Explore with Fran

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

You are so cool

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There is a great advert on the TV in the UK for a broadband service based in Yorkshire.  In the advert, lots of fanciful things are just about to begin before the protagonist shouts the inimitable catchphrase.  Recently I’ve had many an occasion, way too many to be totally truthful, to recant that phrase, if not out loud, but then most definitely sotto voce.

And what causes this mild form of tourettes?  Sydney has been taken over by the “hipsters”.  Starting with the Bondi Hipsters, Bondi Hipsters – YouTube

, the phenomenon has made it’s way either by stealth, or good transport links, over to the North Shore.  No longer can I leave the apartment and walk a few yards before encountering a hipster clothed in Mosman mulberry.  And not mulberry of the very expensive handbag variety, but mulberry the colour.  I thought it was plum.  But no, I was corrected.  Definitely mulberry.  And it has to be the right tone of mulberry.  I was told this by a English friend who turned up in what looked suspiciously like a pair of washed out mulberry shorts.  Hmm, I have my eye on him.
To complete the look you have to also wear a pair of achingly cool old style, black rimmed glasses, sport a haircut that looks like something from the 80s with a laughable quaff, have one of the ubiquitous “fixie” bikes without gears, and you have your look.
And it’s everywhere.  As though the locals are bred in some kind of test tube and released into the world when they grow into their mulberry chinos.  I feel like I am in some kind of Hipster version of the Stepford Wives. 
Which leads me back to the advert, and the catchphrase, “You can stop that nonsense”.  You see, that’s not how we are made in Yorkshire.  We are simple, down to earth folk really.  Not feeling the need to look like everybody else to fit in.  We realise that by looking like everybody else, you become that exact opposite of cool.  And that bike, the fixie with no gears, yeah, maybe it does carry an air of cool about it, but I’d like to see you ride it and not just push it to the café, casually resting it against the wall whilst you order your soy skinny decaff mocha latte chino.
And don’t get me started on the lycra brigade.  Maybe next time…

My favourite day of the week?

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What is your favourite day of the week?  Is it Friday, like a couple of good friends of mine, who get their last working day of the week underway by bopping with their morning brew to McFly?  Is it Saturday, with long afternoons in the pub putting the world to rights?  Or Sunday, starting with a late, leisurely breakfast?
Can anybody guess the favourite day of the week for a traveller?  Here’s a clue, it’s not one to be found on a conventional Gregorian calendar.  When you are travelling long term, why would a Thursday be any different to a Tuesday, or a Sunday any better than a Wednesday.  The significance of days disappears and you just live.  Live for whatever moment you are in.  I guess this is where the quote, “forever is composed of lots of little now’s” comes from.
So, what marks a day out as being different?  Laundry day.  There.  As simple as that.  Not pay day.  Not the weekend.  But laundry day.  The day that you get to smell fresh clothes again.  The t-shirt you have basically lived in.  For the briefest of times, it’s like new all over.  You don’t own many clothes as a traveller.  Where would you carry them all?  So each item gets recycled a lot more that you would at home.  A lot more.  It does make you realize how little you need.  There is a sense of liberation.  Being set free from the shackles of consumerism.  So, on laundry day, it’s like the first day you set out from home.  New bag, packed with clean, fresh smelling clothes. 
This is the other perspective that travel gives you.  Not just immersing yourself and learning about new cultures.  Not solely making new friends in foreign climes.  But how to take the pleasure and see the beauty in the little things life gives us.  Like clothes smelling of lavender.
How many of you have laundry day as your favourite day?

An ode to Brighouse

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They say you can take the man out of Brighouse, but not Brighouse out of the man.
I say this is true.  Having been a very proud resident of this great little Northern market town for most of my life, I am now residing in Sydney, Australia.  And what I would do for a portion of fish and chips from the Dolphin (whoops, must remember it’s now Blakeley’s).  A cup of tea and a slice or two of well buttered bread on the side.  Or maybe one of Brayshaw’s famous pork pies.  Taken home and served us with a portion of real mushy peas.  Or perhaps even a slice of warm apple pie from the Merry England, making use of their newly acquired wi-fi to write my latest blog.  Finish off the day with a couple of economically priced pints in the Richard Oastler Wetherspoons pub.  I think even Brook’s restaurant is economically priced compared to Sydney.


You see, it is only when you become an expat that you realize just how much you miss these little creature comforts from home.  Distance makes the heart grow fonder?  It certainly does something, if I am coming over all misty eyed for “Briggus”.  Yes, Sydney has a world class dining scene.  One to rival the gastronomic capitals of London and Paris.  But you try and find a good pork pie.  Or a portion of chips that even slightly resemble the best that either Blakeley’s, or the Golden Hind serve up in yesterday’s Brighouse Echo without fanfare.  Good luck is all I say.  
Having left Brighouse only as recently as July this year, I know that these things will take some adjusting to.  The delights of Brighouse may fade and become just a memory.  Those balmy (really?) evenings meandering along the canal, feeding the ducks.  That said, it seems I’m not alone with a fondness for Brighouse.  It even has it’s own love song.  Thanks to a good friend for recently pointing me in the direction of Roger Davies singing “Brighouse on a Saturday night” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Al5YWeBpDw
In the meantime, if anybody wants to send me a few pork pies…

Month 3, so soon?

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Be careful what you wish for, I thought as I signed the contract for my new job.  The next 6 months planned out.  Not a feeling I enjoy very much if I am searingly honest.  Over the last few years, 6 months seems to be the threshold before wanting to venture out and do something new.  6 month work contracts.  6 month apartment leases.  I’d throw in 6 month relationships but I don’t seem to be able to even reach that point.
However, being realistic, to live, and enjoy, living in central Sydney, one must work and earn a fair amount of money.  Take the Faustian pact to pay for the trappings of a harbourside lifestyle.  And quite some lifestyle it is, let me tell you.  Arriving in August, the back end of Winter, I have been blessed with the kind of weather that I came here for.  Spring is developing nicely and I am already looking forward to Summer and lazy days at the beach.  I have just had a conversation with the girl in the bottle shop about whether I miss Yorkshire.  And in truth, I do.  A lot.  It’s just the weather I don’t miss, especially now as the cold really appears to be settling in.  It makes me shiver just thinking about it.
So, for this much warmer expat, month 3 starts with me securing gainful employment, my own apartment and with transport, Besbi the Bimbo.  Besbi being the brand of scooter that I bought recently.  Bimbo being the first word that came into my head starting with B.  I have always wanted to own a scooter.  But like lots of things I have always wanted to do, I never quite got around to it in the UK.  Most probably because of the constraints with the weather.  How often would I be able to take her out?  Would I want to scoot through the cold Yorkshire winters?  A categorical ‘no’.  But frequent travels in Asia, regular trips to Italy, and reading the Peter Moore books (www.petermoore.net/) about his adventures on numerous Vespas stoked the fire that burned inside.
And serendipity played a large part too.  My first months accommodation in Sydney was secured via the www.airbnb.co.ukwebsite and I was staying with a fellow UK expat, StephWana.  Steph had just taken the scooter learners course and bought a scooter.  Seeing her buzz off on that to visit friends sealed the deal for me.  Before you could say, where’s my helmet, I had booked the 2 day course online and was counting down the days.
Despite almost missing the start of the course, due to some flaming gallah directing me to the wrong bus stop, I navigated the course successfully.  The day after completion had me sitting the theory test and walking out the proud holder of a learners motorcycle licence.  Being able to ride a bike up to 600cc believe it or not.  I now have to carry “L” plates for a minimum of 3 months, “P” plates for 12 months, then I have full licence.  Until that point I am unable to have even 1 beer (zero tolerance) or carry passengers.  But beyond that point I am able to carry who I want and get blazing drunk in the saddle.  Mum, that’s a joke, don’t worry.
Other than scooting around the North Shore and exploring the Northern Beaches the other activity that has brought a big smile to my face is the resumption of my weekly 5 a-side outings.  I still wonder on a Tuesday night how Deemus and the boys have got on.  Whether they have maintained the winning streak against our nemesis, Sven, and the arch enemy.  Thursdays come and go and I still get the emails from Mr Ryan Price laying out the teams for the game at the Shay stadium.  Miles and miles away and yet I still yearn to play in those games.
So now, I have a run out on Saturday mornings with a very polyglot bunch of guys.  Brazilians, Australians, English and the odd waif and stray.  One thing I am still getting used to is playing in such heat.  For the first time in my life I look forward to my few minutes break playing in goal.  No, it’s not an age thing!  It’s the heat.  It is.  Honest.  And the thought that drives me on?  The cold beers that I know are nestling amongst the ice in the blue esky I can spy at the side of the pitch.  I just need to remember, no scooting about after, I need to keep my licence.
That’s about all for today folks.  It’s Wednesday and I need to make the most of my remaining week of freedom.  The beach awaits with the words of a great song in my ear, “…just don’t forget the sunscreen”.
Adios.

It’s not so grim oop North!

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The great thing about actually spending time as a resident in a city, rather than a tourist, is that you really get the opportunity to see “beyond the brochure”.  Do more than scratch the surface.  A bit like peeling an onion, by slowly removing the layers, you start to see what is hidden under the surface. 
I have spent many a long holiday in Sydney, even living here, albeit briefly, in 1994.  And yet, I’m discovering that I have hardly scratched the surface of all it holds.  There is a side to Sydney that I haven’t seen before.  I suspect, not many tourists have seen it.
What we tend to see as tourists, is the side portrayed in the numerous guidebooks and travel shows.  Picking out the spots our friends have recommended to us from previous trips.  The picture-postcard vistas.  The Opera House, the Bridge (designed and built by a British firm who were also responsible for the Tyne bridge), and the iconic yellow and green Manly ferry.  And these are fabulous experiences.  Sights that absolutely should not be missed.  Veritable rites of passage for any visitor to Sydney.  Even to the regular visitor, the sight of the magnificent harbour as you casually chance upon it strolling from the CBD is breathtaking.  Often described as the most beautiful harbour in the world.  If it isn’t it is definitely a contender, up there with Hong Kong.
That said, who hasn’t sat at Circular Quay, or in the Opera Bar, cooling off in the summer heat with a cold sauv blanc, or Meursault if you are posh, and stared wistfully into the smiling, somewhat sinister, eyes of Luna Park across the sun-kissed water and wondered, what treasures are over those hills?  What lies beyond the leafy suburbs of Kirribilli, Milson’s Point, Cremorne, and Taronga?  It’s like an Australian Parallel Universe just begging to be checked out.
This is the first time I have spent time on Sydney’s North Shore; what a delight it’s been.  Starting in Neutral Bay then moving into Mosman, a whole world has opened up to me, one that I would never know about as a tourist.  My local beach is a 10-minute walk away, Balmoral, and it is simply beautiful.  Smaller and less developed than many of Sydney’s larger beaches, it has a real beach suburb feel to it.  From dawn ‘til dusk you can see runners, swimmers, kayakers, walkers, paddle boarders and more, of all ages, taking advantage of this beautiful little spot.  Sunday sees the Rocky Island outlet transformed into a vast picnic area. I even know of one young man who proposed to his girlfriend on that very spot.  Good choice mate. 
I love to walk down to Balmoral, wander bare foot along the sand, the ocean lapping over my feet and just take in the splendor.  Marvel that I actually live here.  I think I’ve found where I will spend my birthday on Xmas Day.  Oh, and did I mention the outstanding fish and chips on offer from the “Bottom of the Harbour”?  Just watch out for the hungry, swooping seagulls.
In the other direction, down the hill to Chowder Bay is the beach at Clifton Gardens, and the lesser known (to me, honest) “nudist friendly” beaches of Obelisk and Cobblers.  At least I now have somewhere to go when my budgie smugglers are in the wash!
And this is just my suburb.  One of many such beach suburbs on the North Shore.  Recently, I took the scooter on a run up the Northern Beaches, calling in and drooling at places such as Freshwater, Dee Why (for fish and chips on the beach – notice a foodie theme?), Whale Beach and finally, Palm Beach.  Not so much as a homage to Home and Away, but more practically as this is where you run out of road.  This is the gateway to the Hawkesbury River, another area that demands to be explored.  Another on my North Shore to-do list.
With so many beaches to visit, camp sites and National Parks on my doorstep, I do wonder how long it will be before I eventually get back over to the Eastern Suburbs and reacquaint myself with Bronte, Coogee, Clovelly and the hip, rough around the edges, backpacker delights of Bondi.  Which reminds me.  If you want a laugh, YouTube the “Bondi Hipsters”, made me smile anyway.
‘Til the next time…this Pom has a fish and chip shop to visit.

And so to Spring…

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They say that time flies when you are having fun.  Well, as you get older, time just flies.  It’s not that I haven’t been having fun.  I have.  Lots of it.  But it’s not all schooners and burger deals at the Manly Wharf Hotel. (ed. point for readers not familiar with Australian hostelries, all pubs are called hotels for some incongruous reason.)  I have seen off winter, hardly a drag, and we are now firmly in spring.  Coming up to the end of month 2, seriously?!?, I thought it was time to update you on what this ex-pat has been doing.
 There has been a healthy dose of real life thrown in the mix since we last spoke.  And by real life, yes, I do actually mean real life.  I have been trying to focus on one thing at a time, and in the order of my current priorities, that was apartment hunting, more of which later, and the mind numbing tasks of setting up things like utility accounts for said apartment.  This dull, but essential role continues as I have yet to buy a television and procure broadband.  For my internet fix I am currently relying on my nifty little Telstra mobile Wi-Fi device (not ideal for streaming the United matches online, as I discovered to my disdain after setting the alarm for 4.45am on Thursday to watch the Champions League match) and the Wi-Fi on offer in coffee shops. 
The latter of which is not as ubiquitous as I had imagined.  This came as a bit of a surprise having travelled the length and breadth of South America last year and never having a problem getting online.  Apart from maybe in Salento, Colombia, when I arrived very late after being detained by the Colombian army, very grouchy and found out I would be without Wi-Fi for the subsequent 4 days.  However, I digress.
The last few weeks have seen me secure an apartment, subjecting myself to the tortuous process that is followed in Australia when looking for rentals.  Rather than phone the agent and make an appointment that suits you, you are “invited” to join all the other punters in a 15-minute open house.  And in you all traipse at the same time, literally falling over each other to see if the modest abode will suit both you and your budget.  Another quirk is that all rent is quoted weekly, another slight shock to the system when I discovered the flat I liked was not $450 per month, but rather per week.  So for a calendar month, my rent is almost $2000.  This translates to approximately £1300 at current exchange rates.  I better get a job?  No shit Sherlock!
That said, I moved in this week and love it.  And it’s in a great suburb, called Mosman, a leisurely 10-minute walk to my local beach at Balmoral.  You may even have seen some of the pictures I have been posting of it.  OK, I’ll rein that in a little.  Did I mention the fish and chips there?  And the local pub (hotel) is a great spot.  The Buena Vista Hotel.  I’m sat in here now having a cheeky schooner on thirsty Thursday.  Just wish the Mosman hipsters in the corner would keep the noise down a little, I’m trying to work over here.  And for the city?  Just a 20 minute bus ride away so convenient for when I get that all-important job.   If I so wished, I could even jump on a ferry at Mosman Bay to the city.  This could be a fun diversion some mornings to break up the daily commute.
My next challenge is just need to get used to living on my own again.  It is un-unnervingly quiet.  For the last month, I have been in a flat share, via the fantastic www.airbnb.com, with an English girl called Steph.  I better be nice as I have a feeling she might be reading this.  I knew we were going to get on when the first time we met, she poured me a large glass of wine.  This was followed by a “quiet” night out, where we got slowly plastered.  Being asked to leave the pub as they wanted to close, and then reconvening on the balcony of the apartment with more wine.  Boom.  We bonded.  I think she was just relieved that I wasn’t Russian.  Well Steph, what you gonna do?  Sit in?
That’s about all for now folks but stay tuned for the next episode and updates on my new mode of transport (I’m sure most of you already know), how I’ve become a regular of a bar at Darling Harbour, my job search to date, and how I’m now playing 5 aside football on Saturday mornings with a bunch of Brazilians.  Yeah, you read that last bit right.
Hasta luego amigos, see you soon!