Homesick

From France, sometime.

Bulgaria

Cute cafe in Sofia- not how I was feeling though.

 Look, Bulgaria and I got off to a really bad start.

5

Me, cherishing the moment- Santorini

Five weeks. Five weeks out of forty eight. It’s one tenth of the time I have been away and that thought is captivating. In a way that is both thrilling and terrifying.

Things I didn't think I'd miss:

Going to the bathroom in a train station without cramming my bag in with me.
Australian coffee.

Hugs. Literally, just platonic friend contact in general. It's so weird to go this long without actually touching anyone.

Trees. Romania helps with this. It's very tree friendly.

The traveller I will never be

There are things about travelling that I love.
I love meeting people just like me. In everyday life, meeting a solo traveller is a rarity. You field questions like, "You're travelling alone?" "In Eastern Europe?" "Won't you get lonely?"
The thing is. No. No. I don't get lonely. I get homesick and that's a completely different thing. I miss my friends. Which even if I was travelling with someone I knew, I would miss the people from home anyway. I would miss my family and my best friends and uni (ridiculous) and dancing with an entire group of people I love.
Because the truth is, travelling alone is excellent. You get to decide. You get to decide where you go. How long you stay there. And the thing is, the common misconception, you are not alone. Not unless you want to be. You find people. You find people who are the same. Who are different. You find people and groups of people to be with. To drink with, to travel with, to cook with, to chat with. And if all you want to do is stay in bed and watch tv shows back to back, hey, you can do that too.

But. You also meet people that make you realise how much you like travelling alone. And how rare it is to find someone just like you. It makes me treasure the time I had with Tild, exploring Spain and Portugal. Because everyone travels differently. And no matter how great they are, you can't stay with them  for long. I meet people that make me realise how cautious I am. Safety is always number one. Which is not necessarily a bad thing.

I will never be a hitch-hiker or a person who asks people in the street if I can home-stay with them. It seems ridiculous to me, even the idea of doing that. But as I continue to travel I meet people who routinely stay with people they don't know, get into the cars of strangers and they do it alone. They do it alone as women. I spent some time with a french girl called Marie, through Bosnia and Hercegovina and I don't think I've met someone so dedicated to travel. I don't like the way she travels, don't understand it, would never do it myself. But I can appreciate the idea of travelling for six months and being able to spend next to nothing. To have the confidence to trust the kindness of people. She travelled in Tasmania two years ago and on finding herself with no accommodation one night, knocked on doors and ended up being hosted by a 70 year-old who told her amazing things about his life. he stayed with Maoris in New Zealand. She moves through countries learning about the people from the people. She couch-surfs. She trusts.

I spent a week on a cruise in Croatia. It was incredible and I'll get around to writing about the drinking and dancing and beauty of it all soon, but again, it makes you think about the traveller you are. I'm not a tour traveller. I will travel with Topdeck again in Turkey (money, time, safety) and I will have just as much fun. But I do believe in doing things slow. In doing things in a way that exposes me to a place. I don't actually want ot be somewhere that I can leave my expensive stuff lying around. Because that's not travelling, it's a holiday. I love holidays, but that's not what I'm doing here.

In Dubrovnik, Marie knocked on doors for us (me and two other French guys) to find somewhere free for us to stay. I had booked a hostel, but it was out of town and was stuck with the group and the car. The idea of a place for free doesn't appeal to me. Maybe it's some kind of infringing politeness. What do these people owe me, that they would give me a place in their home? Why am I here if I am just going to impose on other people? I know that it's not true. Some people can think of nothing more wonderful than sharing their homes, learning about someone else in return. I believe that travel should be available to everyone and that hitch-hiking and couch-surfing and home-stay make this possible. But I can't escape the uneasy feeling when people around me ask for things for free.

I was taught that my travels should be funded by me. That a major reason that I worked and saved for three years was for this. That I can stay in a nice hostel, that I can buy a nice dinner, that I can hire a kayak, or go into a museum if I want to. The flipside of this is that I'm not here to drink every night. I hear stories of people who spend a week in Budapest without leaving their hostel. Europe is here to be explored. The beautiful cities, the ugly histories, the people, the beaches, the mountains. I didn't save all my pennies for a big party. Yes, the nightlife is a huge part of a city, but it can also be the most expensive. And drinking and  dancing without my friends has never been so much fun anyway.

Above all, as a traveller, I will always be safe.
I lock my bag while I sleep, I double and triple check my stuff, I'm never out after dark by myself. Am I missing things? Maybe. But like when I make a decision not to jump off a tall rock into the sea, I just don't think it's worth it to play with my safety. It's not worht the weird sick feeling in my stomach. It's not worth my heartbeat racing, not worth panic, not worht discomfort. Paying for a taxi to get me to the airport on time, is worth it. Getting to bed early is worth it. Booking a nice place ahead of time is worth it. Waking up before the rest of the city is worth it. The kind of traveller I am values these things. The quiet, the parks, the museums, the cafes, the beauty of the wild thing that is Europe. But, most of all, the kind of traveller that I am is safe. 

Can we just stop now?

It's been a disastrous week for Australian politics. Our PRIME MINISTER, a post which should command more respect than she gets, has been accused of using gender issues as a political scheme- right before Australia seemed to erupt in an explosion of misogyny and stupidity. One has to wonder if karma just woke up and went- well, hey, she's had a tough time of it. Women have a tough time of it. No one ever seems to notice or want to talk about it. Let's make it so blindingly obvious that no one can argue that it's not a problem anymore.
And yet.
It seems like there is still an argument going on in the media, in society as to whether the prime minister is allowed to play the 'gender card'. To be honest, I don't know what the fuck they're talking about. First of all, as the prime minister, it's her job to discuss and counter the negative issues facing her constituents. As the leader of this country she has a right to talk about violence against women, the right to access abortion, wage inequality, all the way down to the insidious behaviour that seems to pervade our every day lives. She has the right to be treated with respect, not just because that's what her job demands, not just because she's a woman, but because she's a god damn person.

I can't seem to escape this. Even over here, away from it all , I am faced with gender inequality every day. I don't leave my hostel alone at night, I don't hitchhike, like many I've met out here. I pay more for a hostel that has high safety ratings. I am connected by social media every day to this tirade of news articles, youtube commentators, Facebook pages and twitter posts that alert me to this very problem.

And my big problem?
I just can't believe it. It literally hurts my brain to try and come to terms with the fact that I live in a society that seems to value me less. I can't figure out how it is possible. Where are these men? Are they the men I know? Single it down to just me, I can't imagine any man I let into my life categorically believing that as a man, he is better than me. Am I just around the wrong men? (The right men, obviously). Or does it occur when we can't see each others faces? When it's a social construct, when it's not 'Niki' but 'women' or 'those women' or 'sluts' or ugly women, fat women, beautiful women, smart women. When it's not your sister, your daughter, your mother? That's where the idiots who believe this garbage thrive. In the anonymity. They aren't dissing their wives- they're talking about 'other women'. Or you know what, they are talking about their wives, but they love their wife, so insinuating that she should stay where she belongs or dress a certain way or never be employed in a certain profession is a-ok. I love women, but only if...

But actually, you know what? They aren't talking about 'other women'. They are talking about our prime minister. Why aren't we more upset?
Why are we letting people play the 'misgynist asshole' card so much?

Stress

Whenever I feel myself getting stressed out, I think of that bit in the Holiday where Cameron Diaz is talking about how stress causes premature aging. I don't consider myself an anxious person as far as things go- I'm pretty relaxed. I try not to let things get to me, understanding that so much of it is beyond my control. But hell, this trip is going to put a few years on me.

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade is a cool city. Like, the kind of place I would love if I lived here- although, according to Aleks, my friend and tour guide, the weather would kill me. It's not a beautiful city, the entire thing is a palette of greys and more greys. But at street level and there are so many parks, the streets are lined with trees- the place has a lot of charm, in the end.

Solo

Let us note that all journeys have their surprises. Unexpected plans and changes come out of the woodwork to alter things. To change plans that were made months ago. To cut through the idea you had when you started dreaming about it in the last summer you had. This idea, that bubbled out of a sunny backyard conversation or late at night, when you were talking about how fun it would be to go here, to go there, to travel with you. And when it was cold and you had made soup and you and her decided that you would run away to Spain the next time you could. Why not Portugal too? Two weeks only, we can do that.

On a boat

Having my parents around for the last week of being in Tours was great. We spent time with all the teachers at a big dinner on Tuesday, having a brunch with Brigitte, Holley and my friend Claire. Saying goodbye to Sarah, another assistant at the wacky Mamie Bigoude creperie. Saying goodbye to Olivier and his family over dinner in the country.

And then we headed south.

Saying Goodbye

Saying goodbye to Tours, I wanted to write a post on some of the things I have done during my time here that haven’t warranted a post, but made up my life as I lived here.

These include:

Feminist List

I’ve been reading Caitlin Moran’s book, How to be a Woman, and the overwhelming message is that it’s great to be a woman. That feminism is exactly what you want it to be. It’s about taking all the bits you like about being a woman and having the choice to not do things just because someone else says so. It’s about doing whatever you like, reaping the benefits of being a woman. Looking at a situation and asking yourself: is it patriarchy that is telling me to do this? Am I doing this out of some consideration that it is a female’s place?

So, I am feminist. I love being a woman. Scratch that, I love being a person. I love my squishy bits and my tendency to cry at the drop of a hat and I like the way my hips move and my brain does math and eyes are blue. In loving myself as a person and a woman in this way, I am perfectly justified in believing in equality. Because that is feminism, idiots. No sarcasm, no irony, no fear of being aligned with a shouty self-righteous unwashed, unsexed prude. That is not feminism. Although, let’s be honest, I am shouty, unwashed and unsexed at the moment (I’m living on a boat with my parents, far away from my boyfriend).

Why six months is enough + Teacher worship

In Tours, I spent around six and a half months. Twenty-nine weeks. Twenty-three of them I had school. I worked three or four days a week. Twelve hours- or less- as the last few weeks of tests and school trips and changes in schedule have taught me. I do not mark homework-or any kind of work. And I love it. I love this job. I love talking to the students, getting to know them, hearing the silly things they say, getting excited that they can finally conjugate properly or know that you have to say ‘I am sixteen,’ instead of ‘I have sixteen’. It’s awesome, amazing and fun. And I am good at it. Yes, it helps in a giant class of boys that I am a twenty-two year old female. Yes, when I tell them to be quiet, they listen more than they listen to their other teachers. But I have had these same teachers tell me how good I am with them.

Les Fumeurs

One thing that I was both expected and surprised by in France was the number of smokers. It’s very European, I get that. Very French. But I didn’t imagine the level. I didn’t even think about the students. That I work in a place where sixteen year olds roll their cigarettes as they walk down the stairs after class. That only one person in a class of fifteen year olds has never smoked before. At home, you walk around, and second hand smoke almost doesn’t exist. Here, it’s a constant. And the number of smokers is rising. Five years after the smoking bans in public buildings, bars and clubs were put in place, the precent of smokers has risen.

Portugal

Porto + Lisbon

Harrowing taxi rides. Freak outs over baggage. Near panic attack on the plan. I think I came close to killing Tild and myself that morning with all my stress.

And we arrived in Porto.

Barca

Besides Paris, I don’t think I have wanted to live somewhere within 5 minutes of getting there. But Barcelona, it got me. In fact, I don’t even think Paris was that quick. Within five minutes of getting off the metro, I was faced by some of the most beautiful buildings I had ever seen.

TED Loop

Over the last few days, I have been trapped in what I like to call, the 'TED loop'.

TED, if you have never heard of it before, is a global set of conferences, running annually since 1990. The basic concept is 'ideas worth spreading'. Brilliant people giving brilliant talks about everything and anything that is new and powerful and interesting. Things that should be changed, things that have just been invented, things that we believe true which are actually false and things we never thought about before, solutions to problems we don't know exist.  The talks are uploaded online, which leads to my problem.

This place is a magical wonderland.
If I so choose, I can watch videos on, but not limited to:

The girl with twelve pairs of legs, here. And her talk on the power of adversity. And ten years earlier, her first talk at TED.
The girl who asked for school, here.
What's wrong with schools, here.
Statistics on the population, wealth, and how the difference between the third world and the western world doesn't really exist, here.
Can we change our personality with our posture, here.
Gangster gardening, here.
Ethical foie gras or a guy who just wants to 'give the geese what they want', here.
The brain in love, here.
Building green, here.
Try something new, here.
A world without oil, here.
Autism, types of minds, and what the world needs, here.
The first part of this one is excellent.
This one changed how I eat, in France at least.
Power of introverts, here.
Council of dads, here.

These are a few of my favourites, but let's be honest, by tomorrow I will have watched many many more. I am stuck in the TED loop.

On things I can’t forgive and will not forget.

While in Spain, I had the opportunity to look at the way I see the world, the things that are uniquely important to me and things that I think should be important to everyone, ever, period.

Off Again

Aware that I am still missing Christmas posts and French posts, thought I would reappear in blog land with a far more recent one. Here is the beginning of my journey to Spain in the school holidays of last month right up until yesterday.

Christmas Beginnings

So, I had been sick after the foie gras incident, so sick that I could barely stand at school. It took five days to recover. But that Saturday was so perfect that it made up for it.

Les Soldes: On Saving

My photo wall- the view from my bed

A girl who is working in Orléans (close to Tours) has started a blog- her discussion of the 'soldes' (sales) here in France is funny, especially as I have fallen prey to them a little in the last few weeks as well. Thanks, Zara, H&M (horrible companies).

You can find it here.

It also points to the drama of living on our pay check issue. Something that as I left Australia with all the money I had left from working the last three years during uni is not so much an issue for me.

At least, it wasn't at the start.

Weight and the French Girl Paradox

Going into January I had honestly thought that I had put on weight in France. Yes, not something I would normally blog about- the idea that a kilo or two actually matters in the whole scheme of things is ridiculous. But it highlights one of the totally crazy things  that has happened since my arrival in France. Namely, the French Girl Paradox.

Comments

Tiny wee post letting you know I  fixed the comment issue- people can comment now even if they don't have wordpress or gmail accounts.

To make the post more fun-

I bought a print from the artist who's work you can see here.
France appropriate shirt.
Jealousy never gets old.
Trying to make my nails do this for the last week.
This is perfect.
I will go here.

Chateaux and France and Patrick

Here we are: Post-England, back in Tours. End of November.

I am not sure how I feel about this

I felt it tonight. That feeling you get when the plane touches down, the train pulls into the station, your car turns onto your street. You see the lights of your city, the taxi creeps closer and cuts over the hill to the bridge. Driving into Hobart in a taxi is something I have experienced so often as the daughter of travellers. I have been away for weeks (never this long) but have always felt that pull when you see it. Felt the bubbles rise in my stomach. These bright lights sneaking under your tired eyelids and bringing you back from your voyages.

I felt it tonight. I saw the chain link fences that run by St Pierre des Corps train station, lit up in the dark as the train sped by. I saw the old trains lined in the concrete yards out there, eerie in their loneliness. The other people began to stand and collect their luggage, call their families and say they were close. The bright lights of the Carrefour and the rise over the hill before the speeding down into my city. Because it is my city.

And I thought "home".