Explore with Fran

Join me on the journey as I travel, eat, and drink my way around the world

Not 19 Forever

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Photo credit: photobucket.com
Not, as I thought, the collective noun for a bunch of old Ford cars (Cortinas), but in fact a (pop?) band.  The Courteeners.  A band responsible for the song of this blog title, played over the tannoy to a very happy Old Trafford as the 20thtitle was secured in style versus Aston Villa.
This being the main reason I have been walking around Sydney with a big stupid grin for the last week or so.  We have been champions elect for some time but until we made it safe I was still having nightmares about the end of last season.  When I see Man Utd play at the ANZ Stadium, Sydney in July, it will be back in our rightful place as Champions of England.
I also feel that the writing of my last blog seems to have been the best therapy I could have had.  Massively cathartic.  And heartening to get so many positive messages from friends.  The outlook seems sunnier now, quite literally despite it being Autumn, and I am doubly looking forward to my upcoming visit to England, just over a short 6 weeks away.  Yes, really so soon.  In typical Project Manager fashion, I have a plan, a timeline and a very full spreadsheet.  And for the last 2 months, Mum has been stocking up on the booze and has a few of my favourite meals lined up.  Aren’t mums brilliant!

The 6-week countdown to my trip ushers in the start of month 10 as life as an expat.  I’ll say it again.  Where is the time going?  I’ve had my well-documented ups and downs, but seriously, I’ve nearly been here a year already?  The writing of this blog really brings home to me how time is passing. 
People ask how long I will be here for, and whether this is “forever”.  What is forever?  I’m not sure it exists as an entity.  More a collection of “nows”.  All the “nows” add up to create the moments and various chapters of your life.  Some chapters are longer than others.  This current chapter is currently a good read, so it will continue.  That said, this is not how I want the book to end.  As alluded to in the last blog, this story is just getting started.  I’m ready for bigger and better things.
What else do I have that I can share with you?  Well, this has been a very expensive few days.  Last Thursday was ANZAC (Australia and New Zealand Army Corps) day in Australia, a public holiday.  ANZAC Day – 25 April – is probably Australia’s most important national occasion. It marks the anniversary of the first major military action fought by Australian and New Zealand forces during the First World War.  Following dawn services, the afternoons are traditionally spent in the pub playing a very strange game called “2 Up”.  A variation of “heads or tails” that gets the pubs packed and has loads of people gambling on the outcome.  I didn’t get roped into any gambling but did savour a few cold ones.  It’s fair to say that the following day at work wasn’t my most productive.
Then we get to Saturday and after a day at the beach, I return to the flat to make @scottbarton8 a cup of tea only to find that we were locked out of the flat.  The thing is, I had my keys, but just not the key I needed.  I have 2 locks on the apartment door.  A yale lock, for which I have the key and is the lock I always use.  The other lock is one of those that you lock from the inside and then close the door.  I never, repeat never, use this lock.  What must have happened is that I appear to have pressed in the lock, on the inside by accident, then pulled the door closed.  Upon my return, I could unlock the top lock, but not the bottom, the key for which was inside the flat.
We jumped in the car and drove to the letting agent, only to find it closed.  I then rang them, only to find they were out of town.  My only option it turned out was Mosman Locksmiths!  He promptly turned up and after about 5 minutes of what appeared to be just trying to ruin the lock, and $140 later, he had me back in the flat.  And before you tell me, yes I know, there is a lesson in there.  It seems I’m learning a lot of lessons recently.
So, as I go and copper up, working out how much spending money I will have for my trip to Europe, I will leave you to enjoy your emerging Spring (if you are reading from the UK).  What’s that you say?  It’s snowing again?  Spare a thought for me.  It’s Autumn here.

Maudlin Musings

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Just follow it

When you have everything, yet have nothing.  A lot of people think I fall in to the first part of that statement.  I feel increasingly like I relate more to the second.  On the surface, as outsiders looking in, the life of an expat, especially one lucky enough to be living in Australia seems idyllic.  Like one long holiday.  It’s all sun, sea and BBQs isn’t it? 
Well, no actually.  It’s just the same as living anywhere in the world.  I still have to go to work in an office 5 days a week.  Laundry and the weekly big shop still have to be done.  And my work shirts don’t iron themselves, unfortunately.
So you get the drudgery of everyday life, but without your friends, family, and loved ones around you to make it all worthwhile.  I’m now ten months into this expat experiment and of that, I have only really had one month of pure happiness.  And that was when I had a friend over from the UK at Xmas and I was able to share this beautiful city with somebody.  One month from ten where I have been genuinely happy.  Not a very good return is it?
A close confidante and me often play the “percentages game”.  What percent chance of you being there over 1 year.  Percent chance being there 2 years.  Percent chance of being there forever.  I think we have already ruled out that last one.  And she tells me she suspects I know in my heart already what the answer is.  I’m starting to fear that maybe she is right.  Yet I keep holding off.  Waiting for the switch to come on and for it all to fall into place.  But things are in place.  I’m working, in a good job, decent wage.  I’m managing to play a game of football each week.  I’m progressing well with my Spanish, now on level 3.  And I have friends outside work.  So all the components of a good life are in place.  Yet I feel empty.  Wondering if the switch will ever come on.
So when does perseverance become stubbornness?  How long do you give it?  Do you sit out the months simply because you feel you have to, and one day it will all be worthwhile?  Somebody keeps telling me that life is short.  It is, she is right.  It’s time I stopped running away, and started running towards.  Life dishes out harsh lessons.  I’m starting to learn from them.   At what point do you listen to your heart and follow what it is telling you?
I remember travelling through South America a couple of years ago, having a great time.  But I also distinctly remember when I realized it was time to go home.  I booked my flight and immediately felt a sense of peace, and happiness.  Enjoying the journey, yet counting down the days to being home with close friends I had missed.  I’ll never forget the unadulterated joy I felt at seeing my friends face as she picked me up from the airport.  So with this knowledge, I can’t help but wonder how I would feel if I booked a one way ticket home.  Not quite yet of course, as I am on those shores in just over 8 weeks.  But that trip will be the litmus test for me.  A temperature check on how I really feel.  Will I feel “home”.  Seeing all the friends I have arranged to catch up with, will it feel “right” and something that I no longer want to turn my back on?  Taking into consideration the second half of this year, I have no such plans for friends to visit this xmas and I already know I don’t fancy the prospect of spending my birthday here, alone.  
Just to further complicate matters, I think I could be starting to have my first mid-life crisis, feeling the urge to face my commitment issues head on.  I won’t blame the last book I read, “The Rosie Project” as my thoughts since turning 40 have been quietly bubbling away, but I’m ready to quit putting myself in isolation constantly.  I think my solo travels could be a thing of the past as I look for somebody to share the world with.  My search to find some meaning to the journey that is life is starting to narrow and what I am wanting for the second half (see previous blog on turning 40) is coming sharply into focus.  I’m in danger of allowing alone to morph into lonely.  I won’t allow that to happen.
Look out, the Yorkshire Expat is coming!

Where’s the baby?

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Calm down mum, there is no baby.  At least not that I know of.  Or at the very least that I’m admitting to.  If anybody comes knocking at your door, you don’t know where I am.  You think I could pay both Sydney rent AND child support?!?  And don’t you think you currently have enough grandchildren?
Photo credit: Classical Beaver
No, the “9 month” of the title refers to the month that I’m now entering as a Yorkshire Expat in Sydney.  Yes, I don’t know where it’s gone either.  Did I really leave the UK all those months ago?  Evidently I did, yet would struggle to describe how I have filled those months.  Without, of course, recourse to these blogs.  Maybe I should do that one quiet night, get a(nother) bottle of wine in and recall what I’ve been up to.
It’s been quite an emotional few weeks, for one reason or another.  Not withstanding the running out of Manchego cheese, counter balanced by finding an amazing Chilean pinot noir to drown my sorrows, the major event this month has seen me saying goodbyes.  When I was in the process for coming out here, a work colleague was counting down the days til he left Blighty, for these shores, on a 12 month working holiday visa.  And we were more colleagues than mates.  Sharing the Yorkshire love, we met up in my first week in Sydney and over the intervening months we have forged a really strong friendship.  Alas, the sands of time on his visa expired and he has now returned to the UK.  I’m keeping my eyes on the Nando’s share price as I expect it will be the thing that will suffer most. 
In traditional fashion we had his leaving drinks.  And boy, can he put away his liquor.  Decamped in Paradiso bar near work, at Darling Harbour, we were on the cinnamon whisky shots at about 16.30, followed not long after by Patrone shots.  Some drink I had never heard of.  Don’t worry, I was told, it’s only tequila based.  Oh, that will be ok then!  A great night was had.  I think.  It went by in a flash.  Or, as I tried to recount the day after, a series of flashbacks.  Shots…beers…friends…taxis…chicken tikka roll kebabs (seriously, you have to try this Neutral Bay speciality)…friend’s irate neighbours…wine…walks…international phone calls…unconscious.  In that order.  I think. 
I had a more sedate meeting this week.  Catching up over coffee with somebody I haven’t seen for a long time.  About 20 years she reliably informs me.  Really?  I was young then.  And had dark hair.  Moving out here last year we figured it was time we met up finally.  And we had a great catch up, chatting like we had last seen each other only the other week.  Us Yorkshire expats have to stick together.
On another topic, I seem to remember I had written about homesickness recently.  The “elephant in the room”.  So on that, I must pass on a heartfelt thanks to all my UK based friends.  Thank you all for knocking any residual homesickness out of me with all your arctic “spring” pictures.  I may be suffering in the unseasonal Autumnal heat, yet don’t have to contend with being snowed in and having my life disrupted as seems to happen with increasing frequency at home.  Be careful what you wish for is an adage close to this pom’s heart.  I just hope the snow has cleared by June.
At the time of writing this, I have the long Easter weekend ahead of me.  I think I’ll make another trip up to the Blue Mountains.  I went over Christmas when a friend was over from UK, and we couldn’t have picked a worse day.  The train ride itself was trying enough, with a very annoying little lad shouting “are we there yet” at every station.  On a 2 hour journey.  I kid you not.
And when we got there it was a proverbial pea souper.  Probably even worse, a mushed pea souper.  Not a mountain or a eucalyptus tree in sight.  Anywhere.  We had to buy a postcard just so I could prove to her that the “3 Sisters” mountain range does in fact exist.
Photo credit: environment.nsw.gov.au
Hopefully, this time around, I’ll get a better day.  You’ll find out next month.  Until then, hasta la vista chicos.

Dreams

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We all have them, to some extent.  Dreams that get us through the, sometimes, humdrum slog of everyday life.  Things we hang on to, strive for.  Work towards, setting goals along the way.  Milestones to tick off along the journey. 
For some people the dream is to fly into space.  Mr Branson is going some way to allow the more affluent amongst us to realize that dream.  For others, the dream is to have a little shed at the end of the garden that you can retreat to with a little scotch and a good book under the pretense of “doing a little work”.
But dreams are tricky to nail down.  They can often be a moving target, needing to be realigned at various times in your life.  Dreams can disappear in a flash.  A popular marketing strategy of a bank here in Australia is to portray large banks stealing your dreams.  By stealthily “robbing you” of the interest you could be earning.  But it is not just banks that steal your dreams. 
Who was it that said “life is what happens whilst you are making plans”?  This is so true.  Some events happen that we have no control over.  Or sometimes it’s a person that “steals your dreams”, leaving you ripping up the plan and starting again.  The strength you gain from this adversity makes the achievement of the dream so powerful.  The journey being the reward.
But, that’s the thing with dreams.  What do you do when you have achieved it?  What then?  Sit back and enjoy the achievement?  Bask in a warm self contented glow for a while?  Or does the achievement motivate you?  Showing you what we are capable in the short time we are here?
I had a dream of living in Australia.  You might have heard about it.  Sampling the fabled lifestyle of beaches and BBQs.  It took me a long time.  You could argue it had been a dream ever since first visiting in 1994 for a year on a working holiday visa.  But I persevered, and eventually, being granted my permanent residency visa in 2012 I upped sticks and moved here. 
This hasn’t been without its own challenges along the way, but I’m here, settled, working and enjoying the lifestyle.  

But here lies the rub.  

It was a dream that I have now realized.  Therefore, what does it become?  It is no longer there, on the horizon dragging me through another Monday morning at work.  Safe in the knowledge that the job was a means to an end.  Another day, towards another pay day, towards the travel fund, towards the dream.  In some respects, the dream has become the end.
So I have a quandary.  Do I become like the bloke who settled for his little shed at the end of the garden?  Or do I aim for space with Mr Branson, metaphorically speaking?  What becomes the new dream?  Now I look back, the years I have waited to get to this point have passed by in a flash.  I know the next few years will seem to pass at an equally frenetic pace.  So I need to make sure I am still moving forward.  Achieving something worthwhile.  The difficult question I now have to ask myself is, by maintaining the new status quo, am I developing, or stagnating?
And this stymies me.  I just don’t know.  What I do know is that I am starting to get that itch again.  And when that happens, I don’t know myself where we will end up.  Maybe it’s the curse of the unattached.  Floating and bobbing along the sea of life without the ballast of a partner to keep you grounded.  Who knows, maybe the ballast is what I am ultimately looking for.  Chi cerca trova, so goes one of my tattoos (he who seeks will find).   The search continues.
When I do take stock of my life, and start thinking about what I want to achieve in 2014, things may become a lot clearer.  

When they do, you will be the first to hear.

Don’t Hassle the Hoff

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And with the passing of February we say goodbye to summer. Officially the first day of Autumn on March 1st and the countdown to winter begins.
I always chuckle to myself when I hear Australians talk of winter and the need to “rug up”. I mean, winter to us from the northern hemisphere conjures up images of roaring fires.  Central heating on high. Hats, scarves and gloves. Using your work pass to scrape ice off the car windscreen before we can start the trudge of the daily commute. Winter in Sydney means long pants instead of shorts. Maybe putting a pair of socks on.  At a push.
There is talk of acclimatising. Getting so used to the summer heat that our northern skins immediately notice cold 28′ winter days. Inclement weather and nights so bitter that a friend of mine even has to pull the doona all the way up to his chin as he gets settled and tucked up for the night with Harry bear.  I’ll keep you posted if I need any thermal long john’s posting over.
Other then reverting to whingeing pom mode, what tales have I got to regale you with this month?
Some of you may have seen that I recently changed jobs. I left the academic world of the University of Technology Sydney (UTS) and moved to RaboDirect, an online savings bank.  This was not before we had a very special guest appearance at UTS.  We had a visit from Mr David Hasselhoff himself.  Let me make clear at this point that this was totally unrelated to me deciding to leave.
I’m still a little unsure why he had come to Sydney, and even more unsure why he decided to do a public appearance at UTS.  That said, staff meetings were put to one side as me and a good friend, Sponty, decided to go and get a prime viewing spot.  I think Sponty wanted to be as close as possible to hear the pearls of wisdom from the Hoff.  Whilst I was secretly hoping Pamela Anderson might spring out of a box in a Baywatch bikini.  Alas, my hopes were dashed.
Not long after, seriously, it was nothing to do with missing out on Pammy, I moved jobs.  I had interviewed last year for a role at RaboDirect and out of the blue got a request to go back for a chat.  In one day, the chat turned into a 12-month contract offer that I couldn’t turn down.  So now, I’m back in banking, that’s BANKING.  Working for the little guy, trying to “steal back the dreams of savers” that have been taken by the big evil banks, who shall remain nameless.
In between the excitement of the Hoff’s visit, and my subsequent disappointment, ok, maybe the lack of Pammy has hit me harder than I thought, and the start of my new job, I had a cheeky little trip to Hobart.  If you haven’t yet, go and read the blog that I recently wrote about this great little city.
The new job is located smack bang in the middle of Darling Harbour.  A cracking location.  Just as I was starting, my old mucker Rich Medley was leaving.  Unfortunately the time limit on his working holiday visa is coming to an end so he needs to pack up his thongs and return to the UK.  If anybody is looking for an excellent Business Analyst, Medders is your man.  Thanks for the intro at Rabo chief, and I’ll buy you a beer in the Percy Shaw in Halifax come June.
Last week saw me and a bunch of pals head out to the Sydney Football Stadium to watch the NRL rugby league season opener.  The Roosters, fielding Sonny Bill Williams upon his return from rugby union, facing off against the South Sydney Rabbitohs my adopted team. Not really my sport to be honest but a good occasion and as good an excuse as any to have a few beers.
Talking of which, there is a funny story related to this.  Due to the responsible sale of alcohol in Australia (RSA) a person in the ground is only able to buy 4 beers at a time. So along I popped with @scottbarton8 as we needed 5.  Upon ordering I got told I could only have 4, to which I replied there were two of us, and pointed to said friend.
The response? I can still only serve you 4. Your friend will have to buy the other.  Really?  He’s just stood here.  Sorry.  So we had the ridiculous situation whereby I ordered and paid for 4.  Got my change.  Handed it to my mate stood right there next to me.  He then ordered one beer with my money and then also got handed MY change back, despite the barstaff seeing that I had given him the money in the first place. Seriously Australia, your attempts to deal with drinking problems are laudable, but the way you implement them is laughable.
On that note, I’ll go put the winter doona on the bed and settle in for another month.
Hasta luego chicos.

Hobart: A love affair

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A love affair with Tasmania

Regular readers of this blog, and if you aren’t one of them, why not?, will recall I wrote a piece about my goals for 2013.
Amongst these was the objective of continuing to travel to new places.  I’ve started achieving this already with my recent trip to Hobart.
This was my first visit to Tasmania and now means that I have been to all the Australian states.  Hobart itself is the southernmost and second oldest capital in Australia.  Once a place teeming with convicts, Hobart has transformed itself since the 1970s into a thriving, dynamic, bustling cosmopolitan city.

Domestic travel in Australia

Like train travel, which I adore, flying domestic in Australia is a breeze.  Just turn up, board, and go.  But one thing I can’t quite understand is why there are no restrictions on liquids on the plane.  There I was, like a good little, well travelled passenger, and had all my liquids, in little 100ml bottles, in a see through bag.  And I get to security.  Nothing.  Bag goes straight through the scanner.  It transpires that the only restrictions are on aerosols and laptops.  Who knew.
My carriage awaits
Security cleared, obligatory airport drink drunk, it was time to make my way to the plane.  I was flying Jetstar, one of Australia’s budget carriers.  This is like a posh Easyjet.  Or like flying business class if compared to a Ryanair flight.  This was my second time flying with Jetstar this year, and despite slight delays both times, the experience was a very pleasant one.  I even had my own seat, with a number assigned and everything.

The Pickled Frog – Hobart

After a short flight, under an hour and half, I was touching down and on my way to town via the airport shuttle.  I was at the Pickled Frog backpackers some 30 mins later.  The Pickled Frog is a large, rambling backpackers converted from an old pub.  Upon checking in I soon found out that the friendliness I had experienced so far in my very short time here was genuine.  Everybody talks to you like an old friend you haven’t seen for a while.  A theme that continued throughout my whole stay.
I had a very fluid plan whilst in Hobart, which entailed eating, drinking and aimlessly wandering the old colonial streets.  A plan that I carried off with aplomb.
I ate well.  Contrary to popular belief, more than just fish and chips as well.  And I drank well.  Hobart is renowned for it’s beers.  And tasty they are too.
Tasmania’s finest food and drink

Historic Hobart

Hobart is a great place to just wander about.  I strolled the historic streets of Battery Point, having coffee at Jackman & Ross.  If you are ever there, check out the cake selection.  I wandered along the shore to Wrest Point, home of Australia’s first (legal) casino.  It looked like Australia’s emptiest casino the day I was there.  And reminiscent of what I imagine Las Vegas casinos to have looked like in the 50s.  My walk then brought me back, along Salamanca Place and into Salamanca Square where an old quarry has been transformed into plush bars, restaurants and cafes.
Sandy Bay

MONA – a first visit

But the best was saved until last.  MONA.  The Museum of Old and New out at Moorilla Estate, 12 kms north of Hobart’s city centre by the dedicated MONA ferry.  Recommended to me by a couple of colleagues who were somewhat taken by the knowledge of the soap you could buy there.
“You will see”, was all they would offer.  And I did see.  But not before having my mind blown by perhaps the best gallery I have ever visited.  Described by the estate owner David Walsh as a “subversive adult Disneyland”, I did wonder what was in store at the $75 million museum.  Let me tell you, it is spectacular.  A feast for the senses, visually demanding.  Stunning.
And the soaps?  Judge for yourself.
Apparently, belongs to Veronique
You can also buy Bianca’s, just in case you were in any doubt!

An Australia I once knew

Hobart, a beautiful place.  Refreshing antidote to the pretensions of Sydney trying a little too hard to be all grown up, a big city on the world’s stage.Hobart reminds me of an Australia I once knew as a backpacker, many years ago.  You can’t halt progress, but it is nice spending time with a city comfortable in its own skin, knows its beauty, and showcases it perfectly.

Hobart, hasta la vista.