Search Results for: label/Life

Cordoba, Argentina

February 26, 2011 by Fran Leave a Comment

Now, if anybody is paying close attention, or is even reading these blogs, you may notice an anomally with today’s posting. A careful look at the map of Argentina clearly shows that Cordoba is before Salta, if heading north. Yet my Salta blog was last week. Yeah, yeah I know, just bear with me. I don’t even know what day it is sometimes, let alone remember what town I’m in.

So, let’s deal with Cordoba. A city I was highly anticipating due to the fact that it is a colonial town that has preserved many of it’s buildings from that period.

The trip from Mendoza once again took myself and Grace through Andes and another brush with the border control. Although these are fairly painless, it always takes longer than it should and seems so inefficient. The process definitely needs a LEAN or Six Sigma approach applying.

The journey from Valparaiso entailed a 10 hour bus journey to Mendoza, a 6 hour wait in Mendoza, then an 11 hour overnight bus to Cordoba. Those buildings better be bloody breathtaking to make all this worthwhile. And the abiding memory of the journey? The obese, badly dressed, builder’s arse showing bloke on the seat opposite, snoring like a trooper. It got so bad at one point Grace actually shook him, woke him up and shouted at him. The look of surprise on his face! Priceless. With his shirt riding over his ample stomach, and the bouncing of the bus, we had a constant “truffle shuffle” to keep us entertained.

We arrived at 8am and got a cab to Palenque Hostel, which turned out be a very friendly hostel, just indicative of most city hostels in that there were not many places to chill with a book or a beer. The favourite activity of most of the backpackers there seemed to be to watch telly, loudly, from 9am in the morning. Honestly, kids, there is a whole wide world out there! And yes, despite claiming in previous blogs that I was finished with dorms, in Cordoba I shared a 6 bed dorm with 5 attractive Dutch girls. Worse ways to spend 3 days. I suppose!!

Cordoba did in fact turn out to be a good example of an old colonial town, with well preserved buildings and churches scattered around the centre. That said, the development in the town, not all good, overshadows some of the amazing architecture. The main square, Plaza San Martin, is surrounded by shops and cafes with the biggest, ugliest billboards you will see. Hardly an aesthetic contrast to the Igelisa Catedral, begun in 1577 and crowned with a Romanesque dome.

Day 2 in Cordoba we decided to head into the hills, to Alta Gracia, 35kms from Cordoba. A colonial mountain town and home to an adolescent Ernesto “Che” Guevara in the 1930’s. His home from that time, Villa Beatriz now houses the excellent Museo Casa Ernest “Che” Guevara. The museum documented his trips around Argentina and South America, the most famous being the one that made it onto the big screen as “The Motorcycle Diaries”. It also showcased many photos from his childhood and, from later years, copies of very moving letters that he sent to his children whilst he was overseas, mostly in Cuba, freedom fighting.

Also in Alta Gracia we visited the Iglesia Parroquial Nuestra Senora de la Merced, built by the Jesuits between 1643 and 1762. Amazing to walk amongst the various buildings, imagining people all those years ago walking the same path.

In all, we had a very good 3 days in Cordoba but I was looking forward to heading off, on the road again, in search of something that captures my imagination just a little bit more.

And it was the end of the travel road for myself and Grace. End of a very enjoyable two weeks. A two weeks in which we had established a familiar drinking routine, both of us enjoying a drink. We would have the litre before dinner, as a “sharpener”, have dinner, then have more beer, to see out the evening. Who will I say “salut”, or “un ronda mas?” with now Graciela?

Oh well, such is the traveller’s life, always transient. We said our farewells as I got into a cab for my overnight bus to Salta, whereas Grace was headed back to Buenos Aires and a flight back to Holland. Not all sad for Grace though, three days at home and she was heading back on a plane for a holiday in Cuba. Thats the life!

For me, well you know what I did. If you read my previous post that is. I went to Salta! Next time, I hope to have my blog posts in order, so we should be reading about San Pedro de Atacama, one of the driest deserts in the world.

Chao chicas!

Forget the olympics, now the real countdown begins

April 18, 2012 by Fran Leave a Comment

Despite knowing for a long time this is what I was going to do, it was still surprisingly hard to press the “proceed” button. Having searched for, and found, exactly the flights I wanted, I just needed to enter my credit card details and it would all become real.

Then why did the butterflies immediately kick in? Why did a tsunami of indecisiveness wash over me? Maybe it is the reality that the clock now starts ticking. Each day that passes is one less that I will live in the UK. Knowing that I do really now have to start tying up the loose strings of my English life. Closing down bank accounts. Cancelling memberships. Packing up belongings. Saying those emotional goodbyes to family and good friends. Not really sure of when I will be seeing many of them again.

Or maybe it’s not that at all. Perhaps it is just the fact that I now realise, and it’s starting to sink in, that I will have to rescind the season ticket for my beloved Manchester United, the team that I first watched live in the late 1970s. In the days when football was football. The Theatre of Dreams was simply, Old Trafford. And the glory days of Best, Charlton and Law were nothing but a distant memory. Long gone, with me continually suffering through the 80s at the hands of the red half of Merseyside. That, of course, was until the day at Crossley Heath school in 1986 when I heard that big Ron Atkinson had been sacked and a dour Scotsman called Alex Ferguson was on his way south. The rest, as they say, is history.

So, I have my flights. On 1st August i will be leaving these shores and heading down under. And yes, it’s a very long flight, so i’ve pushed the boat out (on a plane?) and for the first time ever I booked business class seats (in keeping with ticking things off my life bucket list). Singapore Airlines will be taking me, via Munich, to Singapore, a city I’ve visited on a few occasions, always enjoying the great restaurants, and (exorbitantly) expensive nightlife. Little wonder that Nick Leeson had to resort to being a rogue trader to fund his flashy lifestyle and late nights in “Harry’s Bar”.

Three days later I will be headed to Perth. Glorious Perth. Gateway to beautiful Fremantle, and quite possibly some of the best fish and chips in the whole of Australia, from Cicerello’s by the marina. Afterwards, washed down by a delectable home brewed beer from the Little Creatures micro brewery. I will also take a side trip to Rotto, Rottnest Island, and visit the famous little quokas. It was the quokas that gave Rottnest it’s name, as the early Dutch explorers sailed past, thinking they could see large rats, hence coining the sobriquet, Ratnest Island.

After my week in Perth, and catching up with family, it will be time for another bucket list item. One of the world’s greatest rail journeys. One that many people think I’m mad for doing and look completely perplexed when I say I’m choosing to do. The epic Indian Pacific train journey from Perth to Sydney, taking 3 whole days, leaving just once a week, and rocking into Sydney every Wednesday morning. Can’t you just get a flight and do it in 5 hours, they ask? Well, even if you need to ask that question, we have a very different attitude to travelling.

There we have it. Plans made. Countdown starts. My days in blighty are, literally, numbered.

Will I become a “Pom in Paradise?” Watch this space.

Beef Hula Hoops anyone?

September 1, 2012 by Fran Leave a Comment

Why it’s ok to feel down even in the Promised Land

This is a little bit different to my usual posts. My customary ruminations of life on the road. How I got there, and how long did it take? What I did on arrival. The weird and wonderful foods I’ve tasted. Who could forget the immediately unforgettable snake I had in Beijing? And my experiences as I delve into foreign cultures.

However, this is a rather more personal post. A side to the Yorkshire Expat that maybe you don’t always see. A side that perhaps not many people see would be a more accurate description. What life is really like for a new expat. When you up-sticks and travel to countries both near and far, but not your “home” country. However long you live in a new country, your home will always be the same. Will your heart ever migrate as well as your body? Well, that’s something I will write about in future posts.

The idea for this post came to me the other day as I was walking around Cremorne reserve, on the North Shore of Sydney. Every time I turned a corner on the path I was greeted with a world-class view. Genuine picture postcard stuff. And the deep, melancholic side of my nature wondered, where do you go from here. Not literally, but spiritually. In the UK, on dark, dank, miserable days, a picture of a sunny beach, or a boat filled harbour would immediately lift my flagging spirits. The thought of logging onto Expedia and booking a flight somewhere bathed in sunshine put me in a sunny disposition.

This got me thinking. When I have a down day, and they will inevitably come, what will it take to subsequently lift me out of the doldrums? A friend has suggested beef hula-hoops and a vigorous dance to Beyoncé. I remain to be convinced but bought the hula-hoops earlier and am just downloading the latest track from the big bootied beauty.

With migration, the brochure sells the dream. It doesn’t give instructions on how to live it. That part is down to the individual expat. And all of us will have different ways of approaching it and adapting. The need to become a social chameleon. Blend in to the new surroundings. Make friends. Find your favourite coffee shop, nearest bottle shop, best local Thai takeaway, amongst the multitude of choice. Which newspaper will you prefer to read, and importantly in Sydney, which rugby league team will you adopt. I think I have this one sorted, South Sydney Rabbitohs. And where are the best fish and chips? Another one I think I’ve nailed. They may not be Mr Chips of Whitby, but Doyle’s at Watson’s Bay run them a very close second.

Apartment hunting is another mystery. It’s something of a dark art in Sydney. You don’t find a few you fancy and then casually make appointments that suit you. Each of them has their own 15-minute “inspection slot” and everybody turns up to that. The other day, there were about 10 of us literally falling over each other as we attempted to view a 1-bedroom apartment. I have seen 4 (recent update, now 5) so far and, needless to say, the search continues.

As I draw the curtain on the first month of being away, and we move from winter into the first day of spring, some of the pieces are falling into place. I have my Aussie driving licence and am now registered with Medicare, the health service. But I still have lots of the jigsaw missing. Pieces that I may not find and slot into place for quite some time yet. But as I was told, change is a process, not an event. And big change is a bloody big process, so bear with me whilst I complete the puzzle.

‘Til the next time…

And into month 5 we rock

November 28, 2012 by Fran Leave a Comment

I say it every month. I will probably keep saying it every month. So, apologies in advance. Am I in month 5 of this new life already? The days and weeks are flying by, to the extent that I am already one and half months into my 6 month work contract. Where did those weeks go?

Now, we are on the run up to Xmas, and some well needed time off work. I suspect the next few weeks will go equally as fast. The second half of my Spanish course. Which, by the way, I am really enjoying. Something I should have done a long time ago. Regular gym visits, now I have formally committed and joined on a 6 month contract. Nothing to do with the manager being a very attractive girl who twisted my arm into joining. Nothing at all. How shallow do you think I am? Football twice a week, with the odd after football beer (or 3). We do play on Thirsty Thursday after all, and from what I have seen the last few weeks, Thursday looks a particularly good day to wet your whistle.

Santa lording it over Darling Harbour

Did I mention Xmas? Oh yeah, I’m sure I have seen Santa around town. But if it wasn’t for the incongruous tree, basking in the mid-day sun in Martin’s Place, or the one below lighting up the interior of the Queen Victoria Building (QVB) one could be forgiven for forgetting we are in the Yuletide season. Yes, some shops have trimmed up. Or at least, made a token effort. Some of the Xmas trees they have put up have seen better days. If there was a “Comic Relief” charity for sorrowful looking trees, these specimens are the ones you would see on your screen. Paraded against a backdrop of “Everybody Hurts” by REM. I saw one in Starbucks that looked as though it had had all its pine needles stolen. With all the money Starbucks are saving on unpaid taxes in the UK, you would think they could afford a healthier looking tree.

QVB xmas tree, or part of it. It goes through 3 floors

With Xmas comes yet another birthday. Not that I have ever worried about them. What’s age but just a number. I’ve never let it define me, or influence how I live my life. That said, I do use the time, strategically placed at the end of the year, to reflect on what I have achieved the preceding year. And this year, it is fair to say, has been a productive one for me personally, one in which I feel I have continued my growth as a person. Moving to the other side of the world, on my own, was never going to be easy. But it was something I wanted to do, and so to coin a phrase, “I felt the fear and did it anyway”.

And here we are, entering month 5, and the festive season. A time I am looking forward to, with visits from friendly faces from home, to help celebrate Xmas and New Year. I suspect it will be a fun filled time, with plenty liquid refreshment and a champagne fuelled, inebriated Skype call home on Xmas Day to speak to mum, my sisters and my nephews and niece. As I nurse the resulting hangover, I’ll be wondering what next year will bring as I continue to search for my raison d’etre.

Glebe Street Fair

The last month in Sydney has seen my going to a few street fairs on the weekends. These are always bigger events than I anticipate. I went to the Glebe Street Fair the other day and was staggered by how busy it was. Glebe Point Road was full of market stalls, end to end, with evocative food smells drifting in the air, and the number of Sydney-siders who had come out in their droves to support it was truly impressive. A fantastic community effort all round. I had a mooch around, sustained by a coffee from Mano Espresso, as recommended by a new twitter friend, @NickiGirlStar. Twitter really does open up a world of local knowledge when used well. I have also been getting good coffee and food recommendations from @msnessiel, another virtual Sydney neighbour from cyber space. It is not who you know, but rather, who you don’t know.

One recommendation that didn’t come from Twitter was “Scenic Dogging”. I didn’t know what it was either. Honest. On a recent day out at Bradley’s Head, Mosman, (one of Sydney’s best look out points) on arrival a friend said it looked a great place for this afore mentioned, unknown to me, activity of scenic dogging. I’m not sure what surprised me more. The fact that I immediately agreed with him, once he explained to naïve little me what it meant, or who the suggestion came from. Maybe that young man has secrets we don’t know about. Not as innocent as he appears. He did seem rather well acquainted with the bush up there. Stop it! You know I mean’t the Australian bush. Such filthy minds.

As we roll into December, we usher in summer. Scooter rides in thongs (the Australian version), long lazy days at the beach, apple based alcoholic refreshments in the local. Spending the evening on a new hobby. Counting freckles. The sun brings them out you see, and it’s a good barometer of how well you are catching the sun. Whilst always remembering the sunscreen. Which is as tenuous a link as is needed to re-post this fantastic song again. Sunscreen song. Working on getting the tan just right for when Pommie friends visit, and I can sufficiently gloat. Well, after all, isn’t that why I moved here?

Hasta luego chicos and see you in month 6.

The Elephant in the room…

February 13, 2013 by Fran 8 Comments

The topic that all expats avoid. The one taboo. I’m about to break it and point to the rather large elephant sat in the corner. This is a post I wasn’t going to write, then decided it would be cathartic to. And so it has proven. I’m feeling much perkier and have my spring back in my step. I believe writing this and acknowledging it has helped.

Mum, if you are reading, you may want to look away now. I know how upset you get reading about anything where I suggest I am anything but happy. But I am happy, yet have fluctuating emotions.

Homesickness. Why am I still having such bouts of homesickness after being here almost 7 months? How can I be? Surely I am living the dream. In the promised land. Sun, sea and endless throwing of shrimps onto never ending BBQs. Great hats with corks to keep all the flies at bay. Where men wear thongs with pride. No snow. No need to put my favourite North Face coat and boots on for a weekend walk. Am I insane?

And because I thought I was odd, having such thoughts curiosity drove me to the web site, www.pomsinoz.comto read of others experiences.

And what did I find? It was like reading my mind. My jumble of thoughts and emotions all laid out. But written by other people. Lots of other people, all feeling the same. In fact, many feeling a lot worse than me. I can’t recount how many posts I read where people were going home within the first 12 months. Not that I am in a state of mind that I want to return home. Just yet. But reading about the experience of others just reaffirmed that I wasn’t in fact going mad.

I am just going through what lots of expats before me have, and continue to go through. Especially expats from the UK. Reading a lot of posts from people who returned to the UK, saying how they finally felt at home. How you realise what an amazing country we have, given the experience of living elsewhere for a period.

For a lot of people, home will always be home, no matter where you live in the world. And home is a lot of different things to different people. For some, it’s family life. Others it’s the history and culture of the UK. Some even claim to miss the weather (yes, I’m in that camp). One of my happiest days last week was spent playing football in the pouring rain. But for me, it is based on a lot of intangible feelings that lurk around in the pit of your stomach and start infiltrating your brain. Things that wouldn’t make a lot of sense to people if you said them out loud. Which I’ve tried.

Football. There, my number 1 of “things I miss”. And not just going to football, which I always knew would be like a large hole that I would never fill, but living in a culture where football is so ingrained. Like a religion. Countries in Europe, and through Central and South America are like this. People live and breathe football. With a passion. Stadiums are their temples, places of worship. Football here is little more than a 3^rd rate sport, with genuine attempts to raise its profile such as the signing by Sydney FC of Allesandro del Piero. But even del Piero can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear.

I did go and watch a game, and vowed never to return due to the laughable standard of football and the terribly plastic atmosphere. We have yet to see whether the great man himself will renew his contract for a second year or whether the lure of home, and Italia, will draw him back.

Surely, you can watch the football from England people ask. Not if I want to hold down a job. As a result of the 11 hour time difference, most of the games are on at between 2am and 4am. I’ve watched a couple of “early” kick offs, specifically the victories against Liverpool and City, but to function at work, I do need slightly longer sleep time. I’m not getting any younger you know.

The homogeneity. One that will surely raise the rankles of any Australian readers, but Australia all looks the same. Within reason of course. I could write a whole post about how different the Great Barrier Reef is to the Red Centre of Uluru. Spill hundreds of words about the contrast between the Blue Mountains (when you can see them through the mist) and the glorious coastline around Sydney.

But, in general, transport me to a high street in Cairns, or a street in Perth, or drive through a suburb anywhere, and it all looks the same. Which gets kinda dreary. The beaches are glorious. But aren’t 90% of all beaches, anywhere in the world? Have you travelled around the beaches of Cornwall through a glorious English summer? A beach is a beach, is a beach, is a beach.

Not that I want to sound ungrateful, although I probably do, but when you have crappy beaches like we do in the UK (aforementioned Cornwall aside), going to a good beach, usually on holiday is a highlight that usually gives you months of subsequent smiles, just thinking about sitting there, listening to the waves, sipping your cocktails, listening to the strains of “bolinhas”, from the local Portuguese doughnut seller.

When you can go to the beach everyday, it loses a lot of its allure, its sparkle, it ability to invigorate. How many of you would like to celebrate Christmas every week? Aside from the fact that I would be about 383 years old. Think it would feel as magical not having waited the whole year for it and endured the endless Christmas carols played in Next since September?

I started this post ruminating on homesickness. I have slightly digressed but hopefully given you an insight into my feelings in the meantime. I am not jumping on Expedia to book a flight. I am not packing up the apartment. I am not checking out the Lloyds Banking Group job site. But I am sharing this with you so I can try to better understand how I feel. And to let myself know that there is no right and wrong decisions per se, just decisions that are right for me at the time I make them.

I often read about the mythical “2 year rule”, in that you should give yourself 2 years before deciding what to do as an expat. I don’t buy this.

Firstly, who came up with such an arbitrary number? What is this based on? Maybe on the old immigration rules that you had to be here 2 years before applying for citizenship. That’s now 4 years, so blows that out of the water.

And secondly, for people who really do decide to go home, why should they sit out their time here being unhappy, counting down the days, ticking them off the calendar until all 730 have passed? If their gut tells them it is time to go home, then home they should go.

Me, I still have 537 days to go.

Until the next time folks in the life of an expat.

Not 19 Forever

April 28, 2013 by Fran 1 Comment

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 20^thtitle 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.