Sydney: Something to Declare

Showers.  That's what the weather forecast says.  I'm not sure what the weatherman's definition of "showers" is but the reality is that it has been bucketing down.  "Expect torrential downpours and prepare for a holocaust" is a more appropriate representation of this morning's weather. Not even the cab driver would get out of the car to help us with our luggage.  Said he didn't want to get "pulverised".  So he let us get pulverised instead. 

And this, to neatly top off my homecoming entry through Customs.  In my luggage I had French wine, fois gras (sealed in tins - try not to panic), French nougat, English truffles, energy bars, a whole box of muesli bars from Waitrose, and a caramel Easter egg.  A contraband apple I had been harbouring was ditched at the last minute and left on the plane. Australia are immeasurably fussy about the types of things we bring into the country - food, anything made from wood, shoes you may have worn to a farm or a park where animals might poo and you might be in danger of stepping in it, anything of a combined value of more than AU$900 (a very low threshold; I mean really - a person returning from a long weekend in Bali loaded up with all manner of shit they bought in Kuta could even breach this) - all are no-no's and require careful inspection before being granted entry.  

It's a treacherous road, the Something To Declare line.   All your bags are placed on the ground before you while you line up pensively behind them.  You know your bag is clean and you're carrying nothing more sinister than the caramel Easter egg - after all, you packed it - yet you can't help but worry all the same that somewhere someone has slipped something in without your knowledge (thanks Schapelle Corby). The feeling is a bit like expectant parents standing behind their toddler, hoping their 2 year old won't scream out an impromptu "f**k" (picked up at home from their father) followed by a swift kick to the shins of the customs officer (picked up at baby gym). 

Then come the dogs.  Unfortunately the beagle took a shine to the girly backpack Online Trainer had no longer wanted and given to me (probably because I had teased him incessantly due to its lovely peach colour) and kept returning to stamp on it, sniff it and apparently try to break into it.  While this might appear cute under normal circumstances, it is cause for great alarm when a trained border protection sniffer dog seems to think there is something in your bag worth hanging around for.  What the f**k had Online Trainer done with this bag before he had given it to me?  What had he been carting around in it?  I know he has a penchant for sports supplements but truly, this was going too far.  Even though it was only 14 degrees and I was dressed for the balmy climes of Singapore's 33 degree weather, I started to sweat.  Images from movies like Bangkok Hilton, the second Bridget Jones' Diary film, and snippets of that reality TV show Border Security skidded and collided through my mind.  This could end badly. 

The customs official swiftly picked up Online Trainer's girly backpack (now mine) and opened it.  Frantically I showed him where the food was, pulling out 6 energy bars, the box of muesli bars, the caramel Easter egg.  Is there any fruit in here? Was there any in here recently?, he asked.  I told him I'd just discarded an apple I'd been carrying.  This seemed to satisfy him.  He nodded.  "Residual Apple" he yelled to the dog handler as she dragged the beagle away and continued to move her way down the line.

Welcome home to Sydney.

Singapore: You're in my Sun

Outside of Sydney's Oxford Street I have never seen such a concentration of gay men. Given Singapore's "Outrage on Decency" laws (yes, if you can believe it - there is still such a law in forward-thinking, cosmopolitan, green and groomed Singapore*), it seems rather surprising that so many openly gay men are blousing around being, well, gay.  Perhaps the Marina Bay Sands offered a post-Mardi Gras special for the Easter long weekend because the infinity edge pool was literally overflowing with them. 


Not that I mind, you understand; I very much don't mind at all.  In fact I like gay men a lot.  They are generally a very tidy, respectful, clean, well-educated, fashionable, vain (and I mean this in a good way - vanity can be a blessing, it means we are purposeful and particular in how we appear to others), quiet (excluding cousin Wilma) bunch, who often boast respectable and interesting professions.  And they make fantastic shopping partners to their heterosexual female friends to boot. I utter this simply in surprise because there wasn't merely one or two; they were everywhere.  Quietly, respectfully, tidily, fashionably going about their own business.  I'm not sure how the two lesbians got the flyer though, or why there was only two of them, but there they were, quietly and respectfully going about their own business.

The gang of wealthy post-middle age men of some sort of Persian persuasion (politically-correct description for disgusting, lewd, short, fat, round neanderthals - new money, I'd wager, by the tonnage of 24 carat yellowest of yellow ingots encircling their fat little necks) on the other hand could have learnt a thing or three hundred about respectability and the art of quietly minding their own business.  Instead they made it their business to officiously and openly ogle every woman aged 16 years and up. 

While attractively picking or snotting their noses into their hands, their towels, or God forbid, the pool, they would loll about in their budgie smugglers** or (kill me now), their too-tight, too-short, immitation triathlon racing short, horrid fat bellies bloating over the top, greasy black hair sticking to their faces, and for the love-of-God-put-them-away Noodle and Dumplings prominently on display with only a skin-tight piece of 10 year old flimsy Lycra to shield us from years worth of potential therapy.  You might as well check yourself in now because if the vintage Lycra had chosen that moment to lose its last remnants of elasticity and give way to reveal its contents - well, it doesn't bear thinking about.  And could they perhaps learn to chew with their mouths shut?

Looking up.  View from my pool side lounge.
Marina Bay Sands, Singapore

In the rudest of pool-side gestures, three of them stood blocking my sun.  Even the most un-pool savvy among us are aware of the unwritten rule that Thou Willst Not Block a Sunbather's Sunshine.  No matter what station in life you are, no matter what your profession, caste, collection of assets, or how many Swiss bank accounts you may have (or for that matter, how many fat yellow gold ingots you have encircling your throat), this most basic of human rights is privileged and has been since Eve stole the apple. Yet there they stood.  Three short, fat, lewd Persians blocking my searing afternoon sun.  My very last hour of searing Singaporean afternoon sun.

As they ogled me with their black gloopy eyes, I silently levelled a pointed finger skyward towards the sun and with a flick of my right fingers, motioned for them to move. 

It was a glorious moment.  They moved. 

More out of surprise that someone had the gall to behave so flippantly and dismissively towards them I think, than out of any remorse for accidentally blocking my very last hour of searing afternoon sun.  Once they had moved it was clear they thought they shouldn't have but how could they go back without creating an international incident? 

Glaring at them until, like the searing afternoon sun, my eyes burnt holes in them, they retreated.  It was a fine moment, one that any self-respecting poolside sunbather will appreciate.

* Section 377A of the Penal Code Singapore

** The Urban Dictionary defines Budgie Smugglers as an "Australian slang term for men's tight-fitting Speedo-style swimwear. The 'lump in the front' apparently resembles a budgie when it is stuffed down the front of someone's shorts".

Singapore: Home is the 49th Floor

I have been talking about Greece every day brekky, lunch and dinner. The Husband is non committal so I've taken to threatening to go over on my own. He says my wings are clipped (who is he kidding??!) but we all know that I do what I like. How is a girl like me supposed to settle down and get a proper job anyway? It's cold and miserable at home in Sydney, I'm told, and nothing puts a girl in a worse mood than having to wear too many layers of clothes.

Perhaps to get me off the scent of another potential European tripette within a mere month of returning home, the Husband suggested I put my talents to good use and write this blog.  I was going to write one anyway but I'll let him think it was his idea.  Call it The Glam Backpacker or some such thing, he proposed.  In his nice, quiet, indulgent way he also said he'd like me to quickly create a global phenonenom in the manner of facebook or the internet or Google which I'm quite happy to do but just not overly sure how long that will all take? I need to also check that some foul imposter hasn't stolen the name.  Or doesn't try to steal it once I've made it famous of course.  I've had enough things stolen from me in my time.

The suite at the Marina Bay Sands is fabulous. So fabulous that I have taken to calling it 'home' and have pretty much moved in.  Well, everything from my Backpack is unpacked and hanging in the dressing room.  To put it mildly, I am most upset to have to head home tomorrow night. My mother has sent me a text telling me the weather is feral (although she says it in a much nicer way naturally). How am I meant to show off my newly aquired tan if I have to cover it up with winter clothes?

The Husband has burnt his face nicely, peeled along his forehead and now has brown and red splotches everywhere. You'd never guess he lives by the beach and claims to be seasoned at gaining (and losing so it seems) a tan.


The Husband relaxing by the pool.
Marina Bay Sands, Singapore



To the pool. I have decided it is completely altogether possible to live up on these top few floors and never ever leave.  In fact, we have met someone who actually does live up here.  A chatty American woman originally from Brooklyn. Her toiling husband works in property or something for the Marina Bay Sands project and they have moved here from Miami and have been living in the Marina Bay Sands for the past six weeks.  She has the darkest tan I've ever seen on a white woman.  She has, in fact, out-tanned cousin Marilyn.  Cousin Marilyn will not be pleased.





Infinity pool.
Marina Bay Sands, Singapore

Because we are so happily ensconced in our Home at the Marina Bay Sands, so far we have been out to dinner a big fat once - to Ku De Ta which was a huge, overpriced, non-tasty disappointment. The rest of the time we lob up to the Club Lounge and freeload like wildfire (we are, after all, guests in a suite) and heartily enjoy the included wine buffet during the 5-7pm drinks hour. I can thoroughly recommend paying the extra for access to the Club Lounge. Last night I finished the evening off with a Penfolds Private Reserve (which we were told by the loud, large, confident Western Australian sitting at the table beside us was $90 a bottle back home so drink up), went Home, shaved my legs in the enormous bathtub, lay in the nuddie on the floor at the base of my floor-to-ceiling glass wall oggling my 49th floor view over Singapore and then scrambled under the covers of the floaty, cloud-like douna and - yes, hold on to your hat - fell asleep all before 9pm. What a cracker of a date I am. The Husband ordered himself a $32 room service hamburger (which I understand was very nice) and now we are having deja vu by lying by the pool all day again.

Oh, the life of it.

Singapore: Life is Suite

Nothing brings a smile to a person's face more than an upgrade.  An upgrade to a suite, you say?  I'll take that.  With thanks.

After the teeny tiny (albeit lovely) doll house hotel rooms of France, the suite at the Marina Bay Sands is big enough to house all the current occupants of the Coogee Surfside Youth Hostel.  So huge and spacious is it I estimate my entire hotel room in Paris would fit into the bathroom alone.  I know.  That is one big bathroom.

A little bit of luxury with your backpack doesn't go astray.  In the heady days of being younger, poorer, more carefree and more in tune with the need to survive on $1 a day, the thought of anything more luxurious than the joy of happening upon a hairdryer, finding a bottle of hair conditioner, or not having to sniff the several-days-old prosciutto you’ve had tucked away in your backpack before you decide to eat it doesn’t really cross your mind. I may well have started life as a real backpacker, kind of, and there may well be an actual backpack involved in my travel luggage today, but you cannot begrudge a girl a room the size of Montana filled to the brim with toiletries, hair dryers, a standalone bathtub big enough for three people and an armoury of soft, white, fluffy towels.  Call me a snob (ok, you're a snob) but I adore a flash hotel.  Look me in the eye and honestly tell me you don't too?  You can't do it, can you?  No. 

Two standout things can excite guests the most about a flash hotel: one is all the tricky little toys included in your room; the other is constant access to large amounts of gourmet-style food.  For example, at The Peninsula in Bangkok you can lie in your extra-large king-size bed, press a button on the console of your bedside table and all the curtains will miraculously slide open revealing the Oriental Hotel on the opposite bank and the Chao Phraya River below, complete with mandatory toy ferries ferrying tourists from side to side.  It also still remains the site of the largest spread put on for breakfast I have so far ever seen.  Ever. 

The Marina Bay Sands are on to this.  They know how to wow a person. 

Placing my hotel key card into its slot on the wall, soft lighting immediately illuminates all the rooms (yes, plural) in a calm evening glow and - this is seriously cool – two entire walls of curtains automatically slide back to reveal the night time Singapore vista 49 floors below.  You never forget your first time.  It is quite the moment.  Shame that I had no one to share it with then.  The Husband had not yet arrived from Sydney for our International Rendezvous.  But let me tell you, when he did he was going to like this.  A lot.



Life is Suite: sizing up the view

If I fancy sizing up the view from my suite I stand on my windowsill (if you can actually call it that) and watch the Fullerton Hotel across the river light up beautifully like a Christmas bauble against the night sky while the rest of Singapore twinkles neatly below.  They are even so good as to put on a light show every evening for us - twice - at 9pm and 11pm.

Apart from an exciting near-miss two ferries had on Tuesday - and if you'd blinked you'd have missed it so lucky I happened to be watching - everything runs like clockwork in Singapore.  Staff at the hotel are perpetually friendly and helpful (who could not love The Club's obliging Mary Rose?).  Unless there is an unscheduled, torrential downpour, Concierge can always ensure there is a cab at the ready in case you decide you do want to leave to go and, you know, sightsee or something.  Apart from Tuesday’s near miss, ferries courteously give way to each other as if they are on rail road tracks, puttering around taking tourists from the base of the Marina Bay Sands to the Fullerton Hotel to Clarke Quay or to wherever else they so desire. 

If you happen to be staying in a Club room or a suite (that's me) then you have access to The Club on the 57th floor for breakfast, afternoon tea and cocktail hour (which is actually 2 hours).  Essentially The Club is a beautifully decorated glass haven with views to what could be Indonesia and beyond.  All white leather seats, dark walnut floors, travertine tiles and light stone bench tops.  The food is plentiful, gourmet and tiny enough in size to lull you into eating loads without feeling guilty at the time.  iPads are helpfully provided on demand to cater for all of those important things like surfing the Internet, sending gloating emails to your friends back home and making sure all your Lotto entries are in.  The Wi-Fi is free and only occasionally drops out (and if this happens, there is a well-staffed business centre with a plethora of cordless and wireless Apple products available to ensure your every business, Google or facebook need is met).  And the best part?  You can’t bribe your way in.  Nope.  Again and again we contentedly watched people try.  Which was a whole other world of fun.

Almost everyone on the entire planet knows that Singapore is shopping heaven.  If you are a mad-keen shopper for anything designer though then this is without a doubt your Nirvana.  Not a street corner goes by without a sparkling new Louis Vuitton, Prada or a Gucci flaunting hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of the absolute-very-latest in cutting edge fashion, all safely protected by a burly security guard who may not smile much but will open the door for you. 

To say the Marina Bay Sands is an architectural feat is much like saying the Pope is Catholic.  It goes without saying.  The problem is that you forget about how extraordinary the architecture and the engineering must be to have built a 150 metre pool spanning three buildings 200 metres in the air because usually you’re not actually looking at it, you happen to be floating about in it each and every day. 

Those of you who know me won't be surprised to hear I’m a bit of a fan of the Adults Only pool.  It’s not that I don’t like children, you understand, it’s just that I don’t like them very much when they are constantly shattering the peace by issuing blood curdling screams as if they are being murdered.  For such small people they have surprisingly well-developed lungs.  It is therefore with great delight I point you in the direction of the 50 metres worth of Adults Only infinity edge bliss where grownups can quietly rest their weary heads.  And if an errant child does manage to defy the rules and sneak in (you see what they’re like don’t you, they’ll try to go anywhere they’re not supposed to), there is usually a handy lifeguard nearby ready to shoo them straight back to their own noisy, splashy, child-friendly zone.  This I enjoyed watching on many occasions.

I am a bit of an outdoors girl.  I don't mind heights.  When it is hot (and it is just about always hot in Singapore) I adore nothing more than cooling off roughly every quarter of an hour in a truly magnificent pool (and, to make you feel justifiably snobby and entirely elite, one that has a ‘Hotel Guests Only' section).   The only other thing I need is a gym.  Oh, there it is.  On the 55^th floor.  You can run on a spotlessly clean treadmill placed precariously close to floor to ceiling windows and feel as if you are about to bungy off the edge, plunging 55 floors to the river below. 

And so it is that a person never needs to ever go to the ground floor again (unless you want to shop or go to the casino).  Head to the elevator, press 57, flash your room key to Security as you saunter by, and you are in. And once you're there, don't leave until it's time to return to the airport. 

I do have just one question though.  In between snoozing, eating, swimming, eating, reading my book and eating the one thing I did ponder is how we could be so high up without so much as a breath of wind? 

At 200 metres above the ground it should potentially be blowing so hard that the manicured palms bend and toss and the perfectly spaced lounge chairs are blown into the pool and over its infinity edge.  Hollywood has proven that whenever scoundrels in CSI, NCIS, SVU or any other acronym are being chased by the likes of Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs or Senior Field Agent Anthony DiNozzo they always head to the nearest emergency fire exit and effortlessly bound up a thousand stairs without puffing, reaching the roof of a building where it is generally, without fail, eternally windy.  I mean, we've talked about the gale that was blowing at the top of the Eiffel Tower, haven’t we. 

So I ask you, why no wind by the infinity pool at the top of the Marina Bay Sands?  Clever engineering, the perfect aspect, or simply a lucky wind-free week for me?

Nice: Groundhog Day. A Quick 10km Race for Breakfast

Deja vu. 

It felt like just last week that I'd been here before.  Corralled in the starting zone of a large, apparently international race (there were accents and languages from everywhere and we even spotted several Aussie t-shirts), music pumping, sun shining, bongo drums bongo-ing. 

Hold on.  It was just last week.  What had I been thinking?  My legs were still sore just trying to get out of bed, let alone attempting to run 10km.  Here we go again.  And to think, we nearly hadn't been able to enter at all and I was the fool who fixed it.

To give you some idea of the scope of the race, the Kenyans and Ethiopians have jetted in for the Nice half marathon (or semi marathon, as the French like to say) which means it must be a decent race on the AIMS* event calendar with either good appearance money, good potential prize money, or both or they wouldn't bother to turn up at all.

But for one small hitch we were all set to enter.  In order to enter a race of any sort in France, a participant is required to produce a medical certificate stating they are fit to race.  I'm sure people still drop dead during marathons and other sporting events but for some reason, the French must feel they are better protected legally if you produce this document.  We are not required to do this in Australia which is no doubt why, when I casually asked my doctor to sign the very simple medical certificate printout for the Paris marathon she looked confused, almost as if she'd never seen one of these before.  I don't blame her.  She probably hadn't.  Apparently France and Italy are the only places in the world that feel this better protects them than asking the athlete to simply sign a waiver like everywhere else on the planet.

The International Athlete at the finish line
Nice, France 17.04.2011

Nonetheless, we had hit a road block.  While Online Trainer may be meticulous in his training methods, his eating habits, and his undying faith in the use of sports supplements, his filing system leaves a lot to be desired. Unlike organised me, he hadn't kept a copy of the medical certificate he'd produced to the organisers for the Paris marathon.  No certificate, no race.   It didn't seem to matter to the organisers that we had just completed the Paris marathon a week ago - an event which we couldn't have participated in had we not produced a valid medical certificate - and in fact they were welcome to check online to see our results as proof.

Fortunately he did manage to fish out a certificate he had previously used for last year's Etape du Tour**.  Unfortunately because it was over a year old it was considered to be out of date. 

The over-achieving Online Trainer.
Nice, France 17.04.2011

I had never seen Online Trainer pout in disappointment before.  And while I thought it highly amusing that this capable, machine of a man had been turned into a pouting, helpless 5 year old, it also surprised me that he hadn't simply thought to do what all the rest of us would do: forge it.

Before you start, let's blame my ancestors.  Modern day Aussies are after all, descendants of convicts. Not my own actual ancestors, you understand, because my own father was born in Italy, but Aussies generally.  So a tiny spot of forgery among friends is really nothing to concern yourself with.  Besides, Online Trainer was certainly fit enough to enter.  He had recently received the obligatory medical certificate to prove it.  It's just that he didn't happen to have it handy.  And really, if anyone was going to drop dead in this race it wouldn't be him.  It'd probably be me.  And I had the valid medical certificate.

There was nothing else for it.  If we wanted to do this race it was time to introduce Online Trainer into the world of crime. Updating the date on his medical certificate proved easy and the certificate miraculously became current.  We were in.  On offer was a half marathon, 10km, 5km or 2km (for the petits - which are actually children and not grown ups who happen to be short).  Good sense reigned for once and we entered the 10km race.  Although let's face it, it was never going to be anything longer as far as I was concerned.  Online Trainer had no bargaining power anyway.  He was, after all, holding a forged document.

Like walking trophies, other Paris Marathon Finishers were milling around at the starting line sporting their red Finishers t-shirts. It seems Online Trainer was not the only one to decide that journeying to the south of France for another race a week after the marathon sounded like a great idea.  Hopefully I managed to redeem my disastrous time from Paris a tiny bit by running a reasonable 50 minute 10km (and yes, I am aware I am still 32km away from a proper redemption) but before you scoff, we could barely break a 6min km for the first 5km because of the throng of competitors. The good news is we once again received medals and finishers t-shirts which I'm particularly happy with.  In the space of one week I have increased my medal tally by two.  And all in France.  I am an international athlete now (even if I am a bad one).

In support of our race, Apple & Fatigado had rushed from St Tropez to Nice for the day.  It seems they had not been enjoying their overpriced, misleadingly advertised, less-than-clean accommodation which regrettably had tarnished their view of St Tropez as a holiday port of call.  Be warned: if you cross Apple you will end up with a very poor TripAdvisor review.  The man means business.  He has an arsenal of portable hardware (iPhones, iPads, iPods and MacBook Airs) with which to strike you down as lightening fast as his Internet connection will allow.

Fatigado's dietary demands determined our lunch venue.  Naturally a connoisseur of Mexican fare, he is unusually fussy when it comes to food.  With his preference for tacos ("I loooovveee tacos") unable to be satisfied in Europe he instead dines on the delicacies on offer at McDonald's and Pizza Hut, although of late he has also taken a shine to Italian food.  Thus it was that despite being in France and surrounded by authentic French cuisine at every turn, Italian it was. Online Trainer proceeded to eat enough for three people (three large people, I'd wager).  How he puts so much food away and stays in such great shape remains a mystery.  Actually, no it doesn't.  He trains relentlessly; training more in one day than most people do in a week.  Make that two weeks.  You see what I mean, don't you? Daunting is underselling it.  Frightening is more appropriate.

Apple & I: It's all just too funny.
Hotel Negresco, Nice. 17.04.2011

Because the Hotel Negresco adorns every postcard and can be seen from just about everywhere in Nice (even from the little balconette of my hotel) I insist we can't leave Nice without visiting such an icon (and this time I am happy to tell you it is an actual hotel that people can stay in rather than being called a hotel but actually being a Town Hall***).

So famous is it, it even decorates our race medals.  We spend half an hour walking up the promenade to get to it only to discover that, while beautiful and ornate and grand, it is after all, still just a hotel.  It turned out we walked all that way basically to use the bathrooms.  Might I add though, those bathrooms are worth the visit.  Apple has photographic evidence of this.  And at least they were free.

* AIMS - Association of International Marathons and Distance Races
** Etape du Tour: a stage of the Tour de France that regular cyclists can enter.  Potentially irrational, barmy regular cyclists who wish to feel a little of the pain the professionals feel during the three week Tour de France
*** As per the Hotel de Ville in Paris

Nice: A Dip in the Med

Pretending to be French and glamorous.
Nice, France 16.04.2011

I sat on the beach (pebbles not sand) watching while French after wussy French dipped a big toe in the Sea (not ocean), shuddering at the apparent briskness of the water temperature and quickly retreating to their place on the pebbles.  By the looks of things, it was a bit nippy in the Med.  I know what nippy feels like.  Swimming in water that is icy cold can give you what I like to call an 'ice cream headache'.  One of those brain-freezingly cold sensations where your brain feels as though it has turned into an enormous ice cube.  Like as if the Incredible Hulk has suddenly appeared, grabbed your head and decided to squeeze it like it's a stress ball.  You know the feeling? Not comfortable.

So the skittishness of the French (and in particular, the male French) behaving like cats on a hot tin roof has been a bit off putting even to my brazen Australian we-swim-in-any-temperature attitude.  You'd think they were attempting to take a plunge in the Arctic circle the way they were shaking and shivering.  No, dude, we're on the French Riviera.  In Spring. Start behaving like it.

The problem with being an avid and vocal beach advocate is that you can't then suddenly change your tune when a bit of an icy current swings through.  If you've headed to an overseas destination where there is an ocean (or a Sea), the expectation is that you will swim.  Warm or otherwise.

Online Trainer might originally hail from South Africa but he has lived in London for so long now that it is appropriate to wantonly suggest that he's gone a bit soft.  Don't go trying to sell me an unswimmable Thames when you can have your choice of ocean. 

Thus it was a little irksome to have to sit beside Online Trainer and watch French boys squealing like French girls just because their big toes felt cold.  Had he not been there I might have been tempted to simply continue to pretend to be French and just not go in at all.  But when you tease someone relentlessly and poke fun at their lifestyle choices, you rule out the possibility of pulling out of a swim, just because it's a wee bit nippy.  I didn't have to look at Online Trainer to know that he was smirking.  I could feel it.  The satisfaction came off him in waves.  If I didn't pull this off now, I'd have to move countries, change my name and cut my hair.
 
I realise - all too late of course - that there are downsides to constantly talking up the benefits of enjoying an ocean-going frolic. I had made it impossible for myself to visit the Cote d'Azur, bask in it's glorious sunshine and not swim.  I'd lose all credibility and potentially be banned from Coogee beach forever.  Well, the coveted north-end at least.  There was nothing else for it.  It was time to show the French (and one South African/faux Pom) how we do it in Australia. 

I might have been a bit apprehensive as I started to make my way towards the water but the rough and sharp pebbles grazing the tender soles of my delicate little feet so used to the soft Australian sand certainly took my mind off the apparently low water temperature.

 Ready or not, I was going in.



Evidence of the swim.  Cote d'Azur, Nice



I'm not sure what the timid French were up in arms about; sure it was a little fresh but it wasn't nearly as cold as Coogee beach at the start of the summer season.  This was not an ice-cream headache-inducing temperature.  I could paddle around in this no problem at all for ages.  The French, I decided, needed a lesson in toughening up a bit.

I'd delivered my part of the bargain.  Now it was up to Online Trainer.  To swim or not to swim?

He swam.  Unlike the French boys, he wasn't about to be beaten by a girl.

So it was that I blissfully swam on Saturday afternoon while pretending to be French and glamorous (I am now Bonjour-ing all over the shop) and again on Sunday morning after the race.  Yep, straight in with all my kit on.  I did take the medal off first though.  I was worried all the salt in the Med would make it rust and we can't have that now, can we?



A Word About French Cab Drivers

"You 'ave a lover-ly smile". The cab driver peered in the rear vision mirror and smiled a very suave, very French, very broad, very friendly, somewhat cheeky smile. "You 'ave - what they say? - a very good dentist. You tell 'im I said that".

Now I don't know about you but it's not often that strangers take a shine to my teeth.  Or if they do, they don't usually mention it.  I'm not sure if he was complimenting me or my dentist but a compliment is a compliment and I'll take what I can get. Besides, my dentist wasn't with me.

While my lips uttered 'thank you' what I really wanted to say was 'please watch the road'.

The easiest thing to do to reach my hotel in Nice was to get a cab. I'm all about ease these days when travelling. In my younger days when I backpacked through Europe (post-37 day Contiki tour) hailing a cab to take me anywhere was most certainly out of the question. And staying in a hotel (one with actual star ratings attached to it and your very own bathroom and clean linen on the bed and no water damage visible on the walls and a room all to your very own self) was as likely as eating at any establishment that had table cloths. As a backpacker you very quickly work out that table cloths means expensive. All that laundry has to be paid for somehow.

Cab drivers in France are a unique breed.  They drive like maniacs.  Often with barely two fingers on the wheel, slouching casually, they somehow manage to hold a reasonably in-depth conversation with you.  Either about your teeth or the make of a car up ahead two lanes across (let's speed up to take a look, 'eh!), or they behave like tour guides (the Pompidou Centre... Notre Dame over 'zere... 'Otel de Ville 'ere), or sing at the top of their lungs (per the female African taxi driver who took us on a swift and terrifying journey from the Montmartre after our evening at Moulin Rouge), all without crashing into the stationary garbage truck they are heading for at top speed.  And how they don't take out several scooters after suddenly, with no warning at all, deciding where they want to be is five lanes across and turning left is beyond me. 

It is not for the faint-hearted, a taxi-ride in France.  After the marathon, for example, we decided to hail a cab.  I was all up for getting the Metro back to Le Marais (not really, but I was bravely pretending I was), although I suspect that the time it was taking me to inch my tormented limbs down the Champs Elysee, coupled with my yelps for a toilet, were driving both Online Trainer and Apple quietly to distraction.  Apple, being such a go-getting dude, masterfully claimed a cab and in we piled.  Online Trainer was not in a cab-claiming position: he had his hands full carrying my water bottles, my free post-marathon fruit, my Finisher's t-shirt and whatever else was too heavy for me.  I'm surprised he wasn't carrying me actually.  I'll have to take that up with him, now that I think about it.

Possibly because I was squashed in the centre with no seat belt and a full, uninterrupted view of the road (sorry, boulevard) rushing past me at the speed of light, I demanded that Apple and Online Trainer create a human seat belt to protect me, ensuring I didn't go hurtling through the front windscreen when (if) the driver ever decided to brake.  Understandably, they didn't seem that keen to participate.  I had, after all, just run a marathon and I was grimy with sweat and all manner of grossness (did you know that people spit while running?).  I was, as they say, a little less than fresh.  Protecting myself wasn't an option though because my hands were busy covering my eyes.  They had two choices.  Form the human seat belt, or explain to the Husband how I came to be a passenger in Jacques Villeneuve's racing car and was thrown from the car in the process.  If I didn't need a toilet before I sure as hell needed one now.  For the love of God, man, USE THE BRAKES!

Thinking back, I think I might owe Apple for the cab fare?  I know I had no money on me.  I have no idea whether Online Trainer had anything beyond a few Metro tickets to get us home and as we all know, he was already loaded up like a Sherpa anyway with all our things (mostly mine).  It is entirely possible Online Trainer brokered a deal with Apple - three bottles of water, two lime Gatorade's, three and a half apples, a banana, and some sort of white and blue plastic sheet with 'Marathon de Paris' printed all over it (he may have even thrown in his medal if Apple was in the mood to drive a hard bargain) - in exchange for the cab ride back.

Prying my grubby little hands away from my eyes, I wobbled unsteadily towards the Hotel Duo.  "Room 12, please" I asked the lady at reception.  Handing over my key (yes, an actual brass key with an actual enormous brass tassel hanging off it, just like in the movies), and in what could quite possibly be the most redundant statement of the year, she chirps "You look tired!".

I stared.  Oh, really?  Gee, I don't feel tired....

Nice: The Sunshine after the Rain

It's time to eat my words.  Already.

You recall I smugly suggested that after my disastrous marathon performance, Online Trainer would not be rushing to enter a race with me again.



Well, I stand corrected.  He did.  While I took off for Avignon in the south for a spot of country wine, song and cheese cheese cheese (for the love of God, someone stop me eating cheese), and Apple & Fatigado departed for Beaune wine region to enjoy expensive 63-Euro-a-bottle wine, Online Trainer apparently spent his spare time searching for other races throughout France because suddenly details of a race in Nice on the Cote d'Azur filtered through.  The man has thicker skin than a Rhino's rump.  You'd think he'd have learnt his lesson the first time around.  You'd think I would have.  But no.  Suddenly here I was, heading to Nice to register for another race with Online Trainer.  And only one week to the day later.



Afternoon sun pours into my room
at the Hotel Suisse, Nice

The train from Avignon to Nice is obviously of more vintage ilk because it takes almost 3 hours to go not terribly far.  The high speed train from Paris to Avignon took around 4 hours to cover a significantly further distance.  Why the south of France gets stuck with the slower trains, I'll never know.  I busy myself writing postcards to my mother, watching the scenery whiz by, and having a little nap. 

When I wake I am mortified to see it is raining as the train chugs past St-Raphael.  Here I am, heading to the Cote d'Azur and potentially I cannot lie in the sunshine.  I swear grumpily, cross my fingers and pray to the Gods of Sunshine.

The praying (or perhaps the swearing) works.  When I finally arrive at my hotel, the clouds have disappeared and the sun has created a magical orange glow across the sea (not ocean).

Friday post-afternoon run:
soaking up the afternoon rays
on my balcony. Hotel  Suisse, Nice.




Hotel Suisse is my new home for the weekend and I could not have asked for a more spectacular introduction to glamorous Nice.  Perched on a point at the end of the Promenade des Anglais, it boasts magnificent views of the sparkling Mediterranean Sea.  I lucked into a beautiful (albeit typically tiny) room with a gorgeous little balconette commanding breathtaking views of the Cote d'Azur; the entire promenade spread before me with all the life and bustle of a chic French coastal town happening below.  It is quite simply divine.  The staff are helpful and speak good English, the Wi-Fi is free (even if you do have to stay on the ground floor to use it), the rooms and bathrooms are modern, and the breakfast is quite good value. 

The location though is it's real calling card.  I could throw a stone from my balconette to the Old Town where a myriad of bars and restaurants can be found, and the Port is a quick walk past the point and around the corner.  Above me, high on a cliff top is the most impressive vantage point in all of Nice.  It's a beautiful little place -  a true winner, and if you can manage to nab a larger room, then you've hit gold.

Feeling sore. First trot
post-Marathon 15.04.2011

To test the weary limbs, I head out for a little Friday afternoon trot.  It is the first time I've attempted to run since marathon day and the muscles and joints protest enormously.  Ignoring the creakiness, I scamper along the promenade in the late afternoon sunshine feeling for all the world like a tiny bit of a legend just because of my location.  Well really, who wouldn't?  Mediterranean Sea to my left, expensive hotel after expensive hotel to my right, evenly spaced palm trees alongside me and pricey, sleek convertibles which only seem to come in black, red or yellow, their V-12 engines gurgling as they slowly make their way along the Quai des Etats-Unis*. 

You might ridicule my Friday afternoon trot but let me introduce you to my French rolls.  So named are those little rolls of holiday flab that begin to flop over the top of your shorts once you have settled into your holiday routine.  Falling foul of exercise habits is easy.  But when you know you will yet again be dining out in a few hours, something must be done. I've set an outstanding pace of consuming croissants, wine, full-fat cheese, buttery sauces over rich, succulent food and - there's no getting around it - creme brulee from here to Africa. If I don't stop now, or at least start to run again, I'll be three times the size by the time I return home.  Unfortunately my French rolls won't disappear of their own accord. 

So run, Forrest, run.

* The road (or boulevarde or avenue or street) which runs alongside the length of the promenade.

Avignon: Would you like a glass with that?

Crème brulee appears on every single menu in all of France.  If you think I’m joking, I challenge you to bring me a menu without one on it.  They’re like donuts.  They’re everywhere.  Not that I’m complaining of course.

Well alright, maybe a tiny bit.  But it’s only because I blame the curse of the crème brulee for almost single-handedly being responsible for my French Rolls.  Sure, the Nutella crepes wouldn’t have helped (but I only ate those twice).  Or the evening wine.  Or the daily three course dinners.  But I still blame the endless crème brulee.  Surely a kilo of castor sugar in every spoonful can’t be good for the waistline?

Lunch at 83.Vernet, Avignon

Every photo I have of myself in Avignon I am either eating or drinking or both.  Take a look.  I might have only been there two days but aside from a bit of sightseeing, that’s really all that I did.  It’s also the place I bought the contraband fois gras and French rosé that I accidentally smuggled back into the country so it will be forever etched in my mind.  And the scene of an accidental upgrade to one of the largest hotel rooms that to date I have ever had in Europe.

The Hôtel de L’Horloge describes itself as having “66 enjoyable rooms highlighted with warm colours of the region”.  I’m not sure what “warm colours of the region” refers to because much like Richie Benaud’s* signature jackets, my room was really mostly cream, off-white, ivory and beige.  Rather than emphasize the significance of its old, 19^th century building and prime location in the centre of the old town and leave it at that, the website also feels the need to boast that it has plenty of “tourist informations” (yes, with the ‘s’) and “telephones in the bedroom”.  Which in itself is kind of a bit 19^th century if you think about it because if a hotel room these days does not contain a phone then it is really something else altogether.  That, my friends, is what you’d call a Youth Hostel.      

I’m not sure who the translator for the Hôtel de L’Horloge was but I’m guessing a uni student working on reception for the summer got roped into giving the translation a whack.  Not a bad job – after all, we know what they’re getting at – but quaintly humorous all the same. 

The manager tells me the only available room is the Tradition Room which will cost €99 and is the size of a kitchen table.  Similar to a caravan, only smaller.  But hold on, a Privilege Room is also available which is of course about eight times larger with a better view, a thousand windows and lots of natural light which sounds great except for the fact it is nearly twice the price. 

Mistake number 1 was offering me the key so I could take a look at the Tradition Room for myself.  As good luck would have it, when I returned the manager had busily disappeared with other guests and the young rookie left in charge turned out to be a very obliging young lady.  Would I prefer to have the twice-the-price, eight-times-as-large Privilege Room for the same price as the caravan room?  €99. 

I hadn’t even asked for it.  Not even hinted.  Sure, maybe my facial expression had shown slight disapproval at the compact size of the room, and possibly I might have asked something along the lines of is there anything bigger?  You know, that you can actually fit your luggage in with you at the same time?  But that was all.

As Apple knows all too uncomfortably well, hotel bargains in Europe are few and far between.  If it’s a bargain, chances are it’s not going to quite live up to the glossy advertising, the gushing adjectives or the artfully photographed online images of the smartly decorated reception area.  Apple experienced this first-hand in a handful of places but none more memorable than the Infamous Outhouse of St Tropez.  Apple’s pre-booked advance internet accommodation purchase of three-nights-for-the-price-of-two proved so far removed from the high resolution website images of the promised land that it prompted a swift and immediate online visit to TripAdvisor to post the most detailed and scathing of reviews.  While the reception area was indeed the very same as the one in the website images, the room provided was not.  Tellingly, it wasn’t even in the same complex. 

Apple is not a backpacker.  He does not travel light and he does not travel cheaply.  No matter how sincere his budgeting attempts, there will be a $1200 leather jacket blowout in Paris or a $1400 Louis Vuitton bag purchase in Cannes.  He won’t even use hotel soap or shampoo for his face, body or hair (do you? he asks indignantly) for fear the mediocrity of the products will spoil his well-cared for skin and beautifully treated hair.  At any given opportunity he will travel business class (well, who wouldn’t?), with luxury luggage (usually), Louis Vuitton and Prada bags, thirty seven pairs of designer jeans and even a wardrobe of sunglasses to flatter every outfit and suit every occasion.  As Apple emphatically declares, sunglasses are the same as any other fashion accessory.  Not every pair will go with every outfit.  Alex Perry would be proud.

Out the back, past the pool, up an alley, around a corner, through a paddock, past the cows, into the chicken coop.  Thus began Apple’s nightmare in St Tropez.  Ok, you’re right, I made that last bit up – there were no cows (we’re in St Tropez after all) but by all accounts Apple’s accommodation was as filthy as a chicken coop and probably just as smelly.  If it looks like a chicken coop and smells like a chicken coop, it is a chicken coop. 

Like me, Apple knows lots of people.  And like me, Apple isn’t shy about crowing your virtues and fabulousness from the rooftops, from his facebook status updates to all of his selectively chosen 268 facebook friends (Apple is not a Random Adder) or equally, telling every last person he knows (and those he doesn’t know) to steer well clear if something has rightfully pissed him off.  Henceforth you would do well to be nice to Apple.  He’s an influential man.

While Apple was trying desperately to rise above the chicken coop smells and ignore the soles of his shoes sticking to the soiled floor every time he walked around his pre-paid room; in Avignon I had quickly snapped up the half price, eight-times-as-large Privilege Room before the rookie had a chance to change her mind.  Or worse, the manager returned and vetoed the whole thing. 

While Apple was anxiously praying his sporadic WiFi connection wouldn't drop out mid-upload of his scathing TripAdvisor warning, I was busily enjoying all the extra square footage and additional natural light afforded by the plethora of windows surrounding my corner aspect.  If only my room in Paris had been this size.

Lavender fields, Provence.
[Image courtesy vintageholidays.co.uk]

Avignon is one of those typically picturesque little towns in south eastern France surrounded by rolling hills perpetually covered in lavender.  You can buy lavender everywhere.  Lavender in little bags.  Lavender-flavoured nougat.  Lavender tea.  Lavender wine.  Lavender-scented chocolate.  Lavender oil.  Lavender lolly pops.  Lavender and Vegemite croissants (just seeing if you’re paying attention).  And let’s not forget, lavender crème brulee.  Of course.  On every menu.

The fortified walls surrounding Avignon’s well-preserved Old Town make for great views of the surrounding region and the adjoining Rhône river flowing past its left bank.  For those avid cyclists and fans of the Tour de France, the enormous behemoth that is Mont Ventoux rises majestically nearby as part of the Alps and is easily accessible from Avignon.  So if you’re a bit of a nutter like Online Trainer and you fancy modelling yourself on Lance Armstrong or pretending you are that cheating Spaniard Alberto Contador or any other member of one of the competitive professional cycling teams and you’d like to have a crack at riding to its summit (probably at the end of a nice quick 200km stage), you can happily make Provence your base.  Dubbed ‘The Bald Mountain’ for good reason, nothing can grow when it is shredded by wind speeds of up to 320km/hour (Wikipedia understates its actual severity by simply stating “it can get windy at the summit”).

Because all I did was eat I can tell you that Avignon features wonderful local Provencal cooking (or better still, 'gastronomy' as the French like to call it) that will keep you well fed and fuel your French Rolls nicely.  During my brief sojourn I managed to dine at a number of places but my two favourites I share with you here.  Both served contemporary Provencal cuisine within the walls of the old town. 

If you are searching for a gorgeous little lunch venue, particularly if it’s a sunny day, make sure you seek out 83.Vernet.  An amazing little find in a 15^th century Benedictine cloister redesigned by French-Algerian designer and creater of sassy, modern spaces, Imaad Rhamouni manages to meld together contemporary fabulousness without losing any of the integrity of the building’s 15th century charm.  Inside its walls is a serene courtyard with what looks like a small lap pool running through its centre.  If you’ve ever wanted to dine at three-Michelin-star Jardin des Sens in Montpellier but perhaps couldn’t afford mortgaging the house to do it, Laurent and Jacques Pourcel, the chefs behind Jardin des Sens, have now opened this bistro and bar so that their elegant but pricey cuisine is more accessible to a younger (and probably more hip) crowd.

The French love to decant their wine.  Everywhere I dined, the wine was expertly decanted and allowed to breathe and rest and settle and whatever else wine does once it is poured from one bottle of glass into another.  Online Trainer, with his years’ worth of wine instruction and education as a member of the University Wine Society (I still can’t write that without laughing at him) would of course be able to bore you senseless with hours of information on the wonders of decanting wine and would probably tell you it helps to coax out the subtle flavours and perfumes and nose, separate the sediment, allow the wine to aerate and to smooth out any harsher aspects. 

All I know, not having been a Wine Society member myself, is that in France, when they decant the wine they often pour it into what looks like one enormous, gargantuan wine glass.  It’s really the size of a small bucket.  A size well-suited to a few of my nameless "there's still room in that glass" cousins (you know who you are).  They're on my mother's side of the family.  Shhh.

L'Essentiel: gargantuan decanter

Of all the decanting establishments in France, L'Essentiel in Avignon was my favourite for the gargantuan wine glass mini bucket.  So huge was it that an entire bottle of wine could fit within it (which, before Online Trainer sends me an email, I know a decanter ought to do).  Had I been there with any one of my nameless cousins I have no doubt that with enough egging on, one of them would have attempted to drink the entire bottle from the gargantuan wine glass mini bucket decanter.  Without sharing. 

Never let it be said that when there is a dare on the table a cousin of mine won’t take the challenge.  In the words of cousin Wilma: it is game on, mole.

Again, I stuffed in the obligatory three course gastronomic fodder (when in Rome, as the saying goes) all of which I can safely recommend as gastronomy heaven.  A memorable meal (and if I could remember exactly what I ate, I’d tell you) made all the more memorable by that enormous, gargantuan wine glass mini bucket decanter.

And a lavender creme brulee, just for good measure.


* Richie Benaud: an Australian cricketer who played 63 test matches for his country and subsequently became a cricket commentator with a penchant for cream jackets. So distinctive was his appearance and voice that he was parodied in comedy sketches recorded by The Twelfth Man, all of which became best sellers in Australia.

Paris: Le 58 Tour Eiffel

"You would like to sit by zee window now, oui?". 

A waiter gestured towards the magnificent view of Paris, all twinkling lights and famous monuments.  Without standing up and craning our necks, we couldn't really see it ourselves from where we sat but we knew it was there so took his word for it.

Looking up. 
The Eiffel Tower, Paris 12.04.2011

Typical for someone like me, we'd arrived late with no booking.  The place was packed and the one available table was in a dimly lit back corner far away from the floor to ceiling glass windows showcasing the view.  But I am in Paris, I am at the Eiffel Tower, and I am hungry.  So I am staying.  Back corner or not.  Strangely, we did seem to have windows above us though which meant we could peer upward through the steel structure and watch the evening light show that turned the Eiffel Tower into a disco every night for 5 minutes, every hour on the hour (how the locals must love that).

Two courses down, one to go and because we had started late, other diners had now left.  No need to ask me twice.  Scuttling over to a prime position by an enormous window, waiters followed with our wine, mineral water, desserts, and anything else we'd left behind on the table.

All lit up - the Eiffel Tower.
[Image courtesy of Apple]

As with most tourist icons, my expectations had been low in terms of food and service quality.  Blast that misconception right out of the water because at Le 58 Tour Eiffel, both were excellent.  Like every other bistro, bar and restaurant in France, it offered the obligatory three course menus for a set price  (I'm not sure why this is so popular throughout all of France, but the place is rife with set menus).  Talk about fabulous though.  The food was tasty, beautifully presented and very filling, the wine (French, what else would you drink?) was smooth and complimented the meal, the views (once we got them) were incredible.  I was busily making a mental note to tell every single person I knew that they had to come here to eat.  Just as soon as they flew all the way from Australia, of course.  Don't leave Paris without dining at Le 58 Tour Eiffel, I would tell them.  Take my word for it.

Sydney is 16,962km from the Eiffel Tower.  I know this because on the very top tier - 276m above the ground - there are signs pointing out the distances to major cities around the world.  It feels incredibly high, that top tier.  The elevator that takes you to the very top is glass (naturally) and as you rise, you gaze out and wonder two things.  How strong are these cables? and, is it ever going to reach the top?  The journey seems to take a remarkably long time.  You just keep going up and up and up and up. It is an extraordinary feeling to be up so high atop such a famous steel structure, staring over all of Paris.  From way up here the stylish, beautifully-designed city stretches before you as far as the eye can see. It's almost unfair how many magnificent historical buildings there are, all artfully lit at night.  When you're from a country that is only just over two hundred years old, historical buildings are few and far between.  And 'historical' in Australia is vastly different from 'historical' in France.  By comparison, our historical buildings are brand new.

Despite the unseasonably warm weather Paris was experiencing, when you're at the top of the Eiffel Tower as the sun goes down, it is freezing.  And windy. Hold-onto-your-hat, anchor-yourself-to-the-steel-girders windy.  My advice: tie your hair back and take a jacket.  A very, very warm one.  And then hurry back down to eat at Le 58 Tour Eiffel.