Is that the sound of Starlin turning in his grave?

(7th October 2011)

Taking slow, languorous laps of the thermal waters, under a ceiling of aquatic mosaics, I wondered if this was what being in a seraglio would have been like.

Around me were women of all ages, luxuriating in the waters of the women’s only thermal pools. I was a bit surprised to be honest that the sexes were separated, was everyone here particularly prudish?

And then I noticed that all the women over the age of about 60 had stripped off and were calmly working around from thermal pools to sauna rooms as naked as the day they were born. Totally and utterly starkers. All the younger women were well covered up in swimming togs. Let it not be said that the young have cornered the market on shameless, body flaunting behaviour; the senior citizens of Europe would no doubt take great delight in proving this wrong.

The baths were delightful, a succession of pools and sauna rooms of varying temperatures. I started in the first pool, 36 degrees, lapping slowly. It was too shallow to perform any intricate water-ballet choreography, so I contented myself with a brief tribute to Esther Williams, performing on the surface the two moves I made up in her honour: the turtle and the windmill.

The pools were much needed after a long day in Budapest, particularly after struggling through the last bastion of communism: the international terminal of the Budapest train station.

I was there today to buy my train ticket to Vienna for tomorrow and I am very glad I didn’t leave things to the last minute.

So far I really haven’t seen any lingering signs of the days of communism, English is widely understood, KFC, Burger King and Maccas are everywhere, and the BMWs on the road are signs of great wealth in the city.

I was a bit disappointed to be honest. I was half expecting to see more evidence of the bad old days, an expectation that was quashed this morning hearing Australian pop-princess Delta Goodrem on the airwaves in a supermarket.

But imagine my delight when I rocked up to the international terminal of the train station to find a dingy room, shored up by crude pine beams, and only three of the nine desks open to serve a roomful of anxious passengers.

I dutifully grabbed my ticket and took a seat. Just as well because I sat there for a long, long, long time. One of the desks was dealing with a group of young Americans, and I’m not sure if there was a bit of vestigial Cold War resentment going on, but they’d already been there for an hour, according to the disgruntled passengers around me.

It took so long to get served that I began to fear the boundaries of Europe would have been redrawn before it was my turn. The lady near me had already missed two trains to Munich in her wait for a ticket.

But eventually my number was called, and since I’d time to study the train schedule (in intimate detail, I’d forgotten to bring a book) I knew exactly what I wanted so I was in and out with my ticket in record time.

Thankful to have gotten out, I took myself to the market and indulged in an AMAZING beef goulash with dumplings and vegetables. Unbelievably good! 

It’s kept me going most of the day, and even after my swim I only wanted a light meal.

I’d gone past a local bar called the Nevada Pub earlier today and I was intrigued, so I figured that would be a good place to check out tonight. There were lots of satisfied looking customers, who all looked quite local, always a good sign.

I’m really glad I did because not only was the food and drink fantastic (a French onion soup served within a thick, crusty load of bread a campari and homemade lemonade, a pretty pink shade perfect for a post-seraglio drink), but more importantly The Song came on.

Now when you’re in a former Soviet-block country, there are two songs you really want to hear. And they’re not 99 luftballoons or Elton John’s Nikita (I remember feeling so smug at 14 that I knew more about Russia than silly old Elton. He didn’t even realise he’d given the girl in his love song a boy’s name!)

No, neither of those. I’ll give you a hint, one of them is The Final Count Down by Europe, which I haven’t heard, although there’s still time.

But if there was just one song from the 80s that I really, really wanted to hear whilst visiting a former communist country, it was this one…Wind of Change by Scorpion.

Ah yes there it was in all its synth glory with overwrought guitar chords, marking my final night in Budapest. What more could I ask for?

“Take me to the magic of the moment

On a glory night

Where the children of tomorrow share their dreams

With you and me

Take me to the magic of the moment

On a glory night

Where the children of tomorrow dream away

in the wind of change”

Budapest, I love you!

Just in case you had any doubt, Hungarians think I’m more refined than George Negus…

(6th October 2011)


It’s a big call I know, but I have it on good authority that it’s the honest truth.

Given the clue in the title, you can probably guess that I’m in Budapest now; I flew from Venice to Budapest this morning, on Carpatair, the official airline of Hungary. Going just on the name I really didn’t know what to expect. Would it be a flying carpet? A former Soviet-era rust bucket barely able to get off the ground?

It turned out to be a Dash-8, one of those taxi-cabs with wings that service the Canberra-Sydney leg so reviled by Public Servants. I’m not a huge fan, but at least they don’t go high enough to cause any real anxiety. It proved to be sound of wing, and as an added bonus the very friendly staff gave passengers a bar of rather nice chocolate as we all exited the plane. So, so far Budapest was impressing me (it really does only take a bar of free chocolate to make me happy).

Searching on the internet a few weeks ago, I choose the Hotel Gellert, built in 1911 at the height of the Art Noveau movement and home to the city’s renowned thermal baths. Entry to the baths is free for all hotel guests, everyone else has to pay.

So I was quite looking forward to my sojourn there, a spot of thermal bathing being rather appealing.

So I presented myself at the reception desk, only to have my hopes dashed. The hotel had double booked itself and mine was the short straw that had been determined to be shuffled off to one of the chain’s other hotels. I was assured I wouldn’t be charged anymore and would be given a bigger room, and that I would still have free access to the thermal baths, and that the two hotels weren’t very far apart, so I didn’t make a fuss.

The concierge then went to get me a taxi (courtesy of the hotel) to take me to my new digs. There was a bit of a wait so we got chatting, he asked where I was from and on being told Australia, he became very animated.

“We had the Socceroos stay with us,” he said excitedly, “they were here with George Negus. Do you know him?”

“Not personally but I know his work very well,” I replied of the veteran Australian journalist.

“Yes he is very funny. But,” said he said in confusion, “You don’t sound like him, you don’t say ‘G’day mate’. Why don’t you sound like that?” he asked, as if I was trying to deny my heritage and sell out my country for 30 pieces of silver.

I briefly considered explaining my ‘travel voice’, where I make a big effort to speak more slowly and enunciate more clearly, just so I don’t sound like I’ve just escaped from an episode of Kath and Kim, but I didn’t really want to get in to it. “I travel a lot,” was the simplest explanation I could come up with. He accepted that and went on to tell me about an ice hockey team he follows in Newcastle. Not the UK one, but the one outside of Sydney! I do love the surprises this trip keeps throwing up at me.

So here I am in my replacement hotel room, I’ll be honest it’s not a great hotel, but the bed is bigger and it’s in a much quieter part of town. I was a bit cranky at first, the original hotel is on the Buda side of the Danube, but near to the bridge that takes you the main Pest district. This hotel is even further from the bridge so it takes a good 45 minutes to walk to the start of Pest, and then even longer to the main attractions are.

But close by is a really beautiful park with a large duck-pond, and it is very pleasant to sit there and watch the sun go down.

Of course I did walk for six solid hours today, so I’m sure sitting on a stationary army tank would probably have done the job too if one had been handy.

I did have fun today though, and I’ve been fulfilling my mission: to single handedly solve the European debt crisis, armed only with my credit card!

I’ve come to the point of my travels, eight weeks in, where I am heartily sick of all the clothes I have with me. And quite a lot are already replacements for the clothes I ORIGINALLY bought with me, and abandoned weeks ago.

I don’t regret packing light, I’ve lugged my suitcase up and down so many metro steps and Venetian canal steps, that anything more that the week’s worth I have, would have killed me. I’ve kept my suitcase to an even 22 kilos the whole way, although I did cheat a bit. The suitcase I started with, the one that British Airways lost for a day and then delivered to me with a broken extendable handle, became a health and safety issue.

I’ve been dragging it by the top handle since Paris, it’s been frustrating and difficult, but with three weeks of being just in Santiago, it was doable. That is until I got to the Santiago airport on Saturday.

The top handle finally gave way, it was inevitable, the handle was not designed to be used that way. I managed to get it to my hotel in Madrid but knew it was time to say a sad farewell. I bought a new suitcase and although I felt like a traitor, I kind of fell in love with it. Its lighter, moves better and fits more, and it didn’t take me long to get over the feeling that I was a cheating on my old suitcase. The bruises where it constantly ran into the backs of my legs are still present as mementos of our time together.

I knew I’d made the right decision in Venice, where my new travel companion was a joy to manoeuvre up and down mossy canal steps.

And because it fits more, that naturally means…more shopping. So that’s what I did today; after all, Europe needs me to shop! And to be honest it’s not just in the interests of their economy, it’s going to be awhile until I get to do another clothes wash, and my walking shorts and the striped T-shirt I bought in Barcelona might attract an anti-biological warfare unit if I put them on again in the near future.

So I bought a new T-shirt to replace the stinky one and a new denim skirt at an outlet shop. I haven’t quite got the hang of the Hungarian currency but even with my dodgy calculations, I didn’t spend more than 10 euros combined. Bargain! I LOVE Budapest! (we can now add ‘bargain shopping’ to the short list of things I need to be happy. It’s right after ‘free chocolate’)

Hmm, I may have to try harder at this ‘single handedly saving the European economy plan. Ah well, there’s always tomorrow!

Postcard from Venice...

(3 October 2011)

Does anyone remember the name of that creepy film where Donald Sutherland is slowly going mad and chasing around Venice after a small figure in a bright red cape that he thinks is his dead daughter, only for it to be a midget serial killer who stabs him in a lonely alley? 

That cheery scene was going through my head tonight as I wandered around Venice, weighing up how safe it was to walk around on my own at night. I've gotten so used to Spanish hours, where you don't even think about eating dinner until 10 pm and there's kids out playing in the streets at midnight on a school night, and it was a bit of a shock to realise that maybe the rest of Europe isn't like that. So I had dinner at what now seems like an oddly early hour, 8.30 pm, dining on gnocchi in a scampi and rucola salsa, then went for a stroll, not intending to go to far from home. 

I didn't have to walk far though to feel perfectly safe, as there were lots of people out and about enjoying the warm night. So I let my feet guide me, and they didn't guide my wrong taking me to an excellent gelati shop for a late night, icy, chocolate treat. 

I arrived in the city of carnivale, gondolas and bridges this afternoon and am staying in a B&B that belongs to a friend of a friend. It's a lovely house, right on the canal in Santa Croce, a bit away from the hustle and bustle of San Marco. There is a courtyard garden on the edge of the canal and I sat there this afternoon drinking presco with my host. 

The house is really lovely, all the windows are made up of multi-coloured discs of murano glass, and open out onto the canal or the street. The outside of the house itself is a soft red that I always associate with the Mediterranean, and there is marble throughout the house and turkish rugs on the floor. It is grand without being opulent or overpowering. I'll take some photos tomorrow, but all I have tonight is this photo from my bedroom onto the canal. You might think looking at this that the city is shrouded in fog, I just don't know how to use the night setting on my camera. Mind you, it does bring to mind that Donald Sutherland flick rather well though, doesn't it?

I'm here for a couple of days, and I do have a mission, apart from eating pasta and gelati. I'm going to the Island of Murano tomorrow to see if I can find a couple of glass discs for the vintage chandelier in my apartment. I bought it at a Queanbeyan junk shop about six years ago, it's a very 60s piece, all overlapping glass discs that Austen Powers would love. I finally got around to researching it earlier this year and discovered that it is a very collectable piece from a Murano factory. How and why it came to be in a Queanbeyan junk shop is a story I would love to know. Maybe the Italian ambassador in the 60s brought it out to Canberra and it shone light on all sorts of political intrigues in the Cold War. The poor thing was probably then a victim to an embassy redecoration sometime in the last forty years. Anyway it now adorns my very 60s style apartment, and no doubt feels right at home, except for the times I've done yoga underneath it and knocked the discs off. A couple were already broken when I bought it, so my mission is to see if I can replace them. If I can, the next part of my mission will be to see how I ship them home safely...

I was last in Venice 15 years ago, and it's a very different, and much more elegant, experience this time round, as I'm not sleeping in a hostel dormitory and I can afford to eat out at restaurants. As I sat, sipping preseco in a private garden, overlooking the canal I realised there are some benefits to growing up after all. 

I also realised that I'm a mosquito magnet. 

I do suffer mosquito bites at home, and I'm popular at BQs because the mozzies hone in on me and ignore the other guests. 

And I suppose it's not surprising that in a city made up of semi-brackish water, that the mosquito was going to evolve a particularly nasty bite. And for some reason I am ambrosia to mosquitoes, my blood must be particularly tasty. That naturally made me think about a Dr Who episode from last year "The Vampires of Venice", another reason why I hesitated to be wandering around on my own after sunset. 

But I had no reason to fear, not even the street hawkers hassled me, one was trying to get me to buy a spinning top that lit up and flew into the air, but even he laughed when I rather acidly pointed out I wasn't five years old and wasn't impressed!

Well off to bed, I'm a bit disappointed I can't hear any gondoliers serenading me to sleep, but I suppose you can't have everything. 

Cinderella, you SHALL go to the ball...

(25th September 2011)

For the second time in four weeks, I´ve done a mad dash into a clothing boutique needing an outfit for a big event in the next hour.

The first time was in London, when British Airways lost my bag and I need something to dress up my jeans. Today´s adventure was even more impressive as not only was I asking for help in Spanish I was also waving around a ticket to the hottest event in town: the closing gala awards ceremony of the San Sebastian Film Festival.

And just how did this precious item come into my possession, I hear you ask.

It´s all the work of my friend Bob, a respected Scottish film journalist, who for the past five years or so has been a guest of the film festival. Bob´s the reason I´m here, we haven´t seen each other in over three years, and finding ourselves in the same country at the same time, we arranged to meet up. It all sounds so easy on paper. The reality is that from Friday morning to Sunday night I will have had a round train trip of 22 hours. It turns out that just because you´re in the same country you can´t just pop over.

But it was an opportunity to good to miss, so I boarded the train Friday morning and whiled away the hours reading, sleeping, revising my week´s Spanish lessons (I gave that part up pretty quickly) and dealing myself poker hands (the only problem is I always know when I´m bluffing). I was fine up to hour 10 and then boredom really set in and I started texting Bob so he would know just so he could share my pain.

But I eventually arrived, and made my way through the crowds of film goers desperate for a glimpse of Antonio Banderas. Courtesy of Bob´s press pass I got entry to the festival bar, where Senor Banderas could indeed by spotted. A condition of my entry though was that I wouldn´t embarrass Bob, so I sadly had to restrain myself from running up and quoting the immortal line from Desperado ´"I´m looking for a man who calls himself...Bucho....". 

From the festival bar it was but a short hop to investigating the other watering holes of San Sebastian. We paused briefly at the Dickens Cocktail Bar, just because I liked the name ("Go on, I dare you to ask for a gin and tonic with an Oliver Twist of lemon!") before exploring other establishments. Three years worth of catching up over mojitos meant I arrived back at my hotel at 4 am and stayed in bed for a large part of the morning.

Which brings us to today. I spent most of the day exploring the city and caught up with Bob for coffee in the afternoon. He was very very apologetic that he hadn´t been able to secure me a ticket to the private closing party but as I told him, I´m usually the one telling film journos that no they can´t bring a plus one to the closing night party and to go away and stop bothering me. So not being able to go to this some kind of cosmic payback.

And that´s when my very own fairygodmother, or should that be 'Bobmother', handed over his ticket to the award ceremony so I could go in his place!! I was speechless but I didn´t have time to stutter and stammer, with the clock ticking I had serious shopping to do!

So I dashed off to find a frock, and as in London, the sales assistants entered into the spirit of things. With cocktail dress and wrap tenderly placed in a bag, I jumped into a cab for my hotel to get ready in less than an hour.

It won´t be a surprise when I tell you that I´m a bit addicted to red carpet events. This is because every red carpet film event I´ve been involved in, I´ve had the power to place journos and make them suck up to me. So I love them. But I´ve been told it can be truly awful to walk that stretch of red and have crowds g quiet when they realise you´re not a film star. So I won´t lie, I was a bit nervous that would happen to me. But I held my head high, wore an enigmatic smile on my face, kept a confident, steady pace all the way along and was rewarded by the crowds maintaining their level of excitement.

I didn´t really get to hobnob with Antonio et al, my ticket relegated me to the nose bleed section of auditorium, but it´s been a brilliant night, watching Frances McDormand present some of the awards and then watching the winning film, a really sweet French film called Intouchable about a paraplegic man and his carer.  And best of all it had both Spanish AND English subtitles!

So now I´m back at my hotel, tired but very happy, and unlike Cinderella, with both shoes still in place.

So with metaphorical staff in hand, off I strode...

(17th September 2011)

Having been a week in Santiago de Compostela, I decided today was the day I would walk the Camino Trail. 

As many of you know, a sense of direction is not one of the senses I possess. I’ve never been able to shake off a belief in the bedrock of my soul that north is which ever way I happened to be facing.

But never fear, the clever pilgrims of old no doubt suffered from a similar disorientation, and came up with a cunning system. All along the track are images of scallop shells that guide pilgrims along the 800 kilometres of the Camino from France to the cathedral in Santiago.

They have a special meaning: scallop shells where once used by pilgrims on the walk as tools for eating and drinking, and their shape with their ridges fanning out to point the way to this holy place. For someone who’s built a career on semiotics and symbols, that’s a powerful image.

I decided a week of settling into Santiago, a week of shopping every day at the fresh markets for cheese, ham, fruit and bread, a week of sight seeing and stopping for tapas had set me up for the walk. Up to then my poor feet have been crying out for a long rest. It’s a month since I left home and I’ve walked on average six to 10 hours a day each day.

I’ve taken to drastic measures to soothe my tootsies, I’ve had four pedicures and reflexology massages in the four weeks. I still feel sorry for the poor beauticians in Hong Kong who had the thankless task the first time round. I’d booked in for both a pedicure and reflexology at the same time, sparking a turf way between the two women. That is of course until my shoes came off and they saw how swollen the heat and two days of pavement pounding had made my feet. For a culture that not so long ago was binding women’s feet to make them miniscule in the name of beauty, this must have been a horrific sight. At least I tipped them very well, despite their horrified gasps and giggles disturbing what was meant to be an hour and a half of complete relaxation.

Sight seeing isn’t the only thing that has been giving me a work out on this trip. There are a lot of stairs in the world. Why have I never realised that before? It’s something that is very apparent when you have a 20 kilo suitcase to get up and down stairs. So far this has included five flights of stairs to Nancy's apartment in Rotterdam and four steep flights to the apartment I’d hired in Paris. Not able to face the latter, I convinced a construction worker from a groundfloor site to carry my suitcase for me. I’m not quite sure what was actually said but I may have promised to marry him. He certainly seemed to hang around a lot after I kissed him on the cheek in thanks.

I was meant to walk the Camino on my birthday a week ago with my friends. But of course best laid plans, or more specifically a hangover, prevented that. You see I’d worked out that technically my birthday started at 4 pm local time, or midnight in Australia.

So Kath, Carolyn, Therese (wonderful travel companions all!!!) and I started celebrating early on, with a bottle of wine at a gorgeous terrace bar overlooking an ancient stone church. We moved on from there to a restaurant where I had the forethought to tell our waiter it was my birthday and at the end of a magnificent seafood paella (washed down with cava!) he came out with a creamy pastry with a candle in it and sang happy birthday to me. And then he presented us with shots of three types of local liquers. 

It was about 11.30 pm by the time we left and all being a bit drunk and disoriented (well I certainly was) we found ourselves wandering around the old town, around winding stone streets. We were close to the cathedral and as the bell tolled midnight, I span around and announced to the world that it was officially my birthday. This prompted four very handsome young Spanish men nearby to serande me with an impromptu Feliz Compulanos, at which point I danced with all of them and kissed them each on the cheek. With lots of good wishes and blowing kisses my friends and I headed home to collapse in bed. Turning 40 wasn’t completely painless, but it was a self-induced pain in the end.

This week in Santiago has been about resting after almost a month of almost constant travels, and today I felt I was ready for part of the walk, around 14 kms, following in the footsteps of Therese and Carolyn, who made the journey a week earlier.

I took the bus to one of the bigger towns along the trail, Melide, and as recommended by Therese who’d walked this a week earlier, found a café and watched where others where going to get the trail. I dipped my freshly cooked churros in a large café con leche and observed. Soon I saw a man go by who looked like Peter Garret shrunk in the wash.

So I followed his path and was soon striding it out along the ancient trail that wends its way through town squares, over brooks and stone bridges and around cow paddocks. Courtesy of my rural up-bring I was able to identify cows of the freesia and jersey varieties as well as merino sheep.

I didn’t need to worry about getting lost as the scallop symbol is set in flagstones and road markers along the track. And there are so many people walking it that you are rarely out of sight of anyone. In fact I had to suppress a strong urge to drawl out of the side of my mouth in a John Wayne accent “Howdee pilgrim…”

There was a steady stream of walkers with backpacks laddened with bedding, food, and spare socks drying in the air. Me with my vintage Paris-designed daypack, wasn’t quite in the same mould, but hey, we all have our own spiritual journey to walk. Mine happens to include a vintage daypack, and the vital travel essentials of a vintage silk Japanese kimono anda  black evening dress. Both of which have already been used several times, and will no doubt get an airing when I pop off to the San Sebastian Film Festival next week to catch up with my friend Bob, who is a guest there.

The other thing that made me stand out from the other pilgrims were the iPod speakers in my ears. I strode out to songs I’ve always found inspirational for travelling, including ‘All Star’ by Smash Mouth. I particularly like the bit about:

“Well the years start coming and they don't stop coming

Back to the rule and I hit the ground running

Didn't make sense not to live for fun

Your brain gets smart but your head gets dumb

So much to do so much to see

So what's wrong with taking the back streets

You'll never know if you don't go

You'll never shine if you don't glow”

Music has been an important part of this trip. The second day of our drive across northern Spain, I remembered I packed the cunning device that transmits the catalogue of an iPod through a car radio. This was important as by now I’d had that awful song “Never been to me” running through my head since the day I’d popped over to Monte Carlo from Villefranche on the Riviera. You know the line: “I’ve been to Nice and the Isles of Greece, while I sipped champagne on a yacht. I moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed em what I got!” I rather thoughtfully transmitted this to Therese and Carolyn in Barcelona too, just so I wasn’t the only one suffering.

So like 15 year olds with credit cards and driving licenses, we chose the soundtrack of our road trip according to which band's members we wanted to marry as teenagers. That meant there was a lot of Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, the Cruel Sea, the Specials, Chris Isaac and Hugh Jackman. Kath, who is one of the most awesome chicas I’ve ever met, is already married, but she said for Tex Perkins and Hugh Jackman, she’d come to some kind of arrangement.

Kath has showed her awesomeness throughout this whole trip, particularly in Paris when buying day tickets for us on the metro. The lovely young man at the ticket counter looked over at me and said to her “we have a special deal for people under 25.” Kath quickly translated this for me and as I did a dance of pure happiness that someone thought I was possibly 25, she told him he’d made my day.

Music on the Camino can only get you so far, and there are times when you need the quiet. It’s odd the thoughts that come into your mind then when you’re pushing yourself. “It looked like chicken in that paella the other night, but I bet it was rabbit. Does Spain have myxomatosis and caleesi? Bruce Leaver once told me he was the one who introduced caleesi into Australia to get rid of the rabbit problem. Bruce taught me a lot, ‘hate and wait’ being one of his best ones. I wonder what Bruce is doing now? I’ve been to so many of his work farewell parties. Ah Bruce, the true B.Leaver. Wait, why am I thinking of Bruce Leaver while I’m walking one of the most spiritual trails on Earth?”

Realising I was probably delirious with hunger, the morning’s churros now being far far behind me, I quickened my pace to get to a town. Salvation had started to form in my mind’s eye as a vision of a very large, very cold cerveza and a plate of croquettes, and this holy grail spurred me on.

The next town was still half an hour on, and when I reached it I gratefully sank into a chair. At a couple of tables up was the pre-shrunk Peter Garrett, who turned out to be German, talking to someone, who if I blurred my vision, was a bit like a shorter George Clooney. They were both indulging in cerveza but feeling my continued light-headedness I decided beer was perhaps not the best option for someone who still had another hour to walk in the increasingly hot day, so I opted for a cold coke and a plate of calamares before resuming my, now slower, stride.

The girls at the café weren’t the friendliest but that’s been a rarity. I’ve been constantly delighted and overwhelmed by the kindness of people. Like in London, where I’d flown from Rotterdam just to see David Tenant and Catherine Tate (aka Dr Who and Donna Noble) in Much Ado About Nothing. I’d bought my tickets in February as soon as I found out they were performing and it’s been one of the things I was most looking forward to.

I’d gone shopping with Nancy in Rotterdam and found the perfect outfit, and found it with the help of a really lovely sales assistant in a very very funky shop. I love their clothes so much that I’ve made Nancy promise she will visit every three months and take photos of new things in the shop I might like.

So I was really looking forward to the play, knowing I had a kick-arse outfit to wear. You can see what’s coming can’t you? Ah yes, good ole British Airways lost my suitcase enroute to London. There I was at the Gatwick carousel waiting in vain. I alerted staff to its absence and they assured me it would be found and delivered to my hotel. So I made way there and a couple of hours later I got a call saying they’d found it and it would be with me by 4.30 pm, plenty of time to get ready for the 7.30 show. Relieved, I went out for a wander around London’s Covent Garden, enjoying the sights and sounds.

Going back to the hotel I realised my suitcase was conspicuous by its absence. A frantic phone call to BA ensured, where I was told yes it was on its way but it wouldn’t be there before 9 pm, no they didn’t know why I’d been told I’d have it by 4.30. Somewhat teary and over tired (caused by having been out dancing in Rotterdam till 3 am and then being up at 6 am to get my flight) I bombarded the customer service rep with a tale of needing a decent outfit for theatre. He gave me one small sign of hope, that BA would probably reimburse me if I bought a new top. I only won this small concession because I’m a Qantas Club member.

So, then followed a frantic dash to a high street boutique, and here I encountered great kindness. Somewhat tearily I told the shop assistant what happened and how long I’d looked forward to this play that I would now have to go to with mad hair, walking shoes and a travel worn jeans and top. Condemning BA soundly, they put me into a change room and brought in pretty, floaty evening tops to try on, correctly judging I wasn’t in a state to make my own choices. We all settled on a dark blue organza blouse with dramatic sleeves that would be at home in the theatre.

Suitably attired I made my way to the Wyndham Theatre, stopping only for a couple of glasses of reviving champagne at a near-by lounge bar, that by coincidence just happened to be right outside the stage door.

The play was everything I hoped for, although it was a bit disconcerting to see the Doctor and Donna in a passionate clinch at the end. Although not more disconcerting than seeing David Tenant in drag in one party scene. In drag. Dressed as Miss Piggy. I won’t forget that in a hurry.

Sitting next to me during the play was a lovely Austrian woman, Maya, who is also a big Dr Who fan. Naturally this universal bond meant we got chatting before the show started and all through the interval, and it was only natural that we sprinted to the stage door together after the show.

A huge crowd had already formed for autographs, but Maya was undeterred, getting a CD of the music from the play and my program signed by the stars. Good work Maya, you are a legend!!

It was the perfect way to restore my equilibrium and I headed off for a drink with an old friend from Canberra, Dr Julian Kelly, who’d been off ice-skating that night. And eventually my suitcase turned up, and I was able to wear that vintage kimono the next night for an evening of burlesque movies with another good friend, Olivier Jolie.

So I’ve been bolstered on this trip by kindness of so many people. Particularly Therese who calmed me down last week when I started to have a panic attack at the thought of being on my own in a place where I could barely communicate. Giving me a big hug she talked me through my options, helping me settle on an intensive language course in Spanish. I start it next week for two weeks, although I am planning to skip out for a couple of days to head to San Sebastian (yep I’m already playing hooky. Well turning 40 had to have some privileges).

And there is another example of great kindness that I experienced today, at the end of the walk. I made good time to Azua, another large town on the Camino, and I planned to catch the bus back to Santiago. I stopped for a juice at a café and confirmed the bus did indeed stop at the bus stop opposite, and headed out for the half hour wait. Sure enough the bus arrived in 30 minutes but ignored my signal to stop.

Being hot and very tired by now, I didn’t take this well. I also knew the next bus wasn’t for another two hours! I had no intention of just waiting, particularly since I didn’t know why the first one wouldn’t stop, so I set about finding a taxi, prepared to pay the fee to get home quickly.

Walking along I couldn’t see a cab, so I stopped at a small hotel to ask for directions to a taxi stand. The hotel owner was horrified that I was prepared to fork out 37 euros for a cab so offered to take me for a reduced fee. I agreed, we settled on a price, and we set off to Santiago.

Now my Spanish is limited, I won’t deny it. But there are some things I know, so I introduced myself and said I was from Australia. I even worked out that after the introductions he was asking what did I work at in Australia (so far it was rather like the introductory chapters of my Spanish exercise book), and I was able to tell him, “soy periodista” being one of the few things I can say (although it’s not strictly an accurate description of my profession but I haven’t learnt how to say PR professional).

On hearing that I was Australian he said there were many kangaroos, and I replied that there were many kangaroos where I lived, although I didn’t mention the name of my hometown.

And now happened ones of those coincidences that makes you question the inter-connectedness of the universe. He said he’d been to Australia once, to visit someone who owned a restaurant and there were many kangaroos in this city. It turned out that his friend had a restaurant in…wait for it…Canberra!

Now “I live in Canberra” is one of the few things I can say well in Spanish, and I made good use of it. He then said there were many good restaurants in Canberra and suddenly there I was, sitting in the van of a complete stranger, talking about the high-quality and variety of Canberra’s restaurant community! Life is a strange and beautiful thing.

With another adventure under my belt and finally rested, and more importantly showered, life is back on track. 

So if you’ll excuse me now, I’m off to find myself a very large, very cold cerveza and a plate of croquettes…