put your clock back for the winter; home again

oriental bay, september 2012

It seems that no matter what time of your life you're at, you will always get asked one particular question over and over again.

In your last years of high school it's, what are you going to do when you finish seventh form? At uni, what are you going to do when you finish uni? When you plan to move overseas, what are you going to do when you get there?

When you return home, the magic question has turned out to be, how does it feel to be back?

It's inevitable and hard to be annoyed by, but I have found the answer to this question a lot less straight forward than in the past.

At school, the answer was, I'm going to go to university.
At uni, the answer was, I'm going to get a job.
When I planned to go overseas, I'm going to get another job.

This question has the word FEEL in it. FEELINGS. It's a lot trickier and harder to pin down than I first thought it would be.

Two obvious things to say are, it's small and very expensive.

I'm still getting used to being out and about and seeing someone I know on the street or on the bus or in a bar. And I don't even have to know them, just seeing someone I recognise. A friend of mine referred to these people as "cameo Wellingtonians" which I think sums it up pretty nicely.

And expensive! A few days after I arrived, I paid $8.50 for two eggplants because I just picked them up without even looking at the price. UK produce is reasonably priced all year round because they import so much stuff. In NZ I'm definitely going to have to get used to buying produce seasonally.

It seems to be mainly food. And books. The price of books in NZ is obscene - thank goodness for my Kindle and for the Wellington Central Library. Other things - a gin & tonic at the Matterhorn, a taxi ride from Courtney Place to Miramar, a black cardigan from Glassons - all seem to cost what I remember from 2010.

So, after six weeks of being back, those are my two main observations of my home city. Mostly though, it's really nice to be home.

long haul flights; a necessary evil

On Sunday 19 August, I arrived back in Wellington after two years, two months and 24 days of being away. I know these numbers because I had to fill it in on my New Zealand arrivals card. That's a really long time. 816 days, in fact. (I know that number because I'm a nerd and needed to work it out.)

It has to be said that there is absolutely nothing good about long haul flights, except for the relief of them being over.

We didn't start off very well - last Thursday we flew from Berlin to London, and that night I probably could have drunk less cider so that I would have felt less hungover before I got on a ten hour, fifty five minute flight to Hong Kong the next day. We tried to tell ourselves that the best kind of hangover day is watching movies and being fed, and that's pretty much what a long haul flight is, right? But it's not quite that straightforward.

We flew British Airways and they were a bit shit really. Surly flight attendants, terrible food and really small entertainment screens. I didn't sleep one wink, which isn't British Airways fault, but didn't make for an enjoyable flight.

When we arrived in Hong Kong, it was six thirty in the morning Hong Kong time, but our bodies thought it was midnight. We had a twelve hour stopover in HK and had planned to go out in to the city for a bit. The reality was a bit different. The thought of going out in to 32 degree heat after no sleep wasn't overly appealing. We also hadn't done any research so weren't even sure what we'd be going out to see. All in all, the thought of dealing with immigration, a foreign language, crowded streets, heat and a lack of a plan, was all too much for us and so we stayed in the airport.

Which was super boring. We had lunch, we sat around, we tried to nap, we used the free wifi. We paid 150 HK dollars each for a shower (£12, NZ$24) which seemed exorbitant but was money well spent. After the shower, and a Red Bull and some Pringles, getting on to the next plane to Sydney didn't seem too awful. And then we discovered that the plane was half full. We were in the middle section of four seats and no one else sat with us, which made the flight way more bearable. I could spread out over two seats and actually managed to sleep. (For two hours, but I was pretty happy with that.)

Plus, the flight from Hong Kong to Sydney was an hour and a half shorter, the flight attendants were way more upbeat, the food was better, the entertainment screens larger - an all round more positive experience.

And once in Sydney, it was all downhill. The stopover was an hour and a half - significantly shorter than twelve hours - and then the flight from Sydney to Wellington was just over three hours. It felt like no time at all.

We flew in from the south, and when the plane landed, the flight attendant said "to those returning to Wellington, welcome home" and I burst into tears. I blame the sleep deprivation. The cheerful guy at immigration was a huge improvement on the sour reception I always got coming back in to the UK after my holidays. And then being greeted by my mum and little brother made the whole horrible experience totally worth it.

And now; Wellington. The extreme jetlag is making coherant thoughts about how I feel about being back difficult, but hopefully one day soon.

the final countdown: counting down to leaving london

me, on my first proper day in London, outside my flat
17th june, 2010
When I first got to London, I was tremendously conscious of dates. Two dates in particular: the 26th of May, when I left New Zealand, and the 16th of June, when I arrived in London. Each month, when the 26th or the 16th rolled around, I would think, it has been x months since I left Wellington, or, I have been living in London for x months.

And then I sort of stopped. I don't remember when but probably after my 'leaving Wellington' anniversary. It became a bit harder to count and, honestly, I stopped caring. And when I became conscious of the fact that it was closer to when I would have to leave London, than it was to when I had arrived, it just seemed best to put those thoughts out of my head.

Two years is a tease. This Tier 5 Working Visa is just a complete and utter tease. You spend the first year here getting used to it, being far from home, the underground, understanding why English supermarkets insist on wrapping all vegetables in plastic. You have your first Christmas, first snowfall, you see the first daffodils in St James Park in March. And then suddenly, it's been a year, and you start doing all these things for the second time. Except, not only is it your second time, it's also your last.

I don't want to live in London, or England, for the rest of my life. I like New Zealand, I am looking forward to returning there when the time comes. I just hate the fact that I can't choose when it is that I leave London. If I could choose, I would stay longer. Not a lot longer, but longer. I wish that I could know when it is that I've had enough, and then leave when that time comes.

So now, it is April 2012. Next month, I will be able to say that I left New Zealand two years ago. But my visa expires on June 4th, 2012 and there's no escaping it. So plans must be made. Lists of things I still haven't managed to do in London yet must be made. Lists of things I want to do again in London must also be made. And plans to leave must be put in to motion.

And I think I've begun to make my peace with having to leave. Honestly, there's not a whole lot I can do about it, and perhaps that's a good thing. Perhaps if I didn't have the option, I'd just stay here and stay here and stay here, and put off other, less glamorous but more necessary, things that one needs to do in one's life.

But, it's not quite time to go home, and I hope to see out the rest of the year in Berlin. Germany will be an adventure like England, but harder. I don't speak German, nor am I totally certain about what kind of work I'll be able to get, but it doesn't scare me as much as I thought it would. Quite the opposite really. I can't wait.

And, at least I can leave London when I am still having a good time. I've always maintained that that's the best way to roll.


wellington, may 2009

put a monkey on me, i don't care: a weekend in marrakech

Around the end of last year, I started to get antsy and annoyed that I had not traveled anywhere since Dublin in October. And it was just Ireland! An amazingly hilarious drunken weekend away yes, but I wanted somewhere warm. And different.

So, Nick and I decided to go to Marrakech, Morocco. Warm, for sure, and different, I hoped so. A London winter can feel like a lifetime. This winter in particular seemed to drag, especially since we got our coldest weather in February. By the time it snowed, it already felt like we'd had our fill of winter weather. So, having an African holiday planned made those cold mornings and dark evenings a little more bearable.

We flew Easyjet from Gatwick to Marrakech on a Thursday afternoon. Despite a hideous experience flying back from Berlin after Christmas 2010*, Easyjet has been my airline of choice while living in London. I guess better the devil you know. This time, we actually had two flights that landed at their destination early. EARLY. Totally unheard of.

We got in about 8.45, and through our hostel had organised a taxi to pick us up, which ended up being a smart idea. Driving along the unlaned roads under a big fat yellow moon, I knew I had definitely found somewhere different.

We stayed at Douarskoll Guesthouse which was adorable, was right in the medina and made us delicious food. We also had an amazing room. It had a mezzanine! It was like sleeping in a treehouse. Here it is:




This was the view from the roof terrace. You could see all the way to the Atlas Mountains, which I obviously forgot to take a photo of.



the things we did:

Marjorelle Gardens




Cacti and brightly coloured pots. Marjorelle Gardens was created by a French guy called Marjorelle in the 20s. After falling in to disrepair, Yves St Laurent bought the gardens and restored them to their original state. It was the greenest place we saw in Marrakech; everything else was a dusky red, or dirty yellow. As per the rest of Marrakech, there were cats and badly dressed tourists crawling all over it.

In Marrakech in general, it was a different kind of tourist makeup than I was used to. There were more couples, groups of older travelers, and lots of families as well, which surprised me a bit. No large groups of young people, but I suppose the lack of readily available alcohol puts them all off.

Bahia Palace




This palace had sweet Moroccan style decoration. And even more cats.

The ruins of Bahii Palace




Not cats this time, but storks. They build these amazing nests up in the top part of the ruins. It was very hot at the ruins, with little shade, but pretty sweet imagining what it would have looked like in it's original glory.

Djemaa El-Fna




The main square was absolutely insane. A tourist trap, without a doubt. It is ringed by market stalls selling the usual fare, and in the day time, the square itself is full of juice stalls, date stalls, people with monkeys, people with monkeys wearing clothes, snake charmers, women offering henna, men offering cigarettes, men in traditional dress offering photos, donkeys, motorcycles, cars, bicycles.

At night, there are proper food stalls where you can have dinner, and also people performing. We didn't get too close to the performances, but one late afternoon performance we saw, involved some belly dancing performed by ladies in Muslim dress, so very conservative, but with the risque bikini tops and bottoms over their conservative clothes. Belly dancing finds a way.

The last night we were there we ate in a restaurant looking over the square. We saw the sunset, and therefore the sundown call to prayer. We watched all the men, and some women, head in to the mosque. We watched street sellers setting out their wares to catch the women waiting for the men, and the men on their way out of the mosque. It was amazing to watch a bit of life in Marrakech that wasn't trying to sell us something.

where we ate and drank:

Cafe Arabe




We went here every day and that's not a bad thing, nor a lazy thing on our part. It was just a really lovely place to spend the early evening. The top floor was a terrace that looked out over the rooftops of Marrakech, so you could watch the sunset. They served alcohol, which we appreciated, and the food was average, which by Moroccan standards, was good.

I really struggled with the food in Marrakech which annoyed me, because I like food so much. I think it was because Marrakech was an olfactory overload. Smells everywhere. Good smells like spices and leather and fresh fruit. But also terrible smells like dirty animals, smelly people, sewage and rotting food. The smells put me off eating and the food just wasn't good enough to tempt me.

where i shopped:



One of the main drawcards of Marrakech are the markets, the souks. They sell everything and they want you to buy it. A polite, no thank you, or non merci, was probably the phrase I used the most while in Marrakech. We soon discovered that the market street closest to our medina was the best. Perhaps they got used to seeing us, but we rarely got hassled as we walked down it.

One afternoon I stopped to talk to this kid about the kittens outside his father's antique stall - he was an amazing kid, really confident and verbose, and he sold me an antique amber ring. Turns out Sarah Jessica Parker and other Sex and the City actors shopped there when they were in Marrakech filming the (awful, insulting) second SATC movie. His father's two stalls were crammed with amazing antique jewelry and I was so jealous of the story he told about Sarah Jessica Parker, plucking rings and necklaces willy nilly and chucking them in a bowl to buy. So jealous, so so jealous.

the end:

All in all, Marrakech was everything I wanted it to be. Hot. Different. A holiday. A great travel story.


nick & lorrie, bahii palace, march 2012

* The plane was delayed by hours, and when we finally got on a plane, it wasn't even an Easyjet plane, or an Easyjet crew. After far too long in the air, we were told that we couldn't land at any of the London airports due to inclement weather, nor any nearby. The closest airport that would take us was Liverpool. We waited even longer while on the tarmac - it was the middle of the night, so they had to open the airport for us. Once we finally got through immigration, we had to sit around in the closed Liverpool airport to wait for coaches to take us back to London. We were twelve hours late to Gatwick. It was MISERABLE.

it is fucking snowing: a london waitangi day experience

I am totally going to get in trouble posting this photo

Well, this blog thing is going really well, isn't it. Not a single blog entry in February! Come on Lauren, truly pathetic. OK; an attempt at a catch up.

Way back in early February, a group of us ex pat New Zealanders celebrated Waitangi Day by getting drunk on the underground. It is a strange way to celebrate New Zealand's national day, but I've done it twice now, and it doesn't disappoint. I was hesitant, in 2011, didn't commit to it too much – wore an All Blacks shirt under my winter coat – but soon got in to it, drinking on the street with a four pack of Strongbow in a Tesco bag swinging from my arm.

This year, we were the Maori colours of the rainbow, which ended up being a good choice, as it meant we could wear coats of various colours – the temperature had dropped significantly the week before and it was hovering around the zero mark. I wore heat generating leggings under my jeans, two pairs of socks, two thermals under my t-shirt, a coat, a beret, scarf and gloves. It actually ended up being enough.

There weren't as many people out as the year before, I think the cold kept many away, and the costumes weren't as impressive, which again was probably the fault of the temperature. But everyone was as good natured as always. I'm sure residents of these areas are used to this Kiwi invasion by now but there definitely were some confused tourists wondering what they'd missed.



As per usual, we ran in to people we knew, and a few times, I recognised people from the dusty recesses of my past. Living in New Zealand it is quite usual to run in to people you know when you’re out and about. In London, it is a very uncommon occurrence.

Before leaving NZ, I would have never have called myself a very patriotic person. I knew NZ was a pretty sweet place to live, and I really loved growing up in Wellington, but overly sentimental shows of patriotism always left me feeling a little uncomfortable. That has totally changed since living in London. I got up in the middle of the night to watch the All Blacks play during the World Cup. I woke up early on a Sunday to watch the final and I cried when we won. Thanks to Waitangi Day pub crawl, I can now say that I’ve sung our national anthem at the top of my lungs on a packed underground train. I mean, if that’s not patriotism, I’m not sure what is.

After getting to Westminster and watching some brave (silly? Drunk?) Kiwi men take their shirts off to do the haka, we decided to head to the Temple Walkabout for a few hours. At about five thirty we realised it was snowing, for the first time that London winter.

So, no more Temple Walkabout for us. We decided it was back home for some drunken dinner and some drunken playing in the snow.

On our way back to the Temple underground station, we stopped to have photos with a very good natured cop. He let Katie wear his hat for a photo, and was easily convinced to wear it sideways for another photo. There was a huge stink in New Zealand (not so much over here; although maybe I just didn't notice) about the London Waitangi Day pub crawl – some New Zealander complained to the New Zealand High Commission about the behaviour of Kiwi's on the pub crawl.



It's absolute crap, obviously – thousands of us drinking in the streets and not a single arrest? And it's not for lack of cops, they were everywhere we went. I was happy to read the response of the police chief for the Westminster Borough, saying that his cops look forward to policing the Waitangi Day pub crawl due to the good natured attitude of the Kiwi's involved. I would say that is absolutely true – at Gloucester Road we saw a cop happily tucking in to a bag of Burger Rings. At Westminster, Kiwi’s were having their photo taken with cops wearing those hard bucket hat things. And this guy at Temple was loving life hanging out outside the Temple Walkabout.

The snow that night was the first and only proper snow in London this winter (and I hope I can say that with confidence, as it is now March). Being on a Saturday and on a day that we were together as a big group gave the whole experience a sort of Christmas-y feeling, which I understand is a really odd way to describe it. Perhaps it's the fact that you can't help but be reduced to childish antics when faced with a snowfall - snowmen and snowballs and snow angels. It makes you feel like your normal adult rules have been suspended.

The last time I went out in the snow that night was at about half past two. It had stopped snowing but the light was still funny, the sky had a yellowish tinge to it. Theresa and I threw another couple of snowballs, but when we accidentally hit the neighbour's window, we figured it was time to call it a night.

The Top 11 of 2011 - part three

I figured I needed to get this last post up before we got in to the second month of 2012. It seems like we're getting a bit far in to 2012 for all this 2011 retrospection. No matter, 2011 was still a boss of a year, so let's wrap this up.

4. Sail Croatia, July 2011

The next adventure was Croatia, on a boat with my ladies, and a whole lot of Australians. I had been told amazing things about Sail Croatia, that it was an incredible travelling experience, and it mainly lived up to the hype. I'll get the bad things out of the way first: sometimes the lack of independence frustrated me, and the tour company sometimes wasn't the best at communicating what was going on each day. And then the douchebag Australians. If I could have been on that boat with twenty of my friends, instead of five of my friends and fifteen strangers, it would have been the ultimate travelling experience, yes.

But the good things.



The weather. Hot. Beautiful, European hot. Yes, one needs to be careful about putting on their sunblock, but not nearly to the extent you need to do in New Zealand. I am one of those poor souls who burns in thirty seconds back in New Zealand. In Europe, I could sit outside for almost half an hour before I'd start to think, hmm, might be time for some sunblock. I got a tan. An actual real life tan. That's not a regular occurrence for me.

The sitting around and doing nothing. A regular day would be departing early from wherever we'd docked the day before, and sailing throughout the morning. A stop for a lunch and a swim. And then, we'd get to wherever we were going, and could go explore, eat, drink. We spent most of this time on the boat lying in the sun, reading, talk shit and playing cards.

The swimming. The water was the perfect temperature, and was so salty. Sometimes you could see the salt on your skin once you'd got out of the water.

The sloppy night's out. Drinking huge carafes of cocktails in a cave bar. Going to a bar in Hvar that had some sort of fountain, and dancing so enthusiastically that one needed to kick off one's jandals. Drinking cocktails out of buckets. (Large drinks seemed to be a theme.)



The adventures. We hired a wee car on the island of Mjlet, and drove the length of it, stopping at the end for a swim at the sandy beach. Liz couldn't fit in the car, and wanted to drive a scooter anyway, so she led the way. The only downside was there was no car stereo, so no sweet beats.





We finished up in Dubrovnik, which was one of my favourite stops, and a place I would like to go back to. An old, walled city, close to the water. Where you can buy cocktails in buckets. A true tourist mecca.



It was the perfect way to end five weeks on the continent. Thinking about it now, in the dead of winter, when it's two degrees outside, it seems like some sort of far off dream.



3. Family holiday to Provence - Aug/Sep 2011

I am a lucky girl; I have a very lovely mother. Leaving her in Wellington was not an easy thing to do, and missing her is one of the worst parts about being far from home. Lucky for me, her and her partner Gerald planned a European excursion of their own, and came over to visit in August of last year. Mum and Gerald have been together for a few years now (my lovely father died almost thirteen years ago) and Gerald has three daughters of his own, one of which, Michaela, lives in London too. So, the four of us, plus Nick, and plus another of Gerald's daughters, Erica, went to Provence for a bit of a family holiday.

We were utterly spoiled by Mum and Gerald, who had rented a villa outside of a small village called Bargemon. The villa had it's own pool, an amazing view over the hills, a huge barbeque area, and mine and Nick's bedroom at the bottom of the house was built in to the rock, like a cave. Luxury to someone who, while travelling, was used to sleeping in bunk beds.




It was an actual proper holiday, as opposed to travelling. Sure we did some sightseeing, drove through the hills to other perched villages, admired the sights, visited some markets, sampled the delicious food. But we slept in, and didn't stick to much of a schedule, and had afternoon drinks. I went for at least two swims a day, we had croissants for every breakfast, and most of the time was spent lounging by the pool with a book.




And the food. The food. Honey glazed duck, creme brulee, desserts that were on fire, hunks of brie and camembert. We had most meals at home, but still went out a few times, which was always interesting, because here the French actually only spoke French, not like in Paris, where they see you trying to speak French, and just speak to you in English, because they can't be bothered waiting for you to work it out.

I loved every minute of it. Especially hanging out with my mum.



2. Dublin - October 2011

I realise that this Top 11 is becoming more like: The List of Places Lauren Visited in 2011. But what can you do. I just like visiting places so much.

I was pleasantly surprised to receive a visit from my friend Sophie in late 2011. Before I left, she wasn't even thinking about coming over, so therefore I didn't think I would see her again until I eventually get back to NZ. But I was SURPRISED to hear of her plans for a European jaunt, and when she mentioned she was going to Dublin, I decided I would go with her.

Sophie lived in Dublin for a year, and at this stage, I was contemplating heading there to live after the UK visa ran out. (I'm not anymore because there is a New Plan, but more on that later.) So she seemed like a pretty good Dublin travel buddy.

And she was. We had another tour guide in the form of Sophie's friend Owen, who was also kind enough to pick me up from the airport and drop me back. Such luxury. We went out Friday night, watched Irish football, which was weird, and then went to a sweet bar with a lot of bookshelves (a surefire way to make me like a place is an abundance of books).

Saturday was sightseeing and wandering around Dublin.




And then Saturday night was drinking Guiness in a local pub (it really does taste better in Ireland), then heading to Kehoe's for a few hours, and then a club in an old movie theatre. Due to a stupid decision to watch Australia play South Africa in the Rugby World Cup, we did not get back to the hostel until 7.30am the next morning. And then had to get up to check out by 10am.

It was not the best laid plan, and meant that Sunday was a bit of a wash. We didn't end up doing any of the things we planned, just tried to keep warm and not die of our hangovers.

All in all though, I suppose I can't be surprised that I spent most of my Irish experience either drunk or hungover. Seems kind of fitting.



1. Christmas in Kennington, 2011

And here we are. The final highlight for 2011 was an excellent Christmas spent in our flat in the London suburb of Kennington. Nick and I had spent the previous Christmas with his sister in Berlin, so figured that our other Christmas in England should actually be spent in England.

My flatmates and I offered to host all the other orphan Kiwis who were in London, and there ended up being about ten of us for Christmas lunch. We decorated our kitchen/dining/living room (yes, all three in one, we live in London, space is a luxury) with lights, tacky Christmas decorations and crepe paper. Public transport in London pretty much shuts down on Christmas Day, so we had people sleeping on our floors and in our kitchen.




Christmas away from home, and all those familiar things, always feels a bit odd. The same, but different. Being in the northern hemisphere for Christmas, and therefore winter, is a bit odd too - as this is what we're led to believe Christmas should be like. Cold, dark, snow if you're lucky. Lots of warm heavy comfort food. So it feels like what Christmas actually should be, but also, nothing like what you're used to.

But anyway. We started the day with pancakes, banana and bacon. Then snacks. And then roast turkey (Katie was in charge of this task and did an amazing job). And then more snacks. And then chocolate pudding for dessert. All the while drinking bottle after bottle of delicious wine.

A happy Christmas indeed.

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So that's it, that's the end. Thanks for playing. Now I have to come up with some new blog ideas. I have a few brewing. I have some travel plans, so that should be a few entries, at least!