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Excuse me, I'm an English speaker

The checkout girl was absentmindedly scanning my items while I was quietly patting myself on the back. I had managed to get through the two minute transaction without screwing up too badly when the girl turned to me and rattled off a question, bringing me back down to earth with a thud I swore could be heard across the universe.

I stared blankly at her with absolutely no idea about where to start translating what she had said.

There was an awkward two beat pause before:

"Oh, you do not speak French?" She immediately followed up with, a small laugh escaping her at the same time.

"Um, no. Sorry," I had to reply to my extreme embarrassment, quickly bagging my groceries so I could make a swift exit. It turns out she had simply asked if I had a loyalty card.

This was an all too common occurrence in my days in Paris. And eventually my vocabulary might have gotten to the point where I was able to go about my daily life in French and I was all over any questions about Australian beer. Just so long as no one asked my opinion about a book, movie or what I had done that day. But like every other English speaker in a foreign country my fall back was always sign language which was often-used and of exceptional quality by this point.

I will admit it, I was innately lazy about learning more simply because all my French lovelies were fluent in English, and in complete contradiction of all the cliches about Parisians the locals would more often than not swap to English when they heard my atrocious French accent. 

But chatting over 6am beers to two girls I had just met at a party was like another punch to the face. The conversation turned to languages; and they assumed straight away that because I was Australian I only spoke English. Fair point but not exactly what you want the first assumption to be, and equally embarrassing was their casual acceptance of this fact.

And this embarrassment has continued as The Boy and I continue our jaunts further into the east leaving behind any language we could slightly make sense of, and along with it our ability to say little more than hello and thank you. But what's worse is that as soon as our greetings have been heard we automatically get a reply in fluent English, a little humiliating when they are still in their teens and speaking what might be their third language.

So I just want to say right now on behalf of my kind everywhere.

I’m sorry but you’ll have to excuse me, I'm just an English speaker.

The only way to travel

As the heat of the August day started to wane The Boy and I hauled our backpacks on and hoisted ourselves on board an old train in a village on the edge of the Czech Republic. We were headed to Poland and had decided to save a few pennies and train it there. The train was old and noisy, the seats in the carriages were upholstered in a material straight out of the 1970s and judging by the noise the brakes made that was probably the last time they had been oiled too.

We settled down into our seats, opened the window wide so the smell of freshly mown grass could drift in, and immediately fell in love with the romance of it all. With a groan and a few too many bumps we started to move and the countryside flashing by was beautiful; fields and forests flashed by dotted here and there with tiny villages and families out enjoying the cooler afternoon. Our was only broken by the sporadic tin whistle from the train

I’ve long been a fan of train travel. Besides the obvious benefit of not spending hours on either end in an airport and then still having to push through customs at a snail pace, there’s the chance to actually see the country you’re travelling in rather than just the cities in all their touristic glory. As far as I’m concerned there’s something intrinsically romantic about train travel as well, it calls to mind the glory days of steam trains puffing across Europe, although considering there was a murder on the Orient Express there must be some downsides.

The Boy and I settled into our seats, the material hot behind our backs, for the four hour trip. But almost straight away The Boy was up and hanging out the window, camera in hand trying to snap a perfect shot of the sun sinking behind the trees, a forested area full of wildflowers or a solitary man working with a scythe in a field. Passengers came and went, seemingly amused by how enchanted The Boy and I were with our surroundings until darkness forced us to pull our heads back within the carriage and settle down. 

Its not often that I fall in love with a trip between destinations. Normally I'm grumpy from last minute packing and the rush to the station/airport all the while struggling with shoulder bruises from my too heavy backpack that I refuse to lighten, and by the time I've settled into my seat visions of where I am headed are usually dancing in front of my eyes. All the time in between daydreams is normally reserved for reading, sporadic writing or catching up on some shut eye.

But for now I think it's safe to say I'm a convert. At least until I buy tickets for a 10 hour trip.

Buda...Pest

Flying into Hungary under the cover of darkness The Boy and I had our noses pressed firmly against the plane window, eager for any glimpse of what awaited us in Budapest.

Walking out of the airport, slightly miffed about not getting a stamp in my passport, I realised I would be clueless for a while longer as the bus ride from the airport past beautiful but slightly decrepit buildings flashed by.


In my imagination Budapest is the perfect, romanticised mixture of east meets west; amazing history and beautiful architecture, big green parks and a culture completely different to anything I was used to. Walking out the door on my first morning The Boy and I realised this idea was right, but also very wrong.


Walking down Andrassy utca (street), a wide tree-lined boulevard with cafes, ritzy stores and restaurants and Heroes Square at one end both The Boy and I were drawing comparisons between Budapest, or Pest to be more accurate, and other European cities we'd been to. But wandering up side streets as we tend to do it was a revelation. In some areas a mere two streets back from the main boulevard it was like being thrown back into Soviet-era Budapest with once beautiful buildings, now crumbling and overlooking stark streets.

Once pretty now crumbling

Playing in a cement playground

But if anything these little shocks only added to the experience. Wandering around Pest every side street and alley became an experience, some filled with hidden trendy pubs, some completely empty, some opening up on parks and playgrounds. And even though it didn't match up with the pictures in my head I fell in love with Pest. It was a mix of the new and funky and the old but the scars from the past were still more than visible, (and if you don't believe me just head to Terror House, a memorial museum about the horrors committed during WWII and the Soviet era).

As a contrast walking across the famous Chain Bridge to Buda high up on the hill everything is beautiful...but fake. The streets are paved with cobblestones, the buildings look like they are straight out of the 16th century and the museums are to die for - including the National Gallery located in the former palace. But every second shop is filled with over-priced souvenirs and the prices sky rocket.

The opera house at sunset

Looking over the Danube to Buda

At the National Gallery

The view from Buda over Pest

It was almost a relief to descend the hill again and cross over to Pest and to reality again, and to sit down at a local pub for a cold beer.

After three days of just wandering, on foot and by bike, The Boy and I decided to extend our stay, to explore the Turkish Baths, the galleries and the night life and  it's this Budapest I rather than the tourist sites that still stick in my head.

And as far as I'm concerned that's the mark of a truly magnificent city.

On the road again

Two weeks ago The Boy and I had packed up our by now too many belongings, handed back the keys to the tiny apartment we called home and hit the road again.

Our mission: to drive south with two friends, S and G, and mosey about for 10 days to celebrate The Boy having a Big Boy Birthday.

The four of us jumped in a car and headed towards Bordeaux with a loose plan of how to spend our lazy days but at first it seemed as though our joint London/Paris bad weather had followed us south, clearing only long enough to walk along the Garonne river and to also celebrate Bastille Day at a street party where we discovered that there is a lot of spontaneous synchronised line dancing in Bordeaux. Unfortunately I'm not kidding, but to be honest it was a laugh to try and follow along with them. And the grey skies finally cleared long enough for The Boy, S, G and I to head out to Mouton Rothschild Vineyard, one of the ritziest in the area which is unfortunately closed for renovations for another year but that didn't stop the four of us from running around the flower-laden gardens and checking out the vineyards.

The Boy chilling out in Bordeaux

Pre-Bastille Day street party

Bare footing it at Mouton Rothschild

Sampling the produce

Beautiful Biarritz followed where we lazed about in the cold on the beach lined with hydrangeas, drank beers while watching the sun set over the water for the first time and generally reaffirmed our love for the beach which got a little out of hand by the time we drove over the border and into Barcelona. 

Beautiful Biarritz

Lighthouse walk

My first taste of beach in months

Sunset beers

Beachy sunset at Biarritz

Melting in the 35 degree heat during the long, sunlit afternoons the four of us were drawn to the beach in between Gaudi trips and tapas/sangria/beer breaks. Both The Boy and I have been to Barcelona before and love it, but it was fantastic to see it again through the new eyes of S and G. The infamous La Rambla still packed at 2am with tourists, hawkers and some of the dodgier types in society, La Sagrada Familia which I still maintain looks like a sand dribble castle, the fantastical Park Guelll and the underwater facade of Casa Batllo, even the best fresh food markets.

But for once I felt like I had all the time in the world, there was no need to rush around and see everything before I moved on and The Boy and I spoiled ourselves by wandering up secluded side streets to discover cool and quiet plazas. But the days were always topped off with a splash.

Casa Batllo

Wandering the quiet streets 

Park Guell

Beach time beers

The last stop was Avignon, a medieval city in south-east France that is still completely intact. This was a nerdy history stop for The Boy who had become fascinated with the city after learning it was home to the Popes for 100 years. Our arrival in the city was at the same time as a month-long theatre festival and the streets were a hive of activity, packed with performers and hawkers and the pale walls were covered in posters. But rather than being a distraction from the city the hustle and bustle actually made me yearn for a few free hours to sit at a cafe and people watch. But inside the Palais des Papes, the actual palace built by the French Popes in the 14th century, the noise of the streets receded and The Boy, S, G and I wandered from room to room, wing to wing. The interior of the palace was cool and quiet with white walls with the remains of a few frescoes dotted here and there but it was hard to picture it in all its former glory. 

The streets of Avignon

Inside Palais des Papes

Avignon

View from the tower

But all too quickly the road trip was over and the four of us packed our bags into the tiny car and started the long drive back to Paris and reality.

Our year of madness may be coming to a close, but for The Boy and I this is just the beginning of another long stretch of travels, and this time we're headed East.

Wish us luck!