a difficult task, every single human being who has ever made it in the industry has a whole long list of advice about how to get a job and more often than not, this advice constantly contradicts the last bit of advice you were given.

But one thing that seems to reign true for all newbie yachties is that whether you like it or not, you have to dock walk. Dockwalking is the entirely demotivating process of walking along the docks, CV in hand in the hopes of handing it out to anyone who will take it. And once you have given your CV to virtually everyone you can find then you have to hope that somebody important sees it and likes it enough to phone you for an interview, or give you some daywork or better yet, give you a job.

Like all newbies, I arrived expecting to do one or two days of dockwalking before finding the most incredible job on the most incredible yacht with a salary that would blow your hair back and now I was excited to get started.

What I hadn’t taken into account was that it was now Saturday and in France, the whole world stops on the weekend. Everything was closed and I couldn’t print CVs, I couldn’t buy food and I definitely could not dockwalk. My life as a yachtie was not off to a good start and after not eating for over 24 hours, and a terrible bout of hay fever starting up I was starting to feel severely homesick.

Perhaps being a yachtie would not be so easy after all. And it wasn’t long before I was desperately trying to remember all the useless bits of advice I had been given over the months leading up to this. In the end, the bowl of pasta that a new friend had made me was worth far more than any of the advice I could remember and soon I realised that as always, Baz Luhrman had been right.  

“Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping off the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.”

So here is my bit of advice, that is probably not worth a penny to anyone but me, but I will say it anyway. The people you meet whilst dockwalking will be the people who give you the motivation to carry on dockwalking until you find the first job, so put a smile on your face, be friendly and look after the people around you. You never know when you may need that bowl of pasta that will save you from despair. 

Operation Yachtie: Step One

I had arrived in Antibes and now the entire purpose of my journey lay before me. I had moved all the way to France in the hopes of finding a job as a stewardess on a super yacht, hoping desperately that this job would include SCUBA diving and would cover the expenses of my by now very expensive travel.

I had done all the required courses and I was now in Antibes at what I hoped was the perfect time to find a job. In a couple of weeks, foreigners would be pouring in looking for jobs and I had arrived a week early hoping that this would give me an advantage over the competition.

The train came to a halt at the station and I found that the butterflies in my stomach had turned into huge angry moths that were quite intent on making me throw up in nervousness.

I hadn’t organised accommodation but for some reason thought that I would stumble out of the train station and into some signs that said “crew houses this way.” This was not the case and after two hours of stumbling around with my huge suitcase looking for somewhere to stay, I was close to tears.

At which point I was rescued by a complete stranger.

I obviously looked lost and in desperate need of help because somebody eventually came up to me and asked if they could help me out. To my relief the guy happened to be English and an absolute hero. He invited me up to his flat where he let me use his internet and phone and gave me advice on crew houses and places to stay.

In no time I had accommodation sorted and he was printing me a map with directions. I had been saved and really wanted to hug this stranger and give him a huge smooch but I refrained and instead just said thank you before lugging my suitcase up the only hill in Antibes to Amma’s Crew House.

I was a stressed out wreck by the time I got there and all I wanted was a familiar face, a bed and a cup of tea, so when I was introduced to one of the other guys staying there and heard that his name was Struan I squealed in delight.

Earlier that week my best friend from back home had got me in touch with her roommate’s boyfriend who was also planning to move to Antibes in the hopes of making sure we each had a buddy in this foreign country. His name was Struan and this is not a common name, even in South Africa! This was the familiar face I had been hoping for and I attacked him with a huge bear hug. It was delightful.

It turned out that there were a couple of South Africans staying at the crew house and after three weeks of travel the South African accent was an unexpected delight.

We made friends, as all South Africans do, over a couple of drinks and soon I was back to my relaxed and happy self. The nervousness was gone and suddenly I found myself excited about the prospects of finding a job and starting my life as a yachtie!

The adventure had finally begun! 

Adopting Family

There is a moment in every holiday where you realise that it is time to move on to the next destination. Most of the time this fills you with all the excitement of travelling to a new city and you get the kind of butterflies that stop you from sleeping so that you can spend the night day dreaming instead. But every now and again, you’ll leave a city with a little bit of sadness in your heart.

This was what happened to me as I was leaving Paris.

It’s not that I wasn’t excited to go to my next destination. My next destination was Antibes, on the French Riviera and anyone who isn’t excited about that is just plain stupid. But I was a little bit sad to be leaving Paris too. Yes, Paris is gorgeous and I loved my time there but what I was really worried about missing was the family that I had adopted along the way (See Arriving In Paris).

So as I sat at Gare de Lyon, waiting for my train, I sat thinking of them and was in a bit of a daze when I noticed someone waving at me. It turns out I had been staring at them for quite a while and their discomfort had now turned to curiosity and they had waved just to see if I was actually conscious.

I quickly snapped back to the real world and waved back. The poor guy smiled and then turned back to his conversation. I watched a little while longer and noticed that all three men were signing one another and their conversation consisted entirely of hand signals. It was a wonder to watch and before long I was awkwardly starring again.

The man who had previously waved at me noticed me again and I blushed a deep red before turning away.

I know that people with various disabilities are often judged and I hated the thought of them thinking I was starring in judgement. I felt very ashamed and got a huge fright when I finally looked back up and found the guy standing directly in front of me.

He mouthed “bonjour” and I did the same with a wave. He then mouthed the French equivalent of “how are you” and I replied and added a ‘thumbs up’. I was grinning from ear to ear and I noticed that he was too. He gave a small wave before turning around and walking away with his two friends.

I have no idea what the conversation meant to him nor why he came up to me in the first place but I can positively say that this tiny little interaction had made my day. I spent my entire 6 hour train ride thinking about it and every time I did, I smiled.

I had made a new friend just as I was leaving Paris and I couldn’t for the life of me think of why this interaction had had such a profound effect on me. Obviously I was relieved that the group knew I was not judging them. And it is always nice to see a smile. But I couldn’t shake the interaction and continued to think about it long after I had got off the train.

That evening as I got into bed, in another strange city, surrounded by more people that I didn’t know, I realised what it was about this guy that had left me grinning. It was the kindness and the happiness that bridged the barriers of communication and language and brought human interaction down to its most basic form, a greeting and a smile. And in that instant I realised there was nothing to fear about staying in a hostel in a city I had barely ever heard of because at the base of it, we were all people hoping to adopt one another as family for the duration of our stay.

Shameless Coffee

For as long as I can remember, Hollywood has been brainwashing me into believing that a woman alone in Paris should be near suicidal with loneliness and should never consider going anywhere near the Eiffel Tower, or Notre Dame, or any of the other touristy landmarks in Paris for fear of suddenly realising that you were standing there alone and would have the undeniable urge to throw yourself into the Siene River.

So when I arrived in Paris alone, fully aware of the fact that my boyfriend was halfway around the world, I was suddenly hit by severe anxiety. What if being in the so-called city of love alone would be too much for me to handle and I ended up depressed and lonely? What if I regretted travelling to this wonderful city because I didn’t have my ridiculously silly boyfriend with me?

As usual, Hollywood was wrong.

There is nothing particularly romantic about Paris and it as not as if anything is specifically designed for couples. It is not as if you have to see the Eiffel Tower as a couple and the pavements are covered in dog poo as opposed to rose petals. In fact, I missed my boyfriend no more than usual and at no point was I semi-suicidal.

If anything, I actually rather enjoyed being in Paris alone.

French men are the most self-assured, cocksure people I have ever met and it was utterly liberating to be chatted up by these foreign men with strange accents. It is not as if I haven’t been shamelessly hit on by South African men who believe that the sun shines out of their bums, but the French have a certain belief in their own ‘irrisistability’ that makes the shameless flirtation rather amusing.

Obviously there are a few problems with their flirting techniques, the first of which is the obvious language barrier, but once you have accepted that the French are fully capable of declaring their love to a complete stranger who doesn’t understand their language then you start to understand why most of the famous poetry happens to be set in France.

It is not that the French are particularly romantic, and their accents are actually rather annoying because there is no way of telling whether they are speaking French or English. No it has nothing to do with real love but is rather based on something far more shallow, and that is their self-worship.

The French man loves himself so much that he feels absolutely no fear at the thought of being shot down by a pretty lady and will quite happily shower a girl in compliments and declare his undying love to a complete stranger. This is not love, this is the ultimate flirtation, and it is what hundreds of years of poetry and Hollywood movies are based on.

And I have to say, right now I am a hundred percent on Nicole Kidman’s side of the argument, pre-Moulin Rouge. In France you may as well go for the diamonds because the love is usually fake, shallow and all too brisk for my liking.

This is not to say that the shameless flirtation isn’t wonderful to hear, and after a week in Paris I felt better about myself than I ever have before. Strange old men who owned fish stalls were offering me their life’s worth and a cup of coffee and gorgeous young men who said all the right things were batting their eyelids at me hoping for a chance to continue the conversation over an espresso.

Before long, I was so sure of myself that even I considered chatting up an unbelievably gorgeous man who happened to own a chocolate shop, and found myself Googling the nearest café in the hopes of getting him there, along with all his free chocolate. Paris had turned me into a monster and soon I was just like every other Frenchmen; addicted to coffee and chatting up the nearest semi-good looking man.

So to all those women who have been dying to visit Paris but are scared to do it alone, there is nothing to fear because you can quite easily cope on your own, and if you get there and decide that you can’t, it’ll take five minutes and maybe a cup of coffee before you have a partner who will gladly show you the best that Paris has to offer. 

The Artisan Is Alive

The artisan is alive! And he lives in France.

In recent years the latest trend in the South African Foodie culture has been to go back to the world of the artisan where you buy specialised products by people who truly know what they’re doing and with it has come ‘the market craze’. Every weekend in Stellenbosch there are at least five markets which you can attend and these markets showcase the best of the artisan from rainbow coloured macaroons, to pretty pastries and smokey meats.

I am definitely not complaining. Many a happy Saturday has been spent roaming the closest market to find the ultimate lunch and the perfect wine to go with it followed by an afternoon on the grass in the sun guzzling down all kinds of tasty and usually pretty treats whilst over-looking the stunning Stellenbosch vineyards. 

But these experiences have thus far been limited to the weekend as this is the only stage where the artisan seems to do well. If you can buy the same products for less from a supermarket, chances are that you will, so your day to day shopping tends to lead you to the closest supermarket where the products are not only cheaper but you can also get everything you need in one stop.

This means that even though we do have some artisans, it is not the norm.

This is not true in France however. As I walked around Paris I realised that although there was a McDonoalds and a Starbucks there was also a huge collection of bakeries, charcuteries and cafes. I was in foodie heaven and couldn’t have been happier.

I saw everything from popular tourist attractions sculpted in chocolate to stunning pastries that made my mouth water and it seemed there were colourful macaroons everywhere that would put the rainbow nation to shame. The collection of yummy looking things drove me wild and before long I was ravenous, and broke, and couldn’t read the names of any of the products, let alone pronounce them.

So I decided I would just have a hot dog to fill the void and then buy a little treat to top it off. Well, I never got to the little treat because a hot dog in Paris is not like a hot dog anywhere else in the world.

I was handed a warm, fresh baguette that I assumed had a Vienna in it somewhere but all I could see was an amazing, cheesy top that had been grilled into a golden delicious looking masterpiece and smelt absolutely amazing.

I tucked in and enjoyed every mouthful of it and barely noticed the Eifel Tower in front of me because I was definitely in heaven. I sat on the stairs in front of the aquarium, in the sun, so full I may actually pop, staring at the Eifel Tower knowing that life was good and that I could very happily do this for the rest of my life.

And this is why I am so grateful to the artisan. My baguette had been created by a genius and the cheesy topping was clearly designed by a maestro, and that is before I even mention the fact that somebody had taken a hot dog, which I am fairly certain is one of life’s greatest pleasures, and somehow made it better!

I am now desperately hoping that South Africans will hold on to the last of our artisans. Perhaps someone could improve on the boerewors roll, although I am fairly certain that is impossible! 

Arriving in Paris

There is a time in every girl’s life where she desperately hopes that she will one day go to Paris. Some will tell you that Paris is a cliché and that it is completely over rated. Some will tell you that it is filled with stuck up rude Frenchmen who hate the English. But after taking all of that into account, I still desperately wanted to see Paris!

And now, finally, it was the day. I was on my way to Paris.

I knew that I would be staying with my mom’s childhood friend, who I had never met, and I had rough directions of where to go once my train got to Paris. And without causing too much chaos I managed to get from one train station to another, where there was a bus that would take me to the stop where this complete stranger would meet me, assuming of course that we found one another.

As I sat on the bus heading toward Le Kremlin Bicetre my head swiveled in awe trying to take in as much of Paris I could manage and when the bus went past Notre Dame I nearly squealed with excitement. I was in Paris!

And all I could think of was how jealous my mom was at that very moment.

As we got closer to my stop I got a little nervous. The woman I was meeting was Isabelle, and her family had lived in Pretoria for a while which was how she knew my mom, but as far as I could tell my mom had not seen her since then and had only recently reconnected via Facebook. All I could do was Facebook stalk her and hope like hell she wasn’t scary.

I don’t know why I worried.

I was greeted by a raging ball of energy, with big hair and a loud voice, who proceeded to kiss each of my cheeks and give me a great big hug, before whisking me off to her lovely flat where she made me a much needed cup of tea and started babbling away. I could instantly see why this woman and my mom had been friends and before long the two of us were fighting to get a word in edge ways.

It was only that evening when I had climbed into her son’s mezzanine bed which he had kindly offered up for the duration of my visit did I realise just how lucky I was to be in the hands of a brilliant tour guide, mother, host and friend. Both Isabelle and her son Clement went out of their way to make me feel at home and tell me about all the wonderful things I should do whilst in Paris. It was lovely.

And there is nothing better when exploring a new city than having a warm comfortable home to come home to every night, with people who you can tell about your daily adventures while they make sure that you’ve had enough to eat.

I was already in love with Paris. 

Calais: Not Just a Stop Over

My time in London had come to an end. My train ticket to Dover Priory was booked and I was counting mostly on luck for a ferry ticket from Dover to Calais. I had just said goodbye to my aunt as she left for work and was busy zipping closed my suitcase before lugging it down the four flights of stairs that stood between me and the car.

My uncle had offered to drive me to King’s Cross St. Pancrass and I was incredibly excited to start the next part of my trip even if I was dreading saying goodbye to my newly adopted family. I got there right on schedule and soon I was sitting safely on the correct train heading in what seemed like the right direction with my book in hand.

By the time I got to Dover Priory there was only half an hour left to get to the docks in time to get the next ferry to Calais. So suitcase in hand I walked what seemed like a marathon to the docks and then found myself a seat on the ferry, next to that salty old sea dog that talks too much while drinking more than his fair share of cheap beer. And when he drunkenly offered me a lift from the docks into Calais, that little voice in my head that actually listened to my mom while I was growing up was screaming; “Never get into a car with strangers!”

For once I listened to the voice and then spent the next hour regretting that decision.

You see, what I hadn’t realised was that even in this day and age, France belongs to the Frenchmen. Suddenly there were cars on the wrong side of the roads, the signs were all in French and I had no way of asking for directions because it turns out that the only English-speaking human in the town had just sped off in a drunkenly swerving, banged up old Renault.

I won’t lie, there were some tears.

Actually there were a lot of tears, and to make matters worse I had just run out of airtime on my British sim card which could not be topped up in France. But eventually, after many tears I managed to find a relatively cheap hotel in Calais and sat down to catch my breath. It was only then, as I stared out of my window desperately wishing that I had been better organized, that I realised just how beautiful Calais actually is.

After wrestling my heart rate down to what seemed a little more normal and messaging my now panic-stricken boyfriend I decided I should go and explore Calais, and I am so glad that I did. What I found in Calais was stunning old buildings, a gorgeous waterway and gardens filled with bright and brilliant colours. There were old French couples walking hand in hand as they had probably done for the past 50 years and everybody greeted me with a happy “Bonjour”.

Calais was absolutely stunning and I urge all those travelling from London to Paris to stop over in Calais for a little visit to see what France is really about.

That night as I got into bed I thought of my uncle and aunt and how much I was already missing them, and then thought how grateful I was that they had recommended Calais to me in the first place. I was definitely going to miss them, but it was time for the next step of my adventure and part of that was the scary, tear-filled walk through Calais, desperately searching for somewhere to stay.

And hey! I was in France!!!

The Old and The New

One of my absolute favourite things to do is to meet new people, especially when they are from foreign countries, speak strange languages, and can tell me about their various cultures which oftentimes I have never heard about. This is really easy when you’re travelling in a foreign country because suddenly you become the strange foreigner.

Whilst in London I met a guy who was born in Portugal, grew up in Mozambique, currently lived in Spain but was working in London for a couple months. Another person I met had been born in France but grew up spending six months in America and six months in Cambodia. But these were people that I met for very short periods of time and didn’t learn much from.

Ana, on the other hand, was a different story.

My aunt had invited her brother and his family over for dinner one night while I was staying with them. In fact it seemed to be a bit of a blind date set up by my aunt in the hopes of introducing me to people in London. She had thought about it and decided that her brother’s step daughter and I would get along perfectly.

Ana studied biology (like me), she loved to dive (like me) and she loved to write (again, like me) and because of all of this my aunt had come to the conclusion that she would be my perfect besty. I didn’t have high hopes as I generally severely struggle with girls but I was excited for the chance to meet new people anyway.

Well, I needn’t have worried. It turns out my aunt is the perfect match-maker and before long I found myself chatting away to this absolutely gorgeous girl, who was born in Croatia and now lived in London. She was so easy to get along with and I was excited that I had managed to make a friend. We promised to meet up again before I left and a couple nights later I found myself having happy hour cocktails, giggling about how silly our boyfriends are and about our thoughts on the Institute of Sexology.

It was great and I am extremely grateful that I made new friends while I was in London. But there was something else that happened which was just as exciting.

And this is where the wonders of social media really come in to play. While I was in London I managed to meet up with a friend of mine from school who I hadn’t seen in at least five years. Simone had been a matric when I was in Grade 8 and spent more time sitting in my room getting me detention, or giving me detention because my room was a mess than any other matric. And that’s quite a feat considering I spent about 80% of my grade 8 year in trouble.

She is an awesome chick and I have many fond memories of her causing complete chaos in my already chaotic room and if it wasn’t for her I would have failed Grade 8 maths (in the end I got 97%, she’s a really good teacher). So when she messaged me to tell me that she was also in London, I nearly jumped through the roof I was so excited.

We made plans to meet up and had a lovely day exploring Camden and catching up. In many ways she had changed, and I am sure I have too, but before long it felt as if I was back in my hostel dorm room whispering and giggling about who knows what! It was a fantastic and I am glad to add another happy memory to our friendship.

But it also made me realise one very important thing, and that is that even though meeting new people is great, sometimes seeing those old friends who you know and love can be just as good. So to all the old and new friends, thank you for making my adventures so much better.

Regents Canal

One of my best finds whilst I was in London happened by pure chance, and I could not have been more grateful for this happy mistake. It all started one morning while I was sitting at the breakfast table with my uncle.

As usual, breakfast was an awkward occasion. My aunt had already left for work and my uncle had eaten breakfast earlier with her so he was sitting there to be polite while I tried desperately to think of something to say whilst simultaneously trying to eat as fast as possible in a desperate attempt to end breakfast early.

As I have mentioned in Like Only Family Can, my uncle has an acquired brain injury and small talk is not high on his agenda. This makes being alone with him quite difficult and I had thus far been unable to get through to him.

That was until he suggested we go for a walk after breakfast. He would show me one of his favourite walks and at the end we would part ways so that I could be a tourist and he could do some errands. I said yes, pleased that I was finally going to have an opportunity to bond with him, not realising just how special this walk would be.

It was important to me for two reasons. The first is that while on this walk my uncle became a completely different person. He was excited and interactive and you could visibly see the difference. 

We didn’t say much to each other but I was grateful for the opportunity to spend time with him.

The second is that this walk took us along the Regents Canal. And this was my greatest find. The Regents Canal snakes through London and offers a completely new way to view the city. Gone are the cars and the roads and instead you have waterways with house boats and swans and strange Irish men who greet you throughout the day in various stages of inebriation.

The section of the canal I am particularly excited about is the section between Islington and Regents Park. Along this section there is a pair of swans that my uncle got particularly excited about, beautiful daffodils just peeking out for spring, and then a sneaky walk through the zoo at Regents Park where, if you’re lucky you may see the Wild Dogs. It takes you right through the Camden Locks and if you’re hungry it is an easy little jump into the Camden Market for a Jamaican jerk chicken wrap or a Chinese noodle bowl.

I used this pathway throughout my London stay and found that it always led me to exactly where I needed to be and seemed to be a shortcut to everywhere. Best of all was that it wasn’t over-crowded and everyone seemed to greet each other.

Yes, the Regents Canal was a great find; not only for the actual canal but for the chance it gave me to see the part of my uncle that I had been so missing. 

Wellcome Collection

While in London, I did what every good tourist does. I saw the London Eye, Westminster Cathedral, Big Ben, Tower Bridge and all the other glorious things that London has to offer. I spent hours in Hamleys being a seven year old and then a couple more hours in Harrods pretending to be one of the rich and famous. It was glorious.

But there is no point writing about all of this on a travel blog because chances are that if you have heard of London you have heard of all of these landmarks as well. This leaves me with a bit of a problem though because I spent a lot of time exploring all of these places.

I have decided however, that I will talk about the parts of London that I discovered by mistake instead.

The first place I would like to mention is the Wellcome Collection. I stumbled upon this place whilst desperately lost in Euston looking for the underground station. I had been lost for a couple of hours already, but had decided that perhaps being lost wasn’t the worst idea, after all once I found an underground station it would be easy to orientate myself again. But now it was getting late and I had promised my aunt and uncle that I’d be home for dinner.

I was walking down what I thought was the right street according to the road signs when I saw a huge advertisement for the Institute of Sexology. It is one of those signs that demand a second look, and I found it funny that such an un-British advert would be on such a typically British building.

After taking a closer look I found that the ad was for an exhibition currently showing at the Wellcome Collection which was obviously what the old building was called. Further along was a second advert, this one for a forensics exhibition. Both exhibitions seemed interesting and I vowed to return at a later date.

So Monday morning, bright and early, I was standing outside the building ready to have a look and excited about what the exhibitions would include, only to find out that the Wellcome Collection is closed on a Monday. What a fail.

I tried again on Tuesday morning, and after waiting for three hours for it to open (it only opens at 11), I finally poured in with all the other tourists.

Both exhibitions where great and there was a third about the human body which was also very interesting. The Forensics exhibition was by far the best and was interactive, fun and very intriguing. The Wellcome Collection has an interesting way of displaying the information and I thoroughly enjoyed the day, even if I had to wait for it.

There was just one problem.

Their exhibitions are set out in such a way that you need to view each section in order. Usually I am a huge fan of this kind of display because it has a sense of continuity and each step further explains the one before it. But on this particular occasion the woman behind me happened to have a little baby with her.

Now I know that babies are humans and not always controllable and I know that sometimes you just have to let them scream blue murder until they tire themselves out and fall asleep. I am not even against this parenting technique because it is one which my mom employed with my siblings and I and I think we turned out pretty well, and it meant that she could get in her daily wine intake.

I do however think that there is a time and place for everything. For example, when you are sitting at home with your friends sipping on a couple bottles of wine, stick the baby in the room furthest from the wine and let them scream. When you are in a forensics exhibition that has that unique silence that is only found in a library then you make sure that the damn kid shuts up!

It was pure torture as I made my way from section to section with this screaming baby right behind me and the other people in the room glaring at me as if it was my fault. Eventually I gave up and went back to Hamleys where the seven year old me jumped into a pile of teddies and started screaming blue murder.

I am sure that in that very instant my mom suddenly had a sub conscious craving for a glass of wine. 

Feet and a Smile!

There is a problem with travelling alone and completely broke. The first problem can be easily solved; I talk to myself! Literally ALL the time!!! And actually I find myself to be incredibly entertaining, for the most part. Also, I have a talent that I am sure many other women share with me; if there is money for endless amounts of fun then who needs someone to share it with?

This brings me to my next part.

I was in London, one of the most expensive cities in the world where the unfortunate exchange rate means that all South Africans can barely afford to order a coffee let alone join the tourist madness. And to make matters even worse, the money that was supposed to magically appear in my bank account that morning from the elves that manage these things, had not appeared. This was worrying.

But I was finally in London again and I desperately wanted to explore.

So after spending a billion rand to top up the credit on my phone, and silently swearing at my boyfriend who was the reason I needed to recharge my phone, I set out on a walking tour of London. The plan was to save the money that I would have spent on the outrageously expensive Underground.

This turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

There were tons of things that I had missed on previous visits because I had been stuck on some stupid train with windows that allow you to view the lewd graffiti painted on the inside of a tunnel that snakes underneath the beautiful city and walking around the city exposed me to some beautiful areas.

I finally saw The Monument which memorializes the Great Fire of London, and St Paul’s Cathedral in all its glory. I saw stunning landscapes and noticed many changes to London’s skyline. The Shard is a wonderful looking building which epitomizes modernity and towers over a city which truly showcases the contrast between historical buildings and modern feats of engineering.

I also stumbled upon a pop up exhibition promoting Mexico in all its glorious colour and thoroughly enjoyed this interactive workshop littered with good looking guys explaining why Mexico was wonderful. A VW beetle which had been decorated with colourful beads had already sold me on the idea of one day travelling to Mexico but that did not stop me from approaching the nearest guy, dressed up all fancy and batting my eyelashes. After all, I would need accommodation in Mexico!

Which brings me back to the original problem, and I can tell you with the utmost certainty that even in London, which is the home of the supposedly rude Brits, one never has to worry about travelling alone, because there are many friends to be made along the way. Who needs money and friends when you have feet and a smile?

Camden Market: The Ultimate Melting Pot

I was finally in London again. It had been six years since my last visit and I was excited to get started on my new adventure. Immediately I wanted to see everything all at once and it was a struggle to decide what would be my first step. Well, actually it was a struggle to decide where exactly I would buy my first packet of Galaxy Minstrels, after all that was the entire reason for my visit!

I eventually settled on Camden Town.

I had a vision in my mind from all those years before of my sister and I, in Camden Town, standing in the market with our jaws lying on the floor trying to comprehend such incredible diversity. I longed to go back and if my memory served me correct, I would be able to get myself some long awaited chocolate.

For those of you who do not know what Minstrels are, you are SERIOUSLY missing out on one of life’s greatest pleasures. And to all you fellow addicts, I highly recommend you go out and buy some right now. Everyone I know who has ever travelled to Britain spoke of Fish and Chips, mushy peas and beer, but I think the best contribution that the Brits have made to society are those tiny bits of chocolate-y heaven!

And once I had finally got my fix I decided it was time to explore Camden Market. And it did not disappoint. It is an incredible place and if you are visiting London and Camden is not on your agenda then you are doing something wrong

Camden is a melting pot of food, souvenirs, clothes and best of all, the craziest people you will ever meet. There is not a food type that you cannot find and I seriously doubt that there is a single platform shoe missing from their gothic collection. I was in love and my adventure had only just begun.

Eventually I managed to tear myself away from Camden, just in time for dinner. And wine!  

Like Only Family Can

I’m going to be honest with you; my family has more than its fair share of weird and wonderful. In fact, I think every family does. We all have mothers who are super heroes who manage to do at least twice as much in one day as anybody else we know. We all have a step dad and/or a crazy uncle who is a borderline alcoholic (especially when you put the two of them together). And we all have a grandmother who has bigger parties than the whole of Stellenbosch combined.

It is just one of those things. Our families spend their lives embarrassing us but we love them anyway. Well, we do now that we have grown out of our teenage years. And truth be told we would do anything for our families which is why, when on a whim I decided to move to England, my uncle was the first person I called.

I refer to him as my uncle but actually he is one of those weird half, second removed type family members but who knows how that stuff works anyway. For the sake of this conversation let’s call him my uncle.

Anyway, I emailed him to tell him that I would be coming to England and before long I had guaranteed accommodation and the security of a familiar face.

What I had completely forgotten however is that my uncle has an acquired brain injury from a bout of encephalitis which left him unable to do things which we completely take for granted. Over the years he has relearnt many of those skills and has had a lot of progress, however there are still some things which he has not quite mastered.

This means that I got to London scared, tired and severely missing home and was immediately jolted into a world that I did not understand. A world in which I was staying with a man who I could barely understand, and who drooled incessantly, and my first reaction, I am ashamed to say, was one of judgement.

It was only that evening, when his wife got home that I began to see just what a struggle him and his wife were living through every day. I think I learnt more in my week of staying with them than I have in my entire life.

My uncle is an intelligent man who can tell you about the history of nearly every building in London. He loves nature and animals and he introduced me to a pair of swans that live on Regents Canal which he greets every day. Perhaps he struggles with a few things but I fear that deep down inside he is a far better human being than I am.

The strength that it must take to get out of bed every morning and to try to relearn things which you always took for granted, and not necessarily succeeding, is incredible.

And I have barely even mentioned his wife.

I got to know his wife, Robyn very well in the few weeks that I stayed with them. It seems the two of us both have wine in common. And for all the strength I saw in him I must have seen double that strength and an incredible patience in her. An acquired brain injury puts an unbelievable amount of stress on a relationship and yet they are currently in the Grand Canyon celebrating their wedding anniversary.

It is not easy. And I am sure that they both struggle. But next time you’re out with your crazy family and they’re embarrassing you for whatever reason; just remember that you actually love them to bits. And I must say, after staying with Alan and Robyn for only a couple of weeks, I am not only grateful for the roof they put over my head, but I love them. Like only family can! 

Let The Adventure Begin

So there I was, standing in the train terminal at Heathrow airport trying to make a phone call on a public phone with a ten pound note. I felt completely lost, and closer to tears than I care to admit. You see, I needed to get hold of my uncle before I got onto the train so that we could hopefully meet up in Islington at the same time. Only problem was that all I have is an email from my uncle telling me which train to catch and a phone number which seems at least ten digits too long on a cell phone that is about to die.

It was Friday morning and the day was not off to a good start.

It had been an interesting week so far. On Monday evening whilst chatting to my mom I decided it was a good idea to pack up my bags and move to England from South Africa. On Tuesday morning I booked my flights and by Wednesday afternoon I was sitting at Gino’s having my farewell dinner with my nearest and dearest. By the time Thursday morning had arrived I was nervous, excited, happy and sad all at the same time, and the worst part of all, it was time to say goodbye.

I am not very good at goodbyes. Hell, I don’t think anybody particularly enjoys them, but as I stood at the airport, with my teddy in hand, I realised just what an idiot I was for thinking that moving to the other side of the world was a good idea. Not only did I have to say goodbye to my friends, my family and my super cute and completely adorable brother, but I also had to say goodbye to my boyfriend, in public, where EVERYONE could watch me cry my eyes out. Not a good life choice.

But after a horrible goodbye and a flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg which consisted of tears, tears and more tears, I finally entered Customs at OR Tambo and realised, with excitement that my adventure was about to begin. And the only thing standing between me and my adventure was three hours of duty free shopping. The boyfriend was immediately forgotten, and after realising that the shoes in duty free still cost more than my entire bank account, I made my way to the pub!

This is where all great adventures should begin!

So after a “couple” of beers, and a bajillion hour flight in which no sleep was had, here I was standing in Heathrow trying to call my uncle... and not getting through. But after a few tears and several attempts I finally heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line and a panic attack was averted. I made it onto the correct train, heading in the correct direction and it wasn’t long before I was leaving the correct train station and heading for our proposed meeting spot.

Crises averted. Let the adventure begin!

Step Forward

I recently found a post on Facebook titled "23 Songs Every Former Emo Kid Will Never Forget" followed by a picture of Avril Lavigne, back in the old days when she was still a Sk8er Girl. I, like many other kids at the time, was absolutely mad about Avril Lavigne and thought that her super cool music videos which included skating, breaking stuff and lots of eye-liner was definitely the way forward. So just for some fun, I decided to read the post.

What I found completely shocked me. Every single song on that post was either a favourite or close runner up at some point in my life and I definitely still knew all the lyrics! 

Was I an emo kid? 

I certainly didn't think so at the time and I didn't at any point dye my hair blue, get a whole bunch of regrettable tattoos and piercings and hate my parents out of principle. In fact, I even went lightly on the eye liner which is a big deal for my generation!

So... not an emo kid then? 

And that should have been the end of the thought process. Usually I would have gone on to think about far more important things, like food for example. But something had triggered in my mind and slowly I was starting to see more and more emo-isms appearing. Things that I had never noticed. 

So I decided to Google "Emo Kid". There are various definitions all ranging from I-was-definitely-an-emo-kid to Oh-HELL-NO! That said however, there were definitely some points in my mind that stuck out and as I looked over my life I realised that there were certain things that I have definitely out grown. And maybe it is time to move on. 

And that is how we got to this point... I have decided to start a new Blog. This blog will still hold all my opinions, thoughts, dreams and hopes but it is time to leave all the self-pity in the past and move forward into this new and exciting phase of travel, adventure and most importantly, happiness.

It is time to shed off the Sk8er Girl jeans and eye liner and stop judging poor Avril Lavigne for changing her look, because some of her new stuff is actually really fun. It is time to Step Forward.